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  FOR

  HARRY

  My thanks for their invaluable advice and research to:

  Simon Bainbridge, Alan Gard, Professor Ken Howard RA, Alison Prince, Catherine Richards, Mari Roberts, Dr. Nick Robins, and Susan Watt

  And to Simon Sebag Montefiore, author of Stalin: The Court of the Red Tsar and Young Stalin, for his advice and scholarship

  Beneath the rule of men entirely great

  The pen is mightier than the sword

  EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON, 1803–1873

  PROLOGUE

  OCTOBER 1964

  Brendan didn’t knock on the cabin door, just turned the handle and slipped inside, looking back as he did so to be sure no one had seen him. He didn’t want to have to explain what a young man from cabin class was doing in an elderly peer’s room at that time of night. Not that anyone would have commented.

  “Are we likely to be interrupted?” asked Brendan once he had closed the door.

  “No one will disturb us before seven tomorrow morning, and by then there will be nothing left to disturb.”

  “Good,” said Brendan. He dropped on his knees, unlocked the large trunk, pulled open its lid, and studied the complex piece of machinery that had taken him over a month to construct. He spent the next half hour checking that there were no loose wires, that every dial was at its correct setting, and that the clock started at the flick of a switch. Not until he was satisfied that everything was in perfect working order did he get back off his knees.

  “It’s ready,” he said. “When do you want it activated?”

  “Three a.m. And I’ll need thirty minutes to remove all this,” the elderly peer added, touching his double chin, “if I’m to have enough time to get to my other cabin.”

  Brendan returned to the trunk and set the timer for three o’clock. “All you have to do is flick the switch just before you leave, and double-check that the second hand is moving, then you’ll have thirty minutes.”

  “So what can go wrong?”

  “If the lilies are still in Mrs. Clifton’s cabin, nothing. No one on this corridor, and probably no one on the deck below, can hope to survive. There’s six pounds of dynamite embedded in the soil beneath those flowers, far more than we need, but at least that way we can be sure of collecting our money.”

  “Have you got my key?”

  “Yes,” said Brendan. “Cabin 706. You’ll find your new passport and ticket under the pillow.”

  “Anything else I ought to be worrying about?”

  “No. Just make sure the second hand is moving before you leave.”

  Doherty smiled. “See you back in Belfast.”

  * * *

  Harry unlocked the cabin door and stood aside to allow Emma to enter first.

  She bent down to smell the lilies the Queen Mother had sent to celebrate the launch of MV Buckingham. “I’m exhausted,” she said, standing up. “I don’t know how the Queen Mother manages it day in and day out.”

  “It’s what she does, and she’s good at it, but I bet she’d be exhausted if she tried a few days of being chairman of Barrington’s.”

  “I’d still rather have my job than hers,” said Emma as she stepped out of her dress, and hung it up in the wardrobe before disappearing into the bathroom.

  Harry read the card from HRH the Queen Mother once again. Such a personal message. Emma had already decided to put the vase in her office when they got back to Bristol, and to fill it with lilies every Monday morning. Harry smiled. And why not?

  When Emma came out of the bathroom, Harry took her place and closed the door behind him. She slipped off her dressing gown and climbed into bed, far too tired even to consider reading a few pages of The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, by a new author Harry had recommended. She switched off the light by the side of her bed and said, “Good night, darling,” even though she knew Harry couldn’t hear her.

  By the time Harry came out of the bathroom, she was sound asleep. He tucked her in as if she were a child, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered, “Good night, my darling,” then climbed into his bed, amused by her gentle purr. He would never have dreamed of suggesting that she snored.

  He lay awake, so proud of her. The launch of the new liner couldn’t have gone better. He turned on his side, assuming he’d drift off within moments but, although his eyes were leaden and he felt exhausted, he couldn’t get to sleep. Something wasn’t right.

  * * *

  Another man, now safely back in cabin class, was also wide awake. Although it was three in the morning and his job was done, he wasn’t trying to sleep. He was just about to go to work.

  Always the same anxieties whenever you have to wait. Had you left any clues that would lead straight to you? Had you made any mistakes that would cause the operation to end in failure and make you a laughingstock back home? He wouldn’t relax until he was on a lifeboat and, better still, on another ship heading toward another port.

  Five minutes and fourteen seconds …

  He knew his compatriots, soldiers in the same cause, would be just as nervous as he was.

  The waiting was always the worst part, out of your control, no longer anything you could do.

  Four minutes and eleven seconds …

  Worse than a football match when you’re one–nil up but you know the other side are stronger and well capable of scoring in injury time. He recalled his area commander’s instructions: when the alarm goes off, be sure you’re among the first on deck, and the first in the lifeboats, because by this time tomorrow, they’ll be searching for anyone under the age of thirty-five with an Irish accent, so keep your mouths shut, boys.

  Three minutes and forty seconds … thirty-nine …

  He stared at the cabin door and imagined the worst that could possibly happen. The bomb wouldn’t go off, the door would burst open, and a dozen police thugs, possibly more, would come charging in, batons flailing in every direction, not caring how many times they hit him. But all he could hear was the rhythmical pounding of the engine as the Buckingham continued its sedate passage across the Atlantic on its way to New York. A city it would never reach.

  Two minutes and thirty-four seconds … thirty-three …

  He began to imagine what it would be like once he was back on the Falls Road. Young lads in short trousers would look up in awe as he passed them on the street, their only ambition to be like him when they grew up. The hero who had blown up the Buckingham only a few weeks after it had been named by the Queen Mother. No mention of innocent lives lost; there are no innocent lives when you believe in a cause. In fact, he’d never meet any of the passengers in the cabins on the upper decks. He would read all about them in tomorrow’s papers, and if he’d done his job properly there would be no mention of his name.

  One minute and twenty-two seconds … twenty-one …

  What could possibly go wrong now? Would the device, constructed in an upstairs bedroom o
n the Dungannon estate, let him down at the last minute? Was he about to suffer the silence of failure?

  Sixty seconds …

  He began to whisper each number.

  “Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six…”

  Had the drunken man slumped in the chair in the lounge been waiting for him all the time? Were they now on the way to his cabin?

  “Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six…”

  Had the lilies been replaced, thrown out, taken away? Perhaps Mrs. Clifton was allergic to pollen?

  “Thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six…”

  Had they unlocked his lordship’s room and found the open trunk?

  “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six…”

  Were they already searching the ship for the man who’d slipped out of the toilet in the first-class lounge?

  “Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…”

  Had they … he clung to the edge of the bunk, closed his eyes, and began counting out loud.

  “Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…”

  He stopped counting and opened his eyes. Nothing. Just the eerie silence that always follows failure. He bowed his head and prayed to a God he did not believe in, and immediately there followed an explosion of such ferocity that he was thrown against the cabin wall like a leaf in a storm. He staggered to his feet and smiled when he heard the screaming. He could only wonder how many passengers on the upper deck could possibly have survived.

  HARRY AND EMMA

  1964–1965

  1

  “HRH,” MUMBLED HARRY as he came out of a drowsy half-sleep. He sat up with a start and switched on his bedside light, then slipped out of bed and walked quickly across to the vase of lilies. He read the message from the Queen Mother for a second time. Thank you for a memorable day in Bristol. I do hope my second home has a successful maiden voyage. It was signed, HRH Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother.

  “Such a simple mistake,” said Harry. “How could I have missed it?” He grabbed his dressing gown and switched on the cabin lights.

  “Is it time to get up already?” inquired a sleepy voice.

  “Yes it is,” said Harry. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Emma squinted at her bedside clock. “But it’s only just gone three,” she protested, looking across at her husband, who was still staring intently at the lilies. “So what’s the problem?”

  “HRH isn’t the Queen Mother’s title.”

  “Everyone knows that,” said Emma, still half asleep.

  “Everyone except the person who sent these flowers. Why didn’t they know that the correct way to address the Queen Mother is as Her Majesty, not Her Royal Highness. That’s how you address a princess.”

  Emma reluctantly got out of bed, padded across to join her husband, and studied the card for herself.

  “Ask the captain to join us immediately,” said Harry. “We need to find out what’s in that vase,” he added, before falling to his knees.

  “It’s probably only water,” said Emma, reaching out a hand.

  Harry grabbed her wrist. “Look more closely, my darling. The vase is far too big for something as delicate as a dozen lilies. Call the captain,” he repeated, with more urgency this time.

  “But the florist could just have made a mistake.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Harry said as he began to walk toward the door. “But it’s not a risk we can afford to take.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Emma as she picked up the phone.

  “To wake Giles. He has more experience with explosives than I do. He spent two years of his life planting them at the feet of advancing Germans.”

  When Harry stepped into the corridor he was distracted by the sight of an elderly man disappearing in the direction of the grand staircase. He was moving far too quickly for an old man, Harry thought. He knocked firmly on Giles’s cabin door, but it took a second demanding bang with his clenched fist before a sleepy voice said, “Who’s that?”

  “Harry.”

  The urgency in his voice caused Giles to jump out of bed and open the door immediately. “What’s the problem?”

  “Come with me,” said Harry without explanation.

  Giles pulled on his dressing gown and followed his brother-in-law down the corridor and into the stateroom.

  “Good morning, sis,” he said to Emma, as Harry handed him the card and said, “HRH.”

  “Got it,” said Giles after studying the card. “The Queen Mother couldn’t have sent the flowers. But if she didn’t, then who did?” He bent down and took a closer look at the vase. “Whoever it was could have packed an awful lot of Semtex in there.”

  “Or a couple of pints of water,” said Emma. “Are you sure you’re not both worrying about nothing?”

  “If it’s water, why are the flowers already wilting?” asked Giles as Captain Turnbull knocked on the door before walking into the cabin.

  “You asked to see me, chairman?”

  Emma began to explain why her husband and her brother were both on their knees.

  “There are four SAS officers on board,” said the captain, interrupting the chairman. “One of them ought to be able to answer any questions Mr. Clifton might have.”

  “I presume it’s no coincidence that they’re on board,” said Giles. “I can’t believe they all decided to take a holiday in New York at the same time.”

  “They’re on board at the request of the cabinet secretary,” replied the captain. “But Sir Alan Redmayne assured me it was just a precautionary measure.”

  “As usual, that man knows something we don’t,” said Harry.

  “Then perhaps it’s time to find out what it is.”

  The captain stepped out of the cabin and made his way quickly down the corridor, stopping only when he reached cabin 119. Colonel Scott-Hopkins responded to the knock on the door far more quickly than Giles had done a few minutes earlier.

  “Do you have a bomb-disposal expert in your team?”

  “Sergeant Roberts. He was with the bomb squad in Palestine.”

  “I need him now, in the chairman’s stateroom.”

  The colonel wasted no time asking why. He ran along the corridor and out onto the grand staircase to find Captain Hartley charging toward him.

  “I’ve just spotted Liam Doherty coming out of the lavatory in the first-class lounge.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He went in as a peer of the realm, and came out twenty minutes later as Liam Doherty. He then headed down to cabin class.”

  “That may explain everything,” said Scott-Hopkins as he continued down the staircase with Hartley only a pace behind. “What’s Roberts’s cabin number?” he asked on the run.

  “Seven four two,” said Hartley as they hurdled across the red chain onto the narrower staircase. They didn’t stop until they reached deck seven, where Corporal Crann stepped out of the shadows.

  “Has Doherty passed you within the last few minutes?”

  “Damn,” said Crann. “I knew I’d seen that bastard swaggering up the Falls Road. He went into seven zero six.”

  “Hartley,” said the colonel as he charged on down the corridor, “you and Crann keep an eye on Doherty. Make sure he doesn’t leave his cabin. If he does, arrest him.” The colonel banged on the door of cabin 742. Sergeant Roberts didn’t need a second knock. He opened the door within seconds, and greeted Colonel Scott-Hopkins with “Good morning, sir,” as if his commanding officer regularly woke him in the middle of the night, dressed in his pajamas.

  “Grab your tool kit, Roberts, and follow me. We haven’t a moment to waste,” said the colonel, once again on the move.

  It took Roberts three flights of stairs before he caught up with his commanding officer. By the time they reached the stateroom corridor, Roberts knew which of his particular skills the colonel required. He dashed into the chairman’s cabin, and peered closely at the vase for a moment before slowly cir
cling it.

  “If it’s a bomb,” he said finally, “it’s a big one. I can’t begin to guess the number of lives that will be lost if we don’t defuse the bugger.”

  “But can you do it?” asked the captain, sounding remarkably calm. “Because if you can’t, my first responsibility is for the lives of my passengers. I don’t need this trip to be compared with another disastrous maiden voyage.”

  “I can’t do a damn thing unless I can get my hands on the control panel. It has to be somewhere else on the ship,” said Roberts, “probably quite near by.”

  “In his lordship’s cabin would be my bet,” said the colonel, “because we now know that it was occupied by an IRA bomber called Liam Doherty.”

  “Does anyone know which cabin he was in?” asked the captain.

  “Number three,” said Harry, recalling the old man who had been moving a little too quickly. “Just along the corridor.”

  The captain and the sergeant ran out of the room and into the corridor, followed by Scott-Hopkins, Harry, and Giles. The captain opened the cabin door with his passkey and stood aside to let Roberts in. The sergeant walked quickly across to a large trunk in the middle of the room. He tentatively raised the lid and peered inside.

  “Christ, it’s due to detonate in eight minutes and thirty-nine seconds.”

  “Can’t you just disconnect one of those?” asked Captain Turnbull, pointing to a myriad different colored wires.

  “Yes, but which one,” said Roberts, not looking up at the captain as he cautiously separated the red, black, blue, and yellow wires. “I’ve worked on this type of device many times before. It’s always a one-in-four chance, and that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I might consider it if I were on my own in the middle of a desert,” he added, “but not on a ship in the middle of the ocean with hundreds of lives at risk.”

  “Then let’s drag Doherty up here posthaste,” suggested Captain Turnbull. “He’ll know which wire to cut.”

  “I doubt it,” said Roberts, “because I suspect Doherty isn’t the bomber. They’ll have a sparks on board to do that job, and God knows where he is.”