Ted Bell - Warlord

"It is so calm and so solitary," she wrote, "it does one good as one gazes around; and the pure mountain air is most refreshing. All seems to breathe freedom and peace, and to make one forget the world and its sad turmoils. The scenery all around is the finest I have seen anywhere. You can walk forever and the wildness and solitariness of everything is so delightful, so refreshing. And the local people are so good and so kind and so simple."

TODAY, THE QUEEN'S PRIVATE ESTATES, owned by the Crown, extend to just over fifty thousand acres, with sporting privileges leased on a further twelve thousand acres. The majority of the land is heather-clad hill-ground overlying granite. More fertile land lies along the south bank of the river Dee and is used for farming and forestry. The ground on the property is dramatic. It rises very steeply in parts, up to the top of the Lochnagar massif, which, at almost four thousand feet, dominates the entire area.

Every August and September, Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the Duke of Edinburgh, the Prince of Wales, his wife, and his two heirs, Wills and Harry, abandon London and take up residence for a peaceful month or so at Balmoral Castle. There the Royal Family are able to escape the glare of the public eye and enjoy walkabouts, shooting, stalking the great fourteen-point bucks that roamed the moors. There was also boating and fishing on Loch Muick, a name the Queen was said to dislike intensely because it meant "pigs."

Charles had awoken that bright morning with a fine sense of anticipation. His wife, the Duchess of Cornwall, known here in Scotland as the Duchess of Rothesay, was not present. She was in London with her own son Tom, Charles's godson, who had suddenly taken ill. But both of the Prince of Wales's boys were home on leave from the military; and all looked forward to a magnificent day out in the country air with close friends and family.

Today was a very special day, the historic Glorious Twelfth. The Twelfth of August, celebrated each year, marks the opening of the shooting season for red grouse throughout the United Kingdom. As Prince Charles had a number of friends who were keen shots, it was his habit to invite them to Balmoral for a day out on the moors, shooting the driven birds. Afterward they would celebrate with a great game feast that evening with all members of the Royal Family and their guests in attendance. Even now, the kitchen staff was putting final touches on the evening's grand banquet.

SMITH WAS ABOUT A HUNDRED FEET from the cottage when he suddenly staggered and clenched his chest in agony. Stricken, he put a hand out to brace himself against a tree. After only a few moments, he made his way with difficulty to the side entrance.

Smith mounted the stone steps and rapped on the weathered wooden door. His face set in a rictus of pain, he was clutching desperately at his chest, breathing heavily, pounding again upon the heavily secured door.

"Yes, sir?" a Special Branch detective said, opening the door slightly and regarding him carefully in the dim light. "You all right, sir? Don't look well at all, I'm afraid."

"John. Dear old John. I say. Can…can you help me please. I-I think I may be having a bloody heart attack. There's a good fellow…" With that he pitched forward through the door and the man inside caught him in his arms. The three other officers manning the complex were staring at him, openmouthed, as he removed the leather satchel that hung by a strap from his shoulder and let it drop to the floor.

"Good lord, sir, steady on! We'll get on to the house physician immediately!"

He groaned in pain and the man called John stretched him out on the floor, before heading back to the console and the emergency telephone. "Won't be a moment, sir. Doc's always on call. Be here in two shakes of a lamb's tail, he will."

"That won't be at all necessary I'm afraid," Smith said in a suddenly strong voice.

All four spun around to see Smith on his feet, breathing normally, with a long-barreled.357 magnum revolver pointed in their direction.

"All of you, put your hands in the air where I can see them. Out of your chairs. Now! Everyone together in the center of the room. Turn and form a line, facing the wall."

They stared in horror at the large-caliber pistol in the man's hand, affixed with a silencer. They had no choice but to comply, not even a split second to send out a silent alarm. They simply did what he said.

"Noses to the wall, hands behind your backs," he said calmly, quickly binding them all with plastic cuffs. "Good. Now, how many of you are on duty in this facility at the moment? Anyone sleeping upstairs?"

"Just the four of us," the man named John said, furious anger rising in his voice. How could he have been so stupid? He had been trained never to open that door to anyone, not under any circumstances.

"You will never get away with whatever you have in mind, you know. You have no bloody idea what you're up against," John said.

"Really? Now how would you know that? In truth, I know exactly what I'm up against. Which means I've no further use for you lot. Except for you, John. Please step away from your colleagues and sit on the floor, back against the wall."

"Oh, God, no, please don't-"

Smith stepped up to each of the three remaining men in turn and put a bullet in the back of each skull without a word. He looked at his watch and moved to the console, looking at the monitors mounted above. He quickly located the one he wanted, a screen that displayed views of the main entrance to the estate from many angles. As he watched, a large delivery van rolled to a stop outside the black wrought-iron gates.

THE LORRY, EVEN HERE IN THE HIGHLANDS of Scotland, was instantly recognizable. It bore the trademark of Harrods, the world-famous department store in Knightsbridge. You would see vans from the emporium often enough on the roads in Aberdeenshire. On the A93 between Braemar and Crathie, and on the secondary roads hereabouts, up from London, usually delivering treasures from around the world to the area's great country houses.

The van was painted in Harrods signature livery, a shade called "Harrods Green," a bespoke color that most closely resembled a metallic army green, and featured the familiar handwritten script, Harrods, in gold leaf on both sides and the rear.

Harrods, as it happened, was owned by the father of Dodi al Fayed, the Egyptian playboy who had courted and then died in a car crash in Paris with the Princess of Wales. In a famous trial, Mohamed al Fayed had publicly and vociferously blamed the death of his son and Diana on the Royal Family and MI6. He had lost.

That this particular van now stood waiting at the gates of the Royals' most sacrosanct of hideaways presented not a small bit of delicious irony for the always ironic Smith. The wolf, in sheep's clothing, was once more at the door.

Smith located the master control that opened the main gate. He hit the marked button and the big black gates swung open. The green van rolled inside the estate proper and the gates quickly closed behind it. Instead of proceeding along the main road to the castle, the driver veered off to the left, taking a narrow lane through the thick woods that came to an end at the Security HQ car park. There were a number of other vehicles, mostly open trucks with four-wheel drive for getting about the property in any weather.

Smith was outside waiting anxiously when the truck finally appeared out of the darkness and pulled into a spot next to a pair of mud-spattered Land Rover Defenders. He smiled at the sight of the satellite video dish now being raised atop the truck's roof. Inside the van were all the electronics necessary to broadcast live television throughout the U.K. from this remote location.

The driver's door swung open and out climbed his old friend from school days back home, a lanky chap dressed in a Harrods delivery uniform. His name was Hurri Singh. He'd been one of the most highly decorated heroes in the Pak Army, and one of the few men on earth he completely trusted. They embraced warmly, clapping each other on the back.