Ted Bell - Warlord

"I am Colonel Zazi," the big man said, speaking in a surprisingly clipped British accent. "I am a warrior in the great jihadi army known throughout the world as the Sword of Allah. As of this moment, my men have seized complete control of this castle and the surrounding grounds. This is a fait accompli. No one is coming to save you. They are all dead. They are all-"

"You bloody barbarians are stark raving mad!"

It was Prince Philip, struggling to rise from his chair, his face white with rage as the men to either side roughly shoved him back into his seat. His two grandsons, Wills and Harry, enraged at seeing their grandfather treated in this brutal fashion, started to rise, but their father, Charles, called their names and shook his head, urging them to sit and be calm.

"I shall make an announcement," the big man said, when the rage subsided a bit. "You people seated at this table are, as of this moment, political prisoners of the Sword of Allah. And shall remain so until, and if, our demands are met. But there are members of this household in whom we have no strategic interest. The staff, housekeeping, the secretaries, the kitchen-you, in the green jacket by the fire-what is your name?"

"Higgins, sir."

"What do you do here, Higgins?"

"I have the honor to be one of Her Majesty's footmen, sir."

"Can you cook?"

"A little, sir."

"You now have the honor of working for me. These people are going to need food and drink for a few days. See that they get it."

"Indeed, sir."

"Higgins, you have exactly ten minutes to inform all the household staff members that they are free to leave by the main entrance to the grounds. Those you tell should tell as many of the others as they can find. Go now. Tell them that my men have orders to shoot anyone who remains inside these walls ten minutes from now. Do you understand?"

"I do, sir, yes."

"I suggest you hurry along, Higgins. Get while the getting is good, as they say."

Higgins fled, first into the kitchen, where horrified staff peered out from behind half-closed doors. Ambrose could hear him shouting at them, urging them to race throughout the castle, find everyone they could, and get them all out at once.

"Now then," Zazi said, removing his 9mm pistol from the Queen of England's temple and slipping it into a black nylon holster on his right hip. Congreve noticed that on his other hip he wore a battle sword in a scabbard. It did not reassure him. "We are going to move you to another location. I strongly suggest you do this in an orderly fashion and in complete silence. If any one of my men gives you an order, follow it immediately. Understood? On your feet. Form a single line at the door to the right at the far end of the dining room. Then we will proceed."

Ambrose reached under the table and took Diana's hand, squeezing it gently in reassurance. He leaned over and kissed a shining spot on her cheek where a tear had been. When he looked up at her face, he saw that she was crying softly, but she smiled at him through her tears and he knew that she would have the strength to get through this nightmare.

At this point, it was all he dared hope for.

THINGS WERE GOING HELLWARD FAST. Descending the curving stone steps down into the castle's dank cellar was unnerving at best. It was as dark and cold as a crypt despite the season. All Congreve could think of was the fate of the Romanovs, the Royal Family of Russia. Tsar Nicholas, his wife, Alexandra, and their young children.

In the summer of 1918, after suffering house arrest at Ekateringburg for months, they were herded down to the basement in the middle of the night. Twelve Red Army soldiers entered with rifles and murdered the whole family in cold blood. The young princesses, whose nurses had sewn the crown jewels of Russia into their blouses, had to be finished off with bayonets. The bullets had ricocheted off the gemstones.

In the long Balmoral hallways that the forlorn and terrified hostages had traversed en route to the cellar entrance, they'd seen the splayed bodies of several Special Branch bodyguards and detectives, their throats slashed from ear to ear before they could even fire a warning shot. The jihadists had simply swarmed inside and overwhelmed them.

Congreve wondered how the terrorists had made it past the castle entrance until he saw the body of his old Scotland Yard colleague John Iverson sprawled in the entrance hall. John had for years been chief of security here at Balmoral. Clearly Iverson had been forced to trick the SO15 men on the door into opening it.

The terrorists, all little more than boys with beards and guns, kept shouting and prodding them along with their weapons, heedless of how difficult it was to keep one's footing on the worn stone, especially in the semi-darkness. Ambrose kept one steady hand on Diana's shoulder as she preceded him downward. From time to time, she would reach up and cover his hand with hers. It helped both of them.

They both assumed they were all going to die; he believed most of the guests felt the same way. But Congreve knew this was still purely a fluid hostage situation, in other words, a negotiation. And that this high-stakes drama had a long way to go until the final curtain.

It would certainly not be pleasant. But if they had a little luck, they all might just survive. The British Army, the Special Air Service (SAS), and the legions of counterterrorist operatives at both MI5 and MI6 would not look fondly upon the Monarch and Britain's Royal Family being held captive in a basement.

The cellar itself was an enormous warren of rooms and alcoves, filled to overflowing with the detritus of centuries. Furniture, primarily, but also art, bicycles, and baby prams from another era; there were endless shelves of old books, towers of Persian rugs that reached the ceiling, a lot of it the former property of Queen Victoria.

A vaulted hallway finally opened up into a cavernous room that appeared to be inhabited by ghosts. Sheets covered retired Victorian furniture of every possible description, sofas, chaises, deep armchairs, and ornate gilded side chairs. A dim, misty light from exposed bulbs mounted in ceiling sockets provided the sole illumination, and it was hardly cheery.

Zazi informed them that this room would be their new home for the foreseeable future and that they should make themselves comfortable on any of the furniture they found suitable. His hostility seemed to have diminished now that they had descended three flights of steps and entered a closed environment in which he had far more control. With himself and the armed men keeping watch over the hostages, he didn't anticipate too many problems maintaining order.

Once everyone had ripped away the sheets and settled into the furniture of their choice, two of the young fighters began distributing large plastic bottles of Highland Springs water, a gesture most took to be grounds for optimism. The Royal Family was seated apart from the guests, in a small alcove off the main room. Charles and his two sons moved furniture around, making sure everyone was as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

Ambrose could see the Queen from where he and Diana were seated on a deep-cushioned velvet sofa. Her majesty was seated on a large silk brocade settee next to the Duke of Edinburgh. Surprisingly, Zazi had allowed her beloved Welsh Corgis to accompany her and they lay quietly at her feet. Her composed face and posture in this calamitous moment could only be described as stoic, if not serene.

Her uncanny ability to rise above this situation only confirmed Ambrose Congreve's long-held belief that it was her poise, her selflessness, her personal courage, and her enormous strength of character and dignity that had enabled her to lead her country so nobly for nearly sixty years. She had, in fact, become a British institution, and the reason was never more apparent than now.