Ted Bell - Warlord

"It's not luggage," Mr. Mahmood said, the quiet smile suddenly gone from his face.

"Sorry?"

"It's not luggage."

"Looks a lot like luggage to me," she said carefully, professionally, beginning to have serious doubts about this passenger. He leaned into her and spoke barely above a whisper.

"It's a bomb, actually."

"Sorry?"

"You heard me."

"Say again, please. I must have misunderstood."

"I said, listen carefully please, it is a bomb. Fifty pounds of extraordinarily powerful explosives. I'd like you to close this station now. Please inform those waiting behind me that you are no longer checking in passengers."

She looked him in the eye, paused, then called out to the other passengers waiting at the white line, "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, this station is temporarily closed. My colleagues to the left will be more than happy to take care of you."

There was some mumbling, but like the trained sheep they'd all become, the numb passengers mumbled a bit then moved over to queue up at the rear of various other agent stations.

Rosetree leaned across the counter and whispered very forcefully to her passenger.

"I have to inform you, Mr. Mahmood, that such remarks, while perhaps in jest, subject you to immediate arrest. Have you been drinking? Taking prescription narcotics? Are you completely aware of what you have just said?"

"Miss Rosetree, again, listen very carefully. There are seven of us here in Terminal Four. Two here in the First Class check-in area, and five more out in the main section of the terminal. Each one of my brothers carries an identical explosive device to the one you see here. We are unidentifiable. Our passports are in order. We are in constant communication via the Bluetooth device I am currently using. This entire conversation is being monitored by my six fellow martyrs."

"Well, I-" She lowered her left hand and moved a finger toward the emergency button beneath her computer terminal.

"Both hands on your keyboard. Now. I'm aware that you have the means to signal security with your foot as well. If I or one of my colleagues should detect any aggressive action by any airport security officials or U.K. internal security forces we know are in place, we shall immediately detonate our devices using buttons like the one you see here on my extended luggage handle. Detonators. See it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, please, try to remain calm and do exactly as I say. If you comply, no one need die. Understand?"

"Yes."

"I want you to place a call to this number at the BBC Television Center. You will reach Mr. Simon McCoy, executive producer of BBC World News. One of my colleagues has just spoken with him and he is expecting your call. Tell him who you are and inform him that you have a passenger who wishes to be patched through immediately to the on-air presenter now broadcasting live, a woman named Betsy Post-Miller. I have a message to deliver to the British people. Unless Mr. McCoy complies immediately, Terminal Four, Heathrow, will cease to exist. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, all of her worst nightmares coming true in this surreal moment.

He passed her a folded piece of paper with a single phone number inscribed. Agent Rosetree picked up the receiver and dialed the number. A man answered immediately.

"This is Simon McCoy."

"Mr. McCoy, you are expecting this call. I am British Airways Agent Rosetree. I have a passenger here who wishes to deliver a message via your on-air presenter, Betsy Post-Miller. You are aware of the consequences should you not comply?"

"I am. Put him on. Miss Post-Miller is in the studio, on air, and expecting this call. She understands the situation."

She handed the receiver to the pale terrorist. He took the phone in his left hand, kept his right hand on the bag handle, his index finger poised above the button.

"Miss Post-Miller, am I on the air with you? Live?"

"You are."

"Do you have a close-up of me on the CCTV cameras?"

"We do."

"What am I wearing?"

"Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie."

"Good. Let's proceed."

"Please don't hurt anyone. We'll give you as much airtime as you wish."

"I would like to address the people of Britain on behalf of my fellow countrymen both here and in our beloved homeland of Pakistan. We came to your shores with high hopes and open hearts. We have found only humiliation and scorn. Our hopes have been dashed and our hearts closed because of your cruel indifference to our dreams of a better life. In our home country, your troops massacre our brothers and sisters, bombing innocent people in Afghanistan and Pakistan daily. Our children are dying daily in the fires of your bombs.

"We will accept nothing less than Taliban rule and Sharia law in our own country of Pakistan. And until the last infidel is dead, until all British forces have left our blood-soaked lands, we, the Sword of Allah, will continue our righteous jihad against our oppressors both here in Britain and in our native land. Consider this as your first warning. It is only the beginning. There is no God but God. We are the Sword of Allah! Allahu Akhbar! Allahu Akhbar! Allahu-"

SAHIRA WAS JUST ACCELERATING UP the curving Departures ramp for Terminal Four when an unearthly blast shook the ground and the sky itself caught fire all around her, a brilliant, blinding orange that scalded her eyes as she swerved the Mini violently to avoid a red London bus that was careening wildly, clearly out of control.

She smashed off a guardrail, hit a parked black taxi broadside, spun out, hit a concrete barrier, and was then flung back across the road, the steering wheel jammed painfully against her chest. She was skidding directly into the path of the bus, which suddenly was airborne, hurtling end over end toward her through the air, completely engulfed in flames. Trapped by the steering wheel, all she could do was stare at it in horror.

Astonishingly, time slowed to a remarkable degree. Slower than the slowest motion, almost coming to a stop. Sahira could distinctly see the passengers inside the bus, many of them on fire-men, women, and children tumbling about inside, flaming rag dolls trapped within the pinwheeling vehicle, hurtling through space. It seemed to be headed directly for the Mini.

She'd never felt more in God's hands than she did at that moment.

HIGHGROVE HOUSE, THE HOME PRINCE CHARLES acquired in 1980, had been purchased for him by the Duchy of Cornwall. This sudden real estate acquisition only added fuel to the nation's feverish speculation that the Prince of Wales was seriously considering marriage to the lovely swan Diana Spencer. The handsome prince and his blushing bride dominated the media in a riot of anticipation. It all seemed predestined, and yet…

Perhaps this truly was a union made in heaven, as an enthralled nation had already decided. And, besides. The eyes of the world were on Britain once again, which was only as it should be. Hearts swelled with pride and spirits were lifted as never before, or, at least since Elizabeth II's Coronation in 1953. For England, it was a godsend.

It was a fairy tale.

Highgrove Estate is today a working farm. It consists of rolling parkland fringed by thick forest. A number of farm buildings occupy around nine hundred acres of arable land. The beef herd at Highgrove consists of pedigree Aberdeen-Angus who share the permanent pasture with a flock of Masham and Mule sheep. The gardens, which Chief Inspector Congreve was so especially keen about, consisted of a wild garden, a formal garden, and a walled kitchen garden, all designed by the Prince of Wales.

His goal, Charles had said of the house, was this: "To feed the soil, warm the heart, delight the eye." He'd certainly achieved this and much more, Ambrose thought, eyes everywhere and filled with keen anticipation.