Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“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.

“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 circling 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.”