Deadly Sin by James Hawkins Read Free Book Online Page A

CommanderFox awaits the royal car. Behind Fox, the reception party are beginning to find their places at the top of the marble staircase, while the discordant wailing of a muezzin calls to the faithful and unfaithful alike.
    The crowds are smaller and quieter than he anticipated, driven underground by the midday sun, and a few hard-liners are easily marked and hustled away. A number of placards suggesting that either Jesus or Mohammed should perform physiologically impossible sexual feats have been “accidentally” knocked from protesters’ hands by plain-clothes gorillas and trodden into the ground KGB-style, and as the motorcycle outriders reach the destination, Commander Fox’s voice comes over Bliss’s radio: “Everything’s in order here, Chief Inspector.”
    Bliss checks the clock, and the royal car glides to a stop as the second hand touches the top.
    â€œBang on time,” says Williams.
    â€œGuinevere and Lancelot arrived safely at Point Omega,” sings Bliss into his microphone, and hundreds of men and women lower their shields and tear gas guns to light up cigarettes or dash to port-a-loos, but the rooftop marksmen are still on high alert. The walk from the heavily armoured car up the steps to the mosque — lined either side by a throng of hand-picked flag-wavers — is the only time that the royal personages are actually exposed, and Bliss flicks constantly from camera to camera, making sure to check in with the eye in the sky. Marksmen on rooftops, each with an identification tab clearly visible, scan their allotted areas through scopes. The radio chatters constantly as they check in: “All clear … All clear … All clear …”
    â€œDon’t get complacent. Don’t let your guard down,” mumbles Bliss on the edge of his seat as the imams and mullahs wait, still smiling at their coup — even if they are risking their necks and have driven away some of their more fervent congregants.
    The Bishop of London, wearing a colourful frock, and a handful of cassocked lesser clerics are also in attendance, Bibles in hand, ready to undo any theological damage that the Islamists may do, even though the royals will take no part in the proceedings and will simply walk in the front door and then be shunted into a back room with the women and girls. But the Christians stand well apart from the followers of Mohammed and mistrustfully eye the dignitaries in their drab grey galabiyyas and dishdashas.
    â€œHer Majesty is wearing an ivory …” begins the commentator, and Bliss fades him out in momentary panic as he realizes that he never ordered anyone to specifically check the repaved area under the Queen’s feet. Seconds stretch to eternity as Bliss waits for a blast, and then he takes a breath as she is escorted to the steps by Commander Fox.
    â€œPrince Philip is resplendent in his field marshall’s ceremonial uniform,” says the BBC reporter, seemingly as surprised as everyone else as the Duke of Edinburgh alights from the royal limousine.
    â€œI thought this was supposed to be informal …” mumbles Bliss as he frantically flicks through the orders of the day.
    â€œMaybe he’s losing his marbles,” suggests Sergeant Williams with little concern.
    Bliss has found the page, stabs at the words
civilian dress
, and fumes, “His bloody aide-de-camp should’ve picked up on this.”
    â€œYou know how stubborn the old bugger can be,” responds Williams. “He’s making a statement. What does it matter?”
    â€œBecause, Sergeant, protocol is protocol,” explains Bliss fiercely. “Not every Arab goes around singing ‘Rule Britannia’ and wants to be reminded that our army’s been crapping on their doorstep since the Middle Ages.”
    â€œNothing we can do about it now,” shrugs Williams as the Duke returns Commander Fox’s salute before following his wife up