causing en route a motorcyclist to collide with a taxi.
At 10:30 a.m. Major Charles Stephens, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, handed over to the New Guard to the camera-clicking delight of the tourists.
As the majority of the New Guard marched off down the Mall with the Corps of Drums, the Old Guard, including David and his men, headed for the nearby Wellington Barracks to the tune of “Liberty Belle.” As well as being good marching music, this was also the signature tune of the television comedy series
Monty Python’s Flying Circus
. David had nobbled the Band Sergeant-Major, who substituted the correct final note with a huge, discordant fart from the tuba as in the Python version. This was enjoyed by the troops and tourists alike.
David gave his orderly his uniform for cleaning back at the Guards Barracks in Caterham, south of London. Then, in slacks and a tweed jacket, he located his R-registration Porsche 911 Targa convertible and drove through near-empty streets to his flat in South Kensington.
Letting himself in, he noticed a white, two-inch-square card with the rest of his mail. The card was blank. He felt a surge of anticipation, for this was no ordinary caller.
David, a great believer in priorities, went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle and put hot water in the teapot. Then, without removing the brown paper bandthat circled its butt, he lit up a Montecristo Number 5 cigar. He smoked half a dozen a day and especially relished his first post-palace-duty puff.
Spike Allen was standing by the bookshelf and greeted David with a creasing of the skin at the corners of his eyes. David disguised his pleasure. “You break in here on a Sunday morning when I am knackered by forty-eight hours of ensuring the Queen’s personal safety.” He gestured at the copy of the
Times
that lay beside a green cardboard file. “I had assumed you were in Mozambique leading the attack.”
Spike grimaced. “I hope you’re not sardonic with Her Majesty. Sarcasm ill becomes an officer of the Welsh Guards.”
David had been on a sniper’s course in West Germany when one of Spike’s talent-trawlers had spotted him and, a year later, Spike had made the approach while David was on a demolition and explosives course with the Royal Engineers. The committee had specifically instructed Spike never to recruit from the Armed Forces and, in the case of ex-soldiers, no one who had ever served with the regular (22nd) Special Air Service Regiment. Spike had adhered rigidly to this rule until 1971, when a specialist job in Edinburgh had proved beyond the expertise of his two dozen operatives—his “Locals,” as he called them—in Britain. He had needed a man with up-to-date military contacts and skills.
He managed on that occasion by himself but decided then and there to recruit a suitable person from Her Majesty’s Forces. Since he and he alone knew the identities of the founder, the committee members,
and
the Locals, and since the committee entrusted the work of running the Locals entirely to Spike, no one objected to the recruitment of an active soldier because no one except one or two of the other Locals knew about it. Ignorance was bliss, decided Spike, who was a realist.
David had worked for the Feather Men for four years, and Spike had every cause to congratulate himself on his choice. He knew the details of Captain Mason’s file, as he knew those of every one of his Locals. Spike was married with two children, but the Locals were his extended family and Mason, Local 31, was a star performer. His file read:
Born Oxford 8/13/51.
Arrogant but fiercely loyal. Old-fashioned but quick, confident and decisive
Eynsham Park, Witney, Oxon; 97a Onslow Square, South Kensington
Eton. Mons Officer Cadet School. 1st Bn. Welsh Guards
Skills/Abilities: Cross-country runner BAOR Championship ’71, ski, marksman
Instructor—Sniper’s Course BAOR ’72
Northern Ireland 1971–72
O. C. IS/CRW weapons trials