Sir Robert Sandon’s blood pressure rose when he caught sight of the knot of official vehicles clogging the dock area immediately surrounding the Ostend-Dover Ferry, their flashing lights making for a colorful mélange. The media were out in force, as well, their reporters and cameras all agog at the spectacle before them.
A flock of ambulances stood by and the attendants were already busy bearing stretchers off the boat, their cargoes covered with white sheets. Sir Robert counted six in all. On the last one, however, he caught sight of the girl, Mueller’s daughter, Erika, her face deathly white from blood loss. But she was still alive.
Pity.
At least her father was out of the way. At least that was what the report said.
“Shall we move in, Sir Robert?” the young MI6 agent standing at his side asked, his voice taut with eagerness.
They stood far back from the action, partially hidden by their vehicles. Sir Robert shook his head.
“Not until young Thorley appears. If the bloody vampires from the BBC insist on a show, we’ll give them one. I want the whole of Britain to see him hauled away in handcuffs. Is that clear?”
The young agent nodded. The five others with him wore the same grave expression. There was a sudden rise in the level of sound as the reporters reacted. More lights snapped on and were trained on the ferry’s gangway. Thorley and his mother appeared, hesitating in the glare of the spotlights.
Sir Robert turned to his retinue of agents. “Right, let’s move!”
As one, the seven men charged across the docks, the agents forming a protective cordon around their boss. They shoved through the phalanx of reporters and camera crew and met Michael and his mother when they reached the bottom of the gangway.
Sir Robert grabbed Michael by the arm, his voice rising to be heard above the crowd. “Michael Thorley? I hereby arrest you in the name of the Queen. You will—”
And then it all went wrong.
The reporters closed in en masse, their microphones thrust into his face. One of them, an over-made-up harpy with bleached hair and blood-red mouth, shouted a question: “Sir Robert? We’ve just been told of a letter sent by Stalin ordering the massacre of a British regiment during the last war, and that our government has known and condoned it all along. Do you have any comment?”
Ignoring the bitch, he stared at young Thorley and saw the smug smile on his face, the look of triumph—and contempt. He also saw the letter clutched in his right hand.
So bloody close. He’d come so close to keeping the affair quiet, as it was meant to be. Now, it was all going to the devil.
Sir Robert turned to the female reporter, who looked at him with her own expression of smug assurance.
“I have nothing to say,” he said.
He turned and pushed his way through his own agents and stalked off toward his waiting Rolls. He reached the car, and climbed inside, blinking back tears of rage. “Bloody hell.”
A moment later the Rolls’ headlights snapped on and the stately car moved off, leaving the media circus far behind.