LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Dedication

      Foreword

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      17

      About the Publisher

       FOREWORD

      One of my personal favourite novels. Critics have been kind enough to say that the first chapter, which involves the penetration of Buckingham Palace, is one of the best things of its kind in the modern thriller. The idea for the book came to me during the Falklands conflict when I met arms salesmen at a Jersey cocktail party who had just come in from Paris where, they told me, there was an underground war going on between Argentinean agents trying to buy black market Exocet missiles and members of British Intelligence trying to foil them. I took their word for it and wrote the novel. Some critics thought the idea far-fetched at the time. However, the book was a huge success, mainly because for once I included a strong love affair. In later years, non-fiction books on the conflict have shown that the struggle, as I showed, between Argentinean and British agents did actually take place.

      Jack Higgins

      October 1996

       1

      As the yellow Telecom truck turned the corner, Grosvenor Place was quiet in the rain. There was not another vehicle in sight, hardly surprising in view of the weather and the fact that it was three o’clock in the morning.

      Harvey Jackson reduced speed, his hands slippery with sweat as he gripped the wheel. He wore yellow oilskins: a large man in his late thirties, the dark hair long, framing a face that seldom smiled, eyes bleak above high cheekbones.

      The rain was so heavy that the windscreen wipers had difficulty in handling it. He pulled in at the kerb and took a cigarette from a packet in the dashboard. He lit it and wound down the window, looking across the road at the high brick perimeter wall topped with barbed wire that enclosed the gardens at the rear of Buckingham Palace.

      He rapped with his knuckles against the partition behind him. A panel opened instantly and Villiers peered out. ‘Yes?’

      ‘We’re here. Are you ready?’

      ‘Two minutes. Get us into position.’

      The panel was closed and Jackson moved into gear and drove away.

      The interior of the truck was crowded with the paraphernalia of the telephone engineer and brightly lit by a neon strip light. Tony Villiers braced himself against the workbench as the truck swayed, and carefully blacked his face with camouflage cream, observing the effect in a mirror propped up against a tool box.

      He was thirty and of medium height with good shoulders. The eyes were dark and without expression. At some time or other his nose had been broken. His hair was black and tangled and almost shoulder-length. The black jump suit and French paratrooper’s boots combined to make him look a thoroughly dangerous man.

      And there was a kind of weary bitterness to him as well; the face of someone who had got to know the world and its inhabitants too well and did not care for what he had found.

      He pulled a black woollen hood over his head, leaving only his eyes free, and grabbed at the bench as the truck swung across the road, mounted the pavement and pulled in beside the wall.

      A Smith & Wesson Magnum revolver with a Carswell silencer screwed on to the barrel lay on the bench beside a briefcase. He slipped it into the pouch on his right leg, opened the briefcase and took out a large black and white photo. It had been taken late on the previous afternoon with a telephoto lens and showed the Ambassador’s Entrance at the side of Buckingham Palace. There were workmen’s ladders against the wall and under the portico. More importantly, two or three windows above the flat roof were partially open.

      Villiers replaced the photo and opened the panel again. ‘Twenty-five minutes, Harvey. If I’m not back, get the hell out of it.’

      ‘Conversation, I don’t need, not on a night like this,’ Jackson said. ‘Just get it done so we can go home.’

      Villiers closed the panel, clambered up on the bench and opened a trap. He pulled himself up on the roof and closed it behind him, crouching in the rain. The wall was only a couple of yards away. He slipped across the barbed wire, grabbed for the branch of a tree, worked his way along it, hand-over-hand, then dropped into the darkness below.

      The police officer on security duties at the Grosvenor Place end of the Palace gardens that morning was thoroughly unhappy with life. Soaked to the skin, wet and miserable, he had paused to shelter

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