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.James’ men were likewise amazed; afterwards they made out that he was the fearless hero — a latter-day John Wayne beating back a war party of bloodthirsty Apaches with bare hands and a rifle butt.He won a commendation for saving the lives of a dozen men that day and capturing a valuable rebel cell without firing a shot.He was also given a citation for valor — a fine gesture but one James felt superfluous.Although, as a career officer, he recognized the tremendous risk — of all the possible outcomes of such an action, the one actually resulting was the least likely — he knew in his bones it was not courage that had sustained him but simple conviction: he knew what lay behind the door and, just as surely, he knew his life would not end in that room.Even James — who understood better than anyone else the peculiarities of his special gift — accepted the extreme improbability of his childhood intimations of greatness ever coming to fruition.After all, it is one thing to pretend oneself a prince or a pirate; but who, in all sanity, could imagine — much less orchestrate — the extraordinary interplay of incident and accident, chance and serendipity, as well as the immense complexity of enterprise needed to make such a pretense possible in reality?That this dream should become solid waking reality seemed no less incredible to James than it would have to anyone else.Although he experienced it daily, he did not pretend to fathom it.If pressed for an explanation, he would only shake his head and say that there were forces in this universe which even the most gifted among us apprehend but dimly… and the rest of us not at all.Privately, however, deep in his secret heart, he thought that if there was a higher power at work in the world, shaping men to its purpose, then might we not apprehend it in action from time to time? And if so, might not that action look suspiciously like destiny?Like everyone else in Britain, James learned of the King’s death from television.It was a cold Thursday night in November, and he was at the Pipe & Drum with Calum and Douglas, watching Hearts in action against Celtic on big-screen TV.Aberdeen was down by one and mounting an attack in the closing seconds of the first half when the picture blanked and a Stand By sign flashed on.“Hey!” shouted Cal — and half the pub with him.“Bring back the football!”While the pub crowd was moaning about the interruption, the face of newsreader Jonathan Trent suddenly appeared.“We interrupt this broadcast,” he said, “to bring you a special news bulletin.”“Turn it up!” shouted someone from the back.“Shut up, and you’ll hear it!”“Listen!” hissed the crowd.“The King is dead,” intoned Jonathan Trent.“I repeat: Edward the Ninth, King of England, is dead.Turning to our correspondent, Kevin Clark, on the Portuguese island of Madeira, we bring you this report.”The announcement sent a rumble through the room.“Well, I’ll be… Did you hear that?” asked Calum.“I can’t hear a thing,” James complained.Instantly, the scene changed to a fresh-faced Kevin Clark, holding a microphone and pressing his left palm against his ear.He was standing in front of a large, modern-looking building in the dark, and he was saying, “I am here outside the Hospital Assunção, the medical facility where the body of the King was taken earlier this evening — about eight o’clock unofficially — by ambulance from his villa in Funchal.Initial reports, yet to be confirmed, indicate that the King suffered gunshot wounds and was pronounced dead on arrival in the trauma room.”“I’ll be…“ whispered Douglas.“The old bastard really is dead.”“It is not known at this hour,” continued the foreign correspondent, “the circumstances surrounding the incident.I am told the Portuguese authorities have mounted a preliminary investigation, and we expect to be issued a report within the hour.”The scene switched back to Jonathan Trent in the London studio.“Thank you, Kevin.Can you tell us the reaction of the British Consul in Madeira?”“I can indeed, Jonathan,” replied Kevin with suitable gravity.“The consulate staff is, of course, well aware of the implications of this tragic event, and are extending their full cooperation to the authorities to aid in the investigation.I have been told that the Consul has been in contact with Number Ten, and that a statement will be issued by the Prime Minister.We have not been privy to the —”“I’ll have to stop you there, Kevin,” said Jonathan Trent, breaking in, “but it looks like that statement is about to be made.We go now to Ronald Metcalf at Number Ten Downing Street.”The screen changed to a man in a trench coat with his collar up, standing hunch-shouldered outside a rain-streaked Georgian town house.Television lights lit up the night, glaring off the familiar black-enameled door.Policemen formed a cordon behind the press and television reporters, all of whom were jostling for better position.“We have just received word that the Prime Minister is about to make a statement,”Ronald Metcalf informed the viewers.“Tell us something we don’t bloody know already!” shouted someone from the back of the pub — who was in turn shouted down by those around him.James found himself leaning forward to hear what was being said.“It could be any moment….We are waiting for… there — it looks as if the Prime Minister is coming out now.”The picture shifted to the front entrance as the shiny black door opened and Prime Minister Thomas Waring emerged, looking distinctly grave and concerned, his compact, athletic form severe in a close-tailored black suit and deep blue tie.Accompanied by a swarm of aides, one of whom held an umbrella over his boss’s head, the Prime Minister paused to allow the pressmen a photo opportunity.Then, disdaining the offered umbrella, he braved the drizzle and walked quickly towards the bank of microphones to the staccato click of camera shutters and the strobelike bursts of their flashes.Stepping before the massed mikes, he looked at the paper in his hand, waiting for the buzz to quiet down.When he sensed the moment was right, he raised his head and, in solemn, subdued tones, said, “I have prepared a brief announcement.”He paused, swallowed, and began reading.“A little over an hour ago, the Home Office confirmed the report that the King of England was found grievously wounded at his villa in Madeira and rushed to hospital where he was pronounced dead at eight twenty-seven Greenwich Mean Time.Official cause of death is yet to be determined, but preliminary reports indicate that Edward succumbed to a head wound caused by gunshots.”The Prime Minister raised his head slowly.“As Prime Minister, I wish, on behalf of the nation, to extend condolences to the members of the monarch’s surviving family, his many friends, and well-wishers the world over.Obviously, our thoughts and sympathies are with them in this time of grief.I have nothing more to say.” He made to step away from the microphones.At this, the journalists unleashed a volley of questions at the retreating politician.“Mr.Waring! One question, Prime Minister!” shouted someone over the rest of the pack.“You said gunshots — was it murder or suicide?”The Prime Minister hesitated, then returned to the microphone.“The Portuguese authorities are conducting an investigation.To offer any speculation now would be highly inappropriate.Thank you.”He turned away and started back to Number Ten [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]