Read Online The Lords' Day (retail) by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Dobbs
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they?
Security is a state of mind, a sense of well-being, and all had been well in the Lords ever since they had dragged off Guy Fawkes and butchered him. So it was difficult to believe what was now
taking place in front of them. The High Commissioner of Pakistan had risen to his feet and was waving what seemed, even to the untrained eye, something suspiciously like a small assault rifle, and
which to those with more experience in these matters looked exactly like a Kalashnikov AK-102. With its side-folded butt it was less than two feet in length, had a magazine that held thirty rounds
and could fire every single one of them off in three seconds. It was a most awesome weapon for use in confined spaces, and every inch of it easily concealed beneath the ambassador’s colourful
national dress. Much to the surprise of those around him who had seen him arrive as a frail, overweight envoy, he appeared to have been transformed into a noisy and even agile demonstrator who was
leaping from his place on the diplomatic benches, only feet from the Throne. And it was that measure of surprise that gave him the advantage. The only people between him and the Queen were elderly
officials who had their back to him; with a shove he sent them sprawling to the floor. There was a royal protection officer inside the chamber, but he was standing in the shadows at the other side
of the chamber. He was as surprised as everyone else. It took only a moment for him to recover his wits, but in that single moment the Pakistani had already reached the steps before the throne and
was standing upon the embroidered train that the page-boys had laid out so carefully, and which now pointed directly like an arrow towards Elizabeth.
To those who were witness, these happenings seemed to be taking place as though through a telescope trained on a distant world. They were gripped by unsteadiness and indecision, even as the High
Commissioner raised his weapon, let forth a great cry and fired. Not until that point had arrived could anyone tell if this was a stunt or an outburst of insanity, yet now there was no doubt.
Splinters of gold-painted frieze fell from the canopy above the Throne and spattered about the Queen. From all corners there came screams; people buried their heads, or were frozen in disbelief.
Page-boys fell to their knees and cowered. A lady-in-waiting fainted. As others screamed and ducked for cover, Elizabeth alone seemed unmoved.
Charles was the first to respond. He began to rise from his throne to place himself between the gunman and his mother, but she took his arm, held him back. If the gunman had intended to kill her
he would already have done so, and there was no point in senseless sacrifice.
The same thought had come to her protection officer. The gunman was in a much better position than he; if a firefight began in such crowded conditions the damage could be terrible and would in
all probability involve the Queen herself. Better to wait, bide his time, seek some advantage, perhaps even some surprise. He left his weapon in its holster.
But the world did not stand still. The doorkeepers who manned the two exits behind the throne instinctively began to push them open to let those who could do so escape, but as the doors were
drawn back, they allowed others in. As the first sound of gunfire echoed throughout the building, the apparently disabled pair who had been sitting in wheel chairs only a few yards away in the
Royal Gallery suddenly underwent a miraculous cure, springing to their feet and racing towards the action. They, too, had weapons in their hands and for some reason were dragging the cushions of
their wheelchairs with them.
From the distant end of the Chamber, where the Prime Minister and members of the Commons were gathered, came the sound of another burst of gunfire. The three cleaners had been hiding in a nearby
washroom; now they had emerged and were waving more weapons, and shooting them. Bullets riddled the
Security is a state of mind, a sense of well-being, and all had been well in the Lords ever since they had dragged off Guy Fawkes and butchered him. So it was difficult to believe what was now
taking place in front of them. The High Commissioner of Pakistan had risen to his feet and was waving what seemed, even to the untrained eye, something suspiciously like a small assault rifle, and
which to those with more experience in these matters looked exactly like a Kalashnikov AK-102. With its side-folded butt it was less than two feet in length, had a magazine that held thirty rounds
and could fire every single one of them off in three seconds. It was a most awesome weapon for use in confined spaces, and every inch of it easily concealed beneath the ambassador’s colourful
national dress. Much to the surprise of those around him who had seen him arrive as a frail, overweight envoy, he appeared to have been transformed into a noisy and even agile demonstrator who was
leaping from his place on the diplomatic benches, only feet from the Throne. And it was that measure of surprise that gave him the advantage. The only people between him and the Queen were elderly
officials who had their back to him; with a shove he sent them sprawling to the floor. There was a royal protection officer inside the chamber, but he was standing in the shadows at the other side
of the chamber. He was as surprised as everyone else. It took only a moment for him to recover his wits, but in that single moment the Pakistani had already reached the steps before the throne and
was standing upon the embroidered train that the page-boys had laid out so carefully, and which now pointed directly like an arrow towards Elizabeth.
To those who were witness, these happenings seemed to be taking place as though through a telescope trained on a distant world. They were gripped by unsteadiness and indecision, even as the High
Commissioner raised his weapon, let forth a great cry and fired. Not until that point had arrived could anyone tell if this was a stunt or an outburst of insanity, yet now there was no doubt.
Splinters of gold-painted frieze fell from the canopy above the Throne and spattered about the Queen. From all corners there came screams; people buried their heads, or were frozen in disbelief.
Page-boys fell to their knees and cowered. A lady-in-waiting fainted. As others screamed and ducked for cover, Elizabeth alone seemed unmoved.
Charles was the first to respond. He began to rise from his throne to place himself between the gunman and his mother, but she took his arm, held him back. If the gunman had intended to kill her
he would already have done so, and there was no point in senseless sacrifice.
The same thought had come to her protection officer. The gunman was in a much better position than he; if a firefight began in such crowded conditions the damage could be terrible and would in
all probability involve the Queen herself. Better to wait, bide his time, seek some advantage, perhaps even some surprise. He left his weapon in its holster.
But the world did not stand still. The doorkeepers who manned the two exits behind the throne instinctively began to push them open to let those who could do so escape, but as the doors were
drawn back, they allowed others in. As the first sound of gunfire echoed throughout the building, the apparently disabled pair who had been sitting in wheel chairs only a few yards away in the
Royal Gallery suddenly underwent a miraculous cure, springing to their feet and racing towards the action. They, too, had weapons in their hands and for some reason were dragging the cushions of
their wheelchairs with them.
From the distant end of the Chamber, where the Prime Minister and members of the Commons were gathered, came the sound of another burst of gunfire. The three cleaners had been hiding in a nearby
washroom; now they had emerged and were waving more weapons, and shooting them. Bullets riddled the
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