Read The Lords' Day (retail) for Free Online Page B

and refused the class-ridden pretensions of morning dress, so he made do with a suit, one of
only two he owned. It may have taken pride of place in his wardrobe but it had clearly travelled many a mile. The trousers seemed to be fashioned from material reclaimed from a worn-out concertina
while the jacket succeeded in both stretching and sagging at the same time.
    This was also the moment for one of the most celebrated traditions of the day. Ten members of the Yeoman of the Guard, the oldest military corps in the country, were given the order to start
their ceremonial search in a colourful re-enactment of the moment that their predecessors had discovered Guy Fawkes’s stash of gunpowder. Four centuries later, no chances were being taken.
With lamps in one hand and ceremonial four-inch axes in the other, dressed in uniforms of brilliant scarlet with knee-breeches and ruffs that stretched back to Tudor times, they marched in step to
their duty, through the chamber and down a staircase into the cellars. Once they had finished they would be taken to the Terrace overlooking the river for a glass of port. It was, of course, merely
ritual. After all, the cellars had already been searched by sniffer dogs and police with metal detectors. No surprises, that was the order of the day. Everything had to move like clockwork, to the
minute.
    It was a day that, in the words of the police inspector, had been planned to death. But others had their plans, too. By this time, there were already seven assassins inside the building. One
more to go and they would have a full set.
    9.37 a.m.
    A blue armoured BMW with two-inch thick windows and a suspension that seemed to sag just a little lower than most pulled slowly into Downing Street. It was Robert Paine’s
car and was followed by a British Special Branch unit, but the Stars and Stripes weren’t flying from the bonnet. This wasn’t an official call.
    The door of Number Ten opened for him as he approached and he walked straight through into the black-and-white-tiled hallway. He was a regular visitor, felt comfortable here, was on first-name
terms with the doorman, but even he was surprised when a football suddenly bounced his way.
    ‘Sorry, Mr Paine,’ an American voice called out, laughing.
    ‘Can we have our ball back, mister?’ another voice added in a plaintive mock-Cockney accent.
    ‘You turning Downing Street into a soccer pitch?’
    ‘My father would call it the maximum utilisation of public resources,’ the Englishman replied.
    ‘And Mom’d say we were only getting our own back on the British for burning down the White House,’ the other chimed in.
    The two young men smiled as they strode forward to take the ambassador’s hand. ‘Thanks for offering the lift today, Mr Paine,’ the American said. ‘We could have walked,
you know, wouldn’t take above ten minutes.’
    ‘Your mother asked me to take care of you,’ Paine replied. ‘I think she meant I should make sure you got there on time and didn’t upstage the Queen.’
    ‘Aw, mothers.’
    ‘Not to mention fathers!’ added the other.
    They both laughed. They were in their early twenties and clearly good companions. By any stretch theirs was a remarkable friendship, forged at Oxford, where they were both studying. It
wasn’t often that the sons of a British Prime Minister and an American President had the opportunity to make mischief together and grow close.
    Magnus Eaton, the Englishman, was a slight, wiry, copper-haired individual with an irreverent smile who was making his own way in the world, despite his parentage. He had insisted on being sent
to state school rather than some fee-paying establishment, much to the private relief and public credit of his father, and had rarely had his photograph published except for the family Christmas
card. Despite the inevitable accusations of nepotism when he had gained his place at Oxford he had proved himself to be a highly talented young man, adept not only