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But then there were new incredible shots like in Hollywood horror movies. Gentlemen stood still. Dozens of Maher’s people began getting out from some basements, like the Trojan trap. The commandos, having losses, retreated out of the gate, helicopters hit the building, but the terrorists are hiding and continue resist in an organized way. There was a pause on all screens. The Stealth Hawk starts heeling, swaying and twisting. Everyone cried with despair, when the helicopter falls into the firestorm of the burning mansion. Paled military men assembling at the Prime Minister’s place partially assume the responsibility for remote management of the battle, and trying not to lose people, to retreat in an organized way.

No one noticed that at the big table appeared the Chief Sephardic Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak. Netanyahu sat next to Isaac. They were silent, like two ancient sages. Netanyahu was touching his cell-phone, and Isaac was stroking his beard.

- It is not the first time when the paganism erects another golden calf - he said. The antidote to immortality exist, find it up and you will conquer people with it.

Benjamin has been silent for a long time. Then he asked Yosef:

- Rabi, don’t you object to the building of the Third Temple?

For a long time, they have been listening to the night and looked at their souls lights. Isaac didn’t say a single word. The time was two o’clock.


Three hundred different clocks at the Buckingham Palace, watched by two servants during their working day, showed eleven PM sharply. Hearing the last subdued melodic sound of the bell, the Queen of Great Britain turned off the light. At eight o'clock in the morning she will wake up, during her breakfast she will read newspapers and will retire at her office for the paperwork at nine o'clock. She had to sign hundreds of documents.

For twenty-three thousand one hundred and eighty days, she has been doing her royal work beautifully, laboriously, regularly and reliably like the clocks of the palace.

Through the open window, a gust of wind brought the freshness of the spring night with the smell of blooming roses. Sounds seemed not to reach the big sleepy town. She suddenly remembered a moment when she was a little Lilibeth and went out to the spacious terrace in the courtyard of the palace. Being the spotlight of endless official ceremonies and receptions, the front pages of newspapers, paparazzi, television, internet and rumors, she, as always, carried her royal dignity with sincere charity, but she was closed for annoying thoughts of her millions patrials. The city seemed to asleep, and she enjoyed the freedom to be herself. Memory suddenly twisted the brightest beautiful pictures. Here she is very little, playing with ponies in the garden, her first love letter to her future husband when she was thirteen years. In 1945 she is with a happy millionth crowds in London on a Victory Day, incognito, exclaiming: "We want the King!". The wedding, the birth of her first child and her sacred coronation. Let noise of the outside material world full of passion, sometimes alien to her, where prime ministers change each other, wars begin and end, empires are collapsed and new countries appear on the world map, she has its own kingdom of the finest world. And in this world there is love, her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, sincere affection and sacrifice, without any calculation.

During the day several times from heaven Albion poured large cold raindrops. Many invitees were slowly entering the wonderful Royal Chelsea Flower Exhibition, adorning with the stylish bright big umbrellas. At three PM there appeared the royal retinue like aliens troops landed. Media beat with the drumbeat, switches and buttons, ready to hear snatches of conversation in "nous" language and being overjoyed, immediately pilfer them on citations. According to the program we were offered some special nominations: for the best small fountain, a mini-garden and a bouquet of original roses. They said that finally, there was created the purple rose and, probably, it will be a favorite of the how. Everyone was waiting for Chelsea Clinton to come, who was late, having stuck in a traffic jam.

Despite of the special security measures, by some incomprehensible way some anonymous entered the accompanying crowd. An awkward bumpkin, dressed an old sweater and without an umbrella, slowly zigzagging bumping clumsily and badly into the aristocrats, saying "Pardon me" instead of "Pardon" and, in the end, he seemed to touch the elbow of the duke of Edinburgh. The royal couple at the same time turned to the place where had to be Dickie Arbiter, but instead of him there was a lanky red-headed fellow, showing in all the ways his joy and happiness. For a split second two absolutely different worlds met with eyes. Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, said a witty phrase: "You probably came here recently, and you do not have a tummy."

At the same moment, the employees of the special services accurately made the stranger out of the suite. Incredibly, the young man hardly spoke English, he had no invitation, did not have any documents and other things, except a heavy pack of twenty pound notes in his pocket.

- I think he entered the back door - smiled one of the suite.

Night star flashed through the gap of the double heavy curtains. On the white pillows there was sleeping Emma, Linnet, Monty, the palace fell asleep and Queen's Guards quietly changed each other.

Only the window of the Royal Guard chief Sapta Boyle was anxiously lighting for the whole night. He missed dinner, he was hungry and angry. The incident at the show could cost him his career. Dozens of times he mentally voiced version of that happened. The truth was so terrible and helpless that, as Sir Winston Churchill said, she had to be protected by the lie squads. He looked once more at the report of the offender’s interrogation, he remembered a categorical, slightly seeded look, and his strange behavior. Firstly, he wanted to let the foreigner go, to give the guards the blast and to hush up another funny incident. But at the end of the interrogation, when the offender asked a cigarette, everything started.

- I could not, I could not, I could not! - He shouted in madness. - It is stronger, it is stronger - his hands began to tremble, pupils widened. - I'm not a Bluebeard! That's why I could not.

Then he said something unintelligible, sometimes shouting the phrase "Yellow Submarine" and "Save the Queen."

Several minutes Sapte Boyle, having closed his eyes, has been sitting on a chair, nervously tapping his knuckles on the table. Then he opened the door of the refrigerator and poured a half of jill Irish whiskey Cooley Distillery with a label St. Patrick. "It would be better to shoot him at the attempt to escape" - Guard mentally complained about his fate and called "John," Sir Robert Sawyer, the Head of MI6, Secret Intelligence Service.

- John.

- Is it you?

- Yes. Just on business. It seems to me that this is one of those you are looking for.

- Do you mean the incident at the fair of flowers?

- Exactly!

- For some reason, I thought so. Tell me.

- I interviewed him. Come here.

Ten minutes later, Robert Sawyer, quietly left his bed, he was going to the Palace, where he met and instructed staffers from Vauxhall Cross 85. They arrived to the entrance of the Palace, where they were already waiting Sapte Boyle.

- Please, let my gentlemen come in. There can be complications, said Robert.

Two minutes later, the men were next to the small police station of the Palace. The door was opened for some reason. Sapta felt unpleasant chill. In the closet, where used to sit a constable, was empty. On the table there was a warm cup of strong tea. Detectives rushed to the iron cage. A heavy prison door opened. Another policeman was cooling and unnaturally sitting on the iron bed surprised looked with unseeing eyes at the infinity.

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