by Chris Ryan
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t take your eyes off me from now on.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where are my men, by the way?’
‘In the holding area. They’re watching the cars. The situation is under control.’
‘Perhaps they should be here as well? It would be safer.’
‘We’ve got two guys covering the main entrance you just came through. Me and Dave will be up there.’ Bowman pointed up towards the loggia on the western side of the transept. ‘No one is getting in or out of here without us knowing about it, sir.’
‘You could take these seats, next to me, perhaps?’
Bowman said calmly, ‘Those seats are reserved, sir. We’ll be able to keep an eye on you from where we are.’
‘And when this is over? What then?’
‘As soon as it’s time to leave, the other lads will bring the cars round. Me and Dave will escort you out of the Abbey.’
‘You did very well back there. I’m grateful.’
‘Just doing my job, sir.’
He left the president and threaded his way across to Poets’ Corner, sidestepping a woman with a hat so wide you could land a helicopter on it. A small door had been built into the south-east corner of the transept. The door led to an unseen part of the Abbey: a secret network of staircases and passages leading to the upper levels of the Abbey. Bowman ducked through the opening and climbed a dusty spiral staircase to a narrow walkway on the south side of the transept. He walked carefully along the passage and ascended the steps to the mezzanine gallery. Then he found Kember sitting in the far corner, watching the guests. From their position the two soldiers had a commanding view of the action below. If anyone tried to breach the Abbey via the north or south entrances they would be instantly spotted, giving the team time to act before the principal came under threat.
‘How is he?’ Kember asked as Bowman drew up alongside him.
‘Shaken,’ Bowman said. ‘But otherwise okay.’
‘Does he suspect anything?’
Bowman considered for a beat, recalling the look of raw fear in his eyes. ‘I don’t think so. He just looks shit scared.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ Kember said. ‘His people are out to get him. I’d be worried too, if I was in his boots.’
‘He’s a tyrant, mate. He’s spent twenty-four years in power. You’d think he would be used to people having a pop at him.’
Kember grunted. ‘Maybe he’s losing his nerve.’
Amid the crowd, Bowman caught sight of a guest approaching Seguma. A broad-shouldered man dressed in a striped morning suit and a pink tie, a pocket square jutting like a shark’s fin out of his breast pocket. The man wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses; his large round eyes were as black as his slicked-back hair. He had the build of a retired boxer, with hands the size of shovels and a prominent scar running like a tear down his left cheek.
The man pumped Seguma’s hand, slapping him on the back and whispering into his ear. The president nodded along, occasionally glancing at Bowman and Kember in the gallery above.
Kember nudged his partner, inclining his head towards the man chatting with the president.
‘That’s one of the Lang twins, isn’t it? Those Cockney mobsters.’
‘Freddie,’ Bowman said. ‘That’s Freddie Lang.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘He’s the one with the scar on his cheek.’
‘You ever run into them when you were working undercover?’
Bowman laughed drily. ‘Not a chance. The Langs are too smart to get involved in street-level trouble. They keep their hands clean.’
‘What’s Freddie doing here, anyway?’
‘He’s a friend of the groom. Freddie Lang is mates with all those City boys,’ Bowman said. ‘Makes himself out to be a property tycoon.’
‘I wonder what he’s doing talking to the principal.’
‘The Lang brothers are a big deal in Karatandu,’ Bowman explained. ‘Have been for years. They own loads of real estate down there. Hotels, holiday resorts, diamond mines, shopping malls. They own half the country.’
‘They must be worth a fucking fortune.’
‘They are. But they’re still a pair of evil fuckers. Freddie and his twin brother have been involved in crime since they were out of nappies.’
Kember stared at him. ‘How d’you know so much about them?’
‘I grew up in the same area as the Langs,’ said Bowman. ‘Romford. In Essex. They lived a few streets over from us.’
Kember looked at him with widened eyes. ‘You knew the Lang brothers?’
‘Not personally. But everyone knew about them. The Langs were practically royalty around those parts when I was growing up. Everyone knew about them. Everyone feared them, too.’
‘You ever get mixed up in all of that?’
‘A few of my mates did, but I managed to stay out of it. I was one of the lucky ones.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe things would have turned out differently, if I hadn’t escaped.’
‘You must have some stories.’
‘I’ve heard one or two,’ Bowman admitted.
‘Are the Langs as bad as people say?’
‘Worse. They were animals. They ruled through fear. David, the older one, he was the brains behind their operations. But everyone knew Freddie was a psychopath. If he came into the pub, you finished your pint and got the fuck out of there. One time, he didn’t like the way the barman looked at him. Freddie dragged the guy outside, broke his legs and beat him within an inch of his life. Poor bastard ended up in a wheelchair, pissing and shitting into a bag.’
‘Christ. I thought growing up in Sunderland was rough.’
‘The Langs are nasty fuckers,’ said Bowman. ‘They might be rich, and they like to pretend they’re legit businessmen these days. But don’t be fooled. Those two are as cruel as they come.’
As they looked on, Seguma said something and pointed up at Bowman and Kember. Look, his body language appeared to suggest. Those are my two SAS bodyguards. Freddie Lang slowly lifted his gaze to the gallery. He caught Bowman’s eye and frowned. Then he turned back to Seguma, pointed at Bowman and uttered a few words. As if asking a question. Seguma nodded. Lang looked up again and stared at Bowman for several long beats, his frown deepening.
Bowman stood frozen to the spot. Kember glanced at him with a puzzled expression. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know Lang?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then why is he staring at you?’
‘Maybe he thinks he’s seen me somewhere before,’ Bowman answered quickly. ‘That fucker never forgets a face.’
Groups of royal officials paced the transepts, gently steering the guests back to their seats. In his earpiece, Bowman heard Studley reporting that the groom’s party had just left their hotel. Lang slapped Seguma heartily on the back and then strutted back to his seat, his arms swinging at his sides like a couple of punchbags.
Up in the gallery, Kember and Bowman took their seats.
‘Do you think Studley was right?’ Kember asked in a low voice. ‘About the president’s enemies trying to have another crack at him today?’
Bowman sucked in air through his teeth. ‘After what just happened, we can’t rule anything out.’
But even as he sat down he heard the voice at the back of his head again. Telling him that he had nearly messed up. If he had been suffering with the cravings, Bowman knew, there was no way that he would have spotted the assassin. A fraction of a second later, and the president might have been killed.
The next time, I might not be so lucky.
*
The ceremony started at exactly twelve o’clock. The groom arrived first, a City poser with fashionably mussed hair, a swaggering gait and the kind of impermeable confidence you can only acquire after you’ve made your hundredth million. The organ music built to a booming crescendo, the guests hushed and then the bride appeared. Princess Amelia, sixth in line to the throne, plain and g
angly, stuffed into a dress as white as uncut cocaine.
The service proceeded in a rigid, orderly fashion. Later, Bowman would remember it as a blur of Bible readings and hymns and vows. He wasn’t really paying attention. He was too busy thinking about his next pill and watching the guests below. At exactly one o’clock the newlyweds glided back down the red carpet, into a great wall of noise from the spectators. They rode off in their landau, and then the VIPs rose to depart.
As soon as the first guests got to their feet, Lomas and Studley hurried out of the Abbey to retrieve their wagon from the parking area. Kember left to fetch the other Discovery, while Bowman slipped out of the muniment room and jogged down to the ground floor. He moved alongside Seguma and Lungu, then they joined the bottleneck forming at the nave. There was a delay as the guests at the front waited for their coaches and private cars to collect them. Then the bottleneck cleared, and Bowman spoke into his mic, notifying the other guys that the principal was on the move. Thirty seconds later, they walked out of the Abbey into the weak grey light of the early afternoon.
They ferried Seguma back across town to his hotel, sticking to the back roads. Then the team split up again. Lomas and Studley continued on towards the reception venue while Bowman and Kember stuck with the principal. They took up their positions outside the presidential suite and settled into a tedious routine of sitting around and checking their phones.
At four o’clock, Bowman snuck into the lobby toilets and popped another pill. Which left him with one tablet in the container. To last him another forty-eight hours.
Not enough.
Nowhere near.
The thought of running out filled him with dread. One way or another, he was going to need to source some more opioids. Tonight, he knew. Before the withdrawal pains started again.
Eighty minutes later, they left for the reception party.
Five
They arrived at the Greybourn Hotel at six o’clock. The team went through the exact same procedure as the journey to the Abbey. The same three cars with the same occupants moving in the same column formation. Except this time, they hung a left off Park Lane, zigzagging east and then south. Passing the neat Georgian squares and the trendy Russian restaurants. Plunging deeper into the heart of Mayfair. Three minutes later, they drew up at the side entrance to an imposing redbrick building shaped like a medieval castle, with cone-roofed turrets and tall arched windows and stone columns.
Bowman, Jallow and Deka left their vehicles. They formed up in front of the limo and accompanied Seguma and his PA towards the side entrance. Bowman stuck close to the principal, eyes shifting from side to side, alert to the slightest danger. The roads surrounding the Greybourn had been sealed off to the public; every room had been booked out for the occasion by the wedding party. The chances of an attack at the reception were low. But Bowman didn’t want to take any chances. Not after what had happened at the Abbey.
An elderly doorman greeted them with a polite nod as they entered the foyer. Seguma’s personal bodyguards split off from the rest of the group and headed through a pair of doors on the right, towards the main lobby area. The heightened threat to the principal had resulted in a change of plan. Jallow and Deka would now guard the front of the hotel. Lomas and Studley would base themselves on a side street, watching the rear staff entrance and fire exits. Bowman and Kember, meanwhile, would remain inside the ballroom during the party. Okello, the president’s other bodyguard, would watch the vehicles parked in a secure area near the hotel. Bowman had expected some resistance to the plan from the bodyguards. But to his surprise they had agreed without a word of protest.
Seguma snatched a champagne glass from a silver tray and swept through a wood-panelled door on the left. Bowman walked alongside the principal down a short corridor and through another set of doors into the ballroom. Which was huge. The size of two basketball courts. The walls were lined with mirrors; the domed ceiling decorated with gold leaf. There was a dance floor to the north, in front of the head table. To the west, on the far side of the room, a band on a stage went through a warm-up routine.
Most of the guests were already seated. At least three hundred of them, Bowman guesstimated. They chatted with one another, chortling and guzzling flutes of Bollinger. Waiters circled the room, topping up half-empty glasses.
Seguma grinned.
‘Now this is more like it! Food, wine, women. A real party, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bowman said.
‘And you’ll be here all evening? You and your friend won’t leave me?’
‘Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got the hotel covered.’
A member of staff came over to escort them to their seats near the main stage. Bowman left them and cut across to the southern end of the room. An area of seating had been reserved for the security details close to the fire exits. He took one of the free tables, realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and beckoned over the nearest waiter.
‘Yes?’ The waiter looked him up and down, as if deciding whether he was required to address Bowman as ‘sir’. He evidently decided against it.
‘Bang us a couple of sarnies, mate,’ Bowman said. ‘Before the rest of the scoff comes out.’
The waiter stared dumbly at him, as if Bowman was talking in tongues.
‘Pardon?’
‘Sandwiches,’ Bowman said. ‘For me and my partner. We’re with the principal.’ He pointed out Seguma across the room. ‘We don’t need anything fancy, just some basic grub.’
The waiter made a supreme effort to mask his distaste, failed, and smiled thinly. ‘I’ll speak to the kitchen. See what the chef can rustle up.’
‘There’s two guys in a black Land Rover Discovery parked on Townsend Street. Any chance you can take out a few sarnies to them?’
The smile thinned even more. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He turned and disappeared through one of the service doors. Bowman swept his eyes across the ballroom, looking for anything out of the ordinary. It might be someone with an unnatural body posture or gait, perhaps indicating that they had a weapon concealed on their body. Or it could be something as simple as a member of staff taking a peculiarly keen interest in Seguma. Any one of those signs might reveal an assassin in their midst.
As he looked round, he caught sight of Freddie Lang.
The mobster was sitting at a table to the right of the dance floor. He was talking with another guest. The other guy did most of the talking. Lang looked bored, twisting the stem of his champagne flute. He spotted Bowman across the dance floor and stared curiously at him. Bowman quickly dropped his gaze. When he glanced up again, Lang had turned back to his fellow guest.
Two minutes later, Kember slipped into the ballroom and dropped into the chair next to Bowman. After a few more minutes, the same waiter returned to their table carrying two platefuls of sandwiches. Ham and cheese, egg and watercress, corned beef. Bowman wasn’t hungry but he dug in anyway. The first rule of bodyguard work: eat when you can, as fast as you can, because there’s no telling when your client might suddenly decide to get up and leave.
Kember regarded his plate as if it carried the plague.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Bowman asked between mouthfuls of bread and cold meat. ‘Not hungry?’
‘I ain’t touching that shite. Full of carbs and fats.’
‘You should eat something. Better than sitting here on an empty stomach.’
‘And put that crap in my system?’ Kember screwed up his face. ‘No chance, fella. I’m sticking to water.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Bowman said, helping himself to another sandwich.
The reception was more relaxed than the stuffy formality of the ceremony. The VIPs were letting their hair down, now that they were no longer on public display. More champagne was poured. Speeches were made. Then dinner was served. The waiters brought out plates of smoked salmon, followed by lobster for the main course. Seguma hunched over his plate, hacking messily at his food. He talked as he chewed, pausing
only to slurp champagne. Some of it dribbled down his chin, staining his tuxedo.
As the waiters brought out dessert, Seguma reached for the finger bowl. He popped the flower into his mouth and chased it down with the warm water. Clearly mistaking the bowl for some sort of soup. He drained the water and let out a loud belch, patting his stomach in satisfaction. The other guests watched him with a mixture of fascination and horror.
‘Can you believe this bloke?’ Kember muttered.
‘Maybe they do things differently in Karatandu,’ said Bowman. ‘Different culture. Different customs and all that.’
‘Even so, you’d think he would have been invited to enough state functions to know the score by now.’
Bowman sighed. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about, Geordie.’
‘You’re still worried about someone else having a crack at him?’
‘Aren’t you?’
Kember swept an arm across the room. ‘There must be fifty bodyguards here. No one’s going to have a crack at him tonight. Not here.’
‘You said that earlier. Look what happened.’
He grunted. ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide to party too hard. If he starts breaking moves on the dance floor, we’ll be here until the sun comes up.’
The meal finished, and the staff rolled out a wedding cake with more tiers than a pandemic. The guests cheered the traditional cake cutting before they gathered around the dance floor. A freckled red-headed singer in a silk gown took to the stage and sang a slow folksy ballad for the couple’s first dance.
Bowman paid her no attention. He was observing the guests, the staff, the security details. Watching them closely. The next attack on the principal could come from anywhere. At first he had been convinced that the biggest risk came from the agency: the caterers, the cleaners, the extra help brought in for the party. Someone attempting to penetrate the inner security cordon. But they had been thoroughly vetted weeks before, and after the near-miss at the Abbey the security services had gone through their records again to see if they had missed anything. They had come back clean.
