Making their way downstairs, they headed through to the dining hall. Fifteen or so boys and girls were gathered at one end, sitting at circular tables, chatting and eating. To their left was an open serving area, steaming with freshly cooked food. Passing Connor a tray, Amir grabbed a large plate and helped himself. Connor’s mouth watered at the impressive spread of pasta, chicken, curry, rice and even steak.
“This is nothing like the school meals I’ve had before,” he remarked, shoveling a mound of fries to go with his rib-eye and mushrooms.
“The colonel believes an army marches on its stomach,” Amir replied, taking a pineapple juice from the cooler. “And trust me, you’ll need the energy!”
With plates piled high, Amir led Connor over to a table nearest the window, where four other recruits sat.
“You remember Jason?” said Amir, arching an eyebrow at Connor.
A broad-chested boy turned around. With dark tousled hair and an anvil jaw, Connor couldn’t forget his face . . . or his fists.
“G’day!” said Jason, an Aussie twang now noticeable in his speech. He offered one of his hammer-like fists in greeting. Connor took it and was subjected to a bone-crushing handshake.
I’m off to a great start here! thought Connor, trying not to wince. “You’re Australian, then?”
“He sure is! But don’t hold that against him,” teased the girl perched next to Jason and half his size. She’d lost her emo makeup and was now dressed in jeans, sneakers and a red sleeveless T-shirt, but there was no mistaking that she was the one who’d busted his lip in the alley. “I’m Ling. How’s the leg?” she asked with an impish twinkle in her eyes.
“Fine,” said Connor, releasing himself from Jason’s iron grip. “How’s the arm?”
Ling smirked. “Not as bad as you’d have ended up, if Jody hadn’t saved you.”
“Saved me?” Connor responded, remembering the situation differently, but Amir cut in.
“I wouldn’t argue with Ling. She always wins her fights.” He sat down beside the boy with bleached-blond hair. “This is Marc; he’s from France.”
Marc had replaced the gang fashion with a more stylish Ralph Lauren shirt and white jeans. Dark shadows circled his eyes, the aftereffect of his bruising encounter with the skateboard.
“Bonsoir,” he greeted, then with only the trace of a French accent asked, “How was the journey?”
“Long!” remarked Connor. As he took his place next to Amir, his eyes were drawn to the girl sitting opposite him. Perhaps a year older than the others, with tanned skin, sun-kissed blond hair and a radiant smile, she looked like she’d just stepped off a Caribbean beach. She wore a black halter-neck top with a winged-shield badge in gold.
“I hear you beat Jason,” she said in a soft American accent like honey. “That’s a first.”
“I held back,” Jason growled in protest. “Didn’t want to hurt the newbie.”
The girl gave a noncommittal nod. “Of course you did!” she said, smirking.
In an effort to smooth over his rocky start with Jason, Connor interjected, “Well, to be fair . . . he did telegraph that first punch.”
“Exactly,” agreed Jason, a little too quickly.
The girl glanced at Connor, her sky-blue eyes appraising him. Seeing straight through his white lie, the corner of her mouth curled up into a knowing smile. “I’m Charlotte. But everyone calls me Charley.”
Connor smiled back, hoping the flush in his cheeks wasn’t noticeable. He was usually fine around girls. But for some reason, this one made him feel a touch self-conscious. Opting for a safe opening question, he asked, “Where in the States are you from?”
“California,” she replied. “The Guardian gathers recruits from around the world.” She pointed to the other tables. “For example, José is from Mexico, Elsa from Germany, David from Uganda, Luciana from Brazil.”
Connor glanced around the hall, the tables only half full. “Are these all the guardians?”
Charley shook her head. “Most are on assignment. But no more than twenty of us are usually here at any one time.”
“So where’s the skater boy who attacked me?”
“Richie’s in Ireland,” Amir replied, through a mouthful of rice.
“Bonne chose aussi,” mumbled Marc, massaging the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry, what was that?” said Connor, wishing he’d paid more attention in his French class.
“Good thing too,” Marc repeated. “I might have forgiven him by the time he gets back.”
“So that means, Connor, you’ll be joining us in Alpha team,” Charley announced. “By the way, the colonel wants us all in the briefing room at 0800 hours. After fitness training.”
Marc let out a heavy sigh. “I hate six a.m. cross-country runs.”
Connor raised his eyebrows at this remark. He didn’t mind running, but he agreed with Marc—not before breakfast.
“And I still have a threat report to complete!” Amir complained, stabbing his chicken with a fork.
“Best get on with it, then,” suggested Charley, offering little sympathy.
“I warn you, Connor,” said Marc, picking up his tray to go, “Guardian is no holiday camp.”
The others stood to leave too. Apart from Charley. She rolled back her wheelchair before heading for the door.
Taken by surprise, Connor couldn’t help but stare.
Amir noticed his eyes following Charley’s exit and whispered, “She was injured on an assignment.”
“How?”
“I don’t know the details. And Charley prefers not to talk about it.”
That evening Connor didn’t feel like unpacking. He lay on his bed, listening to the wind whistling outside. His thoughts turned to Charley and the shock of seeing her using a wheelchair. The reality of what he’d agreed to hit home. Being a bodyguard was no game. The risks were real. Dangerously real.
9
“Do you understand what I’ve tasked you with?” questioned Malik, sitting cross-legged beneath the shade of an olive tree in his courtyard garden on the outskirts of Sana’a. Laid out on a cloth before the leader was a large bowl of saltah stew, a plate of aseed dried fish with cheese, boiled rice, malooga flatbread and a pot of black tea.
Hazim nodded. “I’m honored to be entrusted so.”
Malik smiled the thin grin of a snake. “You’ve been chosen, Hazim, because of your rather unique position. No one among the Brotherhood can get as close to the president’s daughter as you. But nothing can be left to chance. Our planning must be meticulous and our methods discreet.”
“I understand.”
“You must tell no one of your true purpose. Especially your family.”
“I won’t,” assured Hazim, “although you’re family, Uncle.”
Malik barked a desert-dry laugh. “And that’s why I trust you, Hazim. You’re like a son to me.”
Hazim beamed with pride. “You’ve always shown me favor, Uncle. It was you who encouraged my studies at the mosque in the first place. And that’s why I won’t let you down.”
“I trust not,” said Malik, all traces of humor vanishing from his face. “The role you play will be vital. And you’ll be provided with all the surveillance resources and backup you need. Bahir is to be responsible for communications and technology, and Kedar for managing our defensive requirements. Now, do you have any questions?”
Malik paused to take a sip of black tea from a small china cup, giving Hazim the opportunity to speak.
“You say money’s no object,” began Hazim, “yet how can the Brotherhood fund an operation like this?”
“You need not concern yourself with that,” said Malik, his tone hardening. “It doesn’t matter what it costs when the prize is so great.”
Selecting a piece of flatbread from the plate, Malik scooped up a helping of saltah and shovel
ed the meat stew into his mouth. He chewed slowly as he studied Hazim. “All that’s important is that you’re willing to do what’s necessary for the purpose of achieving our goal.”
His coal-black eyes bored into Hazim’s as he searched for the slightest evidence of doubt, any flicker of cowardice.
Hazim held Malik’s stare. “I’m well aware of the dangers, Uncle. And I’m resolved to my calling.”
Malik grinned in satisfaction, licking the stew from his yellow-stained teeth. “Excellent.”
10
“Bodyguards are the modern-day samurai warriors,” declared Colonel Black, clicking up an image of a Japanese swordsman on the overhead projector. “Like these ancient warriors, the bodyguard’s duty is to protect their Principal above all else.”
Connor sat with Alpha team in the briefing room, a windowless chamber at the heart of the school building. Decked out with HD flat-screen projectors, state-of-the-art computers and ergonomic high-backed lecture chairs, it was unlike any classroom Connor had ever been in.
“These warriors followed the code of bushido—a set of virtues that shaped the samurai’s training and attitude toward life. Today, a professional bodyguard adheres to the same principles of Loyalty, Honor and Courage.”
“You’re making us sound like heroes!” jested Marc.
“You are,” replied the colonel, his gaze briefly falling on Charley sitting in her chair at the front. “But you’ll be unsung heroes. Connor, you must forget the Hollywood image of the muscle-bound bouncer in a suit clearing a path for some starlet through a screaming crowd. Or a Secret Service 007-type in dark shades, talking into his sleeve, hand inside his jacket ready to draw a gun at the slightest threat. The best bodyguards are the ones that nobody notices.”
The next image on the screen showed a restaurant scene. A family of four sat at a table surrounded by other diners.
“Where are the bodyguards in this picture, Connor?”
Connor searched the image for clues. “The obvious one is the big man in the suit standing by the window, but you just said it can’t be him.”
“Correct. He’s the restaurant’s doorman. The actual protection team is here.” The colonel shone a laser pointer at a couple having a seemingly romantic meal. “And also here.” The red beam now shone on the young girl at the family table. “She’s one of our guardians. And that’s why you’ve all been chosen. To blend into the background. To become the unassuming friend. By not drawing attention to your Principal, you reduce the risk of making them a target.”
“So why do celebrities always use the Hollywood type?” asked Connor.
“As a deterrent,” replied the colonel, picking up a coffee mug and taking a sip. “If the Principal is a film star, for example, high-profile protection will keep any fanatical followers at bay. And, in these cases, generally the bigger and uglier the bodyguard appears, the easier it is for them to do their job.”
“Makes Jason perfect for the role!” remarked Ling out of the corner of her mouth.
Jason flicked his pen lid at her. “Careful I don’t step on you, Minnie Mouse!”
She caught the lid in midair without looking. “You’ll have to be quicker than that to get me.”
“Ling!” barked the colonel, bringing a swift end to the frivolity. “I realize Alpha team knows much of this already, but this session is designed to bring Connor up to speed, and the review is beneficial for you too. So tell me, what’s the key to effective security as a bodyguard?”
“Constant awareness,” Ling replied, her expression turning studious.
The colonel slammed his palm on the lectern. Amir almost leaped from his chair in fright at the sudden noise.
“What did Ling just say, Amir?”
“Um . . . constant . . . awareness,” he replied, stifling a yawn. The combination of working late and rising early had clearly taken its toll.
“And you’d do well to remember that,” warned the colonel. “If you’re aware, you’re less likely to be taken by surprise. And that could mean the difference between life and death for both you and your Principal.”
“Yes, sir,” said Amir, sitting up straight.
“Now explain the relevance of the Cooper Color Code.”
Amir swiveled in his chair to face Connor. “According to Marine Lieutenant Colonel Jeff Cooper, the most important means of surviving a lethal confrontation isn’t a weapon or martial arts skills but the correct combat mind-set. He identified four levels of awareness—White, Yellow, Orange and Red. Code White means being totally switched off. This is where ninety-five percent of people spend ninety-five percent of their time—living in their own bubble. Like when you’re on a smartphone and you cross the road without looking.”
Connor nodded, having been guilty of this himself many a time and once almost getting run over.
“Code White is no place for a bodyguard to be,” emphasized the colonel. “If you’re suddenly attacked, you’ll get a massive surge of adrenaline that your body won’t be able to cope with. It’ll trigger a state of fight, flight or freeze. This sensory overload will hinder you from protecting your Principal, who’s probably in the same state of shock. You need to be thinking straight, making lightning-fast decisions and taking the appropriate actions to get your Principal out of danger.”
The colonel’s steely gray eyes fixed on Marc. “So, what state of mind should a bodyguard always be in?”
“Code Yellow—relaxed alertness,” replied Marc. “There’s no specific threat, but you’re aware that the world’s a dangerous place and you’re prepared to defend yourself and your Principal, if necessary. You use all your senses to scan the surroundings in a relaxed yet alert manner.”
“What’s the problem with Code Yellow, Jason?”
Jason looked up from his laptop. Tapping his pen on the lecture chair’s writing table, he thought for a moment. “Um . . . Although it’s simple enough to ‘switch on’ and become alert, the difficulty is in maintaining that state. You can easily drift back into Code White without even realizing it.”
The colonel raised his eyebrows pointedly at Amir to ensure he got the message. “But with practice you can ‘live’ in Code Yellow on an indefinite basis. Now, Charley, explain to Connor the last two states of awareness.”
“Code Orange is a specific alert. Having noticed a potential threat, you evaluate your choices. Run, fight or wait and see, depending on how the situation develops,” she explained fluidly. “Code Red is the trigger. The threat has escalated into a hazardous situation. Having made your decisions in Code Orange, you’re now acting on them.”
“Exactly,” said Colonel Black, pleased with her response. “You haven’t jumped from Code White to Code Red in a single leap, resulting in potential ‘brain fade.’
“Since your mind-set is already in a heightened state of awareness, your body can handle the rush of adrenaline. This means you can run faster, hit harder, think quicker and jump higher than you could seconds before.”
The colonel directed his gaze toward Connor. “In short, the Color Code helps a bodyguard stay in control and think clearly in a life-threatening situation.”
11
Connor was now glad of that early-morning run. His brain was just about “alert” enough to take this information in. As Connor made notes on the laptop Amir had provided, the colonel forwarded the presentation to a silhouette of a young boy surrounded by four concentric circles. Each ring was marked with a different initialism from the outside in: RST, SAP, PES and BG.
“In the majority of assignments, you’ll work as part of a larger adult close-protection team,” explained Colonel Black. His laser pointer flicked to the outermost circle, RST. “The Residential Security Team, as the name implies, manages the physical security of anywhere your Principal’s family might stay—for example, a house, a hotel or a yacht. They’ll perform searches, monitor security feeds and check ever
y visitor in and out. In theory, this should be the safest place for you and your Principal. On the other hand, being a fixed and known location, a residence is the most obvious target for an attack.”
The red beam moved into the SAP circle.
“The Security Advance Party provides the next layer of protection. They travel ahead of the family, checking that routes and venues are safe. This may happen months in advance, say for a vacation—or minutes, in the case of an impromptu visit to a restaurant. Many potential attacks have been foiled by an observant SAP team. Good communication with them is essential—you don’t want any surprises when you’re out and about.”
The PES circle was now highlighted. “The Personal Escort Section provides a crucial layer of defense when the family is on the move. Depending upon the situation, their function may be to provide additional protection or to eliminate a threat and give you time to escape with your Principal.”
The colonel’s laser pointer spiraled in through the circles once more to reinforce their importance.
“Each of these groups forms a cordon of defense around the Principal and their family.” His beam stopped at the smallest innermost circle labeled BG. “But as a guardian you’ll be the final ring of defense. It’s your ultimate responsibility to shield your Principal from danger.”
The colonel directed everyone’s gaze to the large silver shield and wings hanging over the door of the briefing room. “Hence our logo.”
He highlighted three words etched into the burnished metal: Praedice. Prohibe. Defende.
“Charley, enlighten Connor with our motto.”
“Predict. Prevent. Protect,” she recited. “Predict the threat. Prevent the attack. Protect the Principal.”
“This isn’t a mere saying, Connor,” reaffirmed Colonel Black. “This is our method of operation. By identifying a source of danger early, we can minimize the risk of it happening. If we put in place countermeasures, then the Principal will be better protected. Ideally, we’ll avoid the threat entirely. For example, if your Principal is a famous young TV star, what threat could she face?”
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