Bodyguard--Recruit (Book 1)

by Chris Bradford

  Amir began to repack the bag for him.

  “It’s all right. I’ve already got my own backpack,” said Connor.

  “Not like this one you haven’t,” he replied. “This backpack could save your life too.” He tapped the rear panel, then flexed it. “State-of-the-art liquid body armor. The jacket and shirt are only effective against handguns. This backpack will shield you from high-powered assault rifles and machine guns like the MP5.”

  “That’s reassuring to know,” said Connor, hoping he wouldn’t be confronted by that sort of firepower.

  “Colonel Black spares no expense on our safety equipment,” explained Amir, showing Connor how the panel folded out to double its coverage. Then he resumed packing the bag.

  Connor was astonished by the gear at his disposal. State-of-the-art phones, bulletproof clothing, anti-ambush backpacks. “I feel like James Bond,” he said, picking up the snazzy pair of sunglasses with dark mirrored lens. “So what do these do?”

  Connor was hoping for a “heads-up” display with augmented reality like the heroes used in the movies.

  “Now these are really clever—one hundred percent anti-radiation, anti-glare devices,” explained Amir, slipping them on and grinning. “They keep the sun out of your eyes!”

  27

  The Gulfstream jet touched down on the runway and taxied to the small private air terminal. As its engines wound down, the passenger door opened and the steps automatically unfolded. An immaculately presented flight attendant checked that the exit was clear before ushering the sole passenger from the plane.

  “Thank you for flying with us,” she said with a well-practiced smile of service, then added in farewell, “Ma’as-salama.”

  “Allah ysalmak,” replied the man in his native Arabic, his amber eyes admiring the attractive woman one last time. Stepping onto the tarmac, he felt a wave of heat that was pleasant but by no means comparable to the arid warmth of his own country.

  An airport official greeted him. “Sir, if you’d like to follow me.”

  They walked the short distance to the terminal building. A pair of glass doors slid efficiently open and they were met by a blast of cold, air-conditioned air. Once the two were inside, the doors closed behind them, sealing out the noise of the whirring jet engines. The lobby was virtually deserted, with only a few employees milling about. A large flat-screen TV on the wall was running CNN in the background, the news coverage following the increased tension in the Arabian Peninsula over the recent oil blockade.

  Crossing the thickly carpeted floor, the man was escorted over to Passport Control. A lone US Customs and Border Protection officer sat in his cubicle, his face fixed with a courteous but aloof expression.

  “Passport,” he said in a detached monotone.

  The traveler handed over his documentation, and the officer swiped it into his computer. He inspected the monitor. “Welcome, Mr. Khalid Al . . .”

  “Khalid Al-Naimi,” the man said helpfully.

  “And today you’ve come from . . . ?”

  “Saudi Arabia,” he replied, wondering why travelers were required to fill out such details on an I-94 form if passport officials never looked at them.

  “What is the purpose of your visit? Business or pleasure?”

  “Business,” he replied. “Although, with any luck, it’ll be pleasurable too.”

  The officer’s dour expression failed to register the good-natured reply.

  “And how long do you intend to stay?”

  “No more than a month.”

  The officer swiveled a webcam to focus on the man’s face. “Please look into the camera.”

  An image of a late-middle-aged Arab man with a silver-gray beard and amber eyes filled the screen. The officer took a photo, then gestured toward a black-and-green box fixed to the cubicle. “Now place your fingers on the scanner.”

  Putting down his briefcase, the man laid his right hand across the green plastic. Then his thumb.

  The officer reexamined the details that appeared on his monitor. “What type of business are you in, Mr. Al-Naimi?”

  “Oil.”

  The officer nodded, the answer seemingly of no interest to him despite his eyes flicking to the newscast. For a brief moment, he appeared reluctant to authorize the visitor’s entry visa. But then he stamped the passport and returned the documents. With the formalities complete, he waved him through. “Welcome to the United States. Enjoy your stay.”

  The Arab man smiled. “I intend to.”

  He passed the inspection station and baggage claim without further security screening. His luggage had already been transferred, and his driver was waiting for him. Stepping outside into the bright sunshine, he was guided toward a blacked-out limousine by the chauffeur. The driver held open the rear passenger door, and the man slid into the plush leather seat. Once the door was closed, he was plunged into air-conditioned, shaded privacy.

  With a casual yet careful look around the airport parking lot, the driver got behind the wheel and pulled away from the terminal.

  “Pleasant flight, sir?” asked the driver as they joined the highway heading north to Washington, DC.

  In the back, the Arab man was peeling off the first layer of skin from his right hand. The micro-thin latex parted to expose his real fingerprints.

  “Yes, Hazim,” replied Malik, now removing the colored contact lenses and returning his eyes from amber to their natural coal black. Later he would wash the silver dye from his beard too and trim it back. “And Bahir was right—security is relaxed at this private airport.”

  28

  The black limousine passed the manned checkpoint and rolled along Pennsylvania Avenue. The grandiose, gray-granite Eisenhower Executive Office Building gave way to tall trees and an oasis of green that was Lafayette Square. Ahead, tourists wandered the wide leafy avenue, mostly ignoring the tiny encampment of peace protesters on the curb. Rather, their attention was on a stately building set back from the road by a run of iron railings. The modest palisade appeared to be the only barrier to the most famous address in America: the White House.

  But Connor knew differently. As he peered through the limo’s tinted window, his observant eye immediately spotted the snipers hidden on the roof. During his operational briefing, Colonel Black had informed him that these gunmen could hit a target accurately at more than a thousand yards. Connor was only a few hundred away, and with their shooting skill, he was the equivalent of a sitting duck.

  Yet these weren’t the only security measures in place. Although the White House appeared open and welcoming to the public, it was actually an impregnable fortress. All the windows were bullet-resistant. Guard stations controlled every entrance and exit. Vibration alarms beneath the lawn warned of fence jumpers, and infrared sensors aboveground detected any unwanted intruders. Then there were the teams of Secret Service agents patrolling the gardens. Often out of sight but always on the alert, these dedicated emergency-response units packed semi-automatic pistols, shotguns and even submachine guns.

  With this level of protection, Connor wondered why the president needed him in the first place.

  As the driver pulled up to the gated entrance of the White House, it was a surreal moment. Connor had seen the place countless times on TV, and it was almost as familiar as Big Ben or the London Eye. But he’d never imagined that one day he’d actually be visiting it, let alone working there. Barely twenty-four hours ago, he was in London saying good-bye to his mum and gran. They’d been told he was going on a summer exchange program in recognition for his outstanding grades. His mother had been delighted, the news seeming to give her a new lease on life. His gran had been more reserved. She had just whispered, “Be careful, Connor.”

  The gates parted, and the limo eased along the curving driveway toward the magnificent white-pillared entrance of the White House Residence. But shortly before it, the car bore righ
t to arrive at the West Wing, the building that housed the official offices of the president of the United States. Pulling up beneath the roofed portico, the driver unlocked the doors and the Secret Service agent in the front passenger seat got out. With swift efficiency, he opened Connor’s side.

  “Welcome to the White House,” he said. “The driver will see to your bags.”

  Connor stepped out, still a touch overwhelmed by his ceremonious welcome. He’d been flown business class, collected by stretch limousine and treated with the utmost courtesy. He felt more like a distinguished guest than a prospective bodyguard.

  A single US Marine stood sentry outside the main doors. Still as a statue, he was dressed in full regalia, his boots polished like mirrors, his gloves spotlessly white. With regimented grace, he greeted their arrival and opened the doors to the lobby.

  Connor followed the Secret Service agent inside. The white marble-floor entrance turned to plush carpet as they passed through a second set of double doors into the West Wing’s official reception room. Furnished with red leather chairs and a pair of richly upholstered couches, the room was both elegant and intimate, like that of a top-class hotel. It boasted a collection of eighteenth-century oil paintings and an antique mahogany bookcase that took pride of place along the main wall.

  “If you’d kindly wait here,” instructed the agent. “I’ll inform them of your arrival.”

  Connor was left in the room with another nameless agent, who stood silent but attentive next to a glass-topped reception desk. Several people passed through the lobby. The majority were too engrossed in their work to pay Connor much attention. But a couple raised eyebrows at the young teenager loitering in the reception area.

  Connor also began to wonder what he was doing here. The initial thrill of his arrival in America had faded, and the underlying doubt about his abilities returned. Looking around the West Wing’s luxurious reception room, he realized he was completely out of his depth. The truth was he was just a kid from the East End of London—albeit one with a kickboxing title to his name and twelve weeks of basic close-protection training. But surely that didn’t qualify him for the responsibility of protecting the president’s daughter. At some point, the powers-that-be were bound to discover he was a bodyguard in name only. That he was a fraud. And the consequences of his failure would be unthinkable. Not only would Colonel Black’s Guardian organization be discredited, but he could put Alicia Mendez’s life in real danger.

  Just as he was considering bolting for the exit, a paneled wooden door opened and an elderly woman in a plaid suit and steel-rimmed glasses appeared.

  “The president will see you now.”

  29

  Connor stepped into the Oval Office. For a moment, he was convinced he’d walked onto a movie set, the scene instantly recognizable from so many movies. The ellipse-shaped room with its three floor-to-ceiling windows. The two ceremonial flags—the Stars and Stripes and the president’s blue coat of arms—stationed like dutiful guards on either side. The polished oak-and-walnut floor covered by the iconic oval-shaped rug that proudly bore the presidential seal. And taking main stage, in front of the bow windows, was the famous ornately carved wooden desk at which the president of the United States sat.

  Upon coming face-to-face with the man himself, Connor could only stare. His natural presence seemed to fill the room. Blessed with bronzed skin and well-defined cheekbones, President Mendez maintained a youthful yet worldly-wise look. His dark brown eyes were at once alert and deeply intense, giving Connor the impression that the president rarely missed much. He wore a crisp blue suit with a burgundy silk tie, and when the president stood, he was much taller than he appeared on TV.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Connor,” said President Mendez in a voice smooth as honey.

  He extended his hand in welcome. Connor accepted it and found his own enveloped by the heartfelt handshake.

  “Thank you . . . Mr. P-President,” he replied, stuttering. “It’s good to meet you too.”

  On the short walk through the West Wing’s corridors, the president’s secretary had instructed him on the correct form of address and encouraged him not to be afraid to speak up, the president being a good-natured and gracious man. In the small waiting area just outside the office, a Secret Service agent had asked him to hand over his phone as a security precaution before allowing Connor to enter.

  “Please join us for coffee,” said the president, gesturing toward three men standing between a pair of velvet upholstered couches. “This is George Taylor, my White House chief of staff. He’s responsible for pretty much running the show here.”

  A man with a trimmed white beard and glasses stepped forward. He greeted Connor with a smile. “It’s good to have you on the team.”

  “And this is General Martin Shaw, who originally recommended your Guardian organization.”

  Connor shook hands. “Colonel Black sends his regards.”

  “Why, thank you,” replied the general in a thick Texan accent. Big as a bear and impeccably turned out in his olive-green uniform, he displayed the same military bearing as his English counterpart. “It’s just a shame the colonel couldn’t join us.”

  The president introduced the remaining member of the group, a thin man with gray-flecked hair and crow’s-feet spreading out from his steel-blue eyes. “And, finally, the director of the Secret Service, Dirk Moran.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Connor, offering his hand. “I’ve been told I’m reporting to you.”

  “That’s right,” the director replied. His handshake was brief and cool, and Connor got the feeling he was being appraised right from the start.

  They all sat as the chief of staff poured the coffee. Although he didn’t actually like coffee, Connor accepted a cup out of politeness.

  “Is this your first time in the States?” asked President Mendez, dropping a lump of sugar into his drink.

  Connor nodded. “But I like what I’ve seen so far.”

  “And what would that be?” asked Dirk.

  “Well, the White House. It’s certainly well protected,” replied Connor and, wanting to impress, added, “Snipers, bullet-resistant glass, hidden cameras, infrared sensors . . .”

  The general raised a wry eyebrow in Dirk’s direction. “The boy’s done his research.”

  “In fact, I was surprised I wasn’t searched on arrival,” finished Connor.

  The president looked to his director for an explanation of this apparent lapse in security.

  “That’s because you were scanned discreetly as you passed through the lobby,” explained Dirk. “You don’t know all our security measures, young man. No one ever does.”

  “Sometimes not even the president himself!” President Mendez said, laughing as he put down his coffee cup. “President Eisenhower once said, ‘America is best described by one word: freedom.’ And that is true. But Thomas Jefferson, our third president and Founding Father, also observed that ‘the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.’ Unfortunately, in this day and age, vigilance isn’t only a byword, it’s a way of life. Especially for the president and the first family. We need constant, round-the-clock protection from the Secret Service.”

  He sighed, the weight of office momentarily seeming a burden rather than an honor.

  “This can be hard to live with, day in, day out. Which is why my daughter has taken exception to such imposing protection. And why the Guardian’s services have been requested.”

  No longer able to contain the burning question that had been on his mind ever since his selection, Connor put down his undrunk cup of coffee and asked, “Why did you choose me?”

  President Mendez clasped his hands almost as if in prayer. “I would have thought that was obvious. Your father saved my life.”

  Connor’s jaw dropped. “When? How?”

  The president sat back, surprised at his reaction. “Has no
one ever told you that?”

  “No,” admitted Connor. “I was just told my dad was killed in an ambush in Iraq and that he died a hero.”

  “That’s correct. He gave his life to rescue me.”

  The president then recounted his trip to Iraq six years previously as US ambassador. How the British and American forces were working together to secure peace and that an SAS detachment had been assigned to help protect high-profile visiting diplomats. He spoke with passion about his miraculous escape from the attack on their convoy and how Connor’s father had risked it all to ensure his safety.

  Connor listened, rapt. This was the first time he’d heard the details of his father’s heroic act. But it explained the Soldier’s Medal—the one embossed with the American eagle—that was among the possessions his mother kept in a “memory box.” She’d always been too distraught to talk about his father’s death, and as he’d grown older, he’d stopped asking about it. But at last, he knew the whole story.

  As the president came to the end, he slid a small scratched key fob across the coffee table to Connor.

  “I kept this to remind myself of the true meaning of sacrifice,” he explained. “To ensure that I lived a life of sacrifice for my country as their president. Your father held this in his hand as he died. And now I return it to you.”

  Connor stared down at his father’s talisman. From beneath the plastic, a picture of a familiar eight-year-old boy smiled up at him.

  “In my eyes, Justin Reeves was a very courageous, loyal and noble soldier,” said President Mendez earnestly. “And you have his blood running through your veins. Which is why I’d trust my daughter’s life only to a Reeves guardian.”

  Connor was speechless, choked with emotion and grief at the account of his father’s selfless bravery.