Bodyguard--Recruit (Book 1)

by Chris Bradford

  Seeing the effect his words had, the president said, “I’ll understand perfectly if you feel you can’t accept this role, Connor.” His expression was kindly and sincere, yet at the same time hopeful. “But I would sleep more soundly in my bed knowing Alicia is truly safe—protected not only by the Secret Service, but by you.”

  Connor stared at the key fob. His dad’s key fob. Losing a father was a pain no one should have to bear. But in his father’s case, could it possibly be deemed “worth it”? He’d saved the life of a man who went on to become the president of the United States. A leader who was being hailed as a new dawn for America, according to what Connor had read about him. A visionary who could steer the country to peace and prosperity. And all this was possible only because of his father. Connor felt an immense sense of pride in him.

  Gripping the key fob, Connor said, “I can assure you, Mr. President, I’ll do my best to protect your daughter.”

  “That’s all I ask of anyone,” replied President Mendez, smiling warmly.

  “Now, Connor, remember your assignment is to be kept confidential,” the White House chief of staff said. “Aside from those of us in this room, a few key Secret Service agents and the first lady, no one will know your true purpose.”

  “And Alicia, of course?” added Connor.

  Dirk intervened, “No, you’ll be introduced to her later as a special guest of the president on an exchange program. The White House has done such exchanges before, so it won’t raise suspicion.”

  “So Alicia won’t know I’m guarding her?” Connor asked.

  “Ideally not,” replied the president. “With any luck, she’ll think she’s looking after you.”

  30

  “Over ten thousand death threats a year are made against the president and his family,” Dirk Moran said as he led Connor down another windowless and indistinguishable corridor.

  After his meeting with President Mendez, Connor had been driven with the director to an unmarked building in downtown DC. Although it looked like any other office on the street, it actually housed the headquarters of the Secret Service. Having been issued a security pass, Connor was then escorted by the director deep into the labyrinthine complex.

  “That’s thirty potential attacks every day,” Dirk emphasized in a grave tone. “Each and every one has to be investigated.” They passed a busy office to their left. “In there, the members of our Intelligence Division are tasked with differentiating between those who make threats and those capable of carrying out such threats. Then the agency’s job is to prevent any viable threat from becoming a full-blown attack.”

  They came to an unmarked door, and the director stopped.

  “Before we go any farther, Connor,” he said, his expression hardening, “I need you to understand something.”

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, Dirk pulled out a slim black leather wallet.

  “Our mandate is to Protect the man. Protect the symbol. Protect the office. And the Secret Service’s Presidential Protective Division is the last line of defense,” he explained.

  With a flick, he snapped the wallet open in front of Connor’s face. Inside was a golden badge with an eagle on the top. At its center was the American Stars and Stripes, the miniature flag surrounded by a five-pointed star. Above and below the star were emblazoned the words United States Secret Service.

  “This badge represents years of training, dedication and experience in the service of the president. As the director of the Secret Service, I do not gamble with the lives of the first family.” His voice was taut with barely constrained fury. “And no young upstart—whose only qualifications are a few weeks’ training and a bodyguard for a father—will jeopardize our mission!”

  Connor was taken aback by the unexpected tirade. “If you don’t want me here, why did you invite me in the first place?”

  “I didn’t,” replied Dirk through clenched teeth as he pocketed his badge. “I consider you a liability. But I have to obey the president’s wishes. Be warned, though: if you make a single mistake that compromises the safety of the first daughter, you’ll be flying home quicker than you can say ‘Secret Service.’ Do I make myself clear?”

  Although intimidated by the man’s hostility, Connor was determined to prove the director’s assumptions wrong. “Perfectly clear.”

  “Good. Point made,” said Dirk, regaining his professional composure and offering a thin smile. “Now, if you’re to work alongside us, you need to know how we work.”

  Sliding a key card through an electronic slot, he pushed open the door to reveal a large room humming with state-of-the-art equipment. There were wall-to-wall monitors, two massive overhead screens, a digital banner displaying a constant flow of live data, and several black cubicles, each with their own terminal and communications port. A small team of agents worked quietly and efficiently, processing the incoming information.

  “The Joint Operations Center,” declared Dirk with some pride. “This is where we track the movements of the president and the first family. It contains information so sensitive that only a select few are allowed access. So feel privileged.”

  Following the director inside, Connor passed a row of monitors displaying multiple views of a familiar white building and large garden. Two men were stationed at desks, analyzing the images.

  “The White House is under constant surveillance,” explained Dirk. “Every entrance, every approach and every exit is covered. Even the air around the White House is monitored twenty-four hours a day.”

  They headed over to the first cubicle. The agent manning the desk nodded respectfully at the director. “Sir.”

  “Agent Greenaway here is responsible for tracking the first lady.”

  The agent gestured toward a street map displayed on his screen. A green dot traced a route along one of the roads. “The first lady often goes on diplomatic and humanitarian trips abroad,” Greenaway explained. “Her car has just left the hotel and is heading southeast on the Champs-Élysées in Paris.”

  A message flashed up on the monitor: NIGHTOWL ARRIVING AT BLUE 1. FIVE MINUTES.

  Connor gave the agent a questioning look. “Is ‘Nightowl’ her call sign?”

  The agent nodded. “To maintain secrecy with radio communications, each member of the first family is assigned a code name.”

  “What are the others?” asked Connor.

  “Code names are kept confidential,” said Dirk pointedly. “If and when the press gets wind of them, they’re changed effective immediately.”

  “But surely I need to know them in case I have to report any problems.”

  Dirk gave a begrudging nod. “I suppose so. Currently President Mendez is known as Ninja, for his love of old martial arts movies. The first lady is Nightowl, because she stays up late. And Alicia’s call sign is Nomad.”

  “Nomad?” repeated Connor.

  “Well, she’s always wandering off!” Agent Greenaway said, laughing.

  The director cut short the agent’s amusement with a sharp disciplinary look.

  “We’ve also given you a call sign, Connor,” Dirk revealed.

  “Really?” said Connor, looking hopeful.

  “Yes, to reflect your role in our operation.”

  “What is it?”

  “Bandit,” he replied with a smirk.

  Connor was coming to realize that, although Dirk wouldn’t actively prevent him from doing his job, he certainly wouldn’t be helping him either. He’d have to tread very carefully with the director if he was going to succeed in this operation.

  Dirk directed him over to a central bank of monitors. “In the event of a crisis, the standard operating procedure is to ensure that every protectee is moved quickly and safely to a secure site—a safe house. These will depend upon your location at the time of the crisis.” He pointed to one of the screens. “This is a feed from the National Terrorism Adv
isory System. It’s a two-tier alert listing credible threats. These are classified as either Elevated or Imminent and are accompanied by a summary of the threat and the actions recommended to be taken. Along with the information from the Intelligence Division, this dictates our protection protocol for the first family.”

  Connor studied the scrolling list of alerts. “There seem to be a lot of them.”

  “We have al-Qaeda to thank for that,” replied the director bitterly. “Although America has dealt with terrorism throughout its history, 9/11 changed everything. We’re now up against a modern strain of the threat, one that has no boundaries. Attacks can be violent, indiscriminate and crippling. It’s very hard to defend against an enemy who lives by the code The Gates of Paradise are under the shadows of the swords.”

  His finger tapped the screen pensively as threat after threat scrolled by.

  “Terrorists are like the mythical beast Hydra—you cut one head off and two grow in its place. The threat constantly looms. Someone, somewhere, always wants to kill the president or his family.”

  31

  Hazim checked his watch as two black Cadillac limousines rolled up to the school gates: 2:48.

  The security guard in the kiosk waved them through. With rehearsed precision, they followed the driveway and stopped outside the main building just as the school bell sounded: 2:50.

  A broad-shouldered man in a suit and dark glasses stepped out of the front passenger seat. Tucked behind his left ear was the telltale curly wire of a two-way radio. With a brief yet thorough scan of his surroundings, he headed for the glass doors of the main entrance. Meanwhile, three more men exited the rear vehicle and took up their stations around the front limo—two at the right-hand corners and one on the road facing out, so that all the observation arcs were covered.

  The Not-So Secret Service! thought Hazim drily, the agents standing out like sore thumbs among the other arriving parents. A slight bulge on each man’s right hip hinted at the concealed SIG Sauer P229 pistol that they all carried as standard issue. And on the lapel of their suits gleamed the small but distinctive hexagonal badge with its five-pointed star of the Secret Service.

  Hazim took note of all these details from behind his sunglasses while he searched for weaknesses in the functioning of the protection team. Malik had told him that arriving or leaving a location was the most vulnerable point in any security operation—even more so for the daily school run. The timing of arrival and departure was always known. The drop-off and pickup points were always the same. And whatever route the limos took to and from the White House, they had to end or start at the Montarose School. It made this the most likely snatch point.

  The first of the students began spilling out of the entrance, a few walking home, most being picked up in cars. The agents kept a wary eye out for strangers. But this didn’t concern Hazim as he continued his covert surveillance.

  At 2:53, a dark-haired girl—the one they’d all been waiting for—walked out of the glass doors with a group of friends. Three girls. They chatted and giggled on the steps for a minute or so. Then, waving good-bye, Alicia Mendez made her way to the front limo.

  Two paces behind on her right followed the first Secret Service agent. As soon as she was safely inside the limo and the door closed, the agent jumped into the front passenger seat and the driver pulled away. The escort vehicle quickly moved forward, collected the other agents and sped after them: 2:55.

  The whole embarkation process from door to car had taken less than sixty seconds. Hazim realized the window of opportunity was very small. Possibly too small. But that was for his uncle Malik to decide.

  Hazim’s eyes followed the lead limo as it pulled out of the school drive and turned left onto Wisconsin Avenue. The two vehicles merged with the Washington traffic: 2:56.

  Hazim didn’t make any attempt to pursue them. He simply thumbed a coded text on his phone:

  Eagle Chick flying south.

  A few moments later his phone pinged in reply, a message flashing on the screen.

  Gamekeeper has the eyeball on Eagle Chick.

  32

  Alicia sat on the leather chair, kicking her heels against the soft beige carpet of the president’s outer office. She absently surfed the Internet on her smartphone, then sent several text messages to her school friends. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, she sighed with boredom.

  From behind her neatly arranged desk, Mrs. Holland, the president’s secretary, offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sure your father won’t be much longer, Alicia.”

  “You tell me that every time,” Alicia replied, but not unkindly. Mrs. Holland, although fiercely loyal to the president and protective of his schedule, had become almost a surrogate grandmother to her within the confines of the White House.

  “And I’m never wrong, am I?” said Mrs. Holland, peering over her steel-rimmed glasses as the door to the Oval Office opened and a tall woman with long dark-blond hair stepped out. She was dressed in a sleek blue business suit and carried a wafer-thin touch-screen computer. Alicia recognized her as Karen Wright, the newly appointed director of National Intelligence and her father’s principal adviser on all matters related to the security of the United States.

  “Thank you for the update, Karen,” said President Mendez, appearing in the doorway. “Keep me informed of any developments.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. You’ll be the first to know,” replied Karen. Turning to leave, she smiled warmly at Alicia. “Hello, Alicia.”

  “Hi, Karen,” she replied as the director disappeared down the corridor.

  President Mendez now faced his daughter. “Sorry to keep you waiting, honey.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” Alicia replied, picking up her schoolbag and following her father inside.

  Feeling a twinge of parental guilt, President Mendez put an arm around his daughter and kissed the top of her head. “But this is the meeting I look forward to the most every day,” he insisted.

  Alicia’s lips tightened as she bit back the urge to say, Is that all I am to you . . . a meeting?

  They sat down together on the sofa. Alicia both enjoyed and hated these moments with her father in equal measure. She understood he was extremely busy as president and appreciated that he always made time for her in his hectic schedule. Yet their “meetings” were all too short and often felt like a duty rather than a relaxed personal moment between father and daughter.

  “How was school?” President Mendez asked. “Has your protection team backed off?”

  “I suppose so,” she replied with a shrug. “They still hang around at breaks, though.”

  “Well, that’s their job,” he replied, his tone firm yet sympathetic. “Did you have dance class today?”

  Alicia nodded. “Yeah, we’re learning how to salsa.”

  President Mendez smiled warmly as a fond memory washed over him. “Your mother’s a great salsa dancer. It’s a shame she’s not here to teach you a few moves.”

  Alicia glanced up at him hopefully. “When’s she getting back?”

  “Still at the end of the month, I’m afraid.”

  Groaning, Alicia slumped back against the cushions of the sofa. “She’s been gone forever.”

  “Hey, believe me, I’m missing her too,” said President Mendez, pulling his daughter into a hug. “But I have a surprise to keep you company in the meantime.”

  Alicia visibly perked up at this. She’d been begging her parents for a puppy for weeks, and looked up at her father expectantly.

  “We have a special young guest coming to stay for the summer, maybe longer,” he announced.

  The hopeful look on Alicia’s face faded as fast as it had appeared. This wasn’t about a puppy. Far from it.

  “Not again!” she exclaimed, recalling the last “special guest” who had visited on an exchange the previous year—the vain and morose daughter
of some visiting French dignitary. Despite Alicia’s numerous attempts to make friends, the girl had remained aloof and constantly complained about everything from food to fashion to the weather. It had been even more painful to have her in the same class and hanging around with her friends. When the girl had finally returned home, Alicia couldn’t have been happier.

  President Mendez gave his daughter a stern look. “I’m sure I needn’t remind you, Alicia, of your obligation as the president’s daughter to welcome guests to our country.”

  “Yeah, but not babysit them!” she retorted, crossing her arms.

  “Well, if you’re not interested, I can always cancel the visit,” said the president nonchalantly. “I just thought having a guy your age around the White House would make a nice change.”

  Alicia struggled not to let her jaw drop open in shock. A boy? Her age? That was most unusual. Typically, her father was overprotective when it came to the subject of boys.

  “No . . . it’s okay,” she backtracked, her interest now piqued. “So, who is he?”

  “The son of an old and trusted friend I knew from my time in Iraq.”

  “He’s an Iraqi?”

  “No, he’s English. His father was a soldier.”

  Trying hard not to appear too excited, Alicia began to inspect one of her fingernails for imaginary dirt. “When do I get to meet him?”

  “As soon as you’re ready. He’s waiting for you in the Diplomatic Reception Room.”

  “What?” exclaimed Alicia, jumping up from the sofa and looking at her school clothes in horror. “I can’t see him like this!”

  President Mendez tried to suppress a smile as he watched his daughter dash out of the Oval Office toward the main residence to get changed. Diplomacy was one thing he excelled at, especially when it came to convincing people that certain decisions were their own.

  33