Bodyguard: Target

by Chris Bradford

  ‘What’s this?’ said Bugsy, pointing to a blue Tupperware box on the desk.

  Charley and the rest of the team exchanged bemused glances. The answer seemed obvious. ‘A lunch box,’ said Blake.

  ‘No. It’s a bomb.’

  Everyone instinctively flinched away, the briefing room suddenly feeling too small.

  ‘A real one?’ José queried.

  Their surveillance tutor gave a nod of his bald head and grinned as deviously as the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. ‘This one happens to be a smoke bomb,’ he revealed, removing the lid and exposing the small package of wires and components inside. ‘But it’d be a simple matter to upgrade this to a fire bomb or a high-explosive device capable of destroying this entire building.’

  He held up a red block of what appeared to be plasticine.

  ‘PBX,’ said Bugsy. ‘Plastic-bonded explosive.’

  He tossed it to Jason, who caught it, freaked out and almost dropped the innocuous-looking block on the floor.

  ‘Relax, Jason, PBX requires a considerable shock to set it off.’

  ‘Better not look at it then,’ warned Charley. ‘You might trigger an explosion.’

  The class burst into laughter and Jason scowled. José raised a hand to high-five her. ‘Harsh but fair, girl!’

  Claiming the high-five, Charley realized, for the first time, she was making ground with the team. As the colonel said, she just had to give as good as she got.

  ‘Eat PBX!’ Jason growled, lobbing the explosive at her.

  She caught it in one hand, much to his annoyance. The PBX was surprisingly light, pliable and slightly greasy to the touch.

  ‘You still have to pay it respect, though,’ said Bugsy as Charley tested the material with a squeeze. ‘What you’re holding in your hand would be enough to kill everyone in this room.’

  Charley stared in horror at the deadly block, then hurriedly passed it back to her tutor.

  ‘Pound for pound, PBX packs a pretty big punch. So what’s the main advantage of a bomb over other weapons?’ he asked the class.

  Jason opened his mouth to reply, but Charley cut in, ‘The bomber doesn’t have to be there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bugsy as Jason glowered at her and slumped back in his seat. ‘They could be thousands of miles away and detonate it remotely with a mobile or by fitting a timer. Compare that to using a knife or a gun, where the perpetrator has to be present and their chances of being captured or killed increase dramatically. And acquiring a gun in countries like the UK can be a serious challenge. However, with a few easily obtainable household items, any schoolboy can make a bomb.’

  ‘Cool!’ said José, sitting up in his chair with interest. ‘Are you going to show us how?’

  ‘No, but I’ll teach you what to do if you spot one,’ replied Bugsy as the first slide of his presentation appeared on the widescreen display. ‘The rule of the Four Cs: confirm, clear, cordon, control.’

  Charley picked up her tablet and began to input the meaning of the Four Cs into her class notes. Blake smiled at her and winked, confident he could rely on her notes. Charley smiled back.

  ‘A bomb can be hidden in a suspect car or truck, dropped in a waste bin or left at the roadside. It can be disguised as a rucksack, a rubbish bag or even a mobile phone. Whatever it is that arouses your suspicions, first you must confirm those suspicions.’

  ‘Isn’t that going to be dangerous?’ asked David, his question more a statement of fact than a matter of concern. To Charley, David appeared a strong silent type. She knew little of his past, but he always acted in the same calm and unhurried manner, whether chilling out in the common room or under fire during a training scenario. It was as if he’d seen it all before, or had seen a great deal worse in his life and was numb to it.

  ‘Well, it certainly doesn’t mean giving the suspect bag a kick, let alone opening it!’ Bugsy replied. ‘Any suspect items must be considered booby-trapped. So, for starters, switch off any mobiles.’

  ‘But that would prevent us calling the authorities,’ Blake pointed out.

  ‘True, but radio waves are often used to trigger remote-control bombs. You don’t want to accidentally set it off yourself!’ Bugsy explained. ‘Next, establish who the item belongs to. If you can’t find the owner, then the item is a threat. Whether your Principal is the intended target or not makes no difference. Bombs are indiscriminate killers.’

  ‘So if we believe it’s a bomb we clear the area?’ asked Charley, looking up from her notes.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Bugsy nodded. ‘Trust your gut instinct and clear to a safe distance, quickly and without panic. In Hollywood movies, you see the hero outrunning an explosion. In reality no one can outrun an explosion. One second everything is normal and the next second everything is destroyed. The biggest killer can be the blast wave and what’s contained in it, shards of glass and debris, so you need to reach a sheltered location.’

  ‘What about the other two Cs?’ asked David.

  ‘Once clear, you can call the emergency services and hand over responsibility for them to cordon off the area and control the situation. Even if the suspect item turns out to be harmless, it’s better to make sure your Principal is safe than risk being blown to bits!’

  Bugsy picked up a brown padded envelope from the desk and waved it in the air.

  ‘Don’t forget your friendly mailman or courier,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘Letter and parcel bombs are a favoured device for terrorists, criminals and those with a grudge. Traditionally explosive or incendiary, nowadays they can be chemical, biological or even radiological.’

  ‘A nuclear letter!’ José grimaced. ‘I’m not handling anyone’s mail.’

  ‘Wise decision,’ agreed Bugsy. ‘Any attempt to open one might set it off. But as a bodyguard you’re responsible for all aspects of your Principal’s safety. There are a number of telltale signs to look out for – the Seven Ss, to be exact.’

  On the display, the presentation bullet-pointed Size, Shape, Sender, Stamp, Seal, Stain and Smell.

  ‘Size,’ began Bugsy. ‘The letter needs to be big enough to house the components, so will be at least five millimetres thick, weigh over fifty grams and may feel unusually heavy for its size. Shape – the package could be lopsided or lumpy, indicating possible batteries or switching systems. Sender – check the postmark. Where did it come from? Is the origin unusual? Is there a return address and can it be verified? Stamp – is there one? Or was it hand-delivered? There may even be extra postage since the last thing the perpetrator wants is his letter bomb to be returned to sender!’

  The class chuckled at their tutor’s black humour. Meanwhile Charley’s fingers flew across her tablet screen as she raced to take down the details. Swamped by so much information, the rest of the team had given up taking notes altogether. Charley was aware that Blake shared her notes with the others and the boys had started relying on her to write up their lessons for future revision. Though this irritated her, she hoped it might raise her value within the team, so she let it ride. Besides, she enjoyed her regular meetings with Blake after class and they were becoming close friends.

  ‘Seal – one end may have been purposefully secured to force entry at the other end,’ continued Bugsy. ‘Also look out for a pin-sized hole indicating the use of an external arming device. Stain – some explosives can weep an oily residue that will produce marks on the outside of the envelope. Finally, smell – if there’s a strange aroma of almonds or marzipan, this could indicate n
itroglycerin. Then again –’ Bugsy switched the presentation to a picture of a chocolate sponge lit by candles – ‘it could just be a cake!’

  The screaming never ceased. A constant white noise of high-pitched delirium, it assaulted Ash’s hotel room day and night. He unthinkingly wandered too close to a window and the screaming intensified as his name was chanted to the skies. ASH WILD! ASH WILD! It was so loud at one point that the glass actually vibrated in its frame.

  Glancing down at the hordes of fans on the street below, Ash gave a dutiful wave. This whipped the fans into an even greater frenzy and the street turned into a seething mass of hysterical girls. Some had been camped there for days, desperate for a glimpse of their idol following the online leak of his hotel location in London. During his initial rush of fame Ash had found their presence flattering, even reassuring. Now the permanent border guard of fans wherever he went had become claustrophobic. He felt like a goldfish trapped in a bowl, a thousand eyes watching his every movement.

  Ash went back to pacing the room. The lounge area was exactly twenty-five strides long and fourteen wide. The dimensions hadn’t changed during his entire time holed up in his luxury suite and he knew they never would. Slumping on to a plush velvet sofa, Ash picked up his acoustic guitar and began to strum.

  ‘You lift me up,’ he sang softly to himself, ‘because …’

  The lyric hung in the air, unfinished. He sought inspiration, but none came. Sighing, he tried again, repeating the phrase over and over, each time hoping to find the elusive line that would lead to the next part of the melody.

  But after countless attempts he gave up. His creativity was stifled in this hotel room. He’d been cooped up far too long – at least he hoped that was the reason. Deep down he feared his muse had abandoned him altogether following the shock of the letter bomb.

  How could anyone send him a lethal parcel like that? What had he done for anyone to hate him so much? His worst crime in his life so far had been to cheat on Hanna. But ex-girlfriends don’t send letter bombs simply for kissing another girl … not unless they’re totally mental!

  Letting the guitar slide to the floor, Ash reached for the remote and surrendered himself to daytime TV. Halfway through a repeat episode of The Big Bang Theory, there was a knock at the door. Ash switched the TV off. The door opened and Big T’s face with its heavy jowls and wide boxer nose appeared.

  ‘Ms Gibson’s ’ere,’ he grunted in his hard Cockney accent. He stepped aside to allow Ash’s manager into the room. Then, nodding politely to them both, he closed the door and resumed his guard duty outside in the hallway.

  Kay Gibson greeted Ash with her arms wide. ‘How’s my superstar?’

  She strode over to him, the high heels of her Jimmy Choos leaving deep impressions in the carpet. At almost six foot with chopped dyed-red hair, ruby lips and a cosmetically youthful face, Kay Gibson was a daunting bombshell of a woman. Record company executives admired her striking looks as much as they feared her brutal negotiation tactics and sharp business acumen. Within the music industry, she was known as the Red Devil or the Ruby Angel, depending on which side of the table one sat, for Kay was deeply loyal and protective of her artists and always struck the best deal for them.

  ‘Glad to see you’re not wasting your free time,’ she remarked, eyeing the TV remote in his hand.

  Ash sighed. ‘I need to get out of here.’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘That’s what you always say. I’ve been living in this hotel room for almost two months!’

  Kay gazed round at the fine furnishings, four-poster bed and original artwork lining the walls. ‘You don’t have any complaints about the room, do you?’

  ‘No, it’s just that I’d like to be in my own place again,’ he explained, pulling himself into a sitting position. ‘I can’t write here.’

  Kay raised a manicured eyebrow in alarm. ‘That’s not good. But I’ve told you – it isn’t easy acquiring new property in London. Especially one that’s exclusive and secure enough to meet your needs, but …’ Her green eyes twinkled with promise. ‘I’m pleased to say I’ve found you one at last.’

  Ash stared at her in disbelief. ‘Really? So when do I move in?’

  ‘With any luck, by the weekend.’

  Ash leapt off the sofa, whooping with delight.

  ‘But we need to tighten your security arrangements,’ she warned. ‘We don’t want your new address being revealed. Just because that letter bomb turned out to be a fake doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take any threat seriously.’

  The mention of the bomb punctured Ash’s buoyant mood. ‘Have the police found out who sent it yet?’ he asked.

  Kay shook her head. ‘They’ve still no leads. The only fingerprints on the packaging were yours and Big T’s. The police conclude it was a well-planned hoax.’

  ‘Is their investigation over then?’

  Kay nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. With no postmark or any other clues, they say there’s nothing they can do.’

  ‘But it wasn’t exactly standard hate mail, was it?’

  Kay put a motherly arm round him. ‘It’s a one-off. Think of it as a status symbol. It means you’re officially famous now.’

  ‘Wow, that’s reassuring,’ muttered Ash.

  ‘Don’t get down about it. All the great artists receive death threats and acquire their own stalkers. Madonna. Lennon. Beyoncé –’

  ‘But wasn’t John Lennon killed by his stalker?’ interrupted Ash.

  Kay looked pained. ‘Bad example. But you don’t have to worry – you’ve got Big T as your bodyguard. And considering what’s happened I’ve employed him full-time now. He’s worth his weight in gold. Not literally, of course; that would cost us a small fortune.’ She laughed at her own joke, then became serious again. ‘But if that had been a real bomb Big T would have saved your life.’

  Ash fell silent, his brush with death a chilling thought.

  ‘I’ve something that’ll put a smile back on your face,’ said his manager, fishing into the pocket of her tailored suit. ‘The master of your new single!’

  She produced a memory stick. Grinning, Ash took it from her and plugged it into the portable recording studio set up in the corner of the room. He’d been waiting for his producer to put the final touches to the recording. Switching on the monitors, he loaded the file labelled Indestructible into his computer’s media player. A driving beat in the vein of Michael Jackson’s ‘Billie Jean’ pulsed from the speakers. A throbbing bass line amplified the groove, then a guitar riff kicked in as Ash launched into the opening verse.

  ‘This song is going to make you a megastar like no other!’ declared Kay, tapping her foot to the beat.

  As the song hit the chorus, Ash’s mobile phone beeped. He glanced at the screen and frowned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Kay.

  Ash showed her the text he’d received:

  Play it backwards.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked, equally perplexed.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he replied. ‘No Caller ID.’

  Curiosity getting the better of him, Ash reversed the media file and hit play. The song sounded warped and alien, the words as distorted and unsettling as a satanic chant. But the message was clear enough: ‘Asssshhhhh willlll dieeeee … Asssshhhhh willlll dieeeee … Asssshhhhh willlll dieeeee …’

  Clouds streaked across the grey-blue sky, their shadows chasing them over the peaks and troughs of the mountainous terrain that surrounded Buddyguard HQ. Shafts of sunlig
ht speared the summits before sweeping across valleys of lush green fields speckled white with sheep. The blustery air was crisp, cool and clean to breathe – unlike the smog-tainted atmosphere of the Californian coast.

  After almost three months, Charley was starting to appreciate the stark beauty of the Brecon Beacons. From her bench in the old school’s summer house, she could see the sweeping expanse of craggy mountains and even glimpse the impressive wedge of Pen y Fan in the far distance. However, awe-inspiring as the view was, she could never call it home. The place was just too darn cold, even with summer approaching.

  Pulling her jumper round her shoulders, Charley settled back to studying her notes. The wooden summer house with its roof overrun by creeper vines was her secret haven – a retreat from the hectic hothouse of bodyguard training. As she read up on Bugsy’s anti-surveillance tactics, she was vaguely aware of the fervent yells and cries of the other recruits playing soccer. There was a loud cheer and she guessed one of the boys had scored a goal.

  A ball rolled past the summer house, followed a moment later by the lithe figure of Blake jogging after it. He kicked the ball back to his teammates before noticing Charley.

  ‘Hey,’ said Blake, poking his head in.

  ‘Hey yourself,’ she replied, glancing up as if she hadn’t seen him until then. Although they’d been spending more and more time together, she was keen not to appear needy or desperate for his company.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ he asked.

  ‘Reading.’

  Blake spied the tablet in her hands. ‘Charley, it’s Sunday! Our only day off.’

  Charley shrugged. ‘What else do you suggest I do? Everyone else is playing soccer.’

  A twinge of guilt flashed across Blake’s face. ‘Sorry, but I didn’t think football would interest you.’