by RJ Bailey
For Lisa Baldwin, PPO extraordinaire, and ‘Maddy’
We are looking for an experienced Female CPO/PPO/Driver OR an experienced Driver with a knowledge of security for our clients in North London. (The candidate gender restriction is due to cultural reasons.)
You will be driving the new Rolls-Royce Ghost and MUST have previous experience driving luxury cars.
• SIA accreditation essential.
• You will be driving a young mother with one child who is schooled in London, with occasional duties for the father.
• Your contracted hours are Monday–Friday 0730–1800 during school term times, with alternate weekends (flexibility essential).
• 25 days at a time during the summer may be spent in Monte Carlo with possible short trips in the winter months to St Moritz.
• To apply for this role you must have a London base and be flexible to adapt to the family and their needs.
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PART ONE
ONE
There is a man coming to hurt us. Probably more than one man. Two or three, perhaps. Not four. They won’t need four to deal with us. After all, we are trapped down here. There is no way out from this cold, concrete shell. We are crouched in the dark, dozens of feet below ground. The power to this level has been cut. There is no phone signal. Which is mostly irrelevant because my phone is almost out of battery. What I do have is two broken fingers on my left hand. The pain is making me sweat.
I slide my good hand into my T-shirt and find the knife wound I have picked up. It is long and shallow and oozing along its length. Lucky there was some Kevlar fabric under there to deflect the full force of the blade. Otherwise it would have been game over. As it is, the wound is a couple of points to the opposition.
It can’t be long now. I reach out with my right arm and stroke her warm skin, trying to reassure, but she recoils at my touch. She blames me for all this. She’s right. It’s my fault we ended up down here. What had I been thinking?
In the army they told me about controlling the battle space. That firefights had to be undertaken on your own terms, not the enemy’s. I had to admit, I’d lost control of the battle space. I’d lost control of everything.
SIT-REP, as we used to say, AGTOS. Situation Report: All Gone TO Shit.
Someone once tried to explain to me why football is so endlessly fascinating to its fans. It was all to do with unpredictability and consequences, he said. If you studied any match closely, you could trace how one bad pass, a missed tackle, a fluffed corner, a reckless clearance or an untrapped ball could, after seven, ten, fifteen further moves, be responsible for a crucial goal. It was, I suppose, a version of that old trope about a butterfly flapping its wings and causing a hurricane, albeit somewhat more prosaic. But I got the drift: the most insignificant event can have momentous consequences down the line.
It had some relevance to the way the dominoes had fallen in my life. At least, I have come to think of them as toppling dominoes, when in fact it was a pile-up of unrelated events that only in hindsight appeared to display some sort of logic. It was an attack of cystitis, of all things, that got me my dream assignment. That sent me on my way to America. Far from home. It was everyday female biology that brought my daughter back from her friend’s house that day.
And it was a can of baked beans that killed my husband.
Ocean Spray giveth, Heinz taketh away. That was the beginning of the sequence of events that led us here, to a crepuscular, subterranean garage. It’s not fair. But neither, so they tell me, is football.
I can hear voices now, echoing down the enormous lift shaft that will bring the men to us. Then the whoosh of air, the ding of a bell, a muffled warning (‘Doors Closing’), the soft whirr of very expensive, very well-maintained machinery, with its own power supply, as the industrial-sized lift descends. They are coming.
TWO
Twenty months earlier
Like most people on The Circuit – the ad-hoc and often fractious fellowship of Personal Protection Officers worldwide – I am very good at packing. I take a modular approach, with the commonest essentials already encased in plastic sleeves in my wardrobe to be laid into the suitcase in the appropriate order. And there is always a Ready To Go pack, too, filled with the tools of my trade – spare batteries, travel plug, solar charger, camera, lightweight jacket, wash kit, broad-spectrum antibiotics, a supply of various currencies, tampons and a first-aid kit with haemostatic packs. This time, though, the packing seemed to be getting away from me.
When I had first tossed the Tumi suitcase on the bed and unzipped it, the inside had seemed cavernous. Now, after placing in the jeans, day and evening dresses and the one-piece Chloe jumpsuit (what Paul called my Mission Impossible To Get Into outfit), it seemed to be imploding like something out of Stephen Hawking’s imagination. The black hole of the interior was definitely shrinking.
‘I’m going to need a bigger suitcase,’ I shouted, looking at the pile of clothes still on the bed. I don’t usually bother with hold luggage when I’m flying and working, but at least two of the travelling party were putting suitcases in the belly of the beast and that removed any advantage of carry-on.
‘What have you got?’
I turned to look at Paul, my husband, who was pulling on a waxed cotton jacket over a shirt and jeans.
‘What’s this? Dress-down Tuesday?’ I asked.
He shrugged and smiled, his eyes crinkling. On me, those lines just looked like age. On him, they looked cute. He was more than ten years older than me – he could see the forces of fifty massing on the hills for an attack and his hair was now evenly balanced between dark and grey – but I couldn’t help feeling that, by some freak of nature, I was busy catching up with him.
‘How much have you got on?’ he repeated.
‘One reception, one lunch, two dinners,’ I recited. ‘Two cocktail parties and a fundraiser. Plus two TV shows and a radio. Dressy was the word that came down from on high.’
‘I hear they have shops in America,’ he said, snaking his arms around my waist.
‘I hear that too,’ I said, unwrapping his hands. ‘It’s time I won’t have.’ I gave a sigh, thinking about the next five days and the plans that had crumbled to dust before our very eyes when the work call came for me. ‘I can’t believe we managed to lose Jess for a whole week and Elena for five days of those and here I am packing for the States.’
Elena was our au pair, who was heading home to Estonia to see her family. Paul turned me, stepped in close and gave me a quick darting kiss on the cheek before leaning back. I caught a hint of the Tom Ford I had bought him for Christmas. ‘We could always . . .’
I knew that look. Paul was no different from every other man.
‘Let’s be clear, dear,’ I said quickly. ‘There’s no chance of one last fuck in case my plane goes down so you can always remember me that way. Have a wank on me.’ That didn’t come out quite like I intended, so I put a finger to his lips.
Those eyes crinkled again. ‘Shields up already?’
He was referring to my psychological barriers, which come down to block out all extraneous emotions when I’m working. Nothing, apart from the job in hand, gets through to me. I’m hardly alone in that. How can a nurse work with dying people all day long and still function? How do firemen face the next day after carrying an asphyxiated child from a house? What about the cops who have to trawl through some depraved bastard’s computer looking at . . .
We all have shields. And Paul was right. Mine were already clicking into place.
‘Yup.’
I disentangled myself with a slight reluctance and looked at the case again.
‘Do you really need three pairs of shoes?’ he offered.
‘Trainers and two flats.’ I’m lucky to be tall enough to get away with flats, even at the formal dinners. I have colleagues on The Circuit who swear by heels with scored soles for grip. Not me. If I have to run, I want something on my feet that won’t snap and that sticks to the floor like octopus suckers. It’s why I tend to favour floor-length clothes for formal events, just in case someone wonders why I’m not in needle-heeled Louboutins like everyone else. ‘And if that’s the best you’ve got, I’ll figure this out myself. Get going.’ I looked him up and down. ‘Where you off to anyway?’
He wouldn’t be wearing such a casual outfit if he were heading for the Civil Nuclear Constabulary HQ near Oxford. He’d be in either a dark suit and tie or full CNC uniform, depending on the occasion.
‘A few house calls to make. And I’ve got to pop in at St John’s Wood on the way.’
He said it matter-of-factly, but I knew what St John’s Wood meant. A weapon was to be drawn. It was my turn to step in close. ‘Is there trouble?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Just routine, ma’am. Then I’m off for the rest of the week, remember? All on my lonesome.’ He gave me a kiss on the forehead – I might be tall but he was taller still. It was one of the things I liked about him straight away – no more hunched shoulders and cricked necks stooping down to be at the same level as men of average height.
‘Look, I’ll call you, let you know I got there safely, eh?’
‘WhatsApp me. It’s free.’ Paul was always bang on the pulse of technology, whereas I definitely dragged behind the beat.
‘Of course. You’ll be all right?’ I asked, feeling a wave of affection for him crash over the shields and take me by surprise.
‘It will be a feast of China Garden and the Tiffin Hut.’ Paul was a good cook, but he drew the line at preparing meals for one when both Jess and I were away. When I returned there would be a forest’s-worth of takeaway leaflets on the fridge, neat circles around the numbers of his favourites. ‘And I’ll be here when Jess gets back from her sleep-over, for sure,’ he added. ‘So don’t worry.’
‘I won’t. Love you,’ I said, hoping he knew I meant it, despite my next comment. ‘Now fuck off and leave me alone.’
I pretended to fuss over my packing until I heard the sound of Paul’s car starting and then let out a long, slow breath. In truth, part of me didn’t like travelling, didn’t enjoy leaving home, hated those bloody barriers I had to put between us. But I knew it was the wrench of closing the door behind me that was the hardest part. Once I was in that car on the way to Heathrow, I began looking only forward, to doing my job and doing it well, the shields locked solid.
But there was a craving to hear Jess’s voice before I put her aside for a few days. I punched in her number but it came up busy. Of course it would be. Chatting shit, as Paul put it. I’d already had to have words about the size of her bill. Her response? Well, apparently all her friends have unlimited-minutes contracts. What cruel, cruel parents we are, I thought. But I smiled inwardly at those big imploring eyes of hers and the round, as-yet-unformed face, due to change as womanhood began to exert its influence. It had started already. The rocky shores of adolescence were ahead, the treacherous shoals of Hormonal Bay. I hoped we wouldn’t get wrecked on them. I tried her one more time, sent a text, and let the shields click fully into place.
I pulled out the trouser suit and put it to one side. I could always double up on one of the outfits. After all, it was unlikely I’d end up in Mail Online with a split picture: ‘Unknown Woman Wears Same Outfit Twice’. And besides, Paul was right. They did have shops over there.
Then my mobile rang. It was Jess, panic and shame laced through her voice.
It had begun.
THREE
Most people think the Concorde Lounge is the ne plus ultra of Terminal 5 hospitality, but they are wrong. There is a level above it, one where ‘by invitation only’ really means just that. If you have to ask, you won’t get in. My Principal – as the main client is always known on The Circuit – doesn’t have to ask.
It is decorated like a gentlemen’s club in St James’s, all leather and polished wood, spacious and uncrowded to offer a degree of privacy. No windows look out onto the tarmac. The kind of people who use this particular lounge don’t like windows. If they can see out then there is always the chance that people can see in. When T5 was built, there was a huge piece of bulletproof plate glass put in. Even that left some of the V-VIPS feeling exposed to the elements. And to other people. The sort with telescopic sights or long-lens cameras. It is now a large square of panelled walnut.
It is ingrained in me that clients shouldn’t travel with members of the general public. Taxis, limos, private jets, yes. Transport where any Tom, Dick or Ali could buy a ticket – not if you can help it. But if we had to go out with the great unwashed (or the armed and dangerous) then this lounge wasn’t a bad place to start.
I did the usual scan of the space, moving my eyes from right to left, the opposite to how you might read a screen or a book. The cognitive theory is that the visual cortex, forced out of routine, is more likely to pick up anomalies or potential threats if made to move out of its comfort zone. It’s part of our ‘What’s Wrong With This Picture?’ training.
There were four in our party including me and the other three were spread across two Chesterfields with a glass coffee table between them. It was a small number for the occasion, but Gemma, the Principal, liked to travel with minimal entourage. Gemma had one of the sofas to herself, glass of champagne in her hand. Opposite her was Martyn, her Parliamentary Private Secretary, and Emily, her P.A. They, too, had started on the fizz.
I gave the lounge another scan. I was probably at Yellow, that is the minimum level of alertness. The threat potential in the lounge was low. Even so, it paid to stay in Yellow. Slipping back to White – the state you are in when reading a magazine or watching TV or just daydreaming about friends and family – was not an option. For the time being, I didn’t have any friends or family. It would stay that way while I was on duty.
There was one other cluster of people in the lounge, six men – boys, really – all remarkably young, which suggested someone else was footing the bill for their travels. They were on Jack and Coke – and I had thought it was a little early for champagne– and sliding into a mix of raucousness and suppressed giggles. One of them sneered at me with a curled lip when he caught my eye. They probably thought I was being disapproving. All I was thinking was: mostly harmless.
Gemma raised a hand, as if I hadn’t spotted her. I’d suggested we start together from her home, but her husband’s PPO had driven her to the airport. His name was Bruce, and he was good, very old school – ten years in The Regiment – so I had been happy to comply. ‘There you are,’ she said, as if I was a lost stray.
I parked my Ready To Go bag and sat along from Gemma, nodding at Martyn and Emily as I did so.
‘Champagne?’ Gemma asked, holding up her glass, then, after a beat, she smiled. ‘Only joking.’
We all knew I had five days without a drink ahead of me. ‘Green tea.’
Emily organised this with one of the white-jacketed waiters. ‘Everything all right? You look flushed.’
‘Yes . . . no . . . just a minor hiccup with my daughter. All sorted.’ It didn’t do to admit to your Principal that your private life had breached the shields. Like I said, as far as they were concerned, you didn’t have anything to worry about other than their protection. It kept the contract simple.
‘Good.’ Gemma had got to know a little about Jess – and the travails of puberty in the instant communications age – in the past eighteen months since I had been working for her. But not too much. She was my Principal, not my confidante.
Gemma took another sip of her drink. She looked well, although she had changed since our first meeting. Close to sixty, her hair was thick and shiny and her skin enviably taut. Maybe it was the HRT regime that she had become so evangelical about. She had lost weight, too, although not enough to
make her look gaunt. She was dressed in a two-piece in a shade of red that suggested she was TV-ready. But then, she was always TV-ready these days. It was rumoured her husband, Grant, had coached her in becoming media-savvy, right down to choosing her working wardrobe.
Grant had made a fortune in telecomms. He was one of those millionaires – maybe billionaires – with enough liberal guilt to try to give much of it away. His wife became passionate about foreign aid and its failings. Which is how, fifteen years after hubby cashed in his share options, she came to be flying out to a conference on ‘The Challenges of Immigration in the Developed World’ as a representative of the British government.
‘Emily was just telling us about some slight changes to the schedule.’
I nodded at Emily. She was twenty-eight, Oxford-educated, with a penchant for flowery vintage-style dresses and riding a sit-up-and-beg bicycle through London traffic. Today, though, she had opted for an update of the classic Chanel suit and her dark hair was pulled back and bunched to show she was in full business mode.
I pulled out my phone, ready to alter the relevant pages. I would go through the Tactical Aide Memoirs for the trip on the plane and insert any fresh protocols as required.
‘I just emailed you a new PDF,’ said Emily in the husky forty-fags-a-day Lauren Bacall-ish voice she affected, even though she was a non-smoker. She had once told me that she had heard on Radio 4 that men found deep voices both sexy and authoritative. The problem was, after a couple of drinks she forgot all about it and slipped back up a few octaves. She was trying too hard. The real, bike-riding, Biba-wearing her was just fine. ‘Should’ve come through by now.’
My phone pinged. And there it was. I scanned the document. There was a meeting with the head of the US Border Force that wasn’t on the previous version. ‘Randall Nesso,’ I said. ‘Not a popular man with some people.’
