Kember watched the paramedics and let out a breath. ‘Shit, this thing is really happening.’
‘It was always real,’ Bowman said. ‘I’ve been saying that all along.’
‘Yeah, well. Who knew these rebels were capable of staging an attack like this? Disguising one of their own as a cop, for Christ’s sake.’
The paramedics slid a plastic stretcher under the suspect. On a count of three they hoisted him on to the gurney. Once he was secure the medics manoeuvred him towards the rear of the ambulance, flanked by the three police officers.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Bowman said.
‘What’s that, fella?’
Bowman looked back at his colleague.
‘We’re dealing with professionals. We got lucky this time. But if the next attack is as well planned as this one, we’re in serious trouble.’
Four
Most of the guests were already seated by the time Bowman and Kember swept through the doors of the Abbey. They presented their SIS identity cards to a solemn-faced official at the entrance, waited a few beats while he checked in with his boss, then made their way down the long belt of red carpet. Guests sat along rows of chairs either side of the central nave, clutching their orders of service and gossiping amongst themselves in hushed tones. Bowman recognised some of their faces from TV: geriatric musicians, ex-footballers, a handful of respectable actors. The usual faces, wheeled out by the establishment to sprinkle some stardust on the big day.
They passed the quire stalls and reached the crossing. Directly ahead of them was the high altar, dripping in gold. Guests moved around the transepts, mingling with one another. Some chatted in small groups. Others pointed out famous faces across the floor or gazed up at the vaulted ceiling. Royal officials patrolled the aisles, directing guests to their seats.
‘You get into position,’ Bowman said. ‘I’ll check on the principal.’
‘Roger that.’
Kember set off towards Poets’ Corner at the far end of the south transept, making for the entrance to the muniment room. Bowman turned his gaze towards the crowd of guests near the area of seating reserved for foreign heads of state, worthies and senior MPs. He spotted Seguma sitting on the front row, hands planted on his knees, glancing nervously at the entrance. As if he expected a gunman to storm inside the building at any moment. Lungu sat to his right, her long-nailed fingers clasped around her handbag. She looked round, watching the crowd. Seemingly more interested in the other guests than her boss’s welfare.
The president stood up as Bowman approached. He was sweating profusely, Bowman noticed. The tip of his shirt collar was soaked through. There was an unmistakable look of fear in his eyes.
‘Everything OK, sir?’ Bowman asked.
‘Yes, I think so.’ Seguma hastily recovered his composure. ‘What happened out there?’
‘False alarm, sir. One of the police officers on duty fainted.’
‘In this weather?’
‘Must have been dehydrated, sir. Can happen to anyone.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He peered at Bowman. ‘Can I ask a favour?’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t take your eyes off me from now on.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where are my men, by the way?’
‘In the holding area. They’re watching the cars. The situation is under control.’
‘Perhaps they should be here as well? It would be safer.’
‘We’ve got two guys covering the main entrance you just came through. Me and Dave will be up there.’ Bowman pointed up towards the loggia on the western side of the transept. ‘No one is getting in or out of here without us knowing about it, sir.’
‘You could take these seats, next to me, perhaps?’
Bowman said calmly, ‘Those seats are reserved, sir. We’ll be able to keep an eye on you from where we are.’
‘And when this is over? What then?’
‘As soon as it’s time to leave, the other lads will bring the cars round. Me and Dave will escort you out of the Abbey.’
‘You did very well back there. I’m grateful.’
‘Just doing my job, sir.’
He left the president and threaded his way across to Poets’ Corner, sidestepping a woman with a hat so wide you could land a helicopter on it. A small door had been built into the south-east corner of the transept. The door led to an unseen part of the Abbey: a secret network of staircases and passages leading to the upper levels of the Abbey. Bowman ducked through the opening and climbed a dusty spiral staircase to a narrow walkway on the south side of the transept. He walked carefully along the passage and ascended the steps to the mezzanine gallery. Then he found Kember sitting in the far corner, watching the guests. From their position the two soldiers had a commanding view of the action below. If anyone tried to breach the Abbey via the north or south entrances they would be instantly spotted, giving the team time to act before the principal came under threat.
‘How is he?’ Kember asked as Bowman drew up alongside him.
‘Shaken,’ Bowman said. ‘But otherwise okay.’
‘Does he suspect anything?’
Bowman considered for a beat, recalling the look of raw fear in his eyes. ‘I don’t think so. He just looks shit scared.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ Kember said. ‘His people are out to get him. I’d be worried too, if I was in his boots.’
‘He’s a tyrant, mate. He’s spent twenty-four years in power. You’d think he would be used to people having a pop at him.’
Kember grunted. ‘Maybe he’s losing his nerve.’
Amid the crowd, Bowman caught sight of a guest approaching Seguma. A broad-shouldered man dressed in a striped morning suit and a pink tie, a pocket square jutting like a shark’s fin out of his breast pocket. The man wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses; his large round eyes were as black as his slicked-back hair. He had the build of a retired boxer, with hands the size of shovels and a prominent scar running like a tear down his left cheek.
The
