Lang stumbled towards him, unsteady on his feet. He brushed past the dance floor, almost fell and steadied himself against a chair. Someone handed him a glass of water. Lang held it and swayed on the spot. Too much drink, thought Bowman. Or he’d overdone the cocaine.
He kept surveying the area but there appeared to be no imminent danger to the principal. Just people dancing, gossiping and joking with one another. A normal, noisy, drunken wedding party.
Seguma barked at a waiter and held up his empty glass, making the universal gesture for a refill. To the west, at the edge of the ballroom, Lungu sat tapping out messages on her phone.
Then a scream pierced the air.
Six
The scream came from across the ballroom. From the direction of the dance floor. Bowman swung his gaze back to the president. Seguma sat rigid, still holding his whisky tumbler. Staring at the body seven or eight metres away.
Freddie Lang.
The mobster lay sprawled on his back to the right of the dance floor. Arms locked at his sides, his body writhing spasmodically. Broken glass scattered around him. Some of the guests hurriedly backed away from Lang. Putting a safe distance between themselves and whatever was happening to him. Others stood transfixed. On the stage, the band was still playing a Bonnie Tyler cover.
Bowman leaped up and dashed across the room, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘Out of my way!’ he yelled. ‘Security services! Stand back!’
He cleared a path through the crowd. Kember hurried after him, shoving people aside. They knelt down either side of Lang while Bowman made a quick assessment. The guy was in a bad way. His skin was pallid. His glasses had slipped off; his eyes were like egg whites, his pupils the size of pinpricks. His jaw was so tight it looked as if it had been wired shut. His clothes were soaked through with sweat.
‘Mr Lang?’ Bowman peered into his eyes. They were drowsy, vacant, dull. ‘Can you hear me? Are you OK?’
Lang made a choking sound. Bowman fixed his gaze on one of Wentworth’s mates. A chubby, round-faced guy with curly dark hair. He stared at Lang, as if in a trance.
‘You. Call an ambulance,’ Bowman said. ‘Everyone else, get back! Back, now!’
The chubby guy fumbled for his phone in his jacket pocket. Lang started convulsing.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Kember asked. ‘Drug overdose?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Wentworth cut in. ‘He was fine a few minutes ago. Then he came out of the washroom and started going on about how someone had mugged him.’
Bowman looked up at him. ‘Who?’
‘He didn’t say. I just thought he’d had too much to drink. Or someone might have been playing a joke on him.’
Bowman glanced over at the door leading to the foyer and the toilets. He thought about the two BGs he’d seen. The strap, hanging out of Bucket Head’s jacket pocket. He remembered what Kember had said about the washroom being closed off.
Kember bent down to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to Lang. Which was an understandable reaction to a potential drug overdose. Clear the airway. That was rule number one for overdose victims, when you didn’t have any naloxone to hand. Get oxygen into the lungs. Revive the patient.
Kember reached out to tilt Lang’s head back. Bowman grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him away from Lang.
‘No!’ he said. ‘Don’t!’
Kember rounded on his partner. ‘Are you mad? He’s struggling to breathe. We need to get air into his lungs.’
‘Don’t do it,’ Bowman said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘He’s OD’ing, for fuck’s sake. There’s no time.’
Bowman shook his head, slowly.
‘No, he’s not,’ he said.
Lang’s chest heaved and then he vomited, spewing milky fluid down his tuxedo. The bystanders edged away from the stricken mobster, some gasping in revulsion. A few other guests stood further away from the action, recording the drama on their phones.
Lang was foaming at the mouth, convulsing in agony.
‘This isn’t an overdose, mate,’ Bowman said in a soft whisper. ‘He’s been poisoned.’
Kember frowned. ‘How can you tell?’
‘He’s got the same symptoms as that Russian ex-spy they poisoned a few years ago. This is exactly the same.’
‘I don’t know, mate . . . ’
‘Look at his eyes, Geordie,’ Bowman said. ‘This is textbook.’
Kember looked. Lang’s pupils were dilated. One of the telltale signs of nerve agent poisoning.
‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘What have they given him?’
‘Novichok, maybe. Could be anything.’
The colour drained from Wentworth’s face. He backed away a step. ‘What did you just say?’
‘Nothing,’ Bowman growled.
Wentworth stabbed a finger at them. ‘You just said something about Novichok.’
‘No one said anything, sir.’ Bowman forced himself to reply as calmly as possible.
‘Rubbish. I heard you. Novichok, that’s the chemical they used to kill that Russian spy,’ Wentworth said, raising his voice. ‘This man has been poisoned, hasn’t he?’
Wentworth saw the hesitation on Bowman’s face and back-pedalled away from Lang. A boxer stepping out of range of an uppercut. His eyes widened with terror.
‘My god,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a chemical weapons attack!’
‘Stay calm,’ Bowman ordered.
Panic quickly spread through the ballroom. The guests closest to Lang gasped in shock and terror. Those further away heard the rumours of an attack and panicked. The bodyguard teams were the first to respond. They rushed over to their principals and began shepherding them towards the fire exits on the southern side of the ballroom, barging waiters out of the way. Those less fortunate souls, the ones without security details, quickly realised what was happening and fled the scene. Others stood paralysed. After a few moments the music stopped as the band abandoned the stage and joined the mad scramble at the exits. At the head table, Princess Amelia suddenly burst into tears. Three well-built bodyguards ran over and dragged her away.
Kember stared at Lang, dumbfounded. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘Secure the principal,’ Bowman said. ‘Get him out of here.’
Kember tore his gaze away from Lang and hurried across the empty dance floor. He seized hold
