Amid the commotion, Studley’s voice crackled through Bowman’s earpiece. ‘What the fuck is going on in there? Where’s the principal?’
‘Suspected poisoning,’ he reported. ‘Principal is unharmed. Repeat, principal is unharmed and en route to your position.’
There was a long, cold pause. ‘Who’s the victim, Josh? Anyone we know?’
Lang made a guttural sound of pain. A trembling grey hand reached out towards Bowman.
‘Bowman . . . ’ he rasped. ‘Help me.’
He coughed, groaning in pain. The security guard on the phone saw Lang spit out the dregs of vomit and took a few steps further back.
‘Josh?’ Studley asked.
‘I’ll update you as soon as possible,’ Bowman said into the mic. ‘Notify Scotland Yard and the security services. Get a specialist team down here immediately.’
He snatched a napkin from the nearest table and wiped foamy saliva and chunks of vomit from Lang’s mouth, careful not to get too close in case the gangster spluttered on him. Lang tried to say something, but Bowman only heard a faint croaking sound escape from his cracked lips. He reached for another napkin to shield his nose and mouth and inched closer.
‘What is it, Mr Lang?’
‘They got me, son,’ Lang said hoarsely. ‘Stabbed me in the back. Should have . . . known. So stupid.’
‘Who?’ Bowman drew closer. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘Russians. They’ve killed me . . . ’
Bowman felt acid dripping into his guts. ‘The Russians did this?’
Lang nodded weakly. He clenched his eyes shut, suddenly gripped by a wave of pain. When he opened them again, there was a look in his eyes Bowman had never seen before.
The look of terror.
‘You have to stop them,’ Lang said.
‘Stop them from what?’
‘They’re meeting my brother. In Monte Carlo. With . . . Seguma.’
‘That can’t be. The president is right here.’
The guy’s delusional, Bowman thought. His brain was playing tricks on him. One of the side effects of the poison infecting his bloodstream.
Lang shook his head and groaned.
‘He’s a body double,’ he barely whispered.
The words hit Bowman like a fist.
He thought about Seguma. His odd behaviour. The fear he’d seen on the man’s face at Westminster Abbey. His lack of aura. Drinking the water from the finger bowl. Not the sort of amateur mistake a foreign head of state was likely to make.
Suddenly, he understood.
‘It’s too late for me,’ Lang said, his voice fading to a low murmur. ‘But you can still save my brother.’
Lang swallowed painfully, struggling with the effort to go on. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth.
‘We had a deal,’ he said. ‘But they lied to us. I see that now.’
He closed his eyes, summoning one last ounce of strength.
‘It’s a trap. They’re going to kill David,’ he said. ‘Just like they killed . . . me. You must . . . stop them.’
‘What’s happening in Monte Carlo? Where are they meeting?’
But Lang didn’t appear to have heard him. He shivered. ‘So cold . . . Jesus, fuck.’
‘Mr Lang.’ Bowman’s voice was urgent. ‘Stay with me.’
Lang had a faraway look in his eyes. His breathing shallowed to a faint rasping noise. His jaw slackened. He was slipping in and out of consciousness.
Bowman gently eased him into the recovery position. He grabbed a bottle of still water from the nearest table, unscrewed the cap and doused his hands and face, removing any spores he might have unwittingly picked up.
The ballroom had almost emptied. A handful of guests hung back near the fire exits, rubbernecking the scene. One or two had gone into shock and sat down on chairs, or in the street outside. Some of the waiters watched from the service doors; others hurried back into the kitchen, shouting at their co-workers. On the other side of the room, two police officers burst through the doors connecting to the main lobby. A heavyset man and a petite blonde-haired woman with an upturned nose. They scurried over to Lang.
‘Step away, please, sir,’ the big guy said. ‘Stand clear.’
‘Don’t touch him,’ Bowman said as he moved away from Lang.
‘Why?’ the button-nosed woman said. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s been poisoned,’ Bowman said. ‘If you come into contact with him, you might get some of the same stuff on your skin.’
‘Who are you?’ the man asked.
‘Security services.’ Bowman showed them his ID. ‘We’re protecting one of the VIPs. Where are your mates?’
‘On their way.’
Bowman pointed to the stragglers and the people filming on their phones. ‘Get this lot out of here. Secure the exits. No one in or out except emergency services personnel. The last thing we want is some idiot blundering in here and getting infected.’
The officer saw the urgency written on his face and relayed a string of urgent instructions into his police radio. Bowman watched them both from a safe distance.
Lang had stopped moving.
He heard Studley’s voice in his earpiece: ‘Principal is secure. He’s on the move. What’s going on in there?’
‘Victim is unconscious,’ Bowman said. ‘It’s Freddie Lang. He’s been deliberately poisoned. Ambulance is on the way.’
‘Stay where you are,’ Studley said. ‘I’m coming in.’
Bowman retreated to a table in the corner of the ballroom, twenty metres from Lang. A safe distance, probably. But who really knew? More police officers swarmed inside, dashing over from their positions at the front of the hotel and the surrounding streets. They quickly began securing the area, sealing off doors and ushering the remaining stragglers and hotel staff towards the exits.
Two minutes later, Bill Studley charged into the ballroom. He breezed past two police officers guarding the fire exit and marched straight over to Bowman. He saw Lang’s chalk-white face and abruptly halted.
‘Jesus,’ he said.
‘Where are the others?’ asked Bowman.
‘Lomas and Kember are taking the principal back to his hotel,’ he said. ‘He’ll be staying in his suite. Him and his BG team. He won’t be setting foot outside his room. Not until we’ve figured out what the fuck is going on.’
‘He’s a
