After a couple of minutes, he felt a buzz as several milligrams of opioid flowed into his blood. Slowly, the pain in his body faded. The sickness ebbed away. He stopped sweating.
Bowman put the note back in his wallet. He looked up, caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He saw a face he barely recognised. The body was still lean and hard, his hands were rock-like, his shoulders broad. But the hair was streaked with grey now. His skin was pale. His pupils were the size of pinpricks.
You’re supposed to be a staff sergeant in 22 SAS, Bowman told himself. A decorated soldier with more than a decade of experience in the world’s most elite SF unit. You can’t be a bloody addict.
But in that moment, Bowman didn’t really care. He didn’t care about much, not now. He had long ago stopped looking to the future, to a time when things could be better. His dreams, such as they were, had been shattered in an act of horrific violence fifteen years ago. Now he had no plans, no hopes. He kept his distance from others. He had no real friends. He looked no further ahead than his next pill. Nothing mattered except shutting out the pain. Getting from one day to the next.
He took a deep breath and headed out the door.
*
The tourists were still hanging around the reception area as Bowman emerged from the washroom. He strode past them, a warm feeling from the pill washing over him. Kember sat alone, staring at his phone screen. Bowman glanced round but there was still no sign of the president’s lackeys.
He planted himself in the armchair next to Kember. The news had switched back to the royal wedding. People were getting into the spirit of the occasion, smiling and waving at the cameras.
Twelve minutes later, two figures stepped out of the nearest lift. A burly guy in a black suit and a tall slender woman in a mustard yellow dress, matching jacket and heels. The woman paused while she scanned the lobby. She spied Kember and Bowman and walked over, nodding at the two SAS men as they rose to their feet.
‘You’re the soldiers, yes?’ she asked.
‘That’s us,’ Kember said, extending a hand. ‘I’m Dave, but you can call me Geordie. This is Josh. We’re from the Regiment.’
The woman stared at his outstretched hand as if it belonged to a leper.
‘Martha Lungu,’ she said. ‘Personal assistant to President Seguma.’
She sized the men up with a look of disapproval. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, Bowman guessed, with the high-cheekboned, pouting look of an ex-model. She was wearing enough jewellery to fill a Hatton Garden vault. Diamonds the size of fists sparkled in her earrings. The pearls on her necklace were as big as golf balls.
Lungu waved a bejewelled hand at the guy in the suit.
‘Samuel Jallow. Mr Seguma’s chief bodyguard. He’s in charge of Mr Seguma’s security arrangements.’
Bowman turned to the bodyguard. He was enormous. The biggest guy Bowman had ever seen. In the top three, certainly. His tightly corded neck muscles were as thick as anchor chains. His arm muscles bulged inside his suit. Pinkish scars ran down both of the bodyguard’s cheeks. His head was mostly clean shaven, except for a belt of short curly hair running down the middle.
‘Where’s the principal?’ asked Kember.
‘Mr Seguma is upstairs in the presidential suite,’ Lungu replied. ‘He’s a very busy man, as you might expect. You’ll meet with him shortly. In the meantime, you will liaise with us.’
Bowman nodded.
‘I’m guessing you know why we’re here?’ he asked.
Lungu said, ‘Our friends at the Foreign Office called last night. They mentioned something about a potential incident today.’
‘It’s possible that there’s going to be some trouble with a few protestors,’ Bowman replied, repeating the line that they’d been told to use at their earlier mission briefing.
The powers-that-be had decided not to share the details of the assassination attempt with Seguma or his staff. Too risky. There was a serious danger of leakage. The president or one of his advisers might post a message online about the threat or share the news with a journalist. With an audience of two billion people, the last thing the government wanted was widespread panic overshadowing the wedding itself.
‘As you know,’ he went on, ‘a small group of activists planned to stage a protest in Hyde Park this morning.’
Lungu said, ‘I thought they were denied permission?’
‘They were.’
‘So what is the problem?’
‘We don’t have specifics, but we think that a few of their mates are planning to go proactive. Disrupt the ceremony somehow.’
‘How so?’
‘As I said, we don’t know the details. The protestors might try to infiltrate the crowd. Or they could be planning something later on, at the reception party.’
‘Is Mr Seguma in any danger?’
‘We don’t think so, no.’
‘The protestors want to embarrass your boss on national TV,’ Kember put in. ‘Throw paint on his car, toss eggs at him. Shit like that. There’s no real threat.’
‘That’s why they’ve sent you here? Because you’re worried about a handful of troublemakers?’
‘We’re here as a precaution, ma’am. To make sure nothing untoward happens to your boss today. His safety is a top priority.’
A tiny groove formed on Jallow’s brow. He stared at them with his dead, emotionless eyes.
‘Mr Seguma’s security is already taken care of,’ he said. ‘We are perfectly capable of keeping him safe.’
Bowman held up a hand. ‘We’re not looking to tread on anyone’s toes here. We’ll be in the background, at your disposal if you need us.’
‘Shouldn’t this be a job for the police?’ said Lungu.
‘Ordinarily, aye,’ Kember said. ‘But the royal protection officers have got their hands full today as it is, as you can imagine.’
‘Mr Seguma is a high-profile target,’ Bowman stressed. ‘The police are very good at what they do, but this kind of job calls for certain skills. That’s why they’ve asked us to be here.’
Lungu silently regarded them both. The look on her face
