‘I know such things, because I am a great warrior too. First in my class at Sandhurst, you know.’
Bowman made no reply. In the background he could hear the two women giggling in the bedroom. Lungu chatted on the phone, shouting over the sounds blasting out of the TV. Seguma took another sip of whisky, pointed to the medals pinned to his jacket.
‘Do you like these?’
‘Very impressive, sir,’ Bowman replied, trying to mask his growing irritation.
There’s nothing we can do, he told himself. We’re on the job. We’ve just got to indulge this guy.
He listened as the president pointed out each medal.
‘This one is for bravery,’ Seguma said. ‘This one, for valour. And this one, this is very special.’ He tapped a fat finger against a silver cross-shaped decoration with an engraved medallion in the centre. ‘Do you know it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The Karatandu George Cross,’ Seguma explained proudly. ‘It is the highest honour our country can bestow. I earned it for an act of outstanding heroism, fighting against my enemies. I believe you have a similar award in your country.’
‘Aye,’ Bowman replied. ‘We do.’
‘Mine is better, naturally,’ Seguma said.
‘Yes, sir.’
The tyrant set down his whisky glass, reached for the bottle and poured himself a refill. Some of the liquid splashed across the desk. He tipped more booze down his throat and burped.
‘Enough talk of medals. Tell me about the guns,’ he said. ‘I like to know the make of the guns my men carry,’ he added.
Bowman swallowed his irritation and talked the president through their hardware. The pistols, the longs. Seguma listened attentively.
‘And you’re absolutely sure there is no threat to me?’ he asked.
Bowman caught a flash of something in his eyes. Something like fear.
He said, ‘We’re simply here as a precautionary measure. If anyone does try it on, it will be to embarrass you, sir. Nothing more than that.’
Seguma nodded slowly. Bowman was thinking about that momentary look he’d seen in the president’s eyes. Then Lungu hurried over, interrupting his train of thought. She glanced contemptuously at the soldiers before addressing her boss.
‘Excuse me, sir. We need to go through those papers now. The ones I was telling you about?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Seguma gestured to Bowman and Kember. ‘I was just speaking to these brave warriors.’
The anxious look in his eyes had vanished. He was back to his old self. Like an actor on stage, changing impressions mid-performance. Seguma puffed out his chest and nodded at the soldiers.
‘We will speak again later,’ he said. ‘We can exchange war stories. I’ll tell you the story of how I won the George Cross.’
‘Yes, sir.’
*
They left the suite thirty seconds later. They had offered to run through the details of the new route to Westminster Abbey with the bodyguards, but they had merely shrugged and told Bowman and Kember to discuss it with the driver. They seemed oddly disinterested in the safety of their leader, Bowman thought.
He made his way down to the lobby with Kember. They showed their SIS-issued ID cards to the concierge and asked to speak with Seguma’s chauffeur. The concierge made a call. Two minutes later, a thin stern-faced man with silvery hair trotted into the lobby and introduced himself. A diplomatic driver employed by the local Karatandu Embassy. He had spent the past forty minutes sitting behind the wheel of a stretch limo in the underground car park and seemed grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs. Kember showed him the maps he’d been carrying, pointing out the directions to the venue, the various escape routes if the principal came under attack. Once they had gone through the details, Bowman and Kember hustled back up to the fourteenth floor and took up their stations outside the suite.
At ten o’clock, Kember checked in with Lomas and Studley, the two guys in position at the Abbey. Bowman watched his partner wander down the corridor, phone clamped to his ear as he searched for a decent signal. He waited until Kember’s back was turned, hastily grabbed a tablet from his pill crusher and popped it into his mouth. He stashed the crusher back in his jacket pocket moments before Kember marched back over.
‘What’s the craic?’ asked Bowman.
‘All clear. The lads are in position. They’re ready.’
Kember stared at his partner, his brow heavily furrowed.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ he said. ‘You’re sweating like a Russian athlete at a dope test.’
Bowman shrugged and said, ‘Just a bit of a chill. Think I’m coming down with a cold or something.’
Kember stared closely at him. ‘You sure that’s all it is?’
‘It’s nothing, Geordie.’
‘We’ve got a long day ahead of us. The last thing we need is you coming down with the fucking flu.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You’d bloody better be. I really don’t want to have to bodyguard this twat by myself.’
Twenty-nine minutes later, the suite door clicked open.
Lungu swept into the corridor first, clutching a small leopard-print handbag. President Seguma followed a couple of paces behind, wearing his trademark trilby hat. In his right hand he gripped a stout rattan cane topped with a gleaming gold crown. The bodyguards brought up the rear, all three of them decked out in dark sunglasses in spite of the grey English weather.
Lungu took out her crocodile-leather-cased phone and called down to their driver. Letting him know they were on the way down. Then Okello, Bowman and Kember rode the lift down to the underground car park. Okello hopped into a black Mercedes S-Class sedan, while Bowman and Kember made for their Land Rover Discovery. They were driving the petrol model, with bulletproof glass, armour-plated sides and enhanced brakes and suspension. The Discovery also came fitted with a covert radio, allowing them to stay in touch with the other guys on the Counter-Attack Team.
They got into the wagon, Kember took the wheel and steered out of the parking space. He followed Okello in the S-Class as the latter drove up the ramp and parked in front of the hotel, two metres behind the president’s car. Which
