Manhunter Read online

  Kember steered towards the drop-off point. Bowman mentally rehearsed the next few minutes. The president, his PA, Jallow, Deka and Bowman would debus and head towards the western entrance. Okello and the limo driver would ferry their vehicles to the holding area located a couple of hundred metres further along. Kember would join them, ditch the Land Rover and hurry back to the Abbey. With the principal safely inside, Bowman and Kember would then take up their positions in the Abbey. The other bodyguards had orders to wait in their cars until Seguma was ready to leave.

  A row of police officers faced out towards the crowd in front of the media centre. At his three o’clock, fifteen metres away, Bowman noticed four more police officers. Three of them were dressed in hi-vis jackets. They were standing together near a line of trees at the roadside. A fourth officer loitered a few paces further back from his colleagues, beside a shuttered kiosk, arms folded across his chest.

  They pulled up behind the limo. The sedan stopped a few metres further back. Kember turned to Bowman and said, ‘I’ll dump the wagon. See you in five minutes.’

  ‘Roger that, Geordie.’

  Bowman stepped out into the damp chill of early spring. He slammed the door shut, and then Kember took off in the Discovery, following the signs to the VIP holding area. Bowman hastened over to the limo and stopped beside the rear passenger door, giving Seguma room as the latter climbed out. Lungu got out after her boss, clumsily navigating the opening one-handed while she held her pillbox hat in place.

  Six metres to the north, Jallow and Deka debussed from the sedan. They trotted over to the president as the sedan pulled away again. Seguma shot the two bodyguards a mean look as they approached. The look suggested they might spend the rest of their lives breaking rocks in a labour camp. If they were lucky.

  ‘We will talk about this later,’ Seguma hissed.

  Jallow shrugged. As if he wasn’t scared of the tyrant. Or possibly he just didn’t care.

  The limo edged from the kerb.

  Seguma set off at a brisk pace towards the western entrance, the cleated foot of his walking cane rapping against the pavement. Lungu fell into step two paces behind him, with Bowman third in line. The two other bodyguards, Jallow and Deka, casually brought up the rear as the tail-end Charlies.

  To the west, the police officers stood with their backs to the Abbey, watching the sea of excited faces in front of the media centre. To the east, the three officers next to the trees and the guy beside the kiosk were also keeping a close eye on the crowd opposite.

  They were twenty metres from the red carpet when Bowman saw a sudden blur moving towards them.

  He snapped his eyes to his left and caught sight of the lone police officer near the kiosk. The man had spun away from his three colleagues. Now he was moving across the pavement.

  Heading directly towards Seguma.

  For a split second Bowman wondered whether the officer was trying to get their attention. Warning them about a possible threat, perhaps. Some random guy with a knife in the crowd. Then Bowman saw the man’s shoes. They were brown, he noticed. Not the standard-issue black shoes of a ceremonial police uniform. He wasn’t wearing gloves, either.

  The two bottom silver buttons on his tunic had been undone. Something bulged beneath his tunic.

  The officer was ten metres from Seguma.

  Now nine. Eight.

  Bowman processed everything in a fraction of a second. Directly ahead, Seguma carried on towards the red carpet, Lungu walking alongside him. Neither of them had seen the threat coming from the left flank. Nor had the bodyguards. The three cops at the trees were still looking across the road at the spectators. Oblivious to the drama happening behind them.

  The officer slowly moved an ungloved hand towards his navel.

  Bowman sprinted towards the assassin.

  The man didn’t see him coming. Not until it was too late. His eyes were laser-focused on the target. There was a look of wild excitement on his face. As if he couldn’t believe his luck. Like a contestant on a game show who suddenly found himself on the verge of winning the grand prize. He hadn’t expected to get this far. Now his plan was going to work. He was going to be the big hero. The saviour of a nation.

  The man slid his right hand under his tunic.

  Bowman snatched his Glock from his holster as he charged towards his target. The assassin had just enough time to look surprised before Bowman clamped a paw on his shoulder and brought his right knee up between the guy’s legs in a rapid jerking motion, crushing his balls. The officer gasped in pain and sank to his knees, momentarily paralysed.

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’ Bowman said, loud enough for the officers nearby to hear him. Playing the role of concerned citizen. ‘What’s wrong? You feeling OK?’

  The hitman croaked. Bowman shoved the Glock against his ribs and lowered his voice to a menacing hiss.

  ‘Make a move and I’ll fucking slot you.’

  Bowman kept the muzzle pressed against the assassin as he glanced round. Seguma, Lungu and the two Karatandan bodyguards had stopped in their tracks several paces from the Abbey and turned back towards the kiosk, their faces stencilled with confusion.

  ‘Get him inside the Abbey!’ Bowman barked at the two bodyguards. ‘Now! I’ll meet you at the door.’

  Jallow and Deka snapped out of their stupor. The latter grabbed hold of the president by his bicep, hustled him towards the West Door. Lungu hurried after her boss, struggling to keep up in her high heels. Bowman watched them pass through the wrought-iron gate and disappear into the Abbey. Then he looked over at the police officers near the trees.

  ‘Give us a hand here!’ Bowman yelled.

  The officers rushed over. One of them knelt down beside Bowman and the assassin with the bruised balls. A thickset guy with pale skin and a beard the colour of rust. The two female officers took a knee either side of him, forming a tight protective semicircle. The older woman was fortyish, with short blonde hair and dark circles under her eyes. Her colleague was fifteen or twenty years younger, Asian, with a heart-shaped face and narrow pointed chin.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the guy with the ginger beard said. ‘Is someone hurt?’

  Bowman reached with his free hand into his jacket pocket and waved his SIS identity card at them.

  ‘I’m with the security services. Listen carefully. Do not react to what I’m about to tell you. Plasticuff this fucker, then get him out of here.’

  Ginger Beard’s eyebrows knitted together.

  ‘Why? What—’

  ‘This guy isn’t a cop. He just tried to assassinate our principal.’

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’

  ‘Everyone’s fine,’ said Bowman. ‘I spotted him before he could fire. The principal is inside the Abbey, but I need your help suppressing this bastard.’

  ‘What do you need us to do?’ the older woman asked.

  ‘Get him cuffed. Put him on his back, so no one else can see them. Do it quietly. We don’t want to cause a panic. Is there an ambulance nearby?’

  ‘I can call one,’ the woman with the heart-shaped face said.

  ‘Do it. Get this guy on it. Don’t make a big fuss. Pretend he’s fainted. Load him onto a stretcher and take him away to the nearest police station. Get him in a cell and put him on suicide watch.’

  ‘What about our bosses? Someone will need to tell them what’s happened.’

  ‘We’ll take care of that. The guys I’m working with will notify the security services. They’ll send someone down to the station to receive him. Just make sure he gets taken away without making a scene.’

  The younger woman moved away, relaying orders over her police radio. Bowman turned his attention back to the shooter. He was still badly winded, groaning and retching. He jabbed the gun against his side, drawing another sharp hiss of pain.

  ‘Lie down. On your fucking chest.’

  The man dropped down, hugging the ground.

  ‘This is a mistake,’ he said.

  ‘Face down,�
� Bowman said. ‘Hands at your sides.’

  The man did as he was told.

  ‘Please. I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Shut up. Move and I’ll put a hole in your guts. Got it?’

  The man didn’t react. Bowman shoved the pistol harder into his side.

  ‘OK, OK.’ The man winced.

  Bowman kept his finger on the trigger while Ginger Beard pulled the man’s arms together behind his back. The officer grabbed a pair of plasticuffs from his utility belt, slipped the looped cables over the guy’s knuckles and cinched them around his wrists, pulling them tight. Then Ginger Beard and the older woman rolled him on to his back, hiding the ties from view. Bowman re-holstered his pistol and snatched the weapon concealed beneath the man’s tunic. A Glock 19 semi-automatic. The same basic specs as the Glock 17, but smaller. More compact. Bowman thumbed the release catch on the side of the Glock, ejecting the clip. He dropped the mag in his left jacket pocket and stuffed the gun down the front of his trousers.

  ‘Ambulance is on the way,’ the woman with the heart-shaped face said as she jogged back over. ‘Be here any minute.’

  Bowman nodded at the shooter.

  ‘Wait here with this prick. When the ambo shows up, bundle him on to the stretcher. Keep it quiet.’

  ‘What if he struggles?’

  ‘Give him another dig in the bollocks. That should shut him up.’

  Bowman sprang to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ginger Beard asked.

  ‘I need to liaise with my team. Tell them what’s happened.’

  He turned away, leaving the three officers to form a protective cordon around the assassin, shielding him from the view of the crowd across the street. Already some of the spectators near the media centre had switched their attention to the curious incident unfolding near to the kiosk. Several of the uniformed police officers were also glancing over at their comrades, straining to see what was going on.

  As he neared the western entrance, Bowman spoke into his covert radio.

  ‘Principal on site,’ he said. ‘There’s been an incident. Repeat, there’s been an incident.’

  There was a pause, and then a Scouse voice fizzled over the secure comms.

  ‘We’re coming out now. Meet us at the entrance.’

  Bowman forced himself to walk calmly towards the Abbey, in spite of the tension throbbing in his chest. Jallow and Deka stood beside the West Door. Kember was there too, having raced over from the holding area. He was deep in conversation with Lomas and Studley. The two other guys on the Counter-Attack Team.

  Bowman nodded at the bodyguards.

  ‘Where’s the principal?’

  ‘Inside,’ Jallow replied. ‘They’re showing him to his seat. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll explain later. Right now, I need you two to get over to the holding area. Secure the vehicles.’

  ‘What for? There’s no danger there.’

  Bowman drew in a deep breath. He wanted the bodyguards elsewhere, away from the situation. The Regiment was taking control now. These guys would only get in the way.

  He said, ‘Our team has got the Abbey covered. You’re needed elsewhere.’

  ‘To watch over some cars? What’s the point?’

  ‘There’s a risk someone might try and deface the limo while this thing is going on.’

  The bodyguard shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘So?’

  ‘You think it’ll look good if your boss has to drive back to the hotel in a car covered in paint?’

  Jallow muttered something to his partner. The pair of them turned and traipsed down the street towards the holding area. Bowman watched them for a beat. Then he hurried over to Kember and the two other grey-suited guys from the Counter-Attack Team. Lomas and Studley.

  The shorter of the two guys glared at Bowman, face twitching with anger.

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’

  Bill Studley, the team leader, was a squat Scouser with dark curly hair, and a temper that snapped more easily than a biscuit. What he lacked in height he made up for in fighting skills and sheer aggressiveness. The bloke at his side, Stan Lomas, was physically at the opposite end of the scale from Studley. He was built like a rugby prop, with hands the size of ham hocks and bulging arm muscles.

  Bowman briefed them on the attack. The assassin disguised as a cop, the situation with the police. The plan to make it look like a fellow officer had fainted.

  Studley cleared his throat and said, ‘Everyone get into your designated positions. We’ll cover the main entrance. You two head for the muniment room, just as we discussed. We’ll have to be as vigilant as fuck from now on.’

  ‘You think there might be another attempt?’ asked Kember.

  ‘These guys tried once. They might try again.’

  ‘Or it might be a decoy,’ Bowman pointed out. ‘A false attack. Get us to relax our guard before the real hit goes ahead.’

  ‘Stick with the principal closely,’ Studley said. ‘Eyes in the back of heads, yeah?’

  Bowman said, ‘Shouldn’t we be getting more bodies down here now?’

  Studley said, ‘There’s no time.’

  ‘But we need more pairs of eyes on this guy, Bill. These guys know what they’re doing.’

  ‘You fucking deaf, pal? I just told you, the plan stays the same. We’ll stick with what we’ve got.’

  Kember said, ‘The incident will need reporting. Someone has to tell Scotland Yard what’s gone down.’

  ‘I’ll phone it in. Give the liaison officer the heads-up.’

  ‘Someone should double-check the backgrounds of the catering staff,’ Bowman said.

  ‘Why?’ Studley demanded.

  ‘They might try to repeat the trick. Sneak in another assassin dressed as a waitress.’

  ‘We’ll mention it to Five. For now, we stick to the plan as agreed.’

  Studley looked round, daring the other guys on the team to defy him.

  ‘Get into your positions,’ he added. ‘I’ll see you again when the principal leaves. You see or hear anything suspicious, tell us immediately.’

  Studley turned and swept back through the Abbey door, Lomas hard on his heels. They moved off to the right just inside the nave, taking up their positions in the small chapel to the side of the entrance. From their vantage point they would have a clear view of anyone coming in or out through the main entrance. Bowman and Kember would set themselves up at an elevated position in the muniment room, overlooking the guests seated around the quire and the transepts.

  As Bowman moved to follow the others inside, his eyes were drawn back to the kiosk. An ambulance had pulled up at the side of the road, lights pulsing. Two paramedics jumped down from the cabin and wheeled a gurney across the concrete towards the three police officers huddled around the suspect. To anyone watching nearby, it would look like an officer had fainted and was being escorted to hospital for treatment. A trivial event. The story would merit a line or two in tomorrow’s newspapers, buried beneath an avalanche of stories about the wedding itself.

  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?’