Manhunter Page 6

  The guests began migrating to the dance floor. The booze was flowing freely now, the band blasting out seventies and eighties covers. Whitney Houston, Stevie Wonder, George Michael. Seguma remained in his seat beside Lungu, eyeing up some of the talent. Bowman tried to focus on his mission but the cravings were getting worse.

  At nine thirty, he slid out from behind the table.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Kember asked.

  ‘Toilets.’

  Kember arched an eyebrow. ‘Fuck me, mate. You should see a doctor. That must be your twentieth piss of the day.’

  Bowman moved away without replying. He circled around the tables, pushed through the doors on the eastern side of the room and paced down the corridor leading to the foyer. Three women staggered past him, giggling and rubbing their noses. He slipped into the men’s toilets, locked himself in an empty cubicle, crushed his last pill. Snorted it. Then almost immediately started obsessing about where he was going to get his next supply from.

  He knew he couldn’t wait until they were back in Hereford. They had at least another day on the job, guarding Seguma until his return to Karatandu. Which meant he would have to text his regular dealer later on. Arrange to meet. Tonight, preferably. He’d have to think of an excuse to get away from Kember after the party, too.

  He left the Gents, started down the corridor.

  Then stopped dead in his tracks.

  Freddie Lang came bounding towards him from the direction of the ballroom. With a sudden panic, Bowman realised there was no way of avoiding the gangster. Before he could make a decision, Lang fronted up to him, jabbing a finger in his face.

  ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he joked. His fat lips spread into a grin. ‘All right, Bowman. How’s it going, son?’

  There was nothing friendly in his voice, or the look in his eyes.

  ‘Hello, Mr Lang,’ Bowman muttered.

  Lang stared closely at him from behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Bit of a surprise, seeing you here. The brother-in-law of one of my top lieutenants, bodyguarding my old mate Ken Seguma. Then again, maybe not.’ He pushed up his glasses and sniffed. ‘This place is crawling with fucking filth.’

  He spat out the last word. Bowman said nothing. He glanced past the huge rock of the mobster’s shoulder, praying that Kember or one of the other guys from the team didn’t catch sight of them.

  ‘A little birdie told me you’re in the army these days,’ said Lang. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lang.’

  His throat constricted. Sweat beaded his forehead. He had to get away from Lang, but he couldn’t risk pissing the guy off.

  Lang tutted and wagged a finger at Bowman, like a schoolteacher lecturing a misbehaving student.

  ‘You see, you’ve made two bad choices in your life. Joining the pigs, that was number one. Then this business of enlisting in the army. Bunch of bleeding mugs. You should have taken a leaf out of your brother-in-law’s book and worked for me.’

  Bowman didn’t reply. He stole another glance past Lang’s enormous shoulder. If I’m spotted with Lang, it’ll kill my career.

  ‘Don’t say much, do you, Bowman?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Lang,’ Bowman said. He shifted on his feet. ‘I can’t really talk. I’m working tonight.’

  ‘So I heard.’ Lang’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I can’t discuss it.’

  ‘Top secret, is it?’

  ‘I really can’t say, Mr Lang,’ Bowman replied firmly.

  Lang grinned. ‘I guess you know all about secrets, don’t you?’

  Bowman stood still but said nothing. Lang stepped into his face.

  ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, Bowman. Very naughty. You’ve got a bit of a habit, so I’ve heard.’

  He tapped a finger against his nose conspiratorially. Bowman felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

  ‘You’ve been using your brother-in-law to score pills,’ Lang said. ‘Carter is a good boy, he’d always help out his family. But I was surprised when I found out he was selling stuff to you. I didn’t know they allowed junkies in the army.’

  Bowman didn’t reply. Lang took a step towards him and lowered his voice.

  ‘Some free advice, son. In business, it always pays to understand your enemies. Know their weak points. Now I know yours, don’t I?’

  He patted Bowman on the shoulder with a grizzled paw. A hand that had crushed windpipes and beaten faces to a bloody pulp.

  ‘It’s a good job Carter works for me,’ he went on. ‘Otherwise, who knows what I might do with that information? An ex-copper snorting opioids?’ He smiled cruelly. ‘You could end up in trouble.’

  Just then Bowman spied two guys lingering close to the ballroom door. They were dressed in plain dark suits and rigged up with covert earpieces. Bodyguards, perhaps. The shorter guy was medium height and build, with the kind of clean-shaven corporate face you forgot ten seconds after seeing it. The second man was a few inches taller than his partner and maybe fifty pounds heavier. His head was shaped like a bucket with a pair of holes drilled into the side. Both men glanced up and down the corridor, as if waiting for someone.

  Lang glared and poked a finger at his chest. ‘I want to know what’s going on here, Bowman. What are you and your mates up to?’

  Bowman sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t talk. I need to get back to work.’

  Lang stared at him with dark slitted eyes. Then his face relaxed into a crafty smile.

  ‘You secret squirrels.’ He formed his right paw into an imaginary pistol and pretended to shoot Bowman in the head. Then he winked and said, ‘See you around, son.’

  He turned and headed into the bathroom. Bowman watched him leave, Lang’s threat replaying in his head.

  Most guys in the Regiment knew about his background, growing up in an area infested with gangsters. How he’d escaped a life of crime and violence to join the police, and later on the army. But if Kember or anyone else discovered the true nature of his relationship with Lang – his reliance on his brother-in-law’s contacts to supply him with powerful opioids – then his career was over.

  He started back down the corridor, towards the ballroom.

  The two men in suits were moving briskly towards him. The bland-faced man and the guy with the bucket for a head. They swept past Bowman, glancing at him before they continued down the corridor. As Bowman passed them he noticed a grey-blue strap dangling from Bucket Head’s pocket. The guy had something bulky hidden under his jacket, Bowman realised. Not a gun. Something bigger.

  He carried on towards the ballroom and spoke into his integrated mic.

  ‘Two guys in suits,’ Bowman said. ‘Jacked up with comms. Just spotted them. From one of the other BG teams, I think. Something’s wrong with them.’

  Studley said, ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing them around any of the VIPs. They weren’t at the Abbey, either. They just don’t look right.’

  He gave a brief description.

  ‘Any idea who they’re working for?’ Bowman asked.

  ‘We’ll check. Leave it with us.’

  The party was in full swing as Bowman made his way back to the table. Kember glared at him. ‘You were gone ages. What took you so bloody long?’

  ‘Sorry, Geordie,’ Bowman said.

  ‘Fuck it. Wait here.’ Kember scraped back his chair, stood up. ‘Going for a piss myself.’

  He stormed off towards the washrooms. Bowman signalled to one of the waiters to fetch him a Diet Coke. He took a long sip, keeping one eye on the president while he scanned the room for any sign of the guys he’d passed in the corridor. But they were nowhere to be seen.

  He got back on the radio. ‘Any word on those two BGs, Bill?’

  Studley’s voice hissed in his earpiece. ‘They check out. Both of them. There’s no threat to the principal. Repeat, no threat.’

  Bowman said: ‘Are you sure? Could they have been
looking at the wrong blokes?’

  ‘There’s no mistake. Everyone in that room has been cleared. Ignore them. That’s an order.’

  Studley clicked off. Bowman sat at the table, listening to the music, eyes locked on the principal. Kember returned to the ballroom four minutes later, wearing a look that could gut a rat.

  ‘Bloody useless,’ he growled. ‘Toilets are out of order. Had to go all the way over to the other side of the hotel.’

  ‘That’s strange. They were fine a few minutes ago,’ Bowman said.

  ‘Someone must have had an accident,’ Kember said, his features stitched with anger. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. Considering all the shite this mob are stuffing up their noses.’

  Bowman stayed quiet, drinking his Coke while he watched the guests. Twenty metres away, to the left of the dance floor, Seguma roared with laughter at something one of the guests said. He sank another slug of whisky, liquid splashing down his front. To the north, Princess Amelia sat at the head table with the older members of the royal family. Her new husband stood to the right of the dance floor, boozing with his City chums and ogling the arse of a young waitress. He saw Lang across the room and waved him over.

  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 of Seguma, bellowed an order at Lungu and led them south, towards the phalanx of bodyguards and VIPs converging on the rear emergency exits. The president stumbled along, Kember moving ahead as he pushed his way through the guests.

  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.