Manhunter

by Chris Ryan

  ‘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 suggested that, in a contest between a pile of dirt and the two soldiers, she would marginally favour the dirt.

  Jallow stood there, eyeballing the soldiers.

  ‘Have you done any courses?’ Lungu asked.

  ‘We’ve both completed close-protection training at Hereford. We’ve got plenty of experience guarding VIPs around the world.’

  ‘Are you armed?’

  ‘Aye.’ Kember nodded. ‘Pistols and longs.’

  Bowman and Kember had been authorised to carry service-issue pistols for the mission. Both men had Glock 17 semi-automatics concealed beneath their grey jackets, secured in leather pancake holsters fastened to their belts. For the heavier stuff they had a pair of Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifles stored in a lock box bolted into the boot of their Land Rover. The compact variant, with shorter barrels and suppressors attached to the muzzles. They also had plated body armour, spare ammo, and covert radio harnesses strapped to their left shoulders. The radios were connected to earpieces to allow rapid secure comms between the different members of the team.

  Jallow said, ‘Where are the others? We were informed that there would be four of you.’

  ‘They’re at Westminster Abbey right now,’ Bowman said. ‘Liaising with the police, securing the venue. They’ll be inside throughout the ceremony. If there’s any trouble, they’ll step in.’

  Alarm flashed across Lungu’s face. ‘You’re not expecting problems at the Abbey itself, surely?’

  ‘It’s highly unlikely. The police have thrown up a ring of steel around the area. But we don’t want to take any chances.’

  Kember said, ‘We’ll also be taking an alternative route to the venue.’

  ‘Why can’t we take the normal route?’ asked Lungu.

  ‘It passes through Pall Mall and Trafalgar Square. Lots of people, obviously. We should avoid those hotspots.’

  ‘You could arrest the protestors instead.’

  ‘That’s up to the police, ma’am. But even if they did round them up, some of their friends might slip through the net. For all we know, they might already be in the crowd somewhere, waiting to cause trouble.’

  Jallow snorted with contempt. ‘This would never be allowed to happen in Karatandu. We have ways of dealing with such scum.’

  ‘I bet you do,’ Kember murmured.

  Lungu glared at him before she turned to Bowman. ‘This new route . . . you’re sure it’s safe?’

  ‘We’ve recced it. The police have sent in a clearance party to check the drains, lamp posts, choke points, all of that.’

  Lungu looked at him sceptically.

  ‘Trust us,’ Bowman said. ‘This is for the best.’

  Lungu looked from the SAS men to Jallow. ‘Samuel, you’re happy with this arrangement?’

  The bodyguard shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  Lungu said, ‘You’ll have to notify Mr Seguma’s driver, of course. Go through the changes to the route with him.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Fine.’ She nodded, brushed a rogue strand of hair back into place. ‘Now, there are a few things we must cover before you meet Mr Seguma. First, remember that you are working for a great man. You will behave appropriately at all times in his presence. That means no smoking or drinking while you are on the job.’

  Bowman said, ‘We’re trained professionals, ma’am. We won’t be doing any of that shit.’

  ‘No swearing, either,’ Lungu replied. ‘Don’t talk to Mr Seguma unless spoken to. When you speak, you will address him as “sir” or “Mr President”. If you have any questions or concerns, you should raise them with myself or Samuel,’ she added.

  ‘Anything else we should know?’ asked Bowman.

  ‘Mr Seguma doesn’t like being touched by strangers. Anyone from outside his own tribe. He thinks it transmits bad juju. You are to keep a respectful distance from him at all times.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘You have your own transport, I presume?’

  ‘We’ve got wheels,’ said Kember. ‘But it’s better if one of us travels with the principal in his own vehicle. We can respond much faster if something goes wrong.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ Lungu said. ‘Mr Seguma doesn’t allow strangers to travel with him. He’ll never stand for it.’

  ‘That’s going to make our job tricky.’

  ‘Too bad. Even Mr Seguma’s personal bodyguards are forbidden from travelling in the same car. You will have to follow us, and that’s the end of it.’

  Kember started to protest but Bowman cut him off. ‘We understand, ma’am. We’ll ride in our own wagon.’

  ‘Good.’ A thin smile flickered across her lips. The gatekeeper to the big man celebrating another small victory. Putting the two foreigners in their place.

  ‘We’ll be leaving here at ten thirty.’ She glanced at her Cartier watch. ‘Two hours from now. Mr Seguma is due to arrive at Westminster Abbey at ten forty-five. There’s a holding area a few streets away, I believe. For the bodyguards. I assume you’ll wait with Mr Seguma’s security detail?’

  Bowman shook his head. ‘We’ve got clearance to enter the Abbey. Me and Dave will have eyes on the principal during the wedding.’

  ‘But you just said there’s no danger at the Abbey.’

  ‘There isn’t, in all likelihood. But it’s better to be on the safe side.’

  ‘What’s your boss’s schedule for the afternoon?’ asked Kember.

  Lungu said, ‘Once the wedding is over, Mr Seguma will return here. Around two o’clock. Then we’ll head over to the Greybourn Hotel for the party. You’ll be joining us for that, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Bowman said.

  ‘The party begins at six. Mr Seguma’s driver will pick us up fifteen minutes beforehand. You can follow us to the venue.’

  ‘We’ll need somewhere to station ourselves close by. Keep an eye on the principal.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Mr Seguma’s security team will have a table near one of the exits. I’m sure they can accommodate you.’

  ‘When is this big bash supposed to end?’ Kember asked.

  ‘Who knows? Could be midnight. Could be later. The president is a man of great energy, you know. He likes to party.’

  ‘Great,’ Kember muttered.

  Lungu’s phone vibrated. She reached into her jacket, took out an oversized handset sheathed inside a crocodile leather case and moved away as she swiped to answer. She spoke to the person on the other end of the line in a language Bowman didn’t recognise. After half a minute she killed the call.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, pacing back over to the soldiers. ‘Let’s go and meet the president.’

  Two

  They followed Lungu and Jallow across the lobby and crowded into the next available lift. Lungu retrieved a card from her jacket pocket, touched it against a reader below the control panel and thumbed the button for the fourteenth floor. The lift whis
pered upwards, the doors sucked open and then Lungu led them towards the suite at the far end of the corridor.

  Two figures sat on a pair of chairs outside the presidential suite. One of the guys was slender with close-cropped hair, a pencil moustache and a pair of dark tinted sunglasses. His mate was thickset and lighter-skinned, with a wide nose and a round head shaped like a bowling ball. They were both dressed in the same plain suits as Jallow. Both of them had the same peculiar scars on their cheeks. The other members of the president’s BG team, Bowman assumed. At the sight of their colleagues they rose slowly to their feet and nodded greetings at Jallow. The latter exchanged a few words in his mother tongue with the bodyguards. Then he turned to the soldiers.

  ‘This is Isaac Deka,’ he said, gesturing the guy with the pencil moustache. Then he pointed to the guy with the bowling-ball face. ‘And this is Patrick Okello. My colleagues.’

  Jallow addressed the bodyguards and gestured towards Bowman and Kember, making the introductions. Okello, the guy with the bowling-ball face, slanted his eyes towards the soldiers, slowly. Stared at them with naked hostility.

  Kember said, ‘What’s the craic with them scars?’

  ‘Tribal marks,’ Jallow explained. ‘Every man in our tribe is scarred on his twelfth birthday.’

  ‘Lots of tribes, are there?’

  ‘Hundreds. But ours is the most warlike in Karatandu. Only men from our tribe are trusted to guard the life of the president.’

  There was a clear note of pride in his voice. Which was understandable, Bowman thought. Personal bodyguard to the president was a position of great trust. Their appointments would have had less to do with their capabilities than their absolute loyalty to the boss. Now they were reaping the rewards. Foreign travel, the chance to line their own pockets. The perks of the job. Probably an honorary leadership role in their tribe as well.

  Lungu said, ‘Wait here. We have some business to discuss with Mr Seguma first.’

  ‘How long is that gonna take?’ Kember asked.

  ‘Not long. We’ll call you when Mr Seguma is ready.’

  She tapped her smart card against a reader above the lock, waited for the light to blink green, then wrenched the handle and disappeared inside. Jallow and Deka and Okello shuffled in after her. The door clicked shut.

  Bowman took the chair Deka had just vacated. Kember sank into the chair next to him and scowled.

  ‘Can you believe this shit? Here we are doing them a favour, and they’re treating us as if we’re a pair of turds they’ve trodden in.’

  ‘Leave it, Geordie,’ Bowman replied.

  Kember shook his head. ‘We’re Regiment. We shouldn’t have to put up with this crap.’

  ‘We don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Yeah, we do. We could tell Mr T and his mate to go fuck themselves.’

  Bowman glanced sidelong at his colleague. ‘That’s not a good idea,’ he said. ‘It’s not worth the hassle, mate.’

  ‘You think we should let this lot talk to us like we’re scum?’

  Bowman drew in a breath. ‘Look, we both know that we’re in charge of this op. But we can’t piss these guys off. They’ve got the ear of the president. It’ll make our lives easier if we get along with them.’

  Kember shook his head. ‘This mission is a joke.’

  ‘That’s a bit extreme.’

  ‘Come on, Josh. We both know that this is a job for the plod, not us. The threat is low level. Some amateur nutcase with a butcher’s knife trying to hack his way into the principal’s car. Nothing that the royal protection squad couldn’t deal with.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘It’s obvious. This op is a PR exercise. We’ve been drafted in to make this guy feel appreciated.’

  ‘Six wouldn’t send us up here just for that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they?’ Kember cracked his knuckle joints before he went on. ‘Everyone knows Seguma is a big fan of the British army. He was a cadet at Sandhurst and everything. Sending us in to guard him is bound to put a big smile on his mug.’

  ‘Even if that’s true,’ Bowman said, ‘it doesn’t change our mission.’

  ‘It ain’t right. We’re being used.’

  ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘Aye? How’s that?’

  ‘If we weren’t doing this, we’d be doing some other crap. We could be out in the desert right now, sleeping in tents and shitting in a hole in the ground. At least here we’ve got a warm bed, clean dry clothes, a good wash. There are worse jobs.’

  That drew a scornful look from Kember. ‘Frankly I’d rather sleep in the desert than put up with any more shite from that PA.’

  Bowman glanced at his colleague, fighting a strong urge to punch him in the face. Kember was beginning to really piss him off.

  I’m trying to concentrate on the mission, he thought, and this guy is dragging me down with his constant negativity. If he keeps this up, I’ll give him a slap.

  They waited several minutes. Kember tapped out messages on his phone, checking in with the two guys at Westminster Abbey. The advance party. A pair of experienced SAS sergeants, Lomas and Studley. Kember’s phone buzzed with incoming texts from the guys on the team, confirming that the location had been cleared and they were in position at the Abbey.

  Bowman checked the time on his G-Shock Gravitymaster.

  08.39.

  A little over an hour since they had arrived at the Broxbury. Less than two hours until they were scheduled to leave for Westminster Abbey.

  Six minutes later, the suite door swung open. Then Lungu stepped outside.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Mr Seguma is ready to meet you now.’

  She guided them into a high-ceilinged room adorned with oriental rugs and gold-framed mirrors. In the middle of the room stood a pair of gilt-trimmed armchairs and a sofa arranged in a semicircle around a marble-topped coffee table. Gift boxes from luxury department stores littered the floor. None of them had been opened. Suit bags and dresses spilled out of a Louis Vuitton suitcase to one side of the room. A pair of Rolex watches, still in their leather boxes, had been carelessly discarded on an antique side table. On the left, a set of double doors led through to the bedroom. There was a door on the right side of the room connecting to an adjoining room. The PA’s quarters, Bowman guessed.

  Jallow, Okello and Deka had spread themselves on the nearest armchairs, watching an episode of Rick and Morty on a flat-screen TV as big as the national debt. In his peripheral vision, Bowman glimpsed two young women lying on the unmade bed in the bedroom. A blonde and a brunette. They were tanned, long-legged, dressed in complimentary dressing gowns. Neither of them paid any attention to Bowman or Kember as they tapped away on their phones.

  Lungu ushered them towards the far end of the room. A broad-shouldered figure stood in front of the French windows, smoking a cigar as he gazed out across Hyde Park. Lungu cleared her throat.

  ‘Sir, the soldiers are here. The ones I told you about.’

  The man in front of the balcony slowly turned to greet the new arrivals. Bowman recognised his face instantly from the various reports he’d seen on the news.

  Ken ‘The Viper’ Seguma.

  The president looked somewhat shorter than he’d appeared on TV. Two or three inches under six feet. He had been living well, apparently. Better than his famished people. His face was plump; his prominent belly threatened to burst out of his tartan waistcoat. His small, round eyes were pressed deep into his skull. A rack of military medals hung from the left lapel of his morning suit. The designer’s label was still attached to the sleeve of his jacket, Bowman noticed.

  Seguma took a puff on his stubby cigar. Smoke veiled his face as he studied the men closely.

  ‘You are from the Special Air Service, correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s us,’ Bowman said.

  ‘Wonderful. Splendid!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is always an honour to meet the men of the famous SAS.’

  His voice was strangely stilted. An African tyrant
, trying to imitate the accent of an English aristocrat.

  ‘Yes, I am a big fan,’ he continued. ‘You men are the real deal. Real killers!’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Bowman.

  Seguma tapped cigar ash into an empty coffee cup. He said, ‘Martha tells me that some worthless dogs are looking to cause trouble today.’

  ‘It’s just a possibility, sir. We’ve been sent here to make sure everything runs smoothly.’

  The tyrant swatted away his concerns. ‘A few miserable exiles and dissidents. They don’t scare me.’

  Bowman didn’t reply.

  ‘They are nothing but rats, you understand. A great man such as myself does not fear rats. There are rats back home, too, in my country. You’ve seen the news?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘There will be outrage, of course. The media will turn me into a hate figure. But they don’t understand what I’m up against.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘These people, you cannot negotiate with them. General Kakuba and his mob talk of a new dawn, but they are only interested in themselves. That is why I call them rats, do you see? You do not take a rat, sit down and discuss policy details with it over a bottle of Beaujolais. You exterminate it. Crush it.’

  The president made a clenched fist, strangling imaginary foes.

  ‘And that is what must be done in my country,’ he went on. ‘I must wipe out the rats, before they spread their disease.’

  He spoke matter-of-factly, as if he was talking about the weather, or the cricket score. There was something weird about this cartoonish figure with the voice of an English toff, blandly discussing the slaughter of his own people. Something comical, almost. Bowman found it hard to take him seriously. He was less intimidating in real life than the tyrannical despot he’d seen on the news reports, working himself up into an apoplectic rage.

  Lungu’s phone vibrated, breaking the awkward silence. She wandered off to take the call. Seguma watched her, a hungry look in his eyes.

  ‘Miss Karatandu, two years in a row.’ He grinned at Bowman, revealing a set of pearly white teeth.