Nodding gratefully to Kedar, Hazim pulled a few leaves from a stem and popped them into his mouth. As he bit down, the bitterness of the khat’s juices hit his taste buds.
“Do you have a Coke?” he asked, trying not to grimace.
Malik threw up his arms in exaggerated outrage and turned to a man with thinning hair and rounded scholarly glasses. “This is what I mean, Bahir! The poison of America seeps into his bones. There’s fine Yemeni water over there,” he muttered, indicating a large ceramic jug on a round wooden table. “The only and proper way to enjoy khat.”
Selecting the choicest leaves from his bundle, Malik stuffed several into his left cheek at once. He chewed slowly, carefully studying Hazim as the young man poured a glass for himself. “He doesn’t even have a beard!” he snorted.
Sipping on his water, Hazim self-consciously put a hand to his shaven face and glanced around at his bearded brethren. The other men all eyed him guardedly.
“He looks like a newborn,” commented Bahir. “Hey, everyone, it’s Baby Hazim!”
The group burst into raucous laughter. Hazim flushed in humiliation and cast his eyes to the floor. But the jesting was ultimately good-natured, for all in the room knew the truth. Hazim had been invited into the inner circle of the Brotherhood precisely because he’d shown he was able to integrate effortlessly into American life.
Malik patted Hazim reassuringly on the shoulder. “Enough! Now we’re all here, we can begin,” he announced.
The laughter of the other men died quickly, all conversation coming to a halt.
“My brothers,” he began, opening his arms wide. “Our organization has hidden in the shadows long enough. The time is ripe for a nightmare attack against our enemy. The toppling of the Twin Towers struck at the heart of America. Now I intend for us to destroy its soul!”
Malik fingered his prize jambiya as he spoke. The curved dagger was thrust into his leather belt, positioned in full view of everyone. The semiprecious stones adorning the wooden sheath glistened in the evening’s fading light, and with its handle of rare rhinoceros horn, no man would question his status as leader. Whereas for most Yemeni men the jambiya was purely a symbol of masculinity and usually blunt, Malik kept his blade sharpened, having used it to slit many an enemy’s throat.
“We must hit America where it hurts the most,” he continued, his fervor building. “A wise man once said, ‘Kill a few, hurt many, scare thousands.’ But in this attack, we need only kidnap one infidel.”
He paused, relishing the moment of power as his men leaned in, mesmerized by his words.
“Who’s the target?” breathed Bahir.
“The president’s daughter.”
A round of gasps met this revelation. Not from disgust, but from admiration at the audacity of the plan.
But Hazim couldn’t hide his skepticism. “You seriously intend for us to kidnap the president’s daughter? One of the most protected families in the world.”
“Yes,” said Malik smugly. “The plan may be bold, but it’ll be as devastating and effective as a thousand bombs. Once we have her, we’ll demand the release of our brothers and force all infidels to leave our lands.”
The men cheered at this news, pumping their fists in the air. Hazim tried to get himself heard over the hubbub. “The United States doesn’t negotiate with those they label terrorists. What makes you think the president will bow to our demands?”
Malik removed his jambiya and inspected the gleaming blade. “What father wouldn’t if you held his own flesh and blood hostage?”
6
Connor’s thumb hovered over the Call button of his phone. The telephone number glowed steadily in the display, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to dial it.
Am I doing the right thing?
He could hear his mum shuffling around downstairs, making them breakfast. Connor wondered if she’d manage on her own. The TV was on in the sitting room, the volume a notch too high for Connor’s comfort, to compensate for his gran’s failing hearing. But no one complained; their neighbors were just as old, and only the three of them lived in the house.
Spread out on his bed were the contents of the envelope: a company brochure promoting high-quality live-in caregivers for the elderly and chronically ill, plus a letter detailing Colonel Black’s offer. Connor knew exactly what it said. And each time he read the letter, it made more sense.
His mum suffered from multiple sclerosis. On a day-to-day basis, he looked after her, helped by his gran. But when he was at school or martial arts training, he couldn’t be around. And recently there’d been a couple of incidents that had worried him—the dropping of a pan of boiling water, then a painful fall down the stairs that had resulted in a broken wrist. As his mum’s condition worsened, she’d need full-time care.
On top of that, he’d noticed his gran was finding it harder to cope. Although her mind was still sharp as a tack, she was getting old and less mobile. As a family, they’d once discussed the idea of nursing homes. But his gran had been adamant it would be the death of her. The little terraced house was full of happy memories of her life with his grandad and father, and she was determined to stay. For his mum’s part, she was more worried about what would happen to her son if she was forced to go into a nursing home. Being a minor, Connor couldn’t remain in the house alone. And without any close relatives his choices seemed limited to foster care or entering a children’s home himself—prospects that appealed to neither him nor his mother.
Their ideal solution was a live-in caregiver. But there was no way they could afford one.
Until now.
Connor had spent the past week deliberating over the decision. He dearly loved his mum and gran and didn’t want to leave them. Yet by joining Guardian he would guarantee their well-being. And he considered it his duty to look after them, just as they’d looked after him when his father had died.
He glanced over at the photo on the bedside table of his father in Iraq. Six years had gone by, but there wasn’t a day when Connor didn’t think of him. His memories were now like snapshots in a dusty family album—playing soccer in the park, games of hide-and-seek in Epping Forest, sparring in their backyard. And with each passing year these snapshots faded a little more. Connor was worried that one day he wouldn’t be able to recall his father at all.
But Colonel Black and his father had been friends. He could fill in the missing pieces. And Connor desperately wanted to know more about his father’s secret life—what it was like being in the SAS and working as a bodyguard in hostile environments. He also needed to understand why his father had devoted himself to such a job, one that took him away from his family for such long periods. Connor realized he could never get his father back, but by following in his footsteps he might come to know him better.
Connor pressed the Call button.
It rang once before being answered in that familiar clipped tone.
“Glad you’ve decided to join us,” said the colonel. “One of the team will collect you Monday at 0900 hours sharp. Be ready.”
“But . . . I-I still haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Connor stuttered.
He sensed a smile at the other end of the line.
“Connor, you wouldn’t be calling unless it was to say yes.”
7
The following Monday a blacked-out Range Rover pulled up outside the house: 0900 hours sharp.
Bags packed, Connor hugged his mum good-bye. “I’ll be back during the holidays,” he promised.
“Now, don’t you worry about me,” she said, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. “You go have a good time. I’m so proud of you.”
She squeezed his hand. To Connor, his mother always seemed at her most energized and pain-free when she was concentrating on him.
“And I’ll be here 24/7,” reassured Sally, a jolly, middle-aged woman who was to be his mum’s live-in caregiver.
And it had the double benefit that his gran would also be cared for in her own home. This news had initially pleased his gran. But, not one to miss a trick, she had questioned him in private about the “scholarship program.” Despite Colonel Black’s warning, Connor had told her the truth—as he always did with his gran. She’d immediately tried to dissuade him. But, seeing the determination in his eyes, she’d resignedly shaken her head and said, “You’re your father’s son. Always putting others before yourself.”
So it was agreed that Guardian was to be their secret, and Connor had no doubt that she’d keep it. As he went to say good-bye, his gran gripped him with surprising strength.
“Stay safe,” she whispered, and for a moment he didn’t think she’d let him go.
With a final hug for his mum, Connor picked up his bags and strode over to the Range Rover. The driver got out, a slender woman with dark brown shoulder-length hair and olive eyes that were good-natured yet watchful.
Connor smiled in wry recognition. “You’re not going to arrest me again, are you?”
The former policewoman laughed. “Only if you don’t pay attention in class!” She offered her hand. “I’m Jody, one of your instructors. Now get in. We’ve got a long drive ahead.”
Connor tossed his bags into the trunk and clambered into the passenger seat. With a last wave to his mum and gran, he heaved the door shut and the Range Rover pulled away. As they drove out of London, they passed the Tiger Martial Arts Dojo. Connor felt a twinge of regret, and a nagging doubt returned. The club was almost a second home to him. He’d just made his mark as a national kickboxing champion. Am I throwing it all away? His instructor hadn’t thought so. Although dismayed to lose his most promising student, Dan had only wanted the best for him.
“The time to strike is when the opportunity presents itself,” Dan had said, giving him a friendly tap on the chin with his fist. “So good luck—and remember: if you get into trouble, hit first, hit hard, then hit the ground running.”
The Range Rover turned a corner and the club disappeared from view. Burying his doubts, Connor now felt an undeniable thrill at what lay in store for him as a bodyguard. “So where are we going?” he asked eagerly.
“Wales,” replied Jody.
“Oh.” Connor tried to hide his disappointment. He’d been expecting somewhere a little more glamorous. “Why there?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” she replied. “Until then, I’d advise getting some rest while you can. The weeks ahead will be demanding.”
Leaving London, they headed west on the M4 motorway. While Jody drove, Connor asked her about the Guardian organization—a search on the Internet had drawn a blank, apart from a news clipping mentioning Colonel Black as the team leader of a high-profile hostage rescue in Afghanistan several years before. But Jody politely evaded this line of questioning. “All will be answered in good time,” she replied. After his fifth attempt to extract information, she flashed him a steely look and he backed off. However, Jody did reveal that she was an ex–police officer of some fifteen years’ service. Rapidly promoted up the ranks, she’d moved to CO19, the police’s specialist armed unit, before being transferred to SO14, Royalty Close Protection.
“So did you ever protect Prince William and Kate Middleton?” Connor asked.
Jody’s manner became guarded again. “That would break client confidentiality, I’m afraid.”
Finding it was like getting blood from a stone, Connor decided to take her earlier advice and tried to sleep.
Three hours later, they crossed the Severn Bridge into Wales. When they eventually came off the highway, Jody took so many minor roads that Connor lost his bearings completely. But judging by the craggy mountains and endless fields, they were in the middle of nowhere.
It was late afternoon by the time a pair of iron gates came into view. Atop the black wrought-iron design was a subtle but distinctive winged shield. Leveling with an entry port concealed in the bushes, Jody pressed an infrared sensor on the dashboard and the gates parted. As they drove through, Connor spotted a discreet security camera following their progress. The Range Rover crunched up a long gravel driveway with open fields on either side. As they crested a rise, an old granite building appeared, not visible from the road. The size of a country mansion, it was tucked into its own valley with a small lake and dense patch of woodland. Squared battlements and narrow windows gave the impression of a fortified castle.
“This was a private school in the 1800s,” explained Jody. “But the facilities have been updated for our purposes.”
To Connor, the school still looked as if it belonged in the nineteenth century, and he struggled to see much improvement beyond a large satellite dish on the roof.
The Range Rover drew up outside the main entrance. Connor jumped out and retrieved his bags from the trunk. When he turned around, he almost dropped them. Standing in the arched doorway was the last person he had expected to see.
8
“Welcome to Camp Guardian!” said the boy he’d tried to rescue in the alley. Helping Connor with his bags, he introduced himself. “My name’s Amir.”
“So this is where you ran off to,” remarked Connor.
Amir offered a ready smile. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t get a chance to thank you, but I thought Jody was about to arrest me for late coursework.” He shot the instructor a mischievous wink.
“Show our new recruit to his room,” Jody ordered, apparently immune to his charm.
Amir performed an overzealous salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Shorter than Connor and with a lean frame, Amir bounded up the steps into the school’s entrance hall. His exuberant manner reminded Connor of a meerkat’s—playful yet always on the alert. He was a totally different person from the cowering victim Connor had come across in the Docklands.
“And, Amir,” Jody called after them, her tone stern, “I want that threat report on my desk by 0800 hours.”
Groaning at the deadline, Amir turned to Connor. “Let’s go before she makes it any earlier.”
He led Connor through a grand entrance hall and up a wide, sweeping staircase. Old paintings in antique frames hung from the walls, and the last of the sun’s rays filtered through a bay window onto the polished parquet flooring.
“So you’re a guardian?” said Connor as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.
Amir nodded. “Trainee. I’ve not been on any assignments yet, so I haven’t earned my wings.” He pointed to a silver lapel badge on his sweater, the familiar shield and silhouette absent of its Guardian wings. “But hopefully it won’t be long. Just depends on who the next Principal is.”
“Principal?” asked Connor.
“The person you’re assigned to protect,” explained Amir, turning right along a corridor. “It could be a politician’s son, a member of a royal family, the daughter of an oil baron, anyone who is likely to be a target of an attack.” He nudged Connor with a conspiratorial elbow. “To be honest, I’m hoping for a film star. Now, that would be cool. All those red carpet events!”
He pointed to an open door on their left. “That’s my room, by the way.”
Connor glimpsed an unmade bed with clothes strewn everywhere and a small desk upon which sat a gutted laptop. “What happened to your computer?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just updating the hard drive and installing a new multicore processor,” Amir replied, as if such a task was as easy as replac
ing a lightbulb.
He stopped by a door marked with a number seven.
“This is your room,” he announced, inviting Connor to go in first.
The bedroom was small and basic, comprising a desk, chair, lamp, single bed, sink and old wooden wardrobe. Connor dumped his bags on the bed. “I thought Jody said the school had been modernized.”
Amir laughed. “It’s what you don’t see that’s impressive.” He flicked open a panel on the desk to reveal an Internet port. “The whole place is wired with fiber-optic broadband. It’s a closed system so no one can access it externally.” He pointed to the window. “The glass has shock detectors in case someone tries to break in. Outside, there are covert security cameras, thermal-imaging cameras and pressure pads at every entry and exit. And beyond that there are perimeter alarms surrounding the school grounds.”
Connor looked out across the open fields, deserted apart from a flock of windswept sheep. “Why the high-tech security? This isn’t exactly a thriving metropolis.”
“There’s no point in protecting others if we can’t protect ourselves,” replied Amir. “That’s one of the basic rules of bodyguarding. Also, only a handful of people know about Guardian’s existence—that’s one reason why we’re so effective—and Colonel Black wants to keep it that way.”
Stuck in the middle of Wales, Connor wondered if the colonel wasn’t being a little paranoid. “Then we should watch out for those terrorist sheep!”
Amir responded with a dry chuckle. “Just wait till you start training. You’ll be stunned at what lengths the enemy will go to.” He glanced at Connor’s backpack. “Have you brought a laptop?”
Connor shook his head. He only had an old, battered PC at home.
“Don’t worry, I’ll figure out how to get you one tomorrow.” A phone pinged in Amir’s back pocket. “That means dinner’s served. You must be starving after the journey.”
Bodyguard--Recruit (Book 1) Page 4