by Tony Kent
The voice in his ear told Dempsey that the president’s car – codenamed ‘Stagecoach’ – was the third vehicle in the motorcade. Dempsey knew that already. He had watched it stop closest to the entrance, where it sat for barely an instant before its passengers began to emerge.
The obvious weight of the rear doors only hinted at the extent of the 2009 Cadillac presidential limousine’s modifications. This was the first time Dempsey had seen the legendary vehicle so close. Nothing about it seemed too unusual. If Dempsey had not known better he could not have guessed how well it lived up to its nickname: ‘The Beast’. Weighing more than the average dumper truck, the vehicle sported five-inch-thick military-grade armour that could repel a direct hit from a hand-held rocket launcher. Run-flat tyres that allowed the driver to hit top speed regardless of the condition of the wheels. Assault-proof glass so thick that barely any natural light could penetrate the car’s interior. It was almost a nuclear bunker on wheels. A place where the president was completely safe. If only the same could be said of Trafalgar Square.
The Secret Service team swamped ‘Stagecoach’ before its wheels stopped turning. Once again Dempsey’s view was blocked. But once again sight was unnecessary. The roar of the crowd was enough to tell him that US President John Knowles and his First Lady Veronica – codenamed ‘Maverick’ and ‘Mercenary’ – were now in public view. Dempsey knew that Britain’s Prime Minister William Davies and his wife, Elizabeth, would be with them. ‘Footprint’ and ‘Falcon’. Their Secret Service handles.
All four were now in the hands of the Presidential Protective Division’s best. They would remain so until they passed the threshold of the square. Only then would they become Dempsey’s responsibility.
That time did not come right away. Minutes passed as Knowles milked his applause. As Davies – a much less popular leader – basked in the reflected glory, Dempsey could only wait and watch as the Secret Service did its job.
To see the Americans in action was a lesson in how it should be done. Unlike the oversized gorillas employed in celebrity protection, whose eyes never seem to leave the star paying their wage, President Knowles’ agents were the opposite. Nondescript and efficient. Their eyes were where they should be. Constantly scanning the crowd, never resting on Knowles. The agents’ job was to spot threats to the president. Barring suicide, those threats were unlikely to come from the man himself.
Minutes more went by with no sign that the cheering would end. It bothered Dempsey. It bothered him a lot. As long as the VIPs were outside they were not under his protection. Which meant that – for now – there was nothing Dempsey could do for them. For a man whose life had been built around self-reliance and complete control, that feeling of impotence was ordinarily unbearable. And there was nothing ordinary about today. The ragged six-inch scar that ran the length of Dempsey’s left cheek throbbed. A sign that his blood pressure was spiking.
Dempsey’s moment came without warning. While the crowd continued to cheer, President Knowles turned on his heel and strode into the square. Dempsey took a step back. Standing bolt upright, he ripped off a crisp salute. Knowles – a former US Marine and now his country’s commander-in-chief – returned the gesture. William Davies – Britain’s unpopular prime minister – did not.
Dempsey turned and began to walk towards the stage. He had frozen at coming face to face with Knowles. The US president was a man he deeply admired, but still Dempsey had not anticipated the effect meeting him might have. Even so, the distraction lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Dempsey tore his eyes away from the most famous face on the planet. He had a job to do, at the head of the entourage.
The distance to the stage was no more than a hundred yards. It took a full three minutes to cover it. The crowd was on its feet. Pushing. Reaching. Cheering. Two thousand of them in total. It was all Dempsey could do to keep them at bay as the entourage inched its way forward. The Secret Service escort that surrounded Knowles helped. But Knowles himself did not. The president seemed to shake every hand he passed. It made every step an effort and every yard an achievement. The ordeal only ended when they reached the staircase that led up to the raised platform. Only then could Dempsey step aside.
Dempsey watched as the VIPs climbed the eight short steps and took to the stage. Every one of them was getting off on the adulation of the crowd, with no consideration of the dangers that could be out there. Not even from ex-president Howard Thompson who, Dempsey knew, must be aware of the specific threats that had been made against his life.
But then politicians never seemed to worry about such things. Their safety was someone else’s responsibility. Dempsey’s responsibility.
Dempsey took his place at the head of his aisle. His first task was a success. He should feel better. Should feel more confident. But for some reason the anxiety continued to rise. Something was not right. Something Dempsey could not quite place.
SIX
Joshua’s wristwatch sat in front of him, in his immediate eyeline and beside his rifle’s barrel. It was wedged face up, readable at a glance. Convenient but unnecessary. Joshua had been counting off seconds in his head since the first Secret Service transmission. Another symptom of his obsessive nature. One thousand, seven hundred and forty had passed.
His expensively engineered Rolex Submariner agreed. Twenty-nine minutes.
It had been time well spent. Joshua had moved through his ingrained pre-shot rituals without a conscious thought. The circumstances of the assignment might be strange, but the fundamentals were always the same. Load the mag. Chamber the round. Settle the line of sight. Identify the obstacles. Seven times over to satisfy his compulsion. Each time done with absolute precision.
Joshua knew his target’s name. He knew his face. And he knew where Eamon McGale would be found. McGale had been in Joshua’s crosshairs since taking his seat. If everything went to plan, he would not be leaving them alive.
It was an easy statement to make, and sometimes a harder one to fulfil. But not for Joshua. Joshua had been steeped in violence for as long as he could remember. There were, no doubt, many other men who could do what he did. But it took a rare man to do it so well. One who combined physical ability, cold obsession, professional training and an absolute lack of remorse in one lethal package. Joshua possessed all of these qualities in abundance, making him more than a match for the ageing, slightly ragged man who sat in his sights.
McGale had looked out of place from the start. Not physically. He wore aged clothing and looked in need of a good meal, yes, but there was nothing particularly unusual about his appearance. No. What Joshua noticed were his emotions. Or, more precisely, his lack of them.
Even from a hundred yards outside and two hundred feet above the square, Joshua could feel the effect of President Knowles’ arrival. The wave of goodwill was like nothing he had ever seen. Yet McGale had stayed rooted to his seat. An oasis of calm within a storm of hysteria.
Nor had McGale reacted to what had followed. William Davies had spoken from behind a two-inch-thick sheet of glass. A combination of teleprompter and bulletproof screen. Davies was a short, plain and unpopular man. Unused to enthusiastic applause. But today, with two thousand handpicked spectators caught up in the euphoria of the moment, even he received it.
Davies had started the event with a short thank you to Britain’s armed forces. The crowd had roared its agreement. All except for McGale. McGale had again remained static. Only the beads of sweat that trickled down his neck and brow were proof of life beneath the tweed.
But this changed when President Knowles took the centre of the stage. That was when McGale reacted. When he began to fidget. To repeatedly touch the underside of his chair. To the untrained eye it might look like an itch. To Joshua it was a starter’s pistol. He knew the effects of nerves when he saw them. And he knew what would follow.
SEVEN
Sarah Truman had noted her president’s every word. She had been living in London for two years. In that time she had seen much more of Brit
ain’s prime minister than of her own country’s leader. It was inevitable that she would compare the two, and it was hardly a fair contest. Unlike William Davies, the leader of the free world was a very impressive man.
John Knowles certainly impressed Sarah. He seemed to have it all, she thought. Tall, athletic and handsome. A Hollywood president. Because of this he was sometimes underestimated, which was a mistake that was never made twice. Knowles’ intellect exceeded even his looks, making him more than a match for any political challenger.
Sarah glanced across to Maguire. She was confident that her cameraman had the shot. That trust was well placed. Maguire had a clear view of the stage with no obstructions. Other camera crews had been less fortunate. Or maybe they just were not as good. Either way, the best footage would today come from Jack Maguire’s lens.
Sarah had no doubt that it would. She counted herself lucky to be partnered with such a respected talent so early in her career. She was genuinely grateful for Maguire’s guidance. But they were friends and so it could remain unspoken. Instead Sarah concentrated on the stage. On the close of Knowles’ speech. As always, both his words and his delivery were faultless:
‘. . . no greater friend and closer ally than Great Britain. It is a relationship that has stood the test of history and of adversity, and I could not be happier to pay tribute to the men and women who have stood beside my own nation in these troubled times. Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to thank those among us – and those who have tragically left us – for a sustained heroism unmatched since the time of the Greatest Generation. I give you a group that can be summed up in a single word. I give you “heroes”.’
The crowd erupted at that final word. Knowles had judged his audience perfectly. He always did. The people reacted just as he had intended. The sound of their cheers was deafening. Disorientating, even. Sarah could feel her head begin to spin as she scribbled into her notepad.
The noise continued for what seemed like minutes. It was all Sarah could do to keep her attention on her notes. Only when the intensity began to lessen did she regain some concentration. It was a temporary relief.
In just moments a fresh injection of energy shot through the audience. Just as suddenly as the first. Sarah glanced up from the page. Towards the stage. Looking for the cause.
President Knowles had taken his seat. His retreat had left the podium free, but the space was not vacant for long. Sarah watched as former US President Howard Thompson joined Sir Neil Matthewson – the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland and Britain’s most popular politician – as together they approached the centre of the stage.
The reception the two men received was as enthusiastic as it had been for Knowles. It had been almost four years since Thompson’s time in the White House. Somehow he remained as popular as ever. Matthewson was just as well loved. So it was no surprise that they were greeted so warmly. Or that the dead-eyed reaction of a single man in the crowd would go unnoticed until it was too late.
EIGHT
The deafening cheers said different things to different people. To Thompson and to Matthewson they were the deserved thanks for years of public service. To William Davies they were proof that the event was a PR success. Cosmetic surgery to cover the cracks under his government. And to Dempsey they were confirmation of his worst fears. He could not police a crowd of this size.
Dempsey’s eyes moved behind his sunglasses. Constantly scanning from left to right. Looking for a hint of something. Of anything. But what? A gun? A knife? A bomb? How could he spot a thing in this sea of bodies? His unease was crippling, yet he could not explain it. Dempsey had faced far worse odds. Had lost count of the times it had been his life in danger. But today was somehow different.
The interruption of McGregor’s voice in his earpiece was welcome.
‘We’re behind schedule. The first soldier should have been onstage to collect his award by now. These bastards are milking the applause.’
‘Then you need to get a message to them. Get them to sit their arses down!’
Dempsey snapped his words into his wrist-mike. His strong London accent broke through. Betrayed his annoyance.
‘Is that an order, Major?’ McGregor sounded amused.
‘It is if you say it! We need this crowd seated, Callum.’
‘Agreed.’
No more words. Dempsey lowered his hand back to his side, moving his wrist-mike from his lips. His eyes continued to dart across the crowd.
Dempsey knew that McGregor would do his best. That if any man could force the politicians to get on with the job it was the DDS director. But that knowledge did nothing to salve his anxiety. Not this time. Dempsey had survived as long as he had by trusting his instincts. As he caught a glimpse of an unusual movement and a hint of metal from within the distant crowd, those instincts told him one thing. Whatever McGregor could or could not do, it was already too late.
NINE
Joshua was ready. Primed. McGale’s body language had pre-warned him. The sudden tightening of his jaw. The stiffening of his ageing muscles beneath his nondescript clothing. The calming, strengthening intake of breath. All signs of a man about to act.
Joshua’s eyeball was inches from the scope. He could see every detail. Every movement. Yet even he was surprised by McGale’s speed. Joshua had watched carefully as McGale reached his hands to the underside of his seat. They had remained there for a second. Maybe two. As if they had met resistance. Then, just as suddenly, they were free. The right hand now carried a pistol. Its make and model was disguised by the duct tape that had attached it to the bottom of the chair.
McGale had burst into action, moving as fast as a man who was half his age and twice as active. Joshua struggled to pick him out from the still-roaring crowd as he ran, but it did not concern him: McGale had only one place to go and only one way to get there. Instead of following his target’s jinking run, Joshua placed his scope at the stage end of the aisle. Which McGale would reach within moments.
Sarah opened her third notebook of the day. In it she scribbled down every word and emotion that came to mind. Not for the first time, she wrote the slogan ‘Beatlemania’. She knew why. This crowd was like nothing Sarah had ever experienced. It was a sustained hysteria and it brought to mind footage of The Beatles’ screaming fans in the sixties.
It was not a reaction she understood. Sarah knew that both Thompson and Matthewson were well respected by the British public. Together they had led the Northern Irish negotiations that – until recent terrorist atrocities – had seemed to put the faltering peace process in the province back on track. But this alone could not explain the crowd’s worship. As an American living in London, Sarah found the whole display a little ‘un-British’.
Sarah’s eyes fixed on the page, her focus absolute. She saw nothing else as she concentrated on turning her thoughts into words. The deafening noise around her did not make this easy. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to block out the distraction. And so she failed to see the middle-aged man who sprinted past her, in the direction of the stage. Maguire, though, had been paying better attention.
Maguire hesitated for less than a heartbeat before giving chase. Though slowed by the effort of keeping his lens trained upon McGale, it was a short enough distance not to matter. Whatever was to follow would be caught on film. And Sarah, whose concentration had been broken when Maguire moved, was just a few steps behind.
Joshua used his naked eye to watch McGale run. His crosshairs were perfectly positioned. Everything was in place. He wondered for a moment if McGale might actually reach the stage before being spotted.
He had his answer within an instant. Joshua felt a pang of disappointment as McGale reached the end of the aisle and ran clear into the pistol sight of a waiting agent. The agent was ready, her gun aimed at McGale’s heart. Just a movement of her finger and he would go no further.
It was what Joshua had been waiting for. What he had been told to expect. He did not hesitate. Joshua pulled the trigger only
once and watched without satisfaction as his bullet ripped through the front of the agent’s head. The impact slammed her to the floor, removing the only obstacle in McGale’s path. Not that McGale seemed to notice. He appeared unaware of how close he had come to death.
In just three more strides McGale had reached the stage. Too fast for anyone else to react.
Six shots. The full load of the weapon McGale had pulled from beneath his seat. Fired into Matthewson and Thompson from near point-blank range. That number meant everything to Joshua; his instructions had been clear. Phase One was to ensure that McGale reached the stage and fired the full number of rounds. Joshua was to assist in that by removing any obstruction from McGale’s path. Only then would McGale himself become the target. Phase Two.
Joshua placed his crosshairs back between McGale’s eyes and prepared to apply the kiss of pressure that would release the chambered round. It was fast by anyone’s standards. But not fast enough.
Both Sarah and Maguire had pursued McGale without a thought. Neither seemed to consider their own safety until Joshua’s shot rang out. It was a wake-up call that stopped both in their tracks. They watched in horror as the young agent’s head ruptured.
Maguire was a twenty-five-year veteran video journalist. He had seen more violent death than he cared to remember. He could only wonder at the damage this had done to his psyche, but today he was just grateful it had removed his gag reflex. Sarah had frozen at the sight of the fallen agent, while Maguire had paused for only a moment. Then he was moving again. Sweeping his lens from the floor to the tragedy unfolding onstage. Perfectly placed, Maguire’s camera captured every bullet that ripped into Matthewson and Thompson.