Manhunter Chris Ryan (phonics story books txt) 📖

left. Kember took the same turn, following the limo and the sedan as they trundled down a side street flanked by white stucco terraces. They hung a left at Millbank and shuttled north towards the Houses of Parliament.

They were getting close now. Bowman could hear the whump-whump of helicopters circling overhead. The area was swarming with police. Armed officers in dark uniforms, tactical vests and baseball caps patrolled the streets, clutching their Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines. Yellow-and-blue liveried cars and motorbikes lined the sides of the road.

Bowman kept his eyes pinned to the limo, searching for any potential threats. But apart from the heavy police presence the area was deserted.

‘Look at this,’ said Kember. ‘You can’t swing a cat without hitting a police officer or a bodyguard. There’s no way anyone could get close to the president.’

‘Seguma has got plenty of enemies,’ Bowman reminded him. ‘Someone might slip through the net, even with all these guys about.’

Kember looked at him. ‘Weren’t you a cop once?’

‘Three years,’ said Bowman. ‘In the Met. Before I enlisted.’

‘You weren’t one of them tossers with a speed gun, were you?’

Bowman laughed. ‘Nah, mate. I never did traffic duty.’

‘What were you, then? Plod?’

‘I did two years as a constable. Then I went into specialist work.’

‘Doing what? Arresting climate change activists?’

Bowman shook his head. ‘Undercover operations. Infiltrating gangs. Drug traffickers, arms dealers, that sort of thing.’

Kember gave him a long look. ‘Where? London?’

‘Sometimes. But I worked all over the country. Liverpool, Birmingham, Manchester. Wherever they needed me. Sometimes I’d be undercover for months at a time.’

‘You make it almost sound dangerous.’

Bowman heaved his shoulders in a shrug. ‘There were less stressful ways to make a living. You had to have your wits about you all the time. One wrong move and your cover would be blown.’

‘You miss it?’

‘Not really,’ said Bowman. ‘I was a different person back then.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The police have a different priority to the army. They’re interested in putting the bad guys in handcuffs.’

‘And you ain’t?’

‘I want to kill bad guys,’ Bowman said. ‘That’s why I joined the Regiment, mate.’

The first weak shafts of sunlight were breaking through the clouds as they passed the Houses of Parliament. They took another left, turning on to Broad Sanctuary, and then Bowman saw the crowd.

A sprawling mass had gathered on Parliament Square, hemmed in by steel barriers, cheering and hollering. Dozens of police lined the side of the road, some dressed in black-hatted, white-gloved ceremonial uniform. Others wore less formal hi-vis jackets. Further to the west, a hundred metres away, a temporary stand had been erected for the world’s media. Camera crews jostled with reporters for space on the tiered benches, preparing for the arrival of the bride. No one was filming at the moment: the government had imposed a media blackout during the arrival of the VIPs.

Kember stayed bumper-close to the limo as it continued west on Broad Sanctuary. Bowman looked behind him and was surprised to see that the bodyguards in the sedan were still lagging several metres to the rear, making no attempt to close the gap to the rest of the column.

Up ahead, more spectators had been crammed into the space in front of the media centre. Many of them waved flags or clutched balloons, shouting ecstatically. After a hundred metres the limo veered off to the left, abruptly pulling up at the drop-off point on the west side of the Abbey. Twenty metres to the south, a tongue of red carpet ran from the kerb to the grand West Door.

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