‘Bamboo is breaching the Arch. Stagecoach at three, Maverick, Mercenary, Footprint and Falcon aboard. Snapshot and Snow at four in Half Back, with Wallflower and Warrior.’
Dempsey glanced at his watch. It had been twelve minutes since the transmission in McGregor’s office. That message had set the timetable. So far it had been accurate, almost to the second. Dempsey shook his head in admiration.
The Americans are damned efficient.
But Dempsey could not allow the effectiveness of the Secret Service to make him comfortable or complacent. They had impressed him so far, but he had to stay vigilant. To do otherwise could cost lives. Bitter experience told him that.
Dempsey glanced towards his own nine agents. The DDS team. Handpicked men and women, every one of them outstanding in their previous lives. Soldiers. Police officers. Spies. They had been the best of the best. Exceptional enough to catch Callum McGregor’s eye. Tough enough to make it through DDS selection. Dempsey did not trust easily, but every member of this team had earned it.
The nine agents were exactly where they should be. Lone figures at the end of each aisle, in the no man’s land between crowd and stage. Each wore a crisp black two-piece suit, a pristine white shirt and a slim black tie. Regulation black sunglasses completed the image. Individually they could pass for extras from a Hollywood movie. Only the conspicuous bulge between the left breast and the armpit of their jackets said otherwise. These guys were the real thing.
Not that Dempsey doubted that. He had complete confidence that each would do his or her duty. That they would act just as they had been drilled over the past forty-eight hours. There were ten aisles in the square today, the only routes through the sea of chairs that temporarily filled a vast space usually open to the public. Of those aisles, nine were covered by Dempsey’s agents. The tenth – the only one not currently manned – was different. This was where the VIPs would enter. Their route to the stage. If anything was going to happen it would most likely happen here. Which was why it was Dempsey’s aisle.
It demanded more from Dempsey than he expected from his agents. Their brief was simple. To stand in place. Motionless but aware. Their eyes everywhere. Dempsey’s was more complex. Eventually he would do the same as his team, but first he had to get the VIPs from the gate to the stage.
It sounded easy enough. These things always do.
Dempsey’s earpiece buzzed again, the continuing commentary of the presidential motorcade’s movements. It was the American way: ‘Intelligence Is Everything’. If you know every detail, every movement, then nothing can go wrong. Dempsey thought otherwise. It was never that simple.
Dempsey moved to the security entrance at the north-west end of the square and took his place. From here his view was limited. The fence that surrounded the square saw to that. That fence was a necessary security measure. But in politics even the necessary is sometimes hidden. Two thousand guests were lucky enough to be inside the square. Millions more were not. It was the job of the barricade to keep them out. But every one of that unwanted number was a registered voter, which made the sham necessary. Hundreds of metres of blue velvet drapes had been stretched along the hoardings. Combined with the heavy-duty carpet underfoot, the stage at the north end and the thousands of chairs that faced it, they made Trafalgar Square look like the biggest conference room Dempsey had ever seen. All of it intended to fool the public. To hide the fact that only the great and the good were allowed inside.
The deception worked. That was clear from the noise. Dempsey could see one thing through the magnetic security arch that marked the access point from out to in: the arrival of the presidential motorcade. Ironically it was the one thing he did not need to see. The cheers of the crowd were deafening. The enthusiasm real. Dempsey knew of only two politicians who received that kind of adulation. Visible or not, the sound alone told him that both had just arrived.
Dempsey fixed his sight on the framed scene visible through the arch. The view was limited but sufficient. It seemed impossible that the crowd’s cheers could grow any louder. But somehow they did, just as Dempsey saw the motorcade – codenamed ‘Bamboo’ by the Secret Service – crawl to a final halt.
‘Bamboo’ had made the short journey from Buckingham Palace at a jogging pace. Eight agents from the Presidential Protective Division had run alongside each car. Not one of them had broken sweat. An example of superb physical conditioning. This alone should have left Dempsey feeing safer. Should have, but did not.
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.