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.