Bluett was in a considerable taking. The various US listening posts had put together enough snatches of conversation to conclude that something was awry.
‘I’m coming right over,’ he told Deputy Assistant Commissioner Purnell, though in reality he was already on his way.
‘Tremendous,’ said Purnell. He waved at Grover, who was just coming in to tell him that the stolen ambulance had been located both on the CCTV and on the Apcoa computers.
‘The Ops Room is all yours. Can I ask why?’
‘I want you to explain why the alert status is now red plus.’
‘Triff – I’ll see you in a short while. Colonel.’
‘No, I mean I want you to explain now.’
‘I think we may have an incident involving an ambulance.’
‘An ambulance, huh?’ said Bluett, as if he didn’t know.
Like big black birds of prey alighting one after the other on a telegraph wire, the cars of the cavalcade came to a halt in line. Exactly abreast of the red carpet that spilled from the steps of St Stephen’s Entrance drew up the decoy Cadillac De Ville, and the crowd experienced a kind of orgasm of hatred.
‘Incoming!’ said the USSS men to each other, as the eggs volleyed over the road and the railings, and as soon as they splatted on the crimson cloth, the mess was cleared up by men in black tights with J-cloths. Then the second decoy Cadillac swooped in to land, and drew some more of the protesters’ ammo. Then the first two Cadillacs shifted forward, and the real De Ville slid into its berth, right slap next to the candy-striped marquee they had erected in front of St Stephen’s Entrance.
Inside were the battery of sensors and G-men that Jones had hoped to avoid by choosing his subterranean route. Permanent Protectees One and Two got out.
Almost unseen by the mob they slipped into the shelter of the marquee and went up the steps, hand in hand, for their first engagement, an audience with the Speaker of the House of Commons. Pressing up against the barricades, and the statue of Jan Christiaan Smuts, the crowd disgraced itself with its commentary.
When she entered the Pass Office Cameron found she was momentarily tongue-tied. Every yell and honk outside was turning into a beat of warning in her lovely head, that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Everyone knew the risks, and surely Adam could see that there was something weird about what he was asking her to do. Why was he rushing her? Why was she being given no real time to think?
Whatever you thought about the President, he was her leader, her head of state. If only in virtue of his office, he deserved her most devoted and assiduous protection.
She calmed herself down. Adam could not possibly have got this wrong. It was only a TV crew.
‘Yes, m’dear,’ said the man in the peaked cap, a cheerful father of three from Stogumber in Somerset, who would never forgive himself for what he was about to do. He knew Cameron’s face and liked it.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve come to pick up four press passes in the name of Roger Barlow.’
The man looked confused. ‘In the name of Roger Barlow? But he’s a Member.’
‘Yes, no, I mean they are one-day press passes and Roger Barlow has signed for them.’
‘Okey dokey,’ said the guard, and after rustling in a drawer he produced four laminated badges. ‘Coo-er,’ he said, ‘I see Mr Barlow’s got some interesting friends. The Al-Khadija network, eh? Cameraman, soundman, producer and reporter. Very good. There you are, m’dear,’ and he handed them over, as a man might hand over four freshly microwaved Cornish pasties.
Cameron took them, and she was about to leave the Pass Office in search of Adam, when she felt faint.
She had been up since five a.m. – or four a.m., UK time – to catch the early flight back from Brussels. But that wasn’t it. She felt suddenly queasy, looking at these four photographs, which Adam had given her, and which he said had come from Benedicte.
There was a bench just outside the office, and here she sat, with her head forward to promote blood supply.