Tom Cain - Assassin

Half an hour was spent organizing the Bradford contingent into a line, complete with all their baggage. They were marched down to the security checks under massive police escort. More chaos ensued as all were subjected to bag and body searches whose severity slowed down the entire crowd as they waited to get into the speech site, causing shortened tempers and raised voices and adding to the confusion.

The tallest building on Broad Quay, a new office development, was also the closest to the stage. The building had been closed to the public, its occupants given the day off whether they liked it or not. Up on the roof three men, all wearing variations on the theme of black urban-combat uniforms, were peering back up the quay through binoculars, trying to get a look at the chaos.

Two of the men came from a Secret Service counter-sniper team. They bore small Stars and Stripes patches sewn on their packs and uniforms. Their handguns were carried in holsters strapped to their right thighs, directly below which their gold badges were displayed. One of the pair was standing by a custom-made sniper’s rifle of a type known as a JAR, or ‘Just Another Rifle’, because its manufacturer and specifications are confidential.

‘Man, you guys have sure screwed this up,’ he said.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ said the third man in a languid upper-class English accent. ‘I’m sure we’ll have it all more or less under control by the time your boy gets up to say his piece.’

One of the Americans rolled his eyes at the other, who nodded back. The arrogant and often unjustified air of casual superiority affected by some British officers had become a publicly acknowledged source of irritation to their US Army counterparts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now they were going to have to spend a whole day stuck on a roof getting their chains yanked by this mousy-headed, sulky-faced jerk-off.

Damon Tyzack, however, couldn’t have been happier, even if he had been obliged to dye his hair. He had counted on the fact that the weak spots in the security for any major event occur along the fault-lines between different nations and agencies, all of whom mistrust, despise and compete with one another to a greater or lesser degree. At the very least they fail to communicate fully. So if the system were put under unexpected additional stress, he’d felt certain it would crack.

The Bradford Pakistanis had done their job perfectly and were well worth their hundred grand. Tyzack had confidently sauntered past an overworked gatekeeper with a single flash of a well-forged military ID card. Once he was inside the security cordon, looking as though he knew what he was doing, no one had asked him any questions. Now he’d found himself a grandstand seat for the big event, up here on the roof. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.

Tyzack’s iPhone was encased in a black rubber housing which gave it a military air. He used it to call Ron Geary, who was sitting with two other men in the back of the white Ford Transit, parked near an open expanse of playing fields, all deserted on this weekday morning, to the north-east of the city.

‘Confirm your status,’ he said.

‘Ready to go, boss. Just say the word.’

‘Await my command,’ he said. ‘Out.’

Everything was in place. All he needed now were his targets.

‘Hello, Lara, my name is Lincoln Roberts. Well, don’t we make a pair?’

Jake Tolland had to smile at that. Roberts was the epitome of an African-American patriarch: physically imposing, exuding a commanding dignity, with a full head of hair lightly dusted with silver threads among the black. Next to him, Lara looked tiny, very young and utterly vulnerable. The White House stylists had deliberately gone for the most innocent, girl-next-door look they could find, rejecting anything that even hinted at sexiness. So she’d been dressed in flat shoes, loose-cut jeans, a plain T-shirt and a knitted cotton cardigan to ward off the cool of a grey day in June. Her hair was tucked behind her ears and the make-up artist had given her face just enough definition to show up under the stage lights, without adding any glamour whatever.

Even so, Tolland thought, Lara looked wonderful and he agonized for the umpteenth time about the fact that his heart did a backflip every time he set eyes on her. It was inappropriate in every way. She was too young for him. She had been appallingly abused by men. They were supposed to have a dispassionate, professional relationship. If she wanted anything from him, it was protection. Yet he could not deny what he felt and the detached, observing side to his nature saw that she was the perfect poster-girl for Roberts’s campaign. The world would fall a little in love with her, too. And for a black President to be fighting for the rights of a white slave girl, well, Tolland reckoned that was a stroke of public-relations genius.

‘And you must be Jake Tolland…’

Tolland realized with a start that the President was talking to him. He just managed to splutter an answer: ‘Er, yes, Mr President.’

Lincoln Roberts looked him in the eye, and as he looked into that strong, warm, wise face Tolland found himself overawed, almost hypnotized by the sheer charisma of the man.

‘You wrote a good story, Mr Tolland. I could tell that you were being true to your subject. I admire that. I can see why Lara trusts you. You be sure to keep deserving that trust.’

‘Yes, Mr President, I’ll do my best.’

‘Good for you. So, you guys gonna ride with me to Bristol?’

Jake Tolland gulped and nodded, unable to speak. He was twenty-six years old, at the very start of his career, and the President of the United States had just offered him a lift.

He was vaguely aware of a woman laughing softly just behind his right shoulder.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Chantelle Clemens as she walked by. ‘We’ve all been there. The man has that effect on everyone.’

Forty-five minutes later, the presidential motorcade pulled up backstage at Broad Quay. Roberts got out and walked to a special media area where he posed for press photographers and TV crews with the British Prime Minister, who was basking in his reflected glory. A huge roar rose from the crowd as Roberts’s face appeared on the massive screens that were arrayed at regular intervals along the full length of the quay, followed by a few desultory boos for the PM.

Two hundred feet up on the office-block roof Damon Tyzack saw the images on the screens and spoke a single word into his phone.

‘Go!’

Carver’s frustration had been growing with every minute and hour that passed. He and Grantham were atop another building, about half as tall as the one on which Tyzack was positioned, and sixty yards further north, roughly a third of the way back along the quay from the stage. Ever since he had taken up his position, he’d been scanning the tens of thousands of faces within range of his binoculars, but had seen no sign of Tyzack. Carver wondered whether he had made a total fool of himself. He told himself to take it easy. His damaged pride was of no consequence if Lincoln Roberts delivered his speech safely.

Another eruption of noise burst from the crowd as the stage was suddenly lit in a blaze of spotlights that glowed bright against the drab grey backdrop of the city and the cloudy sky. A voice that sounded as though it belonged at a heavyweight boxing match rather than a political gathering boomed across the speaker stacks arrayed alongside the video screens. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!’

The crowd leaped to their feet. The noise of their applause rose even higher and a blast of ‘Hail to the Chief’ rang from the loudspeakers as Lincoln Roberts strode to the front of the stage and waved to the vast mass of humanity stretching back from the stage as far as the eye could see. One of the screens was positioned directly below Carver’s position. The volume it produced combined with that of the crowd was deafening.