Hostage (15 page)

An airport official greeted him. ‘Sir,
if you’d like to follow me.’

They walked the short distance to the
terminal building. A pair of glass doors slid efficiently open and they were met by a
blast of cold conditioned air. Once inside, the doors closed behind, sealing out the
noise of the whirring
jet engines. The lobby was virtually deserted,
only a few employees milling about. A large flatscreen TV on the wall was running CNN in
the background, the news coverage following the increased tension in the Arabian
Peninsula over the recent oil blockade.

Crossing the thickly carpeted floor, the man
was escorted over to Passport Control. A lone US Customs and Border Protection officer
sat in his cubicle, his face fixed with a courteous but aloof expression.

‘Passport,’ he said in a
detached monotone.

The traveller handed over his documentation
and the officer swiped it into his computer. He inspected the monitor. ‘Welcome,
Mr Khalid Al …’

‘Khalid Al-Naimi,’ helped the
man.

‘And today you’ve come from
…?’

‘Saudi Arabia,’ he replied,
wondering why travellers were required to fill such details out on an I-94 form if the
passport officials never looked at them.

‘What is the purpose of your visit?
Business or pleasure?’

‘Business,’ he replied.
‘Although, with any luck, it’ll be pleasurable too.’

The officer’s dour expression failed
to register the good-natured reply.

‘And how long do you intend
staying?’

‘No more than a month.’

The officer swivelled a webcam to focus on
the man’s face. ‘Please look into the camera.’

An image of a late middle-aged Arab man with
a silver-grey beard and amber eyes filled the screen. The officer
took
a photo, then gestured towards a black and green box fixed to the cubicle. ‘Now
place your fingers on the scanner.’

Putting down his briefcase, the man laid his
right hand across the green plastic. Then his thumb.

The officer re-examined the details that
appeared on his monitor. ‘What type of business are you in, Mr
Al-Naimi?’

‘Oil.’

The officer nodded, the answer seeming of no
interest to him despite his eyes flicking to the newscast. For a brief moment, he
appeared reluctant to authorize the visitor’s entry visa. But then he stamped the
passport and returned the documents. With the formalities complete, he waved him
through. ‘Welcome to the United States. Enjoy your stay.’

The Arab smiled. ‘I intend
to.’

He passed the inspection station and baggage
collection without further security screening. His luggage had already been transferred
and his driver was waiting for him. Stepping outside into the bright sunshine, he was
guided towards a blacked-out limousine by the chauffeur. The driver held open the rear
passenger door and the man slid into the plush leather seat. Once the door was closed,
he was plunged into air-conditioned, shaded privacy.

With a casual yet careful look round the
airport car park, the driver got behind the wheel and pulled away from the terminal.

‘Pleasant flight, sir?’ asked
the driver, as they joined the highway heading north to Washington DC.

In the back, the Arab was peeling off the
first layer of skin from his right hand. The micro-thin latex parted to expose the
man’s real fingerprints.

‘Yes, Hazim,’ replied Malik, now
removing the coloured contact lenses and returning his eyes from amber to their natural
coal-black. Later he would wash the silver dye from his beard too and trim it back.
‘And Bahir was right – security is relaxed at this private airport.’

The black limousine passed the manned
checkpoint and rolled along Pennsylvania Avenue. The grandiose, grey-granite Eisenhower
Executive Office Building gave way to tall trees and an oasis of green that was
Lafayette Square. Ahead, tourists wandered the wide leafy avenue, mostly ignoring the
tiny encampment of peace protesters on the kerb. Rather, their attention was on a
stately building set back from the road by a run of iron railings. The modest palisade
appeared to be the only barrier to the most famous address in America: the White
House.

But Connor knew different. As he peered
through the limo’s tinted window, his observant eye immediately spotted the
snipers hidden on the roof. During his operational briefing, Colonel Black had informed
him that these gunmen could hit a target accurately at over a thousand yards. Connor was
only a few hundred away and, with such shooting skill, he was the equivalent of a
sitting duck.

Yet these weren’t the only security
measures in place. Although the White House appeared open and welcoming
to the public, it was actually an impregnable fortress. All the windows were
bullet-resistant. Guard stations controlled every entrance and exit. Vibration alarms
beneath the lawn warned of fence jumpers and infra-red sensors above ground detected any
unwanted intruders. Then there were the teams of Secret Service agents patrolling the
gardens. Often out of sight but always on the alert, these dedicated emergency-response
units packed semi-automatic pistols, shotguns and even sub-machine guns.

With this level of protection, Connor
wondered why the President needed him in the first place.

As the driver pulled up to the gated
entrance of the White House, it was a surreal moment. Connor had seen the place
countless times on TV and it was almost as familiar as Big Ben or the London Eye. But
he’d never imagined that one day he’d actually be visiting it, let alone
working there. Barely twenty-four hours ago, he was in London saying goodbye to his mum
and gran. They’d been told he was going on a summer exchange programme in
recognition for his outstanding school grades. His mother had been delighted, the news
seeming to give her a new lease of life. His gran was more reserved. She just whispered,
‘Be careful, Connor.’

The gates parted and the limo eased along
the curving driveway towards the magnificent white-pillared entrance of the White House
residence. But shortly before it the car bore right to arrive at the West Wing, the
building that housed the official offices of the President of the United
States. Pulling up beneath the roofed portico, the driver unlocked
the doors and the Secret Service agent in the front passenger seat got out. With swift
efficiency, he opened Connor’s side.

‘Welcome to the White House,’ he
said. ‘The driver will see to your bags.’

Connor stepped out, still a touch
overwhelmed at his ceremonious welcome. He’d been flown business class, collected
by stretch limousine and treated with the utmost courtesy. He felt more like a
distinguished guest than a prospective bodyguard.

A single US Marine stood sentry outside the
main doors. Still as a statue, he was dressed in full regalia, his boots polished like
mirrors, his gloves spotlessly white. With regimented grace, he greeted their arrival
and opened the doors to the lobby.

Connor followed the Secret Service agent
inside. The white marble-floor entrance turned to plush carpet as they passed through a
second set of double doors into the West Wing’s official reception room. Furnished
with red leather chairs and a pair of richly upholstered couches, the room was both
elegant and intimate like that of a top-class hotel. It boasted a collection of
eighteenth-century oil paintings and an antique mahogany bookcase that took pride of
place along the main wall.

‘If you’d kindly wait
here,’ instructed the agent. ‘I’ll inform them of your
arrival.’

Connor was left in the room with another
nameless agent, who stood silent but attentive next to a glass-topped
reception desk. Several people passed through the lobby. The majority were too
engrossed in their work to pay Connor much attention. But a couple raised eyebrows at
the young teenager loitering in reception.

Connor also began to wonder what he was
doing here. The initial thrill of his arrival in America had faded and the underlying
doubt in his abilities returned. Looking round the West Wing’s luxurious reception
room, he realized he was completely out of his depth. The truth was he was just a kid
from the East End of London – albeit one with a kickboxing title to his name and twelve
weeks of basic close-protection training. But surely that didn’t qualify him for
the responsibility of protecting the President’s daughter. At some point, the
powers that be were bound to discover he was a bodyguard in name only. That he was a
fraud
. And the consequences of his failure would be unthinkable. Not only
would Colonel Black’s Buddyguard organization be discredited, but he could put
Alicia Mendez’s life in real danger.

Just as he was considering making a bolt for
the exit, a panelled wooden door opened and an elderly woman in a plaid suit and
steel-rimmed glasses appeared.

‘The President will see you
now.’

Connor stepped into the Oval Office. For a
moment, he was convinced he’d walked on to a movie set, the scene instantly
recognizable from so many films. The ellipse-shaped room with its three floor-to-ceiling
windows. The two ceremonial flags – the Stars and Stripes and the President’s blue
coat of arms – stationed like dutiful guards either side. The polished oak and walnut
floor covered by the iconic oval-shaped rug that proudly bore the presidential seal. And
taking main stage, in front of the bow windows, was the famous ornately carved wooden
desk at which the President of the United States sat.

Upon coming face to face with the man
himself, Connor could only stare. His natural presence seemed to fill the room. Blessed
with bronzed skin and well-defined cheekbones, President Mendez maintained a youthful
yet worldly-wise look. His dark brown eyes were at once alert and deeply intense, giving
Connor the impression that the President rarely missed much. He wore a crisp blue suit
with a burgundy silk tie, and when the President stood he was much taller than he
appeared on TV.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,
Connor,’ said President Mendez in a voice smooth as honey.

He extended his hand in welcome. Connor
accepted it and found his own enveloped by the heartfelt handshake.

‘Thank you … Mr P-President,’ he
replied, stuttering for words. ‘It’s good to meet you too.’

On the short walk through the West
Wing’s corridors, the President’s secretary had instructed him on the
correct form of address and encouraged him not to be afraid to speak up, the President
being a good-natured and gracious man. In the small waiting area just outside the
office, a Secret Service agent had asked him to hand over his mobile phone as a security
precaution before allowing Connor to enter.

‘Please join us for coffee,’
said the President, gesturing towards three men standing between a pair of velvet
upholstered couches. ‘This is George Taylor, my White House Chief of Staff.
He’s responsible for pretty much running the show here.’

A man with a trimmed white beard and glasses
stepped forward. He greeted Connor with a smile. ‘It’s good to have you on
the team.’

‘And this is General Martin Shaw, who
originally recommended your Buddyguard organization.’

Connor shook hands. ‘Colonel Black
sends his regards.’

‘Why, thank you,’ replied the
general in a thick Texan accent. Big as a bear and impeccably turned out in his
olive-green uniform, he displayed the same military bearing as his English counterpart.
‘It’s just a shame the colonel couldn’t join us.’

The President introduced the remaining member
of the group, a thin man with grey-flecked hair and crow’s feet spreading out from
his steel-blue eyes. ‘And, finally, the Director of the Secret Service, Dirk
Moran.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said
Connor, offering his hand. ‘I’ve been told I’m reporting to
you.’

‘That’s right,’ the
director replied. His handshake was brief and cool, and Connor got the feeling he was
being appraised right from the start.

They all sat as the chief of staff poured
out the coffee. Although he didn’t actually like coffee, Connor accepted a cup out
of politeness.