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.’