‘This badge represents years of training, dedication and experience in the service of the President. As the Director of the Secret Service, I do not gamble with the lives of the First Family.’ His voice was taut with barely constrained fury. ‘And no young upstart – whose only qualifications are a few weeks’ training and a bodyguard for a father – will jeopardize our mission!’
Connor was taken aback by the unexpected tirade. ‘If you don’t want me here, why did you invite me in the first place?’
‘I didn’t,’ replied Dirk through clenched teeth as he pocketed his badge. ‘I consider you a liability. But I have to obey the President’s wishes. Be warned, though, if you make a single mistake that compromises the safety of the First Daughter, you’ll be flying home quicker than you can say “Secret Service”. Do I make myself clear?’
Although intimidated by the man’s hostility, Connor was determined to prove the director’s assumptions wrong. ‘Perfectly clear.’
‘Good. Point made,’ said Dirk, regaining his professional composure and offering a thin smile. ‘Now if you’re to work alongside us, you need to know how we work.’
Sliding a key card through an electronic slot, he pushed open the door to reveal a large room humming with state-of-the-art equipment. There were wall-to-wall monitors, two massive overhead screens, a digital banner displaying a constant flow of live data, and several black cubicles, each with their own terminal and communications port. A small team of agents worked quietly and efficiently, processing the incoming information.
‘The Joint Operations Centre,’ declared Dirk with some pride. ‘This is where we track the movements of the President and the First Family. It contains information so sensitive that only a select few are allowed access. So feel privileged.’
Following the director inside, Connor passed a row of monitors displaying multiple views of a familiar white building and large garden. Two men were stationed at desks, analysing the images.
‘The White House is under constant surveillance,’ explained Dirk. ‘Every entrance, every approach and every exit are covered. Even the air around the White House is monitored twenty-four hours a day.’
They headed over to the first cubicle. The agent manning the desk nodded respectfully at the director. ‘Sir.’
‘Agent Greenaway here is responsible for tracking the First Lady.’
The agent gestured towards a street map displayed on his screen. A green dot traced a route along one of the roads. ‘The First Lady often goes on diplomatic and humanitarian trips abroad,’ Greenaway explained. ‘Her car has just left the hotel and is heading south-east on the Champs-élysées in Paris.’
A message flashed up on the monitor:
NIGHTOWL ARRIVING AT BLUE 1.
FIVE MINUTES.
Connor gave the agent a questioning look. ‘Is “Nightowl” her call sign?’
The agent nodded. ‘To maintain secrecy with radio communications, all the First Family are assigned code names.’
‘What are the others?’ asked Connor.
‘Code names are kept confidential,’ said Dirk pointedly. ‘If and when the press get wind of them, they’re changed with immediate effect.’
‘But surely I need to know them in case I have to report any problems?’
Dirk gave a begrudging nod. ‘I suppose so. Currently President Mendez is known as “Ninja”, for his love of old martial arts movies. The First Lady is “Nightowl”, because she stays up late. And Alicia’s call sign is “Nomad”.’
‘Nomad?’ repeated Connor.
‘Well, she’s always wandering off!’ laughed Agent Greenaway.
The director cut short the agent’s amusement with a sharp disciplinary look.
‘We’ve also given you a call sign, Connor,’ Dirk revealed.
‘Really?’ said Connor, looking hopeful.
‘Yes, to reflect your role in our operation.’
‘What is it?’
‘Bandit,’ he replied with a smirk.
Connor was coming to realize that, while Dirk wouldn’t actively prevent him from doing his job, he certainly wouldn’t be helping him either. He’d have to tread very carefully with the director if he was going to succeed in this operation.
Dirk directed him over to a central bank of monitors. ‘In the event of a crisis, the standard operating procedure is to ensure every protectee is moved quickly and safely to a secure site – a safe house. These will depend upon your location at the time of the crisis.’ He pointed to one of the screens. ‘This is a feed from the National Terrorism Advisory System. It’s a two-tier alert listing credible threats. These are either classified as Elevated or Imminent and are accompanied by a summary of the threat and the actions recommended to be taken. Along with the information from the Intelligence Division, this dictates our protection protocol for the First Family.’
Connor studied the scrolling list of alerts. ‘There seem a lot of them.’
‘We’ve al-Qaeda to thank for that,’ replied the director bitterly. ‘Although America has dealt with terrorism throughout its history, 9/11 changed everything. We’re now up against a modern strain of the threat, one that has no boundaries. Attacks can be violent, indiscriminate and crippling. It’s very hard to defend against an enemy who lives by the code “The Gates of Paradise are under the shadows of the swords”.’
His finger tapped the screen pensively as threat after threat scrolled by.
‘Terrorists are like the mythical beast, Hydra – you cut one head off and two grow in its place. The threat constantly looms. Someone, somewhere, always wants to kill the President or his family.’
Hazim checked his watch as two black Cadillac limousines rolled up to the school gates: 14:48.
The security guard in the kiosk waved them through. With rehearsed precision, they followed the driveway and stopped outside the main building just as the school bell sounded: 14:50.
A broad-shouldered man in a suit and dark glasses stepped out of the front passenger seat. Tucked behind his left ear was the telltale curly wire of a two-way radio. With a brief yet thorough scan of his surroundings, he headed for the glass doors of the main entrance. Meanwhile, three more men exited the rear vehicle and took up their stations round the front limo – two at the nearside corners and one on the road facing out, so that all the observation arcs were covered.
The Not-So Secret Service! thought Hazim drily, the agents standing out like sore thumbs among the other arriving parents. A slight bulge on each man’s right hip hinted at the concealed SIG Sauer P229 pistol that they all carried as standard issue. And on the lapel of their suits gleamed the small but distinctive hexagonal badge with its five-pointed star of the Secret Service.
Hazim took note of all these details from behind his sunglasses while he searched for weaknesses in the functioning of the protection team. Malik had told him that arriving or leaving a location was the most vulnerable point in any security operation – even more so for the daily school run. The timing of arrival and departure was always known. The drop-off and pick-up point always the same. And whatever route the limos took to and from the White House they had to end or start at the Montarose School. It made this the most likely snatch point.
The first of the students began spilling out of the entrance, a few walking home, most being collected by car. The agents kept a wary eye out for strangers. But this didn’t concern Hazim as he continued his covert surveillance.
At 14:53, a dark-haired girl – the one they’d all been waiting for – walked out of the glass doors with a group of friends. Three girls. They chatted and giggled on the steps for a minute or so. Then, waving goodbye, Alicia Mendez made her way to the front limo.
Two paces behind on her right followed the first Secret Service agent. As soon as she was safely inside the limo and the door closed, the agent jumped into the front passenger seat and the driver pulled away. The escort vehicle quickly moved forward, collected the other agents and sped after them: 14:55.
The whole embarkation process from door to car had taken less than sixty seconds. Hazim realized the window of opportunity was very small. Possibly too small. But that was for his Uncle Malik to decide.