‘Why not? It’s in your blood.’
Connor gave Colonel Black a baffled look. Then the colonel said something that completely threw him.
‘You’ll be following in your father’s footsteps.’
‘What are you talking about?’ shot back Connor, suddenly going on the defensive. ‘My dad’s dead.’
The colonel nodded solemnly. ‘I’m aware of that. And I was very much grieved when I heard the news. Your father and I were close friends. We fought together.’
Connor studied the man before him, wondering if he was telling the truth. ‘But my dad never mentioned you.’
‘That’s understandable. In the SAS, we try to keep our personal and professional lives separate.’
‘SAS? My dad was in the army, Royal Signals,’ Connor corrected him.
‘That was his cover job. Your father was actually in the SAS Special Projects Team, responsible for counter-terrorism and VIP close protection,’ the colonel revealed. ‘One of the best.’
This new knowledge unsettled Connor, who thought he’d known his father pretty well. ‘Then why did he never tell me that?’
‘As a member of Special Projects, your father had to keep his identity secret. To protect himself, you and the rest of your family.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Connor, gripping the arm of his chair for support. His whole world seemed to be shifting sideways as the long-held memory of his father was brought into question.
The colonel removed a photo from his breast pocket and handed it to Connor.
‘Iraq, 2004.’
Five soldiers in combat fatigues and carrying sub-machine guns stood before a barren patch of desert scrub. In the middle was a younger Colonel Black, his distinctive scar visible just above the neckline of his body armour. Next to him was a tall tanned man with dark brown hair and familiar green-blue eyes – Justin Reeves.
Connor was speechless. Gripping the photograph with a trembling hand, he fought back the tears at seeing his father’s face so unexpectedly.
‘You can keep that if you want,’ said the colonel. ‘Now, on to your recruitment into Buddyguard.’
‘What?’ Connor exclaimed, events moving too fast for him. ‘But I haven’t agreed to anything.’
‘True. But hear me out and you will.’
Connor tentatively put his father’s photo down on the desk, reluctant to let it out of his sight.
‘First, your school will be informed of your transfer to a private school.’
‘Private school?’ queried Connor. ‘My family doesn’t have that sort of money.’
‘You’ll be funded by a special scholarship scheme. Besides, we need an official cover for your relocation to the Buddyguard training camp. We must maintain the secrecy of our operation. No one can ever know.’
‘Relocation?’ challenged Connor. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t leave my mum. You’ll have to find someone else.’
‘We’re aware of your situation,’ said the policewoman with a reassuring smile as she placed an envelope on the table for him. ‘We’ve made all the necessary arrangements to ensure she’s well looked after. And all the costs are covered.’
Connor stared at the mysterious envelope, then at Colonel Black. ‘What if I don’t want to become a bodyguard?’
‘It’s entirely your decision. You’re free to go home, but I think you’ll regret it.’
A truth suddenly dawned on Connor. ‘So I’m not under arrest?’
‘Whoever said you were?’ replied the colonel, arching an eyebrow.
Connor turned to the two police officers, then realized neither of them had read him his rights or officially arrested him. They’d only asked him to accompany them to the station.
‘I’ll leave you to think about my offer,’ said Colonel Black, laying a business card on top of the envelope. The card was black as night with an embossed silver logo of a shield sprouting wings. Below it was a single telephone number – and nothing else.
The colonel nodded goodbye, then disappeared out through the door, the two police officers in tow.
Connor was left alone in the room. He stared at the card, his mind whirling with the events of the past hour. His life had been spun on its axis – one moment he was being crowned UK Kickboxing Champion, the next he was being recruited as a bodyguard. He stared at the envelope, both intrigued and a touch afraid of what it might contain. He decided to leave it for later. He had other matters to think about first.
Picking up the card, envelope and his father’s photo, Connor stood and headed for the door. When he opened it, he thought he’d made a mistake and gone the wrong way. The lights in the foyer were all off, the reception booth deserted, the building silent as a grave.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ he called. But no one answered.
He spotted his kitbag on the counter. Stowing the envelope and photo next to his trophy and pocketing the colonel’s business card, he made his way to the main entrance. His footsteps echoed through the empty foyer. As he passed the noticeboard, he saw the Neighbourhood Watch meeting was for two years ago and briefly wondered why the announcement was still up. Pushing open the heavy double doors, he stepped outside into the grey evening light. Relieved to escape the tomb-like atmosphere of the station, he looked down the street for Colonel Black. But neither the colonel nor the police officers were in sight. Then, as the double doors slammed shut behind him, he noticed the terrorism poster had been taken down. An official blue-and-white sign was now visible:
THIS IS NO LONGER A POLICE STATION.
The nearest station is 444 Barking Road, Plaistow.
Connor stared at the sign, stunned. The whole operation had been a set-up!
He felt in his pocket and pulled out the one thing proving the encounter had even occurred – the black business card with the silver winged shield … and a solitary telephone number.
‘You’re late, Hazim,’ growled the brooding man in Arabic, through a mouthful of green khat leaves. The man, who boasted a thick bushy beard, a hooked nose and sun-blasted skin the colour of the deep desert, bared a row of brown-yellowish teeth in displeasure.
‘I’m sorry, Malik, but the plane was delayed getting in,’ replied Hazim, bowing his head in deference to the man who sat like a king at the far end of the rectangular whitewashed mafraj room.
Malik tutted in irritation, yet nonetheless waved him over to sit by his side. Hazim, a young man of Yemeni origin with dominant eyebrows and an angular face, almost handsome if not for his downturned mouth, nervously took his place among the other members of the Brotherhood.
The room was full of men dressed in ankle-length thawb, their white cotton robes providing relief from the heat of the day. Some were bareheaded, others wore red-and-white chequered headscarves. They reclined on large cushions, left leg tucked underneath, right arm upon the right knee, and the left arm supported by a padded armrest. Before each was a pile of green stems from which they picked leaves to chew as they engaged in animated conversation.
As was tradition in a mafraj room there were two rows of windows, the upper set decorated in stained glass through which the late-afternoon sun scattered shards of rainbow colours across the thickly carpeted floor. The lower clear windows were pushed wide open to allow a cool breeze to waft in. Not accustomed to the country’s intense heat, Hazim turned towards one of the openings in relief. From the topmost floor of the house, he was able to admire the magnificent vista of Sana’a, the capital city of Yemen. The flat sun-dried rooftops of the myriad white and sand-coloured houses stretched into the distance, where they met the awe-inspiring Sarawat mountain range.
‘So where’s your khat?’ demanded Malik.
Hazim held up his hands in apology. ‘Sorry, I was more worried about the CIA trailing me than shopping in the souk.’