Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

They ferried Seguma back across town to his hotel, sticking to the back roads. Then the team split up again. Lomas and Studley continued on towards the reception venue while Bowman and Kember stuck with the principal. They took up their positions outside the presidential suite and settled into a tedious routine of sitting around and checking their phones.

At four o’clock, Bowman snuck into the lobby toilets and popped another pill. Which left him with one tablet in the container. To last him another forty-eight hours.

Not enough.

Nowhere near.

The thought of running out filled him with dread. One way or another, he was going to need to source some more opioids. Tonight, he knew. Before the withdrawal pains started again.

Eighty minutes later, they left for the reception party.

Five

They arrived at the Greybourn Hotel at six o’clock. The team went through the exact same procedure as the journey to the Abbey. The same three cars with the same occupants moving in the same column formation. Except this time, they hung a left off Park Lane, zigzagging east and then south. Passing the neat Georgian squares and the trendy Russian restaurants. Plunging deeper into the heart of Mayfair. Three minutes later, they drew up at the side entrance to an imposing redbrick building shaped like a medieval castle, with cone-roofed turrets and tall arched windows and stone columns.

Bowman, Jallow and Deka left their vehicles. They formed up in front of the limo and accompanied Seguma and his PA towards the side entrance. Bowman stuck close to the principal, eyes shifting from side to side, alert to the slightest danger. The roads surrounding the Greybourn had been sealed off to the public; every room had been booked out for the occasion by the wedding party. The chances of an attack at the reception were low. But Bowman didn’t want to take any chances. Not after what had happened at the Abbey.

An elderly doorman greeted them with a polite nod as they entered the foyer. Seguma’s personal bodyguards split off from the rest of the group and headed through a pair of doors on the right, towards the main lobby area. The heightened threat to the principal had resulted in a change of plan. Jallow and Deka would now guard the front of the hotel. Lomas and Studley would base themselves on a side street, watching the rear staff entrance and fire exits. Bowman and Kember, meanwhile, would remain inside the ballroom during the party. Okello, the president’s other bodyguard, would watch the vehicles parked in a secure area near the hotel. Bowman had expected some resistance to the plan from the bodyguards. But to his surprise they had agreed without a word of protest.

Seguma snatched a champagne glass from a silver tray and swept through a wood-panelled door on the left. Bowman walked alongside the principal down a short corridor and through another set of doors into the ballroom. Which was huge. The size of two basketball courts. The walls were lined with mirrors; the domed ceiling decorated with gold leaf. There was a dance floor to the north, in front of the head table. To the west, on the far side of the room, a band on a stage went through a warm-up routine.

Most of the guests were already seated. At least three hundred of them, Bowman guesstimated. They chatted with one another, chortling and guzzling flutes of Bollinger. Waiters circled the room, topping up half-empty glasses.

Seguma grinned.

‘Now this is more like it! Food, wine, women. A real party, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bowman said.

‘And you’ll be here all evening? You and your friend won’t leave me?’

‘Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got the hotel covered.’

A member of staff came over to escort them to their seats near the main stage. Bowman left them and cut across to the southern end of the room. An area of seating had been reserved for the security details close to the fire exits. He took one of the free tables, realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and beckoned over the nearest waiter.

‘Yes?’ The waiter looked him up and down, as if deciding whether he was required to address Bowman as ‘sir’. He evidently decided against it.

‘Bang us a couple of sarnies, mate,’ Bowman said. ‘Before the rest of the scoff comes out.’

The waiter stared dumbly at him, as if Bowman was talking in tongues.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sandwiches,’ Bowman said. ‘For me and my partner. We’re with the principal.’ He pointed out Seguma across the room. ‘We don’t need anything fancy, just some basic grub.’

The waiter made a supreme effort to mask his distaste, failed, and smiled thinly. ‘I’ll speak to the kitchen. See what the chef can rustle up.’

‘There’s two guys in a black Land Rover Discovery parked on Townsend Street. Any chance you can take out a few sarnies to them?’

The smile thinned even more. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

He turned and disappeared through one of the service doors. Bowman swept his eyes across the ballroom, looking for anything out of the ordinary. It might be someone with an unnatural body posture or gait, perhaps indicating that they had a weapon concealed on their body. Or it could be something as simple as a member of staff taking a peculiarly keen interest in Seguma. Any one of those signs might reveal an assassin in their midst.

As he looked round, he caught sight of Freddie Lang.

The mobster was sitting at a table to the right of the dance floor. He was talking with another guest. The other guy did most of the talking. Lang looked bored, twisting the stem of his champagne flute. He spotted Bowman across the dance floor and stared curiously at him. Bowman quickly dropped his gaze. When he glanced up again, Lang had turned back to his fellow guest.

Two minutes later, Kember slipped into the ballroom and dropped into the chair next to Bowman. After a few more minutes, the same waiter returned to their table carrying two platefuls of