Hostage (Bodyguard #1)(30)
‘Thank you for flying with us,’ she said with a well-practised smile of service, then added in farewell, ‘Ma’as-salama.’
‘Allah ysalmak,’ replied the man in his native Arabic, his amber eyes admiring the attractive stewardess one last time. Stepping on to the tarmac, he felt a wave of heat that was pleasant, but by no means comparable to the arid warmth of his own country.
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.