better.
After quickly surveying the scene and deciding there was no danger, she opened the door and let out her charge, who had been waiting obediently in the back seat.
The guard on the door of the main government offices at Rosenbad was for once awake enough to open the door immediately, and a few moments later Sweden’s Minister for Integration was safely inside the thick walls of the government building.
Rebecca had time for a quick coffee in the canteen and then a trip to the toilet before returning to her driver to check they were ready for the next move.
She looked at the time. Fourteen more minutes to wait, then a short walk along the quayside to the Foreign Ministry for a meeting with the minister who, unlike her own charge, had a full team of bodyguards. At least two, usually more. A whole team, the way it should be.
‘Personal protection coordinator’ was her job-title, presumably because ‘one-man bodyguard unit’ didn’t sound particularly reassuring. The Minister for Integration was deemed a suitably demanding job for someone with less than a year’s experience as a bodyguard, at least in the opinion of her boss. Medium to low threat-level, according to the latest analysis. Besides, and this may have been more significant, none of her older colleagues wanted the job of personal protection coordinator …
As she emerged from the main entrance she caught her driver quickly tossing his cigarette in the gutter next to the car.
Unprofessional, she thought with irritation, but what else did she expect?
Unlike her, he wasn’t a proper bodyguard but a less skilled version intended to save the state money. A chauffeur with a bit of extra training and a badly fitting bulletproof vest, employed by the transport unit of the Cabinet Office rather than the Security Police. Twenty years older than her and with obvious problems taking orders from someone younger, let alone a woman.
‘Ten minutes,’ she said curtly. ‘Stay here with the car until we get there.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if I drove to the Foreign Ministry now? It’s usually a hell of a job finding anywhere to park there.’
His objection was predictable. The driver, Bengt, his name was, had decided on principle to have some sort of opinion about everything she said. There was a hint of ‘listen, young lady …’ in every sentence he uttered.
As if age and gender automatically made him an expert at protecting people.
Clearly his one week of training hadn’t taught him that backwards was safe, but that forwards was unknown territory and therefore higher risk. Idiot!
‘You’ll wait here until I tell you to drive over!’ she snapped, without bothering to explain her decision. ‘Any questions?’
‘No, boss,’ he replied, without making much effort to hide his irritation.
Why on earth was it so hard to get certain types of men to accept a woman as their boss? Either they tried to get the better of you and take control, like Bengt here, or worse, made insinuations and comments about your sex-life, or lack of one.
Offering you their services, whether or not they happened to be married … And if you were stupid enough to complain to your own boss you were soon out in the cold. She’d seen plenty of examples of that.
She never dated colleagues, on principle. Mixing your work and private life soon got way too complicated. Put simply: don’t shit on your own doorstep.
The fact was that she never actually dated anyone. Maybe dating itself was too complicated?
She shrugged to shake off the unwelcome thought. Right now her job was her priority.
Everything else could wait.
No sooner had they gone round the corner of the government offices than she realized something was wrong. A minute ago, when she had checked out their route in advance, there had been three people leaning over the railing by the waters of Norrström. Two of them holding fishing rods, and the third dressed in fishing gear too, even if she couldn’t see a fishing rod. None of them had seemed to pose any great threat.
But when Rebecca and her charge, along with the minister’s constantly chattering assistant, approached the place where the three men were standing, she noticed a change in their body language. She automatically slid her right hand inside her jacket, putting her thumb on the barrel of her pistol, and her fingers on the telescopic baton and police radio attached to her belt. She just had time to put a warning hand on her charge’s right shoulder when it happened.
Two of the men spun round and took a couple of quick steps towards them. One of them unfolded some sort of poster that he held in front of him, while the second raised his hand to throw something.
‘Sweden protects killers! Sweden protects killers!’ the men screamed as they rushed towards the minister.
Rebecca reacted instantly. She pressed the alarm button on her radio and in one sweeping gesture she pulled the baton out of her belt, extended it to its full length, and brought it down through the middle of the intrusive poster. She felt the baton hit something hard and saw the attackers take a step back, momentarily off balance.
‘Back to the car,’ she roared at the Minister for Integration, as she pulled the woman behind her back. With the baton raised over her shoulder she backed away quickly towards the car, her hand still gripping the minister’s upper arm.
‘Victor five, we’re under attack, repeat, we’re under attack, get the car ready!’ she yelled into the little microphone in her collar: it had started transmitting automatically when she pressed the alarm.
It would be at least three minutes until reinforcements arrived, probably nearer five, she calculated rapidly. She could only hope that Bengt hadn’t dozed off behind the wheel so they could make a quick getaway.
Before they got back to the corner of the building again their attackers made a new attempt to reach Rebecca and her charge. Something came flying through the air and she hit out at it automatically with her baton.
‘Rock, bottle, hand grenade?’ she managed to think before tepid liquid rained down on her face and upper body. ‘Dear God, please don’t let it be petrol!’
Finally, they were round the corner again and she looked quickly behind her for Bengt, hoping he remembered enough of his minimal training to have the car doors open for them.
But the turning circle where the car had been parked was empty.
‘Fuck!’ she hissed, but was drowned out by the assistant’s screams.
‘Blood!’ he screamed, almost in falsetto. ‘Christ, I’m bleeding!’
Rebecca twisted her head again but suddenly she was having trouble seeing. A red fog was descending over her eyes and she rubbed the hand holding the baton across her face to clear her eyes.
No car, no Bengt, and their attackers right behind them. What to do?
‘Make a decision, Normén, make a decision now!’ her brain shrieked at her.
Backwards known and secure, forwards unknown and dangerous. But what to do if your escape route had suddenly been cut off? They didn’t teach you that on the bodyguard course. Improvisation
