couldn’t have people falling over and suing the President, any more than he could have them shooting him.
He gave a deep, frustrated sigh, ran a hand through his hair, momentarily ruffling its immaculate neatness as he scratched his scalp, and spoke to one of his subordinates. ‘OK, Craig, you’re gonna have to talk to the local people here, because all these fountains, or whatever, have got to go.’
‘You want them turned off?’
‘No, I want them totally boarded over, solid enough for folks to stand on. And I want those boards sealed tight so nothing gets underneath, and I mean absolutely nothing.’
‘Sure, I’ll get right on it.’
‘Now, do me a favour, pan left and down, let me see those cobblestones.’
In Bristol, Special Agent Craig Bronstein turned his head and examined the ground beneath his feet. The signal from the miniature Motorola video camera hidden in his sunglasses was sent instantly to one of the TV displays in front of Tord Bahr, 3,600 miles away.
‘I don’t like cobblestones,’ Bahr said, as much to himself as Bronstein. ‘Too easy to dig up and use as missiles. Can we get asphalt or something poured over them?’
‘I doubt it. This whole area’s kind of a regeneration project. They’re very proud of it. And I don’t think the stones are gonna be an issue. They’re pretty well secured. You’d need a jackhammer, pickaxe at the very least, to dig them up.’
‘Let me think about that,’ said Bahr, sounding a long way from convinced.
He switched his attention to another screen: ‘Hey, Renee, those four-lane highways, either side of the quay: they’re closed to traffic the night before the visit and they stay closed until the President has left the country. If anyone complains about it, tell them it’s non-negotiable … Right, now I want to think about tunnels … What’s under the ground down there? Where are the access points? C’mon, people, talk to me. I need to know …’
Albanian gangs had been the dominant criminal force in the British sex industry for the best part of a decade and the Visar clan was the most powerful of them all. Of course, not all Albanian immigrants to the UK were drawn to organized crime. For the most part they, like so many immigrant communities in so many nations, survived by taking menial, minimum-wage jobs which the host country’s natives refused to consider.
There were, for example, Albanians among the cleaning staff at the Bristol hotel where a Home Office official called Charles Portland-Smyth was staying while liaising with the Secret Service’s Presidential Advance Team. On the day, several British police outfits, including the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Department, the Met’s Counter Terrorism Command, otherwise known as S015, and the Special Escort Group would all be publicly involved in assisting with presidential protection. Officers from MI5 would also be more discreetly deployed. All came under the overall control of the Home Office.
Charles Portland-Smyth was not a complete idiot. He did not - as so many other government officials have done - leave his laptop on a train, in a pub, or sitting on the front seat of his car, handily placed for any passing thief. He did, however, leave it in his room, unprotected by any password, when he went down for an early-morning workout and shower in the hotel gym, followed by a healthy breakfast of muesli and fresh fruit.
When he got back, the laptop was still there, exactly where he had left it. He had no idea that a memory-stick containing the entire contents of his hard drive was sitting in the apron pocket of an apparently humble housemaid. So it was that all the details of the President’s schedule, movements and protection protocols were in the hands of the Visar clan by the time Portland-Smyth was walking through the hotel lobby, smiling ingratiatingly at the small group of Secret Service agents who were waiting for him, and saying, ‘Jack, Craig, Renee … hope you
He gave a deep, frustrated sigh, ran a hand through his hair, momentarily ruffling its immaculate neatness as he scratched his scalp, and spoke to one of his subordinates. ‘OK, Craig, you’re gonna have to talk to the local people here, because all these fountains, or whatever, have got to go.’
‘You want them turned off?’
‘No, I want them totally boarded over, solid enough for folks to stand on. And I want those boards sealed tight so nothing gets underneath, and I mean absolutely nothing.’
‘Sure, I’ll get right on it.’
‘Now, do me a favour, pan left and down, let me see those cobblestones.’
In Bristol, Special Agent Craig Bronstein turned his head and examined the ground beneath his feet. The signal from the miniature Motorola video camera hidden in his sunglasses was sent instantly to one of the TV displays in front of Tord Bahr, 3,600 miles away.
‘I don’t like cobblestones,’ Bahr said, as much to himself as Bronstein. ‘Too easy to dig up and use as missiles. Can we get asphalt or something poured over them?’
‘I doubt it. This whole area’s kind of a regeneration project. They’re very proud of it. And I don’t think the stones are gonna be an issue. They’re pretty well secured. You’d need a jackhammer, pickaxe at the very least, to dig them up.’
‘Let me think about that,’ said Bahr, sounding a long way from convinced.
He switched his attention to another screen: ‘Hey, Renee, those four-lane highways, either side of the quay: they’re closed to traffic the night before the visit and they stay closed until the President has left the country. If anyone complains about it, tell them it’s non-negotiable … Right, now I want to think about tunnels … What’s under the ground down there? Where are the access points? C’mon, people, talk to me. I need to know …’
Albanian gangs had been the dominant criminal force in the British sex industry for the best part of a decade and the Visar clan was the most powerful of them all. Of course, not all Albanian immigrants to the UK were drawn to organized crime. For the most part they, like so many immigrant communities in so many nations, survived by taking menial, minimum-wage jobs which the host country’s natives refused to consider.
There were, for example, Albanians among the cleaning staff at the Bristol hotel where a Home Office official called Charles Portland-Smyth was staying while liaising with the Secret Service’s Presidential Advance Team. On the day, several British police outfits, including the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Department, the Met’s Counter Terrorism Command, otherwise known as S015, and the Special Escort Group would all be publicly involved in assisting with presidential protection. Officers from MI5 would also be more discreetly deployed. All came under the overall control of the Home Office.
Charles Portland-Smyth was not a complete idiot. He did not - as so many other government officials have done - leave his laptop on a train, in a pub, or sitting on the front seat of his car, handily placed for any passing thief. He did, however, leave it in his room, unprotected by any password, when he went down for an early-morning workout and shower in the hotel gym, followed by a healthy breakfast of muesli and fresh fruit.
When he got back, the laptop was still there, exactly where he had left it. He had no idea that a memory-stick containing the entire contents of his hard drive was sitting in the apron pocket of an apparently humble housemaid. So it was that all the details of the President’s schedule, movements and protection protocols were in the hands of the Visar clan by the time Portland-Smyth was walking through the hotel lobby, smiling ingratiatingly at the small group of Secret Service agents who were waiting for him, and saying, ‘Jack, Craig, Renee … hope you
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