Maharin Square was on their left, up ahead. Some of Cady’s team plus their subcontractors, some Army troops, and local cops had the area ringed. They weren’t sure the locals were safe, but that was the point. The hired goons were more reliable than the rabble, the cops more reliable than the goons, the Army better than the cops, and Ripple Creek had only to worry about any few who might manage to get within.
The press turned toward their vehicle, probably cued by JessieM, and started their feeds. Bart pulled past, took a turn and another, and came from the cross direction. That also put the primary hatch closest to where she’d stand. Details like this had been worked out in advance for previous clients, but were largely instinctive now. Every location was a threat zone, every person a threat, and they all planned accordingly.
By radio, Cady said, “We’re clear.”
Alex gestured to Bart, who popped the side door. Aramis pushed it open and stepped through. Elke followed, being about the same size physically as Highland, with her uniform coded to similar colors. There was a swell in the crowd noise that tapered off as Highland and JessieM stepped through and down. The cheers climbed again. Jason and Shaman were next, with Bart following Alex.
Highland stepped up to the podium, waved in an arc, smiled for the vid crews, and launched into her speech.
Aramis tuned out the blather. She was a politician, so she could say nothing and say it very well. He kept track of Cady’s men Lionel and Edge. They’d worked together before and he trusted them for backup. Or, if they led, he’d back them. It was reassuring.
Not everyone outside the cordon was thrilled. There was a group with signs, including one very sophisticated holographic imager, showing an aerial picture of Highland with horns. This was definitely a more sophisticated dump than Salin.
It was three minutes in when the action started.
Something flew in a high arc and he swung toward it, opened his mouth to sound a threat, and instead said, “Eggs incoming.”
He sighed and stepped in front of Highland, as Elke and Jason pulled her back behind the podium and threw up its shield. The egg splatted harmlessly on his helmet and dripped down his ear and neck in a cold gooey trail. A second one splashed across the crown, and he dodged a third. Elke had taken one and several others flurried around.
Then the smell hit him. These had been left in the warm sun for a while, but not where they could actually cook, just rot.
In his earbuds, Alex said, “We’re departing. Speech is over.”
“Roger,” he said, and backed under the vehicle to take the lower hatch. He scrambled up from the dust, and Shaman handed him a wad of rags to clean the slimy gunk.
Highland was seated, had a bottled cocktail, and said, “The Ripple Creek guards were attacked with hurled eggs, probably by some faction angered at their status as paid contractors.”
JessieM pressed send, and Aramis seethed. No, you bitch, they were throwing at you, because of your status. We took the hit. And fuck you very much. It was understood that “security” could be used as an excuse for a lot of things, and the company, and the team would take the heat for missed appointments, delays, intrusions. This was a new level of contemptibility.
Highland didn’t even inquire as to how he and Elke were. All she asked was of Alex, “Can we proceed to the next location?”
Alex kept his attention on her as he said, “I see no reason not to at this time. If the threats escalate it may be advisable to pull the plug.”
The stench was mostly gone, or at least the egg stench. Aramis felt it get sticky and dry, then Shaman handed him a bleach wipe. A daub with that and he felt physically clean and emotionally dirtier. But he’d do his job.
They convoyed, Cady’s team and the military in their own vehicles, split and rolled into the next location from three directions. They were a few minutes early.
Highland said, “Early is fine. We’ll avoid some of the planned response. Is the press ready, Jessie?”
“They were when I churped before the hatch closed.”
“Good.”
And there went OPSEC again. He almost wished someone would shoot her, except he was contractually obligated to jump in front of the attempt.
So here I am, protecting our principal, her pet, exceeding the contract by working on her campaign rather than her officially requested mission, getting tired, sore, pelted with rotten eggs by her detractors and taking the blame for it because we do our job well for pay.
He’d had exciting missions and hated them at the time, but they were exhilarating, and even the roughing ups he’d taken were okay in hindsight. This, though, was dirty.
They bailed out three ways, waited for her to step daintily down the steps, smiling and waving as people gradually realized she was someone important, and then realized who she was, before her banners unfurled. So some group of supporters had been ready.
At no point did she mention a bid for SecGen. He’d give her that. It was blatantly obvious what she was doing, but she was sticking to the letter of that law, and only promoting her current task at this event.
He moved out to help keep a perimeter, and between the real and intimidating camouflage, armor and weapons, the crowd assumed he was some sort of ass kicker and pulled back.
There was no particular mood to the spectators. Some looked snarly, some thrilled, some showed that minor interest of seeing someone famous, or something different from the routine. They were probably here more to skip work than from any care about politics. He could see three types of turbans, two of keffiyeh and the bulbous knit caps that marked the Amala sect, along with the basic round caps favored generally. There were women in everything from hijab to slacks with bare midriffs. This area was mostly Muslim. He understood the Christian areas were less varied.
“… what Mtali needs is a debate that treats each of its cultures with the appropriate respect…” Okay, that was off the environmental and trade path a bit, though certainly trade would be easier if they weren’t constantly shooting at each other. Shooting at, not shooting, the incompetent tweets.
He kept an eye on the crowd. That man with the asymmetric beard was very interested, and looked hostile, but he seemed to be recording on a hat-mounted camera. He probably wasn’t a direct threat, but it was entirely possible he was feeding someone else.
“Jason, I have a man with a cam.” He pressed the button in his hand that let the image be shared.
“Got him,” Jason replied. “He’s recording nothing now.” Directional jamming made him smile.
He saw that Elke had wandered several meters west and upwind. She was probably prepping smoke charges in case they had to extract in a hurry.
Still, there was movement within the mass, as people grew bored and left, and others migrated forward. Placards and signs in English, Arabic and Turkish proclaimed support or opposition.
Politicians, competent ones at least, always wanted to meet the public, and their guards always wanted them not to. In this case, it was even more risky. She’d had more expressed threats than the baseline, and was clearly angling for a SecGen position. There were people who’d try to preempt her.
Jason muttered back, “There are so many damned things that present as possible weapons I’m getting twitchy. ‘Anything longer than it is wide’ is a fine definition for a Freudian, but too broad for physical threats.”
He chuckled back. “As long as we only have to look at weapons and not dicks.”
“Depends on if they’re pump action or single shot.”
Aramis faked surprise and said, “Woah, that’s between you and the goat, man.”
The jokes broke the boredom, but they were on duty and resumed silence. The important message was that eyeballs would have to do more work than the electronics.