He planted himself in the armchair next to Kember. The news had switched back to the royal wedding. People were getting into the spirit of the occasion, smiling and waving at the cameras.

Twelve minutes later, two figures stepped out of the nearest lift. A burly guy in a black suit and a tall slender woman in a mustard yellow dress, matching jacket and heels. The woman paused while she scanned the lobby. She spied Kember and Bowman and walked over, nodding at the two SAS men as they rose to their feet.

‘You’re the soldiers, yes?’ she asked.

‘That’s us,’ Kember said, extending a hand. ‘I’m Dave, but you can call me Geordie. This is Josh. We’re from the Regiment.’

The woman stared at his outstretched hand as if it belonged to a leper.

‘Martha Lungu,’ she said. ‘Personal assistant to President Seguma.’

She sized the men up with a look of disapproval. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, Bowman guessed, with the high-cheekboned, pouting look of an ex-model. She was wearing enough jewellery to fill a Hatton Garden vault. Diamonds the size of fists sparkled in her earrings. The pearls on her necklace were as big as golf balls.

Lungu waved a bejewelled hand at the guy in the suit.

‘Samuel Jallow. Mr Seguma’s chief bodyguard. He’s in charge of Mr Seguma’s security arrangements.’

Bowman turned to the bodyguard. He was enormous. The biggest guy Bowman had ever seen. In the top three, certainly. His tightly corded neck muscles were as thick as anchor chains. His arm muscles bulged inside his suit. Pinkish scars ran down both of the bodyguard’s cheeks. His head was mostly clean shaven, except for a belt of short curly hair running down the middle.

‘Where’s the principal?’ asked Kember.

‘Mr Seguma is upstairs in the presidential suite,’ Lungu replied. ‘He’s a very busy man, as you might expect. You’ll meet with him shortly. In the meantime, you will liaise with us.’

Bowman nodded.

‘I’m guessing you know why we’re here?’ he asked.

Lungu said, ‘Our friends at the Foreign Office called last night. They mentioned something about a potential incident today.’

‘It’s possible that there’s going to be some trouble with a few protestors,’ Bowman replied, repeating the line that they’d been told to use at their earlier mission briefing.

The powers-that-be had decided not to share the details of the assassination attempt with Seguma or his staff. Too risky. There was a serious danger of leakage. The president or one of his advisers might post a message online about the threat or share the news with a journalist. With an audience of two billion people, the last thing the government wanted was widespread panic overshadowing the wedding itself.

‘As you know,’ he went on, ‘a small group of activists planned to stage a protest in Hyde Park this morning.’