She knows that aura of terror. Sees how the confidence, even the fascade of such, drains out of him as the conference continues, and with the cameras on him, he's pinned down.

It's her job to guard him, perhaps even from himself. This crowd? She can do something about. She presses a finger against the ear-piece she's wearing, turns her head away as though listening to some distant voice - all acting, there's no one talking, the hook isn't even connected. But the press don't know that, and that's all to the good as far as she's concerned.

She steps forward, up to the table, plants a hand at York's elbow and tugs. Turns him bodily away from the crowd so that she can appear to whisper in his ear. "We're leaving," she informs him flatly, "Act like this is any old regular change of plans. We have a car on standby. Any objections?"