Turning Point

by Barbara Spencer

  Stewart Horrington had assured them that the date had been kept secret, known only to him, his staff, and a colleague in London who had arranged the flights. His staff were totally trustworthy, hand-picked from families he had known since childhood, for generations solidly Democrat. And it was his car, with his personal driver, that had collected them from the airport and hotel. The Embassy in Geneva knew nothing of his dad’s visit, purposely kept out of the loop. Neither did any of the other delegates; the appearance of his father unscheduled until early that morning when a confidential memo had been delivered by hand. It had to be London. Knowing when they were travelling, it would have been so easy to bug the suite. There could be no other explanation unless bugs were commonplace in the UN?

  Scott swung round glancing briefly across the room. Emma Arneson looked better, less green, although the fingers gripping her glass were still rigid. And the people scattered around the room? The majority of them worked in the building on a daily basis and all of them were influential. These were the men and women that had striven to bring Styrus to the notice of the UN and were now being thanked with champagne, caviar, and smoked salmon sandwiches. The eager expressions they had worn on first encountering the Secretary of State had been wiped off, leaving their faces haunted, sombre or blank.

  No, this was not an everyday occurrence.

  But the waitress? No, not her, it couldn’t be. Perhaps she ran because she was working illegally and didn’t want to be picked up by the Swiss authorities and deported. Scott clutched at the idea. That, he could believe. But not that she was a terrorist, someone evil. He scowled angrily. The thought that, once again, someone might have betrayed his father to that elusive person who called himself Smith made him feel sick.

  Behind him the American staff, out of a sense of loyalty, tried to maintain a cheerful front pushing waves of conversation at anyone capable of listening. The sudden and haphazard outbursts of noise reminded Scott of toadstools erupting from a grassy bank. Innocent-looking on the outside but containing toxins lethal to the unsuspecting – exactly like a word spoken out of turn.

  Unashamed, he eavesdropped on a conversation nearby, hearing the words snow and Christmas repeated with monotonous regularity, as if they were imbued with magical properties and, if you said them often enough, everything would be all right. The speaker, a woman, spotting his interest, bridled with indignation and, turning her back, lapsed into silence.

  The door to the suite banged open; eyes like startled rabbits caught in a car’s headlights riveted on the uniformed figures blocking the doorway. Half-a-dozen men stood there, their appearance so formidable it was practically hostile. Wearing their caps perched at an angle and their hair shorn close to the scalp, a knife-like crease ran down the front of their grey uniform trousers, and the polish on their black boots was so bright the overhead light was reflected in it. Armed and with an identity tag pinned conspicuously to the breast of their uniform, they paused for another couple of seconds racking up the tension in the room before striding in. Four out of the six carried black rectangular boxes and a wand, rather like an electric toothbrush, and certainly no larger. The remaining two had a heavy leather belt strapped to their waist, with household tools, such as hammers and screwdrivers bulging out of it.

  If Scott hadn’t been one of the victims, he would have found the whole procedure curiously comical. Like at school, when guys joined the auxiliary training corps. The act of putting on a uniform seemed to change their behaviour and qualities emerged never before noticed: pride, leadership, discipline, and on the other side bullying and aggression. There was no doubt girls loved uniforms, fancying guys they wouldn’t give a second glance to in ordinary gear. It was like that now. The officer had said nothing but he was obviously quite aware that his appearance could stop a room in its tracks. And, rudely, he’d not even bothered to acknowledge the importance of the guests, particularly the Italian Ambassador and the Secretary of State.

  Gesturing with his hands, he directed the guests into a line in front of him, running his wand up and down the victim’s clothing before waving them abruptly away. One of the waiters, ignoring the gesture to be silent, hurried forward.

  ‘Ce n’est pas nous, monsieur,’ Scott caught the words and guessed it was French. The man sounded nervous and defensive. Not receiving a response, he tried again. ‘It not me,’ he said painfully, his speech so severely accented it was almost unintelligible. ‘We many, many years here. No problem. Not us.’ He swept an arm round the other two figures, a man and a woman, both middle-aged. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Attends!’ The office in charge silenced him with a finger.

  The head waiter said nothing further. He collapsed into a chair, his head nestling against the wall as if it was a pillow. Almost absentmindedly, he picked up a sandwich and nibbled at it, the majority of guests ignoring food in favour of alcohol, its properties well-known for deadening both guilt-ridden and despairing thoughts.

  The office beckoned Scott forward. He flinched nervously. Accidentally talking to a terrorist wasn’t a crime, but maybe she’d planted something on him – she’d certainly stood close enough, with her fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket. He froze, holding his breath tightly as the electric wand swept over his clothes and sneakers. The machine remained silent and Scott sighed, an equally silent breath.

  He stepped out of the line and moved to the window, his place taken by the Secretary of State, her turn to be prodded and poked like some species of cattle, the expression on her face glacial. It matched the weather outside. Even with double-glazing Scott could sense a drop in temperature. Snowflakes tumbled from the sky, the roofs and pavement already carpeted with a blanket of white, only the heavy traffic keeping roads free.

  The sight of a line of vehicles exiting the underground car park like a gigantic centipede did little to alleviate the dark cloud hovering above Scott’s brow. The emergency obviously had its upside, with some offices suspending work and giving their staff an unexpected bonus or an afternoon off. The absurdity of the situation made it worse somehow. That something so delicate and fragile, no bigger than a caterpillar’s cocoon (and almost identical in colour and shape), had the power to create fear in people – even in the modern day.

  ‘Come on, Scott, lighten up, you look like you’ve just lost the winning lottery ticket.’

  Scott spotted the grin on Tulsa’s face before being hastily wiped off. At least someone was happy. He glowered at the agent. ‘Stop gloating.’

  Tulsa seemed surprised. ‘I’m not. I’m trying to cheer you up. Even with this mess, you can find something to smile about. For starters,’ he pointed out of the window towards the snow-swept scene. ‘I bet every single one of those people rushing to exit the building is desperately trying to remember conversations they’ve had since the place was swept last Monday. Some of them won’t sleep tonight – remembering. In a way, you can blame the Swiss,’ Tulsa chatted on, his voice quite light-hearted as if discussing nothing more serious than a day at the fair. ‘They pride themselves so much on their diligence and efficiency, I’d like to bet their sweep of the building is performed at the same time each week.’

  Scott caught sight of his father making his way across the room. The security officers appeared to have already swept the inner offices and cloakrooms. Now the men were on their knees in the reception room, carefully lifting the carpet around the edges and rolling it back to expose its brown underlay. Circling around them, Bill manoeuvred a path to his son’s side.

  ‘How long till we can get out of here, Dad?’

  ‘Soon, I hope. I have asked Jane Oliver to check on flights – we may have to divert to London. We can catch a train from there.’ ‘We’re leaving? But we planned to spend the day in Montreux tomorrow.’

  Scott had been looking forward to his visit to the fabled lakeside resort ever since he’d known of their meeting with the UN in Geneva. On the edge of the lake was a statue of Freddy Mercury – one of the all-time greats. He kept a photogra
ph of the pop star pinned to the wall in his bedroom. A legend like Elvis Presley, both had died far too young. Now, only their music lived on. Even Hilary agreed he was a great songwriter.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be happening, Scott. Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘But it’s all arranged,’ he protested. ‘We’ve never had a holiday outside England before and you want to cut it short…’ Scott heard the stutter of indignation in his voice, his tone readying itself for an argument. ‘That’s so unfair, Dad. Besides, if they already know you’re in Geneva, a day’s not going to make much difference. We could see Montreux and go back tomorrow night, that’s if we really need to go. But…’

  The young officer in charge of the sweep headed towards Stewart Horrington. The Representative got to his feet, his eyes fixed on the man’s clenched fist, and passed an unsteady hand across his mouth and chin.

  ‘Bad news?’ he managed.

  ‘Five, sir.’

  The American groaned silently.

  The officer, his young face amiable and unconcerned, opened his fingers; the five miniscule objects sitting on his palm like dried peas that had rolled under a refrigerator and been forgotten about. He gave a brief smile, nodding to where the two men with work belts were carefully inching the edges of the carpet back into place, fixing brass carpet plates into position with small screws.

  ‘Fortunately, nothing deep cover, sir,’ he said, his English impeccable. ‘Randomly distributed – it would take five minutes.’ He pointed to the lamp on the desk. ‘Standard placement. You lean against something, attach a bug and walk away.’

  ‘So most likely it was the girl?’ The American rubbed his chin, his voice hopeful.

  ‘Could be anyone, sir. That’s the point.’ The officer stared round the room. Scott, catching his eye, immediately felt guilty again. It was gross, this guilt by association. Without being aware he was doing it, he straightened up, his hands by his sides, almost standing to attention.

  Overhearing, Bill Anderson joined the two men. ‘I doubt that,’ he broke in. ‘Among the many unforgettable memories of my captivity is the knowledge that these people are waging war with the help of teenagers. They even boasted that they are happy to use drugs to bend their supporters’ minds to their will.’

  ‘I read your report, Mr Anderson, very interesting.’

  ‘You did. But why?’ Bill said with astonishment.

  ‘Part of my job, sir,’ the young officer explained.

  ‘You’re based here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s essential. This might have been a bomb scare – it has happened.’ He tapped his watch. ‘It took thirty minutes today to sweep these offices. We have twenty floors.’ He nodded to the US Representative. ‘We’re done here, sir. One of my men will stay behind and finish up.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you are free to go…’ Representative Horrington indicated the officer standing by the door, who had begun to check security badges, noting the details. ‘Please don’t be alarmed when a security check is run on you. It’s standard procedure. Can you imagine,’ he confided to Bill, ‘how much paperwork this is going to create.’ He sounded despairing. ‘We’ll be up to our ears for the rest of the day.’

  Sean Terry appeared in the doorway. He squeezed past the little line of guests blocking the entrance who, like competitors at the start line of a half-marathon, were frantically trying to get away. He collapsed his long frame into an easy chair, conveniently placed opposite the line of presidential photographs.

  The suite of rooms was now almost empty. Waiters milled about clearing dirty plates and glasses, Stewart Horrington and his assistants had vanished into one of the inner offices, leaving the Secretary of State to chat with Emma Arneson, and Jane Oliver notebook in hand was telephoning.

  Abruptly, Sean Terry shrugged his shoulders, as if ridding himself of the snow falling outside. ‘Damn good job it wasn’t a bomb scare.’ He nodded towards the departing horde. ‘The elevators would have been out of action and that little lot would have found themselves walking down twenty floors. Most look so unfit they’d have struggled with five and you’d have been up to your asses in heart attacks by the time they reached ground level.’

  His face relaxed into a suggestion of a grin, something Scott knew was a very rare occurrence and, after the events of that morning, unlikely to reoccur for some time. The idea that innocent people often felt guilty for no reason appealed to SeanTerry’s skewed sense of the absurd. Well, it would, Scott thought. The agent was so obsessed with his pursuit of justice he had little patience with normal behaviour.

  Bill, carrying a plate of sandwiches in his right hand, side-stepped one of the men still packing his gear away and joined the group by the window.

  ‘Bad day all round.’ he held out the plate. ‘Sorry Scott… Change of plan. We’re probably not going to be able to leave for a while. And you must be starving. Tuck in. You too, Tulsa.’

  The agent took a sandwich regarding Bill thoughtfully. ‘We just witnessed something far more serious than an overheard conversation,’ he said. ‘The woman you were talking to, the Norwegian. When I found that bug, she looked like she’d been dealt a death sentence.’

  ‘You’re right. Emma Arneson had confided that Lotil Oil were being blackmailed,’ Bill kept his voice to a low murmur. ‘She was warned not to say anything. If she did, the price would be doubled. At the moment, it’s twenty billion dollars…’

  Tulsa whistled.

  Bill smiled apologetically. ‘Lotil is partly government owned and supplies sixty per cent of the country’s needs. It’s what we feared, Scott, that Styrus would eventually work. They proved it by stopping one of the rigs for a week. The computer system simply melted away without the slightest warning, every firewall bypassed. She begged for help and unfortunately I admitted I could…’

  Scott gasped. ‘But you told the United Nations you couldn’t…’

  ‘That was for your dad’s protection,’ Sean Terry broke in. ‘No one knew it but him and me.’

  Scott looked miserably at the agent. He loathed him and didn’t trust him; yet… he was the one man they dare trust. ‘Now, they know about it,’ he said bitterly. ‘Dad, I’m so sorry I made a fuss about Montreux…’

  ‘You weren’t to know, Scott. And, if anyone should apologise, it should be me. I let the cat out of the bag, speaking about Styrus in public.’ He shrugged. ‘I never imagined the UN would be bugged.’

  Sean Terry spun his arm round the now empty room. ‘There’s still an outside chance the bugs are Europe’s way of keeping an eye on us. They don’t want us taking over again. It’s possible, Bill, but I think unlikely. So they know about this and probably a lot of other stuff too. I’ve already asked for more men.’

  Tulsa looked up, his glance speculative.

  ‘I suggest, Bill, we move this little party to the Embassy. Bugs are like lice. Once you know you’ve got them, you never feel clean again, wondering if somehow one has slipped through and been missed. Tulsa, you take Scott back to the hotel and get your stuff together. Use the limo. We’ll finish up here.’

  Six

  Scott slumped back against the plush leather upholstery of the limousine, annoyed that he’d been dispatched back to the hotel with Tulsa to pack their suitcases, while everyone else went to the Embassy, to continue their conversation about the plight of Norway and how to fix it. But it was no good arguing – not with Sean Terry at the helm.

  Yet, more than anyone there, he had the right to know what his father was getting himself into. After all, for months now, he’d been patiently helping his dad get better, trying to put the events of the spring behind them, working towards an ordinary, possibly even humdrum existence. Like the villagers who were content with growing dahlias for the annual flower show or taking part in a sponsored walk or hike, they no longer craved excitement and neither did he. In a moment of weakness, Scott had confessed to Tulsa, excitement they’d had in spades.

  It had been a pretty good summer too, once e
xams were over and his dad fit enough to get about. Several times they had been invited to spend a day on the river, with Doug and Catherine Randal, Travers and Mary, peaceful days in which nothing more strenuous than trailing your hand through water was expected of you. The visit to Switzerland had been eagerly discussed and as eagerly awaited; the days counted down, hopeful that the long-awaited day of liberation was fast approaching – like rain for farmers who have experienced the worst drought in living memory.

  Now, once again, his dad was thinking about getting involved. Okay, so he hadn’t actually admitted it but Scott recognised the look – steely-eyed and stern-lipped. It was his favourite heavy-father expression, the one he adopted every time Scott was due for yet another tongue lashing about his untidy bedroom or throwing his dirty socks and pants under his bed instead of in the washing basket. Hadn’t his dad learned his lesson? Last time they’d been lucky to escape with their lives. Couldn’t he understand how terrifying it was to be at the mercy of men that killed on a whim? He was always moaning to Scott that he must work hard at school. What was the point, when you needed both eyes to look over your shoulder for an assassin?

  Scott glanced across at his bodyguard, relaxed, staring idly through the window of the limousine at the sights, what you could see of them through the snow. It didn’t involve Tulsa. He wasn’t paid to worry or express an opinion. His job was quite specific, to keep them alive, and for doing that he earned a hefty salary.

  The chauffeur slid open the partition. ‘We’ve picked up a tail.’

  Wanting to see for himself, Scott shifted round. Immediately Tulsa’s hand was across his chest keeping him in place.

  ‘You don’t look round,’ he said. ‘How long?’

  ‘Two blocks.’ The driver’s eyes flicked into the rear-view mirror. ‘Brown Peugeot, four cars back.’

  Tulsa took a small mirror from his jacket pocket, slowly raising it. ‘Okay, got’em, they didn’t waste much time.’ He pulled out his mobile phone. ‘How attached are you to your clothes, Scott?’