Turning Point

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you won’t be getting them back for a while.’ He raised his voice. ‘Can you lose them?’

  Scott caught the driver’s smile in the mirror. ‘Definitely, but they’ll know we’ve tagged them. And then where?’

  Tulsa spoke rapidly into the little machine. ‘The Embassy. They might pick us up again there, but that won’t matter.’

  ‘Not the way I go. You belted up?’

  ‘Will be, Scott?’

  Scott fumbled for his belt, impatiently tugging at the strap where it had become tangled. Leaving the UN building after being told to take himself off, like a kid sent to bed after gate-crashing his parents’ party, why would he even bother with anything as trivial as a seat belt. Catching sight of the time, an unexpected shiver tore up and down his spine making his hands tremble, the buckle snagging against the rim of the metal holder. It was only half-past two now, less than five hours since the driver had picked them up at the hotel, free as birds, no one the slightest bit interested in their activities. All this had been arranged since. Who on earth wielded that sort of power? Or were there vehicles stashed all over Geneva, like a colony of bumper cars, waiting for just such an eventuality – his father exiting the United Nations building? And who were they? Through the blacked-out windows, he saw a group of pedestrians waiting for lights to change before crossing the road. It could be anyone. How on earth would he recognise them in a city full of people – they wouldn’t be carrying placards with the words: repent now or die. Scott caught a robust click as he slotted in the clasp on the seat belt. ‘Got it,’ he said.

  The chauffeur nodded. ‘Hang on.’

  Scott watched him put the heavy vehicle into manual drive. Like the Suzuki he’d ridden all round Scotland, gentle noises, like the contented rumbling of a great cat, were indications of power and speed. Expensive indications too, the limousine a top of the range Mercedes, most likely powered by petrol rather than diesel, and built for a lightning-quick getaway.

  Wondering what the man intended, Scott leaned forward watching the limousine cruise slowly towards an intersection, a four-way crossing with lights suspended above the roadway. Ahead, vehicles were filtering into three lanes – two of the three angling right or straight on, only the outer lane turning left across oncoming traffic. Four cars ahead, the lights stood at red. Four cars behind – their tail. The heavy vehicle glided to a halt, waiting patiently among the little queue of cars selecting the straight on option, and carefully keeping its distance from the one in front, like it was playing the children’s game of “Dare”.

  An instant before the lights flicked to green, as if the driver had been counting off the seconds, the engine roared, its rear tyres screaming in protest. Then they were moving. The heavy vehicle squeezed through the gap between lines of waiting vehicles to the front of the queue, the massive acceleration hurling Scott deep into the luxurious upholstery. The chauffeur spun the wheel and, at the same time stamped hard on the brakes. The rear of the car slid away. Scott’s shoulder collided heavily with Tulsa’s as the limousine performed a U-turn, the approaching cars bursting into movement the moment the lights hit green – burned rubber flying into the air from their tyres.

  Hastily Scott screwed his eyes shut, his brain somehow taking its own decision that it might also be sensible to stop breathing because, at any second, there would be a fierce crunching of metal, followed by a blow that would knock him sideways. Startled, he hit the window frame with his other shoulder. His eyes flew open, to see the bonnet of a car sliding helplessly towards them. All around, mayhem spread as quickly as an infectious disease. Car horns broke into furious alarm calls, matched only by a screaming of tyres as brakes came into action, like the screeching of monkeys sirening an alarm call at the approach of a predator. Close by, Scott caught the loud bang as a car, unable to stop in time, tailgated the one in front. The lurching faded away and the engine cut back to a satisfied purr. He glanced down at his legs and arms, surprised to find them still in one piece. On the far side of the street, separated now by a strip of raised paving, Scott spotted the brown Peugeot, the driver impotently thumping his horn, his head turned to watch them drive past. A loud report struck the air, like a series of strident backfires, and gravel smacked into the window next to Scott. Automatically, he ducked.

  ‘What the hell…?’

  ‘They’re shooting at us, sir,’ the chauffeur said into the rear mirror. ‘A bit rash, don’t you think, in the centre of Geneva. Lucky though, it gets us off the hook nicely.’ He waved an arm at the traffic, fast backing up. ‘Plenty of witnesses.’

  ‘You okay, Scott?’

  Scott felt Tulsa’s arm on his shoulder and raised his head. ‘I forgot it was bullet-proof,’ he admitted, a little shamefaced.

  Tulsa grinned affectionately. ‘I promise you, ducking is something all sensible people do. Besides it’s a knee-jerk reaction, like blinking, nothing to do with bravery at all.’ In the distance, sirens wailed. ‘That was fast.’ Again, he pulled out his mobile, quickly dialling. ‘Can you get someone to trace a Peugeot?’ He reeled off the licence plate. Scott heard the words. ‘I doubt you’ll get anything, its occupants will be long gone by the time the police arrive.’

  Scott peered at the pockmarked window, star-shaped ridges of chipped glass smeared right across it in a neat line level with his head. Okay, so ducking was self-preservation but did that also account for his heart? He felt it pounding away, beating like a drummer in a rock band as if it wanted to break through his chest wall. He caught the words, ‘no idea’ before Tulsa closed the connection.

  ‘Terry asked if you stuck your tongue out at them.’

  Scott pulled a face. ‘He was joking, wasn’t he?’

  ‘The boss joke – never. Did you?’

  ‘No!’ Scott exclaimed indignantly. ‘I looked out of the window – that’s all. Why?’

  ‘Because this is Geneva.’

  ‘But I’ve had people firing at me before.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the motel in Birmingham…’ Scott stopped, glancing once again at the damaged window. ‘I see what you mean. High-speed car chases with bullets flying are only supposed to happen in movies – not in civilised countries like Switzerland. I promise you, I only caught sight of the car for a split second.’ He noticed their driver staring at him through the mirror and shrugged apologetically. ‘Besides, it’s my dad they want, not me. But thanks,’ he produced a sickly grin leaning forward, ‘you were amazing. Where did you learn to drive like that?’

  ‘Goes with the job – manoeuvring a limo like this one is child’s play,’ the man replied. ‘It’s the traffic and lights you need to learn about. That’s what takes the time.’

  ‘I ride my dad’s bike, a Suzuki, a thousand cc. I’m pretty good with that.’ Scott couldn’t resist the boast.

  Still concerned, he swivelled round in his seat, wondering if somehow the Peugeot had duplicated their manoeuvre and was once again on their tail, only to find his view blocked by a bus.

  ‘You won’t find many of those in Switzerland. Americans and English love their bikes. Swiss and Italians: their cars.’

  Expertly, their chauffeur steered the heavy vehicle into a narrow side road, more used to an average family-size saloon than a limousine. Scott guessed they were heading for the Embassy and taking the scenic route, the long way round; except it wasn’t scenic. The elegant mansions of the centre had been left behind, hopefully like their pursuers, and a bank of tall concrete structures now criss-crossed the skyline.

  Street after street fell behind the powerful vehicle, its speed reduced to a modest crawl unlikely to attract attention, although, Scott noticed, the driver kept a wary eye on his mirror. The streets narrowed further. Mostly empty of traffic and pedestrians, terraced houses lined both sides of the road. Cut from an identical pattern, with four windows and a door opening straight onto a narrow pavement, not even a clothes line with washing on it or a wall smeared with graffiti to br
eak the monotony. At every junction identical blocks of apartments rose up, the shrubs in their communal gardens obliterated by a covering of snow. Even cars conformed to a rigid pattern, neatly parked in marked bays next to the kerb. Scott recognised the word stationnement, which meant parking in French, embossed on metal signs. Nervously, he checked the time. It was forty minutes since they had left the UN and for almost thirty of those they’d been locked among streets that seemed identical. Scott watched the driver indicating left and right with monotonous regularity and wondered if they had blundered into a maze and were trapped on a circular path that took them back to the beginning time and time again. No city could be this big – they had to be doubling back.

  Abruptly, the residential quarter vanished, replaced by a single-track roadway with gated factory units. The signs pinned to the walls meant little to Scott, a series of names mostly ending in the words: et Cie. Parked cars were dotted about, like dice on a board. All at once he remembered it was Wednesday – an ordinary, uneventful working day for everyone in this city, bar him and his dad. The idea that no one knew or cared what had happened to them seemed both illogical and unreal. It was difficult to accept that the momentous events at the UN had passed over the heads of the residents like a cloud of radiation, unseen and unfelt.

  At the far end, a forklift truck trundled back and forth unloading a lorry, drawn up alongside a raised loading bay, its cab facing outwards and blocking the roadway. Noticing the limousine approach, its driver swung up into the cab and started the engine, pulling the vehicle to one side. Abruptly, the limousine turned in through the factory gates and passed through a pair of double-doors, a mere thickness of paint between them.

  ‘Apologies, this is the back entrance.’

  The building appeared to be a storage depot, though for what Scott hadn’t a clue, their chauffeur carefully manoeuvring the heavy vehicle along a narrow pathway between tall metal racks stacked with crates and boxes. As if by magic, sliding doors at the far end drew back. At first sight, it looked a dead end. Then Scott spotted a walkway, obviously intended for pedestrians and bicycles – not armour-plated vehicles. Edging slowly between high brick walls, they veered off into a second building and stopped. Behind them, doors slammed shut sealing them in. In the background, Scott caught the faint hum of machinery. Then, to his astonishment, railings grew up out of the concrete floor, encircling the limousine like an alien army of monsters. He felt the ground shudder and realised they were on a moveable ramp. He clutched the arm rest, watching the walls around them slowly descend.

  ‘I thought they’d got rid of this entrance?’ Tulsa said in an amused tone.

  ‘They had sort of. But the present man thinks Europe is heading for trouble so he reinstated it. Today, it proved its worth. I bet they’ve got the front entrance well and truly tied up. Still, they won’t hang around long in weather like this. When night hits, the temperature’ll drop like a stone. They’ll give up after a couple of hours, convinced you’ve already left the country.’

  The ramp jerked to a standstill opposite what looked like a solid wall. Scott was just beginning to form the words ‘where do we go from here’ when the wall slid to one side, exactly as if someone had called out ‘abracadabra’. They were in a working garage, an air-gauge hanging off its walls, with a rack of spare tyres beneath it and a petrol pump next to the open doorway.

  The chauffeur casually, as if passing through walls was as normal as buying a sandwich from a street-vendor, headed out into a yard full of cars, its surface criss-crossed with frozen tyre tracks, parking next to a wall. Intrigued, Scott released the catch on his belt and climbed out, watching the wall draw silently back into place. You’d never guess. Even knowing it was there it was pretty much invisible, the wall no different and equally as solid looking as the rest of the garage.

  Swivelling on his heel, he examined the building at the far side of the yard. Even its rear view was imposing. With squared-off windows, it extended several stories high, its walls a gleaming white to match the snow that now covered every available surface to a depth of ten centimetres. He didn’t need to be told they’d arrived, even though he’d never visited the American Embassy in Geneva before. In the middle of a wide driveway, leaning against a gated entrance that led out to the street, stood a figure that he recognised. No overcoat, despite the whirling snow and a bitter wind, his collar tight and buttoned down and his tie askew: Sean Terry.

  Seven

  Scott gazed out through the window of the four-by-four, a low mist curtailing his view. It didn’t matter, every inch of the road was seared into his brain after cycling it almost daily for the past three years, ever since he had turned thirteen and decided he was quite old enough to ride the five miles into school on his own. It was a pleasant road especially on a fresh summer’s morning, a tidy dual-carriageway bordered by fields in which the occasional horse or cow peered over the top of a gate; but he was still grateful that school was located on the edge of Falmouth and he didn’t have to struggle through packed lanes of vehicles inching their way into the centre. Only when he was staying with Jay did he head straight through the town to his friend’s house.

  He still felt tired. It had been a long journey back to Cornwall and he’d slept badly too, concern for his father keeping him awake. It was all very well for Tulsa and Sean Terry but his dad had a family, who incidentally had seen very little of him in the past fifteen years. If he went back to his computer fixing other countries’ problems, they were likely to see even less of him in future.

  Their luck in getting the last two seats on an early-evening flight to Bristol had quickly changed to a desperate desire to be anywhere except circling a fog-bound airport. They had circled for a couple of hours before the pilot had been diverted to Gatwick, explaining to his exhausted passengers that the fog was persisting without an end in sight and the fuel situation now made landing a priority – a remark not particularly welcomed by nervous flyers. That morsel of information hadn’t bothered Scott. Planes didn’t run out of fuel in a country as small as England with more airports than days of the week. What did rankle was not being offered free food to compensate for the delay. The flight attendants had offered a dismal selection of sandwiches; chicken with slabs of bacon that looked and tasted like cardboard, tuna and sweet corn, or plastic cheese and pickle, all of them carrying a price tag which Scott considered an insult and, by the time he set foot on terra firma, he was absolutely starving. As promised, they had been met at Gatwick by one of Sean Terry’s agents, but hadn’t bothered to stop and eat wanting to get home. The fog had added a further hour to their journey and it had been almost two in the morning before they turned into the lane that led to their little cottage.

  The west of England had been badly damaged by the tsunami sixteen years before, which had swept across the Atlantic leaving a dramatically changed coastline. Somerset had been worst affected and, for several years afterwards, tales of the Abbot of Glastonbury fishing for sea bass seemed self-evident as tourists gazed into lakes of salt water fifteen miles inland. Conversely, to the delight of historians and palaeontologists, in other spots the water table had dropped leaving areas of marshland never seen before. Fortunately, despite operating problems in heavy fog, Bristol airport had continued to operate during this period of world-wide turmoil without any closures at all.

  During the flight, his father and Tulsa had chatted about everything under the sun except what had taken place in Geneva, another clue as to how serious those conversations were likely to have been. Although to be fair, a conversation about gangsters trying to rub you out and taking pot shots from a moving car was hardly the right topic for a plane loaded with a hundred nervous passengers.

  ‘What’s going to happen now, Tulsa?’

  ‘With your dad, you mean?’ The agent didn’t look round, concentrating on the road ahead, their fog-lights making little impression on the lingering mist. Tulsa had always found driving on the left difficult. More at home in Switzerland, he had confid
ed to Scott that people there understood which side of the road was which, referring to the quaintly narrow Cornish tracks with their solid hedgerows as flaming death traps every time an oncoming vehicle forced him to back up. ‘You’d better ask him – he won’t thank me for telling you. Didn’t he say anything before you left?’

  ‘You know my dad, cheerful subjects only at breakfast. Besides, I got up late.’

  Scott muttered the words, not wanting to admit he’d got up late on purpose, needing to talk to Jameson before putting forward his reasons why his dad shouldn’t get involved. Jameson was brilliant at giving advice even if he hated taking it. And Travers and Mary would understand his point of view and sympathise. They’d travelled with him and Hilary to Holland, and knew first-hand about being scared for someone you love. Anyway, it was stupid to get involved in an argument with a morning ahead of geography and maths. ‘A’ level maths was difficult enough, without starting the day with a row. But what his dad was planning was bang out of order and all the explanations in the world didn’t make it right. No way could he forget the last fifteen years, scarcely ever mixing in village life, the warnings relentlessly drilled home – never say anything about your family, Scott, even to best friends. If he had grown up in some ordinary family, without this huge weight of secrets on his back, he might have been like Jameson, easy-going, able to attract girls like they were bees and he the honey pot.

  Scott twisted his head round, pretending to be absorbed in watching the countryside, impatiently waiting for the familiar outline of the school building to appear. Being a proper family… that’s what had been promised. Now it was going to be snatched away.

  Tulsa swerved the heavy vehicle around the carcass of a badger, its innards splattered across the carriageway. ‘I miss possums, noisy chattering critters but friendly somehow.’