Turning Point (5 page)

More questions flooded the floor, delegates eager now to promote their own views and pin the blame for the mess on someone – anyone. Scott slumped back in his chair, not bothering to listen, his sense of disappointment overwhelming.

‘He did what was expected of him, Scott.' Tulsa pulled his ear-phones away, his expression sympathetic. ‘I know you wanted a magic wand, a ticker-tape parade… it was never going to happen. Diplomacy works through private meetings, brandy and cigars. Stewart Horrington will be quite satisfied with today's events. Your father has made it possible for the United States to get back into the ring and fight their corner, without everyone hurling bricks at them. Cheer up, you may not believe anything happened down there,' Tulsa pointed to the delegates, ‘but that little speech is like a fresh dealer in a poker game shuffling the cards. The world order is about to change and some won't like that one little bit.'

A knock came on the door. A young man peered round, his expression so serious and full of portent Scott expected him to come out with something earth-shattering. ‘Representative Horrington has asked for you to join him upstairs.'

Scott got to his feet, glancing back for a last look at the Assembly, its members continuing to talk in levelled tones as if discussing the weather. Miserably, he retraced his steps to the bank of lift shafts, Tulsa silent behind him.

The lift glided to a stop on the seventeenth floor, its doors opening onto a spacious lobby with three sets of double-doors, highly-polished and firmly shut. Two bore the flags of China and France, two of the five permanent members of the Security Council. The third boasted not only the Stars and Stripes, but also marines. Standing to attention on either side of the doorway, they looked smart in their navy and blue uniform with white belts and gloves, a workmanlike rifle perched at their side.

‘I am told they come with the Secretary of State.' Bill Anderson greeted his son. ‘Apparently, she never travels without them. Swears they're better than a handbag.' He put his good arm round his son, hugging him tightly. ‘Well, Scott, we did it. And we're still here. Come on, let's celebrate.'

Scott grinned, the black cloud hovering above his forehead fading abruptly. It was over and his dad was safe. Nothing else really mattered.

A hubbub of noise, a dozen people or more making small talk, greeted their entrance into the suite of rooms – a lookalike of their hotel suite, its neutral colours instantly forgettable. Framed photographs of past presidents decorated the end wall, the present incumbent in solitary splendour facing the doorway, all at the correct height for comfortable viewing. A woman was waiting. Not tall, but upright as if determined to make the most of her inches, her grey hair tailored into a severe bob, every pore oozing power and charm.

‘Glad to meet you, Bill. Quite some experience by all accounts.' The Secretary of State welcomed them.

‘Not one I want to repeat. My son and I are celebrating by taking a few days holiday in Europe. Our first ever.'

‘So I gather. And this is your son. Scott isn't it?' Her voice was sharp, its accent that of the north-west.

Scott nodded, suddenly tongue-tied. It was one thing to read about powerful people, quite another to find yourself talking to them. Besides, all he'd done was try and find his dad – nothing special.

‘We're grateful for your tenacity, Scott.'

The Secretary of State fixed her penetrating gaze on his father and took his arm. ‘Come along, Bill, there's someone here I want you to meet.'

Scott relaxed, happy to remain insignificant if it meant skipping complicated conversation, especially since he wasn't quite sure what
tenacity
actually meant. Hopefully, it meant being stubborn, because that's what he was. But if he'd given the wrong answer, he'd sound like a real dork.

Left on his own, he wandered over to the window and pulled back the blind. Seventeen stories below, the cars and people appeared no bigger than ants. A long black limousine, its pennant sharp and clear even from a distance, pulled away from the underground car park. Casually, his gaze followed it, watching it peel off round a traffic island and recognised the Russian flag, with its three horizontal bands of colour, white, blue and scarlet. Whoever it was had either finished work for the day… or had a lunch engagement. Lucky them.

Suddenly starving, Scott moved away from the window. A waitress carrying a tray of drinks approached, a teenager, little older than him. He smiled his thanks, accepting a glass of orange juice from the heavily laden tray, wondering if he dare ask if there was anything to eat.

He glanced round the room noticing Llana Brigson, the Secretary of State, locked in conversation with his father and another woman. Scott vaguely remembered her putting a question to his dad and wondered which country she represented, although it didn't take a genius to guess what they were talking about – research into an antidote for Styrus.

‘Who's that?' he said to the waitress, pointing with his glass.

‘Emma Arneson, the Norwegian representative.'

The waitress's dark hair was tidied away under a half-cap perched on the back of her head. It was thick, the strands heavy and long. Idly Scott wondered, how long. She wasn't wearing make-up but she didn't need it; her skin tanned and her brown eyes large and luminous even without mascara. And, despite that awful black uniform with its white apron, very pretty.

‘You Swiss?'

The girl smiled flirtatiously, her smile twisting the corners of her mouth. ‘Would it make a difference if I was?'

Scott blushed and hastily took a sip of his orange juice. ‘Well… er…
no
,' he admitted, surprised by his boldness.

This wasn't like him at all; he usually hung back when it came to girls. He had to be desperately bored to actually start up a conversation – except she was nice, and far more interesting than the people busily chatting up his dad. He eyed the Secretary of State who had moved across the room, her voice like a river in full flood, a little circle of people gathered round her listening respectfully.

Scott found himself smiling again. When in Rome do as the Romans do. ‘Where do you come from then?'

‘I'm Turkish, a student.'

‘So have you been working here long?'

Scott caught the sentence. How boring was that? Why couldn't he ever dredge up something fascinating that would keep her glued to his side? The flashback of that fateful voyage on the river hit him; trying to talk to Hilary – and failing miserably. The girl leaned on one hip, gazing up at him. It was a great feeling. Girls should always be shorter; it made you feel strong and invincible.

‘I do a couple of days a week; it pays my tuition and lodgings.' Her English was good, although she hesitated before speaking as if thinking of the words in Turkish first before translating them. But that only added to her charm. She shifted the heavy tray from one arm to the other, staring down at it. ‘There's no spare cash for socialising or boyfriends,' she said, all at once sounding shy. Her eyes flew up to meet Scott's. He took a hasty step backwards, startled by their intensity.

‘What about you?'

‘I'm here with my dad,' he said, his confidence increasing by the second, hunger now only a vague memory. ‘He was addressing the General Assembly earlier.'

‘Isn't he that scientist – the one they're all talking about who invented that germ that gets into computers?'

‘It's a virus. They're different. Germs are what we catch.' Scott caught a glimpse of his father at the far side of the room. He hadn't moved, still wrapped in conversation with Emma Arneson. He watched the Secretary of State step out of the group she was addressing, and call across the floor.

‘Bill?' she beckoned. ‘A word?'

Scott bit his lip, feeling absurdly proud. It was his dad and his team who had created this unique virus that everyone was talking about, a virus powerful enough to override the commands on any computer. ‘Yeah, that's my dad.'

‘So how does it work?'

Sean Terry's acid tones sliced across the conversation. ‘How about a sandwich, I'm starving.'

The girl swivelled awkwardly, nervously clutching her tray. ‘Of course, sir.' She smiled mechanically. ‘Right away.'

‘What did you do that for?' Scott protested indignantly. ‘She's really nice and I've not got anyone else to talk to.'

‘Then stay silent,' the agent snapped. ‘If I hadn't come along, you'd have been spilling your guts to that pretty face.'

Scott blushed for the second time. He hadn't thought. ‘But we're on American soil,
and in the UN
. Don't they have security checks?' He tried to sound confident but it was tricky with that gimlet gaze piercing your brain.

‘Sure, and it's still as leaky as a sieve.'

‘No way! I mean… I never thought,' Scott ended lamely. ‘I mean she's like me, a teenager.'

‘That's your problem, Scott. You never think. I know you resent it like hell, but why else would I keep Hilary away from you. Because, if you're all lovey-dovey you'd never notice a thing – and, for someone in your position, that can get you killed. As for that wretched Brigson woman…' Sean Terry glared in the direction of the Secretary of State. ‘She travels with a bodyguard of marines and has a mouth big enough to hear in Russia.'

Scott rummaged up a reluctant grin. ‘Do I guess from that, you vote Republican?'

‘To keep us safe? Like hell I do – I've had enough of this US bad guy stuff.'

‘But, Mr Terry, now the UN own Styrus, we're off the hook. We don't need to hide any more.'

‘Yeah, sure!'

Suddenly, Scott recalled the gasp of astonishment that had greeted his father's statement – that Styrus remained light-years ahead of present day technology. He felt the blood drain from his face, the hand clasping his glass of orange juice suddenly clammy. If that was true, that put his father and the remaining scientists in the ‘beyond price'
category. So valuable, they would need to be carefully guarded – like diamonds in a safe, hidden from the light of day in case they were stolen. His father might have bravely told everyone that he was free.
But he wasn't
– none of them were.

‘You mean it'll never be over?' Even to his own ears, Scott's voice sounded shaky, rather like a dying man gasping out his final words.

‘We'll get them – eventually. I'll make damn sure of that. Till then, you'll need a guard. Think of it this way.' Sean Terry's eyebrows were raised mockingly. ‘If the US President can deal with it, so can you. I don't promise it'll be pleasant, but it will keep you safe.'

‘Is that why you kept Dad's visit to Geneva a secret?'

‘Sure it is. Far easier to control the country area where you live than a metropolis like Geneva. In your village, a stranger would be spotted straight off.'

Scott reached out a hand to steady himself. Why hadn't his dad told him? Warned him? He stared across the room, his father still deep in conversation.

‘So what's all this about you eavesdropping on a weird conversation?'

‘Sorry,
what was that
?' Scott shook his head to clear the buzzing, the agent's voice hitting him from a long way off.

‘The telephone conversation?'

‘They said about killing Dad.'

‘What else?'

‘I don't remember… I was so het up…'

‘Try.' The word struck Scott like the bolt of a carbine snapping into action.

Scott glanced wildly round, as if the walls could tell him what to say. A tray of sandwiches and plates in her hands, the waitress smiled at him – a warm, sympathetic smile. Embarrassed, he quickly slid his eyes over the portraits staring down from the wall.

‘Honestly, I don't remember much. When the man said Dad had to be got out of the way, I was so freaked I stopped listening. It was about oil, I think.'

Across the room, the Norwegian Representative, an experienced politician who had been Foreign Secretary in a previous administration, was still talking with his father. In contrast to the American Secretary of State, Emma Arneson was immensely tall, her dark eyes on a level with Bill Anderson. An Olympic athlete, she had taken the bronze in the cross-country skiing event before retiring and entering politics.

Scott observed the group enviously, hearing his father's laugh ring out, wishing he were part of that conversation. Laughter had been in very short supply in the past few months – and it was great knowing his dad felt comfortable enough to find something amusing, despite Sean Terry's tale of gloom and doom. Besides, anything was preferable to being stuck in a corner talking to his most hated enemy.

‘Lotil Oil?'

Scott blinked taken aback by the tone. ‘I th-think so,' he stuttered. ‘The word sounds familiar. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was it. Something about… stopping it working. They said an explosion… an explosion on one of the rigs.'

Sean Terry grabbed Scott's arm. ‘Come with me –
now
.'

Scott felt like a naughty schoolboy being frog-marched out of class for bad behaviour. All around talking was paused. Convinced everyone in the room was watching, he dropped his head and stared at the carpet.

‘I suggest we take this somewhere secure,' the agent interrupted the three-way conversation, his tone brooking no argument, ‘preferably to a room that was swept for bugs this morning. And not another word.' Deliberately, he focussed his gaze on the waiting-staff, the doors to the kitchen swinging open as a waiter carrying a tray pushed through.

‘Come off it, Mr Terry, we're all friends here,' the Secretary of State bridled, shocked by the agent's forceful manner. How dare he speak to a top government official in such a fashion? That was the problem with the Security Service: too big for their own boots. They considered reporting directly to the President gave them carte blanche to ride roughshod over everyone else. At the very least he could have waited till the end of the sentence before barging in. She glared round at the peaceful scene.

‘Apologies, ma'am, but I insist.'

Stewart Horrington, noticing the rigid body language, hurried over. ‘Can I help?' he said diplomatically.

‘We need a room.'

‘Oh… right… that would be my office.'

The agent flicked his head at Tulsa, who was conveniently leaning against a nearby wall. The agent opened the door marked,
US Representative
, and disappeared inside.

The assistant, who had been sent to collect Scott and Tulsa from their viewing post on the third floor, took a step towards the main door. For a moment it seemed as if he was about to call in the marines to arrest this maverick cop, who appeared to be holding the Secretary of State to ransom. As if he had antennae in the back of his head, Sean Terry swung round and fixed him with a gaze so bleak it froze him to the spot. The other guests, most of them American including the assistants, watched, their expressions muddled and confused, anxiety uppermost. Conversation lapsed altogether and a rigid silence descended.