Turning Point (2 page)

A fleeting expression, keen and penetrating, swept across Beau's his face. ‘But that's your story!' he exclaimed.

‘Exactly. What I'd struggled with for eight years, he handed me in a second. Only thing was, he didn't know who was behind it. Said he would try to find out. So I took him on and kept it quiet.'

‘And you can do that because…?'

‘I trust my boss and he trusts the President – they can do anything they like.'

Beau whistled. ‘And he's been reporting to you all this time?'

Terry grimaced. ‘Pretty much. So it's not only me second-guessing from watching the news channel. He's warning that corruption is rife throughout the entire establishment. Ministers think nothing of taking bribes, turning a blind eye.' His restless gaze flew round the walls, mimicking the action of countless students who'd been faced with an apparently insolvable problem presented to them by their tutors. For the brightest, those who got the answer correct, their reward was the chance to run for government or become a captain of industry. For the agent, success meant a handshake from the President and a brief
thank you
.

‘Go on.'

‘Haven't heard from him since that business in Holland, when Bill got shot. I need you to find him and get him out.'

Beau rose to his feet and stood by the window casually glancing down into the courtyard, its leaded windows and crumbling arches a testament to history. Very faintly, in the distance, the hum of cars and buses edging through the narrow streets could be heard. ‘Do I get given a safety rope or are you expecting me to scale the tower wall using only my teeth?'

Terry glowered. ‘Aren't you ever serious?'

‘Naturally, if the occasion warrants. But so far this morning, life has been great. A good friend has come calling, and offered me a brilliant job even if it is only temporary. The sun has shone for a few hours and the coffee is excellent.' He waved his hands at the tray ‘This new blend is first class and will definitely keep me awake all day. So – climbing gear – list of.'

‘You'll wear a trace – that's it.'

‘Like the one that was planted on Scott?'

Terry took a sip of coffee before replying, idly staring round the room. Then, as if happy no one was listening…‘Better than that. This one's decidedly hush-hush. Hardly anyone knows about it…'

‘You mean
you, your boss, and the President
?'

Terry's saturnine expression dissolved into a reluctant grimace of amusement. ‘Now you're getting it. It's undetectable.'

Beau slowly dragged his eyes up from his toes to his head, examining his body closely as if seeing it for the first time. ‘The mind boggles!'

The agent barked a laugh. ‘Doug happened to mention you lost a couple of molars in that skiing accident. We were thinking of an implant.'

‘Again, the royal we. I presume you're still referring to: you, your boss, and the President? Would it be impolite to enquire why?'

‘Because I had a snake in our organisation once, and it left me plenty shaken.'

‘You mean Pete.'

‘Yeah.' The response was dull, still painful. ‘A rogue agent. You don't forget that in a hurry. If it hadn't been for Scott and Hilary, he'd have got away with it too.'

‘So I'm to get myself arrested, hopefully adopted, and somehow track down your man. It all sounds a bit tame to me. I'm sure real spies have a much more exciting life.'

‘I promise you, you'll thank me when you hear the alternative.'

‘Go on, I'm all ears.'

‘Besides telling me what a great athlete you'd become, your father happened to mention you knew more about computers than anyone he'd ever met. Apparently, at school you were always being sent to the head for inadvertently
hacking into places you shouldn't and, on one occasion, only his influence stopped a bank pressing charges.'

‘You could say I was somewhat misguided in my youth,' Beau's grin was broad but lopsided, the damaged side of his face a little reluctant to join in. ‘So?'

‘We toyed with the idea of you hacking into the Pentagon and having a warrant issued for extradition to stand trial in the States. With that sort of reputation, the bad guys would come running.'

Beau collapsed into his seat, his laughter echoing riotously around the high-ceilinged room. ‘How long did it take you to cook up that little lot?'

The agent grinned. ‘I told you, you'd thank me. This way might be dull, but it's relatively safe – as long as you're not caught snooping.'

‘Gadzooks! I only hope you know what you're doing? From where I'm sitting, it all sounds a bit hit and miss to me. To begin, how will I know I'm even in the right place? And, this man of yours… I might recognise him but how on earth will he know I'm on his side? Before or after he sticks a knife in my ribs.'

‘
If…
he's still alive! If it's humanly possible I want him out before the shit hits the fan. I owe him.'

‘So where do you think these guys are now?'

‘Not a clue – except if they are behind the riots they need access to cities. Lisse was perfect. From there you could dart in and out of at least four or five countries in a matter of hours. That's why my money's on the new detention centres.' Beau glanced up sharply. ‘To my knowledge, there's three up and running – France, Germany and Spain. The time scale is…' The agent drew his arms through the air expressing his amazement. ‘Even in America building takes for ever. My guess is, someone had either built or planned them well in advance. At the moment, colleagues back home are delving into European parliamentary reports to find out where the idea originated – someone had to come up with it. If we find that, it might lead us down the chain to the main man.'

Beau picked up his coffee mug. ‘You said colleagues?' he said, his voice suddenly serious. ‘How big is this thing?'

‘It's big in terms of value but not manpower.'

‘Not sure I follow you.' Sean Terry's expression was suddenly bleak, making him all at once older than his forty years. ‘Politicians come and go – it's money that calls the tune and there's an awful lot of it going astray.' ‘Do I assume your little hobby has turned into a full-time business?'

The American nervously cracked his knuckles. ‘You could say that. Your father says these characters are the original G
nomes of Zurich.
A secret society with vast power and influence; yet with all their resources, even they have been unable to track down Mr Smith. With Styrus in his hands, world-wide instability is the most likely outcome – and they're not about to let that happen.'

‘I see. So, once we find him, they go in guns blazing?'

‘Pretty much. According to my boss, one phone call is all it'll take. You game?'

Beau laughed. ‘I like a good challenge and life's awfully dull at the moment. ‘When do I start?'

‘Now, if you're okay with it? I've already asked Doug to fix you up with a dental appointment – in case.' Terry got to his feet and strolled across the room, peering out of the window. He remained still for a moment, listening to the echo of feet on the ancient stone steps, watching two women walk across the quadrangle, carefully keeping to the paths, their black gowns billowing out behind them like wings. Their voices wafted through the open window, merging with the scent of wallflowers carried on the breeze. ‘This is a nice place – sure you want to do this?'

‘My dear man, I'd swap ancient Greek and Latin for danger and death any day of the week. Have another doughnut – we might as well finish them. If I'm allowing myself a visit to the dentist, I may not be able to eat solid food for a couple of days, by which time they'll be stale.'

Cheese and cuckoo clocks would probably have been Scott's answer to the question,
what is Switzerland famous for,
although in the hours since their arrival in the little alpine country, he'd seen neither.

Their flight from Exeter, late the night before, and the efficiency of the Swiss airport had left Scott with the distinct impression that the term
cuckoo clock
was a wind-up, a joke, a veiled reference to something only the Swiss would understand, since all they had met up with so far had been efficiency – plain and simple. Not only had the plane landed precisely to time but queues for immigration had failed to materialise, and the loo he had popped into had positively sparkled with cleanliness. By the time they reached the luggage hall, suitcases were already breaking through the rubber flanges at the end of the conveyor belt, dropping them off at their customers' feet rather like an obedient dog bringing in the newspaper.

He glanced across the limousine at his father wondering how he was holding up, his expression tinged with worry. It was a familiar expression; Scott saw it often enough when staring at himself in the mirror. Plain features, nothing to write home about, although so far his skin had remained clear of spots, his long fair hair neatly trimmed above stormy grey eyes that carried a permanent frown. When the obsession for styling gel had swept into school Scott had steered clear, deciding it smacked of narcissism. Besides, he didn't have time to bother with stuff like that; the life-threatening incidents of the past six months had left a very clear picture of what was important. On his list, number one was staying alive by any means possible.

The anxious look had appeared the day a bullet blasted his dad's shoulder to pieces, and had rapidly become a permanency. Even though doctors had assured anyone who cared to listen, that Bill would make a full recovery, the word
full recovery
still sat uneasily with Scott.

The limousine, black and elegant with tinted windows, its chassis reinforced with armour-plating guaranteed to stop anything other than a missile, followed docilely behind a long line of vehicles crawling along the lakeshore towards Geneva; the skyline to the south dominated by the unmistakable shape of Mont Blanc. A majestic silhouette, its crest was topped with snow all year round. In summer, when climbing the Alps became a pastime for both the skilful and foolhardy, it was possible to reach the summit and retreat down again in a little over five hours.

Lake Geneva lay unmoving, dark and uninviting, although the intense frost of the early morning had cleared, leaving a sky darkening towards snow. The travel brochure, which Scott had browsed through on the plane, proclaimed the lake a fun spot in the summer, with people flocking to the water to escape the heat and humidity of the city. Gazing now upon its sullen surface, it seemed impossible to imagine even donning a swimsuit and sunbathing. The heat gained from long months of summer sunshine had long since dissipated, like a flock of birds heading south for the winter. Only health fanatics would trespass on its shores now. The thought of dipping a foot into the icy water made him shiver uncontrollably.

‘What?'

Scott grinned, embarrassed at being so feeble-minded. ‘Nothing really, it was the idea of people taking a swim in that.' He pointed at the unmoving stretch of water.

‘It doesn't look like this in summer.'

The man occupying the passenger seat next to the driver slid back the intervening glass partition. Shifting sideways, his jacket snagged against the back of his seat, the outline of a bulky strap clearly visible through the lined material. Without being told, Scott knew it was a holster for a gun – a M1911 – a semi-automatic pistol, magazine fed, with a .45 cartridge. And despite a somewhat controversial history, still the weapon of choice for many American departments. Scott knew this because Tulsa, who had accompanied them to Switzerland, often chatted to him about guns. And he did so with a sense of pride that marked him out as being American.

Guns were something that Scott had quickly become used to, ever since… He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his father, noticing how stiffly he still held the one side of his body. Ever since he'd been shot.

Nostalgically, he gazed through the window, his sight fixed on the jagged teeth marking the summit of the distant mountain range. As a child, his overriding ambition had been to climb Mont Blanc; his most prized possession a scrapbook about mountaineers who'd done just that until, on paper, he knew every step of the way. His father had promised they would climb the mountain together and they had spent a part of every holiday hill-walking and climbing, training themselves to meet the demands of the highest mountain in France, and the second-highest in Europe. Now that ambition lay in tatters and would never be realised – at least not by his father. His shoulder still gave pain on movement, although Scott didn't know how much because Bill refused to say. With the muscle strength all but cut in half, no way could it stand anything more strenuous than country walking. Even his father's beloved motorbike, the Suzuki, was left for Scott to use most of the time. Absentmindedly, he patted the pocket of his jacket where his new licence rested proudly in his wallet. Although legally he was still restricted to machines that pottered about, no one bothered much in the wilds of Cornwall.

Strange, it was almost as if the incident of the assassin's bullet had been Day One of a new style of living in which guns and suspicion replaced the freedom that comes with living in the country, although great efforts had been made to keep things as normal as possible. But how could they be when Scott was driven to school by an armed guard? And, when he awoke in the morning, it was to the sound of the bolt on an automatic being shot back, the incoming guard testing his weapon to make sure, if called upon, it would operate without a hitch; or the soft sound of the clip on a handgun being checked for rounds of ammunition. Each piece of equipment designed with a single purpose – to kill.

‘You been here before, Tulsa?' Bill said.

‘Yeah!' The security-guard inched himself round further, glancing into the back of the car. Mid-forties, dark with short hair, his complexion, once swarthy, had lightened considerably with the gloom of the wet summer, England suffering weeks of rain throughout July and August. Before the tragic events of last spring, Bill and Scott had spent the summers sailing and surfing. Now it was Tulsa who accompanied Scott to the beach, easily keeping up with his youthful energy. They had become friends, although the agent had communicated very little about his personal life. Taciturn in the extreme, all Scott knew was that he worked out when he was off-duty and back in Exeter.

It felt strange to see him so formally dressed, making him all at once middle-aged. At the cottage, Tulsa always wore jeans and a blouson jacket; the latter zipped up in all weathers as a courtesy to the inhabitants of their small village, who would have been shocked if they had known he was toting a pistol. The only time it left his side was when he took a shower. Even then, Scott felt convinced it accompanied him into the bathroom. Being forced to travel unarmed, to pass through airport security, had left Tulsa nervous and twitchy like a first-time flyer or a heroin addict forced to go cold-turkey. Thankfully, a car sent by the US Representative to the UN had met them on arrival, its driver handing over a neatly wrapped package.

‘In those heady days before Europe kicked our butt, loads of kids like me left the service and went into personal security. Some joined Special Forces.' Tulsa shrugged. ‘I decided to see a bit of the world before I settled down. I'd already been to Switzerland.' He shuffled about, easing the strap on his gun holster. ‘I done a tour of duty at the embassy here when I was in the Marine Corps. Liked the place – orderly, not like the States. Most of our cities are a sprawling mass of broken-down car lots and hoarded-up buildings. I got a job with a Nigerian diplomat for a year – he was okay.' Tulsa paused to switch the piece of gum he was chewing from one cheek to the other. ‘After the quake, he didn't want me no more.' There was the briefest of pauses. ‘Couldn't blame him. No one wanted anything to do with America back then.'

‘I remember,' Bill said.

‘So I went back home. Stupidly, my Nigerian hired a Frenchman who got him killed. There was a coup – the man had shot his mouth over corruption in politics. Crazy, eh…' he left the sentence unfinished. He grinned suddenly. ‘Never did settle down.'

‘Do you have family?'

‘No one directly belonging to me. A sister in Portland.'

‘Oregon?' Bill continued the questioning. ‘I thought you came from Oklahoma?'

The agent produced another grin. ‘Nope – Portland born and bred. Guess I'll go back one day when I retire. Got called Tulsa in the marines. Our little corps was code-named Oklahoma. We drew lots for cities – I drew Tulsa.'

The driver slowed to a crawl alongside a line of elegant vehicles waiting for the lights to change. The morning rush had long since ended; the men driving into Geneva now were mostly high-ranking civil servants, embassy staff or government representatives who gave lip-service to their work, arriving and leaving when it suited them. Scott, for the umpteenth time, checked his watch. It said half-past ten. Their appointment was for eleven-thirty.

Bill, noting the movement, closed the lid of his brief case and touched his son on the arm. ‘It'll be over soon.'

‘I guess. But it's like sitting in a condemned cell watching the clock.' Scott rummaged up a grin.

Bill laughed. ‘Can't you dredge up something more cheerful? After all the UN are supposed to be on our side.'

‘They took long enough getting round to it.' The lights changed to green. Scott nodded at the cars on either side keeping pace with them. ‘I was just thinking, if that little lot works at the UN it's no wonder nothing gets done.' He heaved a sigh saying wistfully, ‘Whatever happens, at least I've seen Mont Blanc.'

Bill's gaze was acute. He laid a hand on his son's knee. ‘And one day you'll climb it, Scott, and I'll be there to cheer you on.'

The lines of traffic intensified. Bumper to bumper they edged from one set of lights to the next, the majority of the vehicles flying pennants. Scott identified the flags of at least a dozen different nations. All at once he felt nervous, his hands sweaty. In a few moments they would be entering the hallowed portals of the United Nations, the most powerful place on earth, where countries voted to declare war or push through economic sanctions against a renegade regime. Still, he wiped his hands on a handkerchief, once his father had given his address that would be the end of it – they would be free.

With a burst of acceleration, the chauffeur steered the heavy vehicle across lines of converging traffic, edging the cumbersome vehicle around the main carrefour in the centre of Geneva – a wide-open space filled with displays of art, giant posters advertising forthcoming exhibitions, adding a snapshot of colour to the monotony of the grey November sky.

Indicating right, the limousine entered a spacious avenue lined with elegant white buildings set back behind flower-encrusted pavements, scarlet geraniums in tubs still blooming vigorously in a last-ditch attempt to evade the biting frosts. Part way along, the flags of the Red Cross and the Red Crescent soared from the roof tops of adjoining buildings, endorsing Switzerland's claim of being a bridge between warring nations. Outside their gates, neatly dressed pedestrians waited politely on the kerbside for the lights to change before attempting to cross the road.

At the mouth of the avenue where several roads met, a brooding monolith of brown stone rose up, its dour façade broken by layers of identically sized windows – too small to be effective as a giver of light and too ugly to be an architectural feature.

‘That can't be the Assembly Building?' Scott exclaimed.

‘Surprising, isn't it? So different from the rest of the city.' Bill peered through the window as the limousine joined a queue of vehicles waiting to descend the ramp into the underground car park. ‘It used to be the High Commission for Refugees but, when the UN moved to Switzerland, it was the only building large enough to house the General Assembly. According to the newspapers, it was rather like the Mad Hatter's tea party, with everyone moving down a seat. I was always sorry my life style didn't exactly permit me to come and see. The Swiss must have hated the confusion; they are such an orderly race.'

Scott grimaced. His father had spent fifteen years in hiding before eventually being traced and taken prisoner. Every single piece of knowledge he'd acquired during that time had been second-hand, picked up from the television or computer.

‘So why didn't they build new, Dad?'

‘The Swiss wouldn't give them the land. Besides, it would have taken too long,' Tulsa broke in. ‘After the nuclear explosion in Iran, the UN went into panic mode and wanted shot of the States as fast as possible. Besides, the Swiss never wanted the UN in the first place; they're hell-bent on keeping out of international politics. They only agreed providing it was temporary. For a small country, they sure carry a lot of weight.'

Scott was surprised to hear the agent speaking up, never for one moment imagining him to be interested in world affairs. At breakfast he read the newspaper, back page first – sports not politics.

‘Is politics always like this, Dad?' Scott said, gripped by the idea of actually being in the city around which the entire world revolved. It was all so different at home, buried in the depths of the Cornish countryside. There, it never made a scrap of difference who was in office.

‘Pretty much. Ever since the wars of the last century, there's been a jockeying for position between Russia and America. It got worse after the wall went up.'

‘What do you mean, wall?'

‘You don't know about the Berlin Wall?' Bill sounded surprised.