Turning Point (3 page)

‘No, Dad,' Scott retorted, hearing Tulsa chuckle. ‘That's why I asked. If you remember, I don't do politics. You've got me mixed up with Jamieson,' he added, thinking about his best mate. Whenever Jay came to stay, he and his dad spent much of the time talking about the unrest sweeping through the continent, and the need to get rid of President Rabinovitch. A self-made man, his family had originated in East Germany, and his meteoric rise through the party-ranks had taken place while the world had its eyes closed, battling with radiation and the effects of a devastating earthquake and tsunami. Once in power, he had brought in measures to quell any opposition, and had now been President for twelve years. And, in Scott's opinion, dictator or not, he seemed a permanency.

‘It's not politics, Scott, it's history. The wall was built straight across the centre of Berlin and lasted thirty years – an ever present symbol of Russian dominance. You should read about it. In hindsight it's exciting stuff. Russia and America sparred like crazy, at one point threatening all-out nuclear war, with spies disguised as diplomats and embassy staff. It spawned hundreds of books and films… with unbelievable scenarios. Umbrellas tipped with poison, cyanide pills in case of capture, double agents living the high life in Washington and Moscow; with captured spies exchanged in the dead of night on a bridge somewhere in Europe…'

‘You serious?'

‘Deadly. Since the wall came down, Russia has dwindled into a something and nothing country, its satellites breaking away to become part of the Eurozone.'

‘Don't they mind?'

Tulsa twisted round, an impish smile on his face. ‘They like to pretend they don't.'

The chauffeur, his grin reflected in the rear-view mirror, winked at Scott. He brought the heavy car to a stop, his route into the car park blocked by a barrier manned by Swiss police. An officer checked their pass against the television monitor in the small gatehouse.

The building in front of them was loathsome, reminding Scott of cartoons in which giant bugs, from an alien galaxy, plonked themselves down in the middle of civilisation, demolishing everything around them. It certainly didn't look like a harbinger for world peace. As they descended into the underground car park, he cast a despairing glance over his shoulder watching daylight slowly reduce to a mere slit. Even the feeble electric lighting made little impression on heavy-set pillars of a cement-lined cavern. An irrational thought flicked at Scott's mind of being swallowed alive, rather like Jonah and the whale.

Glass doors fronting a corridor splashed with brilliant illumination beckoned. But still nothing welcoming – nothing that deserved a place in a building dedicated to world peace. It was the weirdest of sensations but Scott, after the events of the spring, had become used to trusting his instinct. Nothing good would ever come out of this building.

Tulsa was out of the vehicle before it had even stopped, quickly opening the rear door.

‘Stewart Horrington, Mr Anderson.' The man waiting for them grasped Bill's hand in a warm handshake. ‘US Representative. You made it okay then. Glad to see you.'

The grey-haired, neatly suited figure greeting them was not alone. A secretary, carrying a stenographer's notebook in one hand and twirling a pencil with her other, nestled into his right shoulder. A few steps behind, a mass of eager attention, stood two somewhat younger versions of the statesman – their clothes and hairstyle as close a copy to their boss as it was possible to achieve without being thought a clone. Behind them again, a tall man leaned against the nearby wall. To the casual observer he might have passed for a broken-down reporter on the staff of a tabloid newspaper, someone whose ambitions had faded at forty and who would never be paid well enough to afford decent clothes. He looked unkempt, his button-down collar and narrow tie ill-fitting, his dark hair unruly and in need of cutting – and he hadn't shaved. He raised his head from his contemplation of the carpet and a pair of tight blue eyes under fiercely frowning brows raked the newcomers.

Scott felt an irrational sense of dislike sweep over him. He knew it was unwarranted but couldn't prevent it. Sean Terry had saved his father from certain death. And he was grateful, he really was.

When Hilary had pleaded to stay on in Cornwall and finish her education, surprisingly Sean Terry had agreed, carefully pointing out to the young secret service agent that since only their friends, Travers and Mary, were aware of her real identity, it might work – but…

‘If you stay in the service, no getting matey. Staying close to Scott… it's an assignment… a job. That's all. Got it?'

He had dragged the two of them into a corner of the room to lecture them, the steel of his eyes blazing like a laser. Hilary had flushed bright scarlet, taking an instant step backwards. It wasn't a big step and Hilary probably wasn't aware she'd done it but it was significant, and had changed everything. From being on the friendliest of terms, spending every spare moment together, they were once again strangers. Every time Scott tried to break through the cordon of frost that surrounded her, she backed away snapping a putdown. Only when Travers and Mary were about did she relax, becoming once again an ordinary teenager, fun to be with.

No wonder, Scott thought bitterly, everyone loathed Sean Terry. It was far easier to deal with Tulsa. He didn't bother about stupid restrictions becoming a real part of the family, even taking his turn with the washing-up and vacuuming.

‘Sean Terry, you know.' The US Representative beckoned the stick-like figure forward.

‘Of course I do,' Bill said warmly. ‘Good to see you again. I believe I have you to thank for this.'

‘Perhaps at the outset.' Terry shrugged off the compliment. ‘Media wouldn't listen. Too much pressure from the top. But then… you know how it is – things change and now they want you – like, yesterday.'

Beyond a cursory nod, the agent had scarcely noticed their bodyguard's existence, yet both men worked for the Secret Service – if that was what it was still called. Changes of regime, whenever a newcomer entered the White House, often resulted in agencies being amalgamated. In recent years, it had fallen under the umbrella of Homeland Security. Despite that, it remained a powerful organisation, well-financed and answerable to the President himself. For Scott, Sean Terry's obvious rudeness was yet another reason for disliking the man, although Tulsa seemed undisturbed, concentrating on keeping his position tucked behind Bill's right shoulder, his attention focussed on the moving figures in the corridor ahead.

A short staircase emerged at ground level into an extensive foyer, built in the same brown stone as the exterior and garlanded with flags of the various nations. Once a gathering place for desperate individuals seeking sanctuary from their war-torn countries, it had been blitzed to create a café and public exhibition area and had quickly become a favourite meeting place of such diverse nations as Tobago and Swaziland, UN staff constantly finding excuses to slip out of their office for a shot of excellent Swiss coffee. Although that was another thing Tulsa had warned Scott about – the coffee: ‘Strong enough to grow hairs on your chest. If I were you, I'd keep it down to one cup a day, otherwise you'll never sleep.'

Ignoring the bright lights and the aroma of freshly-ground beans, Stewart Horrington, a career politician who had served a number of terms in the senate, shepherded the little group towards a bank of lifts. Here, polished steel plaques inscribed in three languages – French, German and English – offered precise instructions as to which part of the twenty-storey building they served. By tradition in the UN, the higher the floor the more important you were. The Secretary General and his staff occupied floors 19 and 20. By mutual consent, the five permanent members of the Security Council had taken up residence on 17 and 18, while the General Assembly, consumed by a vast logistical problem of having 192 member states, was sited on floors 1 through 3.

‘It's a great day for our country,' the US Representative made polite conversation. ‘I had a call from the Secretary of State earlier. She commented it was like emerging from forty days in the wilderness. For the past fifteen years, diplomacy has been conducted behind closed doors, yet the Iranians have known we weren't responsible for their nuclear debacle for at least a decade. It took regime change for them finally to admit it publicly.' The lift slowed to a halt and the door opened. ‘You don't sit on the floor, Bill, that's for the representatives only; guest speakers are raised higher than that.' Stewart Horrington grimaced to show he was joking. ‘It means everyone can see you. And my assistants will be there – they are fully briefed and can answer anything you struggle with.'

‘I'm sure I'll be fine.'

‘Not unless you're wearing shark repellent, you won't,' the grit-laden voice of Sean Terry broke in.

Bill grinned at the agent. ‘Don't worry. I'm determined to have my fifteen minutes of fame. I've waited long enough, heaven knows. Can Scott wait in one of the side-rooms?'

‘Jane.' Representative Horrington beckoned his secretary. ‘Show Scott into one of the visitor booths.'

Flashing a perfunctory smile, the young woman headed down a corridor leaving Scott to follow, every pore of her narrow frame oozing with indignation at being forced to pander to the needs of a sixteen-year-old. In the past six months, Scott had met up with dozens of officials from the US Embassy, making several visits to its hallowed portals in Grosvenor Square. Jane Oliver, with her blond streaks and lithe figure, was no different; so obsessed with American resolve and ambition there was little margin for genuine interest in people. To her, teenagers were hardly worth a moment's notice unless they happened to be an outstanding athlete or mega-rich, when doubtless she would have encouraged them to become her best friend.

The corridor, lined on both sides from floor to ceiling in maple, was curved, its seamless outline interrupted by door knobs regularly spaced along its polished facade. Above them, inset into the surface of the wood, were flat steel plates on which the number and status of the room – occupied or vacant – were displayed. According to the hieroglyphics, they were on the third floor, heading west.

Opening the door, the secretary casually nodded towards the front of the booth, where a wide panel of reinforced glass offered a perfect view of the proceedings taking place in the hall below. Above it a black-panelled speaker. ‘If you flick that switch, you can listen to your dad,' she said before hurrying out of the room, her footsteps muffled by the carpet in the corridor.

Scott, who had been expecting something grandiose in a world-renowned organisation, was disappointed to find the room plain and rather drab, a run-of-the-mill-type office no better than they had at school. Inside the door, a raised area had been allocated for meetings and furnished with a glossy conference table, six chairs tucked neatly around it. Glancing up, he noticed hinged wall panels, allowing the space to be doubled in size if required.

Closing the door behind him, Tulsa followed Scott down a couple of steep steps to a line of seats fronting the screen of toughened glass.

‘Aren't you staying with Dad?'

‘Terry's there. Besides I figured he's safe enough. Not so sure about you, though, don't want you getting into trouble.'

Like stalls in a theatre, the meeting place for the delegates occupied the lower of the three floors, a vast area scooped out to create a feeling of space, with lights set into the ceiling seeming as far distant as stars. Representatives of the world order sat in rows behind curved swathes of polished wood, which were liberally sprinkled with white-printed name boards, microphones, and plastic water bottles. No pecking order in the seating other than the obvious: Afghanistan at one end, Zimbabwe the other.

Mimicking the curve of the corridor, the long sweep of tables faced front where a grandiose stage presided over the proceedings. It reminded Scott of a courtroom. Presumably the chairman of proceedings, the Secretary General, sat there, the blue flag of the UN draped like a backcloth across a high-fronted desk. On either side, at a lower level, were microphones for use of guest speakers and, lower again, desks set aside for clerks responsible for recording the proceedings. To the rear of the delegates, and partially obscured by an overhang, secretaries and assistants milled about, while a battalion of linguists, the backbone of the UN, overlooked the proceedings from glass-fronted work-stations on the upper floor. Fascinated, Scott watched dozens of mouths moving without sound. What a feast for a lip-reader.

On the flight over, his dad had briefed him about the United Nations, a new leader elected every five years who could serve two terms. The new man was from Iceland, a country that steered clear of international affairs. ‘Whatever people say about the United Nations, it does give little nations a chance to hold their own, and it does try to maintain a spirit of cooperation and good sense between its members. Of course people, like the Secretary General, have risen up through the ranks and have more loyalty to the body than their own country.'

There'd been tons more but Scott hadn't bothered to listen, gazing through the small porthole on the fuselage at the staggering view of snow-capped mountains, far more interesting than one of his dad's lectures.

Idly, he picked up a pair of ear-phones built into the seats, fiddling with the dials in the arm rest, annoyed that the secretary couldn't be bothered to demonstrate how they worked. The cryptic symbols meant nothing, and he had no clue as to which one controlled sound from the floor of the Assembly. Impatiently, he zoomed them backwards and forwards, hoping something would burst through. He jumped startled as voices emerged through the ear-phones.

‘I tire of these prancing lunatics in Europe. Their devotion to democracy I find frustrating. The timetable for their descent into chaos must be moved up.'

And a soft, almost caressing reply: ‘Remember, Europe is not the Middle East; you cannot expect civil unrest to take place in a day, with regime change following in a week. But it
will
happen – and probably within a year. That I promise.'

The words sounded theatrical, the voices accented as if English was not their first language. And while one came over the airwaves as a menacing growl, the terse style of someone in authority used to being obeyed, the other seemed more hesitant, almost gentle, patient sounding. And very scary.

The destruction of Europe
– what did they mean? And why would anyone say such a thing unless they were joking – except, the voices didn't sound like they were joking. Puzzled, Scott peered through the window, wondering if he had caught a conversation between two of the delegates on the assembly floor, but could find nothing obvious in the groups of men and women listening diligently to the speaker – a woman, her arms waving vigorously with the force of her argument. But it had to be a joke, didn't it?

‘Is she even aware that bankruptcy stares Norway in the face?' The voice pounded his eardrums, on certain words the accent very marked and Scott could sense the frustration hurtling over the line. ‘How long before she is once again on her knees, begging help for her own nation's economy.'

‘Lotil Oil continues to resist.'

‘You have obviously warned them of the penalty of delay.'

‘Naturally.' The softly-spoken syllables slithered their way into the airwaves, like a rattle snake through grass, setting Scott's teeth on edge.

‘A small explosion might hurry them along.' The words, loudly spoken as if to offset the crackling on the line, came across as a statement not a suggestion.

‘That would prove rather difficult. Security on oil rigs is very tight.'

‘So! They will concede – they have to – there is no alternative.'

This wasn't a translation of the debate, this was someone plotting revolution. Whipping his ear-phones off, Scott gazed down at them as if they were about to explode. Yet, there seemed nothing odd about them. Neatly packaged, with soft foam ear pieces, they were identical to those handed out by a cheerful stewardess whenever you embarked on a long-haul flight. Anxious not to miss a word of the illicit conversation, he clamped them back on grateful that the language was English. Had it been any other it would have passed straight over his head, for languages were definitely his worst subject at school.

‘I agree. We are like a hoard of mice that creep into the forest at night, silently nibbling away until they topple even the strongest tree.'

‘Who do you expect to fall on its sword first, Greece?'

‘Naturally. As always its heroic posturing is nothing but hot air. And then Denmark perhaps… the most settled of all to show our strength.'