Turning Point (4 page)

Scott swivelled round in his seat. A map of the world, circled by flags, had been stencilled onto the back wall. The Scandinavian country, north of Germany, looked little larger than a small pimple, and was bordered on all sides by sea.

‘A small country with an even smaller army; the perfect starting place. If we only incite a few protesters onto the streets, we will bus in a crowd from Germany. Enough to create a little delicate mayhem. A few rounds of live ammunition will do the rest. They're a stupid people and a mounting death toll will provoke even the most cowardly into action.'

A burst of cruel laughter sent a shiver through Scott.

Tulsa shot him a piercing look. ‘Scott? You feeling okay?'

Impatiently, Scott flapped his hand at the agent to stop him talking. The conversation had to be taking place within the building, right? He squinted down at the row of knobs built into the armrest. If they were only for internal use, where had the hiccup occurred? His glance darted round the huge space seeking the speaker. It was easy to spot the translators at work, their eye fixed intently on the representative they were translating for that day. Around them, people stood up or sat down, coffee cups saluted empty air, doors opened and closed as meetings began and ended. Every word spoken would remain confidential behind the thick plate glass yet it was still in the public domain. No one could meet secretly; all were in full view yet private.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott caught a movement as an overhead beam of light picked up an answering sparkle from a watch. The man, seated in the booth on the opposite corner, had a phone pressed to his ear. How come? He'd passed at least a dozen notices on the way up from the underground car park, advising that mobile phones didn't work in the building.

Swinging round, he spotted a telephone receiver tucked away on a narrow shelf next to the boardroom table. So that was it. Each of the viewing stations had access to an outside line. And somewhere it had become connected to the internal system. So how many more people were listening in?

‘Naturally, in every ointment there is a fly. Bill Masterson – I understand he's speaking next. How sad that he survived. The Dutch are so unbelievably capable – it's disheartening. We need him out of the way before…'

Scott gasped and jerked backwards at the sound of his father's name.

The line was abruptly cut. The man in the booth opposite looked up, his razor-sharp gaze scouring the room and, for a brief moment, their glance met. Then, with equal suddenness he was gone, the glass shell with its polished conference table and chairs empty.

‘Tulsa?' Scott pulled the ear-phones off and held them out, his hand trembling. ‘They were talking about Dad.'

The agent smiled indulgently. ‘What a surprise, he's on next.'

‘No!' Scott beat the set against his knee in agitation. ‘This was different. I heard them say he had to be killed.'

Tulsa clamped the ear phones his head. ‘Nothing there now. Sure you didn't imagine it?'

‘You think I imagine things after what's happened?'

‘No, I don't. But your dad's fine. Look!'

Scott blinked rapidly to clear the mist from his eyes. At the far end of the room, a door had opened. He gasped out his relief at seeing the tall silhouette of his father, flanked by Stewart Horrington's two assistants.

The agent leaned across, twiddling a knob. The speaker above them burst into life, a man's voice, the words marrying up with the person who had just stood up – the representative from Slovakia.

‘You speak French?' Scott dropped into a seat beside him, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him upright. ‘I'm sorry but…'

‘Enough to make do.' Tulsa twisted a second knob and the voice changed, a woman now speaking in English.

‘What's that?'

‘That's the simultaneous translation.' Tulsa pointed to the floor of the assembly. ‘See the light…'

Scott scanned the rows, picking out the faint glow of a light bulb set into the desk of the representative now speaking.

‘This knob,' Tulsa pointed to the first in the little row, ‘puts it up on speaker and these… produce a translation, into a couple of dozen languages: French, Spanish, Mandarin, Russian…'

‘How do you know all this?' Scott said, hearing his voice still shaky, and anxious now to shrug off the lingering sense of unease that the unknown voices had left behind.

‘Agents aren't just pretty faces, Scott. How could I possibly protect you and your dad, if I didn't know exactly where we were going and what to expect.'

‘I never thought.'

‘I don't suppose you did. But I can promise, when you do your homework, I do mine…' Tulsa's lip twisted in an amused grimace. ‘Although, probably, I complain less. So what was all that about? Not like you to get in a panic over nothing.'

Scott twisted the ear-phones round and round in his hands, ashamed now of his outburst. In hindsight, it didn't sound like much – it could easily have been someone sounding off, someone fed up with the tortoise-like approach of the UN. After all, he was the same, spouting words he didn't mean and never remembered afterwards – like when his dad played the heavy father, and refused to let him go out on a Saturday night.
Even so, threatening to bring down Europe?
It was possible that was a joke. But the mention of his father? Killing him?

‘Two men were talking. It had to have been a crossed line – it was horrid. They used Dad's real name too… Bill Masterson. No one knows…'

‘I'm with you on that. Even your dad's passport says Anderson. Sure you got the name right?'

Scott frowned trying to remember the exact sequence of threats in the illicit conversation but they were gone, wiped out by his panic attack, like a careless finger on the back-spacer of a computer relentlessly deleting text. ‘I think so.'

‘OK! No point getting yourself in a state. We can't do anything right now anyhow, they're about to introduce Bill. First chance I get, I'll warn the boss. But I promise you, nothing can happen here, security's far too tight. So relax and enjoy the moment. You've waited long enough. Heaven knows.'

Scott watched the tall figure of his father climb slowly to his feet and walk to the podium. Tulsa was right. Ever since the events of the spring, his father had fretted about getting all the secrets into the open, to be free from a constant fear of assassination, only feeling safe at home in their cottage on the hill. Now the chance had come.

‘Ladies and gentleman, I am grateful for this opportunity to address you, the representatives of this august body.'

His dad was using reading glasses to decipher the neatly typed script – yet another change that had taken place since the shooting, as if the bullet had aged every part of his dad's body.

‘Some twenty years ago,' Bill Anderson read out, ‘the Styrus project was established. Funded by the US Government, it was set up in a research centre in California, and started out as an investigation into computer viruses. For a while, it seemed that every schoolboy's dream was to devise a virus that would cause mayhem.'

Bill paused to allow an appreciative laugh to break out among the English-speaking audience, waiting politely for the second wave as translators did their work.

‘Unfortunately, before we could complete the project two tragedies took place. The first, as you know, was the nuclear disaster in Iran; the second, the earthquake in California followed by the tsunami.'

Scott listened to his father unravelling the tale. He came over as unemotional but Scott knew how painful the subject was. Thousands and thousands of words had been written about the Californian earthquake and its resulting tsunami, in which countries had been devastated and maps re-drawn. A decade and a half later, only media moguls still ferreted about in the ruins, plucking stories from the air and making fortunes from disaster movies that sanitised the true horror of losing your family to fire or water.

It was a sombre scene, rows of dark-clad figures broken up by a flash of colour from someone in native costume. Most were listening intently, their headphones in place, rifling through their notes to find the text. Only the odd one or two still conversed in muted whispers with their neighbour.

Scott still felt nervous and edgy, finding it difficult to listen. Crackling broke into his earpiece and he flinched, somehow expecting the voice of the anonymous caller to blast through again. He knew by heart the scenario of the gunmen bursting into the auditorium and mowing down their prey with machine guns; unsuspecting scientists, men and women gathered for a conference. He knew too that his father was the only one brave enough to speak out, while others remaining in hiding. Alarmed, his glance raked the auditorium from wall to wall, every muscle now on full alert.

A movement on the floor almost brought him to his feet, laughing shakily as an usher hurried across the space, his arms full of bottled water

Bill began again, his tone deepening under the gravity of his words, Scott murmuring the words of the speech under his breath. He'd heard it rehearsed often enough. For his dad the speech represented the key that would at long last open the gates of his prison cell. With the information in the public domain, all harm would vanish leaving them to live as they wished.

‘In trying to recapture a normal life, I have passed the information to the United Nations. Even as I stand here…' Bill paused, his gaze flicking round the vast auditorium, scrutinising the rows of faces, making sure that every single person in the building – from the car-park attendant to the secretary drinking a glass of water – knew that he no longer held the secret alone. He had passed it on and was free. ‘A dozen scientists are pouring over the programme. Too many people have died because of the power that Styrus wields. It would be wrong to let it continue. Thank you, gentlemen, for your patience and interest.'

It was over! From the speakers came a muttering of sound as translators completed their work. Emotion, like a blast of hot air, swept over Scott. He waited for the furore but none came. For nights, he had dreamed of delegates jumping up in their seats to applaud his dad's speech. ‘I thought they'd be pleased.' He got to his feet, swallowing down tears of relief and disappointment pressing against his eyelids.

Tulsa grimaced ‘I bet you thought the President of the USA would be hotfooting it to Cornwall to shake your dad's hand.'

Scott shrugged. He had. At the very least his dad should get a signed photo,
in gratitude for
his role in maintaining justice and democracy
.

A voice broke the silence. ‘Mr Anderson, this current global instability? Is Styrus to blame?'

Startled, Scott swung round. They hadn't expected questions. ‘A short statement,' the US Representative had said, ‘will be quite sufficient. They've been well briefed.' In any case, economic ruin wasn't a subject for a scientist, it was the preserve of bankers and investors, people who controlled the stock market.

‘Possibly,' Bill admitted reluctantly.

Scott sensed a change in the atmosphere. Even blocked by reinforced glass, it was there – accusing his father. ‘Tulsa – can't we stop them?'

Tulsa gave him a wry grin ‘They've got to blame someone for the mess we're in. Don't worry, your dad expected this to happen. He'll manage.'

‘Is there an antidote, Mr Anderson?'

‘The representative for Norway has the floor.'

Scott picked out the speaker, a woman seated between Nigeria and Oman. His father's voice echoed through the speakers. ‘Unfortunately not. It will take a few years.'

‘And you are involved in the project?'

‘In a consultancy role only. You have good people here.'

The representative for Lichtenstein rose to his feet, his expression fierce. ‘But according to this –
not good enough
.' He struck the sheaf of paper in his hand making it flutter wildly. ‘Until we have an antidote, we are all at the mercy of this individual you call Mr Smith. Is that correct?'

Scott watched Bill's expression change. ‘I fear so,' he admitted. Scott caught the slight hesitation.

Alarm spiralled across the floor, the chairman calling for silence.

‘As I stated in my notes, the organisation had already experienced limited success before they even laid hands on the discs. Fortunately, a colleague had encrypted them with just this scenario in mind. Hopefully, they will prove impossible to decipher completely. Even then, the virus may not work.'

‘
You hope
, Mr Anderson,
you hope
. If it does work, can we expect the world to descend once more into chaos?'

The representative for Italy caught the Chairman's eye, indicating he wanted to speak, a frisson of murmurs running round the auditorium with everyone expressing concern at the use of the word
chaos
. It was a strong word, little used in an organisation in which gentlemanly behaviour, diplomacy and understatement were more likely than action.

‘You met the man – what is his aim?' The Italian representative spoke slowly allowing the translator to do her work.

‘In my report I use the words –
global
instability
.'

‘Do we not have scientists capable of arresting this…' the Italian circled his hands in the air, ‘catastrophe?'

‘We did once. Vast numbers of highly skilled individuals died in the earthquake – all of them leaders in the field of computer technology. I would hazard a guess that the long-term effect of this has been even more devastating to human progress than the tsunami. Without their knowledge all progress was stalled, which has left Styrus leading the field by a decade or more.'

Scott heard the surprised gasps, watching representatives turn to their neighbour sharing the sense of shock permeating through the long lines of delegates. But why? That snippet of information had been in their dossier – and it had been quite specific, the words written in italics for emphasis. He had read it; it had been tough going – not like the real story of his dad's kidnap, which was more like a horror movie. Even so, everyone working in that field understood that computer technology still languished in the doldrums. Perhaps, hearing the words spoken aloud made it all seem real.