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Authors: Barbara Spencer
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gentlemen,â the US Representative continued, âweâre in for a long session. I suggest you make yourselves comfortable while we wait for the all-clear. Help yourselves to drinks and something to eat.â He spoke briefly into the phone, glancing back at the agent over the receiver. âHow on earth could this happen? Here, of all places; the seat of civilisation. And why?â
For Scott, the need to laugh vanished as quickly as it had come. The
why
was easy especially after what Sean Terry had just said, but only if you believed in the global mastery of one man, Mr Smith, and could accept he had a mole in the newly refurbished American Embassy in London. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise â a listening device turning up the same day as his father addressed the UN. No way. Besides, he no longer believed in coincidences.
Stewart Horrington had assured them that the date had been kept secret, known only to him, his staff, and a colleague in London who had arranged the flights. His staff were totally trustworthy, hand-picked from families he had known since childhood, for generations solidly Democrat. And it was his car, with his personal driver, that had collected them from the airport and hotel. The Embassy in Geneva knew nothing of his dadâs visit, purposely kept out of the loop. Neither did any of the other delegates; the appearance of his father unscheduled until early that morning when a confidential memo had been delivered by hand. It had to be London. Knowing when they were travelling, it would have been so easy to bug the suite. There could be no other explanation unless bugs were commonplace in the UN?
Scott swung round glancing briefly across the room. Emma Arneson looked better, less green, although the fingers gripping her glass were still rigid. And the people scattered around the room? The majority of them worked in the building on a daily basis and all of them were influential. These were the men and women that had striven to bring Styrus to the notice of the UN and were now being thanked with champagne, caviar, and smoked salmon sandwiches. The eager expressions they had worn on first encountering the Secretary of State had been wiped off, leaving their faces haunted, sombre or blank.
No, this was not an everyday occurrence.
But the waitress?
No, not her,
it couldnât be. Perhaps she ran because she was working illegally and didnât want to be picked up by the Swiss authorities and deported. Scott clutched at the idea.
That,
he could believe. But not that she was a terrorist, someone evil. He scowled angrily. The thought that, once again, someone might have betrayed his father to that elusive person who called himself Smith made him feel sick.
Behind him the American staff, out of a sense of loyalty, tried to maintain a cheerful front pushing waves of conversation at anyone capable of listening. The sudden and haphazard outbursts of noise reminded Scott of toadstools erupting from a grassy bank. Innocent-looking on the outside but containing toxins lethal to the unsuspecting â exactly like a word spoken out of turn.
Unashamed, he eavesdropped on a conversation nearby, hearing the words
snow
and
Christmas
repeated with monotonous regularity, as if they were imbued with magical properties and, if you said them often enough, everything would be all right. The speaker, a woman, spotting his interest, bridled with indignation and, turning her back, lapsed into silence.
The door to the suite banged open; eyes like startled rabbits caught in a carâs headlights riveted on the uniformed figures blocking the doorway. Half-a-dozen men stood there, their appearance so formidable it was practically hostile. Wearing their caps perched at an angle and their hair shorn close to the scalp, a knife-like crease ran down the front of their grey uniform trousers, and the polish on their black boots was so bright the overhead light was reflected in it. Armed and with an
For Scott, the need to laugh vanished as quickly as it had come. The
why
was easy especially after what Sean Terry had just said, but only if you believed in the global mastery of one man, Mr Smith, and could accept he had a mole in the newly refurbished American Embassy in London. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise â a listening device turning up the same day as his father addressed the UN. No way. Besides, he no longer believed in coincidences.
Stewart Horrington had assured them that the date had been kept secret, known only to him, his staff, and a colleague in London who had arranged the flights. His staff were totally trustworthy, hand-picked from families he had known since childhood, for generations solidly Democrat. And it was his car, with his personal driver, that had collected them from the airport and hotel. The Embassy in Geneva knew nothing of his dadâs visit, purposely kept out of the loop. Neither did any of the other delegates; the appearance of his father unscheduled until early that morning when a confidential memo had been delivered by hand. It had to be London. Knowing when they were travelling, it would have been so easy to bug the suite. There could be no other explanation unless bugs were commonplace in the UN?
Scott swung round glancing briefly across the room. Emma Arneson looked better, less green, although the fingers gripping her glass were still rigid. And the people scattered around the room? The majority of them worked in the building on a daily basis and all of them were influential. These were the men and women that had striven to bring Styrus to the notice of the UN and were now being thanked with champagne, caviar, and smoked salmon sandwiches. The eager expressions they had worn on first encountering the Secretary of State had been wiped off, leaving their faces haunted, sombre or blank.
No, this was not an everyday occurrence.
But the waitress?
No, not her,
it couldnât be. Perhaps she ran because she was working illegally and didnât want to be picked up by the Swiss authorities and deported. Scott clutched at the idea.
That,
he could believe. But not that she was a terrorist, someone evil. He scowled angrily. The thought that, once again, someone might have betrayed his father to that elusive person who called himself Smith made him feel sick.
Behind him the American staff, out of a sense of loyalty, tried to maintain a cheerful front pushing waves of conversation at anyone capable of listening. The sudden and haphazard outbursts of noise reminded Scott of toadstools erupting from a grassy bank. Innocent-looking on the outside but containing toxins lethal to the unsuspecting â exactly like a word spoken out of turn.
Unashamed, he eavesdropped on a conversation nearby, hearing the words
snow
and
Christmas
repeated with monotonous regularity, as if they were imbued with magical properties and, if you said them often enough, everything would be all right. The speaker, a woman, spotting his interest, bridled with indignation and, turning her back, lapsed into silence.
The door to the suite banged open; eyes like startled rabbits caught in a carâs headlights riveted on the uniformed figures blocking the doorway. Half-a-dozen men stood there, their appearance so formidable it was practically hostile. Wearing their caps perched at an angle and their hair shorn close to the scalp, a knife-like crease ran down the front of their grey uniform trousers, and the polish on their black boots was so bright the overhead light was reflected in it. Armed and with an
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