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identity tag pinned conspicuously to the breast of their uniform, they paused for another couple of seconds racking up the tension in the room before striding in. Four out of the six carried black rectangular boxes and a wand, rather like an electric toothbrush, and certainly no larger. The remaining two had a heavy leather belt strapped to their waist, with household tools, such as hammers and screwdrivers bulging out of it.
    If Scott hadn’t been one of the victims, he would have found the whole procedure curiously comical. Like at school, when guys joined the auxiliary training corps. The act of putting on a uniform seemed to change their behaviour and qualities emerged never before noticed: pride, leadership, discipline, and on the other side bullying and aggression. There was no doubt girls loved uniforms, fancying guys they wouldn’t give a second glance to in ordinary gear. It was like that now. The officer had said nothing but he was obviously quite aware that his appearance could stop a room in its tracks. And, rudely, he’d not even bothered to acknowledge the importance of the guests, particularly the Italian Ambassador and the Secretary of State.
    Gesturing with his hands, he directed the guests into a line in front of him, running his wand up and down the victim’s clothing before waving them abruptly away. One of the waiters, ignoring the gesture to be silent, hurried forward.
    â€˜
Ce n’est pas nous, monsieur
,’ Scott caught the words and guessed it was French. The man sounded nervous and defensive. Not receiving a response, he tried again. ‘It not me,’ he said painfully, his speech so severely accented it was almost unintelligible. ‘We many, many years here. No problem. Not us.’ He swept an arm round the other two figures, a man and a woman, both middle-aged. ‘I promise.’
    â€˜
Attends!
’ The office in charge silenced him with a finger.
    The head waiter said nothing further. He collapsed into a chair, his head nestling against the wall as if it was a pillow. Almost absentmindedly, he picked up a sandwich and nibbled at it, the majority of guests ignoring food in favour of alcohol, its properties well-known for deadening both guilt-ridden and despairing thoughts.
    The office beckoned Scott forward. He flinched nervously. Accidentally talking to a terrorist wasn’t a crime, but maybe she’d planted something on him – she’d certainly stood close enough, with her fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket. He froze, holding his breath tightly as the electric wand swept over his clothes and sneakers. The machine remained silent and Scott sighed, an equally silent breath.
    He stepped out of the line and moved to the window, his place taken by the Secretary of State, her turn to be prodded and poked like some species of cattle, the expression on her face glacial. It matched the weather outside. Even with double-glazing Scott could sense a drop in temperature. Snowflakes tumbled from the sky, the roofs and pavement already carpeted with a blanket of white, only the heavy traffic keeping roads free.
    The sight of a line of vehicles exiting the underground car park like a gigantic centipede did little to alleviate the dark cloud hovering above Scott’s brow. The emergency obviously had its upside, with some offices suspending work and giving their staff an unexpected bonus or an afternoon off. The absurdity of the situation made it worse somehow. That something so delicate and fragile, no bigger than a caterpillar’s cocoon (and almost identical in colour and shape), had the power to create fear in people – even in the modern day.
    â€˜Come on, Scott, lighten up, you look like you’ve just lost the winning lottery ticket.’
    Scott spotted the grin on Tulsa’s face before being hastily wiped off. At least someone was happy. He glowered at the agent. ‘Stop gloating.’
    Tulsa seemed surprised. ‘I’m