Turning Point by Barbara Spencer Page B

conversation?’
    â€˜They said about killing Dad.’
    â€˜What else?’
    â€˜I don’t remember… I was so het up…’
    â€˜Try.’ The word struck Scott like the bolt of a carbine snapping into action.
    Scott glanced wildly round, as if the walls could tell him what to say. A tray of sandwiches and plates in her hands, the waitress smiled at him – a warm, sympathetic smile. Embarrassed, he quickly slid his eyes over the portraits staring down from the wall.
    â€˜Honestly, I don’t remember much. When the man said Dad had to be got out of the way, I was so freaked I stopped listening. It was about oil, I think.’
    Across the room, the Norwegian Representative, an experienced politician who had been Foreign Secretary in a previous administration, was still talking with his father. In contrast to the American Secretary of State, Emma Arneson was immensely tall, her dark eyes on a level with Bill Anderson. An Olympic athlete, she had taken the bronze in the cross-country skiing event before retiring and entering politics.
    Scott observed the group enviously, hearing his father’s laugh ring out, wishing he were part of that conversation. Laughter had been in very short supply in the past few months – and it was great knowing his dad felt comfortable enough to find something amusing, despite Sean Terry’s tale of gloom and doom. Besides, anything was preferable to being stuck in a corner talking to his most hated enemy.
    â€˜Lotil Oil?’
    Scott blinked taken aback by the tone. ‘I th-think so,’ he stuttered. ‘The word sounds familiar. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was it. Something about… stopping it working. They said an explosion… an explosion on one of the rigs.’
    Sean Terry grabbed Scott’s arm. ‘Come with me –
now
.’
    Scott felt like a naughty schoolboy being frog-marched out of class for bad behaviour. All around talking was paused. Convinced everyone in the room was watching, he dropped his head and stared at the carpet.
    â€˜I suggest we take this somewhere secure,’ the agent interrupted the three-way conversation, his tone brooking no argument, ‘preferably to a room that was swept for bugs this morning. And not another word.’ Deliberately, he focussed his gaze on the waiting-staff, the doors to the kitchen swinging open as a waiter carrying a tray pushed through.
    â€˜Come off it, Mr Terry, we’re all friends here,’ the Secretary of State bridled, shocked by the agent’s forceful manner. How dare he speak to a top government official in such a fashion? That was the problem with the Security Service: too big for their own boots. They considered reporting directly to the President gave them carte blanche to ride roughshod over everyone else. At the very least he could have waited till the end of the sentence before barging in. She glared round at the peaceful scene.
    â€˜Apologies, ma’am, but I insist.’
    Stewart Horrington, noticing the rigid body language, hurried over. ‘Can I help?’ he said diplomatically.
    â€˜We need a room.’
    â€˜Oh… right… that would be my office.’
    The agent flicked his head at Tulsa, who was conveniently leaning against a nearby wall. The agent opened the door marked,
US Representative
, and disappeared inside.
    The assistant, who had been sent to collect Scott and Tulsa from their viewing post on the third floor, took a step towards the main door. For a moment it seemed as if he was about to call in the marines to arrest this maverick cop, who appeared to be holding the Secretary of State to ransom. As if he had antennae in the back of his head, Sean Terry swung round and fixed him with a gaze so bleak it froze him to the spot. The other guests, most of them American including the assistants, watched, their expressions muddled and confused, anxiety uppermost. Conversation lapsed altogether and a rigid