Free Turning Point by Barbara Spencer

not. I’m trying to cheer you up. Even with this mess, you can find something to smile about. For starters,’ he pointed out of the window towards the snow-swept scene. ‘I bet every single one of those people rushing to exit the building is desperately trying to remember conversations they’ve had since the place was swept last Monday. Some of them won’t sleep tonight – remembering. In a way, you can blame the Swiss,’ Tulsa chatted on, his voice quite light-hearted as if discussing nothing more serious than a day at the fair. ‘They pride themselves so much on their diligence and efficiency, I’d like to bet their sweep of the building is performed at the same time each week.’
    Scott caught sight of his father making his way across the room. The security officers appeared to have already swept the inner offices and cloakrooms. Now the men were on their knees in the reception room, carefully lifting the carpet around the edges and rolling it back to expose its brown underlay. Circling around them, Bill manoeuvred a path to his son’s side.
    â€˜How long till we can get out of here, Dad?’
    â€˜Soon, I hope. I have asked Jane Oliver to check on flights – we may have to divert to London. We can catch a train from there.’ ‘We’re leaving? But we planned to spend the day in Montreux tomorrow.’
    Scott had been looking forward to his visit to the fabled lakeside resort ever since he’d known of their meeting with the UN in Geneva. On the edge of the lake was a statue of Freddy Mercury – one of the all-time greats. He kept a photograph of the pop star pinned to the wall in his bedroom. A legend like Elvis Presley, both had died far too young. Now, only their music lived on. Even Hilary agreed he was a great songwriter.
    â€˜I’m afraid that won’t be happening, Scott. Another time, perhaps.’
    â€˜But it’s all arranged,’ he protested. ‘We’ve never had a holiday outside England before and you want to cut it short…’ Scott heard the stutter of indignation in his voice, his tone readying itself for an argument. ‘That’s so unfair, Dad. Besides, if they already know you’re in Geneva, a day’s not going to make much difference. We could see Montreux and go back tomorrow night, that’s if we really need to go. But…’
    The young officer in charge of the sweep headed towards Stewart Horrington. The Representative got to his feet, his eyes fixed on the man’s clenched fist, and passed an unsteady hand across his mouth and chin.
    â€˜Bad news?’ he managed.
    â€˜Five, sir.’
    The American groaned silently.
    The officer, his young face amiable and unconcerned, opened his fingers; the five miniscule objects sitting on his palm like dried peas that had rolled under a refrigerator and been forgotten about. He gave a brief smile, nodding to where the two men with work belts were carefully inching the edges of the carpet back into place, fixing brass carpet plates into position with small screws.
    â€˜Fortunately, nothing deep cover, sir,’ he said, his English impeccable. ‘Randomly distributed – it would take five minutes.’ He pointed to the lamp on the desk. ‘Standard placement. You lean against something, attach a bug and walk away.’
    â€˜So most likely it was the girl?’ The American rubbed his chin, his voice hopeful.
    â€˜Could be anyone, sir. That’s the point.’ The officer stared round the room. Scott, catching his eye, immediately felt guilty again. It was gross, this guilt by association. Without being aware he was doing it, he straightened up, his hands by his sides, almost standing to attention.
    Overhearing, Bill Anderson joined the two men. ‘I doubt that,’ he broke in. ‘Among the many unforgettable memories of my captivity is the knowledge that these people are waging war with the help of