Free Turning Point by Barbara Spencer Page B

could…’
    Scott gasped. ‘But you told the United Nations you couldn’t…’
    â€˜That was for your dad’s protection,’ Sean Terry broke in. ‘No one knew it but him and me.’
    Scott looked miserably at the agent. He loathed him and didn’t trust him; yet… he was
the one man they dare trust. ‘Now,
they
know about it,’ he said bitterly. ‘Dad, I’m so sorry I made a fuss about Montreux…’
    â€˜You weren’t to know, Scott. And, if anyone should apologise, it should be me. I let the cat out of the bag, speaking about Styrus in public.’ He shrugged. ‘I never imagined the UN would be bugged.’
    Sean Terry spun his arm round the now empty room. ‘There’s still an outside chance the bugs are Europe’s way of keeping an eye on us. They don’t want us taking over again. It’s possible, Bill, but I think unlikely. So they know about this and probably a lot of other stuff too. I’ve already asked for more men.’
    Tulsa looked up, his glance speculative.
    â€˜I suggest, Bill, we move this little party to the Embassy. Bugs are like lice. Once you know you’ve got them, you never feel clean again, wondering if somehow one has slipped through and been missed. Tulsa, you take Scott back to the hotel and get your stuff together. Use the limo. We’ll finish up here.’

Six

    Scott slumped back against the plush leather upholstery of the limousine, annoyed that he’d been dispatched back to the hotel with Tulsa to pack their suitcases, while everyone else went to the Embassy, to continue their conversation about the plight of Norway and how to fix it. But it was no good arguing – not with Sean Terry at the helm.
    Yet, more than anyone there, he had the right to know what his father was getting himself into. After all, for months now, he’d been patiently helping his dad get better, trying to put the events of the spring behind them, working towards an ordinary, possibly even humdrum existence. Like the villagers who were content with growing dahlias for the annual flower show or taking part in a sponsored walk or hike, they no longer craved excitement and neither did he. In a moment of weakness, Scott had confessed to Tulsa,
excitement they’d had in spades
.
    It had been a pretty good summer too, once exams were over and his dad fit enough to get about. Several times they had been invited to spend a day on the river, with Doug and Catherine Randal, Travers and Mary, peaceful days in which nothing more strenuous than trailing your hand through water was expected of you. The visit to Switzerland had been eagerly discussed and as eagerly awaited; the days counted down, hopeful that the long-awaited day of liberation was fast approaching – like rain for farmers who have experienced the worst drought in living memory.
    Now, once again, his dad was thinking about getting involved. Okay, so he hadn’t actually admitted it but Scott recognised the look – steely-eyed and stern-lipped. It was his favourite heavy-father expression, the one he adopted every time Scott was due for yet another tongue lashing about his untidy bedroom or throwing his dirty socks and pants under his bed instead of in the washing basket. Hadn’t his dad learned his lesson? Last time they’d been lucky to escape with their lives. Couldn’t he understand how terrifying it was to be at the mercy of men that killed on a whim? He was always moaning to Scott that he must work hard at school. What was the point, when you needed both eyes to look over your shoulder for an assassin?
    Scott glanced across at his bodyguard, relaxed, staring idly through the window of the limousine at the sights, what you could see of them through the snow. It didn’t involve Tulsa. He wasn’t paid to worry or express an opinion. His job was quite specific, to keep them alive, and for doing that he earned a hefty