Turning Point (28 page)

His voice must have sounded different because James shot him a startled glance. ‘What?'

‘Can I trust you?'

‘Huh? Trust? Course.' The guy smiled. ‘Me and Chris, we're the good guys remember. If I pride myself on anything, it'll be this week…'

‘
Holy crap
, James, stop babbling,' Scott hissed. ‘This is serious. If I don't get out…'

‘Blimey, Scott…'

‘If I don't get out,' he repeated, ‘can you get a message to my dad…' Scott glanced up, hearing the familiar thwack of the cane. Mr Reynolds-sir paused a long moment, his glance raking. Apparently satisfied, he swung on his heel making his way slowly back up the line, never deviating from the pace he had set.

‘Who's your dad?'

‘Doug Randal!'

‘The sports…' James coughed. ‘God, cigarettes have played havoc with my lungs. ‘The sports presenter on TV?'

‘That's him. I need to tell him…'

‘
You horsing around
? With a dad like that, no one will mess with you.'

Scott eyed the squat rectangle of the prison, each thudding heart beat taking him closer. How could he make James understand? How would anyone understand without a day-long explanation? It was all too far-fetched – stories of aliens stood a better chance. But he hadn't got all day. If he was lucky, he had a minute or two. Uneasily, he watched their instructor moving up and down the line. Never long in one spot, he jumped about silently, eavesdropping on anyone brave enough to start up a conversation. Scott felt the tension in the air, the sidelong glances of mistrust.

Suddenly, James threw a life-line. ‘Is this to do with last night?' Scott nodded, relieved. ‘You knew that guy?'

‘Yes!'

‘
Jesus!
But how the hell did you get out of the unit?'

Scott opened his mouth.

‘No, don't tell me,' James dived in. ‘I don't want to know.' He glanced up seeing the figure of their instructor once again heading in their direction. ‘So, what's the message?'

‘Tell him,
it was the President of Europe who I overheard on the phone
.'

Scott stared into the gaping mouth of the camera lens, a red light pulsing above it.

‘Name?'

‘Number Nine – Travers Randal.' The name felt stiff on his tongue, unused for five days.

At the end of their run, they'd been checked off and sent to shower and change. Breakfast of sorts had been waiting. A pitiful fare with coffee from a machine, not fresh like the day before; slices of French bread, cut from a day-old stick and already gone dry, as if it was the cook's day off on a Friday and no was else was bothered. Or perhaps, more likely, a reminder of that first lesson –
one fouls up, you all foul up
.

Told they were to be interviewed, they had waited in the classroom, the screen of unspeakable images no longer playing. Scott stared round the familiar walls, grateful for the rule limiting contact that stopped guys from confiding in one another. Lightning had been called first, Scott last; waiting for what seemed like hours, becoming more and more edgy as their numbers dwindled. A few of the guys had openly boasted that it had to be about jobs, exchanging covetous, greedy looks, the atmosphere once again tentative and uneasy. If jobs were on offer, as had been promised, they were going to have them – no one else.

‘And you live where?'

‘Falmouth, sir.'

The voice emerging from the rectangular mouth of the speaker belonged to the man he'd overheard addressing Tyson and his mates, rebuking them for being caught; a microphone exaggerating his American accent. No attempt had been made to disguise it – so different from his father's interview with Mr Smith. There, the voice had changed pitch constantly making it impossible to identify. He waited for the next question, a nerve-wracking pause between each one designed to keep the candidate off guard. The absurd idea flashed through Scott's thoughts that the whole mess had involved hidden voices. And only he knew where they all fitted. This voice belonged to Wayne Seagar, its casual vowels and soft consonants perfectly matching the silk suit and expensive shoes of the man standing by the dormitory entrance.

‘Family?'

‘I have a brother and a sister – Beau and Natasha.'

Beau had passed him a note on his way out of the classroom written on toilet tissue, though where he'd got the pencil…
Keep calm they're guessing. 1-word answers only.GL.

‘My father is Doug Randal. He played rugby for England. He now works in television.'

Scott stared at the camera struggling to keep the muscles of his face relaxed, a sensation of panic flowing through every cell in his body like an angry stream.

‘Why are you here?'

‘Er… I…'

‘
With your background
, why are you here?' The measured tone had hardened.

Scott shook his head. ‘I'm not sure what you mean. It was the riot—'

‘We have someone with the name Randal in our other unit. Is that your sister?'

Holy crap!
Hilary!
‘Yes, we were together in Exeter when—'

‘Are we to find your brother here, too?'

Scott felt his skin burning. ‘No, I…
No!
Tash and I were visiting a friend from uni. We'd stayed the night.' He gabbled the words. ‘I was trying for a short-cut when—'

‘You know Jameson Brody?'

Scott gasped, taken aback by the sudden change in subject. ‘Y-yes,' he stuttered. ‘We go to the same school.'

‘Falmouth Comprehensive.'

‘Y-yes! But we're not exactly friends. I'm into sports. He belongs to the brainy set.'

Stop talking, keep the answers short.

‘But you know him?'

‘Y-es! But—'

The voice emerging from the speaker cut him off – its tone abrasive, searching. ‘How strange you failed to greet him.'
Oh God!
‘I didn't recognise him. I was half-asleep. It was the middle of the night and I was exhausted.'

‘But you did recognise him. How else would you understand the question?'

‘
No!
Not at first! I thought…' Scott stopped, suddenly aware of the huge pit yawning open beneath his feet.

‘You may go.'

‘Go?'
he echoed. He swivelled round in his seat and glanced longingly at the door, wondering if it had been a trick question.

‘Yes, Number Nine. Leave. The report from your tutor, Mr Reynolds, is excellent. Collect your belongings. A coach is waiting outside to take you back to England. You should be there by Saturday afternoon. Good day.' Cautiously, Scott stood up. He eyed the speaker but it stayed silent. It was over.
It was actually over
. Moisture crept into the corners of his eye. ‘Thank you,' he said keeping his head averted.

The unit seemed strangely quiet, the classroom deserted; an air of desolation pervaded the corridor, the dormitory walls echoing silently. Feeling a desperate need to hurry, Scott chased into the side-room, a lone polythene bag sitting on the shelves. He was going home. How or why they'd decided to let the detainees out early, he didn't know… and he didn't care.

His clothes felt strangely restrictive, his freshly washed jeans rough against his skin, but so very familiar. Scott stroked the sleeve of his jacket, detecting a faint bloodstain. The tracksuits they'd worn all week were comfortable but symbolised restraint and an absence of free will. Whether he'd be able to wear one ever again, he didn't know.

In the yard, a coach was parked up facing the open gate, its engine switched off. Scott broke into a jog.

Hilary burst from the steps of the coach.

‘Tash!'

He grabbed her tightly to him, his head buried in her hair. Never had anything smelled so good.

‘Watch it, that's not a very sisterly embrace.' Hilary took a step back, her hand still on his arm.

‘I don't feel very brotherly.' Scott smiled, a feeling of total joy springing up, his whole being light as a feather. He stared at the coach, its metal shutters hostile, a grim reminder that he was still on enemy territory. Not for long though. James peered out over the steps and he flashed a smile. He could deliver the message himself now. Impatiently, he glanced down at his watch. In a little over eighteen hours, they'd be back in Exeter. First thing, Hilary must phone the embassy – and track down Sean Terry. Tell him.

‘Get a move on, we want to get out of here,' James called.

Scott grinned. So did he.

‘Scott?'

Scott felt his shoulders move, swinging round before he could stop them, painfully aware of Hilary's nails digging into his arm. He stared into her eyes. Terror swept across them, her skin blanching ash white even as he looked.

‘
Scott Anderson
. I thought it was you. Would you believe it? I always thought we'd meet up again. But not here.'

Scott stared down into Hilary's stricken eyes. ‘Get on the coach,' he whispered.

‘Not without you.' She shook her head, both hands clinging to his.

Slowly, very slowly, he continued the movement of his shoulders. ‘Hello, Pete.' He tried to keep his voice casual.

The bony figure of the rogue agent stood alongside the open door to the unit, the corner of a wall a comfortable leaning post. He looked no different from the last time Scott had seen him on the rooftop in Lisse; his sunglasses obscuring a pitiless gaze, firmly in place even in rain, his demeanour relaxed and casual. Even his clothes appeared unchanged.

‘So what are you doing here?'

Scott launched his face into a smile. ‘I got seven days for affray. I've done my time. Just leaving.'

He pointed to the coach, noticing Beau had joined James on the step, his glance concerned.

‘Get a move on, you two – you're holding us up,' he beckoned, his hand urging them to take that step to freedom. Scott caught the note of appeal in his voice.

He took a step backwards, edging Hilary towards the coach. Pete didn't move, his eyes invisible behind their reflective shades, his hands loose in his jacket pockets.

‘Sorry, guys. But Scott and I are old friends. When I heard he was here, I didn't believe it.' Scott closed his eyes, rocking back on his heels. How long had they known? He felt Hilary grip his hand tightly. ‘I flew straight here. But two old friends? Never expected that. How are you, Hilary?'

‘I'm well, Pete. I suppose it's too much to ask, to just let us get on that coach. After all, we've served our time.'

Scott listened to her cool tones with admiration. How did she do it? His own limbs were trembling almost out of control. How amazing she was? He was so lucky to have found her.

‘You know, I can't do that, Hilary. At least, not until you've answered a few questions as to why you're here in disguise, impersonating members of the Randal family.'

There wasn't an answer to that. As if replying for him, the coach door slammed shut. Scott jumped. Hearing the engine rumble into life, he watched despairingly as freedom slowly edged towards the gates. Silently, they slid shut behind the moving vehicle sealing them in.

‘What are you going to do with us?' Scott managed.

‘How about a spot of television while we think about it? In you go.'

Pete still hadn't moved, Scott only too aware there was no need. Resistance was futile. Every atom in Pete's body was on full alert, although you'd never guess it from his casual stance. He reminded Scott of the loose frame of a scarecrow; yet the eyes behind the shades never missed a trick, the hand in his pocket able to move at the speed of a bullet to the holstered gun resting against his shoulder. Scott shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, faking calm. ‘Okay!'

Pete smiled a lazy mocking smile that made the hairs on Scott's arms stand up. Strange, how once upon a time he'd even liked the man, before he knew him to be a ruthless killer capable of murdering a friend in cold blood, without losing a moment's sleep.

‘Such a small world. I am constantly amazed at the people you come across.'

With Hilary at his side, Scott walked up the steps and through the open door into the square lobby. What an age it seemed since they first saw it. But if given a choice – face what was ahead or repeat their week from hell – he'd choose the week from hell any time.

Pete pointed to the open doorway of the medical unit, the video camera still glowing red – left on. ‘Later on today, perhaps we can have a drink together and chat about old times.' He pulled open the door at the far end, a brightly lit corridor beckoning. ‘I suggest you lead the way.'

As if all feeling had driven away with the coach, Scott trailed along the corridor, Hilary matching his steps. He didn't bother to hurry. Whatever was going to happen would happen anyway. He knew where they were heading; he had crawled along this same ventilator the night before. Behind them now were the units that presented a legitimate front to the world; in front of them, a hidden city. What had Jameson said?
With a movie house and tennis courts. Tell Jenny to come and visit, she'd enjoy the sports.

‘What about Jameson?'

‘Your pal from school? Nothing! He's a valuable member of our little team. I hear he's clever. Already getting to grips with firewalls. Can't understand them myself. Tragic waste, your dad not wanting to work with us.'

Scott ground his teeth curbing an urge to retort. What was the point, the man's ego was colossal as it was.

The corridor opened up into a wide lobby. Scott recognised it instantly. Built on several levels, it was bigger than he had thought, with his view partially blocked by the framework of the ventilation grille. Shallow half-steps separated areas into private seating, shielded by walls of greenery. Scott touched the leaf of a Japanese maple. Like the rest of the setup it was false, made from some sort of plastic. Something else that gave the impression of being one thing yet, in reality, was something else. On the wall, the vast television screen stayed mute and silent. There was no one about.

Scott pointed. ‘You said television.'

‘Not here. That's for the use of our work force.' Pete's voice was relaxed, its southern drawl very noticeable. He hadn't bothered to draw his gun, strolling behind them as casually as a tiger with sheathed claws, utterly lethal if provoked. ‘Don't bother shouting for help. We don't let things escape our control – not even noise. You'll find every room is sound-proofed.'

At the far end of the lounge area, double doors opened up into a long corridor, doors leading off on both sides like a suite of offices; smart but for middle-management only, not plush enough for the hierarchy, the bosses.

Pete opened a door, casually waving his hand towards a small table ringed by hard-back chairs. In the corner a television was playing, voices speaking in a foreign language.

‘Take a seat; someone'll be with you shortly.'

The door closed behind him. Automatically, Scott tried the knob, twisting it round and round. He gave a shrug, grimacing at his own stupidity. ‘Haven't a clue why I did that.' Releasing the handle, he hooked his foot round the leg of a chair, crashing down on the seat. ‘Hilary…'

Putting her hands on the sides of his head, Hilary twisted Scott round to face her. She stared into his eyes and raised her fingers to her lips.

Scott grimaced painfully. ‘Yeah, I know they're listening. I was only going to say sorry. Again.' He dropped his head staring down at the table, his fingers tracing a pattern on its wooden surface. ‘Recently, I seem to have spent half my time regretting stuff,' he mumbled, remembering all those times he had behaved like a kid. Getting angry in Switzerland because their holiday had been cut short; furious because his father wanted to do the right thing and help the victims of Mr Smith's ambition, storming out of the house because Sean Terry announced he was moving them to safety, even mad at Tulsa because he'd kept silent out of loyalty to his boss. He raised his head again, dredging up a wry smile. ‘Next time, I'll leave you in Falmouth.'