Turning Point (32 page)

As if she had gone berserk, she cannoned into Scott, aiming punches at his chest, screaming wildly all the while. ‘
I hate you, Scott Anderson
. This is all your fault. You wouldn't let it alone. You just had to play the big shot and go back for your friend. We'd have been free. Don't you realise – free!' Alarmed and scared, Scott took a hurried step backwards, trying to keep out of range of the flailing arms. Vanished was the calm figure, the person forcing him back and back a shrieking virago.

Vasilov laughed. ‘What a delightful end to a great friendship.'

‘
Friendship!
' Hilary hurled over her shoulder, poking Scott hard in the chest. He hurriedly backed away, determined not to hit back. Hilary surged forward again, almost spitting into his face. ‘I'm sixteen, Scott. I don't want to die because of you and your stupid ideas.
I want to live
. Get it? I want to live. I'll change sides – do anything, crawl, beg – if it helps me to live.'

‘My dear young lady. Why didn't you say so before? Do step aside while I remove this pest. Then we will have a talk. I can always use a loyal servant, especially one that wants to live as badly as you.'

Hilary cannoned into Scott, knocking him to the ground and topping down on top of him.

Winded, and as much use as a beached whale, Scott caught the scrape of metal against plastic, a rush of wind, and then a sound he knew well… the crack of gunfire – two shots.

Gun in hand, the stocky figure of Vasilov stared at Hilary, his mouth open with astonishment. Half-upright, both arms at a stretch, a smoking gun clasped in her fingers, Hilary stared back; her finger poised to fire again, her gaze steady and her expression calm as if the fracas of a moment before had never happened. Slowly, his amused expression vanished, wiped away. Scott watched him crumple to his knees then tumble in a heap on the ground.

Silently, Hilary got to her feet. She walked across and stared down at the body. ‘He deserved to die, Scott. Don't ask me to be sorry 'cause I'm not. Not one bit.'

‘B-b-but,' he stuttered.

Hilary shrugged. ‘I couldn't think of any other way of reaching the gun. You didn't think it was for real, did you?'

Scott slowly sat up, his breathing still painful from the pummelling. ‘I – I –
Holy crap
. Okay, I admit it. I did,' he said shamefaced.

Hilary laughed. ‘After all this time, Scott Anderson, you thought I'd turn you in for a rat like Vasilov. I must be a better actress than I thought. Give me a hand. We need to hide Vasilov's body before any of the guards come looking.'

‘Push it over the edge. With luck, they'll think he tripped.'

The Russian's body was heavy, the fabric of his jacket constantly catching on the rough ground. Scott watched it slowly tumble out of sight. Strange, like Hilary he found himself quite devoid of pity.

He straightened up, surreptitiously rubbed at his chest bone. Acting or no acting, he'd have a massive bruise tomorrow. But who cared? At least they'd have
a tomorrow
. He swung round in panic, hearing the familiar click as the bolt on an automatic was drawn back. Then a voice cut through the twilight.

‘Vos mains en l'air.'

Scott leaned against the canvas side-panel of a truck, no energy and no hope left. Once the guy with the automatic had realised they didn't know French, he had switched to English, calling for back-up on his radio. None of the men guarding them had asked questions but Scott had the distinct impression that they were waiting for something or someone.

He scrolled back over the events of the day. An endless day. Even now it wasn't late – a little after five. It was the onset of darkness that made it seem later, the sky swathed in rain- clouds behind which the moon would hide. He recalled the words of the Russian dismissing any chance of escape. He should have guessed they would have outside patrols. Hilary's head rested tiredly against his shoulder. If they were asked he would admit to shooting Vasilov. Her pistol was gone but, so far, no one had been harmed. Quite the reverse, the soldiers lifting Jay into the truck. Now, he lay on a makeshift bed covered with a blanket. But, at least, so far they'd not been dispatched back to the detention centre. It didn't matter anyway; he had no fight left. They had won.

In the distance, he caught the sound of an engine. Someone was on the way to get them. Abruptly, it cut out. A door slammed. The noise too rough for a car more like a jeep.

Someone shouted. Unbelieving, Scott leapt to his feet staring in bewilderment at the two figures coming into sight. Even hating the man, there was no one on earth he'd rather see this minute, other than his dad and Tulsa, alive and well. But Sean Terry, his jacket flapping loosely round his bony frame, meant everything was all right.

‘Scott! Is that really you? Hilary, too! If I was a believing man, I'd say it was a miracle.' The Irish tones swept through the burgeoning darkness as the agent shinned over the tailboard.

‘This chap's come to look at your friend. I hear he's in a bad way.' He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder indicating his companion waiting to follow him into the truck, a small red cross clearly visible on the lapel of his uniform jacket. ‘
Hell!
By rights, you should be dead. I might have guessed you'd find some way to stay alive.' The maverick agent stared grimly into their faces. ‘When my man reported Pete had got you, I feared the worst. He doesn't let people slip through his fingers…'

Scott grabbed at the word. ‘Your man?
You mean Beau?
' Sean Terry nodded. ‘Then he's in terrible danger – you have to get him…'

‘
Easy! Easy!
It's okay.' Sean Terry patted him on the shoulder. ‘We got the coach safe already. So, Doc, what's the verdict?'

Scott slumped back down onto the bench, his legs no longer able to support him. He watched the medic insert a drip into the back of Jameson's hand. ‘Is he going to be okay?' ‘The drip should help. But his pulse is all over the place. Drugs?'

Scott nodded, hoping he wouldn't be responsible for yet another death. There were so many, he'd almost lost count. ‘He said he was thirsty and his eyes have gone yellow.'

‘Liver, I expect. Some sort of allergic reaction to whatever they pumped into him. But at this stage I'm only guessing. The drip will help steady his blood pressure but there's nothing more I can do till we get him to hospital and run some tests.' The medic stood up staring keenly at Scott and Hilary. ‘You two look in bad shape, too. Can I help?'

‘Tired but okay,' Scott answered for them both.

‘If you're sure?' He broke into a different language which Scott didn't recognise. The guidebook, he'd skimmed through on the plane, said that Switzerland was home to numerous languages, including French, German, Italian and something called Romansch, the sounds much crisper and harder than the French language spoken among the soldiers. One of the soldiers got to his feet saluting and replying in the same tongue. The medic switched back to English. ‘This chap says they've got a couple of guys back there with bullet wounds in them. Know anything about it?' He grinned at the expressions of alarm confronting him across the truck. ‘I don't mean the bullet wounds. Our lads said one of their patrols bumped into them shortly after picking you up and they opened fire.'

‘I expect they were looking for us,' Hilary cautiously volunteered.

‘Aah, right.'

‘Obliged,' Sean Terry called after the disappearing figure.

‘Who are they?' Hilary broke in.

‘Swiss army on manoeuvres,' Sean Terry said casually. ‘Happens every year with permission from the French. There's not much flat ground in Switzerland. This time, though, the US of A asked to borrow them for twenty-four hours.' The agent grinned suddenly, his blue eyes losing their bleak look, as if laughing at some inner joke. ‘I guess you could say these lads are the Swiss branch of the American services. And, thank God for it. If those guys had found you first, we'd have had two more corpses on our hands and been in a right mess. Who's your friend?' His keen glance raked the makeshift bed.

‘It's Jay, I mean Jameson, from school. He was kidnapped and brought here. I had to get him out. The carbon monoxide.
Holy crap!
I forgot the carbon monoxide.' Scott made to leapt off the back of the lorry and found a rifle pointing at his chest.

‘Are we prisoners?' he gasped, sitting down again.

Sean Terry laughed. ‘Not exactly. They're under instructions to keep you safe at any cost. Which means you ain't going nowhere without them.'

Scott produced a weak grin. ‘Reminds me of that Dutch policeman. He followed me everywhere too.'

‘Do I hear my name taken in vain?'

‘Beau!'

Before the soldiers could react, Scott had leapt off the back of the truck and ran across to Beau, hugging him tightly. ‘It's amazing! I'm so sorry,' he yelled.

Beau pushed him away, regarding him intently. ‘What on earth for, kiddo?'

‘For putting you in danger.'

‘Me! In your dreams. Safe as houses, I was.' Beau wrapped a friendly arm round Scott's shoulder and steered him back to the truck, calmly pushing aside the barrel of the gun aimed at his chest. The soldiers regarded him warily, not quite sure what to make of this badly dressed apparition who exuded confidence, even when ringed by soldiers with automatic weapons.

Beau called out in French. The soldier nearest to him nodded and, parking his automatic against the side of the truck, disappeared into the dusk.

Sean Terry raised an eyebrow.

‘I asked if there was anything to eat or drink. I'm sure these two kids are starving, I know I am.'

The gadget attached to Sean Terry's chest squawked loudly. ‘Hang on, I need to get this,' he muttered. ‘Yes, sir,' he said more loudly, speaking directly into the receiver. ‘Quite safe. One minute…' He swivelled round, his expression once again businesslike, as if his lapse into jollity was a once in a lifetime occurrence, his tone of voice terse. ‘What's this about carbon monoxide?'

‘Arnulf, your agent. He said to tell you they would flood the place with gas if it was ever stormed,' Hilary reported. ‘It's true, we saw the cylinders. It's haunted me ever since. Dozens of innocent kids will be killed. He saved us and they killed him… '

‘Whoa! One thing at a time.' Sean Terry held up his hand, speaking rapidly into the radio-mike. ‘I suggest using the backdoor and get the place secured.'

‘The army are invading? Because of us?' Scott burst out.

‘Sorry to disappoint,' Beau grinned. ‘It's actually because of me. Tracing the headquarters of the bad guys.'

Scott pulled a face. After all they'd gone through, it would have been nice to hear that the President of the United States had given orders personally for them to be rescued.

He looked up to see two soldiers appear round the side of the truck, their hands clutching mugs of coffee and packets of biscuits wrapped in cellophane. Beau got to his feet and, nodding his thanks, handed them round. ‘First thing I do when I get back, after taking a long shower and changing my clothes, is visit the finest restaurant in Oxford for a rare steak.'

The whirring sound of helicopter engines broke into the silence of the twilight. ‘That's the signal to begin.' Still munching, Sean Terry got to his feet, peering round the flaps at the back of the truck. ‘This time we're making damn sure they can't escape by air.' He sat down again. ‘So, Stone, it's nice to know for once that you're actually glad to see me. While we wait for news, how about you fill me in?'

She shook her head. ‘No, this is Scott's story. I only know bits – and I'm in a hurry to forget, not remember.' She shuddered. ‘But how come you're here, Beau? Wait a moment, you're not that guy at the rally in Exeter, are you?'

‘So much for not being recognised. That's twice now,' he complained.

‘But the mark on your face?'

‘Vegetable dye, it'll wear off.' Beau grinned. Leaning back against the canvas sides of the truck, he stretched out his long legs. ‘Without it, I'm far too good-looking, never would have got away with it in a million years.'

‘And the scar on your neck?' Scott gazed at the twisted mass of broken flesh. He'd be glad to get shot of this place too. He picked up his mug of coffee, wishing it was tea. Coffee might be okay in a crisis but tea was still better. ‘It's pretty realistic.'

Beau's eyes sparkled. ‘Pretty realistic! That's an understatement. It's totally brilliant.'

‘You mean it's a transmitter?' Hilary leaned forward to touch the scar, running her fingers across it. ‘It's lumpy.'

‘And waterproof. Knew every step I took. Clever blighters, these Americans. Good job too. Without it, we'd have been scuppered.' He sat up abruptly. ‘University's going to be deadly dull after crawling around the insides of a pipe for a week.' He paused. ‘Apropos of nothing at all, your mate, James, was drivelling on and on about a message he had to give to Doug Randal –
your dad
! Can't wait to hear that story. He said, “Tell Dad to phone the President of Europe”.'

All of a sudden, Scott collapsed into helpless giggles. He wasn't sure why but it was so funny.

Hilary grabbed his hand, peering at him closely. ‘You okay?'

Scott gave a loud hiccup and hastily covered his mouth. ‘I guess so,' he gasped, as a second spasm of laughter wracked his body. ‘It's…'

‘Reaction,' Beau chimed in. ‘Gets you like that sometimes.'

Scott shook his head, swallowing down the bubbling gales of mirth. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. ‘I suppose that might have something to do with it,' he agreed. ‘I was desperate to get a message to you. If you remember, I tried before that last run.' Beau nodded. ‘All I could do was tell James.
And he got it wrong.
Like a Chinese whisper.' Suddenly serious, he aimed his words at the American listening intently.

‘That phone call I overheard at the UN…'

‘You mean…
that was the President of Europe
. What the devil is the man's name?'

‘Igor Rabinovitch,' Beau's lazy tones broke in. ‘Born in East Germany in the nineteen-seventies.'

‘Hmm! Go on.'

‘The man on the other end was called Vasilov. I noticed his car leaving the UN, and recognised the Russian flag.' ‘Naval attaché, Russian embassy.'

Sean Terry rounded on Beau. ‘
Do you know everything?
'

Beau grinned, lightening the tension in the air. ‘What about him, Scott?'

‘We met him today,' Scott said soberly. ‘He gave the order for us to be killed.' He paused to exchange glances with Hilary. She shook her head warningly and he hurriedly lurched into a brief account of what had taken place that morning, the horror of being recognised moments from freedom.

Without replying, Terry switched his attention back to Scott. ‘So, which one is Mr Smith?'

Scott shrugged. ‘Neither. He just laughed when I accused the President of Europe.'

‘So who the hell is it? This man – Vasi…'

‘Vasilov,' Beau corrected.

‘Yeah! Him too. Is he Smith?'

‘No. I only figured it out a minute ago, when you said the US of A had borrowed the Swiss army.'

‘Don't follow.' Sean Terry glowered.

‘How could one person ever possess the sort of power needed to create a nuclear explosion? Look at Geneva – they were after us in minutes. And that Norwegian woman whose car was blown up? When Hilary said he wouldn't get away with it, Vasilov just laughed. Told us the coach would fall into a ravine and everyone would be killed bar the driver, and reports of the incident would get lost.'

‘You saying the Russians are behind it?'

‘I think so.'

‘Makes sense,' Beau said. ‘When the wall came down, the Russians lost out big time. Managed to get rid of the US for a few years, only to find Europe breathing down their necks. You think Smith is a sort of code-word?'

‘For the break-up of Europe, yes,' Scott agreed. ‘If they manage that, the Russians…'

‘Become top dog again,' Sean Terry added thoughtfully.

‘Bravo, youngster!' Beau applauded, clapping his hands loudly together to the astonishment of the watching soldiers.

‘What's going to happen now, Mr Terry?'

‘Why the hell can't you call me Sean?' Scott shrugged. ‘If you're right…'

‘He is,' Hilary said fiercely.

Scott blushed and Beau grinned. ‘Love's young dream.'

‘If you're right,' the American repeated his words, ‘the Russian representative to the UN will be called in to explain himself and, with luck, asked to leave. And if things go real well, Ambassadors in other European countries will get their knuckles rapped too.'

‘Is that all?' Scott said, disappointment marking his voice.

‘You can't touch people like Vasilov; accuse him of jay-walking and he'll claim diplomatic immunity all the way to the Pole. Forget it.'