Turning Point (14 page)

‘Men… we don't know who… it doesn't matter anyway… but it was Tulsa doing the shooting. He shot the man trying to kill me and he…' Scott twisted round in his seat, his face blotched and patchy. ‘Why do they want
me
dead?' he repeated helplessly. ‘What have I ever done to them?'

Hilary flung her arms round him. ‘I don't know but let's get away from here and then we can work it out.'

‘Hilary, let me speak to Scott.'

Hilary passed the phone across.

‘Scott, remember when Jay was water-skiing and got tangled in a rope and nearly drowned.'

Scott dragged his brain into gear. ‘You mean at—'

‘You got it!' Travers cut him off. ‘We'll meet you there. But it'll be at least an hour – maybe longer.'

‘Travers?'

‘What?'

‘We need money.'

‘And bandages,' Hilary called out.

‘Who's hurt?'

‘Me,' Hilary shouted. ‘We also need warm clothes and food.'

‘Just like old times.'

‘It's not a joke, Travers,' she snapped.

‘I know that.' Travers lazy-tones floated into the air. ‘But there's enough people in hysterics without me joining in.'

‘Sorry.'

‘No sweat.'

‘Travers!' Scott yelled the words, panicking at the thought of his only friend in the world closing the connection and leaving them stranded. ‘Can you get hold of Beau?'

‘We've already tried. He's not in. Left a message with the porter. I dunno. Fine life he leads; always out on a jolly somewhere. Why him?'

‘He may know where Sean Terry is. We've got to find him. Hilary's phone was smashed to smithereens when they were shooting at us.'

For a moment Travers' voice changed, becoming grim. ‘This makes no sense. I can understand them wanting your dad out of the way. But why you, Scott? Why is someone trying to kill you?'

Scott had no idea of time, nor any awareness of his surroundings, cold and damp seeping through the shattered windscreen, the air outside bitter. At some point, and on some level in his subconscious, he had made the decision not to run the engine to keep them warm in case the noise carried across the lake and someone out walking a dog reported it. He neither remembered making the decision nor why such a decision was needed in the first place. Instead, flashbacks tore relentlessly through his mind, his inner eye fixated on a scream of bullets raking the yard followed by the double explosion, with flames so high they would have been seen in Falmouth. People would have come running – fire-fighters, police. The thought was recognised but thrown away next minute, the scene continually rewinding to the moments before the explosion. Were the men firing at people in the cottage? Scott fought to make sense of the scene; a dark silhouette pumping round after round of ammunition through the kitchen door. Why? To kill living and breathing people?

Did that mean his father was dead?

No, he couldn't be!

Scott swerved away from the thought, unconsciously fixing his gaze on the phone in his lap, completely unaware of Hilary curled up against him trying to keep warm. N
o messages
. If his dad had been okay, he would have phoned. For the tenth time he scrolled through his messages. Nothing!

‘Scott? Scott?' Hilary's voice penetrated the layers of confusion. ‘Travers and Natasha are here.'

Scott glanced up, his eyes dull and flooded with pain.

‘Scott,' Hilary laid her hand on his arm. ‘I'm sure…'

‘Don't!' He snapped, unable to stomach kindness. Taking a deep breath, he forced a flicker of a smile. ‘If you can do this, I can too. But, please, don't expect me to talk about it.'

With relief, he watched the lights of the family Range Rover swing off the country road and circle the woods. He rubbed his arms vigorously, all at once noticing he was frozen to the core. ‘What time is it?'

‘Gone eight.'

‘Holy crap! We've been here for hours. I'm so sorry, Hilary. This isn't your problem. As you said, you're no longer a member of the service. You left, remember. For my sake, go home with Travers, at least you'll be warm. It's not you the police are bothered about.'

‘Sometimes, Scott Anderson, you say the most stupid things.' Hilary's eyes flashed angrily. ‘I'm not involved! So, I'm not involved when a friend gets gunned down. So I'm not involved when someone I care about…'

‘You care about me?' Scott felt hot tears override his rigid self-control and push their way to the surface.

‘Now is not the time, Scott! Remember what I told you? It's never been more true than it is now. If we're going to stay alive, we have to remain focussed. You need someone to protect you and I'm a better shot than you – that's all. So I'm staying, thank you very much. I only hope Travers has brought something to eat, I'm starving.'

Hilary wrenched open the passenger door and stumbled out. Scott followed her, watching the headlights slowly change direction, inching down the steep incline that led to the lake shore, its asphalt surface in constant need of repair as winter storms and ice broke through the layers.

Quarrying at Budock Water had been abandoned some thirty years previously, after it became cheaper to import gravel from the Baltic, and the shallow diggings had quickly filled with water. Warning signs, ignored by intrepid youngsters anxious to pit their skills against the elements, eventually led to a local water-sports company renting the site. Scott, Travers and Jameson had been among their first customers wanting to learn how to water ski, although Jay had only gone the once, put off by a freak accident with the tow rope. The enterprise survived a few summers then sailing took over. Discovering this to be a social sport, in which drinking and partying were essential elements, wealthy city dwellers found it a pleasant way to pass the weekend. Now, well landscaped and with an elegant clubhouse, the lake was clearly marked on local maps, with owners of small sailing dinghies honing their skills on the inland water before making an assault on the tidal estuary at the mouth of the River Fal.

Scott had often sailed there, both with his father and Tulsa. Tucked away from civilisation it was the perfect place to hide out, totally deserted over the winter months. Littering the shoreline like beached whales, a scattering of hulls covered with tarpaulins lay in wait, in the hope of an early spring.

Travers looked the more worried of the two, an expression rarely seen on his face unless his team were being thrashed on the rugby field.

‘I've got a flask in the car – you must be frozen, poor things. Get in and get warm,' Natasha called out, skilfully manoeuvring the trailer into position so Scott could run the Suzuki down the ramp.

Scott patted the bike affectionately, its solid presence, with its red paintwork gleaming even in the dark, somehow reassuring. As long as he had the bike, everything was bound to turn out okay. Like it had before.

Reluctantly he turned away and climbed into the back seat of the Range Rover, hoping that Hilary had already relayed the happenings at the cottage.

Natasha was tying a bandage round Hilary's hand. Fastening the last knot, she bent down and pulled a thermos flask and two mugs from a bag on the floor.

‘Here, drink this,' she said, pouring the steaming liquid into a mug and handing it to Hilary.

‘Natasha did a good job on my hand.' Hilary wrapped her fingers round the pottery to warm them. ‘It definitely looked worse than it was. Now she's cleaned it up, I don't think I'll need stitches.'

'That's a relief.' Scott caught the tremor in his voice. Taking the cup Natasha held out to him, he took a sip and cleared his throat. ‘Did your father return?'

‘No!' Travers shook his head, his dark eyes expressing his obvious concern. ‘Even I am beginning to worry – especially after this business involving you.'

‘Could they be connected?'

‘No way!' Travers exclaimed frowning fiercely at his sister.

‘Come off it, Trav. Dad's into some pretty weird stuff with the monarchist party.'

‘But it can't have anything to do with this.'

‘It might.' Natasha nodded at Scott and held up the thermos, silently asking if he was ready for a top-up. He shook his head.

‘Jameson's gone too,' Hilary said.

‘
What!
' Travers exclaimed. ‘You never said anything.'

‘Only because it's not as important as some of the other stuff we've got to deal with. Besides, he's probably on his way back now – at least I hope so. Me and Scott, we were planning to chase Wesley up after school and ask him.' Hilary took a sip of the hot soup. ‘That's before we were shot at. Thanks for this, it's a lifesaver.'

Travers scratched his head, a look of bewilderment on his broad face. ‘
Wesley?
I know he's a pain but how come he's involved?'

‘He was the one that set up the interview for Jameson,' Scott broke in.

‘And he bolted like a scared rabbit as soon as we tried to question him,' Hilary said. ‘He's obviously on a commission. But he has to know who they are. He told us…' She caught sight of Scott's puzzled expression. ‘What?'

Scott screwed up his nose. ‘I'm not sure. It's something…'

‘To do with Wesley?'

‘I don't know, that's the problem. I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's something I read or heard or…'

‘Don't bother with that now,' Travers said, his tone of voice brooking no argument. ‘Like Hilary said, you've got enough to worry about. Leave that one to me. I'll go over to his place tomorrow early. If he's not willing to play ball, believe me I'll use him as one.'

‘My God!' Natasha slowly shook her head from side to side. ‘This is worse than your worst nightmare – there's no end to it. First Jameson, then Dad,' Natasha ticked off the names on her fingers. ‘Tulsa, your dad…'

‘He's vanished, that's all,' Scott blurted out, the word echoing round and round in the empty night air.

Travers and Natasha picking up on Scott's panicky expression eyed Hilary in alarm.

With the slightest of movements, she shook her head in warning. ‘And we can't get hold of Sean Terry,' she broke into the painful silence. ‘By the way, did you manage to contact Beau?'

‘Not yet! He'll probably ring in,' Natasha said. ‘You know Beau – he's decided he wants sun and has flown out to spend the weekend at a friend's villa in Spain.' She shivered. ‘I don't blame him, this weather's the pits.'

‘He was our last hope too.' Hilary dropped her head, burying her face in her mug.

Scott shifted round to face her. ‘We'll find him. People like Sean Terry are indestructible.' Realising the double-meaning, he leaned back against the upholstery furious with himself for not picking his words more carefully.

‘What did happen to your mobile?' Travers said.

‘A bullet caught it.' Hilary held up her hand. ‘I was lucky.'

‘But if the SIM card's okay…'

‘Burned to a crisp.' Scott said. ‘We already thought of that.'

‘So what is it you know that makes you such a threat?'

Scott shrugged, the mug gripped tightly in his hands. ‘I've been wracking my brains, Travers, the only thing…'

‘Yes?'

‘Well… you know in Geneva… when we arrived at the UN…' Scott blinked and bit his lip. ‘Tulsa and I were dumped in a booth overlooking the auditorium. They're glass-fronted so you can see what's happening, and there's ear-phones fitted into the armrest of every seat, so you can listen to the speeches. The secretary, sent to show us the way, was so snooty…' Scott screwed up his face remembering. It was a relief to talk, to think about something other than what had happened to his father. ‘She couldn't even be bothered to show us how they worked. And all the dials were marked in a foreign language – well, French anyway.' He shrugged. ‘I started fiddling with them – you know, like you do – and accidentally tuned into this weird conversation.'

‘Go on,' Natasha broke in.

‘They were talking about Norway,' Scott rushed on, ‘the voice on the phone was saying about destroying it. That's why I was convinced it was him… Dad… they want
.
' Scott forced the word out, his face like an automaton's, expressionless. ‘I heard them say he had to be killed. This stuff happening today, it doesn't change my mind any. You see, they admitted to using Styrus to blackmail Norway's oil industry. Sean Terry said they'd asked for billions, enough to bankrupt them, so Dad was determined to help, to stop them. He was…' Scott faltered to a stop. ‘He
is
…' he glared fiercely, ‘the only one that knows how to override Styrus…'

‘Oh my God!' Natasha exclaimed. Reaching over, she placed a comforting hand on Scott's arm.

He shook it off. ‘I'm okay. The only thing is…' Scott stopped again, his hand crawling up to cover his mouth. ‘I never thought about it at the time… they knew I was listening.'

‘Who?' Hilary stormed impatiently.

‘I dunno – that's the point. I was so shocked when I heard them use Dad's real name… Masterson…'

‘Your name's not Anderson?' Natasha broke in.

‘No, Dad had to change it. Mr Randal knew but…' Scott paused, his words coming out stilted, ‘hardly anyone else.'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, I was so taken aback; I remember… I sort of… gasped out loud. They must have heard, and realised someone was listening to their secret conversation.
Of course
!' Scott's voice changed, all at once sounding terrified. ‘
He was looking right at me.
'

‘Who was?'
Hilary repeated.

‘The guy in the booth. It had to be him. Everyone else was busy; you know… translators… people having meetings… ordinary stuff. I remember now.' Scott's hands shook up and down in agitation. ‘But so much happened after, with them shooting at us…'

‘
Shooting?
Scott!'

‘Shut up, Tash, I'll tell you later,' Travers growled.

‘He was foreign.' Scott reined in his panic, trying to speak slowly, to dredge up bits of information that had been forgotten till now and create some sort of picture for his friends. ‘He spoke English but with a really thick accent. You know that old joke about Americans?'

‘Which one?' Hilary glared suspiciously.

‘How the hell did you ever pass for English?' Travers grinned at her.

‘I tried hard. Go on.'

‘That Americans never learn languages, they just speak louder.'

Travers snorted. ‘Sorry!'

‘Only you would find that funny,' Hilary snapped.

‘I bet it's true,' Travers protested.

‘You don't know any Americans except in old movies.'

‘Okay, point taken.'

‘I wish it was a joke, Travers,' Scott said miserably.

‘I know. Go on.'

‘Well, the man sounded like that, bullying, convinced if he spoke loud enough, he'd get through.'

‘Did you get a good enough look to recognise him again?'

‘I-I think so.'

‘What about the second voice?' Natasha passed over a pack of neatly wrapped sandwiches.

Scott nodded his thanks. ‘Quiet, you know that menacing quiet that sends shivers down your spine. He was talking about the destruction of Europe. Funny, I can still hear it.'

‘So that's why they want you dead – because you can identify them. But why is that so important? Important enough to kill you.' Natasha spoke the words slowly, thinking aloud.

‘Because they can't be seen together?'

‘Sometimes, Travers, you're a genius.' Natasha smiled triumphantly. ‘That's it! Nothing else makes sense. That's why the phone call from a public building. Because it would make world-wide headlines, if they were ever caught talking to one another.
But why?
Enemies talk all the time – it's called diplomacy, and you were in a building dedicated to diplomacy.' She paused. ‘What is it they're so desperate to keep secret? What can possibly be so important that you – a sixteen-year-old schoolboy – instantly becomes public enemy number one?'