Turning Point (33 page)

‘Not this time,' Scott said, his face creasing up into a grin.

‘Scott?' Hilary stared beseechingly, her face starkly white.

‘You know something I don't,' Sean Terry snapped.

‘He's dead.' Scott said. ‘We shot him.'

Beau gave a long whistle of surprise.

‘Was it you, Stone, or Scott?'

‘It was me.' They spoke together. ‘Does it matter?' Scott added. Sean Terry's blistering glance reminding Scott of a laser, able to cut through metal and see through lies.

Beau sat up, his gaze flipping from one to the other. ‘It probably matters to the Russians. They won't be very pleased.'

‘It was self-defence. He'd already tried once to kill us. And he admitted killing your man – Arnulf. And Scott would have been dead now if I hadn't,' Hilary begged. ‘Will I have to stand trial?'

‘Not a chance. US agent acting in the line of duty.'

‘Ex-US agent. I retired, remember.'

‘Did you? I guess I forgot to put the papers in.' Sean Terry's bleak eyes looked across at the young American girl, a hint of affection in their gaze. ‘And once the story's been leaked to the press, that'll be that. Newspapers love a good spy mystery. Tell them, he's a spy working for the Russians; they'll be in seventh heaven for months. You'll probably get a medal.'

‘But what about Rabinovitch? He's got to be punished.' Scott said.

Terry rolled his head as if the muscles in his neck were stiff. ‘What you've just said, no way is it enough to put him on trial. You overheard a conversation – period. But I can promise you, the fall-out from the rumours will lose him the election and, in the next couple of years, a load of important people will lose their jobs.'

‘But, that's so wrong.' Scott thumped his fists on his knees in frustration. ‘He's a murderer!'

Sean Terry dumped the dregs of his coffee onto the ground and stood up, his expression bleak. ‘Yeah,
ain't life a bitch
!' In the air, the muttering of the distant helicopters was joined by a new noise. It came close, the staccato rattling of its engine filling the air. ‘Come on, helicopter's landing to get your friend to hospital.'

He nodded at the unconscious figure; drops of liquid from the saline drip sliding steadily down a plastic tube into the cannula in Jameson's hand.

After a moment or two, white-coated medics came into view carrying a stretcher and an oxygen cylinder. Manhandling the stretcher into the truck, they carefully transferred Jameson onto it. He stirred and moaned. ‘Scott.'

Scott bent down and took his hand. ‘It's okay, Jay. These guys are going to get you well again.'

‘Then, can we go home?'

‘Yeah, you can go home.' He bit his lip to stop himself adding:
But I can't. They blew my home up.

‘They'll be taking him to the hospital in Clermont Ferrand. Why don't you two go with him?' Terry broke in. ‘Beau too. You'll find the other members of the coach there. We put them in a hotel for the night ringed by soldiers, so you'll be quite safe.'

Scott scrambled down onto the ground, turning to help Hilary. The soldiers ringing the truck stayed still. Their job was done. The kid and his friends were someone else's problem now.

‘Get a good night's sleep and tomorrow you can get your lives back on track. We'll finish up here and join you later, once this little lot's wrapped up.'

‘I haven't got a life to get back on track, Mr Terry.' The words spilled forcefully out of Scott's chest. ‘Men like Vasilov and Rabinovitch have destroyed it, remember?' he said, his tone bitter.

‘Scott?' Beau put his arm round Scott's shoulders. He shrugged it off.

‘What the hell are you ranting on about now?' The agent gazed at Scott bemused.

‘That guy, Arnulf. He put his life on the line for us – just like Tulsa did. Except you don't care about any of that, as long as your precious America is safe. Now he's dead and whose fault is it? It's mine!' He turned away, shielding his face. ‘I seem to make a habit of killing the people who care for me,' he spat the words out bitterly, ‘like Tulsa and my dad.'

Sean Terry started. ‘But Bill's not dead,' he called sharply. ‘We got him out. Didn't you know?'

‘
Not dead!
' Scott echoed stupidly. ‘But they found his body. We saw the flames.' He swayed and grabbed Hilary's hand.

‘Hell! Someone give this lad a seat before he collapses.'

Beau leapt off the back of the truck, calling out in French. One of the soldiers sprang to his feet, pushing Scott down onto an empty fuel drum.

‘Beau, tell those medics to hang on a minute. This is important.'

Beau nodded and disappeared at a run.

‘Dad's alive?' Scott quavered.

‘Hell, yes! Last time I heard, he was busily sorting out a computer somewhere in the North Sea.'

‘But how did he get there?' Scott echoed stupidly, his head full of cotton wool.

‘Doug and me, we took him.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘I thought we'd have a day or so. Tulsa had already left to get you when that old guy, the farmer, he phoned. He'd been tending to one of his sheep which was about to lamb. Said there was, “
one of them
bloody foreigners
,” Sean Terry quoted, his Irish orgins once again overriding his Washington accent, ‘hanging around the lane and he wondered if they had anything to do with that business last Easter. Your dad rang me. I told him to get out straight away and contacted Doug.'

‘But the body?'

‘Bill got off a lucky shot. Stopped the guy in his tracks. Doug had his quad bike and they headed for the river, where I met them. I guess that's why they torched the place. Revenge! I tried to phone Tulsa, to warn him not to let you go home, but I was too late. After that, I was playing catch up for a while.'

Beau came into view. He nodded. ‘Waiting.'

Hilary shook her head tiredly. ‘But the men at headquarters? Someone was killed there too.'

‘Not our guys. It was our booby trap, though. After Pete, we moved around. If you'd rung in, you'd have got directions.'

Hilary flushed guiltily. ‘My mobile was shot to pieces and I'd never bothered to memorise the number. Didn't think I'd ever need it again.'

Scott sat silently. He listened to the explanation but none of it made any sense except the one bit… his dad was alive. How or why, he didn't care. He was alive. Now, he really could get his life back on track. Tears swept across his eyes and he brushed them away, thinking of his mother and sister. At last, he'd know what it was like to be part of a family. And he didn't care where – not now. He got to his feet, no longer tired, eager to take up his life again, and smiled at Hilary, his eyes sparkling with confidence.

She stared at him astonished. ‘Feeling better?'

‘I'm fine. Couldn't be finer. Sean?'

‘Finally,' the agent exclaimed. ‘Why the sudden change of heart?'

‘I couldn't call you that before, because I never trusted you.' He held out his hand.

Sean Terry walked over to where Scott was standing and they shook hands. ‘I know you didn't, kid, and I respected you for it. But why do I get the feeling you're about to ask a favour?'

‘Because I am.' Scott's expression changed, becoming serious again. ‘The danger, it's not gone, is it – not all of it, anyway?'

‘Nope. But I gave you a promise back in Geneva, that we'd sort it; that still stands. Tonight brought us a heck of a lot closer to the finishing line. But, until that time comes, you'll have to remain hidden. That Rabinovitch guy, he won't lose power or influence overnight and the Russian can't have been working alone. It was all too big.'

‘I guessed all that,' Scott said, ‘because you said that the guys from the coach were being guarded by soldiers.'

‘Yeah! Sadly, from that point of view, nothing's changed. Except, this time, Hilary, and I'm damn sorry to do it to you, you'll need a new identity too.'

‘But, why?' Hilary gasped out, her manner uncertain.

‘When it comes to the trial, you'll both have to give evidence; your dad too, Scott.'

‘But I don't want to leave Falmouth,' Hilary protested. ‘I like it there. I've just made friends. Scott?'

‘That what's I said.' Scott wrapped his arm around Hilary's shoulders. ‘Except this time, it will be different. We'll be together, won't we?'

Beau chuckled.

Terry glowered. ‘So that's the favour.' He turned staring out into the dark sky, then swung back. ‘Okay, I promise, but I don't like it. To keep you safe, it's going to have to be way out of reach.'

Scott grabbed Hilary's hand. ‘I don't think either of us care where, do we, Hilary?'

Hilary laughed, ‘You might not, but I do. What about my “A” levels”. I was thinking of becoming an actress. I've had plenty of practice in the last week.'

‘Not happening,' Scott grinned back. ‘Come on, let's get Jay sorted. We can quarrel about where we're going afterwards.'

A buzzing came from the radio-mike. ‘Terry here. Casualties?' He directed his piercing gaze at Scott, and his bleak blue eyes brightened. ‘That was quick. Go on.' He listened intently making brief comments now and again. ‘How bad? Right!' He swung round to his eavesdropping audience and nodded triumphantly. ‘We got them. That guy Aquilla is already singing like a bird. Claims he's a scientist – that's it. And the American Seagar swears he wasn't in on the killings, although I doubt a jury will believe him.'

He spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘By the way, you'll need to send a recovery team into the gorge behind the unit. You'll find the body of the head man there. My agent took him out. Great gal she is too. One of the best. She'll be a big loss to the service.' Hilary blushed and laughed. ‘I'm still leaving.'

Sean Terry nodded. ‘Pity, if you'd stayed I could have partnered you up with that German guy – Haupt.'

‘Arnulf? You mean he's alive?' Hilary's voice rose into a squeak.

‘Pretty badly beaten but he's tough, he'll make it.'

He spoke into the microphone. ‘When Haupt recovers consciousness, tell him I owe him nine years' back salary.' He grinned and switched the receiver off.

‘I'm still leaving.' Hilary repeated. She held out her hand.

Her boss nodded briefly and shook it. ‘Yeah, I guess. Now, get out of here Scott Anderson and take Hilary with you, before I have a change of heart and send her to the North Pole and you to the South.'

The sub-marine nosed its way to the surface, a light covering of ice swirling across the stretch of inland water. A stiff breeze straight from the Artic kept the dark grey waves of the strait snapping at the sides of the cigar-shaped hull like an angry, snarling dog. Waiting patiently, close to shore, was a power launch, courtesy of the Canadian Coast Guard.

Further out to the east, sunrise had already taken place, the early-morning sun busily throwing out tendrils of warm air, softening the snow and ice that had fallen onto the northern land mass.

The hatch to the conning tower opened and a handful of men descended the deck, sufficient to hold the launch steady as it came alongside. To the east, an anonymous shoreline with a ribbon of hills had become plainly visible. Running into the shoreline was a deep valley whose waters bottomed out at hundreds of feet, permitting safe passage for coastal vessels and even tankers ploughing a course through to Alaska and New Brunswick. To the west, sea and sky marked the horizon; but only the captain, the navigation officer, and one seaman knew exactly where they were. Orders had arrived for the navigation officer on screen and in code the moment they left US waters. The captain already knew, advised by top brass, and he had been on hand to welcome their guests aboard. But only the one seaman, the oldest of the group, had visited the spot before. As a youngster in 1989, and still green about the gills, orders had taken them north where the oil tanker, the Exxon Valdes had gone aground in Prince William Sound. They had stayed for six long weeks, while the clean-up operation began, checking that the Ruskies weren't about to poke their noses in, and he'd visited the island. Roberts lifted binoculars to his eyes. For years he'd been one of the lads descending the deck; not these days, seniority kept him up top. Casually he scanned 360 degrees, not expecting to see anything except perhaps for a whale or two. Last trip had taken them off to Alaska and he'd spotted the rare beluga – a large white mass driving its body through the water in search of food. He stared at the rolling landscape of Prince Edward Island. Good place. He might go back one day when he retired.

The captain appeared with the two passengers, all eyes trained on them. Both wore greatcoats provided by the American Navy against the bitter Arctic wind. And both were young, little more than kids. Even bundled up, you could tell by their easy stance.

Silently wishing them luck, Roberts idly followed the path of the launch as it bounced across the waves, squinting slightly to keep it in sight as it headed for a jetty on the southern tip of the island. Okay, so he needed specs to read but he was still fit and healthy – even at forty-eight. His thirtieth year in the service and his final one. By now, he knew it all by heart; all the drills off pat. Anything they threw at him, he had done a dozen times before. But no regrets. It had been a good life, even though curiosity had to be put to bed before you signed on the dotted line. Uncle Sam expected total allegiance and he'd been happy to give it. Still, it would have been nice to know their story. It had to be a good one, if the captain came up onto the bridge at the crack of dawn especially to shake their hands.

The working party headed back up, a warning klaxon sounding impatiently. Impulsively, he hung back for another look. Okay, it was none of his business, still–

Waving from the end of the jetty were three figures – a man, a woman, and a young girl. The launch pulled alongside.

‘Roberts?'

He called automatically, ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.'

‘Roberts.
At the double
.'

The boy in the launch leapt onto the wooden jetty, hurling himself into the man's arms.

Roberts smiled and stowed the binoculars. He ducked under the metal cover of the conning tower, grinning at the irate faces of his mates waiting impatiently to close it. It was a good day after all.

The End