Turning Point Read Online Free PDF

time Scott tried to break through the cordon of frost that surrounded her, she backed away snapping a putdown. Only when Travers and Mary were about did she relax, becoming once again an ordinary teenager, fun to be with.
    No wonder, Scott thought bitterly, everyone loathed Sean Terry. It was far easier to deal with Tulsa. He didn’t bother about stupid restrictions becoming a real part of the family, even taking his turn with the washing-up and vacuuming.
    â€˜Sean Terry, you know.’ The US Representative beckoned the stick-like figure forward.
    â€˜Of course I do,’ Bill said warmly. ‘Good to see you again. I believe I have you to thank for this.’
    â€˜Perhaps at the outset.’ Terry shrugged off the compliment. ‘Media wouldn’t listen. Too much pressure from the top. But then… you know how it is – things change and now they want you – like, yesterday.’
    Beyond a cursory nod, the agent had scarcely noticed their bodyguard’s existence, yet both men worked for the Secret Service – if that was what it was still called. Changes of regime, whenever a newcomer entered the White House, often resulted in agencies being amalgamated. In recent years, it had fallen under the umbrella of Homeland Security. Despite that, it remained a powerful organisation, well-financed and answerable to the President himself. For Scott, Sean Terry’s obvious rudeness was yet another reason for disliking the man, although Tulsa seemed undisturbed, concentrating on keeping his position tucked behind Bill’s right shoulder, his attention focussed on the moving figures in the corridor ahead.
    A short staircase emerged at ground level into an extensive foyer, built in the same brown stone as the exterior and garlanded with flags of the various nations. Once a gathering place for desperate individuals seeking sanctuary from their war-torn countries, it had been blitzed to create a café and public exhibition area and had quickly become a favourite meeting place of such diverse nations as Tobago and Swaziland, UN staff constantly finding excuses to slip out of their office for a shot of excellent Swiss coffee. Although that was another thing Tulsa had warned Scott about – the coffee: ‘Strong enough to grow hairs on your chest. If I were you, I’d keep it down to one cup a day, otherwise you’ll never sleep.’
    Ignoring the bright lights and the aroma of freshly-ground beans, Stewart Horrington, a career politician who had served a number of terms in the senate, shepherded the little group towards a bank of lifts. Here, polished steel plaques inscribed in three languages – French, German and English – offered precise instructions as to which part of the twenty-storey building they served. By tradition in the UN, the higher the floor the more important you were. The Secretary General and his staff occupied floors 19 and 20. By mutual consent, the five permanent members of the Security Council had taken up residence on 17 and 18, while the General Assembly, consumed by a vast logistical problem of having 192 member states, was sited on floors 1 through 3.
    â€˜It’s a great day for our country,’ the US Representative made polite conversation. ‘I had a call from the Secretary of State earlier. She commented it was like emerging from forty days in the wilderness. For the past fifteen years, diplomacy has been conducted behind closed doors, yet the Iranians have known we weren’t responsible for their nuclear debacle for at least a decade. It took regime change for them finally to admit it publicly.’ The lift slowed to a halt and the door opened. ‘You don’t sit on the floor, Bill, that’s for the representatives only; guest speakers are raised higher than that.’ Stewart Horrington grimaced to show he was joking. ‘It means everyone can see you. And my assistants will be there – they are fully briefed