Turning Point Read Online Free PDF Page B

and can answer anything you struggle with.’
    â€˜I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
    â€˜Not unless you’re wearing shark repellent, you won’t,’ the grit-laden voice of Sean Terry broke in.
    Bill grinned at the agent. ‘Don’t worry. I’m determined to have my fifteen minutes of fame. I’ve waited long enough, heaven knows. Can Scott wait in one of the side-rooms?’
    â€˜Jane.’ Representative Horrington beckoned his secretary. ‘Show Scott into one of the visitor booths.’
    Flashing a perfunctory smile, the young woman headed down a corridor leaving Scott to follow, every pore of her narrow frame oozing with indignation at being forced to pander to the needs of a sixteen-year-old. In the past six months, Scott had met up with dozens of officials from the US Embassy, making several visits to its hallowed portals in Grosvenor Square. Jane Oliver, with her blond streaks and lithe figure, was no different; so obsessed with American resolve and ambition there was little margin for genuine interest in people. To her, teenagers were hardly worth a moment’s notice unless they happened to be an outstanding athlete or mega-rich, when doubtless she would have encouraged them to become her best friend.
    The corridor, lined on both sides from floor to ceiling in maple, was curved, its seamless outline interrupted by door knobs regularly spaced along its polished facade. Above them, inset into the surface of the wood, were flat steel plates on which the number and status of the room – occupied or vacant – were displayed. According to the hieroglyphics, they were on the third floor, heading west.
    Opening the door, the secretary casually nodded towards the front of the booth, where a wide panel of reinforced glass offered a perfect view of the proceedings taking place in the hall below. Above it a black-panelled speaker. ‘If you flick that switch, you can listen to your dad,’ she said before hurrying out of the room, her footsteps muffled by the carpet in the corridor.
    Scott, who had been expecting something grandiose in a world-renowned organisation, was disappointed to find the room plain and rather drab, a run-of-the-mill-type office no better than they had at school. Inside the door, a raised area had been allocated for meetings and furnished with a glossy conference table, six chairs tucked neatly around it. Glancing up, he noticed hinged wall panels, allowing the space to be doubled in size if required.
    Closing the door behind him, Tulsa followed Scott down a couple of steep steps to a line of seats fronting the screen of toughened glass.
    â€˜Aren’t you staying with Dad?’
    â€˜Terry’s there. Besides I figured he’s safe enough. Not so sure about you, though, don’t want you getting into trouble.’
    Like stalls in a theatre, the meeting place for the delegates occupied the lower of the three floors, a vast area scooped out to create a feeling of space, with lights set into the ceiling seeming as far distant as stars. Representatives of the world order sat in rows behind curved swathes of polished wood, which were liberally sprinkled with white-printed name boards, microphones, and plastic water bottles. No pecking order in the seating other than the obvious: Afghanistan at one end, Zimbabwe the other.
    Mimicking the curve of the corridor, the long sweep of tables faced front where a grandiose stage presided over the proceedings. It reminded Scott of a courtroom. Presumably the chairman of proceedings, the Secretary General, sat there, the blue flag of the UN draped like a backcloth across a high-fronted desk. On either side, at a lower level, were microphones for use of guest speakers and, lower again, desks set aside for clerks responsible for recording the proceedings. To the rear of the delegates, and partially obscured by an overhang, secretaries and assistants milled about, while a battalion of linguists, the