Turning Point by Barbara Spencer

salary.
    The chauffeur slid open the partition. ‘We’ve picked up a tail.’
    Wanting to see for himself, Scott shifted round. Immediately Tulsa’s hand was across his chest keeping him in place.
    â€˜You don’t look round,’ he said. ‘How long?’
    â€˜Two blocks.’ The driver’s eyes flicked into the rear-view mirror. ‘Brown Peugeot, four cars back.’
    Tulsa took a small mirror from his jacket pocket, slowly raising it. ‘Okay, got’em, they didn’t waste much time.’ He pulled out his mobile phone. ‘How attached are you to your clothes, Scott?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because you won’t be getting them back for a while.’ He raised his voice. ‘Can you lose them?’
    Scott caught the driver’s smile in the mirror. ‘Definitely, but they’ll know we’ve tagged them. And then where?’
    Tulsa spoke rapidly into the little machine. ‘The Embassy. They might pick us up again there, but that won’t matter.’
    â€˜Not the way I go. You belted up?’
    â€˜Will be, Scott?’
    Scott fumbled for his belt, impatiently tugging at the strap where it had become tangled. Leaving the UN building after being told to take himself off, like a kid sent to bed after gate-crashing his parents’ party, why would he even bother with anything as trivial as a seat belt. Catching sight of the time, an unexpected shiver tore up and down his spine making his hands tremble, the buckle snagging against the rim of the metal holder. It was only half-past two now, less than five hours since the driver had picked them up at the hotel, free as birds, no one the slightest bit interested in their activities. All this had been arranged since. Who on earth wielded that sort of power? Or were there vehicles stashed all over Geneva, like a colony of bumper cars, waiting for just such an eventuality – his father exiting the United Nations building? And who were they? Through the blacked-out windows, he saw a group of pedestrians waiting for lights to change before crossing the road. It could be anyone. How on earth would he recognise them in a city full of people – they wouldn’t be carrying placards with the words:
repent now or die.
Scott caught a robust click as he slotted in the clasp on the seat belt. ‘Got it,’ he said.
    The chauffeur nodded. ‘Hang on.’
    Scott watched him put the heavy vehicle into manual drive. Like the Suzuki he’d ridden all round Scotland, gentle noises, like the contented rumbling of a great cat, were indications of power and speed. Expensive indications too, the limousine a top of the range Mercedes, most likely powered by petrol rather than diesel, and built for a lightning-quick getaway.
    Wondering what the man intended, Scott leaned forward watching the limousine cruise slowly towards an intersection, a four-way crossing with lights suspended above the roadway. Ahead, vehicles were filtering into three lanes – two of the three angling right or straight on, only the outer lane turning left across oncoming traffic. Four cars ahead, the lights stood at red. Four cars behind – their tail. The heavy vehicle glided to a halt, waiting patiently among the little queue of cars selecting the
straight on
option, and carefully keeping its distance from the one
in front, like it was playing the children’s game of “
Dare”.
    An instant before the lights flicked to green, as if the driver had been counting off the seconds, the engine roared, its rear tyres screaming in protest. Then they were moving. The heavy vehicle squeezed through the gap between lines of waiting vehicles to the front of the queue, the massive acceleration hurling Scott deep into the luxurious upholstery. The chauffeur spun the wheel and, at the same time stamped hard on the brakes. The rear of the car slid away. Scott’s shoulder collided heavily with Tulsa’s as the