“What happens if two people pass through at the same time?” questioned an American voice.
“They’re sent back,” answered the underling quickly. “The scanner won’t accept two people. They both go back, just in case one has passed something to the other. Then they walk back through the detector individually.”
The Home Secretary beamed. “Any more questions?” There were none. “Then I suggest we proceed.”
The tour was brisk, but Elder noticed that the underling had to field more questions than was comfortable. The Home Secretary, it seemed, had not been properly briefed; or if he had, he’d not remembered it. Well, this was only PR after all. It wasn’t important.
They saw the hall where the nine-nation summit itself would take place; the interpreters’ boxes; the rest rooms; the smaller, more intimate conference rooms; the “suites” which had been set aside for the individual delegations — all with computer terminals, photocopying machines, fax machines; the toilets; the press facilities; the monitoring room. There was even a small gymnasium. They passed technicians who were busy checking for listening devices. A policeman dressed clumsily in a suit wandered past them, reining in a sniffer dog on a leash. Cleaners seemed to be recleaning every spotless surface in the place, and behind them came more technicians checking for more unwanted devices.
“Tremendously impressive, I’m sure you’ll agree,” said the Home Secretary. There were nods, mumbled agreement. The Home Secretary, it seemed to Elder, like most politicians, equated effort with success. The more you did to secure a place, the more secure it became. Elder didn’t agree. Elder didn’t agree at all. The more sophisticated the security, the more loopholes it contained; the more people were involved, the greater the possible access for a stranger; and the more you relied on technology... Well, the word “relied” gave it away, didn’t it? You shouldn’t have to rely on anything. They only needed to take such huge precautions in the first place because central London had been chosen as the location for the summit. And the reason London had been chosen had little to do with security and everything to do with prestige.
Elder would have chosen an isolated castle, or the top of Ben Nevis, or an underground bunker. But that would never do. These were statesmen. They didn’t hide away, not at summits. Summits were events; media events, the pictures beamed around the world, photo opportunities and sound bites of the grandest kind. No statesman wanted to hide from all that good publicity. Summits would soon be run by ad agencies.
The tour was winding up. It had taken a little over an hour and a half. Drinks and canapés were being provided in another part of the building, outside the “secure zone.”
“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” said Barker. “I hope you’ll understand that my schedule is busier even than usual.” He managed by tone and intonation to turn this into a joke of sorts, so that no one minded that they were being shuffled off to a hot little room somewhere. Not Trilling and Elder, though: they were tagged by the underling and told to come with the Home Secretary. Another underling escorted the larger group away from the scene. There were backwards glances from a few of the men. They looked like they would prefer to stay with Barker, Trilling, and Elder.
“This way, please,” said the underling.
They followed the route they’d just come until they reached one of the small conference rooms. It contained a round table, eight chairs, and a water cooler, which looked newly installed. The Home Secretary drank two cupfuls of spring water before sitting down. Three men were already seated at the table: a senior armed forces commander whom Elder recognized straightaway, a representative from the SAS, and an Intelligence officer. The Home Secretary shook hands with them, then motioned for Trilling and Elder to be seated. The underling remained standing till last.
“Right,” said Jonathan Barker, looking towards Trilling, “now what’s all this about a Dutchman?”
“Mr. Elder found the connection.”
“Then Mr. Elder can tell me.”
So Elder explained about the intelligence which had come from the Netherlands, while the Home Secretary nodded, his eyes making a tour of the other men around the table, as though ensuring that they were paying attention. They were certainly paying attention. The underling, whom Elder had expected to take notes with a fountain pen, unfolded a small case, turning it into a laptop computer. He tapped away at the keys while Elder spoke, like the stenographer in some courtroom drama.
Barker was staring at Elder. “And Witch?”
“A female assassin, sir. Known to be in this country. The summit would seem a likely target of her attentions.”
“How does she operate as a rule?”
“At close range.” The question, which had surprised Elder, was a fair one and also astute.
“Then we’ve no problems,” said the Home Secretary. “She’s not going to get within spitting distance of anyone attending the summit.”
“We can’t know that for sure, sir,” countered Elder. “And besides, while the available evidence points to close range, there are plenty of possible hits she’s made at longer range: bombs, shootings...”
“Well, then, Mr. Elder, perhaps you can suggest possible ways of tightening up security?”
All eyes were on him. A couple of hours ago he would have taken up the gauntlet. He would have reveled in pointing out all the mistakes. But they were basic mistakes — such as choice of location, for example — and couldn’t be changed at this late stage. So he shrugged. The gauntlet remained on the ground.
“I’ve been over the security arrangements with some of Commander Trilling’s men. We haven’t made any recommendations.”
“Yes,” said Barker, “but that’s rather an ambiguous answer, Mr. Elder, isn’t it? You may not have made any recommendations, but did you see any flaws?”
Elder swallowed. “No, sir,” he said.
Barker seemed satisfied. “Thank you, Mr. Elder. Mrs. Parry sees flaws.”
Elder’s heart sank. He’d walked straight into a trap. The underling was handing the Home Secretary a sheet of paper.
“She thinks,” Barker went on acidly, “in retrospect that London was a poor choice of location for the summit. She feels security is difficult to maintain in a city of ten million inhabitants.” He placed the sheet of paper on the table. Elder saw that it was a letter of sorts, a memo. He’d guess, by Barker’s pique, that it had been sent to the Prime Minister direct, bypassing Barker himself.
“I have to agree with Mrs. Parry,” Trilling said quietly, “that London is far from ideal from a purely security point of view.”
“Well, it’s a bit bloody late to tell us now, isn’t it?” said the Home Secretary coldly. “It looks to me, from where I’m sitting, as though MI5 and Special Branch are attempting to cover their arses in the event that an assassination attempt does take place, and maybe even, God forbid, succeeds. That smacks to me of panic and impotence. Panic and impotence, Commander.” His eyes found Elder’s: “Panic and impotence, Mr. Elder.”