Barclay’s task was to deal with the information handed to him by the trigger system, which meant checking the details of callers who had used a trigger word. It was a lot of work, but he was not alone. Others, too, were feeding telephone numbers into computers, seeing whether any of the callers were known terrorist sympathizers or suspect aliens, or even just suspect. A lot of work and a lot of futile effort. Somehow, from what he knew of her, Barclay couldn’t imagine Witch picking up a receiver and saying, “Hello, Witch here. It’s about that assassination I’m carrying out at the summit...” He started to tap the first set of details into his computer.
“Barclay.”
It was Parry’s voice. By the time he turned, she’d already retreated back into her office. Ah well, this was it then. He took a deep breath and got to his feet, surprised to find his legs so steady beneath him. He walked to her office doorway and knocked once on the door. She motioned him in. She was reading something on her desk, one of many reports that would pass through her hands that day, as every day. She took off her glasses before speaking.
“Mr. Elder wants you down at the Conference Centre,” she said casually.
“What? Why?”
“His argument runs that you know as much about Witch as anyone, so why waste your — talents — here when you could be helping him.” She made the word “talents” sound like it was something rotten on her tongue. “Let me make one thing clear.” She looked up at last. “You’re not off the hook. Neither of you is off the hook. This is strictly a short-term reprieve, and it can be terminated at a moment’s notice.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
She nodded, slipped her glasses back on, and returned to her report. “What are you waiting for then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Joyce Parry waited a full sixty seconds after he’d gone before she allowed herself a smile.
Elder was waiting for him in the Conference Centre foyer. “Come on,” he said, moving away as Barclay approached. “Let’s get you some official ID.”
Elder moved briskly. He seemed very different from the person Barclay had met in a Welsh cottage garden. He looked like a man who’d discovered his purpose in life... or, perhaps, rediscovered it. He was a little disappointed, though. He’d been expecting more of a welcome. Hadn’t they worked together throughout the French adventure? And hadn’t they both received dressings-down for it?
They went to a small room where forms had to be filled in. A glowering woman then asked a few questions before transferring the details from the forms onto a card, typing the details quickly but meticulously. Then Barclay had to sign the card before moving to a booth where his photograph was taken.
“It’s just like matriculation,” he said to Elder. But Elder, leaning against a desk, said nothing in reply. At last, the camera disgorged a small plastic-coated card containing the typed details, Barclay’s signature, and a tiny photograph of him. Elder handed him a red-and-blue-striped ribbon attached to a clip at one end and a safety pin at the other.
“Clip it on to your lapel,” he ordered.
Barclay did so. “Why the ribbon?”
“Red and blue means security. There are different ones for media, general staff, delegates...”
“You’ve seen my report?”
At last Elder gave a grim smile. “Joyce gave me the highlights over the phone.”
Barclay swallowed. “And?”
“And what?”
Barclay waited. “Nothing,” he said.
Elder looked at him. “Look, number one, I wouldn’t have got caught. Number two...”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. Come on.”
Elder led the young man back through the corridors. He’d “sprung” Barclay to keep him out of Joyce Parry’s way. She was angry, and with good reason. But then Elder had done her a favor, taking the force of Jonathan Barker’s heat and spending a long Sunday in a fuggy room talking about defending the indefensible. So she was letting Elder have Barclay. He knew he was in a strong position anyway; he could always shuffle back to Wales. But he was also in a very weak position, because he wanted very much to stay put. Joyce was allowing him a lot of rope, more even than he’d expected.
After all, if the shit really did hit the fan, Joyce would be closest.
He saw that Barclay was bursting to talk to him. That was why it wasn’t a good time for them to talk. He’d wait till the young man calmed a little. He knew that Barclay’s career was hanging by a thread, but that had been Barclay’s decision, not his. All the same... It was true that Elder would have done exactly the same as Barclay all along the line. He’d done as much before. And as for never getting caught... well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Several times he’d come close to disaster; closer than he liked to admit...
A message on the already-overworked Tannoy system. “Call for Mr. Elder. Call for Mr. Dominic Elder.”
They made for reception. The place was chaotic. Flowers were being delivered, and nobody seemed to know where they were to go. One-day security passes were being made up for half a dozen sweating florists. The switchboard was jammed with incoming calls, and someone had arrived to fix the malfunctioning baggage X-ray machine. Tomorrow, the summit would begin, and on the surface all would be placid. But underneath they’d be kicking like hell.
“I’m Dominic Elder,” he said to a receptionist.
“What?” she said, cocking a hand to her ear.
“Dominic Elder,” he said, more loudly. “There’s a call for me.”
“Yes, hold on.” She picked up a receiver and handed it across the desk to him, then flipped a switch. “You’re through.”
Elder listened for a moment. “Can’t hear a thing,” he said into the mouthpiece. “It’s pandemonium here. Can you speak up?”
He listened again. Barclay, standing behind him, looked around the foyer. Some people were just entering the building. Instinctively, he knew they were French: their clothes, their gestures, the way they moved. There were two women, one a tall redhead and the other shorter, wearing a red beret and round sunglasses. As she entered the dim interior, she slipped off the sunglasses.
Barclay nearly collapsed. It was Dominique. She saw him, pointed, and laughed. Then she bounced over and kissed him right cheek, left cheek, right and left again.
“Hello, Michael. What are you doing here?”
“Never mind me, what are you doing here?”
Elder turned around. “Keep the noise down!”
Barclay took Dominique’s arm and led her away from the reception desk. He was trembling and couldn’t control it.
“I’m here with the French delegation,” said Dominique.
“I was expecting you to be in chains in the Bastille.”
She laughed again. “There is no Bastille, not for a long time.”
“Well, you know what I —”
“Yes, but your superior, the woman...”
“Joyce Parry?”
“Parry, yes. She told Monsieur Roche all about the threat posed by Witch. Our own President could be her target. So now Monsieur Roche is worried. And guess who is the French expert on Witch?”
Barclay nodded, understanding.
“There may be a punishment for me when I go back to Paris, but for now...” She opened her arms wide. “Here I am!”
One of her crowd called to her.
“Oui,” she called back, “j’arrive!” She turned back to Barclay. “I must go with them.”
“Yes, but where are you staying? When can I see you? What about tonight?”