Dead Line Read Free

than a quarter of a mile away.
    ‘I suggest we begin now,’ said the senior civil servant from the Home Office in a dry voice that made it clear he had chaired countless meetings like this before. Liz had missed his name when he introduced himself and now, gazing at his bland, unremarkable features, she mentally named him ‘Mr Faceless’.
    ‘As you all know, the Gleneagles conference will take place in two months’ time. We have recently learned that, contrary to previous expectations, all the main players are likely to attend, which of course greatly raises the level of the security issues. I believe all the departments and agencies represented here are already in close touch with each other and with the allies.’ And here Mr Faceless nodded towards two men, obviously Americans, sitting together on the opposite side of the table from Liz.
    ‘The purpose of this meeting is to emphasise the importance the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister attach to the success of this conference. It is vital that nothing should occur to disrupt it. Ministers feel, and I believe their colleagues in Washington feel the same, that this conference, given the wide attendance, represents the first real possibility of a fundamental breakthrough in the region.’
    As Mr Faceless continued his remarks Liz discreetly scanned the table. He had not troubled to begin with the normal chairman’s courtesy of going round the table for everyone to introduce themselves, so she amused herself by working out who everyone was. A deputy commissioner from the Metropolitan Police - she’d seen his photo in the newspapers though she’d never met him - was sitting next to a man she guessed was also a policeman, probably a Scot. Then there were the two Americans. They must be from the CIA London station; they didn’t look like FBI and anyway she knew most of the FBI characters at the embassy. One of them wore horn-rimmed glasses, a khaki summer suit and a striped tie that shouted Ivy League. The other, older than his colleague, was a heavy-set, balding man, who seized on the opportunity of a pause in the chairman’s remarks to say, ‘I’m Andy Bokus, head of station at Grosvenor.’ CIA, as she had suspected. He spoke in a flat, uninflected voice. Like a Midwestern car dealer in a film, thought Liz. ‘And this is my colleague, Miles Brookhaven. To date we have received no specific negative information relative to the conference.’
    Liz suppressed a groan. What was it with so many Americans? Met informally, they could be the friendliest, least pretentious people in the world, but put them on a stage and they turned into automatons.
    Bokus went on. ‘Liaisons with the Federal Bureau of Investigation are ongoing. So far, also negative. A representative of that agency will attend any future meeting.’ He paused. ‘The Secret Service may also attend.’
    ‘Really?’ asked a tall, sandy-haired man, leaning back languidly in his chair. Oh God! It was Bruno Mackay, an MI6 officer Liz had run up against before. She hadn’t seen him for several years but he hadn’t changed at all in that time. Still the deep tan, the sculpted nose and mouth, the beautifully cut suit that spoke of Savile Row. Mackay was clever, smooth, charming and infuriating in equal measure -and also, in Liz’s experience, deeply untrustworthy. Now he caught her looking at him, and he stared back into her eyes with cold, professional detachment, until suddenly he gave an unmistakable wink, and his face broke into a wide grin.
    Ignoring him, Liz turned her attention back towards the rest of the table, and realised that Mackay’s intervention seemed to have flustered Bokus, who was now silent and frowning at the chairman. Clearing his throat, Mr Faceless remarked in hushed tones, ‘Although it is not widely known, even among departments and agencies - and I would ask you all to protect this information for the present - there is a strong possibility that the President will attend the