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conference.’
    Well, perhaps there is a chance of a breakthrough after all, thought Liz. The President certainly wouldn’t be attending if this was going to be just another pointless summit. As if to confirm that this was something different, the door to the room opened and a man came in, walking briskly towards the chairman’s seat.
    He looked familiar to Liz, and she was at a loss for a moment until realising why. It was Sir Nicholas Pomfret. She had never seen him in the flesh, but recognised him from his many appearances on television and in the press. A saturnine figure, bald and dark-skinned, with coal-coloured eyebrows, a hawk nose and sharp, intelligent eyes, he was a near-legendary political Mr Fixit. But he also had a solid core of government experience; for many years he’d been a civil servant at the Home Office, before becoming senior political adviser to the last prime minister but one.
    He’d left government for a while, becoming first CEO then chairman of a leading investment bank. Then, after the election of the new Prime Minister, he’d returned to number 10 Downing Street. The PM had sent him on several overseas missions as his personal ambassador -soothing ruffled Saudi feathers when an arms deal was threatened by a hostile UK press, helping various British firms with difficulties doing business in Hong Kong under mainland Chinese control.
    Most recently, he had been named as the new security major-domo , reporting directly to the PM. His appointment had caused muttering when announced, since he was a political veteran rather than a security professional. But long tenure in the Home Office meant he knew the ins and outs of both the police and the intelligence services and his status as the PM’s personal advisor meant that he had influence with foreign heads of government, so he was now generally accepted as a good thing among that most closed of worlds, the security community.
    His presence at this meeting suggested an urgency. Liz found herself sitting slightly more upright as, after a nod to the chairman, Sir Nicholas began to speak.
    ‘Sorry to miss some of your proceedings, but I’ve just come from the Prime Minister. One of the things we’ve been talking about is this conference, and I wanted to say a few words to you before you go.’
    He paused dramatically, knowing he now had everyone’s attention. ‘A month ago one might have been forgiven for thinking the prospect of another conference on the Middle East distinctly… unpromising. With only the usual participants lined up, it was hard to see how any progress could be made.
    ‘Today, however, I’m very pleased to say that things have changed. It now seems increasingly likely, thanks to prolonged and intensive lobbying by Her Majesty’s Government, in which I was privileged to play a part, that all the relevant parties to the conflict in the Middle East are likely to be at Gleneagles. Israel, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, and even Iran have indicated their intention to participate.’
    He’s revelling in this, thought Liz, though there wasn’t any doubting the importance of what he was saying. ‘Gleneagles could be the breakthrough that’s so desperately needed. It’s a great opportunity, but if it fails, there won’t be another peace initiative any time soon. I’m sure the seriousness of what I’m saying is apparent to us all.
    ‘That’s why I’m here. I must tell you in the utmost confidence that we have very recently received intelligence - highly classified intelligence - that an attempt will be made to abort the conference, possibly before it even begins. I can’t be more precise than that for the moment - the intelligence is vague, but highly reliable. Those agencies who have a need to know will be briefed in greater detail by our colleagues in MI6. I can assure you that the threat is real. Nothing must be allowed to derail the talks. Thank you for your time’. He stood up. ‘Now I have to get back next door.’
    Later,