organisation Simone had been concerned about, several Americans concerned with funding – both government and charity sourced – and a range of aid workers from Pakistan and Afghanistan. In addition, there were government observers from Nigeria, Pakistan, Afghanistan and India as well as Tom North and Dan Hausman from the North lab in London.
Neit her Celia Laing nor Clive Rollison knew who’d lost or claimed to have lost their contact lens but someone had to know. To have been a diversion, the incident would have had to happened close to where Simone was standing, so those nearest her at the time would be most likely to remember who had raised the alarm. Bill Andrews, the American charity administrator, had been nearby; he had been joking with her. He must know.
Steven was looking for contact details for Andrews when his phone rang: it was John Macmillan. ‘Where are you, Steven?’
‘ Leicester. Have you heard back from Med Sans?’
‘ That’s no longer relevant. I need you back here tomorrow morning. We’ve been summoned to a meeting.’
‘At their place?’
‘At the Foreign Office.’
Steven was taken comp letely by surprise. ‘Why . . . how . . . ?’
‘I dare say we’ll find out tomorrow. What are you doing right now?’
Steven told him.
‘ Better put your investigation on hold for the time being.’
Steven was sitting wondering what on Earth Macmillan had said to Médecins Sans Frontières to attract the attention of the Foreign Office when a text message came in from Tally. She apologised but said she’d have to work late. Steven returned the apology saying he’d been summoned back to London. He’d call when he knew more.
The next day Steven arrived at the Home Office just before nine o’clock and asked Jean Roberts, who was taking her coat off in the hall at the time, if she knew what was going on.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘ To be honest, I think Sir John is mystified too. It was more of a directive than a request. The pair of you are required to attend at ten a.m. with no indication given of what the meeting’s about.’
‘Someone’s been watching too many episodes of Spooks ,’ suggested Steven.
Jean appeared to smi le and frown at the same time, an ability that always amused Steven. Jean was very much of the old school when it came to respect for people and protocol. He had never known her make a derogatory comment about anyone working in Whitehall in all the years he’d known her. Quite a feat, he thought, when she was so spoilt for choice. Macmillan arrived and they had coffee in his office before going over to the Foreign Office.
Steven felt more bemused than ever when they entered the meeting room and saw who was there. He could sense that Macmillan shared his surprise as he acknowledged the presence of the Foreign Secretary, the head of MI6, the CIA chief of the London station and Guy Monfils from MSF. There were a few other people there whom he didn’t recognise.
Macmillan and he were shown to their places at the table and it immediately became apparent that the meeting had been called for their ‘benefit’. St even felt as if he were about to be interviewed for a job.
‘Thank you for jo ining us, gentlemen,’ said the Foreign Secretary with a smile that was intended to lighten the atmosphere. It was not returned by Macmillan or Steven who both remained impassive, thinking they hadn’t had much choice in the matter.
‘I’m led to believe that in recent weeks Sci-Med have been taking an interest in the tragic death of a Médecins Sans Frontières aid worker, Dr Simone Ricard. Is that right?’
‘Simone was a friend, ' said Steven. ‘I’m not entirely convinced her death was accidental.’
The F oreign Secretary took a deep breath as if this were something he had no wish to hear. He continued, ‘You attended her funeral in France where you asked questions of several people and gave the impression that you might be continuing your inquiries .
Neit her Celia Laing nor Clive Rollison knew who’d lost or claimed to have lost their contact lens but someone had to know. To have been a diversion, the incident would have had to happened close to where Simone was standing, so those nearest her at the time would be most likely to remember who had raised the alarm. Bill Andrews, the American charity administrator, had been nearby; he had been joking with her. He must know.
Steven was looking for contact details for Andrews when his phone rang: it was John Macmillan. ‘Where are you, Steven?’
‘ Leicester. Have you heard back from Med Sans?’
‘ That’s no longer relevant. I need you back here tomorrow morning. We’ve been summoned to a meeting.’
‘At their place?’
‘At the Foreign Office.’
Steven was taken comp letely by surprise. ‘Why . . . how . . . ?’
‘I dare say we’ll find out tomorrow. What are you doing right now?’
Steven told him.
‘ Better put your investigation on hold for the time being.’
Steven was sitting wondering what on Earth Macmillan had said to Médecins Sans Frontières to attract the attention of the Foreign Office when a text message came in from Tally. She apologised but said she’d have to work late. Steven returned the apology saying he’d been summoned back to London. He’d call when he knew more.
The next day Steven arrived at the Home Office just before nine o’clock and asked Jean Roberts, who was taking her coat off in the hall at the time, if she knew what was going on.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘ To be honest, I think Sir John is mystified too. It was more of a directive than a request. The pair of you are required to attend at ten a.m. with no indication given of what the meeting’s about.’
‘Someone’s been watching too many episodes of Spooks ,’ suggested Steven.
Jean appeared to smi le and frown at the same time, an ability that always amused Steven. Jean was very much of the old school when it came to respect for people and protocol. He had never known her make a derogatory comment about anyone working in Whitehall in all the years he’d known her. Quite a feat, he thought, when she was so spoilt for choice. Macmillan arrived and they had coffee in his office before going over to the Foreign Office.
Steven felt more bemused than ever when they entered the meeting room and saw who was there. He could sense that Macmillan shared his surprise as he acknowledged the presence of the Foreign Secretary, the head of MI6, the CIA chief of the London station and Guy Monfils from MSF. There were a few other people there whom he didn’t recognise.
Macmillan and he were shown to their places at the table and it immediately became apparent that the meeting had been called for their ‘benefit’. St even felt as if he were about to be interviewed for a job.
‘Thank you for jo ining us, gentlemen,’ said the Foreign Secretary with a smile that was intended to lighten the atmosphere. It was not returned by Macmillan or Steven who both remained impassive, thinking they hadn’t had much choice in the matter.
‘I’m led to believe that in recent weeks Sci-Med have been taking an interest in the tragic death of a Médecins Sans Frontières aid worker, Dr Simone Ricard. Is that right?’
‘Simone was a friend, ' said Steven. ‘I’m not entirely convinced her death was accidental.’
The F oreign Secretary took a deep breath as if this were something he had no wish to hear. He continued, ‘You attended her funeral in France where you asked questions of several people and gave the impression that you might be continuing your inquiries .
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