Helen looked at the plans of the Palace of Versailles spread out before her on the table. She was inside the British Embassy building, preparing for her visit to the historical site. A series of arrows, labels and markers denoted where it was most vulnerable. The biggest challenge regarding Versailles was its sheer vastness. The building itself had a footprint of 67,000 square metres. The surrounding estate covered over eight hundred hectares, with eight miles of paths. The perimeter would be tricky, but the dignitaries were scheduled to arrive only for the talks and then leave for their various accommodations around the city. There was nothing she, or anyone, could do by then, except brief each member state, because outside of the palace, each country represented at the summit would arrange their own security. They were to meet over three days. The good thing was that the gardens, parks, Grand Canal and the Trianon Estate (itself nearly one hundred hectares), which were all situated within the remit of Versailles, would all be closed.
She was due to meet with Special Agent Roy White, from the US president’s Secret Service, at the palace at midday. The Americans had taken over the site and assumed primary control over summit security, which was standard. No other country boasted the resources available to the United States when it came to policing events on foreign soil.
The logistics of VIPs coming in and out of meeting rooms, taking tea and lunches on the Imperial lawns, being given courtesy tours of the Hall of Mirrors and such, was all a logistical nightmare, but Helen was confident that once Special Agent White ran through the arrangements with her, she could report back to Sir Conrad, and then pack up and perhaps return to the MOD. All thoughts of resigning her commission had vanished. The new assignment reminded her why she joined the RMP in the first place: to be attached to varied and multilateral operations in her capacity as an expert in certain fields; a free agent of sorts, assigned a new role every couple of years. The type of life that fitted around such transience suited her, especially now, but it wasn’t for everyone. All her professional career, she’d missed birthdays, funerals, christenings and holidays because of her job. But she couldn’t blame her miserable personal life on her professional choices. That was squarely her own fault. She’d tried to settle down, even attracting derision from former colleagues, who could never envisage the Wrench at home, feeding babies and mopping floors. But no one had known she was pregnant. Being fit and slim meant that she didn’t show that much under loose clothing. After, everyone just assumed that she’d left a failed relationship behind because she was mis-wired and detached from her feminine instincts: an anomaly of Mother Nature. A female career soldier.
Fresh out of university, she’d told no one she was applying to the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, to become a commissioned officer of Her Majesty’s armed forces. She wanted to prove that she could do it before informing anyone, including her parents. When she finally did tell them, the week before the passing-out parade, before the grandeur of Old College, with her at the head of her female-only platoon, the only one out of nine, they were speechless. They actually cried. Some of her counterparts never told their loved ones for fear of being labelled as either lesbians or nymphomaniacs desperate to fraternise with their male counterparts: an unfair stereotype but one nonetheless. For Helen, an only child, her parents’ pride continued long after.
Years later, when she’d told them about her pregnancy, she sensed their relief that she was finally going to be, in their eyes, true to her sex and settle down. She didn’t blame them, nor did it offend her: it was their generation. And they certainly hadn’t been the only ones to raise eyebrows. Helen Scott in a serious relationship attracted derision, but for the opposite reasons. ‘You’re throwing your career away,’ a senior male officer had told her. ‘It’ll affect your report,’ another warned her. Of course, in the real world, one’s relationships were nobody else’s business, but the army was different.
Once she boarded the train to Versailles, at just before eleven, she busied herself with staring out of the window and watched the countryside fly past, as they left the depressed suburbs of the city; graffiti and concrete gave way to flat fields and the promise of cleaner air. Every journey seemed another milestone in separating herself from what had gone before. As she notched up the mileage, from city to city, she hoped that memories of Luke, her dead son, would fade, but they never did.
A Chevrolet Suburban met her at the station and she was driven to the back of the sprawling Versailles estate. The rear was underwhelming compared to the tourist entrance. She could still see the magnificent gardens as they sped towards the staff buildings, where the beating heart of the palace operated. Visitors stared at them, thinking the occupants of the car either famous or otherwise important enough to be chauffeured into the grounds. The darkened windows gave solace and the air-conditioning kept them cool. Apart from greeting her as ‘Ma’am,’ the driver said nothing and concentrated on being vigilant. He wore an earpiece and occasionally he acknowledged an instruction or observation. Helen took in the scale of the place. It must give any event organisers the jitters. The palace had played host to concerts and grand picnics in the past, but nowhere was safe from terrorism now, and a lone knifeman, missed by the scanners at the entrance, could cause havoc and instil fear: something that hadn’t been expected pre-9/11.
The US operation was being run from the Petit Trianon palace, and they drove through the busy Place d’Armes, around the back of the main palace, then along the Avenue de Trianon, flanked by linden and chestnut trees. The signature character of the Petit Trianon was
