She was taken to a conference suite and guessed that the guy in the black suit, pointing at interactive maps of the gardens and house, speaking in an authoritative and knowledgeable voice was Special Agent White. After he finished addressing the gathered team, he strode towards Helen and held out his hand. She tried to take the measure of him, which was difficult to do with a special agent from any country. Their bread and butter was sinking into any background as the ultimate Mr or Mrs Grey. He was of medium height and build, slightly balding, tanned, pleasant and disarming: perfectly forgettable. He looked in his forties, had a kind unreadable face, and sported a large scar running down the side of his face.
‘Call me Roy.’
The US security personnel filed out and, after asking if she wanted coffee, Special Agent White got straight to business, running through what they’d achieved so far regarding their final risk assessment. He took her over to the giant electronic map of the site.
‘Snipers will be on the roof here, here and here,’ he explained. ‘We’re creating a multinational team pulled mainly from the US and NATO, but it’s my operation, so if you want anything adding, now’s your chance.’
‘I’ll be with the British ambassador. Are there photos on the lawn?’ she asked.
‘Of course. They will take place on the first and last days, in front of the palace.’ He pointed to the gravel balcony overlooking the Parc du Chateau, and she remembered the iconic view over the Grand Canal. He showed her where the world’s press would be positioned behind cordons – all previously vetted and cleared by multinational agencies, of course.
‘Should we take a look around?’ he asked. It was a welcome suggestion and one that suggested his transparency was complete. He guided her back outside and into the waiting vehicle which had brought her from the station. The driver got out and saluted Roy. They drove slowly up the Allée St Antoine and Roy pointed out certain points of security interest. Once further up, he explained the logistics of the summit. Tourists pointed to the car.
Since the Second World War, there’d been thirty NATO summits. They were opportunities for member states to discuss matters of policy, unlike the regular ministerial meetings, which were more frequent and attended by senior civil servants. One of the purposes of this round of meetings was to discuss the new initiative in Afghanistan and how to reduce the amount of heroin being farmed and exported, despite the existing eighteen-year campaign. The problem was that drug money underpinned the Afghan economy. The car turned the corner and the palace sat in front of them, pristine and resplendent. The photographs of the world’s leaders here would be spectacular.
‘Journalistic gold,’ Helen said.
Roy White looked puzzled.
‘I mean the backdrop and the history. You know, the Treaty of Versailles, signed here, in the Hall of Mirrors,’ she said.
‘Woodrow Wilson, right?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Though your senate never ratified it.’
‘And twenty years later, we all paid the price,’ he said.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said.
‘It’s all right, Ma’am – we’ve got your back,’ he said.
She smiled. Fair enough.
The sun shone gloriously on the estate, and the white stone was immaculately clean, adding to its splendour. It was tempting to get out of the car and Helen wished she were here as a VIP tourist for the day.
‘Current intelligence?’ she asked as they drove on.
‘Very low threat. Recent terror cells have been swept up in Germany, Spain and here in France over recent weeks, thanks to a joint operation between your European governments. Your borders here are at best porous and…’
‘At worst, leaking like an old Victorian toilet?’ she finished for him, and this time he smiled at her.
‘We’ll have snipers on the roof over there.’ He pointed and Helen looked up through the darkened window.
‘All roads, canals and pathways are to be blockaded from zero-one hundred hours on Sunday, to zero-five hundred hours on Thursday.’
VIPs were scheduled to begin arriving from lunchtime onwards on Sunday, including the US president and the UK prime minister.
‘Da’esh is on the back foot.’ He was referring to the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS). It was true they were damaged by recent wars in the region, but there were thousands of cells still active or sleeping across Europe, and the threat was always present. Home-grown grooming was rife, and Helen knew that around two hundred planned attacks were discovered and foiled every year in Europe.
‘So no transport in or out, apart from the obvious catering vehicles and security services?’ she asked.
‘None.’
‘What about air traffic?’
‘Covered. The area over Versailles will be closed for forty-eight hours. It’s a relatively quiet space, as you can see today. Look at that sky. It reminds me of Montana. French air traffic control have been planning for it for a month,’ Roy said.
‘I’ll report back to our ambassador – he’ll be encouraged. Thank you for giving up your time, Agent White— Roy,’ she said. ‘When do you pack up? Our ambassador is due to chair the meetings with the Afghanistan delegates after the traditional summit is over,’ she told him.
‘We stay on a week after the president leaves, Ma’am.’
‘Good,’ she said.
‘There is one development, here in France, which I was only told about an hour ago. It’s not mission specific, but it’s turned heads.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked. They were almost back at the control room. She hadn’t been given any intel before leaving the embassy and she wondered what it
