“Ha! Nothing. He was just chewing the fat. I asked him to go because I’ve been looking at our relationship with Morocco … you know, this whole Western Sahara thing. Why do they need to fight over a load of sand?”
“Are you interested in the Algerian gas?”
“Who isn’t? That’s why Macron was there. So, I just heard someone’s blown up a pipeline. Who benefits from that apart from the Russians and any of a whole bunch of terrorists?”
“I take it that Five Eyes are on the case? I’ve only just heard.”
“I’ll give Leonard in London a kick. It worked last time over Antarctica.”
They paused while they both thought about the implications of what might be found.
“Are you OK for Marrakech?” Victor asked, as if Conrad were coming over for dinner later.
“Yes, sure. It’s a thousand miles from the gas field in Algeria. I checked. I should be safe as long as I lock my hotel door … unlike your Minister for Energy, I hear.” There was no malice, and they were used to ribbing each other.
“You may not have heard that he was murdered.”
“Sorry to hear that. Who killed him?”
“We, and the French, are busy checking. It’s early days.”
“Shall we run through our agenda, starting with Zelensky’s requests?”
And with that, the general chat finished and the virtual meeting in advance of the G20 get-together became more business-like.
It was lunchtime, and Mike Kingdom was emerging from the shower with a large, white towel around her waist and a smaller towel wrapped around her bald head. For the last three years, she had kept strange hours – working, sleeping, eating and staring out of the window as the mood took her. Her cramped shower lined with pine boards was often where she went when she had reached an impasse in her investigations – it was either that or taking a walk through the forest. The hot water beating on her head, the noise and the steam somehow took her to a parallel world for ten minutes, away from the computer screen or cell phone. Then there were the random patterns of knot holes and wood grain, which seemed to manifest themselves as faces, objects or new ideas. Today, this hadn’t happened. She rubbed herself dry, having come up with precisely zero ways to move forwards. This occurred sometimes.
Mike decided to make herself a green tea. The kettle clicked off once it had boiled, and she began pouring the water into her cup. As she carried it over to her desk, she began thinking about the kettle, electricity, switches and power supplies – like everyone, she took them for granted. She then thought about gas pipelines. Presumably, they used electricity to move the gas over vast distances. Or did they? And were the pipes underground or overground? Her mind was always running off in different directions. And what happened under the sea? There couldn’t be booster stations – or whatever they’re called – under the sea, could there? Presumably, these pipelines always went the shortest distance between landmasses, like the one across the Straits of Gibraltar, or they went the direct route, like the one bypassing Morocco that went to Almería in Spain. Was that why the third pipeline went via Sicily to mainland Italy?
She stopped. Did she really care one jot about any pipeline, anywhere in the world, ever? This would only be necessary if she was to find Randy. And she had to find Randy.
Leonard had mentioned planned pipelines while eating his rum-and-raisin ice cream. What route were these likely to take? She found that two were well advanced in their planning, but both had stalled for political, technical and financial reasons; the one to go via Sardinia to Italy was called GALSI, and the other was called PEGASUS and would go via Corsica to France.
Mike began to feel certain that Randy was involved, either constructively or destructively, with one of these three existing or two planned pipelines from Algeria to Europe. The reasons for his involvement could be any of a huge raft of possibilities, ranging from control of the Western Sahara to Russian interference in Algeria, and from historical tensions within the Maghreb to the EU’s need for gas.
It was time for her to start hacking into a few accounts to find out what was happening. She would start with the gas companies in Algeria.
Stewart McBride from the British Embassy in Paris was reassuring Walter as they walked up the steps of the prosecutor’s office in Colmar. He was explaining that various high-level conversations were taking place between London and Paris and that Walter was likely to be free to go after this interview today. When Stewart mentioned that a senior policeman from Scotland Yard and one from a unit of which Walter had never heard were on their way to Colmar, his mood went back down to just above panic level. As they entered the interview room, Madame Bettancourt was sitting in a high-backed, black leather chair behind a large desk. The room and its contents were nondescript, except for a big, fluffy toy rabbit slumped against a hat stand and a roll of wrapping paper leant against the wall. No one else was present.
“Mr Flushing, Mr McBride … please take a seat.” The prosecutor was wearing a white blouse and no lipstick this time. She had a disarming smile. “Mr Flushing, I have some good news, I think.”
Walter didn’t like the final qualification to that sentence.
“The full analysis of the poison has been concluded, and it is … something unpronounceable,” she said while lifting a piece of paper and looking at it over her reading glasses, “It is known as ‘trick’, or so they inform me. ‘Tri-’ followed by lots of strange letters and numbers. What matters is that it is very rare and relatively new. It is only used by certain states…” She paused to select the mot juste. “Certain rogue states. By the way, it is not radioactive or transmissible in any way.”
Walter was digesting the fact that he had been in a room where someone had been poisoned when he noticed what looked like his passport, upside down on her desk. He recognised the torn-off luggage labels stuck on the cover.
“This is of special importance to our two governments. While you are still a person of interest in this case, we do not believe that you had the means or motive to use this. You are unlikely to have had access to or to have administered such a drug, although you are the last person to have seen the victim alive and the first to find him dead.”
Well, that was patently obvious, wasn’t it? Walter asked himself.
“We are going to allow you to leave once you have spoken to the police officers arriving later today from London and to some other officers who are coming from Paris tomorrow. Without realising it, you may have important information. We are collating CCTV footage from various sources, and we may want to ask you about anything or anybody we find of interest. This is a very serious matter with international implications. I ask you not to speak to anyone about this apart from your embassy colleagues. Knowledge that we have discovered this poison must stay secret. You understand?”
She looked at Walter and then at Stewart.
She continued, “I will keep your passport until both interviews have been completed. I understand that you are to stay in the same hotel for the next two nights. Please leave your mobile phone turned on, as we may wish to speak with you at any time. Do you understand and do you have any questions?”
Walter fidgeted slightly in his chair.
“It sounds eminently fair,” Stewart chipped in as Walter glanced at him.
“Mr Flushing?” the prosecutor prompted.
“Yes. Fine. May I leave the hotel?”
“Yes, but don’t leave Colmar.”
Walter looked about as enthusiastic as the big rabbit.
Back in his hotel room, Walter was sitting on his bed taking stock. His mobile phone was on charge on the desk, and the window was open, letting in the sunshine. He wanted to phone his mother or sister in Cornwall, but he knew that was impossible. The next couple of days would drag on, he was sure.
He sensed he was getting annoyed. Up to this point, he had been scared about what had and might happen to him, but now he was just annoyed.
