“Don’t think so. Who is he?”
“It’s probably ‘Who was he?’ by now.”
Charles paused and his face failed to hide a nervousness. He didn’t speak, so she continued.
“He was shot yesterday, after he tried to warn you.” She pierced him with her dark-brown, almost black, eyes, which seemed intensified under her bright-red Cleopatra wig.
“Who shot him?” For Charles, the penny was beginning to drop.
“Probably the people who want to shoot you, wouldn’t you think?”
“Where was he shot?”
A cheap reply passed fleetingly through her mind, but she just said, “In France.”
Charles Yelland was one of life’s cowards – one of life’s lucky cowards, to be precise. It wasn’t until his daughter had been kidnapped that he had ever felt threatened in any way. In his business life, everything seemed to fall into place. If there was any strategy, it came from Tony, his brother-in-law and co-director. “What was he doing in France?”
“He was supporting Johnny Musselwhite, the Minister of Energy.” Mike watched his eyes for any reaction.
Charles paused and involuntarily moved a bottle of olive oil to line up with the vinegars.
“You know him?”
There was a moment’s hesitation.
She waited while he weighed up how much to tell her and then she finished with, “or should I say knew him?”
His face had already drained of any colour during the whole exchange. “Well, of course I knew him. I run a bloody oil and gas company. I also know he’s dead – I read it in The Times.”
She waited while quietly reflecting on the addition of gas to his previous oil-based portfolio.
“We were exploring a new business venture together,” he continued.
“What was it?”
“Does it matter?”
“It mattered to the people who killed Johnny and Walter, by the sound of it.”
“It’s in North Africa.”
“Algeria?”
“Well … yes.”
“That’s where Walter saw you, I expect. You have his report The Current Political Tensions in the Maghreb on your system.”
The fact she had access to his computers no longer bothered him. “I don’t remember him,” Charles confirmed.
“Who’s pissed off at this new venture?”
He shrugged, as he wasn’t used to anyone speaking to him in this way – and in his own kitchen.
“Charles, these killers are professionals. They are state-sponsored professional assassins. You can’t just spend some of your millions on extra CCTV around the estate and think everything is OK. You’re in real danger.”
She decided to change tack. “You haven’t come across my brother-in-law Randy in your travels in North Africa, by any chance?”
“I don’t know anyone called Randy.”
She remembered his cover name. “He’s also known as Ramon Ramirez?”
“No,” was all Charles said.
Victor was chairing something loosely referred to as ‘COBRA Lite’ which sounded like a beer but was actually a meeting in the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms (COBR) at 70 Whitehall in London. These rooms are used for committees that coordinate the actions of government bodies in response to major crises with implications for the UK. The poisoning by, presumably, Russia of a government minister and the shooting of a quasi-FCO employee had triggered enough alarm bells that a cross-agency strategy needed to be developed. More than a dozen people from various ministries, the secret services, police, military, Border Force and senior administrators were gathered in a room more suited to watching military action overseas. The whole end wall was composed of screens, only three of which were active at that moment. It looked more like the control room where a TV director selects camera views for the broadcast from a live event.
“OK, Ben,” the PM began, “Where are we with Johnny’s poisoning?”
Commander Ben Cox, the senior police officer present, gave out a long sigh. “The French authorities moved fast at the very beginning; for example, when they conducted the autopsy, identified the poison and started the interviews. Since then, they’ve managed to lose the hotel’s CCTV footage covering the period relevant to the poisoning of Johnny Musselwhite; the local and national police are now blaming each other. The hotel says that a police officer collected the relevant tape, but neither the police force nor the special brigade criminelle investigating says it sent anyone to do this. There was, apparently, CCTV coverage showing the likely poisoners, but the French don’t have the two individuals on their books. They must be new agents. The French have failed to locate them or their vehicle or establish their method of transit in and out of France, presuming that they aren’t based in France and haven’t gone to ground. They haven’t found Mr Musselwhite’s laptop or phone, and they’ve found nothing on Mr Flushing’s phone. Actually, just before I came here, the French sent across the records for Mr Flushing’s phone. I understand that, shortly before he was shot, he made a call to a UK mobile number and also failed to answer an incoming call from the UK, which must have been about the time he was shot. We’re following these up.”
Ben unscrewed the top from a plastic bottle of water and took a sip.
“Isn’t there any other CCTV coverage – from the street or nearby businesses?” Victor asked.
“No, and you aren’t allowed to film public spaces in France, anyway.”
“Are the French going to release some, I don’t know, photofit pictures of the suspects?”
