“It would sort out your energy, heating and agriculture problems for decades and decades.”
“True.”
“It is a clever idea.”
“It will make some people very, very rich.”
“Not Johnny Musselwhite, unfortunately, but perhaps Charles Yelland and Yves Dubuisson, I think?”
However, they had moved on. The look they gave each other had absolutely nothing to do with the investigation or pizza but more to do with the painting on the wall above them: The Lovers by René Magritte.
Mike heard a creak. Was it a door opening?
She was at a low point and, oddly, it was worse to get so close and fail; it would almost be better to get nowhere, moan for five minutes, go for a walk through her pine forest and come back to a cold bottle of beer. She now knew there was a plot to blow up the G20 tomorrow at midday – but she couldn’t tell anyone about it. If only she could tell Leonard.
Thinking of Leonard was a mistake. It hit her like a brick.
You fat, lying bastard! It began to dawn on her. You … you …!
She had been set up by him – again. How could she be so naïve? Everyone fell for the fat, stupid façade with the lack of social skills. Clearly, he was no idiot. He had retained his position under two presidents and three CIA directors – this was unheard of. He was accepted by the leadership of the other countries in Five Eyes.
When he had turned up at her cabin just over a week ago, he wanted her to find out the threat to the leaders of the G20 in Marrakech. This was his objective. He wanted her and no one else to find Ramon – and quickly. Leonard did not leave his office in London, even when chauffeur-driven, to have a cup of coffee. The newspaper had not been dropped accidently by her armchair. He knew she wouldn’t accept the job if he asked directly; therefore, he had fooled her into searching for her brother-in-law, Randy – an offer she could never refuse. He knew all along that she was looking for Ramon Ramirez. All along, he knew the cell phone number, the address of the CIA flat in Málaga and probably the room in Marrakech. He gave her this information when she asked for it.
He needed her to find Ramon Ramirez and uncover the plot – which she had done successfully, but all to no avail.
Leonard had acted his role to perfection. He had poked fun at her for not spotting Dr Rose Delavine. It was all to provoke her into getting involved.
You … you …! But this all got her nowhere. There were still some sounds nearby, but she couldn’t identify them – probably rats. Of everything, it was the Berber that she feared the most; he seemed psychopathic. The one who spoke English and had been to university in Vancouver seemed more reasonable, but this might be a major self-delusion.
She could definitely hear movement. She looked at her watch – it was almost 5.00pm and she was hungry. It had been a very long day.
“Ow!” She heard a muffled shout from somewhere nearby. It made her try to stand back up, pulling on the chain.
At that moment, someone came through the door looking quickly left and right. It was Josie.
“Quiet!” she whispered as she assessed the situation. The situation she met was a bald, exhausted woman, bound at the wrists and feet and chained to a ring on the wall above her head. “Shit,” was her follow-up assessment of Mike’s circumstances.
“Josie, get out of here and ring everyone you know. Tell them there will be a bomb tomorrow at midday in Marrakech. Ramon next door said, ‘YSL,’ but I don’t know what that means.”
“The guy next door can’t walk, and I can’t free you. I’ll be back – trust me.” With that, she left the cowshed.
There was silence again, and Mike was left working out what had just happened.
“Mike?” came a mumbling voice from next door.
“Ramon?”
There was one tap and a mumbled, “Yes.”
“Are you OK?”
“My legs aren’t working, and my jaw seems a bit loose. Who’s that woman?” Despite having had the tape torn from his mouth by Josie, he was having trouble speaking.
“She’s Josie, a backpacker from Australia; I met her in Essaouira. She told me she was ex-special forces. I have no idea how and why she’s here.”
“Did you understand YSL?”
“No.”
“It’s the Yves Saint Laurent villa in Marrakech. All the heads of state will be there on Friday, with a group photograph being taken at midday. They’ve planted a bomb.”
“We need to tell Leonard … the shit,” she added, “We will – if Josie comes back. I told her to ring everyone she knows, but I think she has her own plan.”
They fell silent, but that didn’t last long.
“Why the two copies of 1421? It’s been bugging me.”
“I suffer from dyscalculia; I have trouble remembering numbers. It’s my PIN.”
“You are joking? I thought it was the number for your safe in Marrakech or that you were interested in early Chinese exploration of Africa.”
“That’s Hassan’s safe, not mine.” He sounded as if he was dribbling as he spoke.
“Are you American?”
“Florida. You?”
