“It’s an exciting, new investment opportunity.”
“Leonard, why the cat and mouse? Why not just tell me what’s happening? Why not tell me Randy’s cover name?”
“You’re … Three scoops of rum and raisin, please. You’re my independent auditor. If I tell you what I think, then you’ll be contaminated. I want you to come at this from … How much?”
“Is it Randy or you who’s in trouble?”
“A bit of both. If we need to meet up, remind me that we should use The Goring with a decent bottle of Meursault. This park is really expensive.”
“OK … well, I know enough about these pipelines.”
“They’re the existing ones. Why don’t you look at planned pipelines? Oh, and the CFDI: the Critical Foreign Dependencies Initiative. Have you heard of it? No, thought not. Look for what’s not on it.”
The ice-cream van began playing a jarring, jangly jingle, which blocked out some of Leonard’s next words.
“As long as you’re OK, I’ll head off back to HQ. That’s the big, new HQ, not the shit one you used to work in. Call me if you need anything,” he said, interspersed with licking his ice cream.
“I’ve had it up to here with pipelines and, Leonard, you’re a—” But the screen faded and the sounds of a London park in summer gradually reduced to nothing.
Mike settled back down on her chair and pinched the top of her nose. One of her windows was open, and she could hear the buzz of insects. Count to ten, she heard a voice in her head say.
CFDI? What’s a CFDI when it’s at home? She knew Leonard would be laughing to himself as he walked back to his office. While he was eating his rum-and-raisin ice cream, he was revelling in the fact that she would have to google it.
A few minutes later, she had learnt that the CFDI is a list of foreign infrastructure items, produced by the US Department of Homeland Security, which – if attacked or destroyed – would critically impact the USA. It had been part of the WikiLeaks data released in 2010.
As she read the list, three assets stood out to Mike Kingdom. Firstly, the Strait of Gibraltar, which narrowly separates Spain in Southern Europe and Morocco in Northern Africa, connecting the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. Mike had never looked on the strait as an ‘asset’, but when she thought about it, its strategic importance seemed obvious. Secondly, she noticed the Maghreb-Europe gas pipeline and, thirdly, the Trans-Med gas pipeline; both went across the Mediterranean to Europe. Why were these of strategic importance to the USA?
Think about it. Think about it. She was trying to discipline herself. The USA was ostensibly backing Morocco over Western Sahara while prioritising Algerian pipelines to Europe. Oh boy!
And what isn’t on the list?What a stupid question, she thought. There are a million things not on the list. She wandered over to the large window and stared at the wall of pine trees. The window really did need cleaning. She would get the ladder out of the garage beneath later. Window cleaning was a job that, bizarrely, she enjoyed. It was a combination of pine resin, pollen and red dust from the Sahara that had coated the glass. Saharan dust, she mused, if only it could talk.
There was an OCD side to Mike that she had recognised from her early teenage years in Oregon. It wasn’t a problem and probably explained why she was so good at her job (if she had a job). After walking up and down for a couple of minutes, she went downstairs to the garage. On entering it, she ran her fingers over her beautiful Italian motorbike and walked between the tractor and trailer to a set of double ladders.
Five minutes later and thirteen feet up, she was cleaning the enormous picture window with a chamois leather. This activity was akin to therapy. Peering into her room, she felt as if she were looking into her soul. The three polystyrene heads, each with its wig, dominated her view and stared back at her, not displaying any emotion, but, perhaps, representing her mood swings. The photograph of Mount Hood on the wall brought back memories of her Portland upbringing. The various pay-outs after the accident and those from a couple of private projects meant she was very comfortable financially (if your life consisted of living in a cabin above a garage and owning an Italian motorbike). Of course, the shiny window’s reflection of her bald head and pitted face also reminded her of a stark reality and, surprisingly, of the Korean war memorial in Washington, DC. She would never forget how her face was reflected in the polished granite wall with the soldiers and vegetation behind her. Suddenly, something about the ache and the deep scar on her left leg reminded her of the so-called ‘accident’, which she laid firmly at Leonard’s door.
She was in no hurry to come down from her vantage point on what was now such a gorgeous September day, making her mistress of all she surveyed. Twenty-four hours ago, she had been relatively carefree and planning a trip back to Oregon. Now, after Leonard’s visit, she was mentally in overdrive. The smells and sounds of the forest, the reflections of the coniferous trees in the window and the physical exhilaration of standing on the ladder all served to emphasise the contrast between her position and that of Randy. Was he alive or dead? Was he in some underground prison or worse? She bent her leg, stretched it out and descended.
The sun was shining in Colmar. This meant that the bridges over the canals were heavy with tourists taking selfies against a backdrop of half-timbered houses painted in bright pastel colours. The ancient buildings and flower boxes that were reflected in the water merely made the town doubly photogenic. All of this, however, was very low on Walter’s list of priorities. After a night in the hotel, he was about to be interviewed by the special prosecutor, Madame Bettancourt.
He had spent the previous evening with three colleagues from the embassy who had, thankfully, taken control. At dinner, while he ate magret de canard and drank a pinot gris produced less than twenty-five miles away, they’d had a long discussion among themselves as to why Johnny Musselwhite had chosen to use his non-diplomatic passport for his trip, given that he was performing official duties in Colmar. This no longer really mattered, of course, as he was dead. The FCO had been in touch with his family and were arranging for the body to be flown back to the UK. His Mercedes was another matter, as it didn’t have diplomatic plates, and the police seemed very interested in it.
It had been late morning when the chief of the brigade criminelle had spoken to the assembled British team and confirmed that Johnny, in all likelihood, had been murdered; all of this had quickly been communicated back to London. Presumably, the high-profile nature of the case had led to the autopsy being undertaken at breakneck speed – although that might not be an appropriate expression.
And so Walter found himself, accompanied by a senior embassy colleague called Stewart, sitting opposite Madame Bettancourt (a very striking woman of about forty-five who was wearing a black suit and pale lipstick), together with the chief of the brigade criminelle and a police officer in uniform. She spoke flawless English and made it clear from the outset that she was aware of the sensitivities of the case and, in particular, the diplomatic consequences.
“Now that we know Monsieur Musselwhite was poisoned, I would like to go over everything from the second you met him,” she began.
Walter began to think he should have a lawyer present rather than Stewart, whom he did not know anything about – except that he supported Liverpool and drank Kir royales, but most importantly, he wasn’t a lawyer.
Where’s Brendan? Walter thought, And why did he disappear, leaving an absolute junior to look after a government minister? Brendan was meant to be in Colmar as Johnny’s aide. Walter was just to be a general dogsbody. The hairs on Walter’s long arms began to stand on end, and his mouth went dry. He would definitely phone Brendan when he got back to his room.
“So, from the beginning, please, Mr Flushing,” Madame Bettancourt requested.
“I landed at Basel airport after flying from Paris, and I took a taxi, as agreed with the embassy. I was driven to Colmar and checked into this hotel. I rang Mr Musselwhite’s room, and he came down to meet me in the foyer.”
“And you had never met him before?”
“No, never.”
“What happened after you met in the foyer?”
“We talked about the transport arrangements for yesterday’s planned meeting with your minister and agreed to meet downstairs well before 9.00am. He ordered room service while we were in the foyer and retired to his room to eat and sleep.”
“Did he mention cocaine or drugs in general?”
“No, of course not.”
“He did not ask you to procure any?”
“No, of course not.”
“Was there anybody else around? Did anybody show an interest in him?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
The small private dining room in which they were talking seemed to get even smaller.
