This Is Not a Pipe (Mike Kingdom Thrillers Book 2), page 8
“I’m intrigued.”
“It’s all going too well.” He paused. “You and I know how these things usually progress … and we aren’t adding a British minister dying on foreign soil into the mix.”
“So, what’s bothering you, Patrick?”
“Let’s start with the prosecutor, Madame Bettancourt. She’s superficially charming and efficient, but her priority seems to be on PR. She says all the right things in TV interviews, but then applies no pressure on what I’ll loosely call her ‘team’ … and they’re all muppets. They’ve ‘lost’ the hotel’s CCTV footage covering the period when the poisoners were in the hotel, which is the only real way that we’re going to identify the killers. If you wanted to screw up the investigation, I cannot think of a better way to do it.” As if to give some sort of physical demonstration, he screwed up the paper bag in which his lunch had been and put it in his jacket pocket.
“Had anyone looked at the footage before it got conveniently lost?”
“Yes, apparently, and whichever officer watched it can give a description of two men whom he describes as ‘typically Slavic’. But it gets worse. They’re now saying that the special lab in Lyons may have misidentified the poison. It may not be some special Russian concoction but something more run-of-the-mill.”
“It sounds as though, right at the beginning, they jumped to the conclusion that the Russians were to blame and have tried to shoehorn any evidence into their theory … or they’ve been nobbled.”
“I agree. Blaming a foreign power is terribly convenient. They clearly don’t want it to turn out to be a French plot. I’ve spoken to the hotel night manager, and he can’t remember two Russian-looking men and, by the way, is certain that they weren’t staying at the hotel.”
“What about the shooting of Walter Flushing?”
“This is what’s making me really suspicious. The night manager told me that he saw a plastic business card next to the cocaine on the bedside cabinet when he went into Johnny Musselwhite’s room with Walter Flushing. He told the local police about it because he says it wasn’t there when he went back into the room with the doctor a bit later. I asked the prosecutor and the brigade criminelle chief, and they deny any knowledge and say they’ve never found a business card in Johnny’s or Walter’s rooms or on their bodies.”
“That’s bizarre. I presume the night manager didn’t see the name on the card?”
“No, no such luck, but you see that it must have been Walter who took it or hid it, as he was the only person in the room until the manager and doctor turned up.”
“Why take it? Of all things, why take that?”
“And where is it now? The French say they didn’t find it in Walter’s room or on his body … and they found nothing on his phone to frighten the horses.”
“Are you thinking that this is why Walter was shot? To get this card?”
“Well, if not, why come back at great risk to shoot a very junior assistant? It can’t be because he saw and could identify Johnny’s killers, since Walter would have already told the manager, doctor or police when they interviewed him several times. Whoever is behind this failed to get what they wanted when they killed Johnny. They presumably thought it was on his laptop, on his phone or in his wallet. I don’t think the poisoners were looking for a business card. I think they were told to bring back his laptop, phone and wallet.”
“So how did whoever is behind this know that the card existed and Walter might have it?”
“I don’t know, but this is why I’m suspicious and not entirely buying this Russian-hit-squad scenario. I specifically asked the manager if he had told anyone about the card apart from the police and me. He said no one.”
“So, it looks like it had to come from the French police and prosecutor or someone with access to their files?”
“I can’t see who else. I’m going back to the police HQ now, and I’ll try to find out more about the card and missing CCTV footage. I also want to look at the hotel footage from when Walter Flushing was shot.”
“Let me know what you find out,” Ben said.
“Oh, and another thing to add to the list is that Brendan Dowell, the senior bod at the British Embassy who was down here sorting out the transport of Johnny Musselwhite’s belongings back to the UK, has gone AWOL or at least isn’t answering his phone. He was travelling to Paris late last night, but he’s not answering his phone this morning. He may have spoken to Walter or seen something.”
With that, the call ended, and Patrick walked slowly back towards the town centre.
CHAPTER TEN
The first thing Mike had noticed on boarding the plane was that there weren’t any overhead lockers; this wasn’t a problem as all of her luggage had been whisked away from her at Northolt. Why would they have overhead lockers? she wondered. Stupid girl! The second thing was the enormous sofa that faced across the aisle halfway down the cabin, with a large TV screen opposite. She was shown past this by a flight attendant, who looked like a model in a casual white blouse and skirt, to a large seat ready for take-off. Everything was either ivory-coloured leather, polished wood, or carpet in a bold pattern of greys and black.
Mike was also colour-coordinated: black Cleopatra wig, black leather biker’s jacket, black trousers and black trainers. She was even wearing dark eye make-up and dark lipstick. She had covered up her orange-peel complexion with foundation. The latter was a time-wasting exercise she had undertaken in her cabin. Private jet travel was a whole different world to her. As she had pulled into Northolt on her motorbike, she had wondered exactly what she was doing. Hadn’t she told Leonard that she would never go back into the field?
Before they were over Brittany, the flight attendant had served gin and tonics. Charles was sitting opposite her in a light summer jacket, chinos and loafers. He looked across and lifted his glass in a silent toast. He seemed to be enjoying her nervousness – normally, it was her making him nervous. She had said yes to a gin and tonic, but this wasn’t her normal drink, and the bitter taste made her grimace.
“Would you prefer something else?” Charles asked, and without anything being said, the flight attendant reappeared and asked her what she would like.
“Do you have a beer?” Mike requested.
“Of course. Peroni?”
“Thank you.”
Two minutes later, she was presented with one in a tall glass on a small, white tray with a bowl of crisps. Charles was still smiling. What was it about this man that irritated her so much?
Halfway through the flight, Charles left his seat to talk to the captain and first officer in the cockpit. The flight attendant, who was called Sylvia, came over to ask if Mike wanted anything, although this might have been more to relieve her own boredom. Mike, for her part, had started to relax and had decided to enjoy the experience. How often do you get to fly in a private jet? She asked if she could sit on the leather sofa and watch the TV, to which Sylvia smiled.
Sitting sideways on a plane – a seemingly empty plane as Charles and Sylvia were now out of view – felt strange. On the screen, she flicked through the channels before settling on the UK news. The PM was being interviewed by someone called Karen, against a backdrop of a newsroom seen through a glass wall.
“Prime Minister, may I ask you about the G20 summit next week in Marrakech? Why Marrakech?”
“Well, I recognise that it’s a break with tradition, but we’ve had summits for forty years, mostly in the cities of the member countries. It was a joint decision to pick destinations that widen all of our horizons going forwards. Apart from Saudi Arabia and South Africa, there are no African or Arab members of the G20, so it’s a great opportunity to include Morocco. I’m very excited about that.”
“Will Western Sahara be discussed?”
“I’m sure many things will be discussed, both in the formal sessions and outside.” Victor was giving his boyish smile.
“But Western Sahara is the bone of contention in the region. Is the UK changing its stance?”
“No, the UK and the USA – and Spain, I might add – are very supportive of the UN resolution and eventual autonomy for Western Sahara.”
“But Morocco occupies eighty per cent of Western Sahara and has done for decades. The UN peacekeeping force has been there longer than anywhere else on earth. There is stalemate, isn’t there?”
“It’s complex, I won’t deny that, but we’re all working towards a solution. Hopefully, this summit will help.”
“Nothing will happen without Algerian agreement. Are they invited?”
“No … but this isn’t a one-issue summit. Western Sahara is just one of fifty subjects that will be discussed. There are other important ones, such as the war in Ukraine.” He was trying to deflect the questioning.
“And in the Ukraine war, Algeria supports Russia?”
“No, no, that’s not true. Algeria hasn’t supported Russia. In fact, despite their close relationship, they’ve stayed resolutely neutral.”
“May we move on to energy? And speaking of Russia, how are the investigations progressing into the murder of Johnny Musselwhite in France?”
“I know there are rumours, but we need to let the French police and authorities investigate. We’re in close touch with our counterparts over there.”
“If it is the Russians who have murdered a British minister, what reprisals against them are left? We’ve used every economic one already as a consequence of the war, haven’t we?”
“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions. Let’s wait and see.”
At that moment, Charles came down the aisle of his private jet, carrying a cup of coffee, and sat next to Mike on the sofa.
She nodded at the screen. “Are you involved in any of that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Morocco, Algeria …?”
Charles looked a bit sheepish, but then he always looked sheepish. He took a sip of coffee. “I’m interested in lots of areas. That’s my job.”
“What were you doing in Algeria when this Walter guy saw you?”
“I presume he saw me at the British Embassy. I don’t make a habit of travelling around Algeria.”
“And?”
“Sorry, I don’t remember him.”
“What were you doing there?” Mike persisted.
“Is it relevant? I was exploring business opportunities – that’s my job.”
“Charles, I know what you think your job is. I’m trying to do my job, which means asking if it’s relevant because this Walter Flushing rang you up a couple of hours or so before he was shot to warn you that your life is in danger.”
“OK, I was talking to people there about a new pipeline in which I’m investing.”
“Where will it go?”
“The project is called PEGASUS. It’s planned to go to mainland France via Corsica from Algeria.”
“Bypassing the pipeline that crosses from Morocco to Spain?”
“That one’s been shut down by the Algerians for a year, and anyway, there are already other pipelines direct to Almería and across to Italy via Sicily.”
Mike smiled to herself on hearing Charles use the word ‘anyway’, which was his daughter Angelica’s favourite word – or possibly her second favourite word after ‘like’.
“The Moroccans and, probably, the Spanish aren’t thrilled about your new pipeline, I’m guessing?” She muted the TV, turned and stared at him. “Could this be a reason for someone to shoot you?”
“I, well … I …” He hesitated. “It could be … but no more than other things I’m involved in around the world.”
She then made a connection in her mind. “You said that you knew this Johnny Musselwhite. Was he involved in this pipeline?”
“Well, we had discussed it.” He was leaving things a bit vague.
“Charles?” Her voice had the tone of an exasperated parent.
“He wasn’t directly involved. Anyway, it’s none of the UK’s business if Algeria exports its natural resources to Europe by one, two, three or four pipelines. He was, however, interested in the security of gas supplies to continental Europe. The UK wants Europe to have secure gas supplies.”
“For selfish reasons?”
“Yes; if Europe has Algerian gas, it isn’t competing against the UK on the world market.”
“Charles, from what I’ve heard, Johnny Musselwhite would make Nixon look like a reliable witness … and from what I’ve read, he spent more money on cocaine than Oliver North sent to the Contras.”
“That may be true, but he was a good minister.”
“Is there anything else I need to know about pipelines that might be relevant?”
“There’s another one called GALSI that aims to go to Italy via Sardinia.”
“Are all these pipelines needed? Are you all in competition?”
“Well…” He began to look sheepish again. “A bit, but PEGASUS is different in that it also has two power cables linked to it, delivering electricity to France from a massive solar farm in the desert. And I mean massive: 12 million solar panels covering an area of 600 square miles.”
“What?” Mike needed to pinch herself. What was a girl from Portland, Oregon, doing on a private jet discussing solar farms in Algeria with a billionaire oil-and-gas magnate? She didn’t even know what ‘magnate’ meant.
“It’s no different from the XLINKS proposal from Morocco to Devon – that would use cables 2,400 miles long.”
“Huh?” This time she didn’t even manage a “What?”
“These are big projects.”
“I noticed. How much would they cost?”
“PEGASUS will cost £12 billion or thereabouts.”
Mike thought these figures were probably enough to explain why someone might want Charles dead. She had entered another world. One as far removed from her own as it was possible to imagine.
There was a pause while she weighed his answers. She changed tack. “Have you sorted out any personal protection?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. You’ll meet him at the villa. He was recommended by a friend.”
“A bit like me?”
“No, he’s much bigger.” Charles smiled.
“I meant that he was recommended by a friend like I am.”
“How true.”
Charles returned to his seat to take a phone call. As if prompted by this, Sylvia wandered over to ask Mike if she wanted access to the Wi-Fi. A few minutes later, she was on the phone to Leonard.
He picked up immediately. “Hi …” There was a pause. “Either you’ve got a grant to do up your cabin or you’re on board a Gulfstream … I recognise the windows.”
“I forgot how you CIA directors travel.”
“Hey, it wasn’t always like that! Sometimes, we had to go first class. Where are you?”
“On Charles Yelland’s plane on my way to his villa in Spain.”
“What?” He paused to take it all in. “Are you on speaker?”
“Wait, I’ll turn off speaker and video.”
“Good; I can live without pictures of your inner ear. I’m about to eat in the Subway.”
“It’s called the Underground. How many years have you lived in London?”
“No, I’m in the branch of Subway near the office, having just ordered a festive turkey snack.”
“Most people just have a mince pie. Wait a minute, isn’t it a bit early?”
“It’s midday.”
“I meant for Christmas.”
“Shop early to avoid disappointment. I might pick up an Easter egg on my way back.”
“Why don’t you eat in the office?”
“Nah, it doesn’t feel right; there are too many people watching your every move.”
“They’re spies; that’s their job.”
“Nah, I like to keep work and leisure separate.”
“How do you know the difference?
“Work is when I speak to you … What did you call me for?”
“Well, it wasn’t to discuss food – although all I’ve had today is Peroni and some cheese-and-onion crisps.”
“They have Peroni and cheese-and-onion crisps? What is it, a 777?”
“Well, this cabin is much bigger than mine in the woods. Can we leave the food for a second – anathema to you, I know – but I’m picking up funny vibes.”
“That’s the Peroni. Very soon you’ll have a following wind.” He sounded as if he had taken a huge bite out of something both wet and crunchy.
“Charles has started to tell me about the gas pipeline he’s promoting across the Mediterranean.”
“And why not?”
“Leonard, I’m beginning to smell a rat. To save you embarrassing Subway and calling the local authority health inspector, the rat is you.”
“Are you one of these conspiracy theorists?”
“Only when you’re involved.” She could hear more munching, which bothered her as she couldn’t imagine what crunched in a festive turkey roll. “What am I going to find when I get to Randy’s flat in Málaga? Am I in for any surprises?”
“Never been there. Are you going to his place in Marrakech while you’re only an hour and a half away?”
“What place in Marrakech?” she asked in mock innocence.
“No idea. So you haven’t found an address yet? I don’t believe it.”
As with everyone else faced with Leonard’s barbs, her hackles rose. His persona was so carefully crafted that even he didn’t know where reality and fiction started or finished. After only a second’s thought, however, anyone would conclude that he didn’t occupy his elevated position because he was a bumbling idiot. Most people forgot this.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The walls went on for miles, or so it seemed. They were terracotta coloured with yellow accents on the pillars; they didn’t look Spanish, maybe more Mexican. So many of the other walls they had passed during the half-hour journey were the more traditional white, in various states of repair. Mike could feel Maria’s influence even before the solid, dark-grey gates slid back to let them enter. The large, black Mercedes purred across the paved drive, all the way up to the villa. On either side, the lawns and palm trees were being irrigated by mists of water.
