by Simon Mayo
They found themselves in a control room with screens showing every corner of the mint. Operators sat monitoring, recording, testing, but there was barely a sound in the darkened room. It was cathedral-quiet with any conversation conducted in hushed tones. Blanco went over to speak to a plump man in a dark suit and thick glasses who had started to get to his feet, his face distinctly unwelcoming. The agent oozed reassurance, but the other man wasn’t buying it and steered his unwanted guest into a glass-walled office, snapping the door shut behind them.
Through the door Itch noticed that Blanco had unbuttoned his jacket, revealing the strap of a holster. He leaned close to Lucy. ‘Blanco’s got a gun!’ he whispered. ‘That’s why the metal detector went off.’
She followed his gaze and nodded. ‘I suppose he would have,’ she said. ‘Fairnie and his team had plenty of guns when they needed them.’
Fairnie, thought Itch glumly. How we could do with you now.
‘Are they arguing about us?’ whispered Lucy, pointing at the gesticulating men in the office.
‘Given how many times we are being pointed at, I’d say that’s a yes,’ he whispered.
As the wrangle continued, Itch stared across what he guessed must be at least twenty screens. In front of him, the work of the entire Spanish Royal Mint was revealed. A number of screens seemed to show paper-making, although the process started with what looked like vast sheets of cotton being soaked, beaten, boiled and cut up. The workers they could see wore waterproofs and wellington boots – water was sloshing everywhere. Close-up cameras showed images of the enormous fabric sheets being dried in a tunnel of hot air, then bathed in what Itch imagined were chemicals, and dried again.
‘This is awesome,’ whispered Lucy. ‘They’re actually making money!’
Itch said nothing as he watched the rolls of cotton paper being split into four, then cut into manageable sheets – enough for maybe twenty notes each. More close-ups revealed that there were no numbers, no amounts – no words or letters at all; they bore only watermarks, which were either arches or bridges. The rest was blank.
The office door opened and the plump man emerged, seemingly placated; after one long stare at Itch, he eased himself back into his chair and picked up a phone.
Blanco came over to Itch and Lucy. ‘I said they’d hate you being here. Didn’t realize they’d hate me being here too. But we need to go. And that’ – he pointed at the screen showing the watermarked, blank sheets – ‘is where we are going. I’ve had a crash course in euro-production from my team, and I need to see this close up . . . with the help of the happy director here. Come.’ And they stood by another set of steel doors, waiting for the director to finish his call.
‘I think he’s making a point,’ said Lucy.
Eventually, just as Itch thought Blanco was about to explode with frustration, the director wandered over. He muttered a few incomprehensible words as he passed Itch and Lucy.
‘He’s a real charmer,’ said Lucy as they watched him swipe his ID card on a security panel. A solid double click, and the doors swung open.
To their surprise they were now outside again; a small buggy with a uniformed driver was waiting in front of them. The director jumped on next to him – the buggy swaying ominously; Itch, Lucy and Blanco sat behind.
‘It’s a huge complex,’ said Blanco as the electric vehicle jerked into life. ‘It’s split into two. We’re heading for the paper-mill section, where the notes are, er, assembled. The final printing takes place in a separate building.’ They travelled at surprising speed along small walkways; staff and security ducked out of the way as the buggy approached.
‘I know why we’re doing this,’ said Itch in Lucy’s ear, ‘but this feels all wrong. We should be back with my folks now. We’re not welcome here.’
Before Lucy could reply, they had parked up in front of a hangar-sized modern brick building, its huge metal doors open, and a large lorry reversing inside. The director jumped off and led them inside. They emerged into the noise and smell of industrial money making. Itch and Lucy grimaced at the heavy, cloying chemical odour, thick with moisture. In front of them bales of what looked like coarse cotton wool were being poured into a huge boiler that stood two metres off the ground.
‘They pour in some cleaning agent and cook it all up,’ said Blanco as they walked through clouds of steam. ‘It’s 140 degrees Celsius in there, and they get raw cellulose out of it. It’s a messy business.’
Lucy looked impressed. ‘You really have done your homework!’
Blanco shrugged. ‘Well, I had to fight for every fact, so I might as well use them.’
The director led them past a huge vat, where he stopped to speak to the staff.
Blanco fidgeted, clearly impatient, and continued to play the tour guide. ‘They add bleach here – get rid of the colour – then squeeze the pulp with a heavy roller. The director would tell you this himself, but he thinks it is all too sacred to explain to anyone, including me. He is an idiot. But an idiot who is in charge, which makes him dangerous. So we must wait patiently.’
‘Why are we heading for the section where they print the watermark?’ asked Itch.
Blanco glanced at the director, who was sharing a joke with a man in overalls and boots. ‘Because that’s where they add the security thread too. Before it gets any numbers, letters or signatures, they add the tricks to foil the counterfeiters.’
‘Or picric acid,’ said Lucy. The expression on Blanco’s face suggested that this was what he was thinking too.
When they eventually continued, Itch noticed that they were being watched every step of the way. People working on the boiler, the vat, and a pulp conveyer belt scrutinized them as they passed. No one smiled.
‘Don’t like this much . . .’ said Lucy quietly.
By a huge, twisting tank of circulating pulp, they stopped again, but Blanco had had enough. This time he didn’t wait for the director. ‘Stick with me. We’ll find our own way.’
When the director realized that his guests were no longer waiting, he shouted loudly. You didn’t need to understand Spanish to know what he was saying.
‘Stick with me,’ repeated Blanco. ‘He’ll catch up.’
As they rounded an enormous press squeezing gallons of water out of a sea of white mulch, they walked into a line of workers. Some wore overalls, some oversized aprons; all looked furious.
Blanco didn’t stop. ‘We don’t need to talk here. Ignore them.’
The line of staff only parted after he had shown his Centro Nacional de Inteligencia accreditation; even then he was jostled as he pushed his way through. Blanco snapped. He grabbed the bearded man who had pushed him and rammed him into the steel walls of the press. A flurry of words followed, and the bearded man spat at Blanco. Behind him, the other workers reacted with fury, shouting and gesticulating. From around the mint, staff appeared to see what was happening. Itch, Lucy and Blanco were effectively surrounded.
Itch and Lucy moved closer together. ‘There’s going to be another riot if we’re not careful,’ said Itch.
‘But aren’t we all on the same side?’ asked Lucy.
‘Doesn’t feel like it, does it?’
Itch glanced up at the security cameras which filled every visible corner. Their red flashing bulbs looked reassuring to him. ‘At least someone else can see this,’ he said, nodding at the ceiling. ‘They’ll be watching in the control room.’
‘Yes, but whose side are they on?’ said Lucy.
As Blanco wiped spittle from his face, the director ambled into view. He issued an order and his staff backed away, but his face was crimson. As he started another furious volley of words, Blanco turned away, ignoring him. Hooking Itch with one arm and Lucy with the other, he ushered them deeper into the mint.
‘Do we need help?’ asked Itch hesitantly. ‘I mean, I know you’re an agent and everything, but . . .’
‘But they seem hostile?’ finished Blanco. ‘You’re right there. But we’ll be fine.’ He pat
ted his holster.
‘Where are your colleagues?’ wondered Lucy. ‘They might help us.’
Blanco shook his head. ‘Busy. And even if I wanted to call them, mobiles aren’t allowed in here. They don’t want any photographs.’
They stopped by another bulky machine with piles of roughly cut paper stacked like hay bales. Teams carried and loaded the raw money, watching as it disappeared on yet another conveyer belt.
‘Where’s it going now?’ asked Lucy.
‘To the printers, in the other building,’ said Blanco. ‘To the watermark team. But we need our friend the director again . . .’ He nodded towards the two security guards who stood by a locked glass-panelled door with red and green lights above it. The red one was lit.
They heard the puffing director before they saw him. He was speaking into the tiny microphone of his headset, and as he approached the door, the green light came on. One of the guards pushed the door and it clicked open. The director turned to Blanco, beckoning him nearer; Itch and Lucy followed.
Up close, they saw that he was sweating. Rivulets of moisture ran down his forehead and into his eyes; his collar was drenched. It looked as though he’d been swimming in his clothes.
‘This guy is very nervous,’ murmured Lucy.
The man looked hard at her, then at Itch, and finally Blanco. ‘Dos minutos,’ he said breathlessly, and checked his watch. ‘You have two minutes only.’
On the other side of the door the climate changed. They walked along a wide tunnel lit by fierce halogen strips. Armed security men stood at every doorway; cameras watched every movement. Here the air was dry, the temperature cool. In the distance they heard the clatter of machinery, but no voices. The team responsible for watermarks and security threads had been expecting them. There were fifteen men and women, all dressed in white coats bearing the mint’s logo. They had lined up as if for an inspection. Stacked on benches, waiting to be checked, were large chrome-covered plates, each containing the images of thirty-two 100-euro notes.
Blanco wasted no time. He spoke first in Spanish, then in English. ‘My name is Félix Blanco. I work for the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. I am speaking in English too so that our friends here can understand what I am saying.’
Either everyone knew who Itch and Lucy were or they didn’t care; all eyes were on Blanco.
He continued, accompanied by mutters from some of the workers. ‘I am investigating the criminal sabotage of our currency. The notes that burned were contaminated with picric acid, titanium oxide and nitrocellulose.’ He spoke in Spanish again, before translating for Itch and Lucy, then continued. ‘It is just about possible that this happened outside the mint, but it seems unlikely as all notes are – as you know – under armed guard as soon as they leave. Which means the crime happened here. Or somewhere near here. By people you might know. Or might have seen.’
The workers remained silent. In fact, it seemed to Itch that they had frozen there, arms folded, eyes fierce; not one had moved since Blanco started speaking. It was obvious that they resented every word.
‘So I was wondering,’ Blanco went on, ‘if anyone had anything they could tell me which might help catch those responsible. I would like to speak to you all individually. The criminals have made this mint a laughing stock around the world.’
His words hung in the air, unanswered. There was nothing. No reaction at all.
Then the director looked at his watch. ‘Time is up. I’m sorry your visit has been a waste of everyone’s time. You see, we have already been asked these questions by the police. And they were more . . . respectful . . .’
‘I’m sure they were,’ said Blanco. ‘And they got nowhere. So I am arranging for a full forensic testing of the mint – specifically these rooms. You know what we’ll be looking for . . .’
The workers had started up again – their voices rapid, urgent.
‘And if we find picric acid . . .’
The director spoke briefly into his radio.
‘Or titanium oxide . . .’
The bearded man who had jostled Blanco bent down to tie his shoelace.
‘Or nitrocellulose . . .’
Two security men came through the doors.
‘Then we will know—’ Blanco broke off, realizing that the power in the room had shifted: everyone felt it. He was no longer in charge. The bearded man walked up to Blanco. His walk was slow, controlled, head down; every step looked menacing.
He stopped a few centimetres away and raised his head. Blanco reached for his gun, but the man grabbed his arm and held it firm. ‘I speak in English too so your friends can understand. We have more guns than you. Your time is up.’
Itch didn’t see the head butt – it happened too fast – though he heard it. The crack of Blanco’s nose as the man’s forehead made contact sounded like a rifle shot. As the agent staggered, he got an elbow in his cheek; Itch heard it cave in.
Lucy screamed.
Itch glanced up at the security cameras just as their red lights went out.
26
Jack and Chloe knew they were on a boat. Underneath the blindfolds, they could sense the movement beneath them, hear the noise of an engine and smell the occasional tang of sea air. When the scarves were finally removed they saw their prison room was a cabin; the porthole had been blacked out, but through a couple of scratches they could just make out sunshine and sea. But Jack and Chloe, tied to opposite corners of the pitch-dark room, knew very little else.
To start with, they had been blindfolded 24/7. Even when their seasickness was at its height, they were told not to remove the scarves that were wound tightly round their eyes.
Once the seas had calmed, their two captors allowed them to remove their blindfolds. One provided them with towels for a shower. The men made no attempt to speak, and Jack and Chloe were quite happy to keep their silence. They waited until they were sure the men had gone before they risked any conversation.
‘Would you say they are uglier than the German and the American?’ asked Jack.
Chloe considered for a moment. ‘Impossible as it seems, yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘And even stinkier.’
By the third day, they knew the routine. The cabin had two beds, one at each end, both screwed to the floor. With one hand cuffed to the bed head, their movement was limited, but once the blindfolds were off they could at least see and speak to each other.
‘You look terrible,’ said Chloe.
‘So do you,’ said Jack grimly.
Jack’s cheek was no longer bleeding, but they both sported large bruises from the blows they’d received.
‘You’ve got sick on your shirt,’ said Chloe.
‘I’ve got sick on my socks,’ said Jack, her eyes shut. ‘I’ve got it everywhere.’
‘Me too,’ said Chloe. ‘Think I’ve stopped now, though.’
‘Sea’s calmer, that’s why,’ said Jack, coughing. She reached for her plastic bottle of water, which had been left with the towels. She emptied it in swift gulps and threw it at Chloe, bouncing it off her knees. ‘Just keeping my aim in for when I get a chance to throw something hard and pointy at one of those scumbags. Can’t even bring myself to look at them when they come in. Don’t you look at them either.’
‘I try not to,’ Chloe said; then, with a catch in her voice, ‘I’m so scared, Jack.’
Jack opened her eyes. Her cousin was biting her lip and she forced herself to sit up. ‘Chloe, listen to me . . . Honestly? I’m scared too. But we’ve beaten them before. We’ll do it again. And you can’t just kidnap two girls and disappear. Someone will find us. Maybe someone will see those numbers you left. That was genius, by the way. We stay strong. We stay angry. We’re better than them.’ Jack sounded more confident than she felt, but it produced a flicker of a smile and a small nod from Chloe.
‘Do you think he’s here?’ she asked. They had barely spoken of Flowerdew since they’d been snatched, but they both knew who was responsible.
‘No. He’d have been down t
o gloat if he was.’ Jack peered at the blacked-out porthole. ‘But I don’t suppose he’ll be far away now.’
‘Where are we, then?’ said Chloe. ‘We seem to be moving, then we stop for ages. Then we move again.’ She paused, then answered her own question. ‘We’re hiding, aren’t we?’
Jack agreed. ‘Feels like it. Which means that someone’s looking for us.’
‘You haven’t got an escape plan, I suppose?’ said Chloe.
Jack pulled at the handcuff tying her hand to the bed. ‘Well, let’s make one now,’ she said. ‘OK, so we’ll jump the guard guy – the really stinky one with the ear wax.’ Chloe giggled. ‘Run to the deck and dive into the sea. Swim to safety – maybe a luxury launch owned by some crack military outfit will pick us up. Simple.’
‘Why don’t we just push them all overboard?’ said Chloe, joining in the fantasy. ‘That’d be simpler. Then we could just drive this boat back home.’
‘Nice one. I wish we had something from Itch’s rucksack – bet he’d have something to gas them with, or make their skin go green.’
Chloe laughed again, but broke off. ‘They’ll be after him, won’t they?’ she said. ‘They must have thought he’d be with us at the hospital.’
‘Lucky he wasn’t,’ said Jack.
Chloe nodded, then whispered, ‘Keep safe, Itch . . . Keep safe.’
The Spanish agent lay sprawled on the white tiles, a smear of blood marking where his face had hit the floor like a skid-mark. Itch crouched to check his breathing, then doubled up in pain as the bearded man’s foot found his stomach. His vision full of popping lights, he felt Lucy’s hands hauling him up again. He stood, leaning heavily on her shoulder and trying to focus on the faces of the staff.
Surely there must be some friends here, he thought. He could hear Lucy shouting, but he didn’t understand the words; his rasping breaths filled his ears. Slowly, hearing and comprehension returned, but as he surveyed the row of hostile faces, he realized he was wrong.
