Page 126 of The Atlas Maneuver
That was true. But Cassiopeia said, “How would anyone be able to establish a claim? The gold has been re-smelted. There are no records of anything. Nobody could ever prove a thing. And eighty years have passed.”
“Unfortunately,” Jeanne said, “that will not stop them from trying. This much wealth will attract an unprecedented storm of attention. Perhaps enough that the gold will never leave this vault.” She faced Koger. “We still have a problem outside with your employer.”
Koger smiled. “I know exactly how to deal with them.”
But something else was on Cassiopeia’s mind.
Cotton.
And what was happening in Morocco.
CHAPTER 72
COTTON FOLLOWED THE GUARDS AS THEY ALL APPROACHED THE EVENTtent. Walls on all sides shielded what was happening inside, but there was an entrance straight ahead, past a huge fig tree ripe with fruit, manned by two guards. The murmur of many conversations could be heard. The travel and constant alertness had left him weary, but his mind and body remained sharp.
“That whole tent could be a bomb,” he whispered to Aiko.
“How do we convey that fact to these people, without sounding insane?”
“I don’t know. But you were right. We have to be sure before acting. We could be wrong. What we found could have been planted. Why? I have no idea, but this whole thing fits into the category of extraordinary. Let’s find Kelly and the people who came in that van.”
He turned to one of the guards and explained that he was looking for an American woman, offering a description. The guard told him that one had arrived earlier and was taken inside the main house.
“Lead the way there,” he ordered, then he turned to Aiko. “I’ll check that out. Can you see about the tent and the people who brought it?”
She nodded and walked off with one of the guards.
He followed the other man to a side door that led inside the main house. The interior was a mix of Moroccan latticework, tadelakt polished walls, exquisite mosaic-tiled columns, and marble floors dotted by Berber rugs. Muted palettes of cream, rose, pale green, chalk blue, yellow, and white cast an Old World charm. A woman in a black burka appeared and said she was the night maid. The guard explained who they were looking for and she led them upstairs to a closed bedroom door. Cotton entered to find the room empty, but the clothes Kelly had been wearing back at the inn were littered across the bed. She’d obviously changed. But at least he knew she was here.
In the tent?
God, he hoped not.
He stepped to the window and gazed down to the garden. The two guards remained at their post outside the tent entrance. The conversations from earlier had died down. Someone was speaking inside the tent, the voice amplified. A woman. But he could not make out the words. Applause came from inside. Two men appeared and approached the guards from either side of the large tent. They drew weapons and fired a single shot into the head of each. No retort. Sound-suppressed.
They then zipped the tent panels shut and fled, heading his way.
AIKO WAS IMPRESSED WITHMALONE.
She’d always liked American vitality. It was what set them apart. As a nation they were headstrong, proud, and ideologically confused. But no one could match their spirit, their eagerness to tackle a problem, and their refusal to fail. Like a wolf, cunning and hungry, always on the prowl.
Malone seemed the perfect example.
He’d pushed their way right into the compound.
She’d carefully explored the outside of the tent. Now on its farside away from the entrance. She’d sent the guard off in another direction. Her nerves pulsed each time the wind rustled. She kept moving, feeling the tension settle over her muscles like a cold, sodden blanket.
Could the tent explode at any moment?
CATHERINE STOOD AT THE PODIUM AND ADDRESSED HER GUESTS. SHEwas a confident performer, the text she was reading the product of inspired minds, carefully drafted, redrafted, and splattered with common sense. But she told herself not to project the air of a conquering general surveying territory claimed in battle. This war was not over, its outcome remained in doubt. Her job? To bring home victory.
“You may be wondering why the Bank of St. George cares so much about your financial independence. Why the bank thinks bitcoin is a smart move. Why it matters even to consider such a thing.”
She paused.
“It’s quite simple. The time has come to dissolve the bond between currency and state control. For centuries we have been betrayed, lied to, stolen from, extorted from, taxed, monopolized, spied on, inspected, assessed, authorized, registered, deceived, and reformed. We have been economically disarmed, disabled, held hostage, impoverished, enervated, exhausted, and enslaved by debt.”
Another pause.
