Itchcraft (28 page)

‘Well, I seem to have upset my mother again,’ said Itch. ‘I think she was about to tell me that this is all my fault.’

‘Do you need to stay . . .?’

‘I’ll ask. What do you want me to do?’

The Spaniard looked from Itch to Lucy; his tone was business-like. ‘You and your friends witnessed a number of crimes being committed while you were caught up in the riots here. Some of them are of interest to us. I know you’re here to find your sister and cousin, but if you had a few moments . . .? We have an incident room at the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre – Real Casa de la Moneda.’

Itch looked blank.

‘Ah,’ said Blanco. ‘Apologies. It is the Royal Mint. They are of course most distressed by recent events. It is ten minutes away.’ He looked expectantly at Itch.

Itch looked at Lucy.

‘We have some time, I think, before they fly us back,’ she said. ‘If your folks are OK with it . . .’ She shrugged.

Itch nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘If you clear it with my parents.’

Blanco smiled and bowed slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said, and strode to where Nicholas and Jude were huddled with Jon and Zoe.

With the help of a wailing police siren, the journey through the rammed streets of Madrid took less than ten minutes. Blanco kept up a running commentary as they weaved their way along the Plaza de la Independencia and Calle de Alcalá. The signs of protest were everywhere – from scrawled graffiti and boarded-up windows to the protesters’ tents in a park.

Their progress was halted briefly by a burned-out car being winched onto a transporter.

‘Why are we doing this?’ Itch said quietly to Lucy, as Blanco continued his chatter. ‘We should be finding Chloe and Jack, not helping the police with their enquiries. Maybe we should go back . . .’

‘He said it wouldn’t take long,’ said Lucy. ‘We’d only be sitting in that room, making conversation with people you don’t want to talk to. We might as well . . .’

And suddenly they were there. The police car pulled up by a vast, drab concrete building with square pillars, the words
FÁBRICA NACIONAL DE MONEDA
carved above the entrance. Blanco ushered them up the steps and into the marble reception area. Itch could actually see his reflection in the slabs under his feet, his face ghostly white, with dark rings around his eyes. Flashing an ID card at the security men, Blanco led them through airport-style security checks – pat-downs and metal detectors. When Blanco set off an alarm, it filled the hall with an echoing electronic howl, but he just nodded at the uniformed men, all of whom nodded back. When they were clear, he led the way down a hushed, carpeted corridor to a small office.

Three people looked up as they entered, and nodded as they recognized Itch and Lucy; a TV screen was still rerunning scenes from the press conference intercut with photos of Jack and Chloe. Itch and Lucy looked away.

The walls were covered in images of banknotes, most faded and worn. Rather than see himself on TV again, Itch went over to examine them. The pre-euro currency was the peseta, and a variety of notes featuring – Itch assumed – assorted Spanish kings and noblemen were displayed in frames. In comparison with the euro, he thought they looked like ancient documents. The frames ended with the latest issues, and a prominently displayed 500-euro note.

‘The highest denomination we have,’ said Blanco. ‘And unlikely to be stolen.’ He indicated the security cameras in every corner of the room. ‘There are alarms too, though maybe a fire extinguisher would be more useful today.’ He didn’t smile, but Itch thought he was joking.

Remembering the note Blanco had given him, Itch asked, ‘Presumably you know what caused them to burst into flames . . .’

The agent paused briefly, exchanging glances with his colleagues. ‘Yes, of course.’ He spoke in Spanish and was handed a file of papers. ‘This information is widely known, though not officially confirmed. There is much nervousness in this building about what can be revealed.’ He went to shut the door. ‘It is feared that once it is known how to sabotage the euro, others will try.’

‘I’ve tested the note you gave me so I know what was on it,’ said Itch.

Blanco’s eyebrows raised. ‘Of course you have – you are a scientist, so maybe we can share our information.’ He studied the text. ‘We have
acidio picricio
 . . .’

‘Picric acid,’ said Itch.

Blanco nodded, running his finger down a list. ‘
Oxido de titanio
.’

‘Titanium oxide,’ said Itch. ‘And maybe some nitrocellulose in there too? That’s what we found, anyway. It’s no wonder they burst into flames.’

Blanco was still reading. ‘Plus europium and traces of gadolinium,’ he said.

Itch was silent. He remembered now that Dr Alexander had mentioned europium before telling them about the picric acid, and he had meant to follow it up . . .

‘Europium? In a euro?’ He turned to Lucy. ‘Is that a joke?’

She shrugged. ‘Science jokes are like teacher jokes. Not funny to normal people.’

‘It
is
funny, though,’ said Itch. ‘That’s the thing. But what’s it doing on a banknote?’

Blanco looked surprised and pleased. ‘Well, I can help Britain’s greatest chemist, then. And it might be a joke to you, but it isn’t to us. This is why we have had the new riots.’ He called to a colleague, and a petite, dark-haired woman brought a lamp to his desk, plugged it in and switched it on. ‘The europium is part of the security system of each note. If you hold a five-euro note under an ultraviolet light, the yellow stars glow an intense red.’ He took a note out of his pocket and held it under the lamp.

‘Wow,’ Itch said, leaning in to study it. Blanco was right: the string of usually dull, faded yellow stars behind an ancient-looking arch were now a deep red. When the lamp was switched off, they were yellow again.

‘Now, here’s the problem . . .’ Blanco held another note under the ultraviolet lamp. This time the stars turned from yellow to a dull orange. ‘It’s not much of a difference, but enough to trigger the security alarms – these are the notes registering as fake.’

‘You mentioned gadolinium,’ said Itch. ‘Another rare earth. Is that normally there?’

‘Apparently not,’ said Blanco.

‘I think europium decays to gadolinium,’ Lucy told them quietly. Itch’s eyes widened. Everyone in the room had stopped to listen now.

‘Why would europium decay like that?’ asked Itch.

‘Someone’s blasted it with neutrons.’

‘And why would someone do that?’

‘To make fakes!’ said Blanco, reaching for his phone and barking instructions around the room. ‘To undermine the euro! I will keep it a secret that two English schoolchildren told us more than our own scientists.’

When he stopped talking, Lucy asked, ‘Excuse me, but we came to look at some images from the riot . . . Could we do that and then get back to the others?’

But Blanco persisted, ‘The number of people who could have done this is very small. And the number of places it could happen even smaller.’

‘And while your people work on that, could we see what you brought us here for?’ said Itch.

‘Oh – of course . . .’ Blanco seemed to have forgotten the purpose of their visit. He stood by his desk – empty apart from a computer screen and keyboard. ‘The police are investigating what happened with our currency. But, as it concerns the security of our country, so are we. The governor of the mint is a colleague of sorts. So . . .’ He offered them both chairs. ‘We have prepared a selection of photos and videos taken on the night of that first riot, when we rescued you and your sister. These are, in the main, people known to us. Faces which have been flagged. If you remember any of them, please tell us.’

Itch and Lucy pulled their chairs closer as the photos started to scroll up. An assortment of images appeared on the screen, some clear, other blurry. Hooded figures running; rioters launching missiles – followed by a series of individuals in extreme close-up. As each frame appeared, Itch and Lucy studied the screen, consulted and clicked to the next one. The first video showed a gang setting fire to a van; the second, flames from a burning cash point.

Itch paused the film. ‘This looks like the bank we passed on the way to the bridge. Its ATM was on fire.’

Blanco leaned over to click on another video. ‘Yes, we found you. Here . . .’

Itch and Lucy watched the enhanced CCTV film of their school party stopping briefly at the bank before hurrying on. Zooming in, it was possible to make out Mr Hampton, Miss Coleman and, with a gasp from Itch and Lucy, Chloe and Jack arm in arm.

‘I didn’t mean to distress you . . .’ said Blanco. ‘We picked you up on the bridge too.’ A different film showed the melee on the Toledo bridge and, when Blanco paused the images, the school party caught in the middle. Lucy put her hands over her mouth, and Blanco apologized again. ‘I’m sorry, this was a mistake . . .’

‘No, wait . . .’ said Itch, holding up his hand. ‘Can you zoom in just beyond our group? There – near where the TV crew are?’ He pointed at the bright lamp that shone halfway across the bridge.

‘What are you looking at, Itch?’ asked Lucy.

He waited while Blanco enlarged the area. ‘Can you keep that up and go back to the bank shot?’ asked Itch.

In a separate box on the screen, Blanco ran the previous video.

‘Stop it there!’ said Itch, slightly too loudly. ‘Zoom in behind Mr Hampton, next to me!’

Blanco leaned in, his head swivelling back and forth as he compared the images. He glanced at Itch. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘The same two men in each image. The guy with the cap, and the tall guy next to him.’

‘So?’ said Blanco. ‘There was a big crowd. They were all surging onto the bridge . . .’

But Itch shook his head. Lucy and Blanco noticed him swallow nervously. ‘No, that’s them.’

‘Who?’ asked Lucy.

‘I forgot all about it till now. I thought that maybe I was being followed that night. And someone tried to grab me on the bridge too, but I couldn’t see who it was. Well, now I know, because I’ve seen them before. They’re the Greencorps agents who attacked us at the mining school.’ He turned to Blanco and pointed to the screen. ‘They’re the men who kidnapped my sister and cousin. They were here!’

After everyone in the room had studied the faces of the kidnappers, Félix Blanco fielded a string of questions from his team. Itch and Lucy did their best to follow the animated conversation – they were both pointed at continuously – but had to wait for Blanco’s brief summary in English before they realized what was happening.

‘They think that this is one story, not two,’ he said. In the silence that followed, he and his team stared at Itch and Lucy.

‘What?’ said Lucy. ‘You think the kidnap and the riots are connected?’

Blanco shrugged. ‘You are at the centre of both. That’s one big coincidence.’

Itch had to agree. ‘You’re right. But to put the two together, Greencorps have to be behind the riots
and
the burning money. That doesn’t make sense, does it? They’re interested in oil, not anarchy.’

Blanco suddenly jumped up. ‘Come with me,’ he barked, and almost ran from the room. Itch and Lucy jogged after him.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Lucy. ‘Where are we going?’

‘They’re not going to like this . . .’ said Blanco, ‘not going to like it all.’

‘Who’s not going to like what?’ called Lucy as they followed in his wake.

‘Security is tight here – for obvious reasons,’ shouted Blanco as they ran up a sweeping carpeted staircase. ‘They don’t have visitors – they hate visitors – but they’re going to have to put up with you two.’

As they approached a security arch, three uniformed men with silver earpieces blocked their path. Blanco yelled, ‘Centro Nacional de Inteligencia,’ and waved his ID card, and they fell back. He quickly spoke to them; then to Itch and Lucy: ‘Better leave them your bags or they will get mad,’ and they were swiped through steel doors.

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.