LITMIR.BIZ

      Alone in his own office, Alfredo started at the beginning of the notebook, concentrating on every page, trying to understand the numbers, to decipher them. But they meant nothing to him. He could not fathom what Richard Deravenel had been getting at, nor could he hazard a guess about the person Richard referred to as compadre. Certainly Mr Richard had never called him that, nor had he ever discussed numbers.

      He thought back to the last time they had seen each other…in Carrara, just before Mr Richard had been killed. The older man had complained bitterly about Grant in a most confiding way, and he had said he was alarmed about the spiralling problems in the company, Grant’s colleagues, and the problems with the Carrara marble quarries. But that was it. Alfredo had told Mr Edward everything he knew, although Edward Deravenel had somehow seemed to expect more. There was nothing more.

      After an hour of studying the notebook, growing frustrated, Alfredo got up, put it in his pocket and went back to Edward’s office down the corridor.

      Knocking, walking in, Alfredo exclaimed, ‘I’m sorry, I’m as baffled as you. Bloody annoying it is. The notebook is gibberish.’

      Edward was standing in front of the enormous map of the world, which hung on the wall behind the huge Georgian partner’s desk. He swung around at the sound of Alfredo’s voice. There was a peculiar look on his face as he said slowly, in a low voice, ‘Come here, look at this.’

      Staring at Edward, he asked, ‘But what is it? What’s wrong? You have a strange look on your face.’

      ‘Just come over here. Please.’

      Alfredo did as he was asked, stood next to Edward in front of the map, remained uncomprehending.

      Edward put his middle finger on his tongue, dampened it and touched a small number on the map. The ink ran, bled out. ‘Now look closely, see how the ink runs. That’s because the number’s been written on this map, not printed. And written by my father, of that I am sure. See, it’s the number two, and it sits up there at the top of India, just between Delhi and the Punjab. See it?’

      ‘Oh yes, indeed I do.’

      ‘Now look over here, at South Africa, that portion of the map. And you’ll see the number eleven. Let your eyes sweep over to South America, the number thirty-nine is written there?’ Stepping back slightly, looking closely at Oliveri, Edward asked, ‘So you tell me…what do those three numbers have in common?’

      It was obvious that Alfredo was excited. ‘The numbers are written on the countries where Deravenels have mines…diamond mines in India, gold mines in South Africa, and emerald mines in South America.’

      ‘Correct!’ Edward grinned at him.

      ‘My God, how did you discover the numbers?’ Glancing at the map, again, Alfredo added, ‘They’re barely visible, you almost need a magnifying glass to find them.’

      Pointing to the books open on his desk, Edward explained swiftly, ‘I was reading about diamond mines in India, especially the famous Golconda mines. I knew ours were somewhere nearby, in that vicinity, so I got up to look at the map. I noticed the number there all of a sudden, almost by accident, just below the Punjab, and I realized it hadn’t been printed on the map, but written by hand. My eyes roved over the entire map, I was so intrigued, and I kept finding numbers…’ He broke off, shook his head. ‘It hit me then! The countries which were numbered were those which were repeated so often in my father’s notebook.’

      Oliveri was nodding his head slowly, enlightenment spreading across his pale face. ‘Listen, your father gave each country a number, and then used the number in the notebook instead of a name. It was a coding system. I think he didn’t want anyone to know which countries he was targeting for some reason. Anyone picking the notebook up would be baffled, but not at all baffled if he had written out the names of the countries.’

      ‘But why didn’t he want anyone to know which countries he was referring to?’

      ‘I think he stumbled onto something. In Carrara he told me he was not only worried about the quarries there, which were dwindling, but lots of the other mines as well. I asked him if they, too, were dwindling down and he said no, there were other difficulties. But he didn’t go any further than that.’

      Alfredo took the notebook out of his pocket and passed it to Ned, then went and sat down in the chair. ‘You’d better have that. I’d hate to lose it.’

      Sitting down himself, Edward confided, ‘I think I know who he meant by compadre. My uncle, Rick Watkins.’

      Alfredo frowned. ‘Why Rick?’

      ‘Because they were the best of friends, true compadres, and had been close for donkey’s years. Rick was my mother’s brother, and therefore family, and obviously someone he trusted absolutely. Then there’s yet another thing, Rick Watkins was probably one of the greatest magnates in this country, in fact, there was no other tycoon like him. Therefore, my father could rely on his judgement, any advice he gave. It just made sense to me as I was staring at the map. Rick came into my mind, and I knew I was right.

      ‘I agree. Who better than Rick Watkins to advise your father? Unless it is his son.’

      ‘True. However, I’m sure my father was much closer to Neville’s father.’

      Sitting back in his chair, staring out into space for a moment or two, Edward seemed lost, drifting into another world, a world only he could envision. Then he sat up abruptly, and looked at Alfredo intently. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘That’s why Rick and Thomas were killed. They were murdered on purpose. Not because they just happened to be there in Carrara. The Grant faction was afraid of Rick Watkins, his power, his wealth, his brilliance as a businessman. They knew if push came to shove Rick Watkins would throw everything he had at them, to support my father and his claim for the top job at Deravenels. My brother was murdered because he was a Deravenel, a contender for the top job if anything happened to me.’

      Pale as he was, Alfredo appeared to grow paler. He did not speak for a moment, sat mulling over the things Edward Deravenel had just said. Finally, after a few minutes, he murmured, ‘I can’t argue with you, Mr Edward, I really can’t. I think you are right. And—’

      The door of the office burst open, swinging back violently on its hinges. ‘So here you are,’ a woman’s shrill voice exclaimed, and as she strode into the room Edward knew at once that this was Margot Grant.

      He

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