Free Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives by Michael Bond Page A

dark and in every respect of the highest quality. That includes the raspberry filling in this particular one, which came through at the very end with an unbelievable freshness.’
    Mrs Beardmore looked pleased. ‘Irresistible, huh?’
    She put the box back on the table and returned to the problem in hand.
    ‘Tell me, what’s the thinking on this side of the pond?’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse hedged his bets. ‘It’s all happened so quickly …’ he began. ‘I didn’t know about it myself until earlier today.’
    ‘You know something? Back home the theory is if we’re talking bin Laden or anyone connected with him it’s going to happen on some kind of special occasion – maybe an anniversary of some kind, or a day of national celebration when everybody is off work and relaxed.’
    ‘In America,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse thoughtfully, ‘it would probably be on Thanksgiving Day when everyone is having their oven-ready turkey.’
    ‘Like when the stars and stripes flag pops up to show it’s ready?’ said Claye. ‘At the same time releasing a stream of gas. I’ve heard that one before.
    ‘It could be the other extreme – like 9/11. Ever strike you 9/11 is the same number you dial in an emergency? It gets you Police, Fire, Ambulance. That give you any ideas?’
    ‘In Britain they use 999,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, thoughtfully. ‘Whichever way you look at it, that date has been and gone.’
    ‘We’re not talking Britain,’ Claye reminded him.
    ‘Or the US. We’re talking Europe.’
    ‘Brussels tried to bring in 112 for the whole of Europe,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but it never really caught on in France. English motorists used it when they ran out of what they call “petrol”, so we stick to our old ones. 17 for Police. 18 for Fire. 15 for Ambulance. It saves time.’
    ‘Bang goes another theory,’ said Claye. ‘Why are you guys so different? I’m just throwing up balloons. The other big question is not just when, but how? Any ideas on that?’
    ‘If it’s in the food chain,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse thoughtfully, ‘I suppose it could be seasonal. Something everyone rushes out to buy the moment it comes in.’
    ‘How about truffles? When do they start? November? That’s not so far away.’
    ‘They’re not for everyone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dubiously. ‘They’re too elitist.’
    ‘Is that such a bad thing?’ asked Claye. ‘At least it would make sure they reached the movers and shakers of this world.’
    ‘It doesn’t have to be connected with bin Laden,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, remembering the recent attempt to blackmail the French government by a group of unknown terrorists.
    ‘Not everything has to do with Al-Qaeda. Other organisations are often all too eager to jump on the bandwagon. The worst thing Al-Qaeda did was tobring them out of the woodwork and make them more ambitious – to think big.’
    He was thinking of AZF and the threat to plant explosives up and down the country’s rail system. At the time no one knew what the letters stood for, or even whether it was an individual or a group, but the price for laying-off had been four million euros.
    For a time it had seemed like something out of a James Bond film, with demands for the government to land a helicopter on the roof of the Montparnasse Tower in Paris to show they were taking the threat seriously.
    Ten thousand French rail workers had carried out an all-night search for bombs along the country’s thirty-two thousand kilometres of track. Having drawn a blank, the blackmailer’s bluff had been called, but it had been a nail-biting time.
    Not long after that there had been the massive bomb attacks on the railways in Spain. Planted in backpacks and detonated by mobile phones, they had escaped detection until it was too late.
    Al-Qaeda had claimed responsibility, but with an election just around the corner the government suspected their old Basque enemies Eta were behind them. Perhaps