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surface.  “Much, much copper here, you see, you see Mister Tim.”
    Tim could see that the copper wasn’t doing these boys much good, except clogging their lungs and snaring them with the potent leaf.  It was the same the world over: there were the owners, the boss men and there were the workers who did the dirty work and got very little.  He was no Marxist, he understood that if people risked their money and time to invest in something, there should be a return.  His politics were Social Democrat; high taxes for those who could afford them, to pay for the welfare of society as a whole, governed by the people, for the people.  No super fat cats, but many slender ones and even more mice, trickle-down be damned.  No taxes here were going towards social safety nets or democracy, just bureaucrats and the patronage networks that kept them in place, swinging precariously on their gilded threads over a chasm of anarchy.  Mahmood was right about one thing though, there was a lot of copper here and they were standing inside a potential fortune. The tragedy was Mahmood himself was probably just scraping by, a hair above the rest.  Sure the Chinese would turn this place around.
    “Mahmood”, Tim asked, “How much does the mine earn?”
    “Oh not much, Mister Tim.  I can pay the men on my shift and what’s left I give to the Sheik who owns this land; he is an old man but kind, he cares little for business matters, what I have for myself I feed for my family and give for the mosque.”
    Tim believed half of that, but by Mahmood’s manner he doubted much money went past Mahmood once he had paid off those he had to; he was the kind of Muslim who went home from Friday prayers via the brothel. 
    As they descended further into the gloom an unknown fear began to claw at the back of his mind.
     
     
     

Chapter 13
     
     
    A mild panic set in around the conference table; scientists and political aids talking, shouting and taking out their phones.
    The Senator spoke.  “Gentlemen, please put your phones away.”
    “My wife is about to get on a plane to Europe goddamnit!” shouted a man.
    “Nobody tells anybody about this,” said the Senator, “As your man said, this could be nothing and if it is nothing, a global panic is the last thing we want to incite.”
    “And if it is something?” asked Marius in his usual composed manner.
    “Then a global panic is the last thing we need.  Sir, call your wife now, in front of us, tell her to not board her plane and tell her anything but the truth.  The rest of you may do the same for your loved ones.”
    The man raised his phone and dialled. “Honey? Hi yes, yes I was trying to call you a minute ago, yes sorry – are you on the plane yet?” He paused.  “Well have they closed the doors yet?” Another pause.  “Look please just listen to me, I want you to get up from your seat and… no wait!”  He looked up at nobody as the blood drained from his face.  “She said that she had to go, she said that they were telling her to switch off her phone...She had to go.”
    The room descended into a frenzy of phone calls.
    Brian turned to Marius.  “You came on your bike right?  How quickly can you get to the Shasta Medical Centre in Redding?”
    “About an hour and forty-five, why?” said Marius, looking puzzled but intrigued.
    “It’s just a hunch, I’ll explain on route, but we have to go, now.”
    Together they slipped out of the maelstrom and ran to Marius’ bike, a comically large 1940’s vintage Indian motorcycle with brown leather bucket seats.
    “Only the one helmet I’m afraid,” said Marius.
    “Then I’m taking it,” said Brian.  “Drive fast but get us there alive, this may not be the end of the world you know.”
    Marius started up the bike.  “What’s in the hospital that’s so fucking vital?”
    “The MRI scanner!”
    “What?”
    “The MRI!” Brian said again, but his voice was drowned by the engine.  “Just drive!”
    They sped