Hélène Desage was still sputtering indignation. "Ridiculous! Why? What would motivate me to such nonsense?"
Johnny grimaced. "The whole thing makes a beautiful story at a time when the American government is debating the practicality of the whole project. You could do quite a sob story on the poor, poverty-stricken Tuareg having their livestock destroyed. Then, quite a tale about the bedouin raiding our pumping stations and blowing them up. And quite a tale about the Tuareg being armed with Czech weapons. Oh, I imagine before it was through you'd have drawn a picture of civil war going on here between the nomads and the Commission. Blowing up your own car with a small bomb attached to the starter was just one more item. By the way, were you going to do it yourself? Or did you intend to allow one of our mechanics to kill himself?"
She flushed. "Don't be ridiculous. No one would have been hurt. The bomb is a very small one. More smoke and flash than anything else."
"Well, thanks for small favors," Derek said sarcastically.
She gave up. "Very well," she snapped. "There is nothing you can do. This whole project, as I said before, is nothing but American boon-doggling, a way of plowing endless resources into a hole. Your real motivation is an attempt to prevent depression and unemployment in your country."
Pierre Marimbert said softly, "So you admit to this whole scheme to discredit us?"
"Why not?" She turned to the door. "I will still write my articles. It's my word or yours."
Derek grinned at her. "I think I could fall in love with you, honey," he said. "Life would provide few dull moments. However, you didn't notice how nice and automated this office is. Card machines, electric typewriters, all the latest—including tape recorders for office conversations. You talked too much, honey."
"Cochon!" she shrilled at him. She whirled and was through the door.