The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 9

Criminal professionalism; it is more than good practice.

Never steal in anger, and yet Reina was dead, and the Chrysalis had come to Dubai and so…

Breathe in. Count every breath. One — in — one — out.

Count to ten.

Heart rate: 76 BMP.

Blood pressure: 118/76. Systolic/diastolic. In 1615 a doctor called William Harvey published Exercitatio Anatomica de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Animalibus — On the Movement of the Heart and Blood in Animals. The Chinese and Indians had arguably got there first, but it wasn’t until 1818 that Samuel Siegfried Karl Ritter von Basch invented the sphygmomanometer.

Knowledge is power.

Knowledge is freedom.

Knowledge is all I have.

There is nothing in this world which can master me, save me myself.

Days of pursuit in the Burj al Arab Jumeirah.

On a Monday I was a stranger Leena met by the poolside. On a Tuesday I was a stranger in the spa. On Wednesday I was a stranger who approached her over dinner. I stole Leena’s mobile phone, copying all its information and linking its SIM card to mine. She was at 634,000 points in Perfection.

A text message on her phone:

After twenty minutes of being separated from her phone, Leena began to panic. I handed it back to one of her security men, who suspected me of being someone nefarious, but I was already gone and he forgot.

It is not invisibility that I possess; more a steady blinking of the mind.

“We’ve all got Perfection!” whispered Suzy-Sandy-Sophie-Something in my ear as we sat in the aromatherapy room. “Even the princesses! I’m from Ogema, Wisconsin, and my pa used to sell second-hand kitchen appliances from the garage, but now I’m here and I have dinner with royalty and you just mustn’t let it get to your head, because they’re all just people, really, even though they’re Muslim!”

I smiled and said, “You’re a very foolish woman, aren’t you?” and when her mouth dropped in anguish and rage, I walked out of the aromatherapy room and straight into the cold pool, where I stayed, head pounding with the change of temperature as I counted to fifty, then surfaced and breathed, then sank down again, counting back to zero.

Why had I said those words?

A lapse in professionalism; unforgivable on a job. I watched my skin prickle with icy water, felt pressure build at the back of my nose, and chided myself.

I mastered myself, always, no matter what. Discipline in all things.

When I went back to the aromatherapy room, Suzy-Sandy was still there, lying on a white towel. She opened one eye as I entered, saw no threat, closed it again.

“Hi,” I said, sitting on the bench opposite her. “I’m Rachel; I’m new here. What’s your name?”

In the evening, I met Leena for the very first time, for the sixteenth night running, and having had the practice I went straight in with, “I love your dress.”

Previous approaches: I’m interested in this amazing city. I work in finance. I’m interested in Perfection. I’m writing an article about women in Dubai. I knew Reina, sorry for your loss.

None had worked, though the mention of Perfection had got me closest. Sometimes the truth is that the trivial route is the most successful, and thus:

“I love your dress.”

“Do you, it is amazing, isn’t it?”

“Is it Vera Wang?”

“It is! And you’re…?”

“Dior.”

“I just adore Dior.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Empty words.

I am my smile.

I am my lips.

I lower my head as I speak to her, so that my eyes have to look up, seeming wider, rounder, more appealing. Animals reading animals. My jewels, my dress, my body, they speak for me, a woman with skin almost as dark as my mother’s, wearing the perfect perfume for the perfect night by the sea. First impressions matter, when they are all you have to live by.

I am the delighted crinkle in the corner of my eyes. I am the woman she wants me to be. “I just love fashion,” I said through my polished lips. “You’re the most stylish woman here by a year.”

Information, drifting:

Vera Wang: fashion designer, former figure skater.

Al Maktoum, royal family of Dubai, descendants of the Al Falasi of the coalition of Bani Yas tribes.

“You’re wonderful,” exclaimed Leena. “You’re just the kind of person I like to meet.”

Once you have your prey, keep it in sight. It’s only when people no longer see me that they forget.

I stuck close to Leena, flowed with her entourage, laughed at her jokes, shared my views on fashion, celebrity, travel. “The perfect people, the perfect clothes, the perfect words, the perfect holidays!” she exclaimed, and all around her people laughed.

“I’m with Prometheus,” explained a man in a white and gold Nehru suit, iced cocktail in one hand. “We really want Perfection to be good for people, to help them live better lives. With the right help, anyone can be perfect!”

I smiled and laughed, and thought of another kind of righteousness, expounded by a long-dead Indian prince. Right view, right wisdom, right speech, right conduct, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration. The eightfold path. Samyanc in Sanskrit; rightness as denotes completion, togetherness, coherence. (Can also be used to express the notion of perfection.)

Leena and I circled together through a room latticed with gold, marble floor, fresh flowers — orchids, lilacs flecked with white. A party in full swing, barely a headscarf in sight, men and women mixing freely, a banner on one wall — The Future Is Perfect. The waiters were Indian and Bangladeshi, drawn from the labour camps hidden in the desert. Expats everywhere.

I used to specialise in government bonds, but now I’ve moved into global futures…

… the thing about insurance is…

Why do they call it “tax haven”? I mean, don’t they realise how the press react to words like that?

… oil is too short-term. Sure, there’s big bucks now, but I want my kids to get into digital rights.

The United Arab Emirates has a population of somewhere between 75 and 85 per cent expats. What do so many foreigners do to a society? Volvos in Abu Dhabi, McDonald’s a good night out? Or does culture bite back by extolling ancient virtues: the poems of Dhu al Rummah, the music of Umm Kulthum, the words of the Hadith, the traditions of the peoples of the sands?

A bit of both, perhaps. Umm Kulthum’s songs reinterpreted in the style of Beyoncé.

I counted gold watches.

I counted mobile phones.

I counted steps to the door.

I looked, and I saw the necklace I had come all this way to steal, no longer in its pressure-sensitive, motion-sensitive, heat-sensitive security case, but being worn around the neck of Shamma bint Bandar, who even now kisses a man in a smart black suit on the cheek, congratulating him on his hard work. Here, tonight, the Chrysalis was being put to its proper use; vanity makes people vulnerable.

“I’ve just started my treatments,” exclaimed a woman in six-inch heels, the backs of her ankles incredibly thin, calves faintly etched with a translucent silver line where the surgeon had cut, visible only when it caught the light. “It’s incredible, just incredible, it’s changed the way I see the world.”

She wore a dress that plunged at the front, the back, the sides, leaving little more than some tactically placed straps across her shoulders. The man she spoke to wore a white headdress held in place with gold, white robes, a black beard cut to a perfect V round his chin, and a ceremonial dagger decorated in rubies. They looked like they should struggle to communicate, but he exclaimed, “My first treatment was astonishing. My driver came up after, and for the first time I saw him. Not just him, but him.”

I moved on. Circled, counting.

Stealing jewels from a human is easier for me than stealing from a vault. CCTV will remember my face, the vault will need experts to crack, the motion sensors will require tools to deceive. I cannot execute the long con, but must wait for opportunity to strike, alone, unaided, taking risks that anyone who feared their face being known would never take.

I turn, turn, turn in the room.

Count the security men in overt black — eleven — and the more discreet security men blending with the crowd — four that I can see.

I count Jordanian sheikhs in white robes, Saudi princes in smart silk suits, American embassy men with sweat patches seeping into the shirts under their arms, Chinese investors taking selfies against the background of the ballroom’s internal waterfall, smiling to the camera on the end of its stick.

I count women who would rather not be there, their lips smiling where their eyes do not. I count wristwatches that cost more than the yearly salary of the waiters who envy them, and the number of times I hear the word “equity” said out loud. (Thirty-nine.)

I count security cameras.

I count steps to Princess Shamma, and the $2.2 million dollars’ worth of jewellery round her neck. My interest in Leena is gone, now she’s got me in the party, and she’s already quite drunk. Her aunt is not.

Are you ready?

I count seconds, place myself in the perfect position for my move, loosen my feet inside their ridiculous high-heeled shoes, which will only be an encumbrance when the moment comes.

“Excuse me?”

The woman speaks English with a faint American accent that is pure international school: stateless, bright. I stare at her in surprise, taking in her high-collared dress in a Chinese style, adorned with silver dragons on a black background; her black hair done up high with a messiness that could only have cost a great deal of money; her silver bracelet and earrings, her black mascara, her cautious smile. The darkness round her eyes make them seem deeper than they are; the earrings hanging down make her neck seem long. After a night of drinking, she would be a pale, starling-sized creature, but now, in this place, she is moonlight in heels.

“Are you alone?” she asked. “Do you know anyone?”

Instant thought: is this woman security? Why else would anyone watch me for long enough to discover my loneliness, without forgetting my being? But she remains at the precise physical distance required to be audible, without intrusion, keeps smiling politely, head slightly on one side.

“I… no,” I mumbled. “I don’t know anyone.”

“Are you British?”

“Yes.”

“Here for work?”

“Yes — with the British Council.”

A lie, quick and easy. I am here to promote Britishness. I spread the word of Shakespeare, the history of cricket, the memories of colonialism and the taste of fish and chips to the world. I am a symptom of goodwill. I am an adjunct to national arrogance. Who knows?

The woman, still smiling, said nothing.

“What do you do?” I blurted, to fill the space.

“I’m in research.”

“What does that mean?”

“I study the human brain.”

“That sounds… big.”

For the first time, a twitch in the corner of her mouth that could be a smile wanting to become real. “All of thought is feedback and association. Faced with mounting social stress, the body responds as it would to any alarm. Capillaries constrict; heart rate elevates, breathing accelerates, skin becomes hot, muscles tight. Charm falters in the face of hypertension. From this moment of social rejection, pathways are reinforced in the brain to strengthen a link between socialising and anxiety. A series of assumptions develop which leads to a perception of social systems as threatening, triggering an anxiety response. All thought is feedback: sometimes that feedback can become too loud. Are you with the 106?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

A flicker of surprise, then: “Do you have Perfection?”

“What? I… no.”

“Don’t tell my brother.”

“Is your brother…”

“He’s looking to do a version that promotes Islamic values. Fifty thousand points for going on hajj; five hundred points for every direct debit made to charity and so on. I said that I wasn’t sure God worked that way, through reward algorithms and shopping vouchers, but here we are…” A gentle raising of her hands, palm up, as if she would lift the room from its foundations to be examined. “And it would appear that everything is going… very well.”

She thought she knew what “very well” meant once, but by the look in her eye, this present time is redefining it.

I opened my mouth to say oh, really, that’s fascinating — but there isn’t time. The virus implanted nine days ago at an electrical substation goes live right on cue, and takes out some 30 per cent of the electricity of Dubai.

A flickering, as the bulbs dim, followed by a recovery as the hotel’s emergency generator picks up the load. The sound of music dips, then revives, voices oscillating quiet, then loud again in the brief lull. The woman’s eyes flick to the ceiling, then out to the windows, looking across the water to where a pattern of lights have gone out across the shore.

Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…

“Sub-station,” she mused. “Probably just a trip.”

“My friend had Perfection,” I said, and was surprised to hear my voice, see her eyes turn to me. “At the time, I didn’t think she was unhappy.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “What was her name?”

“Reina.”

… nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…

I opened my mouth to say something more, something banal, and instead found myself offering my hand, which she took. “I’m Hope.”

“Filipa,” she replied. “You’re much more interesting than you pretend.”

“And you more than people think?”

She pulled in her bottom lip, eyes up to the ceiling, as if seeking out a bright thread of silk from a tangle of cobweb. “Exactly that, I think. Exactly that.”

… six, five, four…

Seven paces to Leena’s aunt, the clasp around her neck is easy, I practised with my eyes shut on the same fitting for three hours the other night. Three people are between me and my target, now four, the turning of the room disadvantaging me.

I open my mouth to say something that matters; but in the mess of service corridors and not-so-secure locked doors beneath the hotel, my nugget of Semtex finally explodes.

The blast didn’t shake the building; there was barely enough firepower to punch through the cables to which it was attached. There was instant darkness, like hands round the throat. It will be a matter of moments before someone suspects foul play, a matter of minutes before engineers have found the problem. The generators, when I inspected them on one of my nightly rounds in a cleaner’s uniform, are designed to survive earthquakes and hurricanes. Repairing will not be hard.

A lack of reaction in the room — a few sighs, a little gasp, but no screaming or panic. Power cuts happen; it’s just the way of things.

I turn, hands in front as my eyes adjust to the dim, feel my way between silk and velvet, past lace and pearls, counting steps, five, six, seven, not rushed, until I feel the brush of a waist against my hand and hear the little intake of breath of a stranger in front of me.

“Princess Shamma?” I ask in Arabic, inflected with my mother’s accent.

“Yes?” the lady replies.

I put one hand on her wrist, hold it tight, and with the other pluck the necklace from around her throat. Easy; practised. She is surprised, but only by the unexpected contact on her arm. The eye will always follow the larger motion; the body will always respond to the bigger feeling — every magician knows that.

I pulled the diamonds away, released her wrist, and walked away.

It was all of forty-seven seconds before Leena’s aunt began to scream.