The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 6

Why had I come to Dubai?

Specifically: to rob the royal family. My target was the Chrysalis diamond, the centrepiece of a necklace created in 1912 for Afise Lakerba, wife of Mehmed VI, the last Ottoman Sultan. When the monarchy was abolished, the jewels went on a romp through the auction houses of the world, owned at various stages by petrochemical giants, Hollywood starlets and the wife of the President of Colombia before, made infinitely more valuable by its history, returning to the Middle East via Leena’s aunt, Shamma bint Bandar, one of nearly four thousand royal scions of the House of Saudi.

Why those diamonds?

Because three separate teams had all made passes at them in the last five years, and failed. Their failure meant two things: a challenge and a buyer.

It’s easy, in my position, to be amateurish about these things. I find the buzz is greater when the puzzle fits together. On a whim, I once stole the President of Paraguay’s wristwatch, but it only fetched $250 and the buzz was nothing compared to the day I stole £98,000 in a casino heist that went off flawlessly, the most perfect execution of a beautiful plan, months in the making. You make your own highs in my line of work.

Shamma bint Bandar was coming to Dubai to party and celebrate with the makers of Perfection, and with her came the Chrysalis.

Leena was my way in, but as I circled round her, I found Reina ever more distracting.

“We haven’t met yet,” I told Reina, the fourth time we went running together. “My name is Rachel Donovan.”

And again, “We haven’t met yet,” I said, as we sat down together to listen to a recital of Syrian folk music in a bar beneath the hotel. “But I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

“I am part of an important family, in a way,” she explained with a sigh, as we shared mango served on a bed of crushed ice. “But in this place that doesn’t mean anything. I’m trying to be better.”

“Better at what?”

“At everything. Better at talking to people. Better at learning, understanding, at expressing myself and understanding others. Better looking, better thinking, just… better. It is a good thing to strive for, no?”

“Yes. I think it is.”

“I keep a blog.”

“I think I’ve read it.”

“Have you? Not many have — I should cherish you. Too many voices all at once on the internet, screaming, just all the time screaming, sometimes it’s hard to be heard. Sometimes I think that the world is full of screaming.”

I said… something. Something flat, trying to find better words, good words like the woman eating mango with Reina bint Badr al Mustakfi should have said, but somehow, in the course of our talking, I’d slipped out of character, and only Hope Arden remained, and she had very little to say for herself.

“I thought for a while that I would fight to find my place,” mused Reina, staring at nothing much. “Now I just want to be happy where I am.”

The next day she was dead.

I copied her emails onto my computer; threw her mobile phone into the sea.

Emails from her parents, worrying about her. From a couple of friends, hoping she was well, pictures of happy families, children growing up, isn’t it wonderful?

From activist groups campaigning for civil rights, immigrant rights, environmental responsibility, legal reform, etc.

From Perfection itself, an automatically generated reminder.

A link — pictures, men, women. Beautiful — all of them beautiful. Teeth, hair, lips, smiles, chests, breasts.

Antonyms of frigid: amicable, lovable, responsive, hot, amorous.

I read through to the end of her little handwritten notebook.

Those were her last words. I sat by the sea and watched the waves for an hour, then two. I wondered if she would be pleased, knowing that someone was thinking of her. I wondered if she’d be happy, given what I intended to do. I hoped she would be, and after much thought, I burned her notebook, and scattered the ashes into the sea.