The Angel

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Le Rosey is one of the most exclusive and expensive schools in the world.

It is near to the village of Rolle. Thomas Snow drove the BMW along the coast of Lake Geneva, turned to the south among the picturesque vineyards and farms, and after a few miles they came to a driveway so discreet that it would have been easy to miss. The only sign that this was the correct turning was the ‘CHATEAU DU ROSEY’ that was engraved into the stone pillars.

‘Here we go,’ Snow said as he slowed the car and turned off the road.

The road snaked through a grove of regal chestnut trees. The car crossed a stream by way of an ancient humpback bridge, and after five minutes, they reached an old chateau that was surrounded by a cluster of newer buildings.

Kelleher was studying the materials that Pope had provided for them. Isabella had looked at them last night. The prospectus was glossy and impressive, and listed the names of alumni who had gone on to become famous international figures. The names spoke of huge wealth. The children who attended the school came from Persian Gulf oil magnates, Greek shipping lords, Italian textile billionaires, Spanish banking families, American tobacco barons, Japanese industrial tycoons and Hong Kong real estate moguls.

‘You know how much it costs to send your kid here?’ Kelleher said.

‘One hundred and twenty grand,’ Snow replied. ‘I know. I read it.’

‘And listen to this: “We do not make a play of ‘classical’ education, but promise to inculcate a series of attributes in our students which will stand them in good stead for all that life has in store for them. We promise ‘physical balance,’ oral expression and a sense of solidarity with one another.”’

‘They mean they’ll make sure they understand the differences between the spoiled few and the rest of the world.’

‘“Le Rosey seeks neither ‘an intellectual elite’ nor a set of ‘model’ students. We promise an education that will avoid academic failure and/or completely deviant behaviour.” Basically,’ she said, ‘it means the spoilt little shits can do whatever they like.’

Isabella listened and said nothing. She had read all of this in advance and then done additional research so that she could play the part she knew she would have to play. She knew, for example, that Le Rosey was known for royalty. The Shah of Iran, the Aga Khan, King Albert II of Belgium and Prince Rainier of Monaco had all gone there. So had the sons and daughters of the royal families of Egypt, Greece, Yugoslavia, Italy and Britain. It had always appealed to the Arabs, and had taught a number of sheikhs, the children of Saudi Arabian arms dealer Adnan Khashoggi, and the son of the owner of Harrods, who had been killed with Lady Diana. There were the children of movie stars, rock stars and innumerable European and American fortunes. She saw names like Rothschild, Botin, Niarchos, Benetton, Duke, du Pont, Rockefeller. When she Googled them, her sense of trepidation increased.

Snow parked the car in the central courtyard and looked out of the tinted window at the buildings that loomed over them. There were other cars in the courtyard: Ferraris, big Porsche SUVs, BMWs, a Bentley.

Kelleher turned in her seat. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ Isabella said.

‘No need to be nervous.’

‘I’m not,’ she said, although she was.

‘You’re going to do fine. What’s your name?’

‘Daisy McKee.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘London.’

‘What does your father do?’

She nodded at Snow. ‘City trader.’ Kelleher paused, then gestured with her hand that she wanted the rest of the cover story. Isabella sighed, then continued with it. ‘He owns McKee Capital. He trades stocks and shares on the London Exchange.’

‘And me?’

‘Charlotte McKee. You own an art studio in Chelsea.’

‘Brothers and sisters?’

‘Two brothers and one sister. Their names are Ethan, Charlie and Abigail. I’m the youngest. Ethan is working with my father, Charlie is at Eton and Abigail is working for Médecins Sans Frontières in Africa.’

‘Very good.’

‘You don’t need to worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve memorised it. All of it.’

‘Remember’ — Snow took over — ‘you have a cell phone in your bag. If you need us, send a blank text to the number for Uncle Rupert. And keep the phone charged and with you at all times. We’ll be able to track you as long as it’s on.’

She nodded that she understood.

‘You ready?’

Her attention was drawn to a group of teenage girls passing between the BMW and the Bentley parked ahead of it. They were dressed well, all with bright white smiles and tanned limbs. They practically dripped money. Isabella had inherited a generous estate from her mother, but she did not flaunt it. She had invested most of it in her riad, but the rest she had saved. She was not extravagant in any way. Her mother had taught her that extravagance was a good way to make yourself stand out, and standing out was not something that she wanted to do. Her mother had also taught her that having a good sum of money on standby allowed you the flexibility to move quickly and decisively, should the need arise.

Isabella was wealthy, by the normal standards of a fifteen-year-old girl, but she knew that she would be a pauper in comparison to these girls.

She felt another twitch of unease before she chided herself for her stupidity. What was real and what was false was irrelevant. It was what appeared to be true that mattered, and credibility was all about confidence.

‘Daisy?’

‘What?’

‘Are you ready to go?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m ready.’

Chapter Forty

They had a welcome interview with the admissions tutor. His office was enormous, with a similarly spacious waiting area outside. His door opened at three on the dot, and he came out into the waiting area to greet them. His name was Pires, and he was full of so much false bonhomie that Isabella took an immediate dislike to him.

‘Mr McKee, a pleasure to meet you at last.’

He offered his hand. Snow put out his and shook it.

‘And Mrs McKee, good to put a face to a voice. I hope the admissions procedure was painless enough?’

‘It was,’ she said. ‘You were very helpful. Thank you.’

He waved the compliment away and turned to Isabella. ‘And you must be Daisy?’

‘Hello,’ she said, forcing a bright smile onto her face.

There came a knock at the door, and at Pires’s curt ‘Come in,’ a waiter entered with a tray bearing four bone-china cups, a large carafe of coffee and a plate of petit fours. Pires thanked and dismissed him and then set about pouring the coffee himself.

‘Our roll is limited to just four hundred boys and girls,’ he explained as he handed the cups around. ‘They are aged between eight and eighteen, and they come from sixty-one countries. Instruction is in English, with French as a subsidiary, or in French, with English as a subsidiary. I believe you prefer English, Daisy?’

Isabella spoke good French from her time in Marrakech, but she remembered her cover story. Daisy was conversant, but not proficient. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘English.’

‘I think you’ll find the school offers a unique environment. The education here is peerless, and the extracurricular activities are varied. Waterskiing, sailing, scuba diving, flying, riding, shooting and, of course, skiing. You won’t be bored.’

‘I’m sure I won’t.’

The man proceeded to recite what Isabella suspected was a memorised spiel about the benefits of an education at Le Rosey. She listened and answered his questions with a promptness that suggested that she was attentive, but her focus was on the room and the world beyond the broad window. Her thoughts switched back to the preparatory meetings that they had had in London. Michael Pope had explained in greater detail what it was that she was being asked to do. He had shown her the tiny device that they wanted her to fit to Salim al-Khawari’s computer, how it was used and the best ways to avoid being seen as she did it. A whole day had been invested in developing Daisy McKee’s persona and backstory until she could answer questions fluently and without thinking about them. Pope had left a file on the table of the hotel room that they had used for the training. It had been marked with one word: ‘Angel.’ When she had asked him what that meant, he had told her — with a smile — that ‘Angel’ was her codename.

Isabella switched back into the present as Pires asked her a question about what she liked to do in her spare time. She told him that she liked horses and ballet. When he asked her what her favourite ballet was, she answered, with perfect conviction, that it was Swan Lake, that her favourite composer was Tchaikovsky and that the first time she had seen it was when her mother had taken her to the London Opera House in 2007. Zenaida Yanowsky had played Odette. It had been wonderful.

‘A very good choice,’ he said. ‘You know we have ballet classes at Le Rosey?’

‘I do,’ she said with a smile. ‘That’s one of the things I’m looking forward to the most.’

He stood. ‘Well, then. Should we all go and see your room?’

Isabella kept her eyes and ears wide open as Pires guided them from the administration building to the school’s accommodation.

The room was simple and not as extravagant as she had expected. There was a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a set of shelves. The floor was carpeted, the walls painted a neutral beige and a large window offered a view over the impressive campus all the way to the waterfront. Isabella wheeled her suitcase to the wardrobe.

‘What do you think?’ Pires asked.

‘It’s lovely,’ Kelleher answered. ‘Daisy?’

‘Lovely,’ Isabella agreed.

‘Students rise at 7 a.m.,’ Pires said. ‘You have a shower, then you go downstairs and have breakfast. It’s a large buffet, the only informal meal of the day. Between 8 a.m. and midday, there are five periods of class, with a mid-morning “chocolate break.”’

‘Chocolate?’ Snow said.

‘This is Switzerland.’ He laughed. ‘What do you expect? Every Monday at midday there is a school assembly, which brings the whole school together for notices, reflection and sometimes for dialogue. On the other days of the week you are free until lunch. Classes begin again at 1.15 p.m. and finish three periods later at 3 p.m. From 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. you have a choice of sports and arts. After you have showered, you’ll do homework and “prep” in the study hall from 6.20 p.m. to 7.20 p.m., or you might be involved in choir, orchestra or drama rehearsals.’

Pires was interrupted by a knock at the open door. Isabella turned. There was a girl there, a little older than her, and very beautiful.

‘Ah,’ Pires said. ‘This is Claudette. She is going to be Daisy’s buddy until she’s settled in.’

‘How lovely,’ Kelleher said.

‘Hello, Daisy.’

The girl extended her hand. Isabella took it and made the effort to smile. It was returned, although she noticed that her eyes remained cool. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Claudette has been at Le Rosey for two years. She’s one of our prefects.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Kelleher said.

‘I was just going through the daily schedule,’ Pires said to the girl. ‘I got up to prep. Do you want to tell her about dinner?’

‘Of course, Monsieur Pires. Dinner is served at 7.30 p.m. Students are given a place at a table with other students and a teacher. The food is always excellent. It’s the best time of the day.’

‘It all sounds wonderful,’ Kelleher said.

‘Unless you have any other questions, there’s nothing else I need to say,’ Pires said.

‘No,’ Snow said. ‘I think we’re good.’

‘Very good. I think we can leave Daisy in Claudette’s capable hands.’

Kelleher turned her back to Pires and placed a hand on each of Isabella’s shoulders. She looked into her eyes, gave the tiniest of nods and then, right back in character, hugged her and told her with brash confidence that she was sure that she was going to settle in here just fine. Snow was next, kissing her on the cheek and squeezing her hand.

‘Goodbye, darling,’ Kelleher said.

‘Bye, Mother.’

‘We’ll see you at the end of the term.’

That was six weeks away. Isabella realised that she should probably be showing a little more emotion, but she wasn’t a good enough actress to summon tears on demand. Daisy would probably have cried, but it was not something that came easily to Isabella. Instead, she hurried back across the room and hugged Kelleher again, hiding her lack of emotion by pressing her face into Number Nine’s neck. She held her there for ten seconds, then allowed her arms to be unpeeled.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Kelleher said.

Isabella nodded, found a brave smile and watched as they thanked Monsieur Pires and left the room. Pires followed. The girl, Claudette, stayed at the door. The friendliness was gone from her face now that she was not on show. Isabella thought she saw something unpleasant in her eyes: a knowingness, perhaps. Had she seen through her already?

‘What now?’ she said, keen to at least try to make a friend.

‘Get your stuff unpacked. Dinner is at seven-thirty. I’ll come and get you.’

She turned and walked away down the corridor, leaving the door wide open. Isabella realised that she didn’t know where the girl’s room was, what she was supposed to wear for dinner, how that would work out… anything.

She went to the window as she heard the crunch of a car’s tyres on gravel. The BMW pulled away, rolling slowly across the courtyard and then onto the long drive through the trees. Number Nine and Number Twelve were gone. They were staying in a bed and breakfast in Perroy, ten minutes away, but that wasn’t much succour.

Isabella realised for the first time just how far out of her comfort zone this really was.

She felt vulnerable and alone.

Chapter Forty-One

Isabella spent the next few hours in her room. She wanted to start to feel the atmosphere of the place, the sounds and noises of the buildings and the girls in the rooms on either side of her own. It was quiet, with just the occasional burst of chatter. She idled over to the window and looked down onto the courtyard below. Students passed between the accommodation blocks and the school buildings, their feet crunching on the gravel.

She put her suitcase on the bed and unpacked it, hanging up the expensive new clothes they had bought in Geneva and then slotting the empty case into the wardrobe beneath them.

She spent an hour going through the notes that she had made on Khalil al-Khawari. Pope had not provided very much information on the boy and had complained that it had been difficult to find anything particularly useful. She had researched him herself and found a little additional material. Between Pope’s skimpy dossier and her own, she felt that she had enough to form a preliminary idea of what he might be like.

She had found several pictures of him on his social media profiles. He was a handsome boy who wore a perpetually haughty expression. He had thick black hair that he wore long enough to drape over the bottom edge of his collar, and a wispy attempt at a goatee beard. His eyes looked sleepy, and when he smiled, there was a lasciviousness there that hinted that he was used to getting what he wanted. There were pictures of him shooting grouse, riding horses, skydiving over the Burj al Arab, racing jet skis and bodyboarding. The pictures were advertisements for excess. Isabella preferred a spartan life and found his distasteful.

She had trawled his social media accounts. His Facebook profile listed three thousand friends, and he had twice that number of Twitter followers. Both profiles were repositories for links to his favourite musicians and films. Neither suggested much in the way of taste. He supported Manchester United, and several of the first team were followers of his Twitter account.

He had been a student at Collège Saint Marc before attending Le Rosey. He suggested in one post that he planned to go to Sandhurst once he had finished school.

He was a playboy.

She had nothing in common with him at all.

She waited until seven-thirty, but Claudette didn’t return to take her to dinner. She put on her jacket and followed the sound of conversation to the refectory. It was a large conservatory that had been equipped with twenty round tables. There was an excited atmosphere in the room as friends who hadn’t seen each other for the summer were reunited.

Isabella could see the cliques forming as the students filed inside. Two tables, adjacent to one another, were reserved for a group of glossy girls, with Claudette’s voice ringing out the loudest of all. The remaining tables accommodated other groups of friends, everyone talking loudly and enthusiastically.

It didn’t take her long to find Khalil al-Khawari.

He was at a table on the far side of the refectory. She recognised him from the photographs that Pope had shown her. His clothes were understated and obviously expensive, and as he raised his hand to wave at a newcomer who had just entered the room, the light glinted on the face of a chunky wristwatch.

Isabella realised that she had nowhere to sit. She didn’t know anyone. She crossed the room self-consciously, made her way to the table where Claudette and her friends were sitting, and smiled down at them.

‘Hello,’ she said.

Claudette turned to look up at her. ‘Yes?’

‘I thought you were going to come and get me.’

‘Sorry. Forgot.’

‘Can I sit here?’

The girl glanced back at her friends, her eyebrow cocked and the corner of her mouth twitching up in a cruel smile. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

‘There’s a spare seat,’ Isabella pressed, although she was feeling more and more uncomfortable.

‘That’s reserved,’ Claudette said. ‘For a friend.’ She shone an insincere smile. ‘Sorry. You’ll have to go somewhere else.’

There was no point in protesting. Isabella was aware that the girls at the adjacent table were watching Claudette’s little display, and she had no desire to make a sideshow of herself on her first day. She returned the smile and left for a table in the middle of the room that had two spare seats. She could see that the three outcasts at the table were in the same position as she was: not connected with the popular girls and left to themselves.

She knew she was being watched as she left Claudette’s table. She heard laughter behind her as soon as she turned her head, and others looked at her with amusement that they made no attempt to disguise. She was surprised by her reaction. She had spent so much time alone, she had thought that she would be inured to childish callousness. She knew it shouldn’t bother her, but it did. She felt acutely exposed.

She was halfway to the ‘outcast’ table when she looked up and glanced over at Khalil’s table. The other boys were deep in conversation, but he had turned his head to look at her. He saw that she had seen him and his handsome face broke into a wide, welcoming smile. She returned the smile, and as she pulled back the chair to sit down, his grin became even more intense, and he delivered a theatrical wink.

‘Hello,’ said one of the girls at the table. ‘Who are you?’

‘Daisy McKee,’ she said.

‘I’m Eve. First day?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Don’t worry about Claudette. She’s a bitch — everyone knows it. Don’t waste time on her.’

Isabella relaxed into the small talk. She gave enough effort so as not to appear rude, but her attention was elsewhere.

The waiting staff circulated and took their orders. Isabella allowed herself a moment to turn and look across the tables to where Khalil was sitting. All she could see was his glossy head of black hair. He had turned away and was lost in conversation with the other students at his table. She thought of the task that Michael Pope had set for her. Getting to know Khalil was the first, and most important, part of her assignment, and she felt that she had taken a small step toward it today.

Chapter Forty-Two

Isabella awoke at six the next morning, dressed in her running gear and went out for a run. The grounds were expansive. She saw more accommodation blocks, a large canteen, a gymnasium and generous playing fields. She kept running, and after ten minutes she was out in the countryside, with the lake to her right. Her mother had said that running had always been the best way for her to clear her mind, and after Isabella had taken it up herself, she had come to agree. She kept running, cutting a route through the verdant hills and woods, and allowed her thoughts to flit over the task at hand. What did she need to do? She would have to appear natural and at home, comfortable with the atmosphere of the school and the circumstances of the other pupils. She had read in the handbook that had been left in her room that the staff cleaned up the students’ rooms. Isabella had taught herself to be entirely self-sufficient, and she found the prospect of being attended to like that to be distasteful. But she would have to pretend that it was not.

She thought about how she would ingratiate herself with the others and, in particular, Khalil al-Khawari. She knew that would be a challenge. The last year had been spent almost entirely alone, apart from the grandmaster at her dojo, and her childhood had been a procession of homes and foster parents, never staying long enough to form connections with anyone. She was self-aware enough to know that she could be seen as distant, even truculent, and she knew that a friendly and open attitude was something that she would have to work hard to project.

She reached a kink in the lake and decided to turn back. By the time she returned to her room it was seven, the sun was up, and she was breathing heavily and lightly bathed in sweat. She undressed and showered, closing her eyes and again running through the cover story that Pope, Snow and Kelleher had concocted for her. She wanted it to be second nature. She had studied it for hours and was confident that she could carry it off.

She wrapped a towel around herself and went to stand in front of the mirror. She knew that she was pretty. She had her mother’s icy complexion, her blue eyes and her long blonde hair. She had never had a boyfriend before. There had been boys in some of the homes, and she had fooled around with a few of them, but she would not have described herself as experienced or even particularly confident. She didn’t know how hard she would have to work to attract Khalil’s attention. In spite of her research, she really knew very little about him, and his behaviour was unpredictable. She would handle that on the fly.

She made an effort to look involved with the day’s lessons, but she was distracted and they passed her by. The sessions bore little resemblance to the hours she had endured in cold and leaking classrooms in a succession of sink estate schools, but there were similarities enough for her to remember the boredom and the unpleasantness of being someone apart, with no friends to help ease the monotony. Her experience of formal education had been rudimentary. There had been schools as she was growing up, but her peripatetic existence meant that she was never in one for long enough to feel as if there was any point in taking it seriously. A long line of teachers dismissed her as a lost cause, the kind of girl who would never amount to anything. She helped to reinforce that conclusion; her hair-trigger temper inevitably led her into the fights that had seen her suspended and then expelled.

They had given up completely in the end. A family was chosen who had promised to homeschool her, but that effort lasted a month before the impatient mother threw up her hands. Isabella taught herself to read, and when she finally persuaded the teachers that there was no profit in them trying to force her to cleave to their list of recommended reading, she won herself the opportunity to read whatever she liked. Books became her escape from the grim reality of her daily existence. She devoured Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, then Dickens and Hardy. Mark Twain transported her from the drabness of the English commuter towns through which she was shuttled. She tore through Austen. Asimov and Banks broadened her horizons. Dante and Joyce tested her.

Her mother had continued her education during the year that they spent together, and now that she was gone, Isabella had undertaken to complete it herself. There were the practical lessons in the use and maintenance of weapons, the physical improvement, the language classes that meant that she was fluent in Arabic and French, and passable in Italian, Spanish and several others.

She sat at the back of the classroom and thought about what she was going to do.

Chapter Forty-Three

Isabella enjoyed her dinner that night. The food was excellent. Her diet was basic in Marrakech — a succession of tagines and vegetable dishes — so the succulent fish she ordered was a pleasant change. Her table was joined by a boy who had issues with crippling shyness. The other girls made an effort to include him in the conversation, but the atmosphere was stilted. None of them were particularly comfortable in talking to the others, Isabella included, and although she knew that she should make more of an effort to fit in, she found it difficult to motivate herself. She had no intention of staying in the school any longer than she had to. As soon as she had met Pope’s objectives, she intended to return to her riad and the peace and quiet that she had come to realise was of great importance to her. In the end, the others came to the conclusion that she was disinterested, the conversation faltered even more and then continued round her.

She finished her meal, wished them a good night and went back to her room.

She spent half an hour in meditation, preparing herself for class tomorrow, until she was disturbed by loud music from the common area outside. She took a moment to tamp down her irritation, put herself back into character, opened the door and went outside.

Claudette, her friends and the other girls from the corridor were seated around the coffee table. One of the girls was playing music from her phone through a portable Bluetooth speaker. There were bottles of gin and vodka, a two-litre bottle of Diet Coke and a stack of plastic cups that had been taken from the water dispenser at the end of the corridor. The girls were dressed in party clothes and all made up.

Isabella was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, and felt plain in comparison. She forced a smile onto her face and aimed for a casual impression as she leaned against the wall. ‘What’s happening?’

No one answered.

‘Where are you going?’

Claudette made a show of rolling her eyes. ‘First week of term?’ she said, phrasing it inquisitorially.

‘So?’

‘So there’s a party in the boys’ common room.’

‘Can I—’

‘Can you what?’

‘Come with you?’

The girls laughed.

‘Not with us,’ Claudette said archly.

‘You know any of the boys?’ one of the other girls asked.

‘No,’ Isabella said. ‘Only got here yesterday. I don’t know anyone.’

‘I wouldn’t go if I didn’t know anyone,’ the girl said to the others. ‘You’ll just look like you’re desperate.’

Isabella felt the tension in her hands as she clenched her fists, her nails pressing into the soft flesh of her palms. She looked at Claudette, at her glossy face and lacquered hair, as pretty and fake as the hair on a child’s doll, and felt the heat of her testiness begin to rise. A hair-trigger temper was a trait that she had shared with her mother, and it had gotten worse after Beatrix’s death. Regular meditation had been helpful in keeping it under control, but there were limits. Her imagination played out how simple it would be to embarrass this girl in front of her friends, to flip her off the sofa and onto her back, to choke her out or mess up that pretty face, but she knew she couldn’t possibly do that. She would be expelled, and then how would she do what she had agreed to do?

No.

Isabella smiled at Claudette, said good night to the others, and went back to her room.

She opened the wardrobe and ran her finger across the clothes that had been purchased for her. Some of them were still wrapped in their plastic sheaths, the names of the brands emblazoned across them. She took a dress from the hanger and tore the plastic away from it. It was black, simple and stylish, and she had liked the way that she had looked in it when she had tried it on. Kelleher had said that it made her look good, too. It was more revealing than she was used to, a little too short and a little too low cut, but that would serve her purpose. She needed to make an impression.

She went into the bathroom, ran the shower and undressed.

She waited for two hours, until eleven, before she locked her room and went outside. It was cold as she walked across the courtyard that separated the boys’ accommodation block from the girls’ and she drew the woollen wrap around her shoulders, scant consolation against the chill breeze that was blowing in off the lake. She had a tight little nub of anxiety in her stomach, the sense that she was about to give a performance without having had the chance to rehearse. It was a good opportunity, too good to pass up, but she would have preferred to have had a chance to prepare herself.

Her feet crunched over the gravel. A night bird hooted high overhead. She could hear the muffled thud of bass, and it was louder as she opened the door. The sound was coming from above. The configuration of the block looked to be identical to her own, so she climbed the stairs and turned in the direction of the communal space.

The party had spread out from the communal space into the corridors that fed into it. All of the rooms were open, the doors flung wide. Little clutches of students were gathered in the corridor as she approached. Others were in the rooms. There was the strong, sweet smell of dope in the air, and plenty of the kids were drunk. One girl was laid out on the floor, a plastic cup tipped over and a sticky puddle spreading out from it. She stepped over and around them all, looking for Khalil. She guessed that he would be here. His reputation was as something of a playboy, and she would have been surprised if he had missed a chance to party.

She reached the communal space. A sound system had been set up and one of the boys was DJ-ing. The lights had been extinguished and blankets hung over the windows. Lava lamps had been set up, and they cast pools of warm light around the room.

She paused in the doorway and looked. She saw Claudette immediately. She was sitting with her back to the wall, a bottle of expensive vodka stood between her and the boy who was talking to her. She saw Isabella, her face crumpling into an angry frown. She said something to the boy, pushed herself onto unsteady legs and walked across the room to meet her.

‘What are you doing here?’ Claudette demanded.

‘I fancied a drink.’

‘I told you, you don’t know anyone.’ The words came haltingly, through the haze of drink, but the antipathy could not be mistaken. ‘You have to know someone. You’re not welcome.’

She put her hand on Isabella’s elbow and started to pull her towards the corridor. Isabella didn’t struggle. She didn’t want to make a scene. As they passed one of the open doorways, she glanced inside and saw that the bedroom beyond was empty. She planted her left foot, reached out with her left hand and clasped her fingers around Claudette’s wrist. She pressed her thumb and forefinger, penetrating between the bone and tendon, and was rewarded with a little gasp of pain. She used the moment to guide Claudette into the room, advancing with her and flicking the inner door shut with a flick of her leg.

She bent the girl’s arm around behind her back and squeezed again.

‘You’re not very friendly,’ she said.

‘It… hurts…’

‘I don’t really care whether you like me or not. But if you ever try to tell me what I can and can’t do, we’re going to have a problem.’

‘Get… off…’

‘You know why I’m here? At this school?’

The girl grimaced as she shook her head.

‘Because I was expelled from my last one. Got in trouble with a bitch like you. We ended up fighting. It didn’t go too well for her. Hospital. I messed up her face. Do you understand me?’

‘Hurts…’

‘Do you understand me?’

‘Yes.’

She released her grip. Claudette drew her arm in, rubbing the back of her wrist with her spare hand.

‘Stay away from me,’ she said.

Chapter Forty-Four

Khalil was in the common space when Isabella emerged from the room. He was in a corner, passing around a joint with a group of two girls and another boy. Isabella dismissed thoughts of Claudette and made her way to the bottles of booze on the table. She watched Khalil in the corner of her eye. He saw her, smiled and disengaged himself from the group and came over to meet her at the table.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Daisy.’

‘You’re new, right?’

‘Yes. The new girl with no friends.’

‘I saw what happened at dinner last night. Don’t worry about Claudette. She’s a bitch. Her friends are, too.’

She saw Claudette emerge from the corridor, still rubbing her wrist. She saw that Isabella was talking to Khalil and glared at her. Isabella held her eye for a moment until Claudette looked away.

Khalil noticed the exchange. ‘You and she had an argument?’

‘We just set a few things straight. I don’t like bullies.’

‘Good for you,’ he said. He still had the joint in his hand. He put it to his lips and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment, tipped back his head and then exhaled toward the ceiling.

He offered it to her.

‘No, thanks.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I used to. Got into trouble. I try not to now.’

He gave a nod as if to say that he understood, carefully extinguished the joint and slid it behind his ear.

‘You know my name?’

‘You’re Khalil,’ she said with what she hoped would be a suitably flirtatious smile.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I asked.’

‘Is that right?’

She disguised her awkwardness by reaching down for a plastic cup.

‘Let me,’ Khalil said, unscrewing a bottle of Grey Goose and pouring out a very generous measure. She set out a second cup and he filled that, too, collected it and made a show of touching it against hers. ‘Santé.’

‘Cheers.’ She put the cup to her lips and drank. The vodka was sharp and acrid, and she had to fight the urge not to wince.

He noticed her discomfort. ‘You don’t drink either?’

‘Not for a while.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen,’ she lied. Her enrolment forms said that she was sixteen. She knew she looked older than fifteen. There was no reason why he would suspect unless she gave him reason. She cursed herself for the gaucheness with the drink and, to compensate, said, ‘Fuck it,’ and indicated that he should give her the joint.

He did. Isabella put it to her lips; he took a lighter and flicked flame. She puffed hard until the hashish and tobacco caught light, and then inhaled. The smoke tickled her throat, and she thought she was going to cough. She mastered it, taking instruction from his example, and exhaled. She felt woozy almost at once, and then a little nauseous. It made her feel vulnerable.

Khalil put a hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the table to a quiet corner of the room that had been scattered with pillows and cushions. He sat down, his back to the wall, and indicated that she should sit next to him.

‘What do you think of the school?’

‘Haven’t had much of a chance to look around yet.’

‘Where were you before?’

‘Collège Alpin Beau Soleil.’

‘In Villars-sur-Ollon?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Why did you leave?’

She thought of the lie she had told Claudette. She had to double down on it, just in case he spoke to her. ‘It wasn’t my choice.’

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘They threw you out?’

‘Something like that.’ She shrugged helplessly and then grinned at him. He laughed. She was pleased. She felt that she was doing well.

He pointed at her arm. ‘Nice tattoo.’

‘Thanks.’

He traced the tip of his finger down her arm, across the tattoo, and she let him. ‘Does it mean anything?’

It means I killed a man. It means I pressed a pistol against his chest and pulled the trigger.

‘Not really. Just something I liked the look of.’

He started to talk. She found small talk very difficult, so it was a relief that he was evidently so self-obsessed he could keep up the conversation by himself. She found it all so inconsequential. Khalil regaled her with stories about the things that he had done. She learned that he had just been bought a new BMW as a present for his forthcoming birthday. He told her that his father owned a house on the shore of Lake Geneva and that he was planning on buying a jet ski in the summer. He told her about a skiing trip he was planning for the winter, the nightclubs that he preferred in Paris and London, the places he liked to shop. How was she supposed to pretend to be interested in the pointlessness of his rich, cosseted life? He was vain and egotistical, but she realised that he was telling her all of this because he wanted to impress her.

She nodded and made the appropriate noises to show how she was impressed, and as he reached out and looped his arm over her shoulders, she did not demur. He leaned over to close the distance between them and moved to kiss her. His lips brushed against hers. She smelled alcohol and stale weed on his breath. She pulled away, smiling coyly.

‘What?’ he protested. ‘You don’t like me?’

‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Come on.’

‘We only met tonight.’

‘I thought that was what we were doing. Getting to know each other.’

His hand was still on her shoulder. She reached up and squeezed it. ‘We are.’

‘You have a boyfriend?’

‘No. But I don’t like rushing into things, that’s all.’

‘Fine.’ He took his arm away. Isabella could tell that she had hurt his feelings. She guessed that he was not used to anyone saying no to him, and unless she moved adroitly, she would spoil any chance of developing their relationship so that she could further her objectives.

He started to stand. Isabella put her hand on his shoulder and held it there. ‘Don’t be like that,’ she said.

‘You don’t like me,’ he said haughtily. ‘Fine. Plenty of other girls do. Claudette does.’

She followed his gaze across the room. Claudette was watching them with a look of displeasure on her glossy face.

‘I didn’t say that. I just said I prefer to move more slowly. And my parents are coming to see me tomorrow. Early. I wasn’t going to stay out as late as this tonight. I need to get to sleep.’ He sighed but he relaxed, sitting down again. She reached across and ran a finger down his cheek, feeling his downy hair. ‘You’ve got a birthday party soon, don’t you?’

‘Who told you about that?’

‘People are talking about it,’ she lied.

‘It’s Monday.’

Isabella touched his cheek again and gave him another coquettish smile. ‘I haven’t been invited yet.’

He turned, saw the way she was looking at him, and found his confidence again. ‘You’d come?’

‘It’s at the house on the lake, right? The others told me. They said it was spectacular.’

He grinned. ‘It’s pretty cool.’

‘I’d love to come.’

‘All right.’ He nodded. ‘It’s invitation only. Not everyone is going to be there. But I can get you one.’

She sensed that now was the time to go. She wanted to leave him with the impression that she was a challenge, more difficult than the simpering girls who fawned over him, but a challenge that would be worth the effort. She stood, finished her drink, and then stooped to kiss him on the lips. He arched his back to push his face at her, trying to press his tongue into her mouth, but she withdrew.

‘Give me an invitation,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll see.’

And then, knowing that his eyes were on her body, she walked out of the room and out of the building into the frigid cold of the night beyond.

Chapter Forty-Five

She had more lessons the following morning. She took a seat at the back of the room again and made a show of listening, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She had wondered whether she should report her progress to Snow and Kelleher, but she had decided against it. All she had done was make contact with the target. The meeting had been encouraging, but there was still a long way for her to go.

There was a small courtyard between the classrooms, and she was gazing out of the window into it when she saw Khalil arrive there. He sat down on a bench, and when he saw that she was looking at him, he raised his hand in a friendly wave.

He was still waiting for her twenty minutes later as the class spilled outside.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Hello.’

‘Did you enjoy the party?’

‘It wasn’t bad. What time did it finish?’

‘I think it’s probably still going on.’ He grinned. ‘My father is coming to see me today, so I had to call it quits.’

‘He wouldn’t approve?’

He shuffled a little. ‘Not really.’

Isabella wondered whether she was trespassing on something he was not comfortable discussing. ‘If it’s any consolation, my parents would be the same.’

‘I don’t know, Daisy. Unless you’re going to surprise me, I’d be surprised if your parents were well known in the Muslim community.’

She shook her head and made to laugh with him.

‘You still want to come to my party?’

‘Sure.’

He reached into his bag and took out an envelope. It was made from heavy stock. It felt expensive. She opened it and took out a card, similarly creamy and expensive, with an invitation to the party and directions to get to the house by the lake.

‘Keep it to yourself,’ he said with a grin. ‘Like I said, I haven’t invited everyone. Don’t want people to get too jealous.’

‘No. Don’t worry. I will.’

‘And I have to keep it quiet. If my parents found out…’

‘They don’t know?’

He laughed. ‘No! There’s no way they’d let me have a party.’

‘They won’t stop it?’

He smirked. ‘They’ll be in Paris. There’s nothing I can do about the staff telling them, but it’ll be too late by then. I’ll get in trouble when they get back, but I’m going to make sure it’s worth the aggravation.’

They sat quietly for a moment. She had the feeling that he was a little awkward, and when she turned to him, his cheeks were flushed.

‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’ she asked.

‘Not much. You?’

‘Lessons.’

‘Really?’

‘What? You’re not?’

‘Lessons are kind of voluntary. They only care that your parents pay the bills and that you don’t do anything too depraved. I’m going into Geneva.’ His face lit up as he knew what to say to her. ‘You should come.’

She feigned reluctance. ‘I don’t know—’

‘You said you wanted to get to know me.’

‘I do,’ she said.

‘What are you waiting for, then? Let’s go and have some fun.’

Isabella knew what she should do. The school didn’t matter. The whole purpose of this charade was to win Khalil’s trust and get into his father’s house.

‘Why not?’ she said.

‘You’ll come?’

‘Let’s go.’

He called a taxi. It arrived in ten minutes, pulling into the wide courtyard. Isabella was aware of people watching them as they got into the car, but no one said anything. She saw a teacher that she recognised from the refectory, but he just watched idly and did nothing. The attitude toward attendance seemed to be relaxed.

‘They let us come and go as we please?’

‘Not everyone,’ he said, grinning. ‘Just some of us.’

She pretended to be uncomfortable.

‘Relax, Daisy. You’re with me. All right?’

‘If you say so.’

Khalil told the driver to take them to Geneva and Rue du Mont Blanc and then reclined in the leather seat and looked across the cabin at her. His legs were spread wide and his knee touched up against hers.

‘What do your parents do?’ he asked her.

It was the first thing that he had said that wasn’t all about him. ‘My father is a commodities trader. He owns his own brokerage.’

‘That’s great,’ he said, making an effort to appear interested, but not doing a very good job. ‘Your mother?’

‘She’s into art.’

‘Really? Wonderful.’ There was an awkward silence, and she realised that this was going to be the extent of his efforts to get to know her. He wasn’t very good at it, she decided. Probably didn’t need to be. A young man in his position, with his father’s wealth and reputation behind him, he would be used to other people doing all the running.

‘You’re not very good at small talk, are you?’

Her good-natured rebuke brought his focus back on her. ‘I’m sorry…’ he began, saw that she was joking and then smiled. His teeth were bright white.

They were coming into the city now.

‘Have you been here before?’

‘Never. I’ve only visited the airport.’

‘The shops are great. The Swiss love shopping. It’s practically a national pastime. You’ll have a great time.’

Khalil knew his way around Geneva and seemed keen to show off. They set off walking down the Rue du Mont Blanc to the Pont du Mont Blanc so that they might have a pleasant view of the harbour. They crossed the bridge, and Khalil pointed out the little island on their right.

‘It’s the Île Rousseau. There’s a statue of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Never seen it, but I think it’s there.’

They saw the Jet d’Eau, the famous fountain that shot 140 metres into the air, drawing water from the lake. They crossed the bridge and headed through the Place du Molard to the ‘Rues Basses.’ They followed Rue de la Confédération, Rue du Marché and Rue de la Croix d’Or, staying parallel to the lakefront. Khalil turned onto a flight of stairs going up to their right, and after ascending, they arrived in the old town. They visited the Cathedral of St Pierre and climbed the tower for a view of the city.

They could see for miles. It was cold at the top, and Khalil took advantage of the moment to put his arm across Isabella’s shoulders and draw her closer to him.

‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked him.

‘A year. And just for school. My father has places around the world.’

‘Where were you before this term?’

‘Qatar. Boring.’

‘I’ve never been.’

‘Don’t bother. You can’t drink, you can’t do anything. Everything’s so new and sterile. Lots of money, but nothing to do with it. I hate it.’

‘Better here?’

‘Here’s okay, but it’s provincial. London, Paris, New York. That’s where I’d rather be.’

‘What does your father do?’

‘Stuff with oil and gas. That’s boring, too. It’s all boring.’ He sighed, as if it were the most tedious subject imaginable. ‘We should go and look at the shops. Sound good?’

‘Sure.’

Chapter Forty-Six

Khalil ended their tour back on the Rue du Mont Blanc. There was a string of exclusive jewellers on the street, and he made her stop and look into the window of one of them. The display was spare and almost empty, the few pieces on show obviously priced at extortionate amounts.

He put his arm around her shoulders again and pointed at one piece.

‘You like it?’

It was a Rolex Lady-Datejust in stainless steel and pink gold, decorated with rubies and sapphires.

‘Sure,’ Isabella said, unable to completely hide her distaste.

He took it for reticence. ‘Want it?’

‘Don’t be crazy. It’s bound to be stupidly expensive.’

Isabella had no time for extravagant trinkets. Even when she had refurbished her riad, she had been very careful to make sure that she wasn’t exploited. She had paid for quality, but none of her decisions were made frivolously. There was plenty of money left, but she had husbanded that carefully. She knew that it would not last forever, and she needed to stretch it out for long enough until she had decided what she wanted to do with her life. The thought of squandering money on an ostentatious piece of jewellery was beyond her.

He fluttered his hand at that and went to the counter. Isabella was watching him take out his wallet when her attention drifted out of the window. She gazed over the racks of gold and silver and saw Kelleher on the other side of the street. There was a café there, with tables arranged in a square outside the front, and Pope was sitting there with a cup of coffee. He was wearing a pair of dark glasses and was looking right at her. She felt a burst of relief. She had thought she had been doing well, but she had been riding the adrenaline to help her forget the icy nugget of fear and trepidation that seemed permanently lodged in her gut. Pope had said that they would be watching her. She knew that he could have stayed invisible if he had chosen, and realised that he had revealed himself so that she could be reassured.

And it was reassuring.

She felt a hand on her arm. ‘Hey,’ Khalil said. He had the watch in his left hand.

‘Don’t be crazy,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘It’s ten thousand, Khalil.’

‘Just money. You know how much my father is worth?’

She made as if she was bashful. The watch was hideous, and the fact that it cost so much was obscene. She did not wear jewellery, and even if she had, she would never have chosen something as baroque as this. She glanced up and over his shoulder at Pope. He was staring at her, and as she watched, he gave a tiny inclination of his head.

Khalil started to rub his right hand up and down her arm. ‘Take it,’ he insisted.

She held out her left arm and pulled back her sleeve so that her slender wrist was bare. He opened the clasp, draped the watch around her wrist, and then fastened it again.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. He was leering at her. She knew what had just happened; she understood his interpretation of the transaction. He thought he had bought her. She felt the hand on her arm, his fingers tracing patterns through the fabric of her sleeve. It was possessive, and she felt a little ripple of revulsion.

She looked through the window again. Pope was gone.

Isabella let him lead her onto the street. He was searching for a cab to take them back to Le Rosey when a big car slowed down, pulled out of the sluggish traffic and drew up alongside them. It was a Bentley Continental. The paintwork gleamed, and the sun sparked off the chrome grille and the hubs of the wheels. It looked obscenely expensive, even among all the opulence on the street.

‘Shit,’ Khalil breathed out.

‘What is it?’

‘My father.’

The driver’s door opened, and a uniformed chauffeur stepped out. He went around to the rear and opened the kerbside passenger door. A man got out. He was shorter than average and of slender build. He had a head of white hair and a spatter of tiny dark lesions across his otherwise smooth brown skin. He was dressed well in a three-piece suit that fit him so well that it must surely have been bespoke. Isabella recognised him. It was Salim Hasan Mafuz Muslim al-Khawari, and his face was marked with a furious scowl.

‘Get in the car,’ he said.

‘Father—’

‘You make me repeat myself?’

‘Father, I—’

‘Get in the car, boy.’

Khalil paused for a moment. He looked at Isabella, all the confidence that he thought he could buy with his father’s money gone in an instant. She looked back at him, unsure what — if anything — she should do or say. She chose to do nothing.

Salim took a step to Khalil, raised his hand and cuffed him hard around the side of the head.

‘Now, Khalil!’

His face flashed with pain, and with his eyes cast to the ground, he hurried across the pavement to the car and got inside.

Salim turned to Isabella. She caught the scent of his perfume and recognised it as attar, a perfume extracted from rose petals that was popular among the well-heeled Arabs in the Marrakech souks.

He smiled at her. ‘I am sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘My son knows he should not be here with you.’

‘Why?’

‘You are not Muslim.’

‘What difference does that make?’

He smiled again. She saw that he had thin lips and hard eyes that glittered like diamonds. ‘I am not saying that you and Khalil may not be friends. He has many friends who are not Muslim. All I am saying is that I prefer it if he is not alone with a pretty girl who is not a Muslim.’

She found him patronising, and she was tempted to argue the point with him, but she remembered what she was here to do and that she would do herself no favours if she annoyed him and found her invitation to Khalil’s party rescinded.

And so she ducked her head respectfully and told him that she understood.

‘What is your name?’

‘Daisy.’

He gave a little bow. ‘Then it was nice to meet you, Daisy. Perhaps I will see you again.’

He stepped back and got into the car. Isabella watched, saw Khalil staring glumly back at her, and next to him, an extravagantly coiffed woman. She only caught her profile, but recognised her as Khalil’s mother. The chauffeur closed the door, walked around to the other side of the car, got in and drove away.

None of them seemed concerned about how she would return to the school.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The weekend passed without difficulties. Isabella kept herself to herself, going out for early morning and late evening runs and then spending the rest of the time reading in her room. She realised that she was apprehensive about the party on Monday and what she had been asked to do.

It was the thought of being in Salim al-Khawari’s house. Khalil had said that he wouldn’t be there, that he would be in Paris, but the thought was still daunting. She knew little about the older man, just the pieces of information that Pope had given her. She had augmented the intelligence with her own research, just as she had done for Khalil, but all she could find were vague generalities that went no further than the broadest strokes.

He was, the websites and newspaper articles agreed, an aggressive businessman with a sharp temper. He was vain and extravagant, and prone to fly off the handle at the most insignificant perceived slight. One profile, unusual for daring to go deeper than the manicured public image, suggested his chippiness might be because of his humble beginnings. The journalist who had written the profile had been hauled through the courts for her temerity in deviating from the prepared script. It was obvious that al-Khawari did not like it when matters proceeded out of his control.

On Sunday evening, at the end of a long day during which she had wound the tension until it was tight enough to snap, she gave in and took out her cell phone.

She found the number for Uncle Rupert and sent a text.

All going well. I can talk now if you’re free?

She hurried outside to take the call, and only had to wait a minute before the phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the screen. The number had been withheld.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’ She recognised Pope’s voice. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. I’m outside. There’s no one here. I can talk.’

‘Well done. It’s going well?’

‘It is.’

‘I was watching in Geneva.’

‘I know.’

‘Has he invited you to the party?’

‘Yes. It’s tomorrow night.’

‘And you feel ready?’

‘Yes.’

She did, but she was nervous.

‘What about Salim?’

‘Not going to be there.’

‘Do you need anything?’

‘No…’ She paused. ‘Where are you?’

‘Very close. And we will be tomorrow night, too. If you need help, you know what to do.’

‘I won’t.’

‘No. I don’t think you will. You’re doing well, Isabella. Very well.’

She heard a crunch on the gravel behind her and, turning, saw two boys emerging from the squash court.

‘I better go,’ she said.

‘Good luck.’

She ended the call.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Isabella was distracted all the next day. She paid little attention in the morning’s classes, just enough to at least give the impression that she was concentrating, even if her thoughts were a million miles away. She went over how she thought the evening might unfold. It was difficult to be precise when she had no idea of the layout of the house, nor how difficult it would be to find a networked computer and fit the device that Pope had given her. Would there be many people there? How long would she need? Would anyone notice her if she was gone for very long? What if she was found in an area of the house that she was not supposed to be in? What would she do then? She ran these thoughts around and around, coming up with answers and testing them out.

And then she thought of her mother. Beatrix had told her enough about her own work for Isabella to know that what she had agreed to do for Pope was not too distant from the things that her mother would have done. Of course, she reminded herself, Beatrix’s activities were more complex than this. She had killed people for the government, and she had been very good at it. Had she felt this way before she went out on an assignment? Kelleher and Snow were in the same unit as Beatrix had been. Isabella assumed that they did the same kind of work. Did they feel this way, too? She wondered whether she should have asked them, whether there was some way to deal with the nerves.

She skipped the afternoon’s lessons so that she could go for a run. She didn’t really care if that would get her into trouble. It wasn’t very likely that she would be in the school beyond today. The charade would be over, one way or another. She ran out to the spot where she normally turned back, but kept going for the same distance again. She passed through the grounds of the school and out into the countryside beyond, running on the slope of a hill that meandered down to the waterfront below. She saw boats on the lake and a pair of jet skis cutting lines of froth across the glassy surface. It was a cold and fresh afternoon, and the air made her lungs burn. She ran on until she had been out for an hour, and then turned back. By the time she returned to the school, she guessed that she had covered fifteen miles.

She showered, standing under the hot water for fifteen minutes until the mud and sweat had been scoured away and her skin was tingling. She wrapped a towel around her torso, ran a hand across the mirror to swipe away the condensation and looked at her reflection. She wasn’t accustomed to considering her appearance. She wasn’t vain or self-obsessed in the slightest, and had nothing in common with Claudette and the other girls. She had never had the occasion to take advantage of her looks before she met Khalil. It felt duplicitous. She preferred to be honest and open, like her mother had been with her. She realised she was being naïve. Of course her mother would have used her looks if that meant that she could secure an advantage for herself. You worked with the tools that you had at your disposal. Honesty would get her into trouble. She would save that for when it mattered.

She went into the bedroom. She got out the other dress that she had bought with Kelleher and took it from its cellophane wrap. It was a pink mini, zipped up at the back. Kelleher had suggested a pair of metallic skyscraper heels and clashing red lip gloss. It was the kind of dress that Isabella would never normally have worn. She was most comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt, and this was showy, flirtatious and desperate for attention in ways that she found instinctively uncomfortable. She put it on, applied the lip gloss and mascara, and stood before the mirror and conceded, a little reluctantly, that it was what she needed. She looked older, for a start. That was good. She thought that she looked attractive.

She took the watch that he had bought for her and slipped it on her wrist. She had a small clutch bag, and she put her cell phone and two €50 notes inside. She wished that she had a gun — something small and easy to hide, like the Springfield XDS 9mm she had in her dresser at the riad — but she knew she would never have been able to explain what she was doing with it if it was found. No. She would have to trust that Pope and the others would be able to get to her quickly if she found herself in trouble.

She dragged her suitcase out of the wardrobe and took out her spare pair of running shoes. She pushed her fingers inside and pulled out the insole. The device that Pope had given her was hidden inside, and as she turned the shoe upside down it dropped into her hand. It was wrapped in cellophane and was small. Not much bigger than her thumbnail. She took her clutch, took out her lip gloss and pulled off the lid. There was enough space between the hollow lid and the lip gloss to fit the device and still have room to click it closed.

She checked the time: 6.50.

Khalil had hired a coach that would make runs to and from the house every thirty minutes. The first coach was leaving at seven. She would let the first two go without her and get the third one at eight-thirty. She wanted the party to have started by the time she got there. The more people there, and the more drunken they were, the better her chances of slipping away from the others without being noticed.

The coach was able to accommodate fifty passengers, and it was full. Isabella recognised several of the partygoers from the refectory. There were six boys at the back swigging from a plastic bottle of Coke — laced with vodka — that they passed between them. There were four other quieter boys of Middle Eastern appearance who looked a little discomfited by the rowdy, drunken atmosphere onboard the coach. The rest were girls. Claudette wasn’t there — Isabella had seen her through the window of her room as she had gone to catch the previous bus — but there were girls whom she had seen at her dinner table. Isabella was sitting next to one of them; the girl turned around on the seat so that she could join in the lascivious conversation behind her. They were as haughty and supercilious as Claudette, barely sparing her a glance and certainly not interested in including her in their conversation. That was fine. Isabella had no interest in talking to them either. She didn’t need the distraction or the investment of energy it would have taken to try to be someone she was not.

She gazed out of the window as the Swiss countryside rolled by. She thought about Pope. He had said that he would be able to track her phone, but it would have been good to know where he was. They might have been following in a car, she thought. Or perhaps they had split up, with someone waiting outside the house. She realised she had no idea how something like this would be organised. It made her feel vulnerable again. She would have liked to know.

She caught sight of her face in the glass. She looked pensive. She clenched her teeth and told herself to get it together. She had to look as if she was supposed to be at the party. Khalil had to think she was happy to be there, that she had no other agenda. No secrets. That she was just there to get drunk and have a good time.

She thought of the little component that she had hidden in her bag.

The bus slowed down, waited for a large pair of automatic iron gates to open and then passed into the grounds of Salim al-Khawari’s mansion. The big building was lit up, the illumination from within spreading out of the expansive windows. The driveway was picked out by lights that glowed from little sconces on either side of the gravel, and external lights lit a path down to the boathouse and to the garage block. Isabella looked at the house and felt small and insignificant. It was huge and must have cost millions to purchase. With something as impressive as this, surely there must be sophisticated security inside? Alarms? Motion sensors? She quailed at the prospect of what she had agreed to do. How was she going to manage? They would see right through her. She wouldn’t last five minutes.

The bus slowed right down and drew to a halt. She reached into her bag and took out her phone. She opened a message to Rupert and typed out two words.

I’M HERE.

She pressed ‘Send.’

The door of the bus opened on wheezing hydraulics, and Isabella waited her turn to step down. It was cold, and the dress did little to keep her warm. Claudette’s friends were right behind her, and she heard them make a joke at her expense. She ignored them. The house was at the end of a short path. It loomed up out of the ground, all shimmering glass and cold steel, its light thrown out in rippling shafts across the gentle waves on the lake. She collected herself, ignoring the cold knot of apprehensiveness in her stomach and the dryness in her throat, and followed the others to the big front door.

The party was in full swing. A large reception room had been cleared for the night. Furniture had been pushed to the walls to open up a wide space for dancing. A table was making do as a makeshift bar, the guests helping themselves to drinks.

The atmosphere was drunken. Isabella remembered reading that drinking was un-Islamic; Khalil and his guests were not paying much attention to that. She saw a woman in a maid’s uniform standing in an open doorway, her arms folded across her chest and an expression of discomfort on her face. What Khalil had said must have been true: Salim al-Khawari couldn’t possibly know what was happening here tonight. She remembered the coldness in his eyes when she had met him in Geneva. The thought that he was somewhere else was reassuring. How long would he be away for? The maid, and presumably the other staff, must have reported to him what was happening. What would he do? Get them to close it down?

A DJ had been provided with a table to set out his laptops and equipment. He was mixing hard, aggressive house music that Isabella had not heard before. She couldn’t say that it was to her taste, but it was thunderously loud, and it added to the host of distractions that she knew would prove useful.

She tried to work out where she was in relation to the rest of the house. This big room was on the lower level. There was an elevator in the middle of the room with a spiral staircase wrapped around the shaft. She believed that there were another three floors above her. A door to the outside was open so that smokers could have access to the area around an ornamental pool, where they could enjoy their cigarettes. Some ignored that and smoked inside. Others smoked joints. There was another set of doors opposite her, across the dance floor. They stood open a little and looked promising.

Isabella took it all in.

The atmosphere was rowdy and confused. It felt on the edge of control.

That was good.

She wanted it to be like that.

It would be easier to slip away unnoticed.

She looked for Khalil. He was sitting in the middle of a wide sofa with two girls, one on either side of him. He had his arms around both of them, squeezing them close to him as someone took a picture with a phone. He was a quarter turn away from her, and distracted, and she was able to move around the room so that the elevator and stairs were between them without him noticing that she had arrived. There was a mirror on the wall in front of him, and she was able to observe for a moment. He was the centre of attention. She wondered whether he would even remember that she was coming.

There didn’t seem to be any reason why she should wait.

The next bus departed in thirty minutes. If she was lucky, she could fit the device and be back in her room at school within the hour. She could say that she felt ill. It wouldn’t matter what she said.

She walked across the room, her eyes on Khalil, until she was two metres away from the doors. She checked again, one more time, turned back to the doors and saw that they had been left ajar, pushed them and stepped through.

Chapter Forty-Nine

There was a corridor on the other side of the door. She followed it deeper into the house. She had decided that if she were questioned, she would say that she was looking for the bathroom and had lost her way. That seemed like it would be a legitimate situation for her to find herself in, especially if she pretended to be a little drunk.

The corridor was long, and as she walked, the noise of the party faded away behind her. Pope had shown her the architect’s plans for the property, and she had studied the satellite images from Google Maps as she was preparing for her visit. She knew that it was comprised of two large four-storey wings that were joined by the single-storey span that she was passing through. The corridor, which was more like a hallway, was glassed on both sides. The first door she passed had been marked with a sign that indicated it was the bathroom. That was annoying. It would be difficult to argue that she had missed it. She passed a cream sofa, a low glass table and a selection of vases and standard lamps. The open windows showed out onto a rock garden on the left and a view to the lake on the right. They were uncovered and made her feel particularly vulnerable.

She reached the end of the hallway. There were two large glass doors, and beyond them, a second vast living room. She saw a huge circular sofa, pieces of confusing modern art, an enormous television fixed to the wall and another spiral staircase in the centre that wound around a second clear glass lift shaft. There was a table with a fruit bowl. A bottle of wine and a corkscrew had been left on the table next to the bowl.

There was no one inside the room.

She opened the door and went inside.

It really was vast. She hadn’t been able to see quite how big from the other side of the doors, but now that she was inside, she saw that the ceiling reached up to the third floor, thirty feet above the ground. There was a pool outside, the water lit from beneath with a series of twinkling lights. She paused, listening. She could hear the muffled bass from the party, but nothing more.

She went further inside.

There was a door to the north.

She crossed the room, paused at the door and then, when she was satisfied that the room beyond was empty, opened it.

There was a noisy clatter from inside as something toppled over.

She clenched her teeth, her stomach tight with tension, and waited. Nothing. The noise from the party would be helpful to her now. She waited a little longer, then went inside.

It was a smaller room, but still big. There was enough space for a large desk, a roller chair and several large bookcases. There was an overturned lamp on the floor. She had knocked it over when she opened the door. It looked like the room was used as a study. She found what she was looking for on the desk: a PC tower.

She crossed the room and was at the desk, ready to move the PC, when she heard someone behind her.

‘Excuse me?’

She froze. She turned and saw a well-dressed middle-aged woman.

What?

She recognised her: it was Jasmin al-Khawari, Khalil’s mother. The woman was wearing an abaya cinched by a belt featuring an oversized buckle and studded with Swarovski crystals. Her face, immaculately made up and bearing the signs of surgical intervention, was haughty and unfriendly.

What was she doing here?

She was supposed to be in Paris.

Khalil must have been mistaken, or his mother had changed her plans without telling him.

She guessed that he was about to find himself in a world of trouble.

That would be true for her, too, unless she was quick on her feet.

‘I thought I heard something,’ the woman said with no attempt to mask her distaste for her. ‘You little kafirs running amok in my house.’

‘I’m here for the party,’ she said.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you doing in here, then?’

Isabella twisted her mouth into an awkward smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit lost.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘The bathroom.’

‘Well, this obviously isn’t the bathroom.’

‘No, I can see that. I’m really very sorry. If you could show me where it is…’

Isabella took a step towards the door, but Jasmin stepped across to the side so that she was blocking it. Her lip curled with distaste as she asked, ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’

‘No, I—’

Recognition bloomed on her face. ‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘You were the little bitch who was with Khalil.’

‘You’re overreacting, Mrs al-Khawari. You—’

The woman lunged forward and gripped Isabella around the bicep. ‘I’m not.’

‘Let go! You’re hurting me.’

‘No, I won’t let go. You know what I think? I think you came in here to steal something. That’s what you are, isn’t it? A thief? A nasty, ungrateful little kafir thief.’

Isabella jerked her arm and managed to free it from Jasmin’s grip. The woman lost her balance and stumbled against the wall. Her face became clouded with fury, and before Isabella could raise her hands to defend herself, she slapped her hard in the face. The blow was sharp and stinging, and as Isabella put her hand to her cheek, she could feel the hot blood rushing to the surface.

They paused there for a moment, staring at each other. The woman’s eyes were hot with anger.

‘You little bitch!’

Jasmin came at her, reaching for her arm again.

Isabella reacted. It wasn’t a question of panic; her training was much better than that. It was a hard-wired response, a reaction rendered automatic by hours of repetition. Her mother had taught her that in moments like this, instances of threat, there could be no equivocation. No second-guessing. The most effective self-defence requires an expression of force that either incapacitates the antagonist or makes it very clear that further aggression will be more trouble than it is worth. Her Krav Maga instructor had reinforced the message.

You didn’t stop until the threat was neutralised, knocked out, disarmed or dead.

Isabella didn’t consider any of that, at least not consciously.

She just reacted.

She dropped her right foot a half pace backward, closed her fist and delivered a straight right-handed jab. Jasmin wasn’t expecting her to strike her; her guard was down, her avid hands clutching for her, and as Isabella transferred her weight through her core, leaning from back to front, the punch landed heavily on her chin.

It knocked the woman out instantly.

Her eyes rolled back into her head and her knees buckled. She toppled forward.

Isabella caught her and lowered her the rest of the way to the floor.

She looked back to the door. Nothing. No sound, save the thud of the bass.

She had to move quickly.

Pope had taken position on the same vantage point from where he had originally scouted the big lakeside property. The place was lit up tonight, the lights blazing and the reflection glittering far out into the dark waters of the lake. He held his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the estate, left to right, looking for anything that might suggest difficulties. He saw nothing. The last coach bearing guests to the party had arrived twenty minutes ago, waiting for the gates to open and then rolling down the driveway to the courtyard area. He watched as a handful of boys and girls, wearing not very much at all, stepped outside and disappeared into the house.

The property itself offered no additional information. Most of the windows were dark and others were covered. He could see oblongs of light that were cast by the picture windows that faced the lake, but those were angled away from him, and he couldn’t see inside from this position. He would have to go up onto the wall, maybe even get into the grounds themselves, before he could get the angle to see inside them.

Something caught his attention, and as he turned his head and looked out to the south-west, he saw a glow of light as a car from the direction of Geneva negotiated the turn of the lake. The car continued towards them and then, turning the bend so that they, too, were visible, came more cars. Pope counted ten. The road was usually quiet. He had only seen three cars since he had been up here. He brought the binoculars to his eyes, found the cars and tried to identify them. It was too dark, and the glare of the headlights was too bright.

‘Control, Nine,’ he said into his microphone. ‘I’ve got a convoy of vehicles approaching your position from the south-west. Be aware.’

‘Copy that.’

Chapter Fifty

Jasmin al-Khawari was breathing, in and out, her eyes closed.

Isabella hadn’t planned for this. She felt a flutter of panic. No, she said to herself. She had done the right thing. There was no other choice, not if she wanted to carry out Pope’s orders. But now? She had to do something. She couldn’t just leave Jasmin here. If she awoke and sounded the alarm before she had boarded the next bus out of the estate, she would be compromised. She started to breathe a little faster. Her pulse began to run. She concentrated on maintaining her calm.

Think, Isabella. Think.

There was a long electrical flex that connected the printer to the power. She pulled the jack from the socket at the back of the device, and removed the plug from the wall. Another flex supplied power to a standard lamp; she unplugged that, too. She took the two lengths of flex and made two loops. She took off Jasmin’s shoes and secured the first one around her ankles. Then, arranging her arms so that they were behind her back, she fastened the second noose around her wrists. She cinched it tight between her wrists so that the knot was below her thumb joint, too far away for her to reach with her fingers. She pulled until both were tight and then fastened the loops together with the woman’s belt. The windows were covered by thin curtains. She yanked on one of them, hard, and tore it down from the rail. She stuffed as much of the gauzy material into the woman’s mouth as she could, unplugged the mouse and knotted the cable around her head so that it held the fabric in place.

That would have to do.

She returned to the desk and carefully turned the tower around so that she could get to the cables behind it. She remembered Pope’s instructions and, working carefully, extracted the cable for the keyboard from the USB port. She opened her clutch and took out the lip gloss. She removed the small component and fitted it over the cable’s USB jack. It was the same utilitarian beige, and when it was fitted, only the seam between the original jack and the extension suggested that there was anything there. It was hidden behind the tower, too, and would have been difficult to spot even if it was visible.

She pushed the tower back against the wall, put the lip gloss back in her clutch and went outside.

Khalil was there.

She felt a sudden emptiness inside her stomach.

‘Khalil!’ she said. It wasn’t difficult to pretend to be surprised, but she played on it. ‘You surprised me.’

‘What are you doing?’

She would have to try it again and hope for a better outcome: ‘Looking for the bathroom.’

‘Really? You walked right by them. At the start of the corridor.’

‘I didn’t see them.’

‘That’s my father’s study.’

And your mother is tied up inside it.

She faked a laugh. ‘I can see that. Embarrassing.’

He looked at her for a long moment, and she couldn’t tell whether he believed her or not.

What if Jasmin woke up and made a noise?

What would she do then?

Khalil shook his head, and a sly smile passed across his face. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I don’t care where you go. At least you’re on your own.’

She felt a stir of unease. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. ‘The bathroom is back here? Could you show me?’

He didn’t answer. Instead, he sauntered forward. ‘I saw you come in,’ he said. He pointed down to her wrist. ‘Saw you had my watch on, too. You like it?’

She started to glance around, assessing her position in the room. ‘Yes. Very much. I really need the bathroom —’

‘It was expensive,’ he said. ‘You know that, right?’

She scanned for something that she could use as a weapon. ‘I didn’t ask you for it.’

He reached out with his left hand and grabbed her elbow. He pulled her arm up on the pretext of looking at the watch. ‘Didn’t say no, though, did you?’

‘Khalil, you’re hurting me.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re like the others. They all think they can take what they want from me, no need to do anything in return. But it’s not like that, is it, Daisy? Not like that at all. Nothing’s for free. Everything has a price. You know that, right?’

He took her by surprise, taking her by the shoulders and pushing her backwards against the wall. He moved with her, pressing his body onto hers, his head dipping so that he could nuzzle her ear and the side of her neck. She wriggled, trying to slide away from him, but he took her wrists in his hands and pinned them above her head. He ground his groin against her pelvis, his breath coming in ragged pants. Isabella reacted instinctively, before she had time to think. She brought her knee up, the point crashing into his crotch. His mouth fell open, and he gasped. Isabella tingled with anger. He was doubled over.

He got to his feet, gasping for breath. He sobbed.

She hesitated.

He charged her, his shoulder catching her in the midriff and sending her back into the wall with a heavy thud. The back of her head cracked against something solid and her vision was cowled for a moment, long enough for Khalil to throw a right-handed punch that landed flush on her chin. The impact forced her jaw to close and her teeth sliced down into her tongue. She felt coppery blood in her mouth. She stumbled away even as Khalil closed, his fist raised again. She backed against an armchair, slid to the side and then, as he lumbered at her, tried to hop out of the way.

She was too dazed.

He wrapped his arms around her and, taking advantage of the momentum, brought her down onto a huge sofa and fell atop her.

He straddled her, pinning her waist. She tried to slap him, but he caught her right wrist in his right hand. She tried to strike him with her weaker left, but she couldn’t reach. He brushed her blow aside and slapped her, hard, across the face.

‘Who do you think you are?’ he spat at her. ‘You know how lucky you are to even be invited here?’

‘Get… off… me…’ she said.

‘I don’t think so.’ He managed to catch her flailing left hand and pinned it, and her right, on either side of her head. ‘You need to learn some respect.’

He leaned down toward her face. She yanked her head to the side, his tongue sliding down across her cheek. She struggled again, but he had all the leverage, and she couldn’t move him. She felt warm blood in her mouth.

Pope was blind and frustrated. ‘Snow, report.’

The agent was hiding in the undergrowth diagonally opposite the gates to the al-Khawari estate. ‘I see them,’ he radioed. ‘Ten vehicles. They’re stopping. Shit.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘They’re police. Repeat, it’s the police. They’re opening the gate. It’s some sort of bust.’

‘Are you compromised?’

‘No, but I will be if I stay here much longer. I’m pulling back.’

Pope acknowledged the message, lowered his binoculars and took his cell phone from his pocket. He dialled and put it to his ear.

‘Bloom here.’

Pope had briefed the spook earlier that evening that the operation would go ahead tonight. He had asked to be kept fully briefed.

‘It’s Control.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Do you have any intelligence on a police raid on al-Khawari’s house?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a thing. Why?’

‘There are ten police cars outside his front gate right now. And Angel is inside.’

‘I have no idea, Control. What police?’

‘Swiss.’

‘I’ll make some calls.’

Pope heard Snow’s voice in his other ear. ‘Hold the line, sir.’ He muted the phone. ‘Control, Nine. What is it?’

‘They’re taking the gates down. And it gets more interesting. A man and a woman just got out of the car at the back of the line. They’re both wearing FBI windbreakers.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. Clear as day.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Further back. I think I’m okay here.’

‘Keep watching.’ He took the phone off mute. ‘Sir, the FBI are here too. You need to find out what’s happening. I am badly unsighted here. Repeat, Angel is inside the property.’

‘I understand,’ Bloom said. ‘I’ll make a call and get back to you. Stay in position.’

Pope put the phone back into his pocket and brought the binoculars to his eyes again.

Snow spoke. ‘They’re through the gate.’

He was right. Pope watched as the first car turned off the road and onto the driveway. The other cars edged forward. Blue and red lights flashed from the police cars as they raced to the house. The car at the rear of the line was a dark sedan with tinted windows.

The FBI? What was going on?

Isabella.

There was nothing he could do to help her until Bloom got back with details of what was going on.

Until he did, she was on her own.

Chapter Fifty-One

Khalil was too heavy for her. She couldn’t plant her feet on the soft cushions, and when she tried, he let go of her left hand and slapped her again. She felt the searing heat of her anger flaring out of control.

She was angry with him, and more, angry with herself for putting herself in a position where this was even possible.

She heard her mother’s voice in her head, reminding her to be careful, never to leave herself vulnerable, and still she had ended up like this.

Was he going to try to rape her? It didn’t matter what he intended. As soon as she freed herself, she was going to kill him. Fuck Pope and fuck what he needed. She would kill him. She had seen the corkscrew next to the bottle of wine. She would take it and stab him in the eye.

‘Stop struggling,’ he gasped at her. ‘I know this is what you want. I saw how you looked at me.’

He leaned down again and, with her wrists pinioned, managed to kiss her on the mouth. He left his head just a little too close, and she butted him, hard, crashing her forehead into his nose.

He yelled and pulled away.

She saw stars, shook her head to clear them and rolled off the sofa. She saw him, on the floor, blood running through the fingers that he had pressed to his face.

Her options were narrowing. She found herself back in the hospital room in North Carolina, the man who had persecuted her mother helpless in the bed before her, a gun in her hand pressed down over his heart.

‘You butted me!’ Khalil stammered.

Isabella felt the same way then as she felt now. No options. No choices. Only one way ahead.

She had known then that she would have to kill.

And she was going to have to kill again.

The corkscrew was close.

‘My nose… you broke my nose!’

It was on the table.

Ten steps and she would have it.

‘My fucking nose…’

She hadn’t taken the first step when the doors to the room were flung wide.

Salim al-Khawari was standing in the doorway. His face was tight with tension. She remembered his temper and the things he was reputed to do during his rages. He left the doors open, and two of the security guards followed him inside. They were both toting submachine guns and wearing ballistic vests.

Salim looked at her and then at his son. ‘What is going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Khalil said, his voice muffled through the hands that were still pressed to his face.

Isabella looked at the corkscrew, then at the men with the guns. She had a moment, she thought. She was just a girl as far as they were concerned. Not a threat.

Too dangerous. She dismissed it.

The anger tamped down to be replaced with coiled energy.

Salim crossed the room to Khalil and spoke with him. Isabella was too far away to hear what he was saying, but she could see from the way that he was gesticulating that, whatever it was, it had made him very agitated. She stepped over to the sideboard and reached for the corkscrew.

She watched as Khalil’s expression morphed from shame and embarrassment that his father had crashed his party to something that looked very much like fear.

There was a loud crash from the study.

‘What is that?’ al-Khawari said.

The crash came again, and then the sound of a muffled voice.

One of the guards hurried across the room.

He tried the door.

‘It’s locked.’

The crashing came again, louder.

‘Break it down.’

The man stepped back and kicked the door just below the handle. The bolt splintered through the frame and the door flew inwards.

‘It is your wife.’

The second guard put his hand on Isabella’s shoulder as the first man went inside the room and released Jasmin. He helped her up; she was unsteady on her feet and had to lean on him for support. There was a purpling contusion on the lower part of her face where Isabella had struck her.

Salim went to her. ‘What happened?’

The woman pointed her finger at Isabella. ‘She did this!’

‘What do you mean, ghazal?’ he said.

‘She is a thief,’ she spat. ‘I found the little bitch in there. She was looking for something to steal. She hit me. She tied me up.’

Salim regarded her. There was something in his eyes, something more than anger and suspicion.

It was shrewdness.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not.’

‘What do you mean, Salim?’

Isabella shrugged the man’s hand from her shoulder. ‘I’m not a thief.’

‘I saw her, too,’ Khalil said. ‘I tried to stop her and she attacked me.’

Isabella knew: he was taking the chance to absolve himself, to neutralise the questions his father might have had for him.

The guard stepped to her. Isabella stared at his MP5.

‘Is that right?’ Salim said. ‘Are you a thief?’

‘No.’

‘Liar!’ Jasmin said.

Salim regarded her. His anger was still there, but now, Isabella thought, there was an inscrutability. A cunning. ‘A thief? Perhaps. But perhaps you are something more?’

The first guard turned. ‘Sir — we must go now.’

Salim nodded and gestured to Isabella. ‘She comes, too.’

Isabella stepped back. ‘What? Where?’

‘Move,’ the guard said.

‘No. I’m not going anywhere.’

The man turned the gun on her. ‘Don’t be a silly little girl. Don’t give me a reason to use this.’

Isabella felt that she was being sucked under.

Deeper and deeper.

She palmed the corkscrew so that the sharp end was hidden between her fingers and the shaft was obscured behind her arm.

And then she did as she was told.

Pope watched as a helicopter swooped down to the mansion from the east. He recognised it: an executive bird, an AgustaWestland AW119 Koala. The helicopter swung around and touched down behind the sprawling buildings.

‘Are you seeing this?’ Snow radioed.

‘Affirmative.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Hold position.’

He took out the cell phone again. The line to Bloom was still open.

‘A helicopter has just landed, sir.’

‘What about the FBI?’

‘They’re inside the property.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Outside the property. We haven’t been seen.’

‘Very good, Pope. Get out of there. The job’s done.’

‘You’ve got his computers, sir?’

‘We do. Got access ten minutes ago. Your girl did well, Pope. It’s done. Come home.’

‘I need to be sure she’s safe, sir.’

‘The FBI will bring her out. She was just another girl at the party.’

Something about it all didn’t strike Pope quite right. He had made a successful career listening to his gut. Success in this context meant that he wasn’t dead, and there had been plenty of opportunities for him to have bought the farm.

‘Control?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right. Please tell me when you know she is accounted for.’

‘I will. Well done, Control. See you in London.’

Chapter Fifty-Two

Isabella moved to the door, the man pushing her between the shoulder blades as she went by him. He pressed a button on the wall, and electric blinds hummed as they lowered down the windows in the hallway, gradually hiding the view outside.

The second guard was behind her. She angled her wrist to hide the corkscrew from him.

She was pushed along the corridor that led out of the lounge and into a part of the house. They passed a flight of stairs that led up to a darkened landing, shorter corridors that branched off this one and several sealed doors. Isabella tried to get her bearings. They were heading away from the front of the house, away from the room that had hosted the party. She heard a new noise in the distance, muffled by the walls of the house, but obviously loud. Behind them, the sound of the music and the chatter of the guests faded away and then became inaudible as a door was opened and they were shoved outside into the darkness beyond. The noise crashed over them. A powerful, deafening roar. Wind whipped around them and debris stung her skin.

They were on the lawns that led down to the water. There was a helicopter, its blades slicing through the air, the downdraft flattening the grass and flinging tiny pieces of debris all around. She didn’t know what sort of helicopter it was, but it was around twelve metres from end to end, and its fuselage door was open. The guard who had been behind Isabella hurried ahead, standing post near to the nose of the chopper, his weapon aimed towards the driveway and the gate. He was facing away from her now.

She felt the buzz of adrenaline. She wasn’t going to get onto that helicopter.

A chance was coming. She had to take it.

The three al-Khawaris climbed into the back of the chopper, and Isabella saw an opening. The guard was preoccupied. He had turned away from her to help Mrs al-Khawari climb aboard. The quarter turn revealed a Beretta M9 in a holster that was clipped to his belt. Isabella had fired the M9 before. She was familiar with it.

She let the corkscrew drop down a little, revealing two inches of the sharp point and squeezing its spread arms in her fist. The woman was still unsteady on her feet. The guard boosted her up into the cabin.

Isabella darted ahead and plunged the screw between the man’s shoulder blades.

In and out, in and out, in and out.

Quick strikes: one, two, three.

His body arched back and stiffened.

Blood speckled each time she pulled the point out of his flesh.

She released her hold on the handle after the third impact. It stayed there, buried up to the shank.

He reached both hands up to his back, showing the pistol.

She reached down and yanked it out of the holster.

He yelled out.

The noise of the rotors and the engine drowned it out.

Isabella centred the handgun in the web of her hand. Her thumb started up high, bumped the safety forward with the first joint, and finished in a down and forward motion. It was ready to fire.

The guard fumbled for the corkscrew that was still stuck in his back.

She drew a bead on the second guard.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Something crashed into the side of her head.

Isabella fell to the side, the gun falling from her grip.

Blackness fell over her, a moment’s worth, and when consciousness returned, she was facing the house again. The lights were blurred, spinning kaleidoscopically, and she couldn’t remember where she was or why she was lying on the ground. She felt hands beneath her shoulders and the ground fell away from her as she was hoisted up. She remembered — the helicopter — and bucked against the grip of the person who was trying to shove her inside the open door.

Arms wrapped around her torso, and she was manhandled inside. Salim and Khalil took an arm each and dragged. She was too dazed to resist.

The cabin had two facing rows of three leather seats. The al-Khawaris were next to each other in the row that faced aft. The second row of seats was empty. A third guard jumped up. Isabella hadn’t seen him. It must have been him who had cold-cocked her. He pushed her into the seat farthest from the door, sat down next to her, and buckled her into her harness. He was big, and the seats had only a little space between them. She felt the bunched muscles in his arms and legs, the shoulder mass of his torso. She was woozy, but it wouldn’t matter. There would be no getting across him to reach the door.

The first guard came in next. He slid the door shut, fastened his belt, put on a pair of headphones and spoke into a microphone that would connect him to the pilot. Isabella couldn’t hear what he said, but almost instantly afterwards, the engines shrieked and the helicopter began to ascend.

She saw the man she had stabbed with the corkscrew. He was walking slowly back to the house.

They cleared the line of the buildings, and then the trees, and then the nose dipped down, and the helicopter began to speed ahead.

Isabella felt weak and nauseous. She blinked and, remembering what her mother had taught her, reached for the soft flesh beneath her arm and tweaked it as hard as she could. The pain flared and she focused on it, using it as an anchor until the disorientation had passed.

She looked through the window to her left. There was a blaze of flashing blue and red as a convoy of police vehicles raced down the drive to the house. She counted eight of them. Two came to a sudden stop in the courtyard next to the showroom where the sports cars were garaged, and eight men spilled out. The helicopter was gaining height all the time now, but even this high up, she could see that the men were armed. The other cars stopped, and more uniformed policemen, similarly armed, disembarked. She watched as they funnelled to the main door. The helicopter began to bank. One of the men was hefting a heavy battering ram, and the last thing she was able to see as they slid over the lawns to the east was the ram crashing into the door.

She looked at Salim. He was gazing out of the window, his jaw clenching and unclenching angrily. Jasmin was staring at her, contempt in her eyes. Khalil was looking out of the other window. Dried blood had crusted around his mouth, and he wouldn’t look at her. The guard next to her was checking his weapon, and the other was talking to the pilot.

She turned to the window and watched as the glassy surface of Lake Geneva slipped beneath them.

Chapter Fifty-Three

The helicopter started ahead quickly and, as soon as it was clear of the line of the roof, rushed overhead and then out onto the water, heading back to the east.

Pope toggled the pressel on his radio. ‘Control, Nine, Twelve. Report.’

‘Twelve, copy.’

‘Nine, copy. Orders, Control?’

‘Pick me up on the road half a mile east of the house.’

Snow reported, ‘On my way.’

They picked him up five minutes later.

Kelleher swivelled around in her seat. ‘Follow the chopper?’

‘Yes.’

There was a road atlas in the back pocket of the driver’s seat. Pope opened it and looked for the nearest airport.

‘They’re going to Sion,’ he said. ‘Commercial airport. Eighty, ninety kilometres east.’

‘You worried about Isabella?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Probably not. It’s just… I don’t know, I just want to be sure.’

‘I can live with that,’ Snow said.

‘They’ll get there a long time before we will. You think he has a private plane there?’

‘I have no idea. But we have to find out.’

‘You know what this is all about?’

‘No.’

‘The FBI?’

‘London doesn’t know. It could be a jurisdictional fuck-up. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

The lake stood between them and the airport. The fastest route was to follow the E25 around the water in a clockwise direction, passing through or around Lausanne, Montreux, Aigle and Martigny. The satnav reported that it was a distance of 156 km and that it would take them ninety minutes. But it was late, the roads were clear, and Snow was a fast driver. Pope thought they might be able to make it in seventy-five.

Pope thought about Isabella. The girl had done well, as he had suspected she would. She was resourceful and confident. Her mother had trained her well. He would be much happier when she was safely back in Marrakech, though. She bore herself well, and she had had the kind of difficult childhood that would lead to an accelerated maturity, but she was still just a child. An unusual child, certainly — a prodigy — but a child nonetheless.

He was still thinking about her when Snow hit the brakes.

‘Roadblock.’

Pope looked through the windshield. There was a car parked across the road two hundred yards away, a flashing blue light fixed to the roof.

‘Police?’

Pope tried to think. It might have been fallout from the FBI raid on al-Khawari’s estate. The Swiss police were involved. It was possible that they were stopping traffic to and from the area. The helicopter suggested that they had already missed their main target. Perhaps they were being cautious to make sure they rounded everyone else up.

‘Do I stop?’

‘Yes. There’s nothing to worry about. If they ask, we’re driving to Lausanne.’

Snow braked harder and slowed the car to ten miles an hour.

Pope counted three men. One stayed by the car. The other walked toward them down the middle of the road, his hand held up, palm out, ordering them to stop. The other approached from the verge to their left.

‘I don’t like this,’ Kelleher said in a tight, nervous voice.

It was dark, and visibility was limited, but something was off. The two men approaching them wore black fatigues with ‘POLIZEI’ stencilled over their breasts. Pistols in holsters were clipped to their belts. They wore balaclavas, but that wasn’t unusual for armed police. The third man, the one by the car, was standing in a ready position. The rear door was open.

They all looked authentic, but there was something amiss that Pope couldn’t quite define.

Snow slowed the car to a dead stop.

‘Keep the engine running,’ Pope murmured.

The cop indicated that Snow should wind down the window.

He did.

The two men drew nearer.

Oh shit.

He knew what it was.

The Swiss police were usually armed with Sig P225s, Glock 19s or H&K USPs, but these men were toting something very different. Now they were close, Pope recognised the weapons immediately. They were armed with FN Five-sevens, handguns that were infamous for their ability to penetrate certain types of body armour when they were equipped with the right load. The gun was controversial in the United States, and could only be used by civilian shooters with sporting ammunition.

Whatever they were, these men weren’t Swiss police.

The man at the car idled across and stooped at the open rear door. When he emerged, he was cradling a C8 SFW Carbine.

The man on the road reached down to his holster, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol.

‘Drive!’

Snow floored the accelerator.

The car leapt ahead, the engine screaming.

He drove at the man in the road, but he had seen them coming and was able to roll out of the way.

The second man pulled his pistol and fired three times in rapid succession.

The windscreen shattered.

Pope felt a splash of something warm and viscous on his face. He looked up and saw Snow lolling at the wheel, his head hanging at an unnatural angle. His foot must still have been on the gas because the car raced ahead, slammed into the rear wing of the blocking car, and careened off the road and down the slope that led to the water.

He heard the rapid crack-crack-crack of the C8 and the rear windshield detonated into the cabin. The car bounced over the uneven ground, a copse of trees fast approaching. Kelleher reached over for the wheel and yanked it, swerving the car to the right. They crashed through a patch of heavy brush, the front wheels launching off a slab of rock and the car twisting through the air. It landed on its left-hand side, throwing Pope against the window, the shattered glass flying all around him. It skidded for what seemed like an age, eventually slaloming through more trees and coming to a halt in a depression.

The engine was still running, screaming as the upturned wheels span impotently.

Pope was on his side, pressed up against the chassis, grass and small ferns poking into the cabin. He tested his arms and legs. He was uninjured. He reached for the seat-belt mechanism, released himself, and clambered out of the shattered rear window.

He looked up the slope. He could see the lip of the road. They had travelled three hundred yards, with parts of the descent steeper than forty-five degrees.

The lights of two torches bounced down the slope, coming closer.

Two hundred and fifty yards.

The terrain would slow them a little, but he didn’t have long.

The car was ten feet from the water’s edge. It was wedged against an outcrop of rock, on its flank, the passenger side highest. He clambered onto the rocks and then slid across the dented and scratched bodywork until he was over the window of the passenger door. It was still intact. He looked down and saw Kelleher’s body slumped toward the ground. Snow was dead; he knew that. But she was unmoving, too.

He looked back up the slope.

The torches were closer.

Two hundred yards.

He pulled himself to a crouching position where he could stomp down against the window. He put the glass through with his second blow, knelt at the window and reached down for Kelleher.

‘Kelleher!’

His fingers snagged the lapel of her jacket and he pulled. Her body was limp and fell back as soon as he released the tension.

‘Hannah!’

Her head drooped, turning enough so that the moonlight fell on it and exposed the exit wound in her forehead. One of the rounds fired into the back of the car had found its mark. A lucky shot, but it didn’t make her any less dead.

Pope felt a white-hot flash of anger, but he was professional enough to extinguish it almost as soon as it flared. He needed to make a quick assessment. He turned and looked back up the slope. The two men with the flashlights had negotiated the steepest part of the descent. They would be able to move more quickly now.

Pope wished he was armed.

He slid down from the car.

A bullet thrummed through the air.

He crouched as a second streaked at him, sparking into the underside of the car. The fuel tank was ruptured. A jet of diesel gushed out.

Pope ran. He had a good start on the two men, and he had to take advantage of it. He manoeuvred around the car, putting it between himself and his pursuers so that he might buy himself a moment of cover. The terrain was gently inclined now, a lazy slope that led down to the water. He saw the Dents du Midi Mountains on the other side of the lake and steeply terraced vineyards down to the lakeside. There was the dark water of the lake itself, and rising up from the north, the mountains of the Chablais Alps.

There was a fringe of aspen and fir between him and the water, and he sprinted for it, vaulting over an exposed shoulder of granite and crashing through knee-high undergrowth.

Another volley of gunfire passed overhead. They were too far behind him to do anything other than spray and pray. As long as he kept moving, he had a good chance.

Thoughts rushed through his mind in a headlong blur. Who were they? Why had they attacked them? They were masquerading as police — that much was obvious — but it was impossible to know anything more than that. Were they with al-Khawari? Someone else?

Pope reached the trees and turned to the north-east, following the shoreline. He stopped for a moment and checked. A large bank of cloud had rolled in and obscured the moon. There was some light pollution from the habitations on the other side of the lake and the lights of the second car up above, but that aside, the dark was deep and welcoming. It might have been Pope’s only break. The torches had been put out, but he could see the dim shape of one man standing by the wrecked car. He heard the report of two gunshots. The man was making sure that Kelleher and Snow were dead. His eye was drawn to the lip of the incline. He saw the lights of another stationary car, this one turned towards the lake so that the beams cast out a golden arc fifty feet above him. Reinforcements?

He tried to assess what his pursuers would do. He assumed that they were professional, so the best way was to work from what he would have done. He would have sent one man into the tree line to follow him and kept the other one up high, boxing him in. The man in the trees would have to move more carefully in case he was lying in wait for him, but not too slowly; his lack of return fire would have been a good indication that he was unarmed.

He set off at a steady jog. It was bitterly cold, and the wind blasting in off the lake iced the chill into his bones. He moved in a north-easterly direction, keeping to the tree line. There were the occasional cleared spaces. He approached these with caution, waiting in cover before sprinting through them with his head down. The men were quiet. He didn’t hear the sound of pursuit. There were no calls or shouts. It was too dark for hand signals, so he guessed they were operating with radios or phones.

He had been on the move for fifty minutes and had covered four kilometres when he saw a jetty with a boat tied to it. There was a boathouse at the start of the jetty. His path around the lake had taken him above several boathouses, but none of those had a boat on the water, and he didn’t have time to break in and put one afloat. This was different.

He approached the boathouse. The jetty was made of wood and was a little the worse for wear. There was a boat tethered at the far end. It was a rowing boat with a small outboard motor. He knew that he would be taking a chance if he tried to use it. The jetty was exposed, and he had to assume that they would have seen the boat, too. It was an obvious means of escape. If he couldn’t start the engine, he would be trapped and would, most likely, have to swim. The water looked icy. He doubted that he would get very far if it came to that.

The alternative was not much more appealing. Was it possible that there were more than just the three who were pursuing him? Could they call on reinforcements? Dogs? He was confident that he would be able to stay ahead of the men he knew about, but if they could summon more to cut him off to the north-east, he could very easily find himself boxed in. And then he would have to try to swim.

He had to try the boat.

He descended the last few feet to the shore, vaulted a wire-mesh fence and crept toward the jetty. The door to the boathouse was ajar, and light spilled out through the gap. He guessed that the owner of the boat was a fisherman who had been out on the lake for a spot of late night sport. Now he was making preparations to secure his boat for the night.

The jetty extended into the lake for twenty feet. He hurried along it. The boat and the motor both looked old, but he had made his choice now. He climbed aboard and unknotted the mooring rope from the cleat on the gunwale. He made sure the shift lever was straight up in the neutral position then pulled out the choke. He turned the handgrip until the arrow aligned with the start position, pulled the starter rope until he felt resistance from the starter gear and then pulled more forcefully. The engine started. He pushed the choke back in until the engine was running smoothly, turned the throttle control arm until the arrow lined up with the shift mark, and steered away from the jetty.

The first shots rang out almost as soon as he was clear of the structure. A series of crisp, sudden reports, and then little geysers of water thrown up just short of the boat. Pope flattened himself against the thwart, beneath the line of the gunwale, one hand keeping the tiller straight. He prayed the motor held up. If it stopped, or they shot it… More shots fired and two rounds found their mark, crashing into the transom and sending out two little showers of splinters. Another fusillade rang across the water, but the reports were more distant, and none of the rounds struck the boat.

He risked a glance.

He was five hundred feet away from the shore. He could see six figures by the jetty. Four of them had handguns, and the other two had carbines. The C8 had an effective range of one hundred and fifty yards, but it could reach three hundred or four hundred with a degree of accuracy if the shooter was any good. Five hundred yards meant he should be safe here. The figures were too distant to make out any details. As he watched, he saw one of them turn to the door of the boathouse and raise his arm. Pope saw another figure silhouetted in the light of the doorway, saw the flash of the gun and watched the figure fall back inside.

It was unfortunate, but there was nothing he could do about that. He turned to the east and assessed the way ahead. The lake was around two and a half kilometres wide at this narrowest point. He thought he would be able to make the crossing in fifteen minutes. He could see the lights of towns and villages all the way along the opposite shore. He would aim to make land again at Collonge-Bellerive.

He checked the time.

Ten.

He had a moment to breathe.

Snow and Kelleher were dead.

He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of anger. He tried to work out the angles, any reason at all that might explain how they had been compromised.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to know that Isabella was safe. If something had happened to her, he knew he would never be able to forgive himself. The doubts about his decision to involve her reasserted themselves, crowding over him. It was foolhardy, arrogant and dangerous to put a fifteen-year-old girl into a position like that.

What had he been thinking?

He reached for his cell phone, but stopped. Could he call her? What if she was in trouble? He shook his head. He had no choice. He had to know she was okay. He took out the phone, saw that he had a bar of service, and selected her number.

He pressed dial, listened to the ringtone, and waited for the call to connect.

The man climbed back up the incline. One of his associates had backed their car out of the way while the others began the pursuit. An eighteen-wheeler rumbled along the road, its engine roaring as it sped by. The man looked down the slope as the other member of the three-man unit clambered back up the slope. This man gave a shake of his head. He allowed himself a tight little curse and then erased the emotion. What was done was done. Very well. They would adapt.

He was still a little wary as he took out his cell phone and dialled the number for his handler. The call connected, and with a clipped precision that had come to be his hallmark, he reported that two of the targets had been eliminated, but the third, one of the two males, had evaded them. He absorbed the abuse that he had known would be due to him — he thought it was fair, given that he had failed to accomplish all of his objectives — and then asked for his orders. Once they had been delivered, he ended the call and passed on the information to the others.

He took out his torch and surveyed the road and the verge. The shell casings were scattered around, little copper nuggets that glittered dully in the light. He was uncomfortable leaving them behind, but there was no point in trying to find them all. There were too many to be sure that none were left, and leaving one was as bad as leaving them all. His plan had been to eliminate the targets in a more controlled fashion. If they had stopped, as he had hoped that they would, they would have been able to take them out with a minimum of shots, and in those circumstances, they would have collected all of the evidence before leaving the scene.

He would not normally have been so profligate. He was a man who had always believed that if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing properly, and this felt unprofessional.

He got into the car, his men sliding in behind him, and put it into gear and set off for Geneva.

Chapter Fifty-Four

They were in the air for twenty minutes before the pilot started to descend. Isabella used the time to come around from the blow that had knocked her out. She looked out through the window at the sparkling lights that flashed along both sides of a runway two or three kilometres to the north. They drew nearer, and she could see that it was a commercial airport. There were large jets pressed up against a terminal building, and as she watched, a 737 lumbered down the runway and blasted up into the night sky.

She tried to remember the maps that she had studied. Her focus had been on the immediate vicinity of Le Rosey and Geneva, but she remembered that there was another international airport to the east. She remembered the name: Sion.

The helicopter slowed over a private apron and started to descend. The guards stowed their weapons in two identical black tote bags and unfastened their seat belts. The wheels bounced a little as the helicopter landed, but the guards wasted no time. The man nearest to the fuselage opened the door and jumped down. He unclasped Jasmin’s belt and dragged her out, looping a beefy arm beneath her shoulders to hold her upright. Salim and then Khalil al-Khawari came next, then the second guard. He reached back up and took Isabella’s hand, tugging her to the exit. She stumbled down into the vortex of downdraft, her hair whipping around her head.

The first guard led the way across the apron. Isabella could see an aircraft fifty feet away from them, its nose pointed towards the taxiway and the runway beyond. It was a smaller jet, sleek and aggressive looking. A private jet, she guessed. A Gulfstream or a Learjet or something similar, she didn’t know which.

She tried to stop.

‘Move,’ the man said, taking her arm and dragging her forward.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere a long way away from here.’

She tried to shake off his hand, but he was too strong. A retractable flight of steps had been unfolded at the front of the jet, and he led her to it. They climbed aboard. The cabin was plush, with eight leather seats, racks of china and crystal and LCD screens fitted fore and aft.

The man slung her into one of the seats. ‘Sit down and shut up.’

Khalil took the seat next to her. He fastened his belt, reached across her and raised the blind over the window.

She still had her clutch bag. Her cell phone started to ring.

Khalil heard it. He yanked the bag out of her hand, took the phone and looked at the screen.

‘Who’s Rupert?’

‘My uncle,’ she said.

One of the guards indicated that Khalil should throw the phone across to him. He did. The man removed the back of the phone and pried out the battery. He opened the door and tossed the pieces outside.

‘Where are we going?’

He ignored her.

The second guard boarded and pulled the steps up behind him. The door was shut and locked, and moments later the engines whined.

‘Khalil,’ she insisted, ‘talk to me.’

‘It’s too late now.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s happening? Where are we going?’

He turned his attention to her. His eyes shone with anger. ‘Home,’ he said.