The Angel

by Mark Dawson

  She stayed stock-still, wondering if she had misheard it. She didn’t have visitors. She didn’t know anyone in Marrakech save Johnny Ink, the guy who had done her tattoo, and he didn’t know where she lived. No one did. She had never had a single visitor here.

  She heard the knock again.

  Rap-rap rap rap.

  Jaunty. Brisk. Friendly.

  She opened the safe and took out the Springfield EMP that she had stored there. She had plenty of experience with bigger handguns, but this one fit nicely into the palm of her hand. She preferred the stopping power of a .45, but her mother had taught her that using the same calibre ammunition for both her pistols and rifles would lessen the chances of loading the wrong round when she could ill afford a mistake. Isabella had practised with the Springfield extensively and was very accurate with it. She readied it to fire and started across the courtyard to the vestibule.

  Rap-rap rap rap.

  She had paid for an entry system to be fitted to the front door. It was the only easy way to get into the property, and she wanted to make sure it was as secure as possible. There was a screen fixed to the wall that showed the feed from a camera that was positioned high above the door outside. The security light was activated by a motion sensor, and it had come on now, its harsh glow bleaching the upturned face of the man who was on the other side of the door.

  Michael Pope?

  What?

  What was he doing here?

  And how had he found her?

  She paused. She could stay here, leave the door unanswered, but what good would that do her? He knew she was here. If he wanted to see her, he’d just come back. Or he’d wait outside, or leave an agent outside and wait for her to come out.

  Whatever it was, it was better to find out now. Get it over and done with.

  She pulled out the drawer of the table that stood next to the door and dropped the handgun inside.

  She took a breath, looked up at the screen again and finally unlocked and opened the door.

  The noise and clamour of the souk outside overran the tranquillity of the riad.

  Pope smiled at her. ‘Isabella,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Pope, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ He paused, looking left and right with awkward unease. ‘It’s quite sensitive, Isabella. Do you think that I could come inside?’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She paused, still uncertain. But he had helped her mother. He had rescued her from a very uncertain future, too. And then she thought about the locket that she wore around her neck, and the trouble that he had gone to in order that she might have it. But even as she thought of that, the doubts came. Why had he gone to that trouble? It couldn’t be charity or because he was feeling philanthropic. Surely there was an agenda. She suddenly had the thought that perhaps he had found her because of the locket. She wondered, knowing it was ridiculous but wondering it anyway, whether they could miniaturise a tracker so much that it could be concealed in the locket. Or was the locket a tracker?

  She was confused, but it was no good standing here, with him on her stoop. He had built up some credit with her. She could spare him a little time. It would give her the opportunity to have her questions answered, too.

  ‘Come in.’

  She offered him mint tea partly because she wanted to be hospitable and partly because she wanted to be able to observe him from the iPad in the kitchen that gave access to the CCTV cameras that were arrayed around the house. She boiled the kettle and picked the mint leaves and watched as he wandered around the courtyard, gazing down into the plunge pool and feeling the weight of the fruit that she was growing from a pair of large potted orange and fig trees. He was dressed casually in a loose-fitting suit, a white shirt that was open at the collar and a pair of brown desert boots. She looked for the telltale bulge of a concealed weapon, but she couldn’t see one. She would proceed on the basis that he was armed. It was very likely, and besides, it was prudent.

  She put the mint leaves in the boiling water and let it steep, collecting two small glasses and a tray and taking the collection back to the table and chairs that were arranged at the edge of the pool.

  ‘This wasn’t where you lived before,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did your mother leave it to you?’

  ‘No. She left money. I bought it and refurbished it.’

  ‘I didn’t ask before. How old are you now, Isabella?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  He shook his head in evident admiration. ‘And you did all this. That’s very impressive.’

  She waved it off impatiently.

  ‘Your mother would have been very proud of you.’ He nodded down to her chest. ‘You’re wearing it. The locket.’

  She said nothing, studying him for any sign that might give away his purpose in coming to Marrakech to speak to her. Nothing was obvious.

  ‘Are you wondering how I found you?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ she said, although that was the question she wanted answered the most.

  ‘You don’t have anything to be ashamed about. I’ve had a very talented agent looking for you.’

  ‘Where did they find me?’

  ‘In the square.’

  She only just managed to arrest the lowering of her brow before it became a frown. She was careful with her counter-surveillance routine. Her mother had drilled it into her. She might not have been able to avoid being seen in the square, and she couldn’t very easily ignore being there, but she should have been able to detect someone following her as soon as they got into the streets of the souk. That was lazy.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Like I said, she is very good.’

  ‘Who said I was worrying?’

  ‘Her name is Hannah. She’d like to meet you.’

  She could read him. All this forced bonhomie was to mask his awkwardness. He was awkward because whatever he was here to ask her was something that he found difficult to say. That made her feel nervous. ‘What are you doing here, Mr Pope?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What am I doing here?’ He stood and went back to the orange tree, running his finger over the skin of a particularly juicy fruit. ‘Do you watch the news?’

  ‘A little,’ she said. ‘The Internet, mostly. Is this about London?’

  He nodded. ‘It is.’

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the station. My train was just pulling out when the bomb went off.’

  His mouth dropped open. ‘Jesus,’ he started. ‘Are you –’

  She regretted mentioning it as soon as the words left her lips. The last thing she needed was his paternalism. ‘It’s all right. I was fine. But I saw what happened. I know what it was like. I had to come out through the station right afterwards.’

  ‘Isabella, I didn’t—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, holding his eye. ‘Really. I’m fine. But, yes, to answer your question, I know what’s been going on.’

  ‘Things are bad at home.’

  ‘Your home, Mr Pope,’ she corrected. ‘Not mine. This is my home.’

  ‘Of course.’ She had put him on the wrong foot. He groped around for a neutral place to start the conversation. ‘I’d like to tell you some things that are secret, Isabella. Very delicate things. Do you mind? If I tell you them, you must promise that you’ll keep them to yourself.’

  ‘Who am I going to tell?’ she said, waving her hand around the riad. ‘It’s just me here. I haven’t got any friends. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in days.’

  ‘All right.’ He let the orange fall free and came and sat back down again. ‘You know that I’m in charge of the unit your mother worked for before . . . well, before she was betrayed. You know that?’

  She nodded.

  ‘The authorities are investigating the attacks. We have intelligence to sugge
st that there will be others. It’s urgent that we find those responsible before they can strike again.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We have a very strong indication to suggest that one man was responsible for financing the operation. It was complicated to arrange, and it wouldn’t have been cheap, but this man is very rich.’

  ‘And you want to talk to him.’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘So go and arrest him.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that.’ He paused. ‘The evidence we used to find him couldn’t be used in court.’

  She gazed at him evenly. ‘You tortured someone?’

  Her brazen lack of feeling, the matter-of-factness of her response, took him aback again. She could see that the effect she was having on him was slowing the whole conversation down. She resolved to dial it back a little.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t really matter. We’re confident that the information is correct, but we can’t act on it. Legally, I mean.’

  ‘He’s in the Middle East?’

  ‘No. Switzerland.’

  ‘So speak to the Swiss.’

  ‘We can’t do that. They won’t give him to us. And I doubt he’d make himself available for a cosy chat.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Salim Hasan Mafuz Muslim al-Khawari. He has properties all around the world, but he is currently at a large house on the shores of Lake Geneva. Apart from being rich, he is very cautious. His property is very well defended. He has a team of guards with him at all times.’

  ‘Why is he in Switzerland?’

  ‘There are probably several reasons, but one of them appears to centre on his son, Khalil Muhammad Turki al-Khawari. He’s a student at an exclusive boarding school close to Geneva. He is fifteen, nearly sixteen, very rich, very arrogant and quite stupid.’

  ‘This is why you want to talk to me?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. We don’t think there’s a realistic chance that we could get to Salim safely. So we’ve had to think laterally. We think it might be possible to arrange it so that you are put into the same school as Khalil. We know that his sixteenth birthday is next week. There’s a party at his father’s house. We would like you to try to befriend the boy so that you are invited to the party.’ He paused, looked at her, then added apologetically, ‘If you were prepared to do it, of course.’

  ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘We would give you a very small device that we would like you to leave in the house.’

  ‘A bug?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  She paused, considering it.

  ‘You saw what happened in the station,’ he started. ‘We need to stop that from happening again.’

  She almost told him that appealing to her sense of civic duty wouldn’t work. She had no sense of civic duty. She was born in the United Kingdom, but she didn’t owe it anything. No, if anything, things were the other way around: it owed her. She held her tongue. If she was going to allow herself to be involved, it would be for another motive.

  ‘This man – his father – is dangerous?’

  ‘Probably. But you wouldn’t be on your own. I would be there, and two of my agents would be posing as your mother and father. Hannah – the agent I mentioned earlier – would be one of them.’

  ‘Sounds very elaborate,’ she said. ‘You’ve been planning. Did you think I would say yes?’

  ‘I didn’t know what you would say. And if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t mind at all if you said no. Really – I mean that. I have no right to be here asking you this. Most people would consider it unethical, and that’s only if they’re being charitable. But things are very serious. That’s the only reason I’m asking.’

  ‘I’m not most people. And I’m not a child. I can look after myself.’

  ‘I know you can. I remember what you did in the hospital.’

  And then I was sick, she thought. And I needed your help to get away. That won’t be necessary again.

  She looked around at the riad. She had worked out a nice, regular routine for herself. She had continued the training that her mother had started. She had added to it. The languages she was learning, for example. But no one had come for her. Manage Risk had lost her, or they had forgotten, or they didn’t care. No one was coming to avenge the old man and the guards she had shot. And if that was true, then why was she hiding?

  She did have a reason to consider his request. Her mother had spent a year training her. She had continued that training. But how would she be able to test herself? She wouldn’t.

  There had been a thought, playing at the back of her mind ever since she had arrived home again. Now she acknowledged it for the first time: she had an itch and she needed to scratch it.

  One day, she would have found that piece of paper with Pope’s telephone number, and she would have contacted him. Not to ask for his help. To ask if she could help him. This, she decided, was providence.

  Fate.

  She was being offered the chance to do what her mother had done.

  The chance to test herself.

  The chance to make her mother proud.

  She stood and collected their empty glasses.

  ‘Isabella?’

  ‘What do I need to do?’

  PART FIVE

  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.