The Angel

by Mark Dawson

  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 deci
ded 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 gra
vel 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.