The Angel

by Mark Dawson

  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.