The Angel (24 page)

Chapter Fifty-One

K
halil 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 s
till ope
n.

‘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

I
sabella 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 po
werful, 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 fir
e.

The guard fumbled for the corkscrew that was still stuck in h
is ba
ck.

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 do
or.

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-Khawa
ris 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 spe
ed ahea
d.

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 passe
d.

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.