The Castle (22 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

I
'd noticed Amina running out of the room, looking almost as upset as I was. Twenty minutes of searching later, I found her in a coat cupboard, with the door half open, sitting among the boots and sandals that littered the floor. She seemed to need its familiar smallness and semi-darkness. I joined her there.

‘Mr Allud, your father . . . he will be all right?' she asked.

‘Of course he will,' I lied.

‘And when they go, they will rescue my brother?'

She must have missed the earlier discussion, where they'd categorically said they wouldn't do that. ‘I think so,' I said, putting my arm around her. Lie after lie.

She pressed into me, fighting tears. ‘They must get Karim too. Promise me they will find him.'

I paused for a guilty beat. ‘I promise,' I said.

I felt too bad to stay with her much longer, with the air so stuffy with hopeless lies. So I left her in her cubby-hole and went back to my room, where I stood at the window, staring out blindly.

Dad was crazy, but at least he was trained. At least he'd
chosen
his suicidal mission. Karim was trapped. Only I could ever find him in that maze of tunnels, and he needed me, and if I didn't help him nobody would.

Outside the window, a dove cooed. Then another, and another. That sound was so
not
peaceful when you listened to it long enough. Stupid doves. Stupid cooing.

That broke my mood. God, I was so uptight that even doves annoyed me! It made me laugh out loud and somehow, a weight was lifted from my chest.

The problem was suddenly crystal clear: Karim needed me. Not Dad, or Steve, but
me
. So I must go back and help him. If Dad could do it, then so could I. At least Wahool's people didn't really know what I looked like. And if I went back, then maybe I could help Dad too.

How? I had no idea. I wasn't Tom Cruise in
Mission Impossible
. I couldn't scale cliffs at night – not with less than a week's training, anyway – or take on guards, or blast through solid walls. But I'd survived on the
Princess Nazia
and escaped from Naples station. I'd got into the castle, and out of it again. And, unlike Dad, I hadn't got caught.

I needed a plan: a good plan – better than the one Dad and his mates were making downstairs. Plans were the only thing these people listened to. I calmed my breathing and started to think properly. Once more, I pictured the chess
game. I was learning that you didn't win by getting angry and rushing into things: you won by thinking them through.

So do it, Peta. Make a plan.

On the table next to me were the remains of my possessions from the backpack. They included the spare pills, the torch and my old phone – fully charged now, because that's the way they did things round here.

I remembered the first time I heard Karim's voice on the line. And gradually, like solving an equation, the answers came one after the other.

One: how to get into the castle.

Two: how to smuggle Dad past the guards.

Three: how to find Karim and get him out of there.

I paced around for ages, thinking through all the possibilities, examining them from every angle. The more I examined them, the better they looked.

I practised my lines in front of the mirror, doing my best Darling D impression. Then I went over to the bedside table and searched the guidebook for Florence's most glamorous hotels. When I was ready, I picked up the phone, turned it on and unlocked it.

Do not call me on this number
, Karim had said, as if his life depended on it.

I dialled the number.

It took a few rings. Then a sultry drawl came on the line.

‘Omar. Uh-huh?'

‘Is that Omar Wahool?' I tried to sound sophisticated and posh.

‘Yeah, Omar. Uh-huh?

‘Oh, cool. This is Ella. From Cannes. You probably don't remember me.'

‘Er, no.'

‘There was a party in June? You gave me your number, but I took it down wrong. I've been trying to call you for ages.'

‘Oh! The chick from Cannes! Nice to hear from you, er . . . Ella. Is that what you said? How are you, sweet thing?'

‘I'm great. How's Yasmin?'

‘She's fine. You know my sister?'

‘Yeah. We go way back. She's having her party soon, right?'

‘Uh-huh.'

I made happy-sounding, non-committal noises. I let the silence play. I let Omar's flirtatious mind work out things for itself.
Chick, party; chick, party; chick, party . . .

‘Hey, you coming to that?' he asked at last.

‘Well, no. I'm in Florence, but I'm supposed to go to New York that day. And I never got my invite . . .'

We chatted. Omar was in a good mood, as usual. There was the sound of squeals and splashing in the background. He was either by the castle pool or, more likely, showing off the
Princess Nazia
to some new friends. This was a bit like fishing, I decided. Grandad had taken me down to the river a few times, but we'd never had much luck. This was like reeling in a big, juicy, flirty fish.

After a few minutes, I rang off. I let the conversation play over in my head for a moment before heading back down to the kitchen, where Steve, Dad and a few others were huddled in a group, over a large-scale map of the island.

Dad glanced up.

‘Not now, love. We're a bit busy.'

‘Sure,' I said. ‘I just wanted to see if you were OK. Oh, and to let you know that I've been invited to Yasmin's party. We'll be ferried out from Positano. My invitation's on its way.
You can be my bag carrier, if you like.'

I turned on my heel and walked out.

TAKE THAT, COLOMBO DUDES!

FORTY-EIGHT

T
hat wasn't the end of the story They spent hours trying to talk me out of it. Literally, hours.

All through supper, they came up with reasons why I couldn't go. Dad was the worst. He kept going on about the danger, and the risk, and my lack of training, and the risk, and the danger . . . He really was incredibly pig-headed. And hypocritical too. I had to keep pointing out that
his
plan was more dangerous, more risky. This way, he could just walk into the castle two steps behind a party guest. It wouldn't matter quite so much that he was held together with tape, or that he was a wanted man. As my bag carrier, nobody would be paying him much attention. I'd learnt that much about
servants recently. And as for my lack of training . . . I'd had a crash course in survival over the last couple of weeks. Plus, I was a
teenage girl
. Like, who was going to suspect me of anything?

‘You're being ridiculous,' Dad said.

‘
You're
being ridiculous,' I snapped back. ‘Two years I lived without you, after you went to Iraq. TWO YEARS. And for half of that I had to visit your
grave
. You owe me.'

Steve laughed at the end of the table. ‘She has a point, Mike. You do owe her.'

Guilt and anger fought on Dad's face. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘But this is too much.'

‘No it's not. If I don't go, Karim will die. I have to go.'

Dad looked at me, and for the first time since we emerged from that tunnel, he really saw me. He saw
me
, not just a taller version of the girl he thought he knew.

‘I know what I'm taking on,' I said quietly. ‘I've been there, remember?'

Dad looked craggier and guiltier than ever. Beside him, it was Henry's turn to laugh. ‘Who does she remind me of?'

‘Shut up, Henry,' Dad grumbled. ‘You're not helping.'

‘It won't be climbing up a cliff-face,' I pressed. ‘I'll be a guest at a party. They don't know my face – I'm just a girl. I'll find Karim and we can hide in the tunnels till you're ready to get us out.'

The look in Dad's eye said that as an operative, he thought this could work. But as my father,
no way
.

‘Look, love – it's not just me. There's your mother. It's bad enough that I haven't let you call her yet. But at least I can keep you safe.'

‘I don't
want
to be safe!'

‘Think of her, Peta. If you could see her now . . . She's in
pieces.'

‘I don't care! She's got Rupert to look after her.'

Dad looked grim. ‘There's something you need to see.'

So they showed me.

Dad took me to a small, plush sitting room, where a large TV was set into the wall. Henry came too, and sat on a chair next to me. Dad turned the TV on and inserted a disc into a slot below it, before joining us. The screen went blue. Eventually, an image came up of a news conference. Two people sitting either side of a policeman, behind a bank of microphones. Grandad and Mum. The camera zoomed in on Mum's face. She was super-pale, holding back the tears. She looked as though she hadn't slept for days.

‘I have a short statement,' she said. ‘If you are watching this, Peta darling, I want you to know that you are not in any trouble. Please come home. Everyone is missing you very much. ' She could hardly say those last two words because her voice was breaking, but she composed herself and carried on. ‘And if someone knows where she is, please call the police, in confidence. I need my daughter back.'

She didn't break down exactly, but she couldn't carry on either. The police officer gave a phone number that people could call. All the time, Mum stared, red-eyed, straight into the camera.

‘Do you see now, my love?' Dad said. ‘You can't do this to her.'

How
could
I do this to her?

I'd seen her reaction when she got the news about Dad and the bomb, and that was bad enough. I was her only child. When she wasn't busy marrying her new husband, we were close.

Mum . . . I missed her so much. I missed her smell, her hair, the way her face lit up when we hugged . . . I missed her telling me off for leaving my blazer on the floor
every day
, and lying on my bed with her shoes off, talking about growing up and how to survive super-embarrassing social situations. I wanted her back easily as much as she wanted me.

But if Mr Wahool ever found out that Karim had helped Dad, or if Karim ever did some other brave and risky thing – which, being Karim, he would – then the Jongleur would take him ‘the room where they do these things'. That was the baddest ‘bad thing' I could imagine.

Mum had Rupert, and Granny and Grandpa. Karim only had me.

My voice, when it came, was a whisper.

‘If she knew what I was doing, she'd understand.'

Dad recognised the quotation. He snorted with frustration. Henry leant back in his chair and made a face.

‘I can't imagine
where
she gets this from.'

‘Shut up,' Dad told him irritably. ‘It's different for me.'

‘No, it isn't,' I argued. ‘Except that you were doing your mission for total strangers. At least I'm helping someone I know.'

Henry got up. ‘You're quite a girl, Peta. I've seen many a teenager do extraordinary things – just look at Parissa. But this is between you and your dad. You know where to find me.'

‘We'll talk in the morning,' Dad said stiffly, getting up too.

‘You can't tell me what to do any more,' I snapped. ‘You're officially dead, remember?'

He didn't reply.

*

I went up to my room and sat on the bed.

I'm sorry, Mum. I have to do this.

And when it was over, if I wasn't back to explain everything, Henry Phillips would tell her what I'd done and why. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to be good enough.

It might sound all brave and noble and everything, but that wasn't true. The truth – the secret I'd been discovering since that first step I took on the coach – was that I was starting to like this stuff. Every time I thought about stealing food on the yacht, or getting Amina through the smugglers' tunnel or watching Muscle Man miss the train, I wanted to hug myself.

There were many things I wasn't good at: believing what people told me, tidying my room, hanging out with scary, beautiful girls . . . but this – this was something I could do.

All my scariest moments were the ones I was most proud of, looking back. Henry was right: I was just as bad as Dad.

FORTY-NINE

D
ad sat opposite me at breakfast, looking miserable.

Actually, I wasn't
totally
like him, I realised. I trusted my family a bit more than he did.

‘I have an add-on to the plan,' I said. ‘It'll let Mum know we're OK. Do we know anyone in the Caribbean?'

Dad looked at me like I was totally mad.

‘Yes,' François interjected, leaning over. ‘Why?'

‘Because we need to make up a postcard of a woman called Ada Lovelace – I'll explain who she is – and get someone to send it to Mum at the inn. No message. She'll know it's from me, because I named my cat after Ada Lovelace. And she'll guess I found you, Dad. I made all that fuss about Lacy being
really from you.'

Dad just grunted, looking miserable as ever, and sceptical about the plan, and guilty about the kitten.

‘I don't think we can do that,' François said to me gently. ‘Wahool's men are probably watching your mother. It would alert them too.'

‘I know they're watching her,' I said. ‘And whoever's doing it will think we're in the Caribbean, where the Grandfather's supposed to be right now. It might put them off the scent for a while.'

Dad took a long sip of coffee and said nothing.

‘That's not bad,' François smiled, nudging him.

‘So?' I asked.

‘I'm thinking,' Dad said. But something in his eyes had already changed. If Mum knew we'd found each other, then she'd know I was OK and his last excuse for leaving me behind was gone.

‘Way to go, Dad!' I ran over and gave him a big kiss. ‘It's only because I could hardly get out of bed this morning. Those bloody cliffs . . . And I know you'd just follow me if I tried to stop you. But you're not taking a step on that island without me. The second I'm done, we're leaving. I can't believe I'm doing this.'

‘It's too late,' I grinned. ‘It was too late from the moment you gave Karim my number.'

A few hours later, Ugo the chauffeur picked up my invitation from Omar at the Four Seasons Hotel, where ‘Ella' had said she was staying (thank you, guidebook). The theme was handwritten in neat, flowing ink:
Roman Holiday
.

Maria, the housekeeper, was dispatched to get me a party outfit. She came back with two streaky-blonde wigs, a long,
sleeveless black dress in a variety of sizes for me to try, some VERY expensive underwear, a fake pearl necklace, mini-tiara, gloves and a few pairs of high-heeled shoes. It turned out she was an expert on Audrey Hepburn.

‘This is not the outfit from
Roman Holiday
,' she said. ‘But in that film Audrey only wears a heavy evening gown or simple summer clothes. This is Audrey's look from
Breakfast at Tiffany's
. It's very famous and elegant. The shoes will make you look taller.'

‘Won't it seem odd that it's not the right film?' I asked. Maria laughed. ‘They won't notice. You'll look glamorous – that's all that matters. I'm sorry about the necklace: it isn't perfect, but it's the best I could find this morning.'

She and her niece, Flavia, worked on me for a couple of hours, getting the make-up right, choosing shoes I could actually walk in (well, almost) and the dress that fitted me best. Then came the wig, which they worked into a chignon high on my head, held in place with the tiara, and finally the gloves and necklace.

Amina watched, fascinated. They all had great fun telling me I couldn't look at myself, which really,
really
annoyed me, and finally – just as the delicious smell of home-cooked pizza wafted in through the window – they covered my eyes and took me to the full-length mirror. At last, I was allowed to see what they'd done. Yeah, yeah, the whole ‘magical transformation' thing.

And I stared. Because that stuff actually
works.

For a start, I was taller. When you are balancing precariously on four-inch platforms, carefully hidden under your extra-long dress, you tend to look taller. I could easily pass for sixteen. Apart from no longer being midget-like, I also had big eyes with huge, cat-like sweeps of eyeliner and not one
but two sets of false eyelashes. My face was plastered in foundation to hide the last patches of henna. They'd done clever things with blusher and lipstick too, and the other million and one products they'd used on me. The wig shone like liquid crystal and the underwear had given me the hint of a shape. I definitely wasn't Marilyn Monroe, but I was no longer a broomstick, either.

‘So?' Maria insisted. ‘So? So? What do you think?'

‘It's great,' I said.

She sighed. Flavia groaned theatrically. ‘It is not just “great”. Look again, Signorina Jones. Act the part. You will see.'

Now it was my turn to sigh. I had to be Ella, ‘the chick from Cannes'. The closest I could think of was Davina, the middle of the Darling Ds. She was the right age. She was the right sort of drop-dead sophisticated girl who would go to a party on an island at the drop of a hat. Davina could do this, no problem.

I closed my eyes and thought of her. I breathed in.

I opened my eyes. I possibly batted my double eyelashes. And there she was. Davina-Ella. Ella-Davina. Scary-hot sixteen-year-old beauty, dripping with money and boys.

‘Madonna! Straordinaria.'

‘Che bella! Ma guarda!'

Even Amina grinned.

I smiled. ‘Oh, Omar, how
fabulous
to see you.' My voice came out deeper, more assured: Davina's voice.

Everybody laughed. But it was kind of good.

Late in the afternoon, Henry Phillips took me into Florence itself. We parked near the Ponte Vecchio and he took me into one of the jewellery shops on the bridge. Inside, the owner
was waiting for us. As soon as we arrived, he brought out a slim black leather box, stamped with a gold pattern around the edge.

‘I know Maria did her best today,' Henry said, ‘but the people at the party will know good jewellery. It's like another badge that you belong.'

Inside the box, a five-strand pearl necklace sat on a cushion of oyster silk. It was fastened at the front by a massive clasp, the size of my fist, set with hundreds of tiny diamonds.

I didn't know what to say.

‘Just think of it as a tool for the job,' he told me when we got outside. ‘It looks right, and it's the kind of thing Ella might need a bodyguard to look after for her. But once you've got it on, don't worry about it, OK? Just focus on what you need to do.'

Right, fine, sure. I'll just forget about the THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF POUNDS' worth of pearls and diamonds I'm wearing and run around trying to find Karim.

Actually, when it came to practising, the necklace was easy. I was more worried about breaking my ankle in those shoes.