The Castle (23 page)

FIFTY

B
y now we had three days left. As well as learning how to walk in the platforms without falling over, I had a crash course in self-defence from Steve and Elena, in which I learnt how to break a man's nose and his arm in two places if required – but mostly, as usual, to stay out of trouble if at all possible.

I scrubbed my skin to get rid of the last traces of henna. With the help of Dad and Interface, I made up a story for ‘Ella', about how she met Yasmin on holiday in Paris, and knew lots of her friends from the school in Switzerland, and how her dad had a villa near Cannes, which was how she'd met Omar Wahool.

My plan was to avoid him at the party. If he saw me, he wouldn't recognise me, of course, but the Crystal Ball was ages ago, so he probably wouldn't remember
who
he'd met there exactly. Hopefully he'd be so busy having fun on the million-dollar dance floor that he wouldn't care.

I memorised all the names. I practised the posh voice. I learnt how to do my own make-up (which took most of one evening) and use the earpiece I would have to communicate with Steve, who would be on a nearby, borrowed yacht, directing the operation.

I wrote a letter to Mum, just in case. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. I imagined the letter I would have wanted Dad to write to me before the bomb thing. It included lots of
sorry
s, and
I love you
s, and
goodbye
s. It wasn't long, but at least it was better than ‘
This is not about you'
. I gave it to Henry to look after for me.

I wrote a letter to Luke too. That was easier. It was mostly pointing out what an idiot I'd been at various stages, and leaving him all my Forza points, my stash of Toxic Waste and my computer, to use for parts when he wanted to upgrade his.

On the last evening, we danced around the kitchen to Syed's playlist of pop and rock classics. Dad and I did our diva moves, Steve taught us some Gangnam Style, and Amina – after a few minutes watching the video – did a scarily accurate impression of Freddie Mercury singing ‘One Vision'. François and Elena proved they could jive to anything with a beat, and Syed and I proved that I couldn't. Then Maria fed us all strawberry ice cream, before dragging Amina and me off to bed.

The next day, saying goodbye to Amina was tricky. We'd been through so much. In the end I was pathetic: my face was wet
with tears as we hugged.

‘I'll find your brother, I promise,' I told her. ‘I'll bring him back to you.'

‘I know you will,' she whispered. ‘
In bocca al lupo
.'

‘What's that?'

‘It is “good luck” in Italian. I've been learning it from Maria. It means “in the mouth of the wolf”.'

‘In the mouth of the wolf ? Great. Thanks.'

She grinned at me. ‘I have seen you in the mouth of the wolf. I worry for the wolf.'

It was a kind thing to say, but I worried for
me
. I'd been in that castle. I'd seen the guns, and knew that they wanted to kill me. I'd seen how they beat a little girl. I was excited, I was ready, but I was scared to my bones. You'd be crazy not to be.

‘Focus on the training,' Dad said. So as we drove out of the villa gates, I focused on everything they'd taught me, as hard as I could.

With Steve and the snatch team travelling separately, Dad and I set off for Positano, where the guests would be picked up for the party. Having done the journey one way, I wasn't particularly looking forward to going back, but I hadn't factored in that this time we would be flying from Pisa to Naples in Henry Phillips's private jet. All I can say is that on the whole, being a billionaire sucks, but when it comes to air travel . . . it kind of doesn't. They had even stocked the galley with Toxic Waste and Haribos.

Dad sat opposite me in a comfy leather armchair. We were quiet for most of the flight.

‘You know you still don't have to do this, love,' he said, leaning forward and looking anxiously at me as we came in to land.

‘Way to encourage me, Dad.'

‘I mean it. We might . . . Look, things can go wrong. I can't guarantee to get you out safely.' He frowned, angry with himself for getting me into it, but I met his eye.

‘I know that. I can't guarantee to get
you
out safely. But we can try.'

‘Ha! Your mother will never forgive me. Ever.'

‘True. I was expecting a bit more of a pep talk, though,' I complained. ‘Is that what you say to all your teams?'

‘No,' he admitted. ‘We say something about being the best and it's time to show the bad guys what they're up against.'

‘So . . .?'

He reached out and put his hands to my cheeks.

‘Go and get the bad guys, Peta, my precious girl. It's entirely my fault that you're as messed-up as you are. We're the best. It's time to show them what they're up against.'

FIFTY-ONE

I
n the late afternoon, a group of party guests gathered on the quay at Positano, where a fleet of boats was waiting to ferry them to the Isola Sirena. I was wearing a long, streaky-blonde wig (the chignon one was in my bag) and a cotton dress that looked like ‘any old thing' and had cost three hundred euros in Florence (I saw the price tag).

Dad stood nearby, with my matching designer luggage, in wraparound sunglasses and a blond wig of his own. Despite the heat, he was dressed in the standard jewellery-guard uniform of white shirt, dark jacket and tie. He had a completely different way of standing and walking from normal, which meant even I had to remind myself he was
him. The security guard checking our tickets threw him a casual glance, but seemed more interested in checking out the party girls.

All the other guests in my group were young, tanned, happy, and slightly drunk already. Many of them knew each other, and lots of air-kissing went on. Being Ella Van Cleepels made things easier. I practised listening in on people's names and going over to them and air-kissing them too, shouting, ‘Kitty!' or ‘Alexei!' or ‘Masha!' or whatever it was. ‘It's Ella!
Darling!'
And without fail, they kissed me back and pretended to know me. It was freaky at first, but I quickly discovered that Ella
loved
seeing all her old friends.

We were picked up by the tender of the
Princess Nazia
. As soon as it came into view, my heart started beating faster. I was fairly sure that the guy at the wheel had recently been shooting at me. He gave all the girls – Ella included – the same respectful smile as we climbed aboard. Even so, I joined ‘Robbins', my jewellery guard, at the back of the boat, as far from him as possible. We watched as the mainland rapidly shrank into the distance. I tried to think about the training, and Karim, and not what I was leaving behind.

Soon one of the girls squealed and everyone turned to see where she was pointing. The island loomed ahead of us: craggy cliffs at one end and a gentle sloping hill at the other, bathed in sunlight and studded with wild flowers. Nearby, too heavy to bob about on the waves, were two absolutely enormous boats: the
Princess Nazia
and the
Juno
. At the top of the cliffs, the castle stood magnificently against the sky. Flags fluttered on the ramparts. Its stone glowed gold in the afternoon light.

Only ‘Robbins' and I knew what lay underneath. He put
his hand briefly over mine. I was shivering, but this time, I recognised the exhilaration as well as the fear.

We landed at the jetty, and several of the girls squealed happily at the sight of the flower-festooned buggies lined up to take us up the hill. The last time I'd landed here, I'd been stuck inside a trunk. Today, I stepped lightly on to the dock as a crew member took my hand to steady me. I muttered to ‘Robbins' to find me later and went off to join the others. Did Ella squeal? I decided she did.

Yasmin was waiting for us in the castle hallway, next to a very beautiful, glacial woman in big jewellery. This had to be her mother, the ‘fifty-first most stylish woman in the world'. Yasmin was wearing a bikini and mini-kaftan, glowing from an afternoon by the pool. Everyone from the buggies queued up to hug her.

‘So good to see you again!' I squealed, going in for the hug like a pro. ‘Happy birthday! I love your place!' Squeal, air-kiss. Air-kiss, squeal.

‘We're all getting changed upstairs,' she said giving me a slightly odd stare as she tried to work out who I was. ‘The servants will show you where to go. If you're down early, they're showing
Roman Holiday
in the cinema.'

‘Oh how lovely! Everything's so . . . lovely.' Ella didn't have a massive vocabulary, I decided. She giggled, though.

Just beyond the staircase was a vast collection of rocks and statues that hadn't been there before, down which bubbles cascaded into a pool of pale gold.

‘What's that?' I muttered to Robbins, who was waiting for me beside it, bags in hand.

‘A scale model of the Trevi Fountain,' he said. ‘In champagne.'

‘Oh, nice.'

Robbins said nothing, but his face suggested he didn't approve.

Next to it, a trio of musicians played old-fashioned tunes. Servants were everywhere, carrying trays and escorting guests. Outside there was the regular
whoop whoop
of helicopter blades, signalling the arrival of guests who couldn't be bothered to come by boat.

Robbins carried my bags upstairs for me as I was escorted to my top-floor room, where he politely left me at the doorway. We were allocated four to a room, but nobody seemed to mind sharing. In fact, the girls in my room seemed very happy to parade around in their underwear while they examined all the furniture, the gifts on each pillow, and the contents of each other's cases.

‘They've got the same sound system as our place in Ibiza. Shall I put something on?'

‘Oh, Mitzi, this bed is just like the one in your summer palace.'

‘Gabby, I just
love
your dress. Is it Valentino? It's too cute. You must wear it to my party in Salzburg.'

‘Oh, but I couldn't wear it
twice
. By the way, will Alexei be there?'

This time, with the party approaching, Ella didn't join in. I'd been worried that they'd notice that I wasn't unpacking or dancing around in my knickers, but they were so pleased to see each other they didn't seem to notice me at all.

I slipped my make-up case out of my bag and spent the time doing my eyes and lips while they danced around getting ready. Then they all went downstairs together without saying goodbye.

If this had been my first day at boarding school, it would
have been the utter humiliation I expected. But as it was, it was perfect. Nobody looked in my case, and I was left alone to continue the tricky process of transformation by myself. Undies, including push-up bra; dress; wig and tiara; dangly earrings; little earpiece to talk to Steve; full-length gloves; heels. Then I got out the phone from my evening bag and called Robbins, who brought in the black leather case.

‘Good evening, miss.'

‘Good evening, Robbins.'

‘May I say you look absolutely delightful this evening, miss?'

‘You may.'

‘And may I suggest that you are very careful and don't drink any champagne or anything else alcoh—'

‘Shut up, Robbins. Ahem. I know perfectly well what to drink.'

‘Yes, miss. Well, good luck. Enjoy the party.'

He put the pearl necklace round my neck and fiddled with the clasp until it was secure. Then he put his hands briefly on my shoulders and said a proper
good luck
to me with his eyes.

‘See you later, Robbins.'

‘And Miss . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘You really do look beautiful.'

‘You said that, Robbins.'

‘Good. Well, you do.'

I grabbed my little bag and smiled at him. A small, nervous smile, which wouldn't do, so I switched on Ella.

‘Blimey! Er, be careful, miss.'

‘I will, Robbins. You too.'

After he'd gone, I checked myself in the mirror. Dad was overreacting, I thought. I would have said I was eighty per
cent incredible pearl necklace, eighteen per cent glamourpuss Ella, and two per cent me in a wig.

Ella winked at the mirror. I'd left it very late and I could already hear the sound of hundreds of happy voices down below. It was time to join the party.

FIFTY-TWO

T
here was a huge commotion in the hall, but as I got halfway down the staircase suddenly everything went quiet. All eyes gazed upwards. Wow. This was a bigger reaction than I'd been expecting. In fact, it was just like Audrey arriving at a ball. Well, only one thing for it. Ella put on her biggest smile and carried on walking down as graciously as she could.

It was only as I neared the bottom step that I noticed a minor detail: nobody was looking at me. They were all staring up at someone behind me. I glanced around to see two enormous bodyguards and, several steps up from them, a small, stumpy man dressed as a Roman emperor, in a white and
purple toga, with a huge wreath of golden laurel leaves on his head.

He stared straight at me. He didn't have much hair under the laurel wreath, but what little he had was dyed black and slicked straight back over his scalp. His face seemed to be stretched over his skull, too: it was unnaturally smooth and shiny.

For a moment, he fixed me with a cold, dead gaze. Then he noticed everyone watching him, and the bottom half of his face broke into a smile. His teeth glowed ultra-white and he gave a regal wave.

‘Welcome, Grandfather! Welcome!' came a voice from below me.

Mr Wahool strode forward through the crowd, arms outstretched, also dressed as an ancient Roman of some sort. As I'd learnt on the yacht, this was a confusing party theme.

‘Grandfather! We are honoured to have you in our presence. Or, may I say, we are honoured to have you
back
!'

He bowed low and there was a smattering of applause, which continued until everyone in the hall was clapping.

I scuttled down the last few stairs and stood with the others as the ex-dictator made his way slowly down, flashing his teeth at everyone, seeming to take in every face and assess it for how enthusiastic it was, then acknowledging their applause. The bodyguards made sure that nobody got close as he headed on towards the terrace outside.

As he drew level with me, the Grandfather seemed to give me an extra-penetrating stare. For spoiling his entrance, I supposed. Or perhaps he was sizing up my pearls and diamonds. I bowed my head. When I raised it again, the small, be-togaed figure had moved on, but for the first time I noticed the man walking a few paces behind him. It was odd
I hadn't spotted him before, but then, the Grandfather was pretty mesmerising.

The man behind him must have been nearly seven feet tall. Despite this, he had the knack of seeming almost invisible in his simple grey suit, and yet, when I looked up, I felt myself wobbling on my platforms for the first time. There was something about his face. It seemed to be an endless series of bags: under the eyes, under the bags under the eyes, under the cheeks, under the chin. The skin was a strange greyish-purple colour, and the eyes themselves looked empty and hollow. They seemed to look into you, and through you. He passed close by me and I felt I couldn't breathe until he'd gone.

In a few moments the procession had moved on and the hall returned to normal. I found a white-gloved servant with a tray and asked him in a whisper: ‘Was that the Jongleur?'

He stared straight ahead, face blank. ‘We do not talk about such things, signorina. Champagne?'

‘No. Thank you.'

I paused by the mini Trevi Fountain to regain my composure. Nobody should ever be left alone with that man.

My first job was to create a distraction at precisely six minutes past nine. I looked at my watch (a vintage silver one that had belonged to Henry's mother). It was eight forty-five, which gave me a little while to check out the party, so I did.

Everyone, it seemed, was moving out on to the terrace and the lawns, soaking up the music and enjoying the view. I stood on the edge of the terrace, where the breakfast table had once been, and looked out. The place looked even better than before. The scaffolding had gone, and coloured fairy lights
nestled among the climbing roses. Hundreds of candles flickered in little glass vases along the pathways. The terrace was set with white-clothed tables, while below it the dance floor took up most of the area by the pool. What I'd thought was DJ music turned out to be a South American superstar, dressed in nothing but spangles, singing last year's biggest number one.

The guests were a mixture of old and young. The older ones sat at the little tables near where I was standing, while the younger ones played about on the lawns, laughing loudly and taking pictures of themselves on jewelled phones. Some were dressed as Audrey Hepburn or ancient Romans – there were two other
Breakfast at Tiffany's
and several togas – but most had just gone for straight-up high-fashion evening wear. Maria was right that I needn't have worried about theme accuracy. Meanwhile, waiters in white jackets circulated round them on little scooters like the one Dad had stolen, serving trays of mini ice-cream cones and champagne.

For my last birthday we ate chocolate cake and deloused a kitten. Just saying. But Ella had been to
lots
of parties like this. She just
adored
them.

A few boys smiled at me and waved me over, but I ignored them. I glanced at my watch: 9 p.m. exactly. I had work to do. I went over to one of the tables and picked up one of the starched white napkins.

At 9.01, I wandered back inside, taking the napkin with me, as well as a little candle in a vase.
Doop de doop de doo.
Ditzy Ella. The poor girl somehow ended up in the sitting room, where she put down her vase and accidentally left the napkin folded on top of it. Oops.

I went back into the hall and started to go back up the staircase.
Three. Two. One.

I think I was the first to smell smoke. Seconds later, somebody shouted ‘Fire!' just as an alarm bell went off. Sprinklers started sprinkling, servants and security came running. I couldn't see the corridor outside Mr Wahool's study from here, but I assumed that ‘Mr Robbins' could now walk along it undisturbed.

Job over. Pausing only to look vaguely surprised by the commotion, I carried on up the stairs.

Part two of the plan was harder. Now I had to find Karim and explain why I was back. Preferably without giving him a heart attack at the sight of me dressed as Audrey Hepburn. I'd considered going through the kitchens to look for him in the cellars, but too many servants would pass me on the way and wonder what a guest was doing down there. The tunnels were my best option. I just had to pray he'd be there, on the way to one of his tasks.

I slipped into Yasmin's bedroom, which was closest, and let myself through the invisible door, leaving my shoes just inside it. I hoiked up my dress and made sure I bent as low as possible, so as not to rub my wig on the rough ceiling. My outfit really wasn't designed for this part.

‘Karim!' I hissed. ‘Where are you?'

No answer. Not so surprising. The music outside was very loud, and he could be anywhere. I moved forward, calling louder: ‘Karim!'

Still no answer. On I went, and down, crouching all the time and calling as loud as I dared. Then round and up again, via a different staircase, on the other side of the castle. This
had
to work.

‘Karim!'

Stillness and darkness and nothing, apart from the
pounding of a heavy beat from the dance floor, which seemed to vibrate through the stones.

‘Karim!'

There was no sign of him on the basement floor or the ground floor, but I carried on searching, calling as I went. No answer. I retraced my steps down the passage towards Yasmin's room.

‘Peta Jones?'

I whipped round. He was standing in the stairwell behind me, silhouetted in a stairwell in the moonlight.

‘Karim!'

I moved towards him as fast as my dress allowed and threw my arms around his neck. He was too shocked to hug me back.

‘I've come to get you,' I told him.

He stood back and clasped my hands. His skin was cool but his grip was tight. For a moment, we just stood there. His face was just as I'd remembered it: elegant, curious, brave. His bright eyes glittered in the gloom.

‘You are a mad girl, Peta Jones.'

‘No, I'm not.' It was hard to pull away, but there was a lot to do. ‘Come on – follow me.'

I led him back to Yasmin's room, where I collected my shoes and repositioned the wig, which was half over one eye by now. Then I remembered Yasmin's walk-in wardrobe. It seemed an excellent place to talk.

‘My sister,' Karim said, still staring at me in wonder as we stood among the endless closets, ‘she is safe?'

‘Very safe,' I smiled. ‘You've no idea how safe.'

He relaxed a little. ‘You should not have come. This castle is a bad place.'

‘That's why I'm here,' I told him. ‘I'm getting you out.'

‘But Sammy and Parissa—'

‘Don't worry, they're coming too.'

Quickly, I outlined the plan. Something was bound to go wrong – I'd learnt that by now – but we had plenty of back-up plans in case it did. Karim listened carefully as I told him about the spare waiter's outfit in my bag upstairs – his disguise for the escape – and where to meet after Dad had finished in the study. I thought I'd have to explain the details a few times, but he understood everything instantly. He looked worried, though.

‘Does Mr Allud . . . your father . . . know about the new pressure pads Mr Wahool installed in his special room? They are the latest security devices.'

‘No! There are pressure pads?'

‘After the incident with my sister . . .'

Karim looked uncomfortable, because of course it wasn't his sister who'd got caught in the ‘special room'. Pressure pads weren't in the plan. What if Dad had tripped an alarm?

‘Aargh!' My two-second encounter with the wide man seemed to have led to endless trouble.

‘Perhaps they are not working yet,' Karim said hopefully, seeing my face. ‘They are very—'

He stopped at the sound of rustling outside. The door opened. Yasmin Wahool stood there, one shoe in her hand, staring at us both.

Oh seriously no. Bad thing.

Karim bowed almost to the ground and muttered, ‘I am so sorry, Miss Yasmin. I was just . . . I am so sorry.'

She stared at me. She was now dressed in a vintage 1950s sundress, like the ones Audrey Hepburn wore in
Roman Holiday
, which clashed somewhat with the two hundred and eighty-nine diamonds around her neck.

‘Who are you?' she said accusingly. ‘What are you doing here?'

I took a breath. Ella batted her eyelashes and looked ditzier than ever.

‘Oh, hi, Yasmin. I'm
so
lost. I don't think this is the bedroom they gave me. I—'

‘You're lying. What are you, some kind of thief? I'm calling security.' She made to leave the room.

‘No! Listen!' I pleaded. ‘We're not stealing. I was hiding. It's just a party game.'

‘Hah. Nobody plays party games with the servants.'

Yasmin bent to rub her aching foot. She must have come in to change her shoes, which were even higher than mine. As she bent down, her big diamond necklace slipped round and banged against her collarbone. Underneath it, I spotted a glint of gold – a charm on a slim chain. I remembered the last night on the
Princess Nazia
, and it gave me an idea. I turned off my begging face.

‘Some of us
like
to play games with servants,' I said in a different voice, more threatening and mysterious.

‘What do you mean?' She looked up, startled.

‘I like your necklace. The gold one, I mean. Who gave it to you?' I gave her my best mock-innocent stare.

She gulped and looked frightened. Her hand went to her neck. ‘But . . . but . . . but . . . How did you . . .?'

I let her sweat. So Dad stole stuff, and I blackmailed people with their guilty secrets.

Yasmin's eyes were pleading now. ‘You mustn't . . .'

‘Don't worry. I won't say anything, if you don't. I just wanted this boy here to help me with . . . a trick I'm playing on someone.' This was actually true, up to a point.

She frowned. It was clear she didn't exactly believe me, but
she didn't know what to think. ‘You swear you're not stealing.'

‘I swear. Of course not.'

Two hundred million dollars, baby.
But it wasn't hers anyway.

‘OK,' she said reluctantly. ‘But get out. Now.'

Without a word, Karim disappeared through the door in the bedroom wall. Yasmin watched me suspiciously from the landing as I headed down the main stairs, just in time to see several of the older male party guests file into the dining room. Two bodyguards stood impassively either side of the door. Something not very party-like was going on in there.