The Angel (19 page)

There had been a thought, playing at the back of her mind ever since she had arrived home again. Now she acknowledged it for the first time: she had an itch and she needed to scratch it.

One day, she would have found that piece of paper with Pope’s telephone number, and she would have contacted him. Not to ask for his help. To ask if she could help him. This, she decided, was providence.

Fate.

She was being offered the chance to do what her mother
had done
.

The chance to test herself.

The chance to make her mother proud.

She stood and collected their empty glasses.

‘Isabella?’

‘What do I need to do?’

PART FIVE

Chapter Thirty-Nine

L
e Rosey is one of the most exclusive and expensive schools in the world.

It is near to the village of Rolle. Thomas Snow drove the BMW along the coast of Lake Geneva, turned to the south among the picturesque vineyards and farms, and after a few miles they came to a driveway so discreet that it would have been easy to miss. The only sign that this was the correct turning was the ‘
CHATEAU
DU ROSEY’ that was engraved into the stone pillars.

‘Here we go,’ Snow said as he slowed the car and turned off
the roa
d.

The road snaked through a grove of regal chestnut trees. The car crossed a stream by way of an ancient humpback bridge, and after five minutes, they reached an old chateau that was surrounded by a cluster of newer buildings.

Kelleher was studying the materials that Pope had provided for them. Isabella had looked at them last night. The prospectus was glossy and impressive, and listed the names of alumni who had gone on to become famous international figures. The names spoke of huge wealth. The children who attended the school came from Persian Gulf oil magnates, Greek shipping lords, Italian textile billionaires, Spanish banking families, American tobacco barons, Japanese industrial tycoons and Hong Kong real estate moguls.

‘You know how much it costs to send your kid here?’
Kelleher sai
d.

‘One hundred and twenty grand,’ Snow replied. ‘I know.
I r
e
ad it
.’

‘And listen to this: “We do not make a play of ‘classical’ education, but promise to inculcate a series of attributes in our students which will stand them in good stead for all that life has in store for them. We promise ‘physical balance,’ oral expression and a sense of solidarity with one another.”’

‘They mean they’ll make sure they understand the differences between the spoiled few and the rest of the world.’

‘“Le Rosey seeks neither ‘an intellectual elite’ nor a set of ‘model’ students. We promise an education that will avoid academic failure and/or completely deviant behaviour.” Basically,’ she said, ‘it means the spoilt little shits can do whatever they like.’

Isabella listened and said nothing. She had read all of this in advance and then done additional research so that she could play the part she knew she would have to play. She knew, for example, that Le Rosey was known for royalty. The Shah of Iran, the Aga Khan, King Albert II of Belgium and Prince Rainier of Monaco had all gone there. So had the sons and daughters
of th
e royal
families
of Egypt, Greece, Yugoslavia, Italy and
Britain
. It had always appealed to the Arabs, and had taught a number of sheikhs, the children of Saudi Arabian arms dealer Adnan Khashoggi, and the son of the owner of Harrods, who had been killed with Lady Diana. There were the children of movie stars, rock stars and innumerable European and American fortunes. She saw names like Rothschild, Botin, Niarchos, Benetton, Duke, du Pont, Rockefeller. When she Googled them, her sense of trepidation increased.

Snow parked the car in the central courtyard and looked out of the tinted window at the buildings that loomed over them. There were other cars in the courtyard: Ferraris, big Porsche SUVs, BMWs, a Bentley.

Kelleher turned in her seat. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ Isabella said.

‘No need to be nervous.’

‘I’m not,’ she said, although she was.

‘You’re going to do fine. What’s your name?’

‘Daisy McKee.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘London.’

‘What does your father do?’

She nodded at Snow. ‘City trader.’ Kelleher paused, then
gestured
with her hand that she wanted the rest of the cover story. Isabella sighed, then continued with it. ‘He owns McKee Capital. He trades stocks and shares on the London Exchange.’

‘And me?’

‘Charlotte McKee. You own an art studio in Chelsea.’

‘Brothers and sisters?’

‘Two brothers and one sister. Their names are Ethan, Charlie and Abigail. I’m the youngest. Ethan is working with my father,
Charlie is at Eton and Abigail is working for Médecins Sans
Frontières
in Africa.’

‘Very good.’

‘You don’t need to worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve memorised it. All of it.’

‘Remember’ – Snow took over – ‘you have a cell phone in your bag. If you need us, send a blank text to the number for Uncle Rupert. And keep the phone charged and with you at all times. We’ll be able to track you as long as it’s on.’

She nodded that she understood.

‘You ready?’

Her attention was drawn to a group of teenage girls passing between the BMW and the Bentley parked ahead of it. They were dressed well, all with bright white smiles and tanned limbs. They practically dripped money. Isabella had inherited a generous estate from her mother, but she did not flaunt it. She had invested most of it in her riad, but the rest she had saved. She was not extravagant in any way. Her mother had taught her that extravagance was a good way to make yourself stand out, and standing out was not
something
that she wanted to do. Her mother had also taught her that having a good sum of money on standby allowed you the
flexibility
to move quickly and decisively, should the need arise.

Isabella was wealthy, by the normal standards of a fifteen-year-old girl, but she knew that she would be a pauper in comparison to these girls.

She felt another twitch of unease before she chided herself for her stupidity. What was real and what was false was irrelevant. It was what appeared to be true that mattered, and credibility was all about confidence.

‘Daisy?’

‘What?’

‘Are you ready to go?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m ready.’

Chapter Forty

T
hey had a welcome interview with the admissions tutor. His office was enormous, with a similarly spacious waiting area outside. His door opened at three on the dot, and he came out into the waiting area to greet them. His name was Pires, and he was full of so much false bonhomie that Isabella took an immediate dislike to him.

‘Mr McKee, a pleasure to meet you at last.’

He offered his hand. Snow put out his and shook it.

‘And Mrs McKee, good to put a face to a voice. I hope the admissions procedure was painless enough?’

‘It was,’ she said. ‘You were very helpful. Thank you.’

He waved the compliment away and turned to Isabella. ‘And you must be Daisy?’

‘Hello,’ she said, forcing a bright smile onto her face.

There came a knock at the door, and at Pires’s curt ‘Come in,’ a waiter entered with a tray bearing four bone-china cups, a large carafe of coffee and a plate of petit fours. Pires thanked and
dismissed
him and then set about pouring the coffee himself.

‘Our roll is limited to just four hundred boys and girls,’ he explained as he handed the cups around. ‘They are aged between
eight and eighteen, and they come from sixty-one countries.
Instruction is in English, with French as a subsidiary, or in French, with English as a subsidiary. I believe you prefer English, Daisy?’

Isabella spoke good French from her time in Marrakech, but she remembered her cover story. Daisy was conversant, but not
proficient
. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘English.’

‘I think you’ll find the school offers a unique environment. The education here is peerless, and the extracurricular activities are
varied
. Waterskiing, sailing, scuba diving, flying, riding, shooting and, of course, skiing. You won’t be bored.’

‘I’m sure I won’t.’

The man proceeded to recite what Isabella suspected was a memorised spiel about the benefits of an education at Le Rosey. She listened and answered his questions with a promptness that suggested that she was attentive, but her focus was on the room and the world beyond the broad window. Her thoughts switched back to
the p
reparatory meetings that they had had in London. Michael Pope had explained in greater detail what it was that she was being asked to do. He had shown her the tiny device that they wanted her to fit to Salim al-Khawari’s computer, how it was used and the best ways to avoid being seen as she did it. A whole day had been invested in developing Daisy McKee’s persona and backstory until she could answer questions fluently and without thinking about them. Pope had left a file on the table of the hotel room that they had used for the training. It had been marked with one word: ‘Angel.’ When she had asked him what that meant, he had told her – with a smile – that ‘Angel’ was her codename.

Isabella switched back into the present as Pires asked her a question about what she liked to do in her spare time. She told him that she liked horses and ballet. When he asked her what her favourite ballet was, she answered, with perfect conviction, that it was
Swan Lake
, that her favourite composer was Tchaikovsky and that the first time she had seen it was when her mother had taken her to the London Opera House in 2007. Zenaida Yanowsky had played Odette. It had been wonderful.

‘A very good choice,’ he said. ‘You know we have ballet classes at Le Rosey?’

‘I do,’ she said with a smile. ‘That’s one of the things I’m
looking
forward to the most.’

He stood. ‘Well, then. Should we all go and see your room?’

Isabella kept her eyes and ears wide open as Pires guided them from the administration building to the school’s accommodation.

The room was simple and not as extravagant as she had expected. There was a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a set of shelves. The floor was carpeted, the walls painted a neutral beige and a large window offered a view over the impressive campus all the wa
y to t
he waterfront. Isabella wheeled her suitcase to the
wardrobe
.

‘What do you think?’ Pires asked.

‘It’s lovely,’ Kelleher answered. ‘Daisy?’

‘Lovely,’ Isabella agreed.

‘Students rise at 7 a.m.,’ Pires said. ‘You have a shower, then you go downstairs and have breakfast. It’s a large buffet, the only informal meal of the day. Between
8 a.m
. and midday, there are five periods of class, with a mid-morning “chocolate break.”’

‘Chocolate?’ Snow said.

‘This is Switzerland.’ He laughed. ‘What do you expect? Every Monday at midday there is a school assembly, which brings the whole school together for notices, reflection and sometimes for dialogue. On the other days of the week you are free until lunch. Classes begin again at 1.15 p.m. and finish three periods later at
3 p.m
. From 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. you have a choice of sports and arts. After you have showered, you’ll do homework and “prep” in the study hall from 6.20 p.m. to 7.20 p.m., or you might be involved in choir, orchestra or drama rehearsals.’

Pires was interrupted by a knock at the open door. Isabella turned. There was a girl there, a little older than her, and very
beautiful
.

‘Ah,’ Pires said. ‘This is Claudette. She is going to be Daisy’s buddy until she’s settled in.’

‘How lovely,’ Kelleher said.

‘Hello, Daisy.’

The girl extended her hand. Isabella took it and made the effort to smile. It was returned, although she noticed that her eyes remained cool. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Claudette has been at Le Rosey for two years. She’s one of our prefects.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Kelleher said.

‘I was just going through the daily schedule,’ Pires said to the girl. ‘I got up to prep. Do you want to tell her about dinner?’

‘Of course, Monsieur Pires. Dinner is served at 7.30 p.m.
Students
are given a place at a table with other students and a teacher. The food is always excellent. It’s the best time of the day.’

‘It all sounds wonderful,’ Kelleher said.

‘Unless you have any other questions, there’s nothing else
I ne
ed to say,’ Pires said.

‘No,’ Snow said. ‘I think we’re good.’

‘Very good. I think we can leave Daisy in Claudette’s capable hands.’

Kelleher turned her back to Pires and placed a hand on
each of
Isabella’s shoulders. She looked into her eyes, gave the
tiniest
of nods and then, right back in character, hugged her and told her with brash confidence that she was sure that she was
going t
o
settle
in here just fine. Snow was next, kissing her on the cheek and squeezing her hand.

‘Goodbye, darling,’ Kelleher said.

‘Bye, Mother.’

‘We’ll see you at the end of the term.’

That was six weeks away. Isabella realised that she should probably be showing a little more emotion, but she wasn’t a good enough actress to summon tears on demand. Daisy would probably have cried, but it was not something that came easily to Isabella. Instead, she hurried back across the room and hugged Kelleher again,
hiding
her lack of emotion by pressing her face into Number Nine’s neck. She held her there for ten seconds, then allowed her arms to be unpeeled.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Kelleher said.

Isabella nodded, found a brave smile and watched as they thanked Monsieur Pires and left the room. Pires followed. The girl, Claudette, stayed at the door. The friendliness was gone from her face now that she was not on show. Isabella thought she saw something unpleasant in her eyes: a knowingness, perhaps. Had she seen through her already?

‘What now?’ she said, keen to at least try to make a friend.

‘Get your stuff unpacked. Dinner is at seven-thirty. I’ll come and get you.’

She turned and walked away down the corridor, leaving the door wide open. Isabella realised that she didn’t know where
the gir
l’s room was, what she was supposed to wear for dinner, how that would work out . . . anything.

She went to the window as she heard the crunch of a car’s tyres on gravel. The BMW pulled away, rolling slowly across the courtyard and then onto the long drive through the trees. Number Nine and Number Twelve were gone. They were staying in a bed and breakfast in Perroy, ten minutes away, but that wasn’t much succour.

Isabella realised for the first time just how far out of her
comfort
zone this really was.

She felt vulnerable and alone.