The Castle (24 page)

FIFTY-THREE

I
paused for a moment, watching. Was François right? Was the coup being finalised in that room tonight? But that was the Foundation's problem, not mine. Right now, I had quite enough problems of my own.

I had to find somewhere quiet, fast, to talk to Steve, so he could warn Dad about the pressure pads in the study. But before I could think of anywhere safe to do it, two girls called after me.

‘Hey! You! Tiffany girl!'

I spun round. They were sparkly and smiling.

‘Are you Ella?' they asked. ‘They said you were the one in the pearls. Ooh, are those real?'

‘Yes,' I said, in answer to both questions.

‘Cool. Omar wants you. We've been looking for you for
ages.'

‘Oh . . . lovely,' I said, smiling brightly.

Oh hell. Oh big time hell.

The girls took me by the hand and led me back to the terrace, where the air was throbbing with music so loud they could probably hear it on the mainland, and two boys were having a competition to see how much champagne they could spray over each other from the bottle.

‘Here she is!' the girls called out, skirting round the champagne fight and heading towards a group of people watching Max Wahool, down to his shirtsleeves, do balancing tricks on a waiter's scooter.

One of them was Omar. His bowtie was draped round his neck, and three long-legged girls were draped over him, like furs. He turned round and slowly looked me up and down.

‘Who are you?'

‘Ella,' I said in my deepest, most husky voice, glancing nervously over at Max. ‘Ella Van Cleepels. Hi! We met in Cannes. Don't you remember? We got very drunk that night.' I giggled. At least, I tried to giggle. It came out as more of a gurgle.

‘So you're the chick from Cannes.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘That's weird. You're a honey, you know that? I've been wanting to talk to you all night. But I just met this girl here . . .' Omar indicated the six-foot blonde next to him, also watching me curiously. ‘And
she's
the girl I met in Cannes. And her name's Sophie. So, like I said, who are you?'

‘I met you there too,' I said, thinking fast. My smile was slipping, and so was my voice. ‘And I just, like, really really
wanted to see you again.'

Silence. Omar didn't believe me. And Max didn't believe me. And even the drapey girls didn't believe me. ‘Gold-digger,' someone muttered.

I had underestimated the Wahools, and how suspicious they were of anyone outside the family. Big mistake. Huge, much-too-late, can't-go-back-now mistake.

Omar's eyes hardened. ‘Come on. We're going to meet my dad.'

He grabbed my arm. Behind him, Max stopped his balancing act to stare at us. Now everyone was staring.

Omar steered me back through the party, past the champagne fight and more waiters on wheels and a boy being sick in the bushes, through several doorways, past the Trevi Fountain and into the hall. His grip was like steel.

‘Ow! You're hurting me.'

‘Shut up.'

We reached the closed doors to the dining room. Omar nodded to one of the bodyguards, who let us in.

Ten men were standing round an enormous marble table, covered in maps and plans. It reminded me of the kitchen table at the Colombo Foundation when we were planning our operation, but bigger, and surrounded by men in togas. It would have been funny, if it wasn't the scariest place I'd ever been. Yes, they were definitely planning the coup. No, I wish I hadn't found out this way.

The wide man was there, in the smartest toga of all. I glanced at him nervously, but he didn't seem to recognise me. Like the others, he was watching the Grandfather, who stood at the end of the room in his purple finery. I checked for the Jongleur, but there was no sign of him.

‘Why are you here?' the Grandfather said to Omar coldly.

‘Where's my father?'

‘Elsewhere. There's been a disturbance.'

Oh no.
The pressure pads . . . 
Oh no oh no.

Omar didn't seem to notice me shudder. ‘It's just, I've got this girl. She faked her way in to get to me. Papa hates it when they do that.'

‘Not now, boy. Tell security. Go back outside.'

‘OK, fine,' Omar sighed.

‘Wait! She was not invited, did you say? Bring her to me.'

Omar marched me up the room, past the table and the men in expensive Roman party gear, to the place where the Grandfather was waiting. In my platforms, I was about the same height as the ex-President of Marvalia. His black eyes looked directly into mine. They were sharp and intelligent, and pitiless.

‘Can it be a coincidence that this girl should appear at the same time as our intruder?'

‘I . . . I'm a party guest. I just wanted to see the castle . . .'

‘Take her to your father's study.'

Whatever makes your knees work gave up on mine. Omar had to hold me up as he pulled me back out of the room. Dragging a girl wearing platforms isn't easy, but he was strong and he managed it.

Oh, Dad, I'm so so sorry. Please don't be where I think you are.

FIFTY-FOUR

T
he plan had gone so wrong so fast I felt giddy. There wasn't a back-up for this.

We reached the study door and it was locked. Omar bashed against it.

‘Papa! It's me!'

The key turned in the lock. Mr Wahool opened the door and breathed cigar smoke in our faces.

‘Go away, my son.' His body blocked most of the doorway.

‘I found this,' Omar said, pushing me forward, like a cat with a dead bird.

Mr Wahool looked unimpressed. ‘Get rid of her.'

‘But, Papa, the Grandfather said—'

‘You went to the Grandfather?'

I craned my neck. Behind Mr Wahool's toga-clad shoulder I could just make out Dad near the desk, kneeling in front of the Jongleur. The tall grey man was holding a pistol to Dad's head.

Oh no oh no oh no.

Mr Wahool saw that I had noticed the scene behind him and motioned us in angrily, locking the door behind us. Omar's casual glance at Dad on his knees suggested he'd seen this kind of thing before.

‘What did he say?' Mr Wahool asked.

‘The girl faked her way in, Papa.' Omar nodded across to where Dad was kneeling. ‘The Grandfather said she might be to do with him.'

Meanwhile, I looked around the room desperately. The window was shut. It was miles to the secret door. The walls looked soundproof. And if I tried anything, the Jongleur would surely do something to Dad . . .

Right now, the giant's baggy face was studying mine. I looked away.

‘Bring her here,' he said. His voice was hollow, like his eyes. There was no emotion in it at all.

Omar dragged me across the room, just as the door shuddered under more thumping.

‘Hey! Omar! It's Max! What's up with that girl?'

Mr Wahool swore under his breath and opened the door again.

‘Be quiet, my son. Leave us.'

Like I'd done, Max peered beyond his father to see what was happening in the room. He took in Omar and me, Dad, the Jongleur and the pistol. His eyes lit up. ‘Hey, party! Can I join?'

‘No you may not,' Mr Wahool said crossly. ‘Get out, both of you. Leave the girl.'

Omar sighed and turned to go, but Max stood his ground.

‘Let me stay, Papa. You look like you could use some help.'

His father eyed him coldly through a haze of cigar smoke, then softened. ‘I don't need help. But you may as well learn how we contain our enemies.'

A look of pure enjoyment stole across Max's face, which only increased when Omar's turned to thunder.

‘But, Papa, I found her. I'm the oldest.
I
should stay.'

‘Get out!' Mr Wahool commanded. ‘We don't need the whole family here. For God's sake, boy.'

Omar backed out, furious, while Max, the favourite, strutted across to me.

‘Have you been a naughty girl?' he whispered, smirking. His face was almost touching mine and his breath was hot and sour. His eyes gleamed dangerously in the lamplight.

‘We're about to establish that,' Mr Wahool said. ‘We found
Mr Alard
here working on my computer. Or should I say “Mr Jones”? He has been blocking access to my money. He was just about to explain how to fix the mess he made. Weren't you, Mr Jones?'

In a lightning-fast move, the Jongleur hit Dad, casually but hard, across the face. Dad's head snapped back and I gasped – I couldn't help it. Mr Wahool watched me closely.

‘Interesting.' He smiled at the Jongleur and turned back to Max. ‘I do believe this young lady may be able to assist us. You see,' he went on, walking over to the desk, ‘there is a book –' he stubbed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray and picked up a small black notebook – ‘which was among the possessions of the charming Mr Jones. It was hidden, but we found it.'

He paused.
Thump.
Dad groaned.

‘It was written in code, but I had it decoded. And at the end of this
fascinating
book it mentions “the power of Peta”. Mr Jones has a daughter called Peta. Would that by any chance be you, my dear?'

I said nothing. Max jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow, causing my bag to drop to the floor and the contents to spill on the carpet. ‘Answer my father!'

‘I – I don't know what you're talking about. My name's Ella. I just wanted a free invitation to a party.'

They all looked down at my scattered lipstick, phone and hairbrush. I think they'd been expecting something more high-tech and incriminating. But I was Ella Van Cleepels, ditzy party girl.

I risked a quick look at Dad. He was still on his knees, head slumped forward, so close I could nearly touch him. The Jongleur had thumped him in the chest, where he already had at least two broken ribs from his time in the cells. It was hard to tell how he was coping. I looked away.

Mr Wahool stretched out his arm and yanked at my necklace so hard that the strands broke and pearls scattered over the carpet. I gasped again. Still not satisfied, he grabbed my tiara and pulled the wig off my head. My earpiece fell to the floor. With slow deliberation, he stepped forward and crushed it under his smart leather heel. Suddenly, my excuse that I was just a normal party guest was starting to look a bit thin. I found it difficult to breathe.

‘Yes, yes,' Wahool muttered, looking at me. ‘Put them side by side.'

‘I don't know what you mean. I—'

‘SHUT UP!' Wahool ordered.

Max and the Jongleur pushed Dad and me together and
made us kneel in the middle of the room, facing them. The scattered pearls hurt my knees. My limbs felt like ice. I focused on a pool of golden lamplight to make myself feel warmer, until the Jongleur tipped our chins back with the gun. It had a big fat silencer on it, I noticed. Not that you really needed a silencer with the massive disco going on outside. By now I was rigid with fear.

Mr Wahool walked across the thick carpet to join his monster and his son. I could just hear Dad's ragged breathing beside me. The others stood over us and examined our faces, like we were exhibits at a freak show.

‘The same eyes,' Mr Wahool said. ‘Don't you agree?'

‘And the same chin,' Max said. ‘The daughter, definitely.'

‘I've never seen this girl,' Dad muttered through a thick lip.

The Jongleur kicked him hard in the abdomen and he doubled over.

‘I think you have,' Wahool said coldly. ‘I think she's your daughter. You see, Peta,' he continued, taking care to say my name this time, ‘we have a problem. Your father has infected my computer banking system with a virus that has blocked my bank accounts so the money can go in, but I can't get it out again. A very, very –'
thump, groan –
‘irritating virus. I need him to fix it
now
so I can pay some people. If he doesn't help me I will kill him. You understand that, don't you?'

That wasn't quite how I thought Dad's mission was supposed to work, but I didn't want the Jongleur to kick him again. I nodded. ‘I understand.'

‘The notebook says you have a power. What
is
that power?'

‘It's nothing! It's just my name! It's—'

THUMP.

The Jongleur kicked Dad even harder than usual, and all the time he watched me with those hollow eyes. I stifled a scream. I was panicking and desperate, and that seemed to please him.

‘It's just my name,' I cried out, my face wet with tears. ‘He just wanted to use my name.'

The Jongleur nodded to Mr Wahool. Torturing Dad was some sort of honesty test for me, it seemed, and I had passed.

Wahool sighed at me. ‘In that case, I would like you use your “power” to ask your father, very nicely, to fix the virus for me. Will you do that?'

Well, no. I would do many things, but not spoil the mission. Dad wouldn't want me to. I knelt up as tall as I could and said nothing.

‘I COMMAND IT!' Mr Wahool went bright red with the sudden force of shouting at me, and spittle came out of his mouth. ‘JUST TELL YOUR FATHER WHAT HE MUST DO! Please.' In that last word, he went from fire to ice. The ice was scarier.

‘Fix the virus, Dad,' I said obediently. I sounded about as animated as when Yasmin talked about diamonds.

Thump.
The Jongleur kicked Dad.
Slap.
Now Max joined in, hitting my cheek with his free hand. Something hard – a ring? – caught the bone. My vision went blurry for a moment.

‘Try a little harder,' Wahool said.

‘Fix the virus, Dad.'

Thump, thump. Slap.

Mr Wahool sighed. ‘I can see this isn't going to work. Let's try it differently. Sit over there.'

He pointed to a big armchair in front of the window. It was the chair that the wide man had sat in when he had
talked about helicopters and art. I was so scared I couldn't move, so the Jongleur stepped over, picked me up by the hair and dragged me to it. I couldn't tell what he was going to do, and the uncertainty made it worse. At least Dad was still kneeling upright, just. At least he was still breathing.

‘One bone at a time,' Mr Wahool crooned to the Jongleur.

The giant handed his gun to his boss, who in turn passed it to his favourite son. ‘Can you use this?' he asked.

‘Of course,' Max smiled, feeling the weight of it in his palm. ‘I have my own collection, remember?'

‘Good. Keep an eye on Mr Jones.'

Dad was kneeling in front of the chair, with his head down. Max pulled his chin up again with the pistol, forcing him to face me. For the first time, our eyes met. Dad's were calm and sad and sorry and full of love. I forced a smile. Whatever happened, we were in this together. We would not let them beat us.

The Jongleur moved into position beside me and stretched his arms out, clicking his fingers. I wasn't sure what he intended to do, and I didn't want to know.
Lalalalalalalala . . .

‘No! Wait! No!' Dad shouted.

The room went quiet.

‘I'm sorry?' Mr Wahool asked silkily.

‘Enough!' Dad shook his head. ‘I'll fix your bloody virus.' His voice was rough from having been thumped so much, and his words were slurred from a cut on his swelling lip.

What?
‘Dad?'

‘I'm not sure I believe you, Mr Jones.'

I wasn't sure I did, either.

Dad stared Mr Wahool down, ignoring the trickle of blood from his lip. ‘It's the only way. You've got my daughter. The virus for her life.'

Mr Wahool looked at his son. ‘What do you think, Max? Is he lying?'

Max laughed. ‘He loves his little girl. He knows what we'd do to her.'

All the time, my brain was racing. Some people were stupid – Max Wahool certainly was – but not my dad, not
ever
my dad. Why would he offer to go along with them, to save me, when it was obvious they would kill us both anyway? I mean, what else were they going to do?

Dad must have a plan. Maybe he was just buying time for the others to escape. Whatever it was, I had to make Wahool trust him. I looked Dad straight in the eye and sobbed desperately. ‘No! Daddy! Don't!'

I never called him ‘Daddy'. He gave me a flicker of an odd look, but everyone was looking at my face, not his.

‘It's too late, child,' Mr Wahool said smugly. ‘I must have my money.' He seemed more confident about the deal, now that I'd begged Dad not to do it. Dad's odd look turned into the faintest flicker of a smile.

‘We must help them, honey.'

Dad never called me ‘honey'. OK, so he'd got my code. And there was a plan. And we weren't helping. That's all I needed to know.

‘Do it,' Mr Wahool instructed, after a moment's deliberation. ‘Max, take Mr Jones to where he can see the computer. You –' he turned me – ‘come over here and type.'

The Jongleur started to drag me from the chair, but I pulled away. The secret pact with Dad had given me strength. I walked unsteadily to the desk and stood in front of it. This was where I'd tried to call Mum. I pushed her out of my head.

Max forced Dad to kneel to my left, at the end of the desk, and stood over him with the pistol, while on my right, Mr
Wahool turned the laptop to face us and pressed a key. The screen came to life. It was already open on a page of a banking website, full of names and numbers. I stared at them and forced myself to concentrate. They looked as though they might be different bank accounts.

‘And now,' Wahool said blandly, ‘give me my money.'

‘Peta, click on the third line down,' Dad instructed. His voice was perfectly calm – the epic calm that I really needed right now.

On the web page, the third line down had the most digits in the numbers column. I blinked and checked them out. $114,617,933. The lines above it had over $50,000,000 each. And there were others too. I clicked on line three, as Dad instructed. The website asked for a password.

‘I need that,' Dad said grimly to Wahool. ‘I can't disable anything until I get into that account.'

‘You're lying,' Wahool sneered.

‘Of course I'm not lying. You've got my bloody daughter.'

Wahool thought for a while, then nodded to himself. He leant over me, opened a file on the computer, found the password and entered it. Now the screen flickered and a new page showed details of transactions – or rather, one transaction: $114,617,933 paid in two days ago. The words ‘ACCOUNT FROZEN' appeared in red at the top.

‘Click on that message, love,' Dad said to me. I did, and a new page came up, with the Colombo Foundation's bird image showing faintly in one corner, asking for another password.

‘And now?' Mr Wahool said with icy fake politeness. ‘This is your work, I believe. Can I have my money? Please?'

Dad sighed. ‘Do I have your word you'll let Peta go?'

Mr Wahool nodded. ‘You have my word.'

Of course you don't, Dad.

‘Thank you. I gave Peta the password. That's why she was in the notebook.' Dad looked across at me. ‘I'm so, so sorry, love,' he said. ‘It's over. But if you help them, they'll spare you.'