The Castle (11 page)

TWENTY-THREE

F
or a long time I didn't move. I never, ever wanted to go through that again. Every time I thought back to what had just happened, my whole body juddered with the shock. So I tried not to think about it. Instead, I thought about the dungeons, and those thoughts weren't pretty either.

It was all very well to imagine that I'd find a clever way to get past those guards, but I'd just proved that the longer I stayed in this place, the more dangerous things got – for me, for Dad, for everyone. Maybe it was time to call in people who actually knew what they were doing. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became.

Slowly, the pain in my muscles from the surge of adrenaline
died down. My brain stopped feeling quite so fried. I realised it was actually quite pleasant in this tunnel – not like the ones downstairs. It was warmer here, and much lighter. I looked around to see why. As well as sunlight from a nearby stairwell, there were shafts of light pouring in at regular intervals down the passage, so I crawled along to see where they came from.

It turned out that at this level there were little grilles set into the wall, so the servants in the tunnel could see into each room, and even hear what was going on. Perhaps that's how they'd know that someone wanted them.

The first grille I came to overlooked a home cinema (naturally: billionaire's castle). I crawled round a corner and found myself peering into a quiet, book-lined library, where golden sunlight spilled on to the carpet. Karim had said not to move, but at least in these tunnels I was safe, and I had nothing else to do. I crawled around for ages, exploring the whole ground floor. With the grilles and the light from the stairwells, it was easy not to get lost, and in my new clothes I was more protected from scratches and unidentified dried-up poo-like objects. I still managed to crawl into several spiders' webs, but after a while I got used to scraping them off my face.

As the morning wore on, the air grew heavy with heat. There was the sound of a helicopter arriving. Its whirring blades made me feel restless. I checked my watch: still more than an hour before my meeting with Karim.

Actually, there
was
something I could do. I could make that call for help. My heart beat faster at the thought of entering one of those rooms to find a phone, but if I hesitated any longer, the chance might not come again.

I crawled back towards the library, but the sound of classical music coming from inside warned me it was being
used. Never mind: I soon found another room, which was empty and quiet. Peering through the grille, I could see that it was a study, whose walls were lined in leather, like the yacht, and hung with paintings and maps. Against one wall was a large antique desk with a bank of computer and printer equipment on it – and not one, but three golden handsets. Perfect!

Holding my breath, I found the crack of light that marked the secret door, felt around until my hand found the thin rope handle . . . and pulled. The door swung open and I was through.

I paused on the thick carpet for a few moments, adjusting to the light and the gentle noises from the open window. Birdsong. The sound of sweeping from the terrace. The hiss of automatic sprinklers on the lawn. Inside, there was only the sound of my rapid breathing. The smell of leather and cigar smoke hung in the air.

I didn't have much time, so I ran over to the desk and crouched behind its heavy mass, grabbing the nearest handset as I went. The keypad was framed with diamonds. So didn't care.

Police. Call the police, Peta.
Except, I suddenly remembered that the emergency number is different in Italy. I tried 999, just in case, which didn't work, and 111, which seemed likely, but didn't either. I even tried 911, which I remembered from American TV programmes. Nothing

Stop panicking. Don't breathe so hard. Think.

I decided to call a number I knew. My first thought was Luke, but he'd be in school by now. So Mum, then. Explaining everything to her would be harder, but at least I'd hear her voice. Actually, I could hardly bear to think how much I wanted to hear her voice.

I dialled the number. Still no connection.
Really?
Then I remembered about the international code. What was the code to England from Italy? Oh, this was
ridiculous.

I spent a couple of minutes crouching behind the desk, hating myself. Really hating myself. This was the girl who couldn't even call the police on a diamond-studded golden phone. I was
that good.

Looking at the handset, it occurred to me that it might already have foreign phone numbers programmed into it. I scrolled through, looking for something promising. One of the names said ‘Eaton Square'. I checked its number, memorised the code at the beginning and tried it with Mum's mobile number. Worked first time.

OH YEAH, KIDNAPPER DUDES.

When it kicked in, that ringtone was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. It was a bit faint and tinny – but then, the signal was coming from hundreds of miles away. From home.

Pick up, Mum!
After what seemed like an age, someone finally answered.

‘Hello? Can I help you?'

A man's voice, not Mum's. Not Grandad's or Rupert's either.

‘Hello?' he repeated. His voice changed. ‘Peta? Is that you?'

I was about to tell him, when my skin prickled. It was something in the way he said my name.

Why was a stranger answering Mum's phone?

I rang off, dropping the handset like it had scalded me. For a moment, I just stared at it, shaking. However, back in the near-silence of the room, my heartbeat slowed and I started to regret being so hasty. Perhaps Mum was too upset to speak. Perhaps it was a policeman, helping out.

I stood up and put the phone back in its place, unsure whether to call again. As I considered what to do, my eye briefly fell on a painting on the wall next to the secret door. It was a series of swirling shapes in blue and yellow, and if you looked at them closely, you realised it was a woman reading a book. I squinted at the signature, painted in red and underlined, at the top.

Picasso.

I gulped. Still not used to the whole art-gallery thing.

‘And you are?'

I spun round. The study door was open and a man was standing there.

Hell. Hell.
Hell
.

He was wide, very wide, and even in this heat, when everyone else was in holiday clothes, he looked as if he was dressed for a business meeting in London. His eyes were beady and hard, and staring straight at me. Fear sang through my blood, like electricity.

‘Yes?' he persisted.

I realised I hadn't answered his question.

‘My name is Amina,' I mumbled, staring at the floor.

‘Well, get the hell out of here. We're having a meeting.'

I nodded, heading for the secret door as fast as I could, bowing and scraping as I went. Oh God. I could hardly catch my breath. Oh God. Oh hell. Oh
hell.

Two seconds later, Mr Wahool came in. ‘I apologise for the delay,' he announced. ‘I trust—'

‘One of your servants was just here,' the man interrupted. The grille muffled his voice a little, but I could still make out every word. His accent was cut-glass English – posher than Rupert's, even. ‘I thought you said we wouldn't be disturbed.'

‘We won't be. Who was it?'

‘Small girl. Aneena?'

‘I see. Amina!' Mr Wahool called. ‘Amina!'

I stayed exactly where I was, flattened against the tunnel wall, still trying to breathe.

‘She is gone,' Mr Wahool sighed after a pause. ‘We are alone now. It is good of you to come.'

‘It is good of you to offer to pay me so much money,' the man laughed. ‘Are you sure you can afford it?'

‘Of course.' Mr Wahool sounded offended.

I slumped, silently, to the tunnel floor.

‘I heard you had some problems with one of your men.'

‘You hear too much,' Mr Wahool said stiffly. ‘The money is quite safe.'

‘Good. Because that many helicopters are rather expensive. I can get the missiles for less than I said, because there's a glut at the moment, but the copters don't come cheap. And if you want them in situ, that means transports too.'

‘I know,' Mr Wahool replied. ‘It is all arranged.'

‘You've got people to fire these things? Fly them?'

‘That does not concern you.'

‘It does, actually. This kit is high-tech these days. You can't use children to operate it. Which reminds me . . .' The wide man gave a short bark of laughter. ‘I hear you've got them as well. In your guest accommodation. Is that true?'

‘As I say –' Mr Wahool sighed – ‘you hear too much. If we
do
have such people, I can assure you they are not children, they are enemies of the state. And they will not be my guests for long.'

When the wide man said ‘children', I assumed he meant Karim and Amina. But it sounded as though Mr Wahool was referring to other prisoners, and the ‘guest accommodation' was the dungeons. Ha ha.

‘Now, business,' the wide man said. ‘I've seen your list. You've seen my prices. I can do you a deal on the small arms and ammunition . . . Nice Picasso, by the way. Is that Marie-Thérèse?'

‘It is. I got her at auction last month. Delightful, isn't she?'

They talked for a while. Art and money and bullets and guns. Mr Wahool was planning something big. And expensive. And explosive. He sounded as excited by the guns and missiles as he had about the diamonds for his daughter. Eventually, he offered to continue the conversation in his wine cellar, and the wide man agreed. They walked outside.

Note to Peta: stop wandering around like some kind of visitor. You are a fugitive from a man who keeps children in ‘guest accommodation' and is BUYING MISSILES.

I sat there shaking for a while. Why wasn't I dead yet?
How
wasn't I dead yet? I kept on doing crazy things and it was a miracle I'd survived this long.

TWENTY-FOUR

T
here were still twenty minutes to go until I could meet up with Karim. As I crawled towards our meeting point, I heard the faint sound of classical music again. It was just the kind of soothing distraction I needed.

The music was violins and piano, played on CD. Lots of sweeping, emotional phrases that suited my shaky mood. Peering through the grille, I saw that the library was occupied by two people playing chess at a small table near the window. The man facing me had a sharp nose in a handsome face. Opposite him, the other player sat with his back to me, concentrating on a game. There was no mistaking his matted hair, his ragged shorts and a body so thin you could see his
bones through his shirt.

Karim?

Here I was, desperately trying to get help, nearly getting caught, nowhere closer to seeing Dad or saving him, and Karim was
playing chess
?

I watched the game, slowly boiling with anger. The older man moved a white piece. Karim moved a black one. The man touched Karim's hand before he let go of the piece, and seemed to question him. Karim laughed and changed his mind. The man nodded approvingly. And I boiled and boiled inside.

Couldn't he have given up his chess game for just one day?

When the game finished, Karim got up and turned the music off.

‘Some great moves there,' the man said. ‘You get better every week, son. Keep it up.'

‘Thank you, Mr Johnson, sir.'

‘And how's your writing coming on?'

‘It is slow, sir, but I practise when I can.'

‘Don't forget to call by the guardhouse later. Get them to give you more paper. Tell them I sent you.'

‘I will, sir.'

The man was obviously kind. How could I resent this boy spending time with the one person who was good to him? I might be desperate, but was I so selfish that I'd deny him even that?

Yes, I decided. With my father in the dungeons far below us, yes, I was.

At midday precisely, I was waiting for Karim further down the passageway, exactly where he'd left me. He greeted me with a smile of relief. I was too furious to say hello, but he
didn't seem to notice.

‘It is good to see you here,' he said. ‘You are hungry?'

I nodded reluctantly. These days, I was always hungry.

‘You need food. Perhaps that is why you look so sad. Now why are you smiling?'

Yes, I was angry, but his eternal enthusiasm was hard to resist. ‘My dad taught me that hunger makes you feel bad,' I told him. ‘Who taught you?'

He grinned and patted his flat stomach. ‘My tummy taught me! That is who! Come, let us steal some rice.'

If nothing else, he was stopping me from starving. We crawled back to the kitchens and I copied as he took a bowl from a cupboard near the tunnel entrance, sliding it into the top of a vast pot of steaming rice on one of the stoves. The rice was topped off with a spoonful of simmering vegetables. We hurried on through, clutching our bowls to our chests, until we were seated in his room at the end of the cellar passageway.

‘It is not a banquet,' he grinned, ‘but they understand that we must eat.'

When he'd finished most of his rice, he leant forward.

‘Now, we must talk. The plan for tonight, when I take you to Mr Allud . . . We must be careful.'

‘Wait – so you're still taking me?' I asked, pausing mid-mouthful.

‘Of course.' He looked surprised.

‘But I thought . . . when you wouldn't help me . . .'

Karim frowned at me, confused. ‘When?'

‘This morning. When you wouldn't show me to the dungeons.'

‘Ah!' His frown lifted. ‘This morning was a bad time. There are guards, and in the morning they are alert. In the
evening, though, they drink and play cards. Then we have a chance. You will bring the food to the prisoners with me. Amina sometimes does this, and if the guards are busy, they will not look at you too closely – only your hands, holding the dishes.'

I looked down. Next to Karim's golden fingers my pale-skinned hands seemed to glow like moons. That, more than anything, had worried me while I was laying the table outside.

‘But how can I hide them? Gloves?'

He shook his head and pointed to the bowl of mush that he'd been working on when I first saw him today.

‘Henna, to dye your skin. It is not perfect, but it will be good enough at night. I think it will be ready now.'

He reached across for the bowl and peered at it. The mush had half dried into a reddish-brown mound of goo. I remembered how carefully he had tried to prepare it this morning, not sure of what he was doing. He'd probably never had to work out how to dye pale skin before.

‘You did this . . . for me?'

‘You need it. And you will need to cover your head very much. Maybe a bigger shawl. And walk like Amina. Have you seen her walk? And—'

But I was just staring at him.

My backpack . . .

The blazer he burnt, with my school crest on it. The photograph, showing me with Dad . . .

The henna for my hands and face . . .

Ever since I had arrived, this boy had been planning, watching, waiting, keeping me safe. He wasn't scared: he was kind of awesome.

‘I bet you're very good at chess,' I said.

He looked startled. ‘I am still learning. How did you know?'

‘I watched you today. Through the grille to the library.'

‘Oh! I am sorry about that. It is my time to play chess with Mr Johnson. He is Mr Wahool's security adviser. If I had stayed with you, he would have asked why if I had not come. I—'

‘Don't worry, I get it now.'

He'd thought it all out. Planned ahead. Every detail. Maybe things weren't as hopeless as I thought.