had lost a lot of weight and all of the muscle tone that she had gathered over the course of her career. She had worked hard to correct that. She had a set of free weights in the range downstairs and she usually began the day with an hour’s worth of exercise. Now, her arms and legs had started to assume their old litheness and her shoulders were cambered with muscle.
She dressed in a pair of loose black trousers and a plain white tee-shirt and went downstairs.
Mohammed brought her a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice and the international edition of the Times.
“Where’s Pope?”
“I think he is just rising now.”
“And Bella?”
“Gone for a run.”
Most mothers would be concerned about that in a place like Marrakech but Beatrix was not afraid at all. Isabella could handle herself.
Beatrix left the newspaper on the tiled table next to the pool and took the orange juice into the range. She looked at the rucksack that she had packed last night, pregnant with weaponry. She opened the armoury, took out another magazine of 9mm rounds and slipped it into the bag. She zipped it up again and hauled it out into the courtyard.
Isabella had just closed the door to the street. She was wearing a tee-shirt and shorts and the new Nike running shoes that they had bought together the previous week. She was sweating lightly, fronds of her blonde hair stuck to her forehead.
“Hello mum.”
“Good run?”
“Five miles. It’s getting easier.”
“Then do ten.”
She looked at the rucksack next to the pool. “Where are you going?”
She sat down next to her daughter. “I have to make a quick trip.”
Isabella was a tough child, her peripatetic childhood had guaranteed that, and she had become skilled at hiding her emotions. But she was unable to disguise the panic that crossed her face. “How long for?”
“Just a few days.”
“You’re coming back?”
“Of course I’m coming back.”
“Promise?”
“I promise, Bella.”
She looked at the rucksack again. She knew very well what must be inside. “Have you found one of them?”
“I have. That’s what Mr. Pope came to tell me.”
“Who?”
“Joyce.”
“Where is he?”
“In Somalia. I’m flying to Kenya with Mr. Pope, then I’m going to drive across the border.”
“And you’re going to kill him?”
Beatrix nodded.
“Good,” Isabella said.
“Mohammed and Fatima will be here with you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will, but I want you to listen to them and do what they say. Do you understand?” She nodded. “And I want you to keep training. You can shoot as much as you want to now. Mohammed will help you if you have any problems. You need to work on your accuracy. By the time I get back I want you to be putting one out of every three shots into the middle of the target. And next week, we’ll make it one out of every two.”
“When can I try the automatics?”
“When I get back, baby doll” she smiled. “They’re noisy. We’ll need to go out into the desert for that.”
Isabella nodded, swallowed down sudden emotion, and stepped into Beatrix’s embrace. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, snuffling a little. Beatrix cupped her hand around the back of her neck and held her there for a moment. She saw Pope descending the steps from his room on the second floor and she disengaged, kissing Isabella on the top of her head and stepping away.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
“I love you, too.”
MOHAMMED CARRIED her rucksack through the alleyways to the street where he had parked the car and loaded it into the back. Pope had already left for the airport to make the arrangements. Beatrix told him she would meet him there later. Beatrix got into the car and Mohammed drove them through the town to the Palmeraie, the expensive enclave on the northern outskirts of the town. The surgery overlooked the immaculate greens of the Palmeraie Golf Palace, banks of sprinklers cascading water onto them in
She dressed in a pair of loose black trousers and a plain white tee-shirt and went downstairs.
Mohammed brought her a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice and the international edition of the Times.
“Where’s Pope?”
“I think he is just rising now.”
“And Bella?”
“Gone for a run.”
Most mothers would be concerned about that in a place like Marrakech but Beatrix was not afraid at all. Isabella could handle herself.
Beatrix left the newspaper on the tiled table next to the pool and took the orange juice into the range. She looked at the rucksack that she had packed last night, pregnant with weaponry. She opened the armoury, took out another magazine of 9mm rounds and slipped it into the bag. She zipped it up again and hauled it out into the courtyard.
Isabella had just closed the door to the street. She was wearing a tee-shirt and shorts and the new Nike running shoes that they had bought together the previous week. She was sweating lightly, fronds of her blonde hair stuck to her forehead.
“Hello mum.”
“Good run?”
“Five miles. It’s getting easier.”
“Then do ten.”
She looked at the rucksack next to the pool. “Where are you going?”
She sat down next to her daughter. “I have to make a quick trip.”
Isabella was a tough child, her peripatetic childhood had guaranteed that, and she had become skilled at hiding her emotions. But she was unable to disguise the panic that crossed her face. “How long for?”
“Just a few days.”
“You’re coming back?”
“Of course I’m coming back.”
“Promise?”
“I promise, Bella.”
She looked at the rucksack again. She knew very well what must be inside. “Have you found one of them?”
“I have. That’s what Mr. Pope came to tell me.”
“Who?”
“Joyce.”
“Where is he?”
“In Somalia. I’m flying to Kenya with Mr. Pope, then I’m going to drive across the border.”
“And you’re going to kill him?”
Beatrix nodded.
“Good,” Isabella said.
“Mohammed and Fatima will be here with you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will, but I want you to listen to them and do what they say. Do you understand?” She nodded. “And I want you to keep training. You can shoot as much as you want to now. Mohammed will help you if you have any problems. You need to work on your accuracy. By the time I get back I want you to be putting one out of every three shots into the middle of the target. And next week, we’ll make it one out of every two.”
“When can I try the automatics?”
“When I get back, baby doll” she smiled. “They’re noisy. We’ll need to go out into the desert for that.”
Isabella nodded, swallowed down sudden emotion, and stepped into Beatrix’s embrace. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, snuffling a little. Beatrix cupped her hand around the back of her neck and held her there for a moment. She saw Pope descending the steps from his room on the second floor and she disengaged, kissing Isabella on the top of her head and stepping away.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
“I love you, too.”
MOHAMMED CARRIED her rucksack through the alleyways to the street where he had parked the car and loaded it into the back. Pope had already left for the airport to make the arrangements. Beatrix told him she would meet him there later. Beatrix got into the car and Mohammed drove them through the town to the Palmeraie, the expensive enclave on the northern outskirts of the town. The surgery overlooked the immaculate greens of the Palmeraie Golf Palace, banks of sprinklers cascading water onto them in
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