Beatrix was thinking of Isabella as she watched the girl run back to her brother, taking his hand in hers and leading him into the house. She could not remember the last time that she had cried. She had worried that the emotion had been smelted out of her by the cruelty of what had happened and then the long, lonely years of her exile.

But it hadn’t.

She felt an ache in her heart, and she brushed away a tear. She got into the car and waited for them.

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Damon Faulkner opened the back of the Freelander. Bryan Duffy was in the compartment, hog-tied with packing tape and with a hessian sack over his head. He struggled as soon as the lid was pulled up, but it was pointless. They had secured him very carefully, and there was no way he would be able to free himself.

He tried to say something, but the rag they had taped into his mouth muffled the words.

“No point in making a fuss,” Faulkner said to him. “You’re not going anywhere.”

There were four Mylar party balloons in the back with him. They said Happy Birthday in Arabic and were filled with helium. Faulkner snagged them quickly before they could rise out of reach.

“Back in a minute,” he said, slamming the door.

He had parked fifty yards away from the Manage Risk building. There was a large stretch of scrub that filled in the void between the office block and a dried-out watercourse. A wooden pole suspended the power lines that ran to the building right across the middle of it. He forced his way through low bushes and clambered up a steep incline until he was on the scrubland, and then walked so that he was directly beneath the power line. He looked up to gauge his position, moving a little to accommodate the light, hot zephyr that was blowing in off the desert.

He spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Twelve, One,” he said. “Comms check.”

Beatrix Rose’s voice came back: “One, Twelve. Signal’s an eight.”

“Also eight.”

“Copy that. Status?”

“Ready when you are.”

“Hold on,” she said. “I’m just going in.”

They had taken Duffy’s keycard. Faulkner needed to wait until she had used it to get inside.

“Do it.”

He released the first balloon. The wind caught it, jerking it away.

He released the second with the same result.

“One, Twelve. Status?”

“Hold on.”

He waited for the breeze to fade down and released the third balloon.

It jerked left, then right, and then its ascent was halted as it bounced into the electricity wires, wedging between them.

There was a fizz and a shower of sparks as the power surged and the transformers shorted out.

“Twelve, One,” he said as he walked back to the car. “Done.”

“Copy that. Good work. Power’s out.”

“I’m going back to the car.”

“Have you sorted the phone line?”