The Rift Rachel Lynch (epub e ink reader .txt) 📖

the ambassador and to Palmer. She didn’t know what to say. How did she know that a bomber was about to blow up Ghani’s car and target the British ambassador? Instinct. But that was an insubstantial quantity and couldn’t be reported on or measured. She felt foolish.

‘Sir, I can only tell you that I’d been working with the ambassador in Kabul for some time. It was my sixth year in close observation and close protection. I’d made the usual connections on the ground with US personnel, embedded informers and the like. I noticed that the day Ghani was hit, his head of personal security went on holiday, which was highly irregular because he was due to attend the NATO talks in Kabul. She later turned up dead with her interpreter. My security brief for the day itself was rejected last minute by a Northern Alliance minister, who I knew had links with Pakistan in the past.’

She paused.

‘You mean, you worked it out and nobody else did?’ Sir Conrad concluded.

She was aware of Palmer shifting in his seat. It dawned on her why she might be here: Palmer had been overruled.

‘I was still too late, sir. Ghani nearly died of his wounds.’

‘But he didn’t. I want you to stay in Paris,’ the ambassador announced. ‘You’ll take over security for the summit, liaising with the US ambassador’s office here in Paris to check what they’ve done at Versailles. Meanwhile, it’s been arranged for you to have access to everything they share with Five Eyes directly. I don’t want anything missed. You did a good job here, Major Scott, and I’ve read about your background. It’s all agreed with the MOD, you’re to stay here until the summit is over.’

‘Clear, Major?’ Palmer asked.

Helen stood up. ‘Sir,’ she replied to her senior officer before turning to the ambassador. ‘I’m happy to fulfil any role you see fit, sir.’ She nodded to Sir Conrad.

‘Superb. Now, let’s have tea in the garden.’

Chapter 2

Khalil drove in through the double iron gates to his home, which opened majestically onto a long driveway adorned with palm trees and exotic bushes and plants that were all quenched by a modern irrigation system, designed to keep them watered and voluptuous to the eye. The canopy provided shade and cooler air, and Khalil lowered his windows now he was in the safety of his own estate. He loved driving with the windows down but knew that out and about in the city of Algiers, it was inviting folly. Once stopped at traffic lights or waiting in a bottleneck, it took seconds for a gun to come through the window and demand watches and other saleable booty. It happened all the time, and with the cars Khalil drove, he was a four-wheeled advertisement for wealth.

He loosened his shirt and smiled as he completed his journey and pulled up outside the main house. Its façade was bright white, with windows framed in a sandstone brick. The huge front door was made from mahogany, but Khalil didn’t go through it, but walked round the back instead to where he could slip in through one of the many rear entrances. His wife was likely out with her friends, either shopping or taking tea, and he thought he might jump in the pool before starting work. It was a joy to have it all to himself, and with the boys at school, and his eldest son, Hakim, safely back at university in Paris, Khalil was finally able to relax. He’d even sent his personal bodyguard to accompany Hakim for added peace of mind. He threw his jacket onto a chair and headed to the pool house, where he had a wardrobe full of swimming attire. He stripped off and folded his clothes neatly. He was aware of two or three of his household staff going about their daily business of tidying, washing, cleaning and laundering, but he had no cause to speak to them directly. If they crossed paths, he’d greet them politely and perhaps enquire after their families and their wellbeing, but that was it.

He dived into the deep end and came up like a great sleek dolphin, resplendent upon resurfacing for air. The water was a tonic and he swam lengths underwater. His dark skin glistened as he moved effortlessly through the water. His breath was regular and strong, and he paused after five lengths, hanging on to the side and catching his breath. He leant on the stone, dangling his legs beneath him, and looked over the city below, beyond the magnificent infinity pool. The breeze up here was balmy, and he felt at peace as he stared over the Bay of Algiers.

His thoughts turned again to his eldest son, and how he looked when he’d been told that he was returning to Paris early. Khalil’s men liaised with senior members of the Parisian police, who had their wages topped up solely for the purpose of looking out for his son. Khalil was confident that it was the right decision to send him back. Here in Algiers, one expected threats, bribery and corruption. In Europe, things were different, apart from the odd backhander. Most of the people he worked with over the other side of the Mediterranean had never seen bloodshed. They were like porcelain dolls: unsullied by pain. Here in Africa, history was pain. Struggle was blood. Progress was unjust. He didn’t want for Hakim what he, or more so his father, had endured as a young man. And he was in the fortunate position to make sure that was the case.

The War of Independence, almost sixty years ago, had provided many Algerians with new opportunities, and his father had been a shrewd man. A chance meeting with an old friend informed him of a vast swathe of abandoned land – uninhabited for a decade since the French family who owned it had disappeared in the 1950s – and suggested a business deal. Khalil’s father, being a risk taker and a man