The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

that way: he had no desire for skinny European women who played with their food rather than ate it. And, of course, the boys burned off every calorie they consumed playing sport at school, frolicking in the pool or cycling with their friends (closely observed by security teams, of course).

He thanked the maid and went back to his office, but he’d only been in there for a few minutes before he heard voices and looked up. A different maid walked towards him with a member of security behind her. They both looked perturbed and Khalil wondered what might be upsetting them. Perhaps a beggar had tried to breach the wall again.

‘Is there a problem?’ Khalil wasn’t one to mess around or circumvent news that might not be to his taste. He dealt with problems every day of his life. Khalil read the guard’s face: it was grave. Khalil faced him squarely and waited. The man fiddled with his earpiece and avoided direct eye contact.

‘What is it? Tell me now.’ Khalil was commanding and didn’t like to waste time. If someone had something to say, they’d better just come out and say it.

‘Sir, it’s your son, Hakim. He’s been taken. He disappeared from the airport, shortly after landing in Paris.’

Khalil’s legs went weak and his heart began to race. He felt sweat above his eyes, but the room was cool. His head became a giant, heavy bubble and the security guard’s voice sounded as if he was underwater. Khalil tried to speak but found opening his mouth and moving his lips difficult. The sensation of hot searing fear lasted mere seconds and all the details of the room and what the guard was saying assaulted him like some awesome awakening. He stood in front of his desk, his hands shaking, trying to take in what he was being told.

‘Jean-Luc?’ He gasped.

‘Jean-Luc is nowhere to be found.’

Chapter 3

Ten miles outside the city of Marrakech, away from the crazy souks, the peddlers shouting in the street, the sweltering heat, exacerbated by the endless huddle of bodies pressing against one another as shopkeepers tried to steer tourists to spend their dirhams, life was more peaceful. The isolated little oasis in the desert offered succour to those who visited, in the form of grand empty spaces, luxurious pools, lavish decor and warm hospitality – if one was invited, of course. Armed guards patrolled the walls and roofs of the property, and below, specially selected officers vetted anyone hoping to get an invitation to stay. As the sun gave her last rays of the day, the temperature began to fall and an orange glow was cast across the estate. Everybody present was there upon request, though perhaps some of them might not have wanted it that way.

Fawaz bin Nabil was not in a good mood.

He sat on a low sofa next to one of the pools, leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees and his hands supporting his chin. It was a contemplative stance, but also one of displeasure. Those present had seen it before. The cleverly engineered walls and gaps afforded freedom to the breeze, but didn’t serve to soften the ambience, and the orange glow of the setting sun reflecting off pillars hand decorated with pieces of coloured glass, twinkling cheekily, did nothing to soothe him. They all waited.

Fawaz was an unassuming man by sight, shy even. He spoke quietly. Every move was deliberate. And yet he commanded the respect of those far senior in age who accompanied him, and in that capacity, he left his mark on anyone who met him. He also had a generous smile, when it suited him. At the moment, it did not.

A maid brought freshly squeezed juices, bowls of sweets, breads, dips made from aubergine and spiced with cumin, aromatic tea and pomegranate sorbet. The liquor was already out on the glass table by the pool, and the guests had been partaking now for four hours. Despite the heat of the day and the proximity of the Sahara, the shade afforded by the huge canopies alongside the gentle music wafting from the speakers – designed to calm one’s guests – was not working on Fawaz himself. The northern edge of the Sahara burned into the white walls, and during the day, the incessant heat was enough to drive a man crazy. But not here in the riad. Curtains made of silk and muslin bellowed gently, adding to the illusion of the coming night being refreshingly breezy. It wasn’t, but in surroundings such as these, one might dare to believe. Repose was easier when surrounded by luxury.

Not that Fawaz noticed it anymore. He’d grown used to the profits of his business. There was only so many houses, cars, women and gold one could buy before one became anaesthetised to its allure. For most of the time, unless there was a party and guests attending from neighbouring Marrakech, the empty pools didn’t ripple, the kitchens didn’t grill, the outside ovens stood cold, the petals in the fountains rotted and the incense in the lamps went rancid. He’d become a vessel, travelling for the sake of the movement rather than the journey. He’d always found it hard to sit still, and he stood up suddenly, compelled to move about, bringing confusion and even fear to his guests. They were all men. Sometimes, Fawaz provided girls from town, or willing tourists picked up in bars – and there were plenty of them eager to see the inside of a rich man’s palace and partake of free hospitality and drugs all night.

He visited his children elsewhere. Fawaz had got rid of his wives years ago. He’d had seven. They all lived with his various children in decent enough apartments of their choosing across Marrakech, and that was where he arranged his visits with them. Here was his own space; private and away from the prying eyes of those who wished to ensnare him. Here, he could hide away, safe in the