towel around his waist in the style of a sarong and sat on the edge of the lounger, looking in the direction of the pool. Amelia appeared to be staring at him, as if trying to think of something to say, but then returned to her novel.
Kell went quickly into the room and retrieved his camera, firing off several shots with the telephoto lens tight on the scene. He had the opportunity to observe Amelia and Malot for some time and tried to reject the possibility that they were working together; surely Amelia would never allow her guard to drop to the extent of going swimming with a male colleague? Their body language was relaxed and familiar, but not overtly intimate: they did not project the heat of lovers. Amelia was attentive and oddly deferential towards him in a way that was unfamiliar to Kell, pouring Malot a glass of water from the bottle on the table, even offering him a cigarette as he walked to the edge of the water.
He began talking into a mobile phone. The dying light of the sun threw the musculature on Malot’s back into sharp relief and he was smoking the cigarette with studied cool, head tilted to one side, lips set in an ironic smile. From time to time, he would allow the hand holding the cigarette to fall to one side and run his thumb across the dark hairs of his stomach, smoke drifting against the skin. Amelia, meanwhile, had come to the end of a chapter in her paperback. She closed the book and placed it on the low plastic table beside her, nestling it between the packet of cigarettes and the litre bottle of water. Kell caught the title in the telephoto lens:
Solar
, by Ian McEwan. She then signed the bill, pulled on a hotel dressing-gown, securing it with a cord around her waist. Kell found all of this compelling to watch; her beauty had long been a source of fascination to him. Amelia put on a pair of white hotel slippers and walked towards Malot, indicating that she was going to head indoors. The Frenchman broke off from his conversation, kissed her affectionately on the cheek and pressed his wristwatch, as if making an arrangement to meet for dinner. Amelia then turned and walked in the direction of the hotel, entering through a side door less than thirty metres from Kell’s balcony. It was obvious that they were staying in separate hotels; another layer of obfuscation added by the veteran spy in order to cover her tracks. Less than a minute later, Malot strolled back to the lounger, brought his telephone conversation to an end, and stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. He removed the towel, allowed it to drop to the ground, and put on a pristine white T-shirt which he had produced from a bag. At one point, Kell thought that he caught Malot flirting with an attractive woman on the opposite side of the pool. The woman seemed to be smiling at him, but was then distracted by her young daughter and averted her gaze.
The Frenchman picked up the rest of his possessions. The bag, a book, a pair of sunglasses, the cigarettes and a bottle of suntan lotion. In the evening light he put on the sunglasses, like a matinee idol expecting to encounter a herd of paparazzi, and stepped into a pair of deck shoes. He then made his way towards the path that Kell had earlier taken to the beach.
Kell lowered the camera. He walked back into the room, threw the camera on to the bed, picked up his key and went outside into the corridor.
He was downstairs in fifteen seconds. Walking in the direction of the pool, he paused beside Amelia’s lounger, leaned over – as if to stretch a muscle – and removed the bill from the low plastic table. He stood up, placed the piece of paper in the back pocket of his trousers and continued walking in the direction of the lobby.
20
The name at the top of the bill was A.M. Farrell. The room number was 1208.
Kell went back to his room and immediately called Marquand in London.
‘I’ve found your missing girl.’
‘Tom! I knew you would do it. What’s the story?’
‘She’s
Kell went quickly into the room and retrieved his camera, firing off several shots with the telephoto lens tight on the scene. He had the opportunity to observe Amelia and Malot for some time and tried to reject the possibility that they were working together; surely Amelia would never allow her guard to drop to the extent of going swimming with a male colleague? Their body language was relaxed and familiar, but not overtly intimate: they did not project the heat of lovers. Amelia was attentive and oddly deferential towards him in a way that was unfamiliar to Kell, pouring Malot a glass of water from the bottle on the table, even offering him a cigarette as he walked to the edge of the water.
He began talking into a mobile phone. The dying light of the sun threw the musculature on Malot’s back into sharp relief and he was smoking the cigarette with studied cool, head tilted to one side, lips set in an ironic smile. From time to time, he would allow the hand holding the cigarette to fall to one side and run his thumb across the dark hairs of his stomach, smoke drifting against the skin. Amelia, meanwhile, had come to the end of a chapter in her paperback. She closed the book and placed it on the low plastic table beside her, nestling it between the packet of cigarettes and the litre bottle of water. Kell caught the title in the telephoto lens:
Solar
, by Ian McEwan. She then signed the bill, pulled on a hotel dressing-gown, securing it with a cord around her waist. Kell found all of this compelling to watch; her beauty had long been a source of fascination to him. Amelia put on a pair of white hotel slippers and walked towards Malot, indicating that she was going to head indoors. The Frenchman broke off from his conversation, kissed her affectionately on the cheek and pressed his wristwatch, as if making an arrangement to meet for dinner. Amelia then turned and walked in the direction of the hotel, entering through a side door less than thirty metres from Kell’s balcony. It was obvious that they were staying in separate hotels; another layer of obfuscation added by the veteran spy in order to cover her tracks. Less than a minute later, Malot strolled back to the lounger, brought his telephone conversation to an end, and stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. He removed the towel, allowed it to drop to the ground, and put on a pristine white T-shirt which he had produced from a bag. At one point, Kell thought that he caught Malot flirting with an attractive woman on the opposite side of the pool. The woman seemed to be smiling at him, but was then distracted by her young daughter and averted her gaze.
The Frenchman picked up the rest of his possessions. The bag, a book, a pair of sunglasses, the cigarettes and a bottle of suntan lotion. In the evening light he put on the sunglasses, like a matinee idol expecting to encounter a herd of paparazzi, and stepped into a pair of deck shoes. He then made his way towards the path that Kell had earlier taken to the beach.
Kell lowered the camera. He walked back into the room, threw the camera on to the bed, picked up his key and went outside into the corridor.
He was downstairs in fifteen seconds. Walking in the direction of the pool, he paused beside Amelia’s lounger, leaned over – as if to stretch a muscle – and removed the bill from the low plastic table. He stood up, placed the piece of paper in the back pocket of his trousers and continued walking in the direction of the lobby.
20
The name at the top of the bill was A.M. Farrell. The room number was 1208.
Kell went back to his room and immediately called Marquand in London.
‘I’ve found your missing girl.’
‘Tom! I knew you would do it. What’s the story?’
‘She’s
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