Ransom (Gabriel Allon #27)

1 Ibiza

Ibiza

Most years it was Phoebe Chadwick who got the ball rolling, usually in late January, when the weather was at its gloomiest

and the streetlamp outside the window of her Bloomsbury office burned for days on end without a break. Phoebe was a senior

project coordinator for a respected but perpetually underfunded international relief organization. Her work, while rewarding,

left her forever short of financial resources herself. Her three closest friends all had piles of money. Sophie Maxwell worked

for a Magic Circle law firm, and Ella Burns did something dubious in the City. Beautiful Alice Winter got her money the old-fashioned

way. Alice had married it.

It was not the way they had planned it when they were at Cambridge. Back then, when they were afire with youthful zeal, they

swore they would avoid the trappings of wealth and material comfort. They were going to put their costly educations to good

use, help others, make a difference. Only Phoebe, after earning a prestigious first in global economics, had lived up to her

word. Sophie had planned to be a human rights lawyer but ended up looking after the interests of corporations instead, including

Ella’s appalling bank. And Alice? She was going to be a crusading journalist, perhaps write a novel or two, but all that changed

when she met Edward. Now she was a boldface name in Tatler. The it girl.

They had taken another vow before leaving Cambridge, that every summer they would spend a week together somewhere delightful with no spouses or offspring or significant others present, just the four of them.

That promise they had somehow managed to keep, though it was Phoebe who inevitably saw to the planning.

She shouldered this burden with the blessing of the others.

If she could organize an airlift of food and medicine into Darfur, they reckoned, she could arrange something as ordinary as a weeklong stay in the South of France.

They had holidayed there twice, first in Saint-Tropez, then, two summers later, in the Luberon, in the same yellow villa where

they had filmed that movie. They had done Venice and Tuscany, of course, and no fewer than three Greek islands. Looking for

a change of pace, they had spent a week cycling across Switzerland, a dreadful mistake. Patagonia had been spectacular but

exhausting, the yoga retreat in the Himalayas an unmitigated disaster. So disastrous, in fact, that Phoebe feared the trip

might be their last. This year had to be perfect; otherwise they might drift apart. Alice was already floating away, held

aloft by Edward’s billions. Text messages went unanswered for days, phone calls went straight to voicemail. Even Ella, who

was closest to Alice, sometimes had trouble reaching her. Phoebe had all but given up trying.

Her work intruded—an outbreak of severe famine in the Central African Republic—and it was officially spring before she had a spare moment to think about the trip.

After considering and rejecting several options, she settled on Iceland.

Yes, it was cold there in June, but there were glaciers and volcanoes to explore, and the spa at the Blue Lagoon was to die for, or so Phoebe had been reliably informed.

She made preliminary inquiries, drafted a proposed itinerary, and forwarded it to the others in a group text.

Sophie was game, but Ella groaned. The ever-delinquent Alice waited ten long days before responding.

She did so with a call to Phoebe’s mobile. Her voice sounded postcoital.

“Sorry, darling Phoebe, but I’m afraid dreary Iceland simply won’t do. We’re going somewhere very warm and obscenely glamorous.

But don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Pheebs, that this year’s trip is on me.”

“I can’t possibly allow you to pay for my holiday.”

“Trust me, I’m not.”

Alice refused to divulge their destination or offer any description beyond her original very warm and obscenely glamorous.

Phoebe packed accordingly and, as instructed, presented herself at the London City Airport Jet Center at 4:00 p.m. on the second Friday of June.

Accompanied by Sophie and Ella, she boarded a waiting Bombardier Challenger 605. Alice was

seated in the passenger cabin, one golden leg crossed suggestively over the other. She looked as though she were returning

from a holiday rather than embarking on one.

“Where are you taking us?” asked Phoebe as she accepted a glass of champagne from the cabin attendant.

“Definitely not Iceland,” replied Alice. “Good heavens, Pheebs! What on earth were you thinking?”

Their destination turned out to be a Bond-villain fortress of glass and stone perched atop a cliff on the northern coast of Ibiza.

There were six bedrooms, three adjoining sitting rooms, a media room, a game room, a hotel-style fitness center and spa, and a staff of four, including a chef from one of the hottest restaurants in Paris.

At the base of the cliff, reached by a treacherous footpath, was a rocky cove with water the color of lapis lazuli.

Evidently the cove had a name—Cala something or other.

When spoken by Alice it sounded like the most exotic place in the world.

Their schedule, to the extent they had one, revolved around the consumption of food and alcohol. Lunches were lengthy wine-soaked

affairs served on the shaded terrace. They passed the late afternoons poolside or dozing in their rooms—Phoebe’s was the size

of her flat in Notting Hill—and at half past nine each evening they drove to dinner in an open-top Mercedes Cabriolet. Alice

always paid the bill with that flashy black credit card of hers. Then she would drag them to a nightclub for a few hours of

ear-shattering music and dancing. Inevitably they would run into a member of her crowd from London. She posted selfies on

her many social media feeds. Her legion of followers swooned with envy.

By Tuesday morning Phoebe needed a vacation from her vacation—and perhaps from Alice as well. She slept late, then logged

on to the villa’s Wi-Fi network and returned a few emails. It was approaching one in the afternoon by the time she went in

search of the others. Sophie and Ella were waging war on the red clay tennis court. Alice was stretched topless on the sunbaked

tiles at the edge of the pool, one foot dangling in the water, so beautiful she scarcely looked real.

Phoebe sat down on a chaise longue and drew a book from her bag. Alice stirred, took note of Phoebe’s presence, and closed

her eyes again. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Your breasts, if you must know.”

“Lovely, aren’t they?”

“Scrumptious.”

“They can be yours for twenty-five thousand quid.”

“I dare you to post a photo of them online.”

“Tempting, but Edward might not approve.” Alice turned onto her stomach as though suddenly self-conscious and raised a hand to her brow. “What are you reading?”

Phoebe showed her the cover. It was an old P. D. James mystery.

“The killer is Julius Court,” said Alice. “Apparently he was in business with some rather awful people from Marseilles. Heroin,

I believe. He leaps to his death from the cliff near Toynton Grange after shooting Dalgliesh in the shoulder.”

Phoebe set aside the book with a sigh. “When are you going to write yours?”

“My novel? I haven’t a spare minute,” replied Alice without a trace of irony. “Besides, what would I write about?”

“A girl named Alice Winter.”

“Who would want to read a book about me?”

“Everyone, I imagine.”

She rolled those liquid blue eyes of hers. “It can be a crashing bore, you know.”

“The Royal Enclosure at Ascot?”

“All of it, Pheebs. It’s the same bloody crowd night after night with a slightly different seating arrangement. Your life

is far more interesting than mine.” Lowering her voice, she added, “All you need now is a husband.”

“Are we going to have this conversation again?”

“You’ll be forty soon.”

“I realize that.”

Phoebe was the oldest of the foursome and thus would be the first to cross the dreaded threshold.

She was also the only one yet to wed. Sophie and Ella were married to equally successful men and both had the requisite two children, though Ella was carrying on a torrid affair with a man from a rival bank.

Alice had Edward, of course, but they were childless.

At moments like this, Phoebe thought it was for the best. Alice would make a terrible mother.

“Are you still seeing what’s-his-name?” she asked drowsily.

“Jean-Marc?” He was a doctor from Médecins Sans Frontières whom Phoebe had met in Sierra Leone. For two years they had been

involved in an on-again, off-again relationship. Phoebe informed Alice that she and Jean-Marc were currently off-again.

“Perhaps I can introduce you to someone.”

“I doubt any of your posh friends would have much interest in someone like me.”

“It wouldn’t hurt if you occasionally tried to enjoy yourself.” Alice trailed a fingertip over the surface of the pool. “Incredible,

isn’t it?”

“This house?”

“It’s a finca, Pheebs.”

“It must have cost a fortune.”

“Must’ve,” agreed Alice, and rolled onto her back. Phoebe read her P. D. James novel for a few minutes more but soon lost

interest. Alice had spoiled the ending.

Phoebe had read not long ago that “The Second Coming” was the twentieth century’s most frequently quoted poem, especially the bit about things falling apart.

Yeats had been writing about a world in crisis, an approaching age of disorder, but Phoebe thought his prophetic words could be applied to long-standing friendships as well.

Eventually the center cannot hold. Sooner or later some revelation is at hand.

For Phoebe it occurred that evening when she attempted to pay the check at a pricey beachside restaurant on the eastern side of the island.

Alice, who had drunk more wine than usual, placed her black credit card on the tray with a crooked smirk and said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Pheebs.

” Then she extended an arm and snapped a selfie.

The flash of the phone’s camera was like a lightning strike.

Ordinarily Phoebe overlooked Alice’s childish social media habit, but not tonight. She too had drunk an extra glass of albarino

with dinner. The time had come for an intervention.

“Must you always do that?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t understand, Pheebs.”

“Who would?”

“It’s about personal branding.”

“Sounds painful.”

Alice’s gaze was as pitiless as the sun. “Fuck you, Pheebs.”

Things went from bad to worse later that evening at a nightclub appropriately called Precipice. Phoebe declared it atrocious,

and Alice predictably took offense. What followed was their worst quarrel since the night Phoebe had nearly pushed Alice off

the Magdalen Bridge. The row intensified during the drive back to the villa and concluded with slammed bedroom doors and a

final exchange of vulgarities. Sophie the lawyer attempted to negotiate a settlement, but Ella, perhaps sensing a break was

inevitable, kept to a safe distance. Phoebe had no doubt that Ella had already chosen sides.

Morning brought a brief truce, but only because Alice left the villa to do a bit of sightseeing, or so she said.

It was early evening when she finally returned.

She brushed past Phoebe as though she were invisible and went to her room to dress for dinner.

Sophie engaged in a few minutes of shuttle diplomacy to determine whether a rapprochement was possible, but Alice made it clear she had no interest in making peace.

Phoebe defused the situation by announcing that she would be dining alone at the villa.

The chef made her coq au vin, which she consumed while reading the rest of her novel.

The perfect evening was spoiled by the photograph that appeared on Alice’s Instagram account shortly before midnight.

The caption might have read Fuck you, Pheebs.

The thought of spending another three days trapped in a villa with a resentful Alice held little appeal. One of them had to

go. Because Alice had insisted on paying for everything, Phoebe was the logical choice. She spent a final night in her luxurious

room, and in the morning, while the others were still sleeping, she took a taxi to the airport. Her flight to London departed

at midday. As the plane gained altitude over the northern coast of the island, she spotted golden Alice lying on the tiny

beach of Cala something or other. Then the plane plunged into a cloud and Alice was gone.