They drove through Switzerland and into Italy. Long periods of mind-numbing tedium spent tailing the lorry were interspersed with brief moments of anxiety whenever Kowlowski stopped for a break; Holm and Javed had to do their own ablutions in those breaks, aware Kowlowski could move on at any moment.
They passed Florence, still headed south, and as night fell they were on the outskirts of Naples.
‘It figures,’ Holm said. ‘This is the perfect place to pick up a couple of terrorists who’ve made the crossing from North Africa. There are ISIS training camps aplenty over there.’
‘Yes, but why don’t they rendezvous with the container in the Netherlands?’ Javed shook his head. ‘All Kowlowski has to do is stop in a lay-by somewhere outside Rotterdam and meet them there. They don’t need all this subterfuge.’
Holm took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at Javed. He hoped the lad wasn’t right because if he was they’d just driven over a thousand miles for nothing.
‘Look, boss.’ Javed pointed ahead. ‘We’re here.’
The indicator lights on the truck flashed yellow and a sign above the motorway showed the route to the port off to the right. Holm merged onto the exit slip, keeping a few vehicles between their own and the truck.
Twenty minutes later the truck rolled into the port. Kowlowski stopped at a barrier, produced his papers and was let through.
‘We could show them our ID,’ Javed said. ‘Stress the need to cooperate across borders.’
‘We could,’ Holm said. ‘But we won’t. I don’t trust the Italians.’
‘Cosa Nostra and all that?’
‘Whether or not the Mafia have their dirty fingers round the neck of the port authorities or not is irrelevant. I simply I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.’ Holm pointed at Javed’s phone. ‘Now stop wittering and make sure we don’t lose him.’
After half an hour of negotiating some ill-lit and very dodgy backstreets, they managed to park outside the port but alongside a fence close to a quay. The truck had pulled up on the quayside beneath a set of floodlights and they watched as a forklift unloaded a number of crates from the container.
‘Volvo Penta,’ Javed said, lowering a pair of binoculars from his eyes. ‘Marine engine parts, like the guy said.’
‘A cover story, you’ll see.’
‘You mean there’s something else in those crates?’
‘No. They probably do contain engine spares. It’s what’s coming back to the UK we’re interested in, remember?’
‘There’s something else written on the crates.’ Javed shifted his position and refocused. ‘It says MV Angelo.’
‘Motor vessel Angelo. Right.’ Holm climbed out of the car. This part of the port was away from the container ships and the general cargo. The quayside was clean and tidy and a number of expensive-looking white fenders were stacked in a pile near an empty berth. He took out his phone and held it up. ‘Stay in touch.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a wander. Sit tight.’
Holm walked along the fence, trying to appear as if he was simply a lost tourist wandering in the dark. A hundred metres farther on a little cafe sat sandwiched between two derelict warehouses. A table and a couple of chairs had been arranged outside on the narrow pavement and an A-board sign was adorned with a scrawl of chalk and the name of the cafe at the top: Luigi’s. Light shone from inside where there were three more tables and a long counter. The wall behind the counter was adorned with football posters and press cuttings, some of the posters going back decades. Holm strolled in. There was a little handbell by a plate of pastries. He picked up the bell and gave it a shake. Moments later a man entered through a back door. He wore an apron, the white material curving over a substantial stomach. A round face mirrored the stomach, while the top of the man’s head wore a dusting of grey hair shaved razor close. Luigi, Holm assumed.
‘Could I have a coffee?’ Holm spoke slowly in English. ‘A cappuccino?’
‘Si, si. Un momento.’ Luigi turned to an ancient-looking machine and began to prepare the drink. ‘English, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Manchester?’
‘No, London.’
‘Ah, Arsenal, Chelsea, Tottenham Hotspur.’
Holm wasn’t much interested in football, but his father had taken him along to Millwall when he’d been a kid. He doubted the owner would have heard of the team.
‘Napoli,’ Holm said. He spotted the front page of an old newspaper stuck on the back wall. ‘The UEFA Cup in ’89, yes?’
Luigi turned, a broad smile on his face. ‘You know about that? All the way up there in England?’
‘Of course.’ Holm nodded. He took another glance at the headlines on the paper. ‘You beat Stuttgart. Maradona scored a penalty.’ He paused for a moment and pulled out some euros. He spread the coins on the counter. ‘How much?’
Luigi shook his head, his expression almost dreamlike. ‘For you, my friend, it is gratis.’
‘Thank you.’ Holm glanced round the cafe. The place was empty. ‘Quiet, yes?’
‘Not always like this. It’s busy in the day, but I like to keep open all hours. Gives me something to do.’
‘I’m glad.’ Holm paused. ‘I was wondering about the boat.’
‘The boat?’
‘This Angelo.’ Holm turned and gestured outside towards the dock. ‘Where is she?’
‘Not good.’ Luigi scowled and shook his head. ‘It is not right.’
‘I don’t understand. What isn’t right?’
‘You don’t know about this boat, this so-called Angelo del Mediterraneo?’
‘No.’
‘Pah.’ For a moment it looked as if Luigi might spit on the floor. His mood had changed. ‘She’s a rich man’s plaything. A superyacht. But I can tell you she’s no angel, she brings immigrants. Hundreds of them.’
‘From where?’
‘From out there on the sea. They set out in little boats and wait to be rescued. The Angelo comes along, picks them up and brings them here. I don’t like it. We don’t like it. There are too many. They’re leeches. They’re coming to steal our jobs and to rape our women.’
‘I see.’ Holm peered down into his coffee cup. All of a sudden the drink tasted bitter. ‘Where is she now, the Angelo?’
‘Out there somewhere. She came in last week. You should have seen them. The women with their heads covered, the men with that look in their eyes. They’re not clean, I can smell them from here, I wish—’
Holm didn’t wait to hear what Luigi wished for. He took out the coins again and threw several onto the counter. As he reached the door Luigi had switched to Italian and Holm didn’t have to hear any more.
As he walked back to the car he recalled the stories he’d read about refugees crossing the Med. They attempted the journey in small rubber boats that were entirely unsuited to an open sea voyage. With fifty or a hundred people in each craft they were often found in a pitiless state. If, that is, they were found at all. The boats easily capsized and over the last few years thousands of refugees had drowned.
He reached the car and leaned in the passenger window. Javed had reclined the front seat and lay dozing.
‘Wake up,’ Holm said. ‘Get out that app of yours that tracks nautical traffic and see where our missing vessel is. She’s called the Angelo del Mediterraneo.’
‘Huh?’ Javed blinked and screwed his eyes up for a second. He put the seat back upright and looked past Holm and pointed to the dock. ‘No need, boss.’
Holm turned round. A huge white motor boat loomed at the end of the slip, deck lights ablaze, crew members at the rails. She eased forward, water churning around her. On the dockside several port workers appeared and ropes were thrown from the boat and made fast. A gangway was towed into position and crew members began to come ashore. As they did there was a splash of blue light as three police cars approached along the dock. The vehicles stopped and police officers and customs officials got out. To one side there was a small temporary building and the customs officers disappeared inside. Then the passengers began to disembark, some helped because they could barely walk, one carried on a stretcher, a woman with a baby which Holm reckoned could only be a couple of days old.
‘Look at the state of them,’ Javed said. ‘They’re half dead.’
Aside from the medical emergency on the stretcher, the others were shepherded into a long line and, one by one, taken into the makeshift customs checkpoint.
‘Your theory’s pretty much out the window,’ Javed said. ‘There’s no smuggling going on here, is there?’
‘No.’ Holm wondered how he would explain the situation to the Spider. He’d intended to tell her their search for Nazi memorabilia had chanced on a terrorist smuggling operation. To come back with absolutely nothing was asking for trouble, and to say she wouldn’t be happy was a vast underestimation of her probable mood when she discovered they’d been on a wild goose chase.
‘You can’t win them all, boss.’ Javed smiled. ‘And at least we get to have a decent Italian meal tonight.’
‘Bollocks,’ Holm said.
The clock on the wall ticked slowly towards ten. Each minute dragged and yet the time slipped away all too quickly. On the terrace the party guests conversed as if they were in a silent movie, but there were no subtitles and Silva could only imagine the words as she hunched over one of the spotting scopes.
I haven’t seen you for ages, Karen. How’s life?
Good but hectic. So much to do before the end of the year.
Like killing journalists so they don’t ruin your chances of getting elected?
Oh, gosh! That was nothing, a minor hiccup, soon dealt with. Another drink?
‘Rebecca?’ Itchy nodded at the clock. ‘Five to. We should get ready.’
Silva nodded and moved to the rifle and eased herself down to the floor. She flexed her fingers and wrapped her hands round the weapon. She began breathing in and out slowly, relaxing herself, and making a rhythm she could work between. She would fire just after an exhale, when her chest had stopped moving and her body still had high oxygen levels.
‘No rush,’ Itchy said. ‘Once the display starts you’ll have ten minutes, so take your time getting comfortable.’
Silva lowered her head to the sight and peered through. Karen Hope stood to one side of the terrace with her brother slightly in front of her. The old man with the glasses hovered near a stone wall at the edge, while a teenage girl filmed the action on the water with a phone. Then a man stepped over to Karen. He wore a red and white checked headcloth and had a thick moustache. Alongside him stood a woman in her mid-thirties and a young girl of nineteen or twenty. Both wore loose hijabs, but the younger woman kept her eyes down, demure, subservient.
‘It’s Jawad al Haddad.’ Gavin strode across to the monitor and peered at the screen. ‘We weren’t expecting him.’
‘Does it change anything?’ Silva said.
‘No.’
‘Who are the women?’
‘His wives, Lashirah and Deema.’
‘Wives?’
‘Lashirah is a minor member of the royal family, a real princess. Deema – the young girl – is Haddad’s brother’s wife. The brother died and, as is the custom, Haddad stepped in.’
‘I bet he did.’
‘Here we go,’ Itchy said as a whoosh came from out on the water. A firework climbed into the sky, a solitary missile leaving behind a white trail and bursting into a succession of stars, each of the stars themselves exploding until the sky was filled with glittering flame. The display had begun.
Other people moved out onto the terrace. More of the Hope family’s friends and acquaintances. Silva recognised the actress she’d seen at the gallery opening in London and there was a man she thought might have been an Italian politician. Their faces were lit up as the sky above turned red, blue and green. Bang after bang. Fizz after fizz. Rockets soared into the sky and cascades of fire poured down.
The crowd of people shifted to the edge of the terrace for a better view, but in doing so they obscured Silva’s own view of Karen Hope. She was now only visible intermittently behind the heads and shoulders of the guests.
‘You seeing this, Itchy?’ Silva said.
‘Patience. Plenty of time.’
Silva blinked. She kept the rifle steady. No point in chasing Hope back and forth until there was a chance of a clean shot.
A cough came from behind her. Gavin. ‘Don’t worry, these people get bored easily. In a couple of minutes they’ll drift back inside looking for another drink. They’re more interested in networking and gossip than a few fireworks.’
‘Right. But what about Hope?’
‘The Hopes will stay out and watch to the end. It’s a tradition. You’ll see.’
Gavin was correct; after a minute or two several of the guests turned and slipped away. And then there was Karen Hope, her face lifted to the sky as she followed each wave of fireworks with an ‘ooh’ or an ‘aah’. Silva shifted slightly and allowed her finger to hover near the trigger. Brandon was slightly off to the left of centre, the crosshairs of the scope pointing at thin air, Karen Hope to the right. Silva waited. She would let Karen Hope walk into the line of fire. Hope moved a little to the left, the crosshairs now brushing her shoulder.
‘Oh fuck!’ Itchy moved beside her. ‘Hold your fire.’
‘What’s up?’ Gavin said.
‘Do you see him, Silva? The boy?’
‘What…?’ Silva pulled her head back for a moment. Itchy had his eyes to the spotting scope, his arm flailing in the air. She bent to the rifle again and saw him. A boy of two or three. Karen Hope had picked the young lad up so the kid could get a better view of the firework display. ‘I thought Karen didn’t have children?’
‘She doesn’t, it’s Bandon’s son, Karen’s nephew!’ Gavin shouted. ‘Just take the fucking shot. You’re running out of time.’
The way Hope held the boy meant a chest shot was now impossible. And the boy had pressed his cheek against his aunt’s face, staring with her out over the water at the fireworks. Silva shifted a fraction, moving the reticle up to target Hope’s head. Her finger slipped onto the trigger as the crosshairs jumped, the boy’s face now right in the centre. Her body tensed at the same time as a muscle in her right hand twitched.
‘Steady.’ Itchy’s voice came soft and low. ‘The bullet will take well over a second to get to the terrace. If Hope moves in that second, you’ll hit the boy.’
‘Damn it.’ Silva made a tiny adjustment and centred Hope’s face once more. She drew in a breath and held it. She just needed to concentrate.
‘The display will be over in the next couple of minutes.’ Gavin loomed behind her. ‘You have to take the shot now.’
‘Not a good time to talk, mate,’ Itchy said. ‘Keep schtum.’
Silva focused again. Blinked. Her finger curled towards the trigger but didn’t touch it. She could hear a pulse of blood in her ears, realised she needed to breathe, realised she was shaking.
‘The boy,’ she said, letting out a puff of air. ‘I can’t.’
She moved her right hand from the stock. She kept her eye to the scope, but the situation was now hopeless. Lashirah – Haddad’s wife – had moved up close to Hope and she reached out and stroked the boy’s cheek. The three of them occupied the centre of the scope.
‘Shit.’ Itchy shifted. Uncomfortable. Fidgeting. ‘It gets worse.’
Itchy was correct. Two men in suits emerged onto the terrace. Silva could see one wore a black earpiece, a slender wire curling down inside the man’s jacket.
‘Secret Service,’ Itchy said. ‘Bodyguards for the future president.’
‘We’re out of here,’ Silva said. She pushed herself back from the rifle. ‘This is way too risky now.’
‘Well if you won’t take the shot, I fucking will.’
A click came from behind her.
‘Easy, Gav, easy.’ Itchy’s voice was low and steady. ‘Let’s not do anything hasty, hey?’
Silva rolled on her side. Gavin stood with his right arm outstretched, his hand wrapped round a small automatic pistol, the gunmetal glinting with every flash of the pyrotechnics.
‘Move away from the rifle.’ Gavin waved the gun. ‘You and Itchy get out on the balcony and stand to one side. If you try to stop me I’ll shoot you.’
Itchy looked at Silva. Their only weapon was the rifle but there was no way that could be used in a confined space. Silva pushed herself to her feet, stepped through the curtains and walked out onto the balcony. Itchy followed.
‘Good.’ Gavin moved forward and lowered his bulk to the floor behind the rifle. ‘Now, then…’
‘You’re crazy, mate,’ Itchy said. ‘Silva’s got an Olympic medal, years of experience, is one of the best shots in the world, and yet this is an extremely tough one, even for her. You haven’t got a fucking chance.’
‘Itchy’s right,’ Silva said. ‘I’d say the odds of hitting Karen Hope with my first shot were no better than fifty-fifty.’
‘We’ll see, I’m not a bad shot myself.’ Gavin lowered his head to the optics. He was breathing heavily, his posture tensed, and he was simply the wrong build to lie comfortably behind the rifle. ‘And if I don’t hit first time, I’ll take another, right?’
Wrong, Silva thought. The L115A3 had a five-shot magazine and she’d placed a spare mag close by. However, the rifle had a bolt action. After each shot the chamber had to be manually reset. Doing that and maintaining any sort of accuracy over a distance of over a thousand metres was difficult, even for her. For Gavin it would be impossible.
For a moment she considered rushing Gavin. She could see by Itchy’s stance he had the same idea. But Gavin had placed his handgun within easy reach and he’d be able to shoot one or both of them before they got anywhere near him.
‘Bingo! Lashirah’s taken the lad. She’s moving away.’ Gavin’s hands tightened on the rifle and a deafening crack came a moment after.
‘Christ!’ Itchy said, swinging the binoculars up to his eyes.
‘I got Hope, I’m sure I got her!’
‘Itchy?’ Silva strained her eyes to see across the water. The terrace was just a tiny blur of light. ‘Sit rep?’
‘I can’t tell. Hope’s down, but…’
‘I fucking told you!’ Gavin was pushing himself up from the rifle. ‘She’s wasted.’
‘…it doesn’t look like she’s hurt. She’s crawling across to… oh fuck!’
Silva dashed in from the balcony. She moved to the video monitor. The dim image showed Karen Hope on her hands and knees. One Secret Service agent crouched with a weapon drawn covering the water, while the second was bending over Lashirah Haddad, first placing a hand on her neck, then moving to her chest.
A succession of rockets climbed higher and higher into the sky, each exploding brighter and louder than the last. Once more a shimmering rain cascaded down and it looked for a moment as if both the sky and the sea were on fire. There was a final tremendous bang and the last firework poured golden sparks down on the still black water.
Silence. A brief smattering of cheering and applause from around the bay. And then, from far, far across the water, the sound of a young child screaming.