Itchy came in from the balcony. He shut the doors, closed the shutters and pulled the curtains across. Then he crossed the room and reached for the light switch.
‘You fucking idiot.’ He strode over to where Gavin stood next to Silva staring at the monitor. ‘What are you going to tell Mr Fairchild now?’
‘He told me it was important to take the shot.’ Gavin shrugged. ‘Whatever the consequences.’
Silva was trying to make sense of the image on the monitor. Lashirah Haddad lay unmoving on her back with an agent hunched over her. The Hopes and the other guests had retreated inside the villa.
‘Is she dead?’ Itchy said.
‘I don’t know,’ Silva said. ‘Looks as if she was hit somewhere in the chest. The bullet would have passed through her body. I guess it depends if it missed her heart or not.’
‘They think the shot came from the water.’ Itchy jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘Look at the way the other agent is hunkered down.’
The second man had a weapon drawn and was keeping low behind the terrace wall. The wall provided cover from somebody shooting from the sea, but their own position was at an angle to the side and higher up.
‘Small mercies.’ Gavin shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to get the job done.’
‘Well you’ve done the job now, mate.’ Itchy bent and picked up the pistol. ‘Name me one reason why I shouldn’t pop you?’
‘Put the gun away, Itchy,’ Silva said. ‘We need to work together to get out of this, OK?’
‘She’s right.’ Gavin gestured at the sniper rifle and boxes of kit. ‘We need to stick to the plan and make our getaway before the cops decide on a house-to-house.’
‘Well, we’d better hurry, then.’ Itchy moved to the balcony door and cracked it an inch. There was a percussive chop chop chop. ‘They’ve already got a helicopter up.’
‘How the—?’ Silva said.
‘Naples,’ Gavin said. ‘It’s just over the ridge. Probably no less than five minutes’ flight time.’
For a second nobody moved. Then, as one, they jumped into action. Silva began to disassemble the rifle, removing the bipod and putting the weapon in its case. Itchy was dealing with the AV equipment and other items, while Gavin sorted out the rest of the kit. Within ten minutes they had everything down in the courtyard.
‘If the police come knocking now, we’re stuffed,’ Silva said. ‘Red-handed is the word.’
‘Fingers crossed, then,’ Gavin said. He disappeared down the steps and five minutes later he had the van idling outside. ‘Come on!’
Silva and Itchy didn’t need any encouragement. They grabbed their stuff and piled it into the back of the van. The helicopter was still out there, hovering high above the sea, a searchlight picking out the motor boats and yachts. On the water a police patrol craft sped between the boats while an ever-increasing cacophony of sirens echoed through the town.
They climbed up into the van and Gavin pulled away.
‘We’ll take the back way out of here,’ he said as he turned a sharp right and then left, zigzagging up and away from the main road. ‘You’ve seen the coastal route. Even if the police don’t put a roadblock in, it’ll be gridlock as the news of the shooting spreads.’
The lane narrowed to barely the width of the van as it cut under the huge cliffs that loomed over the town. Gavin flicked the lights off so they were driving on sidelights only. To the right the terrain fell away precipitously. Somewhere down there was the main road and below that the sea. The van bounced as it hit a small bolder and for a second the steering wheel was spinning freely. Then Gavin grabbed hold and wrenched it round. Silva closed her eyes.
When she opened them the horizon lurched one way and the other before they crested a rise and were on a flat road high above the town and the sea.
‘Thank God,’ Itchy said as Gavin turned the lights back on. ‘That was worse than being in the lead vehicle on a patrol in Helmand Province.’
‘Back to the lodge?’ Silva said.
‘No.’ Gavin stared through the windscreen into the darkness. ‘I’ve got specific instructions. We’re to rendezvous with Lona near Salerno. Then we’ll drive north to Florence where there’s a private airfield.’
‘What about Brindisi?’
‘It’s way too risky coming back into the UK on a scheduled flight. This way you’ll be pre-cleared. It’s unlikely there will be anyone to check you when you land. Here.’ Gavin took one hand off the wheel and reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘This is the place. If anything should happen, get to the airfield.’
‘If anything should happen?’ Silva took the card. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘Standard procedure, isn’t it? A backup plan?’
‘Mate,’ Itchy said, ‘we wouldn’t have needed a backup plan if you’d stayed calm.’
For a moment Gavin concentrated on the road ahead. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away with the operation.’
Silva said nothing. When someone got carried away things went wrong. That’s how it worked in the army. That’s why you obeyed orders, did your bit, but no more.
It took them an hour of tortuous driving along tiny roads and tracks to get to the rendezvous point, and it was close to midnight when Gavin pulled into a lay-by behind a red sports car. He dimmed the lights on the van.
‘Lona,’ he said.
Javed expressed his disappointment when Holm said there’d be no Italian meal.
‘We’re going to sit here and watch the boat,’ Holm said. ‘After driving all this way I’m not going to give up so easily. We’ll stay all night if necessary. If Kowlowski leaves with the container, we’ll follow him.’
The refugees were processed and taken away in a couple of coaches. The police and customs officers left and several of the Angelo’s crew disembarked. An array of sodium lights bathed the empty dockside in orange.
‘This is a waste of time, boss,’ Javed said. ‘We could have been on our second bottle of Chianti by now, bellies nicely full with pasta, the prospect of some delicious gelato ahead.’
‘This isn’t a culinary tour,’ Holm said.
‘More’s the pity. Do you think old Huxtable would let us take a couple of days off? See Naples and die?’
‘If Huxtable finds out you’ve been gallivanting on taxpayers’ money, you will see Naples and die.’
‘Whatever. It would be better than going straight back to—’
‘Stop.’ Holm held up his hand and pointed at the ship. ‘Look, some more people are leaving the boat.’
The captain of the Angelo – a tall figure in a smart uniform, a cap on his head – led two men down the gangway. In the dark it was hard to make out their faces, but Holm was sure one had a full beard. They stood on the quayside and raised voices drifted in the night air. Broken English from the captain. He gestured first to one side and then the other. A shrug which said there was nothing he could do. Holm caught snippets of the conversation. There’d been a change of plan, the captain announced. Many police. Helicopters. Way too risky. The meeting was off. They’d proceed directly to the UK.
The two men stepped away from the captain and conferred for a moment before following him along the dock to where a shadow stood beneath one of the floodlights, a cigarette in his hand.
‘That’s Kowlowski,’ Javed said. ‘The truck driver.’
‘Just so,’ Holm said.
As they approached Kowlowski, the truck driver stuck out a hand and greeted the captain. He nodded towards the two men. As one of the men turned, the light from overhead swept his face.
‘Christ,’ Holm said. ‘That’s Latif. The guy from the cafe attack in Tunisia.’
‘Mohid Latif? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, of course I’m bloody sure.’
Kowlowski gestured to his lorry. The vehicle sat by a vast warehouse and it was hard to discern what was going on, but Holm heard the scrape of metal on metal.
‘They getting into the container,’ Javed said. ‘You were right. How did you know?’
‘A hunch, lad.’ Holm turned to Javed and winked. ‘And if we’d been in a restaurant eating gelato we’ve never have seen this.’
‘Are we going to stop them?’
‘On what grounds and by what authority? We have no jurisdiction here and no evidence either.’
‘So what the hell are we going to do?’
Holm nodded at the dashboard and tapped the steering wheel. ‘Drive,’ he said.
In the shadows the door of the car clicked open and a figure got out. No glamour this time, no friendly greeting. Just jeans and a jogging top and an angry glare. Lona walked across and stood by the passenger door to the van.
‘What the fuck happened?’ Lona said. ‘You’re supposed to be one of the best shots in the world.’
‘Is the woman badly hurt?’
‘Yes. As I understand it she’s in a hospital in Naples. Haddad is sending a team of doctors from Saudi. The bullet hit her in the chest close to her heart. It’s touch and go.’
‘And the boy? Is he all right?’
‘What boy?’
‘Brandon’s son.’
‘Oh, him. He’s fine,’ Lona said dismissively. ‘You, on the other hand, you’re in some serious—’
‘It wasn’t Rebecca’s fault,’ Gavin said. Despite his size and muscles he tensed as Lona turned to him. ‘I pulled the trigger. I shot Lashirah.’
‘You?’ Lona was open mouthed for a moment. ‘How this can be any more fucked up, I don’t know.’
‘Ms da Silva wouldn’t take the shot because Karen Hope was holding the boy in his arms.’
‘She wouldn’t—?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Silva said. ‘Got a problem with that?’
‘I haven’t got a problem with anything, but Hope’s still alive and that is a problem.’
‘Tactically it was wrong to take the shot. The risk was too high. If I’d hit the boy then I’d have missed my chance for good.’
‘Fuck tactics, strategically we’re stuffed. How easy do you think it will be to set up another operation now Hope’s been forewarned? She’ll be whisked away from here and her security will be tightened. We won’t stand a chance of getting close again.’
‘It doesn’t matter. We’re done.’
‘I’ll need to speak with my boss and see what he says.’
‘He can say what he likes, I said we’re done.’
‘Sure.’ Lona appeared not to have heard. She pulled out a phone. ‘I’m going to call him now. Don’t go anywhere.’
Silva looked across at Itchy as Lona walked away. He shrugged and lay back in the seat and closed his eyes. Which was exactly what she felt like doing. The adrenalin from before had gone and now there was only an emptiness in her stomach. She wanted to sleep it off and go home. Fill her postbag, walk the round and deliver some mail. Forget about Hope.
‘You two, out.’ Lona had returned. She gestured at Silva and Itchy. ‘Take my car and drive to the airfield. Gavin and I will dump the gear in the van and make our own way back to the UK. Mr Fairchild will contact you when you get there.’
Silva nodded and she and Itchy retrieved their bags from the back of the van.
‘The weapons and ammo?’ Silva said. ‘My fingerprints are all over the rifle.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure there’s no evidence left behind.’ Lona pointed at the car. ‘Now go.’
And that was it. Silva glanced back at Gavin but he could only offer a shrug. Then they were in the car, Silva climbing behind the wheel and starting up, the headlights sweeping the sky as they pulled away.
‘Fuck,’ Itchy said, punching the dash. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’