They drove through the night, stopping every couple of hours to swap over. As the sky lightened in the east, they were on a motorway an hour from Florence.
‘We need to eat,’ Silva said, taking an exit to a small service station. ‘And other things.’
‘You’re growing soft.’ Itchy laughed. ‘You used to carry a funnel and a bottle in Afghanistan.’
‘Well I haven’t got either and this isn’t Afghanistan.’
The services sold coffee and a few pastries and not much else. They ordered using the smattering of Italian they’d picked up from Gavin and returned to the car where they found a police motorcyclist had parked alongside and was now peering in the driver’s window. After a short debate as to whether they should run for it, they approached the car.
‘Hello?’ Silva said.
The police officer looked up. ‘American?’
‘English. Is there a problem?’
‘Identification, please.’ The officer stepped back. His eyes flicked sideways to the cafe.
Silva tried not to panic. This was a routine stop. The officer was more interested in getting his breakfast than making an arrest.
She unlocked the car and found her fake passport. Itchy did the same. There was a folder containing driving documents in the glove compartment. The only issue was a driving licence. Silva hadn’t expected to be driving, and anyway her own genuine licence would have been useless alongside the fake passport.
The officer took a cursory look at the passports and then turned his attention to the other documents. There was a wad of material from the hire car company. Insurance, warranty, breakdown cover. He leafed through several pages and nodded before handing it all back.
‘Si. Good. Now your licence, please.’
Shit. She considered the options. Fight or flight. Either meant they would become fugitives in a foreign country. There was another alternative. Bluff.
‘Yes.’ Silva bent to the car again before recoiling and raising her hands to her face. ‘Oh no! My handbag! I must have left it at the last place we stopped.’
‘Your driving licence.’ The officer appeared not to have understood.
‘It’s in my bag.’ Silva tapped herself on the head and turned and pointed down the road. ‘It’s back there. How stupid.’
‘Where did you stop, please?’
‘Miles down the motorway. Ages ago.’ Silva scrunched her eyes up and willed tears. ‘Oh God, what are we going to do?’
‘Are you hungry?’ Itchy. He had his passport in his hand and sandwiched in the pages were several fifty-euro notes. He held the passport out to the policeman. ‘Perhaps you could just check my documents again. We can be on our way and you can get yourself a nice breakfast.’
Silva held her breath. Time seemed to stop for several seconds before the officer turned and a smile washed onto his face as his gaze alighted on the passport. He reached out and a finger and thumb closed on the notes. He pulled his hand back and the notes disappeared into a pocket.
‘Si, si. All good.’ He began to walk away but then turned and looked back. ‘Drive safe.’
The officer strolled off towards the services and Silva let out a low whistle.
‘Jesus, Itchy,’ she said. ‘That was risking it.’
‘Nah, easy.’
‘Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.’
Silva tried to keep her speed down as they drove up the motorway and half an hour later she took a turning signposted towards the airfield. They drove across flat countryside populated with vineyards. They passed through a village with nothing more than a garage and a cafe. Several old men sat drinking their morning espressos, faces like walnuts, heads turning to follow the car as if they’d never seen one before.
The airfield appeared on their right. A small terminal building was all glass and steel and a runway stretched into the distance, the concrete surface shimmering in the heat. To one side a succession of light aircraft were parked on a huge apron, while a number of maintenance hangers sat up against the boundary fence.
They slotted the car into a space in the car park, pulled out their bags and walked to the terminal.
Inside there was a single desk in the entrance foyer. Flowers and cool air. A woman with a smile walking from behind a desk to greet them.
‘Rachel and Steve, right?’ The woman was using the names on their false passports. She continued in perfect English. ‘Your aircraft arrived half an hour ago and is being prepped. If you’d like to come through to the lounge I can serve you refreshments.’
‘How—?’ Silva tried to prevent her jaw from hitting the floor.
‘Mr Fairchild informed us you would be arriving this morning. The flight plan was short notice, but we are well used to dealing with VIP customers here.’
‘VIP…?’ Itchy appeared to be equally gobsmacked as they followed the woman through to the lounge.
Several sofas faced a huge window which looked out across the runway. A small jet stood to one side, a fuel hose snaking to one wing from a bowser. Before Silva had a chance to admire the jet, a waiter approached and asked them if they would like coffee and something to eat. Silva nodded dumbly and slipped over to the sofas.
If either the waiter or the receptionist were surprised at Silva and Itchy’s somewhat dishevelled appearance, they didn’t show it.
‘The other half, hey?’ Itchy dropped into an armchair. ‘Only it isn’t the other half, is it? More like the one per cent.’
‘Your passports, please?’ The receptionist seemed to be doubling as security. ‘Only a formality.’
Silva produced her passport, Itchy the same. The inspection was cursory at best and the receptionist gave them another big smile and wished them an enjoyable onward journey.
Two coffees appeared but they’d barely started them when a steward came in through a door which led airside.
‘Rachel and Steve?’ he said, making a small bowing motion as he approached. ‘We’re ready to depart, but you can finish your coffees if you’d like.’
‘No, we’re keen to be off,’ Silva said. ‘What do you say Itch— er, Steve?’
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ Itchy said.
The steward picked up their bags. ‘If you’d come this way, please.’
They went through the door and out onto the concrete. The steward took them across to the jet. Boarding steps led up to the cabin door and, as they climbed the steps, the pilot appeared from within.
‘Mr Fairchild sends his compliments.’ The pilot ushered them into the cabin, Itchy having to stoop slightly. ‘It you take your seats we’re cleared to take off in a couple of minutes.’
The interior was tiny. Just eight seats in total arranged four either side of a narrow aisle. As Silva buckled herself in, she could see up front to the flight deck. The pilot was flicking some switches while the co-pilot read from a checklist. The steward stepped aboard and pulled the cabin door closed. He settled into a seat at one end as the engines whirred into life. Silva felt a burst of acceleration, and the plane zipped down the runway and soared into the air. The countryside fell away, vineyards and cornfields and the sparkling blue of a huge lake. The aircraft banked to the right and headed north-west. Half an hour or so later they were passing over the Alps and Silva allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The next possible issue would arise when they landed.
She needn’t have worried. The steward explained that flight and passenger details had already being filed and it was unlikely there would be any sort of check. He was right, and when they landed at Biggin Hill two hours later a car was waiting for them as they left the aircraft and they were whisked away, headed for Heathrow and the car park where they’d left their motorbikes. By mid-afternoon they were on their bikes and bound for the West Country.
They stopped for fuel at a motorway service station a little way past Bristol and bought food and drinks. They sat at a table by a window and Silva gazed out, waiting for her coffee to cool. The annual late-summer exodus to Devon and Cornwall was in full swing and the car park was rammed with tourists. Vehicles packed with luggage and jaded children. Surfboards and canoes strapped to roof racks. Everything seemed so mundane and ordinary after the turmoil of the last few days. Everything except an unusual black BMW with smoked windows that was parked alongside their motorbikes.
‘Ms da Silva!’ Simeon Weiss eased himself down into a seat alongside Itchy. He adjusted his glasses. ‘And Mr Richard Smith. This is a nice surprise.’
‘Is it?’ Silva turned. The female lackey who she’d seen before hovered close by. ‘Or is this harassment?’
‘Not at all. We were just passing.’ Weiss turned to the woman and she nodded at him. ‘But you might say this is a fortuitous meeting. You see, things have happened, Rebecca. Events, you might say. I think it would be a good idea if we had a little chat.’
‘About what?’
‘What you’ve been up to.’ Weiss cocked his head towards Itchy. ‘What you’ve both been up to.’
‘Riddles don’t do it for me, Mr Weiss.’ Silva bent to her coffee. Tried to catch Itchy’s attention. ‘Perhaps you could be more specific?’
‘The Italian Job. You know the movie? Turns out real life is similar. The crooks almost get away with the crime, but not quite.’
‘No idea what you’re on about, mate.’ Itchy coughed out the denial. ‘We’ve been on holiday in Wales.’
‘Wales?’ Weiss looked incredulous. ‘What sort of holiday destination is that?’
‘Snowdonia.’ Itchy was continuing with the alibi they’d come up with but the words were coming out as if he was reading from a script. ‘Camping.’
‘Camping?’ Weiss raised an eyebrow. ‘What, you mean tea in plastic mugs, corned beef hash and ten quid a night for one dodgy shower and a stinking toilet block?’
‘No, not on a site. Up high. Wild camping.’ Itchy was warming to the task but Silva wanted him to stop. ‘We did the Carnedds and Tryfan and—’
‘You and Ms da Silva cosying up together in little tent?’ Weiss smiled. ‘Only I thought you were married, Richard. Playing away, were you?’
‘We were practising,’ Silva said, taking over. ‘For a race.’
‘I see.’ Weiss bit his lip as if weighing the truth was a challenge. Finally he nodded. ‘So you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the Amalfi sanction?’
‘The what?’
‘There was a shooting in Italy yesterday. The wife of a businessman who was attending a party in the town of Positano.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I’m sure you are. The businessman was a high-ranking Saudi national. As you can imagine, the Saudis are not best pleased. The diplomatic fuss is considerable.’
Silva shrugged.
Weiss raised his right hand and used his forefinger to scratch the corner of his eye. ‘One interesting fact to emerge is that the bullet used was a .338 lapua magnum. I’m sure you’re familiar with that type of ammunition since it is precisely the calibre you would have fired hundreds of times yourself.’
Once more Silva kept silent. Itchy shifted his position, nervous. He tapped his fingers on the table.
‘The sniper must have been a crack shock because he… or she… was out on a boat off the coast. Hitting the target at that range while on a moving platform was quite an achievement.’ Weiss looked pointedly at Itchy’s fingers as the nails drummed out a rhythm. ‘The Italian authorities believe the attack was some sort of internal dispute among Saudi factions.’
‘There you go, then. Case closed.’
‘Not really, Ms da Silva. You see there was somebody else at the party last night. A VIP. It’s been kept out of the news for security reasons, so you won’t read about it in the papers or online.’
‘I’m not interested in celebrities. Not really my thing.’
‘Oh, this isn’t a celebrity, Ms da Silva. This person is a friend of yours.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But I haven’t told you who it is yet, so how can you be so sure?’
‘Because I don’t have many friends.’
‘I guess I can understand that.’ Weiss curled his lip. ‘Bearing in mind what happened in Afghanistan.’
Silva tensed but kept still. Weiss was trying to gall her, to provoke some sort of response. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
‘Well, I’m going to cut to the chase. The VIP was Karen Hope. Congresswoman Karen Hope. This wasn’t an internal Saudi matter at all, this was an attempt to assassinate the next US president. What do you say to that?’
‘What is there to say? I met Karen Hope once for about thirty seconds. She isn’t a friend and I can’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘Let’s stop this charade, Rebecca.’ Weiss banged the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Matthew Fairchild persuaded you that your mother had uncovered some vast conspiracy involving Karen Hope. Despite my warning you fell for his patter and agreed to go on his little mission to Italy. Unfortunately the operation went wrong and, instead of killing Karen Hope, you shot an innocent Saudi woman. I tried to tell you about Fairchild, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’ll have to suffer the consequences.’
‘I didn’t shoot anyone.’
‘I think you did.’
‘As Richard said, we were on holiday in north Wales.’
‘Camping,’ Itchy added helpfully.
‘Yes, so you claim.’ Weiss pointed out the window in the direction of the BMW and the motorbikes. ‘Where’s your tent?’
‘We didn’t use a tent, we bivvied,’ Silva said.
‘What about food? Where did you buy it?’
‘Local shops, here and there.’
‘Card payment or cash?’
‘Cash.’
‘What about restaurants?’
Silva shook her head. She knew Weiss was trying to pin her down to something he would be able to verify.
‘We didn’t eat out, our budget wouldn’t stretch to it.’
‘It’s all so, so convenient, Rebecca.’ Weiss cocked his head on one side. A smile became a grimace. ‘But it won’t wash. You’re lying, and one way or another I intend to find out the truth.’ Weiss pushed back his chair and stood. ‘You’d better come up with a more believable story because we’ll be questioning you again. Next time I can’t promise the surroundings will be quite so friendly.’
Weiss turned and walked away, his aide following. Itchy bent to his coffee and took a sip.
‘You reckon he bought it?’ he said. ‘The Wales stuff?’
‘No.’ Silva stared after Weiss as he pushed through the doors to the outside. ‘I don’t think he did.’
They pulled up outside Itchy’s place mid-afternoon. Itchy hefted his panniers from his bike.
‘Thanks,’ Silva said. ‘And I’m sorry for getting you involved in this.’
‘I’m a grown up, Silvi,’ Itchy said. ‘I knew the score before we set out. My only regret is we didn’t get Hope.’ Itchy moved towards the front door. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Go home and sleep. After that I have no idea.’
‘I’ll see you though, right? Around?’
‘Of course.’
Silva flipped her visor down and fired up the bike.
When she got back to the boatyard, Fairchild’s black Range Rover was parked up by Freddie’s office. Inside Fairchild was chatting with Freddie and the two Dobermanns lay curled at his feet.
‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild nodded to Freddie and came bounding out. He took her arm and walked down to the pontoons with her. ‘Look happy. I told Freddie I had some good news for you.’
‘You don’t though,’ Silva said.
‘Not really.’ Fairchild patted a newspaper he’d tucked under his arm. He pulled it out. Princess Dies punned the tabloid headline. ‘Lashirah Haddad is dead.’
‘Shit.’ They’d reached the pontoon and Silva had to stop and steady herself. She wondered why Weiss hadn’t told her. Perhaps he reasoned that she already knew and he could trick her, or else she’d be more likely to confess if the crime wasn’t murder. ‘This is a nightmare.’
‘The worst kind.’ Fairchild waited until Silva began to walk again. ‘The general consensus appears to be this was an attempt to take out Haddad. There’s nothing about Karen Hope and no reference to the fact the villa is owned by her brother.’
‘And where are they, the Hopes?’
‘They’ve gone to ground. No sign of them anywhere. I’m sure a few journalists’ palms have been crossed with gold so as to downplay the connections between Haddad and the Hopes. They’ll spin some story about this being a terrorist plot against the Saudis, neatly turning the tables. I wouldn’t be surprised if the regime use Lashirah’s death as an excuse to crack down on opposition groups at home.’
‘This is so wrong.’
‘Yes.’ They’d reached Silva’s little boat and Fairchild gawped at the yacht as if he couldn’t believe anyone could live on such a craft, let alone go to sea in it. ‘Your home?’
‘It suits me.’
‘I can see why it would.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘In a house you’re attached to the earth by concrete and bricks and mortar. Here you’re only tied on with the dock lines. You could flick them free and sail away.’
‘This isn’t the time for pap psychoanalysis.’ Silva stepped over the lifelines and moved to the cockpit. She slid open the hatch and descended the companionway steps, shouted back over her shoulder for Fairchild to come aboard. The boat rocked as he stepped onto the deck. He poked his head in the hatch and turned round to descend the steps.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘About Gavin.’
‘It’s a bit late for that now.’
‘Yes.’ Fairchild seemed to shrink. He looked longingly at the seats in the saloon and moved across and slumped down at the table. There was a large circular burn mark where Silva had accidentally placed a hot pan on the surface. He reached out and touched the blackened circle. ‘Do you know what would happen if Haddad found out who did this?’
‘I can only imagine.’
‘I don’t want to sound racist, but they regard life differently out there. People are stoned to death. They have their hands chopped off. They’re beheaded. Haddad will want more though. He’ll want to see somebody suffer. He’ll track down everybody connected with this and kill them. At least he’ll kill them after he’s done torturing them.’
‘It’s a bit late to be having regrets now. I’m sorry the job went wrong but it wasn’t my fault.’
‘You misunderstand. I came here to warn you. You should take precautions, perhaps go away for a while.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No.’
‘But nothing that happened in Italy can lead Haddad back here, can it?’
Fairchild didn’t answer. He touched the burn mark on the table again.
‘Hello?’
‘There’s a possibility the location of the training base might have been compromised.’
‘The lodge?’
‘Yes. I heard there were people up there yesterday. Not police, nor were they Italian.’
‘Is there a link back to you?’
‘The lodge is owned by a holding company based in Bermuda, so not directly, no. With a lot of digging Haddad might be able to find out, but that’s not the issue.’
‘So what is?’
‘Apparently there were a couple of cars and a van. They didn’t go inside the lodge but they took away bags of rubbish, among other stuff.’
‘And?’ Silva was having trouble comprehending. ‘We made sure all the military gear was kept separate. Nothing incriminating went in the bins.’
‘It’s not the rubbish they were interested in, it’s what was on the rubbish. What was on the cans of beer, the bottles of water.’ Fairchild rubbed at the burn mark as if trying to erase it. ‘I’m talking about fingerprints belonging to you and Itchy. You’ve both got convictions. I don’t think it would be too hard for Haddad to run a check, and when he does your name will come up. Rebecca da Silva. Olympic shooter. Sniper. Now that’s incriminating enough, but when Haddad mentions your name to Karen Hope the motive for the shooting will be obvious.’
‘Fuck. Do you think he’ll take this to the authorities?’
‘Put yourself in his position. Would you?’
‘No,’ Silva said quietly.
‘And, given what your mother knew, Haddad and Hope won’t want to either.’ Fairchild turned and peered through a porthole. A fishing boat was passing close by and Silva’s yacht began to bob as the wake washed against the hull. ‘They’re going to come after you, Rebecca. You have to get away from here. You are, quite literally, a sitting duck.’