Taher received a call.
‘There are some loose ends,’ the voice on the end of the phone said in Arabic. ‘Rebecca da Silva and her spotter, her father, Matthew Fairchild, the journalist at the news agency.’
‘That’s a lot of loose ends,’ Taher said. ‘Sounds as if somebody has been a bit careless.’
‘Nobody has been careless, it’s simply a matter of good housekeeping. Don’t the Bedouin take their shoes off at the threshold to prevent dirt entering the tent?’
‘We do, but we also try not to step in shit in the first place.’ As soon as he’d spoken Taher wondered if he’d gone too far. He was annoyed at the way things were panning out, but he needed to keep his paymasters sweet for just a little longer. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Milligan. The journalist. We warned him but he obviously didn’t take the threat seriously. We need to deal with him as soon as possible.’
‘Neil Milligan and Francisca da Silva? People will put two and two together.’
‘If you do this right they’ll come up with nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence.’
Taher sighed. It was no good arguing. Milligan should have kept his blabber mouth closed. He knew what would happen if he told anybody about the story Francisca da Silva had been working on. Now it looked as if he hadn’t paid heed to the warnings. Was journalistic integrity really more important to the man than the safety of his wife and children?
‘And the others?’
‘For now you just worry about Milligan.’ Silence for a moment. ‘An unfortunate coincidence, OK?’
The phone went dead and Taher moved to the window and considered the problem he’d just been handed. Looking out over the city was always his first action when it came to making decisions. Up here above everything there was a clarity missing at ground level. The hustle and bustle and anarchy were replaced by silence. Chaos turned into serenity.
He thought of the violence he’d committed or helped orchestrate. Explosions, bullets ripping into flesh, vehicles ploughing into crowds. He understood the damage he’d caused and the scars he’d left behind – both physical and emotional – but that was the idea. Only by giving these people something they couldn’t forget would they begin to remember they only had themselves to blame.
Neil Milligan. Case in point. The journalist only had himself to blame for what was going to happen to him. He was a niggle in the grand scheme of things, but at the moment he’d become the most important item on Taher’s busy agenda.
He turned from the window, turned from the peace and quiet.
An unfortunate coincidence.
He nodded to himself. Yes, that’s exactly what people would say.
Kowlowski didn’t appear to be in a rush to get back to Rotterdam and the journey took a couple of days. Holm and Javed at first followed behind the truck, stopping whenever the Pole stopped, but after the destination seemed obvious they overtook the lorry and headed north as fast as possible, Holm reasoning they needed to get to Rotterdam first.
‘What if you’re wrong?’ Javed said. ‘What if they stop off en route?’
‘They won’t.’ Holm turned his head. The truck was somewhere back there, miles behind them. ‘The captain of the Angelo mentioned the UK, didn’t he? Plus we know the container keeps appearing on the manifests, and if Latif and his mate wanted to go somewhere in mainland Europe they could have done it in a car.’
They reached Rotterdam early on the second morning. The app on Javed’s phone showed the truck hadn’t reached Germany so Holm took an executive decision.
‘We’ll get a room somewhere.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and he could smell his own body odour. Always a bad sign. ‘We need a wash and a bed and some proper sleep.’
‘A room? A bed?’ Javed smirked. ‘Didn’t know you cared, boss.’
‘Two single beds. We’ll clean ourselves up and get our heads down. We should be able to manage a few hours’ kip before the lorry turns up.’
They found a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam. The receptionist looked at them a little oddly. Two men wanting a room on the spur of the moment at nine in the morning. Holm mentioned they were British police officers on a case.
‘What was that about?’ Javed said.
‘She thought we were… well… you know? I think I put her straight.’
‘Straight? I doubt it, boss.’
Holm ignored Javed. He was too tired to care what the hell the receptionist thought. He needed to sleep.
In the room Holm was pleased to see the single beds were a good distance apart. He dumped his bag in the corner, kicked off his shoes and lay down on one of the beds. The last thing he remembered was asking Javed to set an alarm and the first thing he saw when he woke was the young man leaning close.
‘What the fuck?’ Holm put up his hands. ‘Get off!’
‘It’s five p.m., boss.’ Javed stood. ‘I’ve showered and had something to eat at the cafe next door.’
‘The truck…?’ Holm sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘We haven’t missed it?’
‘Kowlowski’s just crossed the border into the Netherlands. He’ll be a couple of hours yet.’
‘When does the Excelsior depart?’
‘It’s sails this evening. They’ll start loading shortly.’
‘Good.’ Holm swung his legs off the bed but paused before standing. ‘We need flights to the UK. We need to be there before the ship arrives back in Felixstowe.’
Holm had a shower, grabbed something to eat at the cafe and then they made for the port.
Kowlowski arrived about an hour later. The Pole swung the truck in and coasted down to where containers were already being plucked from the dockside by huge cranes. Holm got out of their car and went across to the customs building.
‘You again.’ It was the same officer as before. He nodded over to a small Portakabin. ‘The toilets are over there. If you can be bothered.’
As they left the officer was speaking to a colleague and laughing, an accusing finger pointing at Javed. The story of the urinating Englishman had obviously done the rounds.
‘God knows what kind of reputation British intelligence is getting thanks to you.’ Holm shook his head. ‘Come on.’
They sauntered along the dockside down a narrow corridor of containers, trying to look like a couple of jobsworths.
‘We’re not really interested, right?’ Holm pulled the collar of his coat up against a wind that was funnelling between the stacks of containers. ‘The last thing we want to do is make ourselves any more work. We just want to tick the boxes and get on home to a cool beer and a warm woman.’
‘I might remind you that I don’t like either of those things.’
‘There. Kowlowski’s done.’ Holm glanced sideways while pretending to inspect the doors of a nearby container. At the end of the row the crane grabber had positioned itself over Kowlowski’s truck. The arms lowered and clamped themselves in place. The container soared upwards and outwards in a manoeuvre Holm found strangely balletic. ‘The stowaways are on board. Let’s go back to the hotel and book some flights from Schiphol for early tomorrow morning. With luck we’ll be in Felixstowe for breakfast.’
Javed gave Holm a smirk. ‘Not much on the menu there, boss, right?’
Thanks for reminding me, Holm thought.