The descent into Heathrow was bumpy, nothing but cloud swirling outside the cabin window until all of a sudden the aircraft lurched lower and west London appeared below as they lined up for the final approach.
An hour later they were on the M25 heading round the top of London in stop-start traffic.
‘No worries,’ Javed said, his fingers on the screen of his phone. ‘The Excelsior is still a good few hours out. Plenty of time.’
Holm gripped the wheel and willed the traffic to clear. Did they have plenty of time? The issue, he thought, was Huxtable. At some point he’d have to inform her, but if there really was a mole in any branch of the intelligence services then as soon as they began to formulate a plan Taher would be alerted. Holm wanted Latif, but he wanted Taher more. For now he had to keep quiet.
They’d arranged to meet Cornish at Felixstowe and she was waiting in the port car park as they pulled in some time after twelve.
‘I want you to know I’m not happy,’ she said as Holm and Javed got out of their car. ‘You just breeze in and compromise a case we’ve been working on without a moment’s thought and now this.’
‘Sorry, Billie.’ Holm held up his hands. The need to keep things under wraps just a little longer meant getting on the wrong side of Cornish once again. ‘You know how it—’
‘Yeah, right. National fucking security. Well I can tell you if anything goes down here in Suffolk, I’m holding you personally responsible.’
‘Sure.’ Holm was no longer interested in arguing. He wanted the old Cornish back. The one who had, despite being married to somebody else – a woman indeed – ignited a tiny spark in his belly, made him feel something. ‘Shall we just get on with it?’
They walked across to a four-storey office building. The top floor doubled as an observation post and comprised one large room with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree outlook.
‘We can watch from up here.’ Cornish had calmed. She indicated a number of desks. There were several pairs of binoculars and a number of workstations. On one screen was a map showing marine traffic data. Another flicked between security cameras. A third had a feed from the main gate, one side showing CCTV of the barrier and the other detailing the trucks and their drivers as they were cleared to enter or leave. ‘I’ll get some food and drink sent up.’
‘Thanks,’ Holm said.
‘She’s in the fairway.’ Javed stood over by the screen showing marine traffic. He touched the screen and a pop-up appeared next to the symbol for the boat. ‘ETA thirty minutes, it says here.’
‘You saw the container loaded in Rotterdam?’ Cornish said.
‘Yes.’ Holm walked over to Javed. The screen was awash with little symbols and at intervals of thirty seconds or so there was a flicker and each symbol moved a fraction. ‘We’re guessing at some point during the crossing the cargo was transferred to the second container. The second container was loaded here, hence when it arrives it won’t be subject to a customs check.’
‘We could flag it for inspection anyway. Run it through the X-ray scanner.’
‘No. We need to let the container go so we can track it to its end point.’
‘And what if the terrorists escape?’
Holm saw Javed look away from the screen for a moment.
‘There are no terrorists,’ Holm said flatly and without much conviction. ‘We were barking up the wrong tree. The container is full of Nazi memorabilia. The stuff fuels the right-wing nutters and might well turn a few of them into terrorists. Which is why we need to get on top of it.’
‘Crap. We both know that’s rubbish. Stephen Holm wouldn’t be chasing artefacts from the Third Reich as if this was some twisted edition of the Antiques Roadshow.’
‘I told you, I’m out of favour. Destined to do the petty little jobs nobody else wants to do until the day I draw my pension. When we were here before I thought we’d cracked something big, but it turned out to be a minor case of nasty Nazis.’
‘Right, and I’m head of the Met.’ Cornish walked across to Holm and her hand brushed his forearm. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I want you to promise me if you need help you’ll ask for it, OK?’
Holm gave a small nod of his head. Point conceded. Offer accepted.
Cornish whirled about and headed back down the stairs.
‘We should tell her the truth,’ Javed said. ‘We’re out on our own with no backup. She could come in handy.’
‘Perhaps.’ Holm moved his attention from the screen to the quayside. A huge container ship was easing away from the dock. The water frothed and boiled as the bow thrusters and the rear screw worked the vessel sideways. A series of Chinese characters were painted at the bow and Holm wondered if the ship’s destination was the Far East. All of a sudden he had a weird notion it might be rather nice to be on the proverbial slow boat. Weeks at sea, the route mapped out, no decisions to make.
Cornish returned a few minutes later with a tray laden with cups of coffee and a plate of sausage rolls. As she and Javed tucked in, Holm went over to the window.
‘You’re right, Billie,’ he said. To hell with it, he couldn’t bring himself to deceive her any longer. ‘We’re talking terrorists, but it is vitally important the information stays secret.’
‘Christ.’ Crumbs fell from Cornish’s lips and she reached for a paper napkin. ‘How many?’
‘Two, we think. One of them at least was part of the group that carried out the Tunisian attack. The one I fucked up on.’
‘But JTAC and the security services are all over this, right?’ Cornish put down her plate and joined Holm at the window. She gestured across the estuary towards the town of Harwich on the opposite bank. ‘I mean, you’ve got agents out there ready to track these people. To take them down at the appropriate time.’
Holm continued to stare out of the window. He didn’t speak. The Chinese boat had left the port and was steaming towards the open sea.
‘Stephen, it’s just you? Can you tell me why?’
‘Walls and ears, Billie. That’s why. We’ll be going to my boss as soon as we know what we’ve got. Until then I’d be grateful if you’d keep to our original story about the Nazis.’ Holm turned and smiled. ‘And yes, I’d be grateful for your help too.’
Cornish smiled back but before she could speak Javed was on his feet, binoculars raised to his eyes.
‘She’s here,’ he said. A small container ship was passing to starboard of the Chinese vessel and a pilot boat was waiting to guide her to a berth. ‘The Excelsior.’
Trap or not, they headed east, skirted London and took the motorway to Cambridge. A succession of smaller roads followed until they eventually coasted along a country lane that ended at a small copse overlooking RAF Wittering.
‘Nice one,’ Silva said, patting Itchy on the back as they parked their bikes. Itchy had worked out the route before they’d set off, finding a circuitous way in and a place to watch the airfield which wouldn’t bring them to the attention of personnel on the base. As an observation point it was near perfect. The copse sat halfway down a hill overlooking the runway. A muddy car park looked well used and a board with a map on showed a number of public footpaths criss-crossing a nature reserve. In the late afternoon the place was deserted.
Itchy took a pair of binoculars from his pannier and handed them to Silva.
‘Badger watching,’ he said. ‘Right?’
Silva nodded. She had no idea if there were any badgers about but it was a decent cover story.
They walked through the woodland until they neared the edge. They dropped to the ground and began a slow crawl. Silva pushed through a patch of brambles, the thorns scratching her face. Itchy followed.
‘I feel like a badger,’ he said. ‘I just hope I don’t come across one down here.’
No chance of that, Silva thought, as Itchy’s curses soured the still air.
At the edge of the wood they crouched behind a clump of bracken. Silva broke off a few fronds and wove them round her binoculars, but she hardly needed the optics; the runway was only a couple of hundred metres from their position and the main part of the base lay beyond that. There was an industrial estate at the top end of the runway and various military buildings sat behind a control tower. Farther away lay a small village of near-identical brick houses – accommodation for the base staff. Silva remembered similar houses from her childhood. Far from the outward appearance of sterility and blandness, the places she’d grown up in had felt welcoming and safe. A sanctuary away from what lay beyond the fences and the barriers. Nobody could hurt you while the base was patrolled by soldiers with guns. The danger came when you ventured outside into the real world.
‘Something’s going on.’ Itchy was head down, peering through the bracken. ‘Several police cars and four trucks have just driven out to one side of the runway. There’s a limo there too.’
Silva raised the binoculars. Itchy was right. The convoy had taken up a position near the base of the control tower. The day had turned gloomy, with heavy clouds overhead, and the strobing lights on the police cars swept the tower with a blue flash every second. To one side of the tower was an area of raised decking and a red carpet ran from a series of steps towards the runway. A number of soldiers in dress uniform stood near the decking.
‘What the hell is this?’ Silva said. ‘It looks like a presentation or a ceremony of some kind.’
‘The trucks,’ Itchy said. ‘Look at the trucks and the logo on those banners at the back of the stage.’
She swung the binoculars and adjusted the zoom. White letters on a background strip of red and blue, the red colour matching the carpet. Allied American Armaments. ‘The Hope family’s company.’
‘The trucks must have come from the factory in Birmingham. There’s an advanced avionics research centre there. They build surface-to-air missiles and guidance systems among other stuff.’
Birmingham was forty miles to the west so Itchy’s guess was probably right.
‘The limo.’ Silva refocused. The chauffeur had opened the door to the car and a man ducked out and straightened his jacket. ‘That’s Jonathon Walker, Secretary of State for Defence.’
‘Wouldn’t know him from Adam, but if you say so.’ Itchy tapped Silva’s shoulder. ‘I do know him though.’
A man in a pale suit had followed the minister out of the car. A pasty face, glowing blond hair, a roman nose like his sister’s.
‘Brandon Hope.’
Brandon was an awkward figure, a shambling man hardly in control of his own body. He had nothing like the presence of his sister Karen. Walker placed his arm at Brandon’s back and guided him along the red carpet to greet a couple of military personnel. A photographer was walking backwards taking pictures; beside him a woman with a video camera on her shoulder swung round to keep the men in shot as they passed.
‘This is all wrong,’ Silva said. ‘This isn’t clandestine.’
Her mother had mentioned something about secrets at RAF Wittering, but there was nothing dodgy going on here, not with all the soldiers and the truck drivers, not to mention the photographer and the camerawoman.
‘What the hell was the postcard on about, then?’
‘I don’t know.’ Silva pulled away from the binoculars and returned Itchy’s tap on the shoulder. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough. There.’
She pointed to the east where a star hung incongruously in the late afternoon sky. There was a low hum and the brightness moved lower. Now they could hear a roar and make out the silhouette of a large aircraft.
‘You’re right. Not clandestine at all,’ Itchy said. ‘Not in a jet of that size.’
The aircraft glided in. The body of the plane was windowless and a logo of a golden palm with crossed swords adorned the tail fin. A screech of rubber on tarmac came as the jet touched down and the aeroplane rolled along the runway. It turned onto a taxiway and slowed to a stop.
‘Saudia,’ Silva said. ‘The national airline of Saudi Arabia.’
Ground crew were busy moving a set of steps into position at the front of the plane and then the door opened and a man in Arab dress descended the steps.
Walker moved forward to shake the man’s hand, Brandon Hope close behind. Walker gestured to his left where there was a woman in a Royal Air Force uniform. Silva had her as the base commander. Next came an American general. An angular face and a severe haircut. Stars on his shoulders, a host of colours on his left breast. After him, a man and a woman in suits. As Walker introduced them, each received a handshake from the Saudi.
‘Who’s he?’ Itchy said.
‘No idea.’ Silva tried to remember the photos Fairchild had shown her of Haddad. In some there had been other Saudis, but she didn’t recognise the man from the plane.
As the introductions were going on, a pair of forklift trucks appeared and the tailgates of the lorries came down. Each lorry now disgorged pallets of equipment which were picked up by the forklifts and ferried across to the aircraft and lined up. A single pallet was taken to a point a few metres in front of the stage and somebody draped a Saudi flag in the centre, while a Union Jack was placed on one side and the Stars and Stripes on the other.
‘Exports,’ Silva said. ‘This is nothing more than a ceremony to mark a trade deal between American Armaments and the Saudi government. In this case the weapons have been manufactured in the UK at the factory in Birmingham, hence the trilateral nature.’
At the end of the line of dignitaries there were two more men in suits. For a moment the binocular lenses were full of the backs of Walker, Hope and the Saudi. Silva pulled right and the pudgy face of Greg Mavers slipped into view. Standing next to Mavers was a very sober-looking Sean Connor.