Silva and Itchy took two rooms at a Travelodge a dozen miles up the A1 from RAF Wittering. There was a pub attached to the hotel, and after a meal they sat and drank a couple of beers and discussed what they’d seen. Silva put the battery back in her phone. Several texts pinged in from Sean. He’d be in Cambridge overnight. Did she want to meet tomorrow? She replied that she did and would arrive in time for lunch.
‘And what are you going to tell him?’ Itchy asked. ‘If he’s involved in this you’ll have shown our hand.’
‘I know,’ Silva said. ‘But I can’t believe he is. I think he was there on genuine US State Department business. You saw Greg Mavers? He’s the deputy ambassador. Then there was that American general and the UK defence secretary. I don’t think any of them would be aware of what happened later on.’
‘Do you think he’ll believe you?’
‘No idea.’ Silva took a sip from her beer. ‘But I want you to visit Fairchild and tell him what we saw. Stay there until I turn up or call you.’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘Then you’ll know Sean is part of the conspiracy, won’t you?’
Itchy’s eyes widened and he picked up his pint glass, taking a long draw before clunking the glass down on the table.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I guess I will.’
The next day she met Sean in the centre of Cambridge and they wandered through the city before having a meal in an old inn. Dark panelled walls, low ceilings, and a lack of natural light gave the place a conspiratorial atmosphere. The palpable tension between them when they’d parted in London had gone and Sean was back to his old self.
‘I love England,’ Sean said as they tucked into their food. ‘So much history. Did you know Isaac Newton supposedly drank in this pub?’
‘Let me guess, he liked to get smashed on cider, right?’ Silva said, trying to be her old self too, trying to behave as if the madness of the past few days hadn’t happened.
‘Cider?’ Sean cocked his head. ‘Oh, I see.’
Silva bent to her food and took a few mouthfuls. ‘I’m sorry about storming out.’
‘No.’ Sean put a hand across the table. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I was a bit blinded by Karen Hope and the whole occasion and I didn’t read your mood. Getting over your mother’s death is not something that happens overnight.’
Silva nodded. ‘Thanks.’
They finished their main course and ordered dessert and coffees, Silva all the time trying to appear casual and relaxed. As Sean shovelled up a spoonful of sticky toffee pudding, she asked about the trade summit. He paused for a moment and then shook his head.
‘I suppose I can tell you. It’s no secret. I’m sure it’s going to be widely reported.’
‘And?’
‘The US and UK governments have done a massive trade deal with Saudi Arabia. The deal’s worth billions and secures thousands of jobs.’
‘Are we talking arms?’
‘Yes.’ Sean put his spoon down. Tilted his head. ‘How did you know?’
‘An educated guess,’ Silva said. ‘On the phone you mentioned you were at RAF Wittering. I doubt the military would have been involved had the deal been about mere widgets.’
‘Right.’ Sean picked up his spoon again but then stopped. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Just that you were helping facilitate the export of weapons to Saudi Arabia, weapons which will be used to kill innocent—’
‘Hang on.’ Sean raised both hands. ‘We’re not going down that route. I know your mother was critical of UK and US policy in the Middle East, but you can’t pin the blame for her death on me. Besides, the Saudis are allies. They provide stability in the region.’
‘They fund militants.’ Silva plucked a fact from something she’d read in her mother’s dossier. ‘For instance, fifteen of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers were Saudis.’
‘That’s ancient history. We’re fully aware of everything Saudi Arabia does these days.’
‘Really?’ Silva let the question hang. She sat back in her chair. Folded her arms.
‘What is this, Becca?’ Sean pushed his unfinished pudding to one side and leaned forward, closing the distance. ‘Why the sudden interest? You’ve never been much bothered before.’
‘Before was when my mother hadn’t been killed by terrorists.’
‘This deal’s got nothing to do with that. This is all perfectly legal, with an audit trail and full accountability.’
‘If so then why were you, as a CIA operative, there?’
‘Greg Mavers needed an analyst he could call on in case something came up in the reception and he needed quick answers. Knowing I could probably wangle a couple of days off afterwards I volunteered. It was as simple as that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Jeez, Rebecca, I don’t have to answer to you.’
‘Even if what was happening at Wittering in some way involved my mother?’
‘How in the hell could it?’
‘Karen Hope.’ Silva held Sean’s gaze as he stared across the table. She felt as if he was trying to see what she was thinking, what she knew.
‘Karen Hope.’ Sean reached for his drink. Took a draught. ‘You’re talking American Armaments, right?’
Silva nodded, realising the question was tentative. A probe to discover something deeper. So far nothing she’d said gave anything away, but without a hook Sean wasn’t likely to open up. ‘Shortly before she was killed, my mother uncovered unsavoury details about the Hope family business. The substance of it was serious enough to threaten Karen Hope’s presidential chances.’
‘I see.’ A beat. No more. But just enough. Sean continued. ‘What, exactly?’
‘She found Karen Hope has links to a Saudi associated with funding terror groups. The Hopes, realising the information could never be allowed to get out, had my mother killed. Next came Neil Milligan, the head of the news agency my mother worked for. I spoke to him about my mother’s research, but he told me to forget the whole thing. He was scared – rightly so, it proved.’
Sean opened his mouth to speak.
‘No,’ Silva said. ‘I’m not finished.’
She moved on. There was a picture, she said, that showed Karen Hope with Haddad, a man who was a known terrorist sympathiser. Hope, fearing exposure, had paid to have Francisca da Silva eliminated. Neil Milligan had been at first threatened and then he too had been murdered.
‘That’s it,’ Silva said.
Sean gave a nervous laugh. He raised his head and blew out a long breath. ‘Let’s just say, in some other crazy life, I believe you. What on earth did your mother discover that threatened Hope’s election? Just being seen with Haddad wouldn’t be enough.’
‘Something to do with arms dealing.’
‘So?’ Sean shook his head. ‘There’s nothing illegal in arms dealing. In fact Karen Hope’s major selling point is she’s not a wishy-washy liberal. Her base are going to vote for her anyway, so attracting those to the right of that is part of her plan. She’s got nothing to hide.’
‘But suppose she has got something to hide. Suppose the Hope family have been supplying money and weapons to terrorists. This isn’t some dodgy news story, Sean. It’s part of the arrangement the Hope family have with Jawad al Haddad. He brokered the arms deal with the Saudi government, and Brandon Hope, as a kickback, makes sure certain shipments are delivered to Islamic extremists. Haddad’s hands appear to be clean but his objectives are still fulfilled. What’s more, in a few months’ time, he’s going to have a receptive ear in the White House.’
‘It sounds like a bad conspiracy theory.’ Sean shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rebecca, I don’t believe it. I think your mother was sold a dummy in order to try and discredit Karen Hope.’
Sean looked at her but said nothing. The sounds of the pub intruded. Cutlery chinking on plates. The hubbub of conversation. A chorus of laughter from a nearby table.
‘I think,’ Sean said eventually, ‘that it would be best if you passed all the information to me. I’ll see to it that it gets to the right places. Not only has your mother been duped, but this looks like an attempt to subvert democracy.’ Sean shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘Fine.’ Silva eased back into her chair. She needed to get out of here. It had been a mistake to talk to Sean and now she worried what he might do. She pointed at her empty glass. ‘Could you get me another drink? I’m going to the loo.’
For a second Sean looked bemused but then he nodded. ‘Sure.’
Silva stood and weaved between the tables, heading for the toilets. She glanced over her shoulder. Sean was at the bar, trying to attract the attention of the barman. Silva changed direction and made for the exit. To one side of the door there was an array of coat hooks, empty in this warm weather aside from Silva’s leather jacket and helmet. She grabbed them and slipped outside, sprinting across the road to where she’d left her motorbike. A few seconds later she was riding away, dodging cyclists and pedestrians, and trying not to look back.