Holm slept in his own bed for the first time in days, but the following morning he was back in the office with Javed. The lad fired up his computer and his fingers hovered over the keys.
‘If I do a search it will be logged,’ Javed said. ‘The Spider probably has a screen on her wall showing what each of us is googling. Cheap flights, gnocchi recipes, ripped abs, that sort of thing.’
Holm eased himself into his chair. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep this quiet anyway. ‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘RAF Wittering.’
Within in a few seconds Javed had found a Financial Times article detailing a trade summit that had taken place at the airbase. A huge arms deal had been signed off by the secretary of state for defence, and a top Saudi diplomat had attended along with the US deputy ambassador and several senior military figures from the UK and American military. There’d been a ceremonial handover of the first tranche of arms and the shipment included surface-to-air missiles and other air defence equipment. Afterwards there’d been a reception hosted by Allied American Armaments.
‘Surface-to-air missiles,’ Javed said. ‘The thought of Taher getting his hands on a couple of those is chilling.’
‘American Armaments.’ Holm looked at the article. ‘That’s the Hope family, right? The Hope family, as in Karen Hope.’
‘Yes.’ Javed rapped the keyboard and did a fresh search.
Holm leaned in and read more. The Hope family were of Italian origin and Brandon Hope had returned to his roots. He’d married an Italian and settled in Italy. This after several years as a diplomat in Riyadh. His experience in the Middle East had come in handy when he’d begun to get involved in the family business, and according to the Financial Times he’d been instrumental in brokering the recent deal thanks to his relationship with Jawad al Haddad, a billionaire Saudi with connections to the royal family.
‘Haddad. Shit.’ Holm remembered something he’d overheard in the situation room earlier. ‘There was an attempt on his life a few days ago. Dissident Saudis apparently, but whoever it was, his wife was killed in the attack. Have a guess where?’
‘Saudi Arabia, I assume?’
‘Wrong. Positano. A stone’s throw from Naples. It only stuck in my mind because we were there at the time. Now the location appears to be more than a coincidence.’
‘Definitely, boss. Look at this.’ Javed had clicked open another page. ‘Several years ago Brandon Hope set up an aid charity that operates across the Middle East and North Africa. Among other things it runs a boat that rescues migrants who are attempting to cross the Mediterranean.’ Javed looked up. ‘That was the boat we saw Mohid Latif disembark from. The Angelo.’
‘A rich man’s plaything. That’s what Luigi the cafe owner said. And remember the captain of the Angelo explaining to Mohid Latif that a meeting had been called off? Something about helicopters and police and it being too risky? Latif could have been going to meet Haddad in Positano. We should have been on to this before. We were too blinkered in going after Taher. I was too blinkered. Shoe leather rather than research.’
‘Do you think Brandon Hope is directly involved with Taher?’
‘Possibly.’ Holm sat for a minute and spun the facts round in his head, tried to jigsaw them into place. ‘But more likely he’s simply turned a blind eye to help out Haddad. Anything on our system on him?’
‘You mean internally?’ Javed moved his hands from the keyboard as if he was scared he might accidentally type something incriminating. ‘Isn’t that a bit risky, sir?’
‘We have to know.’
‘Right.’ Javed paused, still nervous, then he punched the keys and stared at the screen. ‘Haddad’s on a CIA watch list. He’s believed to have orchestrated funding to various extremist factions.’
‘I’m getting a feeling in my water, Farakh. What about American Armaments and the Hopes?’
Javed typed some more. Clicked. Sat back in his chair. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing on American Armaments, just a biographical entry on the Hopes.’
‘There can’t be nothing? What about the arms dealing and Brandon Hope’s relationship with Haddad?’ Holm peered across, sure there must be some mistake. Javed shrugged. ‘Nothing is highly suspicious.’
‘Perhaps, in the light of Karen Hope’s next job, the material has been moved to a higher security-clearance level. You could always ask Huxtable.’
‘Pah.’ Holm dismissed the suggestion and instead reached for his phone. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
The blue under the eaves slipped away to be replaced by near black, the occasional twinkle from a star. Silva knew Mavers would be making her wait, as time passing was one of the most effective ways of arousing fear. When he came back she’d have to try and play him. If she could make him believe there was something else she knew perhaps she could do a deal. Then again Mavers didn’t seem like the kind of person to haggle with.
She took a drink from the galvanised trough. The water tasted of rust and earth, but it quenched her thirst. She examined the pipe again and was convinced she could pull off a length. With the element of surprise, she fancied her chances against Mavers and one guard; with Mavers and two guards, not so much.
She lay on the makeshift bed of straw and tried to conserve her strength. Mavers was right, resisting torture was impossible. She’d have to tell him something. She was working out exactly what when the door rattled open again.
‘Ms da Silva.’ Mavers entered first, the two grunts behind him. One held a pistol and the other had swapped the iron bar for something that looked alarmingly like an electric cattle prod. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’ Silva sprang to her feet. ‘And you should know my mother hid some papers to do with Karen Hope.’
‘Clever Mommy.’ Mavers shook his head. ‘But it doesn’t work like that, Rebecca. If the documents do exist – and I very much doubt they do – then I’m not going to ask you to take us to them, you’re simply going to tell us where they are.’
Mavers made a small gesture with his hand but Silva didn’t wait for his henchmen to react. She flung herself at the water trough and grabbed the pipe. It broke away from the wall and she was left with a metre-long section of metal in her hands. Water sprayed out in a jet, momentarily disorientating the nearest grunt. Silva stepped forward and swung the pipe at the man holding the gun. He dodged and moved away. She lunged at him again, but as she did so she felt a sharp pain in her midriff followed by a spasm that rushed down her leg. She stumbled to the ground to see the man with the cattle prod standing over her.
‘Shoot her in one knee to start with,’ Mavers said. ‘That will stop her misbehaving. Then get her clothes off and we’ll move on to the next step.’
The man with the gun walked across the room. He raised the weapon and pointed it at Silva. She flinched as a sharp report echoed in the room and a spray of blood flicked across her face.
The man with the gun fell forward, his mouth half open in pain or surprise. He slumped to the floor, fluid pumping from a hole in the side of his head. For a moment Silva thought the gun had suffered some kind of catastrophic failure and exploded in his face. Then she saw the masked figure at the doorway. Dark-blue combat fatigues. A Heckler & Koch machine gun. Special forces. British special forces.
‘Don’t move!’ The figure brandished the gun and came into the room followed by another masked soldier.
‘I don’t know who the fuck you are,’ Mavers said. ‘But I’m with the US government and you’re interfering with an important operation. You’re also trespassing.’
‘Shut up.’ The figure in blue gave an almost imperceptible nod and the second soldier let off a round. The man with the cattle prod reeled back, crumpled and went down. The soldier bent and picked up the gun. He checked the clip and then calmly walked over to Mavers.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Mavers said. ‘There’ll be serious repercussions.’
He raised an arm but the soldier thrust the weapon into his face and fired. Mavers keeled over, his substantial body shuddering as it hit the floor.
‘What the—?’ Silva said as she recoiled from the shots.
‘No questions.’ The soldier held out a hand and hauled Silva to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’
The soldiers thrust her out of the room and led her into a large cow barn. Dim light came from overhead fluorescent tubes; on the ground was a mass of straw, fresh manure and a row of troughs with the remains of a feed. They jogged through the barn and out one end. A security floodlight on a pole hung over a green tractor. Parked beside it sat a black Range Rover. As they approached, the door clunked open and a man climbed out. Dusty hair and a colonial tan suit.
‘Rebecca.’ Matthew Fairchild nodded. ‘Good to see you’re OK.’
‘I don’t…?’ Silva stood still, for a moment utterly confused. She pointed towards the cowshed. ‘You realise your men just killed the US ambassador?’
‘The deputy ambassador to be precise.’
Fairchild gestured at the Range Rover but Silva didn’t move. Then she turned, intending to thank the two special forces guys, but they’d vanished.
‘What is this place?’ she asked.
‘A black site run by the US. Totally deniable and off the books, unless they all of a sudden decide to admit to its existence, which they won’t.’
‘But the tractor, the cows…?’
‘It’s a working farm with an American expat owner. Isolated, plenty of outbuildings, a surprising array of useful equipment, and the potential for lots of unexplained noises. Just the place for working over enemies of the state.’
‘Which state?’
‘That depends.’
‘On British soil? Bloody hell.’
‘Come on, Rebecca. You can’t get squeamish now simply because the tables were turned.’ Fairchild got back into the Range Rover. ‘Let’s go.’
‘How’s this going to work?’ she said as she went round and climbed in the passenger side. ‘I mean three dead men, one of them the US deputy ambassador?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fairchild started the Range Rover and eased off. ‘To be frank, the fact Mavers went rogue is not my problem. It’s an American mess and they’ll have to sort it out for themselves.’
They passed a collection of farm buildings and threaded through a dense forest, black against the Range Rover’s headlights. For half an hour she saw nothing she recognised, then there was a sign for London and the M40. Fairchild hadn’t spoken again and every question she asked had been answered with a shake of his head. Now, as they joined the motorway, he appeared to relax.
‘How did you find me?’ Silva said.
‘Later. When we get home.’
‘Home?’
‘My home. It’s obviously not safe for you to go anywhere near your own place.’
‘Oh my God, you don’t know about my dad, he’s—’
‘He’s alive, Rebecca. Bruised but in fine fettle. He’d have come with me if I’d let him.’
‘He’s alive?’ Silva choked, tears filling her eyes. ‘I thought… God!’
Fairchild put a hand out and touched her on the knee. ‘He’s in a safe house being watched over by a couple of mates from the regiment.’
She slumped back in her seat. The thought that he’d died had wracked her with guilt. They’d never properly made up but now there was a second chance for her to do that. She made a silent promise to herself she wouldn’t let the chance slip by.
The past few hours had been overwhelming and tiredness swept in. She closed her eyes for one moment and the next there was a hand on her shoulder.
‘We’re here.’
The night was gone, the darkness replaced by golden sunbeams shining through lush woodland, Fairchild’s mansion standing bathed in the morning light. Fairchild showed her in and took her through to a huge dining room; within seconds a pot of tea and a cooked breakfast had arrived.
‘Tuck in,’ Fairchild said. ‘You must be hungry.’
Silva nodded as the tray of food was placed on the table. She went across and sat down. ‘Where’s Itchy?’
‘He’s upstairs chilling out. Don’t worry, he told us everything. It’s all under control.’ Fairchild took a chair opposite her as she began to eat. ‘You’ll be wanting answers, but I’m not the person to give them to you.’
‘Who is, then?’ Silva muttered through a mouthful of bacon.
‘He’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Right.’ Silva carried on eating. Took a drink of tea. When she’d finished, Fairchild asked if she wanted some more. ‘No,’ she said.
Ten minutes later there was the sound of the front door opening and one of Fairchild’s aides appeared.
‘He’s here, sir.’
‘Show him through.’
Silva turned her head to see a man in a dark suit walk into the room. Rectangular frameless glasses. Short brown hair. A hand moving up to touch his glasses. The bank manager-cum-wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Simeon Weiss.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Silva pushed back her chair from the table and glared at Fairchild. ‘You’ve sold me out, you bastard!’
‘Nobody’s sold anyone out, Ms da Silva,’ Weiss said. ‘Leastways not yet.’
‘Please, Rebecca.’ Fairchild gestured at the table. ‘Sit down and listen to what Simeon has to say.’
‘He threatened me and he killed Neil Milligan.’
‘We did not kill Mr Milligan,’ Weiss said.
‘Who did, then?’
‘Hope’s people.’
‘Mavers? The CIA?’
‘She paid off Mavers and a few others, but the CIA? Good God, no, she hasn’t got control of them. At least not yet.’
‘That’s what this is all about, Rebecca.’ Fairchild approached the table and drew out a chair. ‘Stopping Karen Hope before it gets to a point where she can’t be stopped.’
Silva turned to Weiss. ‘I thought that’s what you were trying to prevent me doing? Stopping Karen Hope.’
‘Well—’
‘I think,’ Fairchild said, ‘it’s about time we came clean.’
Silva snorted. ‘Right. As if I’d believe anything you said after all that’s happened.’
‘Let’s start at the beginning.’ Weiss was at the end of the table. He sat down and laid both hands flat before clasping them together. ‘Karen Hope is not what people think she is. Not the saviour come to lead us out of the wilderness. Not a Kennedy-type figure. Not even a moderately competent politician. But she is power hungry, corrupt, and will stop at nothing to achieve her ambition of becoming president.’
‘I know that.’ Silva gestured towards Fairchild. ‘Matthew briefed me on the whole thing. Hope killed my mother in an attempt to cover up her brother’s dealings with Jawad al Haddad.’
‘Yes.’ Weiss’s hands went flat on the table again. He leaned forward. ‘Although it will never become public, your mother was something of a hero. We knew of Hope’s relationship with the Saudis, of course, but we only discovered the true extent of it through your mother’s research.’
‘We?’
‘The security services.’
‘You were keeping tabs on her?’
‘We keep tabs on a lot of people, Rebecca, and every now and then all the watching and listening and hacking pays off. That was the case with your mother. We intercepted some of her file uploads and discovered the information about Hope. We followed up various leads and checked the veracity of your mother’s work. We came to the shocking conclusion it was not only true, but there was even more dirt buried.’
‘And that is?’
‘You don’t need to know.’ Weiss shook his head. ‘Suffice it to say it confirmed our plan of action had to be put into place immediately. We needed to prevent Hope from becoming president – not, I’m afraid, because of a moral imperative, rather because of the risk of massive global destabilisation if the information came out at a later date. Imagine the scandal. There’d be an impeachment, her removal from office, a totally unsuitable vice-president stepping into the job, questions about America’s role in the world. If, on the other hand, she wasn’t exposed, think of the leverage the Saudis and Haddad in particular would have over her. Policy in the Middle East would be in hock to them for the next four to eight years.’ Weiss paused and took a breath. ‘However, getting rid of Hope was easier said than done. We could allow your mother to continue her work and cross our fingers that when the story came out it would result in Hope having to withdraw her candidacy. There were several risks though. One, would your mother be able to get the story out in time? Two, would she be believed? Three, the revelations would do untold damage to the UK’s relationship with the Saudis. Our defence contracts are worth billions and support thousands of jobs. And think about the other ways the Gulf states invest in this country. They own football teams, property, huge chunks of well-known companies. In short, we are dependent on the whole region for our financial security and stability. There had to be another way to stop Hope; the question was, how?’
‘Yes, how,’ Fairchild said. He smiled across the table at Silva. ‘Were it to be discovered the British government had interfered in the democratic process of another country there’d be UN sanctions, a trade war, perhaps even, in the worst case, military conflict.’
‘Although,’ Weiss said, ‘I was hearing snippets of information from my colleagues in various agencies Stateside that they were looking for a way out of the situation themselves. They saw the danger of Hope becoming president too. However, they didn’t have the information we did, and even if they had it’s debatable whether there’d have been anybody brave enough to release the material.’ Weiss bowed his head for a moment. ‘And then something happened, something both serendipitous and tragic, and I realised the argument for more extreme measures had swung heavily in our favour.’
‘My mother’s murder,’ Silva said.
‘Yes,’ Weiss said. ‘Once that happened and we joined the dots the time for diplomatic pressure and subterfuge were over. Hope had proved herself to be beyond the pale. She’d sanctioned a terrorist attack, which left many people dead, to further her ambitions. In ordinary circumstances we’d have been seeking extradition and a trial. However, these are far from ordinary circumstances. I was summoned to a meeting with my boss, Thomas Gillan – the head of MI5 – and he agreed with my analysis. The problem was that when he went to Downing Street and made subtle hints that for the sake of British national security Hope had to be stopped, the prime minister wouldn’t hear of it. Risk the special relationship? Act against our closest ally? Inconceivable! After the meeting the cabinet secretary and the national security adviser spoke privately with Gillan, expressing their dismay at the prime minister’s stance. I’m afraid our politicians lack bravery and are more inclined to think short term and of their own political futures than for the good of the country. Despite the prime minister’s attitude, there was an understanding between Gillan and the two civil servants. Gillan came back to me and authorised an operation to stop Hope whatever it took. I explored several options, options that didn’t involve the death of Hope, but in the end I concluded there was only one with minimal risk and maximal chance of success. The secrecy involved was such that myself, Gillan and Matthew are the only people who know the whole truth. You can imagine the consequences if this ever got out.’
‘Simeon knew my area of expertise,’ Fairchild said. ‘He came to me seeking a third party, a rogue operator, who could kill Karen Hope. Because I knew of you through your father, I told him we didn’t have to look very far to find the perfect assassin with all the motivation we needed. We prepared the files and sent them to your father, making out they’d come from a time-controlled online vault. All I had to do was call him, and with a little prompting he asked for my help. At first he was sceptical when I made the proposal to kill Hope. To be honest he was concerned for your safety. I told him the operation was foolproof, and with a little persuasion he came round to my way of thinking. To our way of thinking.’
‘So the whole thing was a set-up.’ Silva bristled. ‘All you had to do was approach me with a plan and show me the evidence.’
‘It wasn’t quite that simple,’ Weiss said. ‘The intelligence services as a whole know nothing of this. Hence my little performances at the service station and on the Hoe in Plymouth. They were staged so I could say you’d been investigated. I wanted to make sure your name was in the system, but the reports I submitted were tagged with the label no further action. Spooks watch spooks, and anyone observing either incident would have concluded there was absolutely nothing friendly about our meetings.’
‘And the break-in at my mother’s house?’
‘Yes, a ruse. The break-in sowed the seeds of a conspiracy in your mind. As did the act of pushing you into the water.’
‘You could have killed me.’
‘Time was short and we needed to spur you on. By then we’d already identified Positano as possibly the last chance to carry out some kind of attack, at least on non-US soil. The problem was, we needed deniability. A bomb or a close-quarters assault was much more likely to go wrong or be traceable. A sniper attack, on the other hand, could see Hope killed with a single shot, carried a low risk of other casualties and stood little chance of detection. It just so happened you appeared on the scene. Not only one of the world’s best shots, but somebody with the motivation to carry out the attack.’
‘And if I’d succeeded you’d have given me up afterwards, right?’
‘That might have seemed a good option, but it would have been much too risky. At some point connections would be made. Matthew is a freelancer, but he’s been in the intelligence services earlier in his career. Far better for us to ensure you killed Hope and made your escape.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘No.’ Weiss sighed. ‘And that brings us to the here and now and our little problem.’
‘Which is?’
Weiss scraped his chair away from the table and stood. He glanced across at Fairchild before walking across the room. He stopped at the door and turned.
‘Karen Hope.’ He reached out and hit the door frame with a clenched fist. Tap, tap, tap. ‘And how we’re going to make sure you get another chance to kill her.’