Taher stood and looked through the window. This time the vista was not of the crowded streets of London, but of rows of olive trees on a vast plain that stretched to the border with Algeria. Sand dunes rippled the horizon, reminding him of home, reminding him of why he was here in Tunisia waiting for the weapons.
He’d fulfilled his side of the deal. He’d set up the route and arranged all the details. They’d carried out a dozen trial journeys with the containers and not once had there been any sign the authorities knew what was going on. On the last trip Latif and Saabiq had ridden in the container from Naples to Rotterdam. Once on board the Excelsior they’d emerged from their hiding place and retired to an empty cabin, courtesy of the captain. Later, when the ship had unloaded, they’d left the ship along with the crew. There’d been no checks on either of the containers.
That had been the final test and now Taher was confident the operation could succeed. Every month or so a large delivery of armaments would arrive at the airfield near Cambridge. The Saudis would send an aircraft to collect them, but a single pallet would go missing from the consignment and end up on the Excelsior bound for Rotterdam and beyond. And these were no ordinary weapons. Not cast off Russian goods from decades ago. Not cheap Chinese copies. There were the latest in hi-tech rocket launchers. Laser guided. Massive destructive power. In the coming months the weapons would be distributed, ready for an offensive early next year. The plan was to disrupt tourism in Morocco, Tunisia and Egypt, from West to East Saharan Africa, and the rockets would help to accomplish that aim.
For Taher it wasn’t enough. Africa was a long way from northern Europe where the previous attacks had done little to bend the minds of the sanctimonious British, the arrogant French or the smug Germans. They needed to be reminded of what it was to be afraid, of what it was like to have death call at their own front doors. When he’d informed Haddad he was ready for the big one, the Saudi had smiled.
‘Of course you are,’ he’d said. ‘Once all this is over I promise you will have what you desire.’
So Taher had done everything asked of him. As well as setting up the smuggling route, he’d eliminated Francisca da Silva and dealt with Ben Western and Neil Milligan. The reward was continued support from Haddad and something else too. A present from the Saudi that Taher had stored in the roof space of a lock-up garage he rented in west London. Long and sleek things they were. Massive destructive power. He smiled to himself. When the deal was done and the first tranche of weapons had been handed over, he’d head back to the UK. Latif was waiting for him, and together they would avenge the deaths of Taher’s family.
He took a second to whisper two words, clenching his fists as he did so.
‘Collateral damage,’ he said.
Harry Palmer wasn’t free at short notice, so Holm had arranged to meet for lunch the following day.
‘Next door to yours?’ Palmer said, referencing the Pizza Express across the street from Thames House.
‘No, too close to home,’ Holm said. ‘Do you know the place we used to go years ago? Twelve thirty.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Palmer said before confirming he’d be there and hanging up.
The place they used to go years ago was the Pear Tree Cafe in Battersea Park. Holm liked it for a clandestine meet because there were numerous entrances to the park and, once inside, dozens of paths to follow.
Holm and Javed found a rare parking spot close by and entered the park at twelve. They approached the cafe in a circuitous manner and Holm had Javed stand off and keep watch while he went in and awaited Palmer’s arrival. An expanse of glass curved round one side of the cafe and Holm sat at a table near the entrance. At twelve twenty-five Palmer slipped into a seat opposite Holm, appearing to materialise out of thin air, but likely coming in through the kitchens.
‘Very good,’ Holm said. ‘You got me.’
‘What is this, Stephen?’ Palmer winked. ‘Are we playing at lovers or co-conspirators?’
Holm grimaced. ‘Not the former, please.’
‘I thought you’d gone over to the other side.’ Palmer gestured through the window. ‘He’s a good-looking lad, I’ll give you that.’
‘You spotted him?’
‘He’s down at the lake pretending to feed the ducks.’ Palmer raised a hand and made a little pecking motion with his thumb and fingers. ‘Only, what sort of twenty-something male would be doing that? Plus he hasn’t got any bread.’
They ordered food, Palmer going for soup and a roll, which allowed him to make a joke about giving some to Javed for the birds.
‘Enough,’ Holm said. ‘This isn’t funny, Harry.’
‘It’s deadly serious if you’re relying on that kid.’ Palmer couldn’t help another smile but the expression quickly turned solemn. ‘Is this about your little project to round up Nazi fanboys? I heard about it on the grapevine.’
‘No.’ Holm lowered his voice. ‘This is about Taher.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Stephen, are you asking to be sacked?’
‘I’m on to him, but I need your help. One more push and I’ve got him.’
‘Really?’ A look of surprise crossed Palmer’s face. ‘Are you sure you’re not delusional?’
‘No. What’s more, Taher is somehow linked to the Hope family. The Hope family, as in Karen Hope.’
‘Now I know you’re delusional.’ Palmer frowned and the surprise turned to concern. ‘You need to back off before the Spider gets a tug on one of her threads. If she discovers what you’re up to she’ll come for you. The resulting mess won’t be pretty.’
‘I’m not backing off and I’m quite sane, thank you.’ Holm lowered his voice. ‘There’s some dodgy arms dealing going on between Allied American Armaments and the Saudis, the net result of which is Taher getting his hands on a bunch of weapons. What’s strange is there’s nothing on the system about Brandon Hope or the company. Nothing, do you hear?’
‘Nothing. I see.’ Palmer nodded. Holm had his attention. ‘You want to know if I’ve heard something?’
‘Hope is involved in a charity that works in North Africa. If there’s anything going on in the region you’d be aware of it, right?’
‘One would hope – sorry – so.’ Palmer tapped the table. ‘But no, there’s not been a whisper.’
‘This could be big, Harry. I think Brandon is shipping the arms across the Med in a boat he owns. The weapons are going to Taher who is then distributing them to the jihadis: AQIM, al-Shabaab, ISIS, whatever. I can’t believe your people on the ground haven’t got even an inkling.’
‘Well, quite. Very worrying.’ Palmer scratched his chin. ‘You have proof of Brandon’s involvement?’
‘Not directly. It’s just me and the lad at the moment, so we’re struggling to keep on top of it all.’ Holm turned his head. Javed was down by the lake. ‘But if I can land Taher I’ll be back in favour, and if you help me you’ll be in line for some credit too. A lot of credit.’
‘We’ll need to proceed carefully, Stephen. You know how things are.’
‘Are you talking about Karen Hope and her presidential ambitions?’
‘There is that, of course, but I was thinking of the Saudi link too. We don’t want to embarrass our allies.’ Palmer glanced at the window. ‘Who knows about this?’
‘Only me and Farakh. Huxtable doesn’t have a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’ve been keeping a lid on the information. Too many times I’ve been close to Taher and he’s disappeared in a puff of smoke.’
‘Are you suggesting…?’ Palmer let the sentence hang.
‘You know I am. Hell, we’ve talked often enough about it before. You even admitted yourself you were worried.’
‘Yes, but the Spider?’
‘Not Huxtable, but the people around her. Somebody with high-level access. Perhaps even in one of the foreign agencies we share information with. I’ve long suspected the Americans haven’t being playing by the rules.’
‘The CIA?’
‘Yes. It makes sense now we know Allied Armaments and the Hopes are linked to Taher. The Agency could be running interference to safeguard their national interests.’
Palmer narrowed his eyes, his brow creasing. ‘That’s extremely concerning.’
Holm nodded. Although Palmer was obviously troubled, Holm felt a weight lifting from his own shoulders. The SIS officer was more used to dealing with this sort of thing than Holm was. He’d know what to do.
‘OK.’ Palmer steepled his hands. ‘So we need to keep this to ourselves. I understand.’
‘It’s the only way to be sure Taher isn’t forewarned.’
‘Right.’ Palmer looked both excited and nervous. ‘We can do this. First you give me the full details, second we formulate a plan of attack. I’m glad you came to me, Stephen. If we work together on this then Taher is history.’
An hour later and they were done. Palmer slipped away while Holm went across to where Javed was sitting at an outside table nursing an empty latte glass.
‘Well?’ Javed said. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said you’re crap at field craft,’ Holm said. ‘You might as well have hung a sign round your neck.’
Javed shook his head, annoyed. ‘I meant about Taher.’
‘I know.’ Holm patted Javed on the back. ‘Go home and pack some fresh clothes. And think hot. We’re going to Tunisia.’
Silva sat at an outside table on one of the terraces. A stone-columned balustrade ran in an ellipse above an oval pond. White flowers and green lily pads and giant orange fish lurking in the depths. There was tea in a silver pot and bone china cups and saucers. A selection of biscuits on a plate.
She’d jumped up when Weiss had dropped the bombshell about a new mission to kill Karen Hope, but his footsteps were already echoing down the corridor. A door closed and a car crunched away down the gravel driveway. Fairchild told her not to be too hasty. There were things, he said, that she needed to know. Weiss worked for a small department within MI5 known as the Special Accounts Unit. Ostensibly the department dealt with allocating funds to freelance operatives and non-governmental groups, but in reality its purpose was to carry out highly secretive missions that needed to be deniable. Even within the security services, few people knew of the true nature of the SAU.
Now Fairchild sat across the table from her. He reached for the teapot and poured the tea.
‘Despite being called the Special Accounts Unit,’ he said, ‘there is absolutely no accountability. Simeon Weiss can do almost anything he likes and get away with it.’ Fairchild slid a cup and saucer across the table to Silva. ‘You might be wondering how I got involved with Simeon. I’d like to tell you it was altruism, a sense I should do something for my country, but I’m ashamed to say it’s more related to certain indiscretions from my past. These days some may call them crimes and who am I – a white, privileged, male – to disagree?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Mr Weiss has a file on me. A few sheets, no more, but enough information to have my wife packing a suitcase and hiring a lawyer. Enough to have the police knocking at my front door. Enough, in short, to ruin me.’
‘He blackmailed you?’
‘Yes. This was years back now, but I’m merely using it as an illustration of the way the man thinks, the way all of his ilk think. They use people, Rebecca. In a way, Weiss is just like Hope. He’ll do anything to get what he wants.’
‘Are you saying he’ll give me up if I don’t go along with this?’ Silva shook her head. ‘But he said himself that was too risky.’
‘What is risky is trying to second-guess him. He’ll do whatever he thinks needs to be done.’
‘For the country?’
Fairchild laughed. ‘For Simeon Weiss.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘The operation to kill Karen Hope?’ Fairchild turned his head and gazed out across the manicured lawns towards the gatehouse. ‘You heard what Simeon said. I’ve no idea if that’s the truth or not.’
‘Somebody in the government?’
‘I doubt it. Most politicians understand very little of what really goes on. Their outlook is too short-term: a parliament, a second term in office. The future of this country depends on events that take decades to seed and grow fruit. There are people who are working on scenarios involving who the next president but one might be. Friendships are being cultivated in Chinese universities right now that will serve this country well into the second half of the century. Strategy is being worked out for when India becomes a global superpower, for when the US and Europe have sunk so low they are third-rate backwaters.’
‘This all sounds like some sort of bad conspiracy theory.’
‘Possibly, but truth is stranger than fiction. Could you have predicted the fall of the Berlin Wall or the global financial crash or the Arab Spring? In any case it doesn’t really matter. Weiss is setting the agenda and you’ll do what he says or suffer the consequences.’
‘Did he put you up to this just now or are you part of the whole thing?’
‘He told me to try and persuade you. He mentioned a break-in at your father’s house. There were gunshots and someone was hurt, possibly killed. He felt it might be time for the police to investigate.’
‘How—’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fairchild held his hands up. ‘But Weiss deploys resources as and when needed. He probably had your father’s place wired from the get-go.’
‘This is crazy. Why me?’
‘You remain the best person for the job. I can’t imagine getting close to Hope is going to be any easier now she’s been alerted to the fact she’s a target, so a long-range shot will still be the method of choice. Simeon has assets aplenty he could deploy but I assume he feels you are a safe bet because you’re personally involved. That gives you the motivation to carry out the job and zero reason to betray him. Especially after it’s all over.’
Silva looked across the lawns. Near a boundary hedge a man with a German Shepherd walked his rounds. At the gatehouse another of Fairchild’s staff stood on guard. What were her options? Get out of here and hide away somewhere? Hope would know about the death of Greg Mavers by now and Silva would be on her radar. She’d be even keener to track her down and shut her up. There was Haddad to consider too. Then there was the implicit threat from Weiss: help us or your father suffers. No, running wasn’t the right move.
‘It looks like I don’t have much of a choice,’ Silva said. ‘Do I?’
‘No.’ Fairchild nodded and then handed Silva the plate of biscuits. ‘Not really.’
Later they were in Fairchild’s operations room. Screens and terminals. News reports from CNN, Al Jazeera and the BBC. A huge map of the world dominated one wall; when Silva looked closer she could see that, too, was a screen complete with little flashing icons.
‘So.’ Fairchild moved over to the map and jabbed a finger at North Africa. ‘Contact will be initiated in Tunisia.’
‘Tunisia?’ Silva wondered if she’d heard correctly.
Fairchild looked apologetic. ‘Yes. Apposite, if nothing else.’
‘Tunisia.’ Silva repeated the word. Fairchild was right. How apt. Hope’s blood spilling on the same soil as her mother’s had. Job done. The circle complete. Go home and sleep easy.
Who was she kidding?
Fairchild moved his finger down over the map. ‘Brandon Hope owns an olive farm near the border with Algeria. According to Simeon, Karen Hope will be staying at the farm overnight next Thursday.’
‘How the hell can he be sure?’
‘Remember Brandon’s charity and the rescue boat?’ Fairchild inclined his head and Silva nodded. ‘Well, the boat is going to be in the marina at the resort of al Hammamet. Brandon is throwing a fundraising party and various politicians and celebrities are going to be flying in or crossing the Med in their superyachts to attend.’
‘Including Karen Hope?’
‘Yes. There’ll be massive security around the marina, but Simeon’s source says Hope will be journeying to the farm at some point.’
‘Forgive me if I’m sceptical.’
Fairchild glanced at the map screen, perhaps wishing Hope had her own icon. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to trust Simeon on this one.’
Silva followed Fairchild’s gaze to the screen. She had the sense she was a marionette. Little sticks attached to her arms and legs, pushing and pulling. Simeon Weiss the puppet master controlling her and just about everybody else on the stage.
She mentioned it to Fairchild and he shrugged.
‘The analogy is perfect, my dear,’ he said. ‘But are any of us truly free to do as we please?’