Holm and Javed examined the shipping manifests for the Excelsior. The schedule suggested the weapons shipment would be on the boat and heading for Rotterdam on the following Monday. They had to factor in how long the drive would take from Rotterdam to Naples and the length of the crossing to the Tunisian marina where the Angelo had made repeated visits.
Holm was struggling to work out an ETA based on the speed of the yacht when Javed tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Forget it, boss,’ Javed said. ‘The Angelo will be in al Hammamet on Thursday evening.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘Because there’s going to be a party on board to raise money for the charity. All sorts of celebrities are going to be there, many arriving in their own boats.’ Javed pointed at his monitor. ‘It’s here in La Stampa. It just came up in a search. Stroke of luck really.’
Holm picked up his phone and called Palmer. ‘We’re on for dinner on Thursday at your place.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Palmer said and hung up.
They’d gone over the details at their previous meeting and Palmer agreed with Holm that the operation had to be kept hush-hush right up until the last possible moment.
‘When we’ve found Taher and the weapons?’ Holm said.
‘Yes. Then you call me up and give me the location. I’ll put plans in place so a force can be mobilised the instant you contact me. Probably some UK/Tunisian joint venture, maybe a drone strike. Whatever, as soon as I know I’ll action my plan and hopefully we’ll have Taher and the weapons.’
‘Hopefully.’
At that point Palmer had reached out and put his hand on Holm’s arm. ‘But not a word before you are one hundred per cent sure, Stephen, OK? If you’re right about a mole then this is much too big to risk a cock-up.’
‘Boss?’ Javed turned from his screen. ‘What are we going to tell Huxtable? We can’t exactly expect her to believe the Nazi story again, and I don’t think the Tunisians have much of an animal rights movement.’
‘We tell her nothing,’ Holm said. ‘I’ll buy the tickets on my credit card and if anyone asks we’re going on holiday together. If they enquire further then it’s harassment.’
‘I’ll be the laughing stock,’ Javed said. ‘My reputation will take a dive.’
Holm raised an eyebrow. ‘Your reputation?’
The feeling of powerlessness came again when, on Thursday morning at a little after eleven, Silva found herself strapped into a seat in the same private charter jet that had flown them back from Italy. Itchy sat across the aisle, and opposite and facing her, Lona.
As the aircraft accelerated down the runway and rose into the air, Itchy leaned across.
‘It’ll be all right, Silvi,’ he said. ‘Karen Hope is going down.’
Itchy had been ‘in’ from the moment he’d known there was to be another chance to take out Hope. Loyalty to Silva and professional pride had seen to that. Silva insisted on another twenty-five K too. Fairchild had thrown his hands up, but she’d dug her heels in: no payment to Itchy, no Rebecca da Silva.
‘You know,’ Itchy continued as he broke into a bag of cashew nuts and gazed out of the window. ‘I could get used to this lifestyle.’
‘Don’t,’ Silva said.
She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes and there was Sean’s face hovering in front of her. Over the past few days she’d tried not to think about him but he’d always been there like a dull ache. Perhaps more than an ache, perhaps a deeper malady spreading inside her, consuming her. She’d wanted to contact him so she could discover the truth about what had happened, but Fairchild had forbidden it and, in addition, he’d refused to answer any questions as to Sean’s involvement.
‘Operational details, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘We have people on the other side, so the less you know the better.’
Was that the real reason? More likely it was yet another underhand tactic devised by Simeon Weiss. Let her stew, let the anger build. The meaner she was, the better. Sean’s face smiled in her dream. He laughed and Silva tensed. Angry wasn’t the half of it.
They touched down at Tunis–Carthage International mid-afternoon, taxied to a spare slot and were met by a pair of customs officials at the foot of the boarding steps. Lona, all smiles and flirtation, handled the formalities in French, and within five minutes they were heading for the VIP arrivals lounge.
‘Nothing is too much trouble these days,’ Lona said. ‘Tunisia relies on tourism and olives, and since the Bardo and Sousse atrocities tourism has been badly hit. People were just beginning to come back when the attack that killed your mother took place.’
A car stood waiting for them in the pick-up area, a Tunisian man at the wheel. Silva and Itchy loaded their bags into the boot and climbed into the back seat. Lona sat in the front.
‘This is Nasim,’ Lona said. ‘He’s our guide and driver.’
Nasim smiled in the rear-view mirror, said something to Lona in French, and then the car was nosing into the heavy traffic.
‘We’re staying in a town fifty miles from the farm,’ Lona said. ‘You’ll head there first thing in the morning so you can arrive before it’s light.’
As they sped out of the city along a busy three-lane highway, Silva remembered that when she’d arrived in Tunisia to visit her mother several months earlier it had appeared exotic. Now she stared out blankly at white low-rise apartments, the rubbish-strewn kerbs and the uninspiring monotony. Soon they were out into flat, arid country. The occasional olive plantation. The concrete shells of half-finished buildings. She dozed, awoken every now and then as they turned at a junction or hit a pothole at speed. After a while the flatness was replaced by rocky hills, sparse vegetation, anonymous towns. The road crested a ridge and swept left, a vast plain of undulating nothingness spread out to their right.
‘Algeria,’ Lona said. ‘Nearly a million square miles. The olive farm is close to the border, perfect as a handover point for the smuggled weapons. They could be going to AQIM groups in Algeria or to Daesh in Sudan, perhaps even as far as al-Shabaab in Somalia. The whole of North Africa is a mess, to be honest.’
‘But why on earth is Karen Hope going to be there?’
‘That’s just what I’ve been told.’ Lona turned to the back. ‘I follow orders and don’t ask too many questions. Life’s easier that way.’
Right, Silva thought. Or perhaps you know more than you’re telling.
The sun burned red as it sank in the west, somewhere amid the vastness of Algeria, and as dusk fell they entered a large town. Vehicles were honking their horns, people everywhere until they turned down a small alley and drew up outside a house with a high concrete wall. Lona got out and opened a pair of heavy gates and the car eased in alongside a white Land Cruiser.
The house was newly built and cool inside. Lona gestured to a couple of doors off the hall.
‘You’ll sleep in there.’ She turned. ‘There’s food in the kitchen, so eat and then rest. You leave at five a.m.’
‘Not we?’ Silva said.
‘Nasim will take you out to the olive farm in the 4 × 4. The kit’s already packed. When the job’s done he’ll drive you straight to the airport and you’ll rendezvous with the jet. I’m going back via a different route. We won’t meet again.’
‘And you’ll be somewhere safe in case anything goes wrong.’
‘Nothing will go wrong, you’ll make sure of that. You’ve got Nasim too. He can be trusted. He’s one of ours.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Our assets.’ Lona tilted her head. ‘The UK’s assets.’
Silva had it then. ‘You’re not with Fairchild, are you?’
‘No, of course not. I work for Simeon Weiss. I was placed in Fairchild’s organisation to watch over him, to make sure he did as he was told.’
‘You can tell Mr Weiss I’m not happy at being duped like this.’
‘Simeon has no regard for you emotional well-being.’ Lona paused and smiled. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small envelope. ‘However, he did ask me to give you this. He called it a reward.’
‘What?’ Silva watched as Lona ripped the envelope open and extracted a photograph. The image was one Silva had seen before: Karen Hope and two men at the villa in Italy. One was Latif, the other unidentified. ‘This is nothing new.’
‘No, but the information that goes with it is.’ Lona passed the photograph across. ‘The other man is known as Taher. He’s the terrorist who planned and carried out your mother’s killing.’
‘And how is that a reward?’
‘Taher will be at the farm tomorrow.’ Lona shrugged. ‘Two birds, one stone, right?’
With that, Lona was gone.
‘This bloody stinks,’ Itchy said. He gestured after Lona. ‘She’s setting us up for something. One phone call by Mr Taxi out there and we could be in the hands of this Taher and his mates. Next thing there’s a video on the evening news and then…’ Itchy drew a finger across his throat. ‘Schlick!’
‘Lona’s on our side, remember?’ Silva said. She looked at the photograph and wondered not about Taher, but Simeon Weiss. What his endgame was and how he’d managed to play her at every turn.
‘I don’t trust any of them.’
‘Neither do I but now we’re here we don’t have much choice.’
Nasim came through from the rear of the house. ‘You eat. Now, please.’
In a rear living room a low table had been set out with food. Large round flatbreads, slices of meat, a bowl of couscous garnished with slices of red pepper, some triangular pastries that looked similar to samosas.
Nasim left and they sat on cushions to eat.
‘Looks great,’ Silva said. ‘He’d hardly prepare all this if he intended to shop us, would he?’
‘He’s fattening us up,’ Itchy said, piling stuff into a bowl.
‘Well, as a last meal you can’t complain.’
Later, Nasim cleared away and Silva and Itchy went to their rooms. Itchy said something about taking it in turns to stand guard, but Silva disagreed. They were getting up before dawn and she wanted all the sleep she could have.
‘See you in the morning, then,’ Itchy said. ‘Fingers crossed.’
Holm and Javed took a Lufthansa scheduled flight from Heathrow to Tunis. They were, Holm thought as they landed at Carthage International, woefully ill-equipped. He’d managed to blag a satellite phone, but they had no weapons, no surveillance gear, and no cover documents. They were relying entirely on Palmer’s promise to provide in-country support should things go wrong.
Once they’d negotiated passport control, they hired a car and drove the short distance down the coast to their destination. Holm had been rather pleased with himself in that he’d managed to book a couple of rooms in a hotel on the seafront using a TripAdvisor app on his phone.
‘A couple of rooms?’ Javed said. ‘That’s our cover blown.’
Al Hammamet sat some twenty miles south of Tunis on a curve of sandy coastline. A jumble of white buildings surrounded a marina complex, and away from the coast the land stretched away, pan flat. There were hotels and plazas and, despite the terror attacks, a good smattering of tourists.
They checked in to the hotel and Javed opened his marine traffic app. The Angelo was three quarters of the way across the Med from Naples and looked as if it would arrive at some point in the evening.
‘Let’s take a recce,’ Holm said. ‘And get something to eat.’
‘Maybe a club later?’ Javed said. He puckered his lips and kissed the air. ‘Just to embellish our cover story?’
‘Fuck off.’
They strolled towards the marina area, past restaurants where staff attempted to entice them in.
‘How the hell can a boat as big as the Angelo fit in here?’ Holm said. As they approached the marina he could see an array of small yachts, but nothing approaching the size of the Angelo.
‘There.’ Javed pointed beyond the masts to where a breakwater provided protection from the open sea. Several large motor cruisers were berthed on the marina side. ‘Those probably belong to some of the guests coming to the fundraiser.’
Holm turned his head. South of the marina a swathe of beach ran down the coast as far as the eye could see. Hotels lined the waterfront for a mile or so. A quiet and secluded spot for smuggling it was not. Plus they’d seen a good number of soldiers patrolling the streets, presumably there to reassure the tourists.
‘This is too public,’ Holm said. ‘How are they going to get the weapons ashore?’
‘Marine parts, remember?’ Javed gestured across to where a large white van had parked near one of the cruisers. ‘These boats require all manner of servicing. A few crates offloaded won’t seem suspicious.’
‘Let’s pray you’re right.’
They went for a stroll down the strip. Holm ducked into a minimarket and purchased a couple of bottles of water and some snacks in case they needed them later. The light eased away as dusk fell and the resort was transformed. Coloured lights flickered on and strobes flashed from several bars. There was a heavy thump thump thump of a bassline as an eager DJ began to play tunes to lure customers into his establishment. When they returned to the marina the place was lit up like a Christmas tree, and several of the motor cruisers had underwater lights that illuminated the water surrounding them. There were dozens of soldiers, and several police officers had set up a checkpoint at the entrance. On the far side of the marina a large white boat was making sternway into an alongside berth. Crew in smart uniforms threw ropes and marina staff made the craft secure.
‘We’re on,’ Holm said. ‘The Angelo.’
He found a restaurant which offered a good view of the Angelo while Javed fetched the car and parked it close by. Holm ordered food and drinks, and when Javed returned he pushed a Coke over to him.
‘Now we wait,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so, boss.’ Javed took a quick sip of his drink and nodded towards the Angelo. ‘Look, action.’
A series of deck lights had come on and the white van they’d seen earlier had pulled up close by. A derrick on the quayside swung its arm over the boat and hoisted a large wooden crate from the deck.
‘The weapons,’ Holm said. He began to rise. They needed to get to the car. ‘Now all we have to do is follow them to Taher.’
‘Hang on.’ Javed’s gaze went to a smart yellow SUV parked alongside the van. ‘There’s something else happening.’
An electric passerelle slid out from the side of the boat; in the shadows Holm could see a woman waiting on the deck as a member of the crew carried two bags down the passerelle and loaded them into the back of the SUV.
‘That’s…’ Holm could hardly believe his eyes. He blinked, wondering if he needed glasses. Before he could speak the woman had walked down the passerelle and moved across to the car. One of the crew opened the door for her and she got in. The vehicle slipped away down the quayside, the white van following close behind. ‘I wasn’t expecting her to be mixed up in this.’
‘Who, boss?’ Javed said. ‘I didn’t see.’
‘Karen Hope,’ Holm said, grabbing a handful of banknotes from his pocket and shoving them on the table. ‘Brandon Hope’s sister and the next president of the United States of America.’
The yellow SUV cruised out of the marina gate with the van behind. Holm and Javed raced for their car and followed at a distance.
‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Holm said as they cruised down the main strip.
‘Brandon’s hosting a charity event, remember?’ Javed nodded forward. ‘Having his sister come along would certainly encourage guests to part with their cash. He’s probably sold the seats at her table. Ten K to share a Pot Noodle with a future president.’
‘But she’s no longer at the charity event. She’s in a convoy with a van containing a stack of smuggled weapons. Explain that, Farakh.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t know what’s in the crate.’
‘Of course she doesn’t know what’s in the crate.’
They were leaving al Hammamet now, passing the last of the hotels on their right. Holm concentrated on following at a reasonable distance, trying to banish a niggling thought from his mind: what if Karen Hope did know what was in the crate?
They headed south for a few miles, hugging the coast before turning inland into what seemed to Holm to be wilderness. In the darkness there was only the intermittent flash of oncoming headlights and the occasional glimmer from a settlement off in the distance.
They drove for several hours, the road surface deteriorating until finally tarmac gave way to gravel. Ahead, the mini convoy continued to forge into the night and Holm was forced to stay well back and drive on dipped headlights. He grudgingly admitted to Javed that they could have done with his tracking device.
Javed nodded while reading a map on his phone. His finger hovered over the screen.
‘Algeria,’ he said. ‘Just a few miles to the border.’
‘Shit.’ Holm glanced down. ‘If they cross then we’re done. This is dangerous enough as it is.’
His worries were ended when a few minutes later the SUV and the van turned off the road and headed up a rough track. Holm slowed the car to a stop and wound down the window. Off to the right, red tail lights were disappearing up a rising escarpment. Some kind of settlement sat on the ridge, silhouetted against a sky burning with a million stars.
Holm got out and after a moment so did Javed. He came round the car, stood next to Holm and peered into the blackness.
‘Before you ask,’ Holm said. ‘I have no bloody idea what Karen Hope is doing up there.’