Silva didn’t sleep much. There was some kind of festival taking place in the town, and car horns sounded throughout the night. There were fireworks too, the first of which brought Itchy scampering into her room, half asleep, almost as if he was suffering from combat stress.
It was still dark when Nasim tapped on the door.
‘OK we go in thirty minutes, yes?’
Silva shouted out an acknowledgement and got up and washed. Nasim had packed breakfast in a basket and they ate as they cruised out of the town and onto a dirt road. The town sat on the edge of a desert plain, and as they left the last house behind the sun slipped over the horizon, illuminating a landscape of reddish-brown rock and low hills, a sea of sand dunes in the distance.
‘One hour.’ Nasim held up a single finger. ‘Then we there.’
Silva recalled Itchy’s words of the previous night: This bloody stinks. He was right. They had no idea where they were going, no idea of the terrain or the distance or anything. All they knew was Hope was supposed to be at their destination. She prayed that part was true and this time she could put an end to it all.
Nasim was as good as his word; at six they edged along a track that rose up the side of a stony hill. He stopped the Land Cruiser before they reached the top, wrenched on the handbrake, turned and nodded. No words were necessary. They were here.
Silva and Itchy climbed out and moved up the track towards the summit where a rocky outcrop cast a long shadow in the low morning sun. Over the crest the ground fell away to a deep ravine and on the far side of the chasm lay something like an oasis: a grove of ancient olive trees surrounding a number of buildings. Beyond the buildings a vast plateau spread into the distance and more olive trees marched in rows to the horizon.
They crouched next to a boulder and Silva noted the sun would swing round to their right, but never get behind them. She looked at the ground nearby where a few pieces of greenery sprouted from dry soil. She could lie there but they might need to rig some kind of camouflage screen. She peered through the low glare to the farm. Several buildings sat together but the biggest was obviously the farmhouse. There was a large white van and a yellow SUV parked on one side of the walled complex. She turned to Itchy.
‘Three fifty.’ Itchy stretched out his hand and raised his thumb. ‘Tops.’
She’d guessed the same. Depending on exactly where Hope appeared, the shot was an easy one.
‘Let’s do it,’ Silva said.
An hour later and they were set. Itchy had the spotting scope out and had ranged the distance to be three hundred and thirty nine metres to the front of the farmhouse. The rifle was lying on a mat and they’d arranged a desert cammo net on a couple of poles in front of their position. Through her binoculars Silva could see a veranda to one side of the house. A couple of tables sat beneath a billowing canvas awning. She pointed it out to Itchy.
‘If Hope goes out there to eat or have something to drink it would be perfect.’
‘Killing al fresco,’ Itchy said, laughing at his own joke. ‘Assassination au naturel.’
Silva winced. The humour wasn’t appreciated. Not right now. She wanted Hope dead, but if it could be accomplished with a snap of her fingers she’d have taken that over having to sight through the scope and squeeze the trigger, wait a second and watch for the spray of blood as the bullet hit Karen Hope in the head.
They took it in turns to sit in the shade of the rocky outcrop while the other one kept watch. Itchy fiddled with a SIG pistol which had been in among the extensive array of equipment, while Nasim hovered near the car, the doors open for a quick getaway. If necessary they’d leave the gear behind; it was unlikely to fall into the hands of the authorities, not out here.
At a little after eight thirty, just when Itchy was beginning to annoy Silva with his constant shifting about, two men came out from the farmhouse, climbed into the white van and headed off down the track to the road. In the centre of the farmyard, previously hidden behind the van, stood an old pick-up truck. On the bed of the truck sat a large wooden crate.
‘That’s what we saw at RAF Wittering,’ Silva said. ‘Weapons from Allied American Armaments.’
‘Unbelievable.’ Itchy turned to Silva. ‘If you had any doubts, the crate should banish them.’
‘The only doubts I have are over the intel. There’s no sign of Hope, is there?’
‘The target’s in there.’ Nasim knelt behind them. He tapped a chunky fake Rolex on his wrist. ‘You patient, please.’
They resigned themselves to waiting, ate some more food and kept hydrated. The van had been gone an hour now and Silva was beginning to wonder if they’d been sold some kind of dummy. Perhaps Hope had got wind she was in danger and had sneaked out in the back of the van. Perhaps she’d never been here at all.
Silva tried to relax. She shifted her position and peered through the rifle scope. She had a clear view of the rear veranda; if Hope came out it was a relatively simple shot. If she came out.
‘What the…’ Itchy prodded her arm and pointed. ‘What the heck are they doing here?’
Halfway up the side of the ravine that cut below the farmhouse, two figures were scrabbling across a scree face, small pieces of stone skittering down as they attempted to stay upright. Silva reached for her binoculars.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘It’s the guys we saw at RAF Wittering.’
They’d kipped in the car, Holm having found another track running parallel to the one the van and the SUV had gone up. He reckoned they were well hidden from both the road and the settlement, but still the night was an uncomfortable one and neither he nor Javed had slept much. By six it was light and they could see the lie of the land. Fortuitously, they’d managed to park in a deep wadi that led in the general direction of what they could now see was a farmhouse with assorted buildings. Holm broke out the water and snacks and stood looking towards the farm. Karen Hope was up there. Karen Hope. Holm had to repeat the name to himself just to make sure he’d got it right and the whole thing hadn’t been a bad dream.
‘Now what?’ Javed said, munching on a dry flatbread.
‘We head up there.’ Holm gestured to the valley. ‘We need to get closer and we can’t very well go sauntering along the track.’
‘It’s like the Grand Canyon.’
‘Nonsense.’ Holm quickly judged the distance to the farm and the depth of the rift. ‘A mile along the bottom of the wadi and a short climb up. We’ll be totally out of sight all the time.’
‘And when we get to the top?’
‘We spot the weapons and see if Taher’s there. Then we call Palmer on the sat phone.’ Holm cocked his head. ‘You set?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
An hour and a half later Holm was regretting his earlier optimism. He’d seriously underestimated the amount of effort needed to navigate their chosen route. Low scrub filled the bottom of the wadi and every step was a fight against thorns and briars. Once they were through the scrub it was no better. The sun streamed in from the southern end of the ravine, leaving no shade, and the light shale reflected the glare into Holm’s face. The heat was intense. A few metres away, Javed was moving easily across the slope of the ravine, sure-footed and seemingly expending little effort, while Holm was struggling to stay upright as the loose rock shifted beneath his feet. He turned and looked to his left where the gradient steepened. At some point they needed to go up there and he was beginning to wonder if he’d have to admit to Javed he wasn’t going to make it.
Ahead, Javed stopped. A gully ran diagonally across the face of the slope before turning upwards and disappearing into the dark shadow of a series of rock pillars.
‘There, boss.’ Javed pointed to the top of the cliffs where a cluster of olive trees stood near the edge. ‘Those trees are close to the farm. If we can manage to get up the gully we’re home.’
Home. Bloody hell, Holm thought. That’s where he’d like to be right now. Miles Davis floating through the speakers, a glass of something in his hand, a cool breeze coming in through the balcony windows of his flat.
‘Right.’ He staggered along until he was next to Javed and peered up the gully. Jagged towers of rock offered something to hold on to and provided some welcome shade. ‘Of course if someone happens to be standing at the top we’ve had it.’
Javed shrugged. Self-evident. Nothing they could do. Go on or go back. He waited until Holm nodded and began to climb.
The going wasn’t too bad to start with, but when they reached the section below the cliff face Holm found himself struggling. The rocks had appeared chunky from below, but now they were up close the hand holds were no longer so obvious. At one point he looked back the way they’d come and regretted it. Climbing down now would be next to impossible.
‘You go first.’ Javed flattened himself against a large boulder to let Holm climb past. ‘I can guide your hands and feet.’
Holm stood with one hand jammed tight in a rock crack for support. Sweat ran down his face and his shirt was sodden. If he wasn’t shot at the top or didn’t fall to his death he figured he’d have a heart attack. He nodded at Javed again, unable to speak.
After a couple of minutes to get his breath back, Holm pressed on. One step at a time, one handhold at a time.
‘A foot up and a little to your right.’ Javed’s encouragement was gentle. ‘Just below your hip.’ A nudge or a suggestion every few seconds. ‘To the left of your shoulder there’s a small ledge, see it?’
Holm nodded or grunted his replies. He focused on the rock within his immediate reach, only once making the mistake of looking down again.
‘My God!’ They were much higher now. A virtually sheer face dropping away until it met the scree slope a long, long way below. Holm closed his eyes as vertigo snatched the last of his courage from him. He imagined dropping from the cliff and falling until he was pulverised on the boulders littering the bottom of the ravine. He clutched at the rock in front of him. Wondered, perversely, how Huxtable would spin the news coverage of his death.
Stephen Holm was on extended leave and taking a walking holiday in Tunisia… he was a valued member of JTAC but hadn’t been working in the field for several years… he will be missed greatly by his family and his many friends and colleagues…
‘Boss!’ Javed snapped him back into the present. ‘We can make it. Look up!’
Holm opened his eyes and craned his neck, expecting to see nothing but a sheer wall of unclimbable rock. Instead he saw a sloping boulder dappled with sun and shade. Above the boulder hung the branches of an olive tree. He thought of olives now. Olives and a crisp white wine. Perhaps, after this was all over, he’d return to Italy and rent a villa on the Amalfi Coast. Sit and watch the sea.
‘Right,’ he said, reaching for the next handhold and pulling himself up. In another couple of moves, his head crested the clifftop and he wriggled over and lay in the shade of the tree. ‘Thank God.’
Javed scrambled up and lay alongside him. For a moment they stayed still. Holm turned towards the farm. The little olive grove comprised half a dozen ancient trees. Each tree sat in a small depression and a black hose snaked between them. Water trickled from a hose end within arm’s reach. Holm crawled over and put the hose to his mouth and took a drink. Then he splashed water on his face before handing the hose to Javed.
As Javed drank, Holm turned to the farm again. A low wall separated the olive grove from the farm. Beyond, several buildings surrounded a yard. The farmhouse stood to one side and there was a veranda at the rear. He eased himself up. The yellow SUV was parked next to a pick-up truck and on the back of the pick-up was the crate they’d seen loaded into the white van.
‘The weapons,’ Javed said. ‘We need to call Palmer.’
‘Yes, but I want to see what’s going on in the farm first.’ Holm swung his gaze to the main building. ‘And find out what the hell Karen Hope is doing in there.’
Taher stood at the farmhouse window. On the far side of the room the future president of the United States of America sat at a small table eating breakfast.
‘We’re done,’ Karen Hope said. ‘You fulfilled your side of the deal and you’ve got the missiles and the money. Now we go our separate ways.’
‘You think you can just walk away from this?’ Taher turned from the window. Despite the large deposit sitting in his bank account, despite the missiles hiding in the loft space of his lock-up garage and the ones outside on the truck, he felt as if Hope had got the better of him. ‘Your hands are stained with blood too.’
‘It goes with the territory.’
‘Perhaps, but there’s always a price to pay, and I’m wondering, given the nature of the prize, if I wasn’t short-changed.’
‘Tough. You set the terms and I delivered.’ Hope reached for a glass of orange juice and took a sip. ‘My brother made a huge error of judgement and almost jeopardised my chance of becoming president. I don’t intend to let anything else get in my way.’ She slammed the glass down on the table and looked across at him. ‘Including you.’
‘Yes, but…’ From the corner of his eye Taher spotted something through the window. Someone.
He held a hand up to Hope, edged up to the opening and peered down. Two men lay prone by the wall in the olive grove. One was brown-skinned, with short black hair, not much more than a boy. The other was older and white, a few strands of grey hair on his head, flabby features. Taher had seen the man before in a dossier given to him by his contact in London.
‘MI5,’ he whispered to himself.
Hope pushed her chair back and stood. ‘Visitors?’
‘Yes.’ Taher moved back from the window and grabbed his AK-47 from where he’d propped it against the wall. He checked his Glock was secure in his shoulder holster and went to the door. ‘I’ll deal with them.’
Downstairs, he crept along the corridor which led to the veranda. A slit of light came through a narrow window. He peered out. The men were still there, hunched behind the stone wall. Neither looked armed.
Taher continued along the corridor. He stopped and listened before he stepped onto the veranda. Anybody approaching along the track would have triggered the PIR alarm, but the alarm was silent and apart from the wind there wasn’t a sound. By the state of these two they must have climbed up from the ravine. This was amateur hour.
Taher slipped out onto the veranda and across to the steps that led down to the olive grove. He moved silently until he was within a few feet of the men and then cleared his throat.
‘You’ve been after me, old man.’ Taher raised his gun as the two men scrabbled upright. ‘For a long time.’
‘Taher.’ The older man pushed himself up from the ground and beckoned his colleague to do the same. He didn’t appear to be surprised.
‘And now you’ve found me. Job done.’
‘I’m not finished yet,’ the man said. ‘Not until you’re behind bars.’
‘You’re out of touch. There are no bars these days. Missiles from the sky, helicopters bringing special forces – so much easier than all the legal problems imprisonment brings.’ Taher gestured towards the steps with the barrel of his gun. ‘And I’d welcome that. I wouldn’t want to rot in a prison wearing a hessian hood and an orange jumpsuit. Wouldn’t want to receive a daily waterboarding from my brave and fearless captors. No thanks. Give me martyrdom every time.’
‘A British prison,’ the man said. ‘We do things differently.’
Taher lunged at the man and grabbed him by the shoulder. He jerked him round and at the same time brought the butt of the gun up and smashed it into the white, sweaty face. The man staggered backwards and tripped. He went down hard.
‘You do things differently?’ Taher spat on the ground. ‘In the Iraq War my family was incinerated by a missile launched from a British ship by a British commander. A British prime minister gave the order to attack. Over the centuries you have decimated whole continents and then scuttled back home and ignored the mess you left behind.’
The younger man bent to help the older one. Taher waved his gun and gestured that they should climb the steps to the veranda.
‘It’s over, do you understand? We are in a new age now. No longer can you treat foreign policy like a game. There will be consequences to your actions.’
‘Problems?’ Hope slipped out of the door as they reached the veranda. Her gaze moved to the two men.
‘They’re from the UK.’ Taher had to keep himself from laughing. If this was the state of the country’s secret service it was no wonder they hadn’t had much success in catching him. ‘So-called British intelligence.’
‘You were expecting them?’ Hope’s eyes showed a flare of anger. She lowered her voice so the men couldn’t hear. ‘You should have warned me. You know I like to be informed of everything. Especially with Greg out of the picture.’
Taher grimaced. The deputy ambassador, along with two of his bodyguards, had been involved in a car accident a few days ago. It appeared Mavers had been drinking and had insisted on driving. The car had left a winding country road and ended up upside down in a river. There’d been no survivors. Taher didn’t buy the story, of course, but at this point the fate of Mavers was inconsequential. The man didn’t know the details of the smuggling route, didn’t know anything about Taher, and wasn’t much more than Hope’s well-paid lackey, someone who’d grovelled at her feet in expectation of a reward when she became president.
‘Greg told me the girl must have had high-level backup.’ Hope was speaking again, her voice harder and laced with anger. ‘So these two could have been part of the team that tried to kill me in Italy.’
‘It’s possible.’ Taher turned his head. The older man could barely stand. Blood ran from a cut above his left eye and he was breathing heavily. The younger man stood muscles taunt, like a cat about to pounce. Taher pulled out the Glock from his holster and handed it to Hope. ‘Cover them.’
A couple of lengths of nylon twine hung near the doorway, part of the rigging used to hold the sun awning in place. Taher pulled them off and told the men to face away from the house. In turn he wrenched their hands behind their backs and bound their wrists tightly together. That done, he stood and stared at the men. Wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now.
‘Remember what I said inside?’ Hope’s voice was not much more than a whisper, meant just for Taher’s ears. ‘About not letting anything stand in my way?’
‘Yes.’ Taher said. ‘What of it?’
‘Well, they’ve seen me, haven’t they?’ Hope was holding the weapon in both hands. There was a sheen of sweat on her face. ‘We can’t let them go.’
Hope’s tone was insistent and menacing, and he realised he was right not to have crossed this woman. She’d stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Even if that meant executing an old man and a boy in cold blood.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘We can’t.’