Holm and Javed arrived back in the UK in the early hours of the next morning. An MI5 detail met them at Heathrow and they were ferried into central London in the back of a windowless van. As the van’s doors opened and they climbed out into the underground car park beneath Thames House, Javed looked across at Holm for reassurance.
‘It’ll be OK, lad,’ Holm said. ‘We’re on the right side.’
His words, he knew, were rubbish. There was no right side, only the winning one, and the victor had yet to be decided.
Huxtable met them as they emerged from the lift.
‘Stephen, Farakh,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re both in one piece, but what a mess, hey?’
Holm nodded. Wondered if she was glad they were in one piece because it would mean she had more to tear apart when she got to work on them.
They stopped off in the situation room where chaos was emblazoned across a dozen screens. Every TV channel was covering the Karen Hope story, whether live from Tunisia, live from the Capitol or live from the Hope family home in Louisiana. Details were sketchy but so far the story was that Hope had been kidnapped by terrorists while attending a fundraising party on her brother’s boat. A British agent had died trying to rescue her, but questions were already being asked: where was her own security detail? What was she doing in such a hotspot as Tunisia in the first place, and how on earth was the US going to recover from this tragedy?
Upstairs, alone with Huxtable in her office, Holm gave a summary of what had happened, starting with his decision to go after Taher and finishing with the death of Karen Hope and Martin Palmer. That done, he tried to absolve Javed from any responsibility.
‘The boy,’ Holm said. ‘He did what I said. Whatever punishment is coming should be for me only.’
‘He knows secrets,’ Huxtable said. ‘Big secrets.’
‘And he’ll keep them, ma’am. Just as I will.’
‘Whatever the truth, the story for now is that Karen Hope died a hero, understand? British intelligence, fortuitously, were there to try and save her, but we failed. Palmer will get some kind of posthumous award no doubt.’
‘He was a traitor.’
‘A traitor is someone who goes over to the other side. Palmer was on a team of one.’
‘He fooled me completely,’ Holm said. ‘No wonder we couldn’t catch Taher.’
‘Palmer was MI6’s liaison officer within JTAC and had access to material from across the intelligence spectrum. That made it easy for him to prewarn the terrorists.’
‘Did you know?’
‘Not the name, no, but there were too many occasions when operations failed to produce results. Did you really think I shut you in that cupboard out of some form of spite?’ Huxtable sat back in her chair, as if disappointed Holm hadn’t worked it out himself. ‘I instigated the whole thing.’
‘I…’ Holm hadn’t seen that coming. ‘You set me up? The tweet? The codes? Everything?’
‘I was a little surprised you fell for it, actually.’ Huxtable smiled. ‘But in the end you did well.’
‘The one-time pad? That was you?’
‘I wanted to make sure the pointer to Western was absolutely secure. I have to say I thought it was rather clever.’
‘Suppose Farakh had missed the tweet? Suppose he hadn’t understood its significance?’
‘No chance of that. Farakh Javed is a bright young man. Anyone else reading the first tweet wouldn’t have had a clue and, even if they had, the contents of the second tweet were in an uncrackable code.’
‘Wouldn’t it have just been easier to tell me?’
‘Not really. Say, for instance you had been the mole. Then you’d have known I knew. I also wanted you to work discreetly, and I was pretty sure you’d try to keep your hunt for Taher hidden from me as well as everyone else.’
‘Right.’ Holm conceded the point. ‘But who put you on to Ben Western and SeaPak in the first place?’
‘Jawad al Haddad’s young wife, Deema. We recruited her years ago when she was at boarding school here and she’s been feeding information to us ever since she was forced into the marriage with Haddad. The intelligence she provided has been limited to bits and pieces she managed to overhear, but one such snippet was the name Western in connection with Taher. However, there was no context until a flag came up a few weeks ago about a man of the same name going missing in Suffolk. The Western case seemed to me to be a long shot, but I backed you to discover if there was anything in it.’
‘And Karen Hope?’ Holm leaned forward and, without thinking, dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘She was in cahoots with Taher, ma’am.’
‘We don’t need to explore that aspect, Stephen. Not for now. To be honest I haven’t got my head round everything yet, but we’ll see how things pan out. Take it from there.’
‘What about the sniper? Palmer seemed to think Hope was killed by the people who rescued us, but they were British so it doesn’t seem likely.’
‘You didn’t speak with them?’
‘Only briefly. They gave us a lift back to our car and then high-tailed it.’
‘Need to know, Stephen.’ Huxtable tapped her nose with a finger. ‘You know the why and the when. You don’t need to know the who.’
‘This was officially sanctioned, wasn’t it?’ Holm realised the question was one he should never have asked so he avoided her gaze. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘In the next few days Thomas Gillan will be tending his resignation. Ostensibly he’s going for personal reasons, but in reality his departure is down to a misinterpretation of instructions from the cabinet secretary and the national security adviser.’
‘They’re passing the buck.’
‘Put it this way, Thomas Gillan took one for the team, for the country. Something, I’m afraid, politicians almost never do.’
‘A hero, then.’
‘As much as anyone.’ Huxtable smiled. ‘As much as you and Farakh.’
‘Taher got away.’
‘Don’t be hard on yourself. Your friend in Suffolk is obtaining warrants for the arrests of the SeaPak manager Paul Henderson and several of the Excelsior’s crew, and our Italian colleagues are awaiting the arrival of the Angelo in Naples. In addition to stopping the smuggling we flushed out Palmer, and with a bit of pressure the Saudis will remove Jawad al Haddad from the scene, meaning another source of funding for the terrorists will be cut. Catching Taher was always going to be a big ask, but we will get him.’
‘We?’ It was Holm’s turn to give Huxtable a wry smile.
‘Yes, Stephen.’ Huxtable tapped the desk signalling the meeting was over. ‘We.’
Silva and Itchy returned in the private jet. They were met by Simeon Weiss, and he whisked them away from the airport and off to Matthew Fairchild’s place. After food and rest and some medical attention to Itchy’s leg – which turned out to be a nasty flesh wound but no worse – Weiss conducted an initial debrief and gave them cover stories for their periods of absence in Italy and Tunisia. There was ample evidence to show they’d been in Wales on both occasions, he said. Somebody remembered seeing them on the slopes of Snowdon. There was CCTV footage of Itchy buying bread and milk in a shop in Betws-y-coed. A traffic camera on the A5 had caught Silva breaking the speed limit. A fine would be arriving in the post.
‘Pity about the weather though,’ Weiss said, winking.
Fairchild was the perfect host over the next couple of days but it felt as if they were under house arrest. They couldn’t make calls out, although Fairchild told them Itchy’s wife and Silva’s father had been informed they were safe and well. Finally Weiss told Itchy he could leave but insisted Silva remain at the house for an additional debrief.
When Itchy had gone, Silva confronted Weiss.
‘What is this?’ she said. ‘Why can’t I go?’
‘Because I say so.’
Later she was shown into the large drawing room where Weiss hovered near a table, uncharacteristically nervous. He fiddled with some papers while one of Fairchild’s minions served her tea.
‘Well?’ Silva said after several minutes of silence.
‘We’re waiting for someone,’ Weiss said. ‘In the meantime I have been authorised to brief you further.’
‘You mean tell me a little more of the truth?’
‘Yes, if you want to put it like that.’ Weiss ducked his head an inch. ‘Your mother’s files have been anonymised. Which is to say, all trace she had anything to do with the photographs, the research, any of it, has been removed.’
‘But—’
‘Karen Hope was undoubtedly a crook, a fraud and a murderer. However, in very few jurisdictions does that give you the right to execute her without trial.’ Weiss lifted his shoulders in resignation. ‘If we were to give your mother the credit she deserves it would be simple for anyone to work out you must have been the sniper, both in Positano and in Tunisia.’
‘Some people know already.’
‘Knowing is not the same as having the evidence.’
‘They could still come after me. The US government. Haddad. Taher.’
‘When we release your mother’s material, which we will do shortly, the US will back off. Now Hope is dead, the rationale for any sort of coverup has gone. Haddad is likely to face trial in Saudia Arabia. The trial will be swift and the verdict is not in doubt. I imagine the punishment will be quite barbaric. As for Taher, well, we’re closing in on him.’
‘Right.’ Silva wasn’t convinced. ‘And what about the Hope family? Brandon and the father. Those kinds of dynasties tend to bear grudges.’
‘Brandon Hope has disappeared. If and when he surfaces he’ll have a lot of explaining to do.’
Could her worries be dismissed so easily? It was noticeable that at no point since she’d returned from Tunisia had she been offered any kind of protection. There’d been no talk of a new identity or of relocation.
‘One more thing – your motorbike.’ Weiss pulled a set of keys from his pocket and placed them on the table. ‘I had it brought here. It’s in Fairchild’s garage.’
‘So I can go now?’
‘In a bit.’ Weiss slipped over to the window and peered out. A chauffeured car was rolling down the driveway.
‘Who’s that?’ Silva craned her neck but Weiss stood blocking the view of the front steps. He turned and trotted to the door. As he reached it the door swung open, to reveal a woman standing there. Brown tweed. Glasses on a bony nose. Something like a character from an Agatha Christie novel.
‘My boss.’ Weiss almost seemed to bow his head in deference. ‘The new Director General of MI5. Fiona Huxtable.’
‘Ms da Silva.’ Huxtable’s hand was extended as she strode across the room. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
Silva shook Huxtable’s hand. If the title was supposed to impress her it hadn’t. If anything it had made her suspicious.
‘What’s this about?’ she said.
‘Loose ends,’ Huxtable said. She gestured to the chairs near the fireplace. Silva went across and sat while Huxtable perched on the edge of her chair like a bird. ‘I came here to thank you. You’ve done this country a great service, perhaps not just this country.’
‘You used us,’ Silva said. ‘We were pawns on the board.’
‘I don’t like the word used,’ Huxtable said. ‘Utilised is a better one. From what I understand we were running low on choices and you were the optimal bet. In a percentage game only a stubborn fool passes up the best chance of winning.’
‘I should have been told from the start.’
‘Look, Rebecca, I knew nothing of Simeon’s operation. The activities of the Special Accounts Unit are a mystery to everyone but the director of MI5.’ Huxtable shot Weiss a glance. ‘To say there’s been a lot to take in since I was appointed is a monumental understatement. To be honest I feel a little used myself.’
‘Your head isn’t on the line.’
‘Simeon assures me everything is being done to remove you from the picture. We’re all working to produce the best possible outcome, and that includes keeping your part in the operation under wraps.’ Huxtable’s lips slipped into a thin smile. ‘Sadly that means no wider recognition or thanks for your actions. You see, if for some unfortunate reason your part in the assassination came out we’d have to deny you completely.’
A cough came from over by the table. Weiss raised a fist to his mouth.
‘Thank you, Simeon.’ Huxtable glanced across and then back at Silva. ‘Do you understand what that means?’
‘It means you’ll kill me if I talk, right?’
‘The safety of the sixty million citizens of this country comes before the welfare of any single individual. There’s always a bigger picture.’
‘It’s a pity you lot didn’t see the bigger picture before you started selling arms to the Saudis.’
‘We did, Ms da Silva. The problem is, most of the time our masters don’t want to hear the truth. Politicians are cowards, basically. It’s people like you who have the bravery to act.’
‘Don’t patronise me. The army was my career, but I killed Hope because she murdered my mother, not through any desire to serve my country.’
‘We’re still grateful.’ Huxtable nodded at Weiss and he came across bearing a manila folder. He placed it on the coffee table. ‘And as a mark of our gratitude we’d like to offer you a position in Simeon’s outfit.’
‘What?’
‘We need people like you, Rebecca. People who have the skill and courage to carry out extraordinary missions that can’t—’
‘I don’t think so.’ Silva pushed the envelope across the table towards Huxtable. She stood. ‘If that’s it, then I’ll be off.’
Weiss moved swiftly, intercepting her as she reached the door.
‘Let her go, Simeon,’ Huxtable said. ‘She’ll come round, you’ll see.’
The arrogance in the statement almost made Silva turn and scream, but she composed herself and walked from the room.
Her father sat on the rickety chair at the end of the jetty. He appeared to have given up on the fly rod and now held a long pole in his hands. The fluorescent tip of a fishing float bobbed in the water beneath the end of the pole. As Silva placed a foot on the jetty her father spoke.
‘Stupid buggers.’ He lifted the pole, swung the float in, and examined the hook. ‘They’ve stolen the worm. I don’t know how Matthew managed to catch those trout. I get nothing or a measly gudgeon. Waste of money stocking the bloody lake.’
‘Hello, Dad.’ Silva removed her foot from the jetty and waited for her father to rise. ‘I’m back.’
‘So I see.’ Her father put the pole down and pushed himself up from the chair. Silva moved aside as he walked towards her. ‘Matthew called to let me know you’d be coming. Itchy all right?’
‘He’s fine. Richer. Then again he’s going to need the money with the kid on the way.’
‘A kid, eh? Boy or girl?’
‘Itchy wants a girl.’ Silva smiled to herself as her father frowned.
‘Right.’ They strolled up towards the terrace. The table had three glasses. Lemonade. Just like before. He gestured for Silva to sit. ‘We’ll have tea later.’
‘Will we?’
‘Yes. I’ve made some sandwiches.’
Silva pointed at the third glass. ‘Are we expecting a visitor?’
‘We are.’
‘Might I ask who it is?’
‘You’ll see presently.’
‘Aren’t you going to say anything? About what happened?’
‘There’s no need. Karen Hope is dead. It’s over. Job done.’
Job done.
She wondered if it was ‘job done’. If, now Hope was dead, she’d be able to return to some kind of normality. He father certainly seemed to have moved on. There were builders round the front of the house dealing with the damage from the fire and on the table she could see an index card with her father’s handwriting scrawled on it. ‘Housekeeper Wanted’, it said at the top. Poor Mrs Collins wasn’t long in the ground and he was already advertising for her replacement.
‘Job done and you’re home safe.’ He looked over at her for the briefest of moments and then turned away. ‘That’s what matters.’
‘Dad, I—’
‘Rebecca?’ A glass chinked and she was aware of her father pouring the lemonade. ‘Our guest is here.’
She looked up as a figure passed in front of the sun.
‘Becca?’ An American accent. A hint of Irish. Whiskey, wood smoke, coffee, peach.
‘Sean.’ Silva answered flatly as she stood.
‘I’m sorry.’ Sean gave a tentative smile, putting out feelers.
‘You told your boss about me and he shopped me to Mavers.’
‘My head of station knew nothing about what Mavers was up to. Obviously he briefed the ambassador and the deputy ambassador, and that unfortunately put Mavers on to you. After I’d talked to my boss I tried to contact you, but couldn’t. I was so worried.’
‘You were worried? Mavers was going to torture me.’ Silva looked away. ‘Jesus, Sean, I was so scared.’
‘Ahem.’ Silva’s father made a waving motion from the other side of the table. ‘I’ll leave you two alone, but I just want to say something about this young man.’
‘Really, sir, there’s no need.’ Sean bowed his head.
‘There is a need.’ Silva’s father looked across with a scowl. ‘Rebecca is stubborn and difficult. She won’t listen if you tell her.’
‘Tell me what?’ Silva said.
‘Sean saved my life and probably saved yours too.’
‘What on earth are you talking about? He nearly got me killed.’
‘Perhaps, but after he failed to contact you he came here. Luckily those bunglers hadn’t set the fire very well and it took a while to take hold. Even so, had he not turned up I’d have been fried.’
‘Sean?’
Sean nodded.
‘And,’ Silva’s father continued, ‘he did something else. When I told him Mavers was involved he suggested we check out the black site, guessing you might have been taken there. I got the information to Matthew and he was able to effect a rescue.’
‘Right.’
‘So an apology is due.’ Her father rose from the chair and patted Sean on the shoulder. Cast Silva a glance. ‘OK?’
As her father walked off, Sean stepped forward. Silva held up her hands.
‘I killed Hope,’ she said.
‘Is that hope with a capital H?’ Sean said. ‘Or are you playing with words?’
‘No games. I need to know if you can accept what I did.’
‘A week ago the answer would have been “no”, but now I’ve been fully briefed and know the truth, yes I can. Karen Hope didn’t offer any kind of hope. If she’d stood for president millions of people would have voted for her, but she was a con. Once elected she’d have been in the pocket of Haddad and the Saudis. US foreign policy would have been shot to pieces.’ Sean tilted his head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘And she killed my mother.’
‘That’s worst of all. In your situation I’d have played it exactly the same.’
‘Right.’
Silence for a beat and then a shrug from Sean.
‘So, are you going to give me a sit rep? Or is that information classified?’
‘The situation’s not great, to be honest. The terrorists are still out there, Haddad or his allies probably have a death squad after me, and what’s left of the Hope family will be seeking some kind of vengeance.’
‘Have you got protection?’
‘Nope.’
‘Doesn’t seem right after what you went through.’
‘They offered me a job. I guess it’s sort of carrot and stick. Take up their offer and stay safe, refuse and run the risk of getting popped.’
‘And are you going to take it?’
‘No.’ Silva gave a half smile. ‘Even though I am now unemployed.’
‘How come?’
‘I was sacked for taking too many days off. If only they knew.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Silva shrugged. ‘Stay here for a bit maybe. Help my dad with some stuff. See if Itchy needs a hand decorating his house.’
‘Doesn’t sound very edifying.’
‘After the last few weeks it’s exactly what I need.’
‘And when you’ve done helping and decorating?’
Silva didn’t answer. Was she really going to return to her boat, get another crap job, and just carry on with her life as if nothing had happened? That didn’t seem credible. What was the alternative though? Huxtable’s job offer was out, but perhaps Fairchild could find her something to do. Then again, did she want to join his band of mercenaries and get paid for being shot at? Probably not.
‘What about your side of things?’ she said.
‘All out damage control,’ Sean said. ‘The State Department are trying to placate our allies, while the Agency are coming to terms with the fact that they allowed this to happen in the first place. Operationally, Hope should never have been permitted to go off on her own in Tunisia, but the bigger issue is how she was ever allowed to rise to a position where she might become president. Of course the Agency isn’t allowed to operate inside the US, but somebody should have been feeding intelligence on Brandon Hope back to the Director of National Intelligence.’
‘And why weren’t they?’
‘Either nobody knew, which is bad enough, or somebody made the decision to keep quiet, which is worse. Heads will roll.’
‘And your own position?’
‘I hear I’m up for some internal commendation for helping to expose Mavers.’ Sean grinned. ‘What can I say? I’m just your average all American hero.’
‘Then I guess I’d better do as my dad said and apologise.’
Silence for a moment before Sean moved a step closer.
‘Rebecca?’ he said. ‘After all that’s gone on, I need to know where we are.’
‘We’re quits, that’s where we are. Same as before. No better no worse.’
‘And what about the future?’
Silva smiled at Sean as she reached for a glass of lemonade. ‘Let’s just say I’m thinking about it, OK?’