The Sanction

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Back to the lodge?’ Silva said.

  ‘No.’ Gavin stared through the windscreen into the darkness. ‘I’ve got specific instructions. We’re to rendezvous with Lona near Salerno. Then we’ll drive north to Florence where there’s a private airfield.’

  ‘What about Brindisi?’

  ‘It’s way too risky coming back into the UK on a scheduled flight. This way you’ll be pre-cleared. It’s unlikely there will be anyone to check you when you land. Here.’ Gavin took one hand off the wheel and reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘This is the place. If anything should happen, get to the airfield.’

  ‘If anything should happen?’ Silva took the card. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Standard procedure, isn’t it? A backup plan?’

  ‘Mate,’ Itchy said, ‘we wouldn’t have needed a backup plan if you’d stayed calm.’

  For a moment Gavin concentrated on the road ahead. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I got carried away with the operation.’

  Silva said nothing. When someone got carried away things went wrong. That’s how it worked in the army. That’s why you obeyed orders, did your bit, but no more.

  It took them an hour of tortuous driving along tiny roads and tracks to get to the rendezvous point, and it was close to midnight when Gavin pulled into a lay-by behind a red sports car. He dimmed the lights on the van.

  ‘Lona,’ he said.

  * * *

  Javed expressed his disappointment when Holm said there’d be no Italian meal.

  ‘We’re going to sit here and watch the boat,’ Holm said. ‘After driving all this way I’m not going to give up so easily. We’ll stay all night if necessary. If Kowlowski leaves with the container, we’ll follow him.’

  The refugees were processed and taken away in a couple of coaches. The police and customs officers left and several of the Angelo’s crew disembarked. An array of sodium lights bathed the empty dockside in orange.

  ‘This is a waste of time, boss,’ Javed said. ‘We could have been on our second bottle of Chianti by now, bellies nicely full with pasta, the prospect of some delicious gelato ahead.’

  ‘This isn’t a culinary tour,’ Holm said.

  ‘More’s the pity. Do you think old Huxtable would let us take a couple of days off? See Naples and die?’

  ‘If Huxtable finds out you’ve been gallivanting on taxpayers’ money, you will see Naples and die.’

  ‘Whatever. It would be better than going straight back to—’

  ‘Stop.’ Holm held up his hand and pointed at the ship. ‘Look, some more people are leaving the boat.’

  The captain of the Angelo – a tall figure in a smart uniform, a cap on his head – led two men down the gangway. In the dark it was hard to make out their faces, but Holm was sure one had a full beard. They stood on the quayside and raised voices drifted in the night air. Broken English from the captain. He gestured first to one side and then the other. A shrug which said there was nothing he could do. Holm caught snippets of the conversation. There’d been a change of plan, the captain announced. Many police. Helicopters. Way too risky. The meeting was off. They’d proceed directly to the UK.

  The two men stepped away from the captain and conferred for a moment before following him along the dock to where a shadow stood beneath one of the floodlights, a cigarette in his hand.

  ‘That’s Kowlowski,’ Javed said. ‘The truck driver.’

  ‘Just so,’ Holm said.

  As they approached Kowlowski, the truck driver stuck out a hand and greeted the captain. He nodded towards the two men. As one of the men turned, the light from overhead swept his face.

  ‘Christ,’ Holm said. ‘That’s Latif. The guy from the cafe attack in Tunisia.’

  ‘Mohid Latif? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m bloody sure.’

  Kowlowski gestured to his lorry. The vehicle sat by a vast warehouse and it was hard to discern what was going on, but Holm heard the scrape of metal on metal.

  ‘They getting into the container,’ Javed said. ‘You were right. How did you know?’

  ‘A hunch, lad.’ Holm turned to Javed and winked. ‘And if we’d been in a restaurant eating gelato we’ve never have seen this.’

  ‘Are we going to stop them?’

  ‘On what grounds and by what authority? We have no jurisdiction here and no evidence either.’

  ‘So what the hell are we going to do?’

  Holm nodded at the dashboard and tapped the steering wheel. ‘Drive,’ he said.

  * * *

  In the shadows the door of the car clicked open and a figure got out. No glamour this time, no friendly greeting. Just jeans and a jogging top and an angry glare. Lona walked across and stood by the passenger door to the van.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’ Lona said. ‘You’re supposed to be one of the best shots in the world.’

  ‘Is the woman badly hurt?’

  ‘Yes. As I understand it she’s in a hospital in Naples. Haddad is sending a team of doctors from Saudi. The bullet hit her in the chest close to her heart. It’s touch and go.’

  ‘And the boy? Is he all right?’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Brandon’s son.’

  ‘Oh, him. He’s fine,’ Lona said dismissively. ‘You, on the other hand, you’re in some serious—’

  ‘It wasn’t Rebecca’s fault,’ Gavin said. Despite his size and muscles he tensed as Lona turned to him. ‘I pulled the trigger. I shot Lashirah.’

  ‘You?’ Lona was open mouthed for a moment. ‘How this can be any more fucked up, I don’t know.’

  ‘Ms da Silva wouldn’t take the shot because Karen Hope was holding the boy in his arms.’

  ‘She wouldn’t—?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Silva said. ‘Got a problem with that?’

  ‘I haven’t got a problem with anything, but Hope’s still alive and that is a problem.’

  ‘Tactically it was wrong to take the shot. The risk was too high. If I’d hit the boy then I’d have missed my chance for good.’

  ‘Fuck tactics, strategically we’re stuffed. How easy do you think it will be to set up another operation now Hope’s been forewarned? She’ll be whisked away from here and her security will be tightened. We won’t stand a chance of getting close again.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We’re done.’

  ‘I’ll need to speak with my boss and see what he says.’

  ‘He can say what he likes, I said we’re done.’

  ‘Sure.’ Lona appeared not to have heard. She pulled out a phone. ‘I’m going to call him now. Don’t go anywhere.’

  Silva looked across at Itchy as Lona walked away. He shrugged and lay back in the seat and closed his eyes. Which was exactly what she felt like doing. The adrenalin from before had gone and now there was only an emptiness in her stomach. She wanted to sleep it off and go home. Fill her postbag, walk the round and deliver some mail. Forget about Hope.

  ‘You two, out.’ Lona had returned. She gestured at Silva and Itchy. ‘Take my car and drive to the airfield. Gavin and I will dump the gear in the van and make our own way back to the UK. Mr Fairchild will contact you when you get there.’

  Silva nodded and she and Itchy retrieved their bags from the back of the van.

  ‘The weapons and ammo?’ Silva said. ‘My fingerprints are all over the rifle.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure there’s no evidence left behind.’ Lona pointed at the car. ‘Now go.’

  And that was it. Silva glanced back at Gavin but he could only offer a shrug. Then they were in the car, Silva climbing behind the wheel and starting up, the headlights sweeping the sky as they pulled away.

  ‘Fuck,’ Itchy said, punching the dash. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They drove through the night, stopping every couple of hours to swap over. As the sky lightened in the east, they were on a motorway an hour from Flore
nce.

  ‘We need to eat,’ Silva said, taking an exit to a small service station. ‘And other things.’

  ‘You’re growing soft.’ Itchy laughed. ‘You used to carry a funnel and a bottle in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Well I haven’t got either and this isn’t Afghanistan.’

  The services sold coffee and a few pastries and not much else. They ordered using the smattering of Italian they’d picked up from Gavin and returned to the car where they found a police motorcyclist had parked alongside and was now peering in the driver’s window. After a short debate as to whether they should run for it, they approached the car.

  ‘Hello?’ Silva said.

  The police officer looked up. ‘American?’

  ‘English. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Identification, please.’ The officer stepped back. His eyes flicked sideways to the cafe.

  Silva tried not to panic. This was a routine stop. The officer was more interested in getting his breakfast than making an arrest.

  She unlocked the car and found her fake passport. Itchy did the same. There was a folder containing driving documents in the glove compartment. The only issue was a driving licence. Silva hadn’t expected to be driving, and anyway her own genuine licence would have been useless alongside the fake passport.

  The officer took a cursory look at the passports and then turned his attention to the other documents. There was a wad of material from the hire car company. Insurance, warranty, breakdown cover. He leafed through several pages and nodded before handing it all back.

  ‘Si. Good. Now your licence, please.’

  Shit. She considered the options. Fight or flight. Either meant they would become fugitives in a foreign country. There was another alternative. Bluff.

  ‘Yes.’ Silva bent to the car again before recoiling and raising her hands to her face. ‘Oh no! My handbag! I must have left it at the last place we stopped.’

  ‘Your driving licence.’ The officer appeared not to have understood.

  ‘It’s in my bag.’ Silva tapped herself on the head and turned and pointed down the road. ‘It’s back there. How stupid.’

  ‘Where did you stop, please?’

  ‘Miles down the motorway. Ages ago.’ Silva scrunched her eyes up and willed tears. ‘Oh God, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Itchy. He had his passport in his hand and sandwiched in the pages were several fifty-euro notes. He held the passport out to the policeman. ‘Perhaps you could just check my documents again. We can be on our way and you can get yourself a nice breakfast.’

  Silva held her breath. Time seemed to stop for several seconds before the officer turned and a smile washed onto his face as his gaze alighted on the passport. He reached out and a finger and thumb closed on the notes. He pulled his hand back and the notes disappeared into a pocket.

  ‘Si, si. All good.’ He began to walk away but then turned and looked back. ‘Drive safe.’

  The officer strolled off towards the services and Silva let out a low whistle.

  ‘Jesus, Itchy,’ she said. ‘That was risking it.’

  ‘Nah, easy.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.’

  Silva tried to keep her speed down as they drove up the motorway and half an hour later she took a turning signposted towards the airfield. They drove across flat countryside populated with vineyards. They passed through a village with nothing more than a garage and a cafe. Several old men sat drinking their morning espressos, faces like walnuts, heads turning to follow the car as if they’d never seen one before.

  The airfield appeared on their right. A small terminal building was all glass and steel and a runway stretched into the distance, the concrete surface shimmering in the heat. To one side a succession of light aircraft were parked on a huge apron, while a number of maintenance hangers sat up against the boundary fence.

  They slotted the car into a space in the car park, pulled out their bags and walked to the terminal.

  Inside there was a single desk in the entrance foyer. Flowers and cool air. A woman with a smile walking from behind a desk to greet them.

  ‘Rachel and Steve, right?’ The woman was using the names on their false passports. She continued in perfect English. ‘Your aircraft arrived half an hour ago and is being prepped. If you’d like to come through to the lounge I can serve you refreshments.’

  ‘How—?’ Silva tried to prevent her jaw from hitting the floor.

  ‘Mr Fairchild informed us you would be arriving this morning. The flight plan was short notice, but we are well used to dealing with VIP customers here.’

  ‘VIP…?’ Itchy appeared to be equally gobsmacked as they followed the woman through to the lounge.

  Several sofas faced a huge window which looked out across the runway. A small jet stood to one side, a fuel hose snaking to one wing from a bowser. Before Silva had a chance to admire the jet, a waiter approached and asked them if they would like coffee and something to eat. Silva nodded dumbly and slipped over to the sofas.

  If either the waiter or the receptionist were surprised at Silva and Itchy’s somewhat dishevelled appearance, they didn’t show it.

  ‘The other half, hey?’ Itchy dropped into an armchair. ‘Only it isn’t the other half, is it? More like the one per cent.’

  ‘Your passports, please?’ The receptionist seemed to be doubling as security. ‘Only a formality.’

  Silva produced her passport, Itchy the same. The inspection was cursory at best and the receptionist gave them another big smile and wished them an enjoyable onward journey.

  Two coffees appeared but they’d barely started them when a steward came in through a door which led airside.

  ‘Rachel and Steve?’ he said, making a small bowing motion as he approached. ‘We’re ready to depart, but you can finish your coffees if you’d like.’

  ‘No, we’re keen to be off,’ Silva said. ‘What do you say Itch— er, Steve?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s go,’ Itchy said.

  The steward picked up their bags. ‘If you’d come this way, please.’

  They went through the door and out onto the concrete. The steward took them across to the jet. Boarding steps led up to the cabin door and, as they climbed the steps, the pilot appeared from within.

  ‘Mr Fairchild sends his compliments.’ The pilot ushered them into the cabin, Itchy having to stoop slightly. ‘It you take your seats we’re cleared to take off in a couple of minutes.’

  The interior was tiny. Just eight seats in total arranged four either side of a narrow aisle. As Silva buckled herself in, she could see up front to the flight deck. The pilot was flicking some switches while the co-pilot read from a checklist. The steward stepped aboard and pulled the cabin door closed. He settled into a seat at one end as the engines whirred into life. Silva felt a burst of acceleration, and the plane zipped down the runway and soared into the air. The countryside fell away, vineyards and cornfields and the sparkling blue of a huge lake. The aircraft banked to the right and headed north-west. Half an hour or so later they were passing over the Alps and Silva allowed herself a small sigh of relief. The next possible issue would arise when they landed.

  She needn’t have worried. The steward explained that flight and passenger details had already being filed and it was unlikely there would be any sort of check. He was right, and when they landed at Biggin Hill two hours later a car was waiting for them as they left the aircraft and they were whisked away, headed for Heathrow and the car park where they’d left their motorbikes. By mid-afternoon they were on their bikes and bound for the West Country.

  * * *

  They stopped for fuel at a motorway service station a little way past Bristol and bought food and drinks. They sat at a table by a window and Silva gazed out, waiting for her coffee to cool. The annual late-summer exodus to Devon and Cornwall was in full swing and the car park was rammed with tourists. Vehicles packed with luggage and jaded children. Surfboards and canoes strapp
ed to roof racks. Everything seemed so mundane and ordinary after the turmoil of the last few days. Everything except an unusual black BMW with smoked windows that was parked alongside their motorbikes.

  ‘Ms da Silva!’ Simeon Weiss eased himself down into a seat alongside Itchy. He adjusted his glasses. ‘And Mr Richard Smith. This is a nice surprise.’

  ‘Is it?’ Silva turned. The female lackey who she’d seen before hovered close by. ‘Or is this harassment?’

  ‘Not at all. We were just passing.’ Weiss turned to the woman and she nodded at him. ‘But you might say this is a fortuitous meeting. You see, things have happened, Rebecca. Events, you might say. I think it would be a good idea if we had a little chat.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What you’ve been up to.’ Weiss cocked his head towards Itchy. ‘What you’ve both been up to.’

  ‘Riddles don’t do it for me, Mr Weiss.’ Silva bent to her coffee. Tried to catch Itchy’s attention. ‘Perhaps you could be more specific?’

  ‘The Italian Job. You know the movie? Turns out real life is similar. The crooks almost get away with the crime, but not quite.’

  ‘No idea what you’re on about, mate.’ Itchy coughed out the denial. ‘We’ve been on holiday in Wales.’

  ‘Wales?’ Weiss looked incredulous. ‘What sort of holiday destination is that?’

  ‘Snowdonia.’ Itchy was continuing with the alibi they’d come up with but the words were coming out as if he was reading from a script. ‘Camping.’

  ‘Camping?’ Weiss raised an eyebrow. ‘What, you mean tea in plastic mugs, corned beef hash and ten quid a night for one dodgy shower and a stinking toilet block?’

  ‘No, not on a site. Up high. Wild camping.’ Itchy was warming to the task but Silva wanted him to stop. ‘We did the Carnedds and Tryfan and—’

  ‘You and Ms da Silva cosying up together in little tent?’ Weiss smiled. ‘Only I thought you were married, Richard. Playing away, were you?’

  ‘We were practising,’ Silva said, taking over. ‘For a race.’

  ‘I see.’ Weiss bit his lip as if weighing the truth was a challenge. Finally he nodded. ‘So you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the Amalfi sanction?’