The Sanction

by Mark Sennen

  ‘That’s it.’ He stared to the west where a few minutes earlier the Saudi plane had disappeared into the night. ‘Weapons.’

  ‘In that crate?’ Javed stood. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A guess based on where we are and the nationality of that aircraft. Worse, it looks as if it’s officially sanctioned.’ Holm started to trudge along the side of the field and back towards the car. He felt deflated. If he took any of this to Huxtable she’d close him down. ‘Certainly somebody turned a blind eye or two. A nod and a wink. An agreement to brush a little dirt under the carpet.’

  ‘Even if you’re right, it was only one pallet.’

  ‘One pallet of what, and how often?’ They reached the car and Holm scraped the bottom of his shoes on the sidewall of the front tyre, trying to shift the mud. ‘Whatever, the pallet is going to Felixstowe. Next stop Naples via Rotterdam. We need to get to the port and liaise with the Border Force so they can open up the container.’ Holm got in the car and started up. Javed slipped in the passenger side. Holm slid the car from the field and drove to the main road. He filtered into the traffic. ‘Otherwise the crate is going to Italy where the Angelo will ship it across the Med.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Holm paused as he overtook a coach. ‘Can you get that shipping app up and take a look at past routes the boat has sailed?’

  ‘Yeah, one mo.’ Javed pulled out his phone. His fingers slid across the screen and he whistled. ‘It’s like a slug’s trail, criss-crossing the Med and looping back on itself, but since the Angelo has been rescuing people in distress, that figures.’

  ‘But there’s one place the boat’s gone to multiple times, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Javed turned his head, keeping the screen hidden from view. ‘Care to guess?’

  ‘I don’t need to guess, I know,’ Holm said. ‘Tunisia.’

  ‘The tourist resort of al Hammamet to be precise.’ Javed tapped his phone. ‘Huxtable. We have to tell her what we’ve discovered.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Holm hunched forward. There was a junction ahead and he needed to take the exit if they were going to Felixstowe to alert the Border Force. For a moment his hand hovered over the indicator stalk, but he didn’t flick it. He’d changed his mind. ‘We’re telling nobody, Farakh.’

  ‘You just told me they’re smuggling weapons, right? Well they’re sitting in the warehouse right now just waiting to be picked up. We’ve got to stop them.’

  ‘Remember the mole? If it becomes common knowledge we’ve discovered the smuggling operation then Taher will vanish into thin air just as he’s done numerous times before. The most important thing we can do is find out the ultimate destination for the weapons and hope Taher is involved at the other end.’

  ‘And how the hell are we going to do that?’

  Holm shrugged. ‘At the moment I haven’t a bloody clue.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Silva and Itchy took two rooms at a Travelodge a dozen miles up the A1 from RAF Wittering. There was a pub attached to the hotel, and after a meal they sat and drank a couple of beers and discussed what they’d seen. Silva put the battery back in her phone. Several texts pinged in from Sean. He’d be in Cambridge overnight. Did she want to meet tomorrow? She replied that she did and would arrive in time for lunch.

  ‘And what are you going to tell him?’ Itchy asked. ‘If he’s involved in this you’ll have shown our hand.’

  ‘I know,’ Silva said. ‘But I can’t believe he is. I think he was there on genuine US State Department business. You saw Greg Mavers? He’s the deputy ambassador. Then there was that American general and the UK defence secretary. I don’t think any of them would be aware of what happened later on.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll believe you?’

  ‘No idea.’ Silva took a sip from her beer. ‘But I want you to visit Fairchild and tell him what we saw. Stay there until I turn up or call you.’

  ‘And if you don’t?’

  ‘Then you’ll know Sean is part of the conspiracy, won’t you?’

  Itchy’s eyes widened and he picked up his pint glass, taking a long draw before clunking the glass down on the table.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I guess I will.’

  * * *

  The next day she met Sean in the centre of Cambridge and they wandered through the city before having a meal in an old inn. Dark panelled walls, low ceilings, and a lack of natural light gave the place a conspiratorial atmosphere. The palpable tension between them when they’d parted in London had gone and Sean was back to his old self.

  ‘I love England,’ Sean said as they tucked into their food. ‘So much history. Did you know Isaac Newton supposedly drank in this pub?’

  ‘Let me guess, he liked to get smashed on cider, right?’ Silva said, trying to be her old self too, trying to behave as if the madness of the past few days hadn’t happened.

  ‘Cider?’ Sean cocked his head. ‘Oh, I see.’

  Silva bent to her food and took a few mouthfuls. ‘I’m sorry about storming out.’

  ‘No.’ Sean put a hand across the table. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I was a bit blinded by Karen Hope and the whole occasion and I didn’t read your mood. Getting over your mother’s death is not something that happens overnight.’

  Silva nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  They finished their main course and ordered dessert and coffees, Silva all the time trying to appear casual and relaxed. As Sean shovelled up a spoonful of sticky toffee pudding, she asked about the trade summit. He paused for a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘I suppose I can tell you. It’s no secret. I’m sure it’s going to be widely reported.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The US and UK governments have done a massive trade deal with Saudi Arabia. The deal’s worth billions and secures thousands of jobs.’

  ‘Are we talking arms?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sean put his spoon down. Tilted his head. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘An educated guess,’ Silva said. ‘On the phone you mentioned you were at RAF Wittering. I doubt the military would have been involved had the deal been about mere widgets.’

  ‘Right.’ Sean picked up his spoon again but then stopped. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Just that you were helping facilitate the export of weapons to Saudi Arabia, weapons which will be used to kill innocent—’

  ‘Hang on.’ Sean raised both hands. ‘We’re not going down that route. I know your mother was critical of UK and US policy in the Middle East, but you can’t pin the blame for her death on me. Besides, the Saudis are allies. They provide stability in the region.’

  ‘They fund militants.’ Silva plucked a fact from something she’d read in her mother’s dossier. ‘For instance, fifteen of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers were Saudis.’

  ‘That’s ancient history. We’re fully aware of everything Saudi Arabia does these days.’

  ‘Really?’ Silva let the question hang. She sat back in her chair. Folded her arms.

  ‘What is this, Becca?’ Sean pushed his unfinished pudding to one side and leaned forward, closing the distance. ‘Why the sudden interest? You’ve never been much bothered before.’

  ‘Before was when my mother hadn’t been killed by terrorists.’

  ‘This deal’s got nothing to do with that. This is all perfectly legal, with an audit trail and full accountability.’

  ‘If so then why were you, as a CIA operative, there?’

  ‘Greg Mavers needed an analyst he could call on in case something came up in the reception and he needed quick answers. Knowing I could probably wangle a couple of days off afterwards I volunteered. It was as simple as that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Jeez, Rebecca, I don’t have to answer to you.’

  ‘Even if what was happening at Wittering in some way involved my mother?’

  ‘How in the hell could it?’

  ‘Karen Hope.’ Silva held Sean’s gaze as he stared across t
he table. She felt as if he was trying to see what she was thinking, what she knew.

  ‘Karen Hope.’ Sean reached for his drink. Took a draught. ‘You’re talking American Armaments, right?’

  Silva nodded, realising the question was tentative. A probe to discover something deeper. So far nothing she’d said gave anything away, but without a hook Sean wasn’t likely to open up. ‘Shortly before she was killed, my mother uncovered unsavoury details about the Hope family business. The substance of it was serious enough to threaten Karen Hope’s presidential chances.’

  ‘I see.’ A beat. No more. But just enough. Sean continued. ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘She found Karen Hope has links to a Saudi associated with funding terror groups. The Hopes, realising the information could never be allowed to get out, had my mother killed. Next came Neil Milligan, the head of the news agency my mother worked for. I spoke to him about my mother’s research, but he told me to forget the whole thing. He was scared –rightly so, it proved.’

  Sean opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘No,’ Silva said. ‘I’m not finished.’

  She moved on. There was a picture, she said, that showed Karen Hope with Haddad, a man who was a known terrorist sympathiser. Hope, fearing exposure, had paid to have Francisca da Silva eliminated. Neil Milligan had been at first threatened and then he too had been murdered.

  ‘That’s it,’ Silva said.

  Sean gave a nervous laugh. He raised his head and blew out a long breath. ‘Let’s just say, in some other crazy life, I believe you. What on earth did your mother discover that threatened Hope’s election? Just being seen with Haddad wouldn’t be enough.’

  ‘Something to do with arms dealing.’

  ‘So?’ Sean shook his head. ‘There’s nothing illegal in arms dealing. In fact Karen Hope’s major selling point is she’s not a wishy-washy liberal. Her base are going to vote for her anyway, so attracting those to the right of that is part of her plan. She’s got nothing to hide.’

  ‘But suppose she has got something to hide. Suppose the Hope family have been supplying money and weapons to terrorists. This isn’t some dodgy news story, Sean. It’s part of the arrangement the Hope family have with Jawad al Haddad. He brokered the arms deal with the Saudi government, and Brandon Hope, as a kickback, makes sure certain shipments are delivered to Islamic extremists. Haddad’s hands appear to be clean but his objectives are still fulfilled. What’s more, in a few months’ time, he’s going to have a receptive ear in the White House.’

  ‘It sounds like a bad conspiracy theory.’ Sean shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rebecca, I don’t believe it. I think your mother was sold a dummy in order to try and discredit Karen Hope.’

  Sean looked at her but said nothing. The sounds of the pub intruded. Cutlery chinking on plates. The hubbub of conversation. A chorus of laughter from a nearby table.

  ‘I think,’ Sean said eventually, ‘that it would be best if you passed all the information to me. I’ll see to it that it gets to the right places. Not only has your mother been duped, but this looks like an attempt to subvert democracy.’ Sean shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Fine.’ Silva eased back into her chair. She needed to get out of here. It had been a mistake to talk to Sean and now she worried what he might do. She pointed at her empty glass. ‘Could you get me another drink? I’m going to the loo.’

  For a second Sean looked bemused but then he nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Silva stood and weaved between the tables, heading for the toilets. She glanced over her shoulder. Sean was at the bar, trying to attract the attention of the barman. Silva changed direction and made for the exit. To one side of the door there was an array of coat hooks, empty in this warm weather aside from Silva’s leather jacket and helmet. She grabbed them and slipped outside, sprinting across the road to where she’d left her motorbike. A few seconds later she was riding away, dodging cyclists and pedestrians, and trying not to look back.

  Chapter Thirty

  She headed south, intending to rendezvous with Itchy at Fairchild’s place. First though, she wanted to check on her father.

  It was a little after nine thirty in the evening when she coaxed the bike up the gravel drive. The house loomed dark against a red sky, clouds piling in from the west. The windows stood black and empty, as if the place had been abandoned long ago.

  She pulled up at the steps and turned the engine off. The headlight dimmed and she was left sitting astride the bike in a pale gloom. When she removed her helmet she could hear nothing except the distant rumble of a tractor and, closer, a pheasant clucking out a call as it flew up to a roost in the branches of a nearby tree.

  Silva dismounted and moved towards the front door. She climbed the steps and turned the big brass doorknob. The door opened.

  ‘Dad?’ she said. ‘Are you here?’

  Nothing.

  She walked in and carefully closed the door behind her. She fumbled at the wall until she found a switch. She flicked it and lights came on in the hall and stairwell.

  ‘Dad? Mrs Collins?’

  A wash of embarrassment came over her as she pictured her dad and Mrs Collins upstairs, going at it like teenagers. She moved to the foot of the stairs. Listened again. Still nothing. No bed creaking, no sound of Mrs Collins crying out. She shook off the vision and turned and went across the hallway to the kitchen-diner. The table was set for two and a large Le Creuset casserole pot sat on a cast-iron trivet in the centre. Silva walked over and touched the pot. Latent heat, a faint warmth. She lifted the lid. Meat, potatoes, veg. Her father liked to eat at six prompt, retire early. The casserole had been on the table for over three hours.

  She lowered the lid with a clink and returned to the hallway. At the far end was an under-the-stairs toilet and the door stood open a crack. A vertical bar of white suggested somebody had left the light on inside. She crossed to the door and pushed it open.

  Mrs Collins. Sprawled on the floor, her body contorted, her head twisted to the side as if she had reacted in surprise to something. Her left ear and part of her jaw had gone, blown away by a bullet that had carried on to hit a small mirror above the washbasin. Crazed glass reflected Silva’s face in segments of emotion. Shock. Horror. Fear.

  Silva knelt. The head wound hadn’t killed Mrs Collins. There’d been a second shot. Upper left side of the chest. A coup de grâce direct to the heart. The pale-blue apron she’d been wearing bore a smudge of red blood and, farther down, a brown gravy stain.

  They’d come shortly before six, then. Mrs Collins had either run to the toilet to hide or she was already inside, perhaps washing her hands before calling Silva’s father to eat.

  Dinner’s ready!

  Words she never got to say.

  Silva stood and eased out of the little room and back into the hall. Where was her father? She shivered, thinking of his bedroom once more, but now the image was of him in a heap like Mrs Collins. If he’d had a chance he’d have defended himself, but this time the attackers would have been forewarned that he was armed.

  She ran over to the stairs and bounded up two at a time. On the landing an occasional chair which usually stood by one wall lay on its side and the carpet runner had been scuffed up. She paused outside her father’s room, her hand on the door handle. Despite everything, she loved him. Perhaps because of everything. She pushed the door and, more in hope than in any real expectation, she called out.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Rebecca.’ The voice came flat and low, and with an undertone of sadness that only came to her too late.

  ‘Dad!’ Silva flung open the door and rushed in.

  ‘Rebecca.’ Her father sat in an armchair on the far side of the room. An anglepoise lamp on an occasional table cast yellow light on his face. His head hung low and there was a crimson bruise on his right cheek. His hands lay on his lap, bound together with a cable tie. The sadness had gone from his voice and now there was resignation. Defeat. ‘I’m sorry. I let you down.’

  ‘Dad, I—�
��

  ‘Ms da Silva. So nice to see you again.’ The bulky figure of Greg Mavers emerged from the shadows; beside him stood a grunt holding a pistol. Mavers chomped his jaws together. ‘I’m only sorry it couldn’t have been in more auspicious circumstances.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘He’s an old man.’ Silva gestured at her father. ‘Is that your idea of a fair fight?’

  ‘Self-defence,’ Mavers said. ‘He’s dangerous. We had to disarm him.’

  ‘And Mrs Collins? Was that self-defence?’

  ‘Brenda?’ Silva’s father looked up. ‘Is she…?’ His words tailed off and he shrank into the armchair.

  Mavers shrugged. ‘We can throw accusations about collateral damage back and forth. For instance, Lashirah Haddad. What did she do to deserve her fate? Perhaps you put it down to sheer bad luck she happened to step into the path of your bullet?’

  ‘I didn’t shoot her.’

  ‘And I didn’t personally shoot Mrs Danvers or whatever her name is.’ Mavers nodded sideways at the man with the gun. ‘So I guess we’ll call it even, shall we?’

  ‘You won’t get away with this.’

  ‘It’s you who are not getting away with trying to pervert the democratic process and meddle in the sovereign affairs of another country.’

  ‘Karen Hope killed my mother.’

  ‘Forget it, Rebecca.’ Silva’s father raised his head for a moment. ‘The Yanks will justify anything. Always have, always will.’

  ‘He doesn’t speak for them all, Dad. He’s gone rogue.’

  ‘You think so?’ Mavers was smiling. ‘You’re as misguided as you are naive. I’d have thought with a boyfriend in the Agency you’d have understood just how the world works, but then again perhaps his pillow talk kept to the script.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve been played, Rebecca.’ Silva’s father was shaking his head. ‘Sean must be in on it. He’s sold you out.’