by Mark Sennen
They ordered food, Palmer going for soup and a roll, which allowed him to make a joke about giving some to Javed for the birds.
‘Enough,’ Holm said. ‘This isn’t funny, Harry.’
‘It’s deadly serious if you’re relying on that kid.’ Palmer couldn’t help another smile but the expression quickly turned solemn. ‘Is this about your little project to round up Nazi fanboys? I heard about it on the grapevine.’
‘No.’ Holm lowered his voice. ‘This is about Taher.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Stephen, are you asking to be sacked?’
‘I’m on to him, but I need your help. One more push and I’ve got him.’
‘Really?’ A look of surprise crossed Palmer’s face. ‘Are you sure you’re not delusional?’
‘No. What’s more, Taher is somehow linked to the Hope family. The Hope family, as in Karen Hope.’
‘Now I know you’re delusional.’ Palmer frowned and the surprise turned to concern. ‘You need to back off before the Spider gets a tug on one of her threads. If she discovers what you’re up to she’ll come for you. The resulting mess won’t be pretty.’
‘I’m not backing off and I’m quite sane, thank you.’ Holm lowered his voice. ‘There’s some dodgy arms dealing going on between Allied American Armaments and the Saudis, the net result of which is Taher getting his hands on a bunch of weapons. What’s strange is there’s nothing on the system about Brandon Hope or the company. Nothing, do you hear?’
‘Nothing. I see.’ Palmer nodded. Holm had his attention. ‘You want to know if I’ve heard something?’
‘Hope is involved in a charity that works in North Africa. If there’s anything going on in the region you’d be aware of it, right?’
‘One would hope – sorry – so.’ Palmer tapped the table. ‘But no, there’s not been a whisper.’
‘This could be big, Harry. I think Brandon is shipping the arms across the Med in a boat he owns. The weapons are going to Taher who is then distributing them to the jihadis: AQIM, al-Shabaab, ISIS, whatever. I can’t believe your people on the ground haven’t got even an inkling.’
‘Well, quite. Very worrying.’ Palmer scratched his chin. ‘You have proof of Brandon’s involvement?’
‘Not directly. It’s just me and the lad at the moment, so we’re struggling to keep on top of it all.’ Holm turned his head. Javed was down by the lake. ‘But if I can land Taher I’ll be back in favour, and if you help me you’ll be in line for some credit too. A lot of credit.’
‘We’ll need to proceed carefully, Stephen. You know how things are.’
‘Are you talking about Karen Hope and her presidential ambitions?’
‘There is that, of course, but I was thinking of the Saudi link too. We don’t want to embarrass our allies.’ Palmer glanced at the window. ‘Who knows about this?’
‘Only me and Farakh. Huxtable doesn’t have a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’ve been keeping a lid on the information. Too many times I’ve been close to Taher and he’s disappeared in a puff of smoke.’
‘Are you suggesting…?’ Palmer let the sentence hang.
‘You know I am. Hell, we’ve talked often enough about it before. You even admitted yourself you were worried.’
‘Yes, but the Spider?’
‘Not Huxtable, but the people around her. Somebody with high-level access. Perhaps even in one of the foreign agencies we share information with. I’ve long suspected the Americans haven’t being playing by the rules.’
‘The CIA?’
‘Yes. It makes sense now we know Allied Armaments and the Hopes are linked to Taher. The Agency could be running interference to safeguard their national interests.’
Palmer narrowed his eyes, his brow creasing. ‘That’s extremely concerning.’
Holm nodded. Although Palmer was obviously troubled, Holm felt a weight lifting from his own shoulders. The SIS officer was more used to dealing with this sort of thing than Holm was. He’d know what to do.
‘OK.’ Palmer steepled his hands. ‘So we need to keep this to ourselves. I understand.’
‘It’s the only way to be sure Taher isn’t forewarned.’
‘Right.’ Palmer looked both excited and nervous. ‘We can do this. First you give me the full details, second we formulate a plan of attack. I’m glad you came to me, Stephen. If we work together on this then Taher is history.’
An hour later and they were done. Palmer slipped away while Holm went across to where Javed was sitting at an outside table nursing an empty latte glass.
‘Well?’ Javed said. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said you’re crap at field craft,’ Holm said. ‘You might as well have hung a sign round your neck.’
Javed shook his head, annoyed. ‘I meant about Taher.’
‘I know.’ Holm patted Javed on the back. ‘Go home and pack some fresh clothes. And think hot. We’re going to Tunisia.’
* * *
Silva sat at an outside table on one of the terraces. A stone-columned balustrade ran in an ellipse above an oval pond. White flowers and green lily pads and giant orange fish lurking in the depths. There was tea in a silver pot and bone china cups and saucers. A selection of biscuits on a plate.
She’d jumped up when Weiss had dropped the bombshell about a new mission to kill Karen Hope, but his footsteps were already echoing down the corridor. A door closed and a car crunched away down the gravel driveway. Fairchild told her not to be too hasty. There were things, he said, that she needed to know. Weiss worked for a small department within MI5 known as the Special Accounts Unit. Ostensibly the department dealt with allocating funds to freelance operatives and non-governmental groups, but in reality its purpose was to carry out highly secretive missions that needed to be deniable. Even within the security services, few people knew of the true nature of the SAU.
Now Fairchild sat across the table from her. He reached for the teapot and poured the tea.
‘Despite being called the Special Accounts Unit,’ he said, ‘there is absolutely no accountability. Simeon Weiss can do almost anything he likes and get away with it.’ Fairchild slid a cup and saucer across the table to Silva. ‘You might be wondering how I got involved with Simeon. I’d like to tell you it was altruism, a sense I should do something for my country, but I’m ashamed to say it’s more related to certain indiscretions from my past. These days some may call them crimes and who am I – a white, privileged, male – to disagree?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Mr Weiss has a file on me. A few sheets, no more, but enough information to have my wife packing a suitcase and hiring a lawyer. Enough to have the police knocking at my front door. Enough, in short, to ruin me.’
‘He blackmailed you?’
‘Yes. This was years back now, but I’m merely using it as an illustration of the way the man thinks, the way all of his ilk think. They use people, Rebecca. In a way, Weiss is just like Hope. He’ll do anything to get what he wants.’
‘Are you saying he’ll give me up if I don’t go along with this?’ Silva shook her head. ‘But he said himself that was too risky.’
‘What is risky is trying to second-guess him. He’ll do whatever he thinks needs to be done.’
‘For the country?’
Fairchild laughed. ‘For Simeon Weiss.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘The operation to kill Karen Hope?’ Fairchild turned his head and gazed out across the manicured lawns towards the gatehouse. ‘You heard what Simeon said. I’ve no idea if that’s the truth or not.’
‘Somebody in the government?’
‘I doubt it. Most politicians understand very little of what really goes on. Their outlook is too short-term: a parliament, a second term in office. The future of this country depends on events that take decades to seed and grow fruit. There are people who are working on scenarios involving who the next president but one might be. Friendships a
re being cultivated in Chinese universities right now that will serve this country well into the second half of the century. Strategy is being worked out for when India becomes a global superpower, for when the US and Europe have sunk so low they are third-rate backwaters.’
‘This all sounds like some sort of bad conspiracy theory.’
‘Possibly, but truth is stranger than fiction. Could you have predicted the fall of the Berlin Wall or the global financial crash or the Arab Spring? In any case it doesn’t really matter. Weiss is setting the agenda and you’ll do what he says or suffer the consequences.’
‘Did he put you up to this just now or are you part of the whole thing?’
‘He told me to try and persuade you. He mentioned a break-in at your father’s house. There were gunshots and someone was hurt, possibly killed. He felt it might be time for the police to investigate.’
‘How—’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fairchild held his hands up. ‘But Weiss deploys resources as and when needed. He probably had your father’s place wired from the get-go.’
‘This is crazy. Why me?’
‘You remain the best person for the job. I can’t imagine getting close to Hope is going to be any easier now she’s been alerted to the fact she’s a target, so a long-range shot will still be the method of choice. Simeon has assets aplenty he could deploy but I assume he feels you are a safe bet because you’re personally involved. That gives you the motivation to carry out the job and zero reason to betray him. Especially after it’s all over.’
Silva looked across the lawns. Near a boundary hedge a man with a German Shepherd walked his rounds. At the gatehouse another of Fairchild’s staff stood on guard. What were her options? Get out of here and hide away somewhere? Hope would know about the death of Greg Mavers by now and Silva would be on her radar. She’d be even keener to track her down and shut her up. There was Haddad to consider too. Then there was the implicit threat from Weiss: help us or your father suffers. No, running wasn’t the right move.
‘It looks like I don’t have much of a choice,’ Silva said. ‘Do I?’
‘No.’ Fairchild nodded and then handed Silva the plate of biscuits. ‘Not really.’
* * *
Later they were in Fairchild’s operations room. Screens and terminals. News reports from CNN, Al Jazeera and the BBC. A huge map of the world dominated one wall; when Silva looked closer she could see that, too, was a screen complete with little flashing icons.
‘So.’ Fairchild moved over to the map and jabbed a finger at North Africa. ‘Contact will be initiated in Tunisia.’
‘Tunisia?’ Silva wondered if she’d heard correctly.
Fairchild looked apologetic. ‘Yes. Apposite, if nothing else.’
‘Tunisia.’ Silva repeated the word. Fairchild was right. How apt. Hope’s blood spilling on the same soil as her mother’s had. Job done. The circle complete. Go home and sleep easy.
Who was she kidding?
Fairchild moved his finger down over the map. ‘Brandon Hope owns an olive farm near the border with Algeria. According to Simeon, Karen Hope will be staying at the farm overnight next Thursday.’
‘How the hell can he be sure?’
‘Remember Brandon’s charity and the rescue boat?’ Fairchild inclined his head and Silva nodded. ‘Well, the boat is going to be in the marina at the resort of al Hammamet. Brandon is throwing a fundraising party and various politicians and celebrities are going to be flying in or crossing the Med in their superyachts to attend.’
‘Including Karen Hope?’
‘Yes. There’ll be massive security around the marina, but Simeon’s source says Hope will be journeying to the farm at some point.’
‘Forgive me if I’m sceptical.’
Fairchild glanced at the map screen, perhaps wishing Hope had her own icon. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to trust Simeon on this one.’
Silva followed Fairchild’s gaze to the screen. She had the sense she was a marionette. Little sticks attached to her arms and legs, pushing and pulling. Simeon Weiss the puppet master controlling her and just about everybody else on the stage.
She mentioned it to Fairchild and he shrugged.
‘The analogy is perfect, my dear,’ he said. ‘But are any of us truly free to do as we please?’
Chapter Thirty-Three
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 h
ad 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.
