The Sanction

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Are they alive?’ Silva said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Itchy said. ‘But Taher’s going for the pick-up.’

  Silva moved the rifle to the left. Taher had raced through the house and emerged at the other side. He clambered into the truck. She had a split second to act while the vehicle was stationary, because hitting a moving target with a rifle was next to impossible – something for the movies, not real life. Taher was in the vehicle now, but his head was partially obscured by the door pillar. Silva squeezed the trigger and a moment later the glass on the driver-side door crazed in a spiderweb pattern. Inside, Taher jerked sideways, but even as he did so the vehicle was moving forward, the back wheels spinning in the dry dirt. The pick-up slewed round in the yard and shot towards the gates to the complex, causing an explosion of wood as the bull bars smashed through. Then the truck was away and heading down the track, weaving back and forth, dust rising.

  ‘Last chance,’ Itchy said. ‘But take your time.’

  Silva already had the rifle aimed down the track way ahead of Taher, anticipating the moment when the vehicle would crest a small rise and she could get a shot in through the rear window. She couldn’t see Taher’s head because he was hunched down, but that wouldn’t matter; the bullet would pass through the seat. Just a couple more seconds and—

  And then she could see nothing. The dust had risen to obscure the track.

  ‘Damn it!’ Silva fired anyway, but the odds were minuscule and when the dust cleared the vehicle was gone.

  * * *

  When the shot cracked off Holm thought the report would be the final thing he’d hear, his last conscious thought. Death seemed to take a long time coming though, and in the seconds remaining he considered his lot. He hadn’t been a bad man. In fact, on balance, he’d done more good than evil. He regretted the way he’d treated his wife and was sorry he hadn’t spent more time with his daughters. Some extra R & R with Billie Cornish would have been nice too, but she deserved happiness and it looked as if she’d found it. The one big regret he had was involving Farakh Javed in this mess. He was gay, he had annoying habits like slurping his coffee and cutting his fingernails, and was generally a right pain in the backside, but the lad, in a way, was the son Holm had never had.

  Holm turned his head, surprised he was still lucid. There was no pain, no feeling at all. He reasoned the bullet must have destroyed his nervous system. And yet if that was the case, how come he was staring at Javed and thinking all these crazy thoughts?

  ‘Boss!’

  Javed moved sideways and bowled into Holm, knocking him over the edge of the veranda. They fell six feet onto hard earth, the landing knocking all the air out of Holm. Now he did feel pain. A sharp jolt up the side of his arm, his eyes blurring as he spun from consciousness for a second. He jerked his head. That hurt too, but not from a bullet. His forehead had collided with the trunk of a thousand-year-old olive tree.

  ‘What the…?’ Holm was back in the land of the living. He might not make one thousand years, but he reckoned he’d be good for a few more. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Sniper,’ Javed said, sounding impressed. ‘Took out Karen Hope. Bam!’

  ‘Taher?’

  ‘I heard a vehicle so I reckon he’s gone.’

  ‘Let’s get up there.’ Holm struggled to his knees and tried to pull his hands from the twine Taher had tightened round his wrists. It was impossible.

  ‘We should stay out of sight.’ Javed was kneeling too, straining against his bounds. ‘There’s a gunman out there somewhere.’

  ‘If he was aiming at us, we’d be hit by now. He was either after Taher or Hope.’ Holm paused and craned his neck to try and see onto the veranda. ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘If she isn’t then I think it’s still unlikely she’ll be running for president. I saw half her brain hit the wall of the house. I don’t think the bit remaining is going to be good for much.’

  ‘It’s not a joking matter, Farakh. You’re talking about the woman who was going to be the leader of the free world.’

  ‘And who was about to put a hole in our heads.’

  ‘Yes, there is that.’ Holm was struggling to come to terms with Karen Hope holding a gun. Well that part wasn’t surprising; her family owned an arms company after all. But the future president of the US standing alongside one of the world’s most notorious terrorists, about to help him commit murder? That was a little difficult to understand.

  ‘Boss?’ Javed’s hands came from behind his back, the twine somehow severed. ‘Your turn.’

  Holm stared at the boy, wondering what miracle he had summoned and from where. Then he spotted the shiny object in Javed’s hands. His nail clippers.

  * * *

  With their bonds removed, they made their way up from the olive grove back to the veranda. Holm stood over the body of Karen Hope. Bits of flesh and bone had splattered across the ground and there was a mark on the wall of the farmhouse where a stone had exploded.

  ‘High-powered rifle,’ Javed said. ‘They were out there on that ridge. When Karen Hope came out… boom!’

  ‘Don’t.’ Holm stepped back from the body, aware of a sticky residue on his shoes. He gazed down at what was now no more than a cadaver of a woman. Hope. So much of it gone. All that promise unfulfilled. And yet she’d been about to blow his head off. What was that about? However Holm tried to spin what he’d seen and heard, the end result didn’t make sense. He turned to Javed. ‘Come on, let’s check inside and then we’ll call Palmer. After him, Huxtable, although what the hell she’s going to make of this, I have no idea.’

  ‘Karen Hope tried to kill us, she got whacked and Taher got away with a load of weapons.’ Javed came over and stood alongside Holm. He contemplated the body and shook his head. ‘Good luck with that, sir.’

  Inside the house was cool. Narrow corridors led between thick stone walls to airy rooms with rustic furniture. The large kitchen was well equipped and stocked with food. A dining hall had seating for twenty, and at one end of the building was a bunk house.

  ‘Do you think this place is a training camp?’ Javed said as they edged down yet another corridor.

  ‘No idea.’ Holm pushed through a curtain and out into a central courtyard. He leaned on a wall, feeling deflated. All this way and all this effort and the main prize had eluded them.

  ‘We’ve disrupted the supply chain,’ Javed said, sensing Holm’s despair. ‘Whatever that boat was up to it won’t be doing it any more.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Holm brightened. ‘Let’s check upstairs and then we’ll work out what the hell to do.’

  Holm let Javed lead the way and they went back inside and took a narrow spiral staircase to the upper floor. A corridor ran down one side and had windows every few steps, each offering a view over the vast olive plantation. Javed paused at one of the windows.

  ‘Sir.’ He pointed outside as Holm joined him. ‘One man drove in the van and another chauffeured Karen Hope. They both left in the van. Taher escaped in the pick-up and presumably Hope was going to drive the yellow SUV out of here. Which leaves me wondering, whose vehicle is that?’

  Holm peered down. A Jeep Wrangler was parked in the shade of a couple of olive trees, hidden from anywhere but the upstairs of the farmhouse. He turned from the window as footsteps tapped on the wooden flooring. A tall figure stood silhouetted at the end of the corridor.

  ‘It’s mine.’ The figure was in shadow but Holm would recognise the stick-thin man anywhere. ‘Hello, Stephen.’

  ‘Hello, Harry.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Nasim wasn’t keen.

  ‘Lona no order,’ he said. ‘We leave now. Go back to Tunis.’

  ‘I don’t care what Lona ordered you to do,’ Silva said. ‘I’m telling you we’re going to the compound. You can wait here and we’ll take your car or you can drive us there.’

  ‘I no go and the car no go.’

  ‘Yes you fucking do.’ Itchy had loaded the equipment into the rear of th
e Land Cruiser and now he stood behind Nasim, the SIG in his hand. ‘You go, we go, the car goes.’

  Nasim protested again, but climbed into the car. They set off back down the mountain track. It was a mile to the end of the ravine where they joined the main road, and then almost immediately they turned off up the track to the farm. The dust from Taher’s rapid exit still swirled in the air as they bounced along, Nasim growing increasingly agitated.

  ‘I don’t like it, I really don’t like it,’ he said. He glanced in the mirror as they pulled up and stopped at the battered gates to the complex. ‘We stay only five minutes, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ Silva got out, reached in through the driver’s window and snatched the keys from the ignition. ‘But just in case we go into the red, I’ll take these.’

  Nasim raised his hands in a gesture of despair and resignation.

  ‘We’ve only got the one weapon.’ Itchy patted the SIG. ‘Let’s be careful.’

  They slipped in through the front gates, Itchy in the lead. Silva pointed to the right and Itchy nodded. He moved to the side of the yard. A small dust devil spun up and danced for a few moments before dying back down. Other than the gentle hiss of the wind and the occasional snap of the canvas awning at the side of the house, there was silence.

  They reached the main building. A low wall ran from the building and ancient olive trees stood behind the wall in a small grove. Itchy jerked his gun in the direction of the grove.

  Silva nodded. There was an opening in the wall and they could cross the grove and get to the veranda without having to go into the house.

  They went through the opening and crept along the wall to where a series of steps led upwards. When they reached the steps they stopped again. Still no sound. Silva held out her arm. She’d go first, Itchy would cover.

  She eased up the steps and onto the veranda. Karen Hope lay in the centre. She’d fallen backwards, her right leg contorted beneath her, the left stuck out at a weird angle. One hand clamped the pistol tight while the other hand had risen to her chin, a finger gracing her lower lip as if she was attempting to wipe away a morsel of food. The upper part of her face round the right eye had gone. Everything from there backwards had been ripped apart by the bullet. She was dead all right.

  Silva paused for a moment, but she was still pumped. This wasn’t the time for reflection. She moved to the edge of the veranda and looked over. Bare earth and some olive leaves that had been knocked off when the two men had fallen. She swung back to the house where an arch led into the building proper. No door, just a dark shadow.

  ‘I’ll go first.’ Itchy had his hand on Silva’s shoulder. ‘You stay back.’

  Itchy moved along the veranda towards the arch while Silva checked nobody was sneaking up behind them, before they slipped into the relative cool of the house. After the brightness outside, the interior was like ink. She slid her feet across the tiled floor and turned a corner. Ahead Itchy was waiting in another doorway, light flooding through from some sort of central courtyard behind him. As Silva approached, he held out a clenched fist, thumb down.

  Enemy spotted…

  Itchy pointed to the upper storey where a series of windows overlooked the courtyard. A shadow passed across one opening and then another. Itchy placed his hand in front of his face and pointed to the right of the door where a corridor ran parallel.

  Form ambush…

  * * *

  Martin ‘Harry’ Palmer walked down the corridor towards them. Taher’s AK-47 was cradled in his arms, the finger of his right hand on the trigger. Holm stepped back, aware of his damp shirt, the sweat cold and clammy on his back.

  Palmer. Harry bloody Palmer.

  The chill on his skin brought forth a shiver as realisation set in. How could he have been so stupid? So blind? All those briefings at Thames House, Palmer there with his dinky little visitor’s pass bearing the highest security level. Worse than that, the years of personal friendship between the two of them. The curries, the nights out together, the drunken chats on the state of the security services or on the progress Holm was making in catching Taher.

  I can’t understand it, Harry. We were so close. He just seemed to slip away without a trace.

  Never mind, Stephen. There’s always a next time, eh?

  Not with Palmer there wasn’t. Not with Harry bloody Palmer.

  ‘Hello, sir.’ Javed, innocent of the true situation, smiled and put out a hand in greeting. ‘A timely arrival if I might say so.’

  ‘Farakh.’ Holm touched Javed on the shoulder. In his head he played back the conversation he’d had with Palmer at the cafe in Battersea Park. ‘There’s nothing timely about it. He’s been here a while. Isn’t that right, Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’ Palmer stopped a few steps away. ‘I was beginning to get bored of waiting for your call, to be honest.’

  ‘Taher got away with the weapons.’ Javed lowered his shoulders as if by way of an apology. He still hadn’t got it. ‘But the good news is we eyeballed him.’

  ‘That’s about the only good news though.’ Palmer raised the gun a little. ‘I mean, events have taken a turn, haven’t they, Stephen? You come here to catch Taher and instead a president ends up dead.’

  ‘She wasn’t a president,’ Holm said. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But she would have been if somebody hadn’t meddled.’ The gun swung up and Palmer gestured for them to move down the corridor. ‘Now everything’s gone to shit.’

  ‘Boss?’ Javed turned to Holm for some kind of answer.

  ‘Harry’s not all he seems, Farakh.’ Holm shook his head. ‘He’s played us, played everyone. All this time Taher managed to keep one step ahead of us and I couldn’t work out how he did it. The answer is Martin Palmer.’

  ‘What?’ Javed looked at Holm. ‘Are you saying—’

  ‘Downstairs!’ The gun jerked again. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got to do with the death of Karen Hope, but you’ve caused a whole lot of trouble.’

  ‘Nothing, Harry.’ Holm spread his hands wide as he walked to the end of the corridor. ‘We’re unarmed. An old guy who will shortly need a Zimmer frame and a young ’un who thinks tradecraft is an ethical food company. What on earth would we have to gain by killing Karen Hope?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but it’s a bit of a coincidence that you turn up and Hope is shot.’

  Holm shrugged. He began to descend the spiral staircase. Javed and Palmer clattered down behind him. When he was halfway to the ground floor he realised he could make a run for it. Palmer wouldn’t be able to hit him, not with the tight angle and with Javed in the way. Of course Javed would take a spray of bullets in the back. Holm muttered a curse under his breath.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I asked you why, Harry? Why Taher? Are you a convert?’

  ‘A convert? Don’t be crazy. I can’t stand Taher’s brand of Islam. To be honest I can’t stand any brand of it or any other religion. All of them are prejudiced and bigoted. There’s nothing worse than self-righteousness, and believers of any faith tend to have it in spades.’

  ‘So it’s the money.’ Holm nodded to himself. ‘Something for your retirement.’

  ‘Ask yourself, Stephen, if you’re happy with the way we’re treated. Here we are, defending the realm, and what do we get for it? Bugger all. No thanks, low pay, the chance of a tribunal if we cock up, a slow decline if we don’t.’

  They reached the ground floor and Holm moved into the kitchen. Without being asked he went to the table and pulled out a chair.

  ‘How much did they pay you?’

  ‘You’re mistaken – the money was good but it wasn’t just about the financial rewards.’ Palmer aimed the gun at Javed and encouraged him to sit too. ‘I met Jawad al Haddad years ago and he offered me information on various terrorist groups. I used the information to save lives, understand?’

  ‘I bet Haddad twisted what he gave you. Everything was designed to strengthen his own position and promote his own factions.’

  ‘S
ure, but the result was that individuals were taken out and plots were disrupted. Isn’t that the point of what we do?’

  ‘Means and ends, Harry. They have to match. Pocketing cash while looking the other way when some of the bombs go off doesn’t work for me.’

  ‘The problem with you, Stephen, is your idealism. This is the real world. Compromise. Two steps forward, one step back. Progress always has a price.’

  ‘Paid in bodies and cash, right?’ Holm shook his head. He was stalling, all the while trying to find some kind of angle. ‘Tell me how this is going to end. I assume you can’t let us live?’

  ‘Sorry, Stephen, no, but you’ll be heroes. You tried to save Karen Hope, but there were too many terrorists. In the end you went down in a blaze of gunfire.’

  ‘Taher’s AK-47.’ Holm looked at the assault rifle. ‘He left it for you.’

  ‘There was no time to work out a plan after Hope was shot.’ Palmer gave a flat smile. ‘But it’ll do.’

  ‘Others know about this, know we’re here, know you were instrumental in leading us to Taher. They’ll be able to work out what happened.’

  ‘Nice try, but you didn’t tell anyone. You were too scared about blowing your chance at catching Taher off your own bat.’ Palmer laughed. ‘Not duty or loyalty to your country, was it? Vainglory, that’s all.’

  ‘Martin—’

  ‘Enough,’ Palmer said. ‘Let’s go back outside. You’re going to be part of history. Your names alongside Hope’s.’

  Holm slowly pushed himself up. Their last chance would be on the way back to the veranda. He let Javed go first, thinking perhaps the young lad could make a run for it. They walked from the kitchen along a narrow corridor, bright sunlight at the end where the corridor joined a small inner atrium. As they crossed into the atrium a voice shouted out from one side.

  ‘Stop there. And put your hands on your heads.’