The Sanction

by Mark Sennen

  * * *

  Silva had slipped along the corridor and crouched behind a large carved wooden box. Then she’d waited. A minute slipped by and then another; then through an arch to her left she saw two men emerge into the glare of the courtyard.

  ‘Stop there,’ Itchy said. ‘And put your hands on your heads.’

  The next few moments passed like lightning. As Itchy stepped forward to cover the two men, a shot rang out from the darkness of the arch. Itchy collapsed to the floor, his hand to his right leg.

  ‘Drop the fucking weapon!’ A tall thin man emerged into the courtyard. He had an AK-47 in his hands and his finger tightened on the trigger. Itchy was half slumped on the floor, one hand on his knee and the other holding the SIG. ‘Now!’

  Itchy nodded and the gun fell from his hand, clattering on the floor.

  ‘Stephen, kick it away!’ The thin man thrust his own weapon towards the older man and made a sweeping motion. ‘Do it!’

  Silva knelt hidden from his view behind the box, but she had direct line of sight to Itchy and the other two men. The older man moved his foot next to the gun and, as he did so, his eyes flicked to her hiding place. For a moment he hesitated, but then he kicked the gun and it slid over the floor towards Silva.

  ‘I’d say we’re another step closer to solving this mystery, Stephen.’ The tall man stooped out of the doorway. ‘British intelligence comes up trumps once again.’

  ‘Hope’s dead, Harry,’ the old guy said. ‘I wouldn’t count that as a success.’

  ‘Don’t knock it. The way this will play out, you’ll still be the hero of the hour. A dead hero, yes, but a hero nonetheless.’

  As the tall man moved to cover Itchy and the others, Silva reached for the SIG.

  ‘Stop!’ she shouted, holding the gun braced in two hands.

  The man froze, his finger still touching the trigger.

  ‘Or what?’ He didn’t seem surprised as he turned his head towards her. ‘This is a Mexican stand-off, right? If you shoot me, I’ll shoot at least one of them.’

  ‘I’ll take that chance if I have to.’

  ‘It’s Ms da Silva, isn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘You see, Stephen, there is actually no mystery at all, no global conspiracy to assassinate a president, rather a cheap and dirty personal vendetta.’

  Silva wondered how he knew who she was, and in that split second the man swung the machine gun and fired a burst. Silva was already moving, diving behind the wooden box and letting off a single shot as she rolled out the other side. This close she went for the body. This close there was no chance of missing.

  The man staggered back as the bullet hit him in the chest, stopping his heart instantly. For a moment some part of his sympathetic nervous system continued to work and he stood balanced like a statue. Then he toppled backwards and folded to the floor.

  Silence.

  Silva stood and walked over to the body, gazing down. She had no idea who the man was except he was something to do with the weapons smuggling, something to do with Taher, ultimately something to do with the death of her mother. Yet, staring at the husk at her feet, she felt nothing. Neither was there much relief that Karen Hope was dead. There was no feeling of triumph, no sense of celebration. A sudden wash of despair overcame her and she wished she was away from here, away from everyone, up on the moor, just running, running, running until she’d sweated all the anger from her body.

  She was brought back to her senses as Itchy uttered a groan. He grimaced and held his leg and turned to Silva. The grimace became a smile and he gave her a nod of respect.

  ‘Shot,’ he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  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 o
ver 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.’