by Mark Sennen
When Taher turned eighteen the money his uncle had put in trust had been released. By Saudi standards it wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to pay for Taher to go to university in London. When he finished his studies he was offered a post in the Saudi civil service, but he turned it down. He also turned down a lucrative position in Saudi Aramco, the country’s state-owned oil company. There were other things he wanted to do and they didn’t involve sitting behind a desk.
When he asked his uncle’s opinion, the old man said the pursuit of justice was not to be rushed. There was plenty of time.
Plenty of time.
Taher spent a year learning to fight with the Taliban in Afghanistan and another in Iraq causing havoc alongside insurgents in Baghdad, but his talents were underused. He wasn’t a guerrilla soldier. It wasn’t that he lacked the bravery or skills, more he didn’t believe he was making much difference. As long as the war remained distant, the infidels could ignore it. Twenty-five dead on a Kabul street? Nobody cared. Fifty dead in a Baghdad market? The casualties barely registered. But half a dozen killed in Paris, or London, or Berlin? Such attacks resulted in front-page headlines, rolling news coverage and days of analysis. And yet, with a few notable exceptions, the attacks seemed to be low level, amateurish and carried out with little planning. Plus, the perpetrators were caught or chose martyrdom. Taher wasn’t afraid to die for a cause, but it seemed to him a waste of resources. In the desert they’d wasted nothing. Even an empty can of Coke could be used as a football.
Plenty of time.
‘There are people,’ his uncle said on one of Taher’s visits to the desert. ‘People who are sympathetic.’ His uncle indicated the patch of ground where Taher’s family home had stood. ‘You should know there are those who would be willing to provide you with the means to succeed. Not just to avenge the deaths of my brother – your father – but to ensure a different future. It has been done before and it can be done again.’
Taher nodded. 9/11. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had funded the operation and that sum was peanuts compared to the millions al-Qaeda had received in funding from benefactors across the Middle East.
‘Do you know these people?’ Taher wasn’t sure how his uncle, who lived a subsistence existence miles from anywhere, could possibly be acquainted with men who might have sufficient wealth to support an ongoing campaign. ‘And can I meet them?’
‘If you so wish.’
He did so wish.
* * *
Silva’s call to Fairchild had consisted of precisely three words: ‘I’ll do it,’ she’d said before hanging up and instantly wondering what the hell she was doing. Despite her reservations, she allowed Fairchild to set his plan in motion, and early on the tenth of August she found herself at Heathrow boarding a plane for Italy.
Three hours later the sparkling blue of the Adriatic filled the window to Silva’s left as the aircraft banked on its final approach to Brindisi. A hum came from the plane’s hydraulics as the pilot tightened the turn and then the blue sea turned to brown earth and grey concrete. Ground rush. The skid of wheels. A steward making an announcement. Local time is ten thirty. The temperature is twenty-eight degrees. Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete standstill.
Itchy woke as the plane rolled to a stop and people stood and reached for the lockers.
‘We’re here?’ He blinked and looked around. ‘Italy?’
Silva had been feeling tense, but she laughed. ‘Where else? Afghanistan?’
‘Might as well be,’ Itchy said, as the aircraft rolled past flat terrain and old warehouses.
For a moment Silva regretted involving him, but then she shrugged off the feeling. Itchy was an adult. She’d presented him with the facts and he’d made up his own mind. There was also the small matter of the twenty-five thousand pounds Fairchild had reluctantly stumped up when Silva said she needed her spotter and wanted him well paid.
‘I’m in,’ he said, as they sat in a noisy pub in Plymouth city centre. ‘How could I not be for twenty-five big ones?’
‘Don’t let the money blind you to what we’re doing,’ Silva said.
‘I’m not. If what you told me is true, the cow killed your mother.’ Itchy lifted his pint and supped. ‘That being the case, I’d whack her for fifty quid and expenses.’
‘Right. What kit do we need?’
‘Beyond the shooter?’ Itchy put his pint down as Silva nodded. ‘The obvious, like a scope, binos, et cetera. Then we need a couple of accurate maps, large scale. A high-resolution satellite image. A quality camera with good optics, a video cam with a long lens so we can watch on a screen without having to put ourselves on view. A GPS so we can measure an accurate distance for practice shots.’ Itchy lifted his glass again and gave a small nod with his head. ‘Finally, a bottle of champers we can crack open when it’s all over.’
‘I won’t be celebrating.’
‘I thought you said this Hope woman was instrumental in the deaths of civilians, that she was connected with some Arab scum who’s supplying weapons and cash to terrorists? If topping her isn’t a reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is.’
‘I guess.’
‘Come on, this’ll be fun.’
‘Fun?’
‘You don’t miss it, Silvi? Sure, we were shit scared half the time out there, but this…’ Itchy looked at the people crowding the bar. There was a darts match taking place on one side of the room. Little arrows thrown at a target. One hundred and eighty. Bullseye. Not much at stake other than pride, maybe a round of drinks. Itchy shook his head. ‘Fuck this, right?’
He had a point, Silva conceded. She’d been a lot of things in the army – frightened, exhilarated, downright bored – but she’d never felt as isolated as she did now in the hubbub of the surrounding conversations.
See the Pilgrims lost last night. Crap, hey?
My landlord’s kicking up a fuss about the rent again. Much more and I’ll thump the Paki bastard.
Look at the arse on her, mate. Bent over the table you wouldn’t mind her piggy face, would you?
‘You’re right.’ Silva turned away, gave a thin smile and reached for her glass. ‘Fuck this.’
They waited in baggage claim for what seemed like an age until their luggage appeared on the carousel. There was little security and only a cursory check of their passports. Still, Silva was nervous since her passport was one Fairchild had procured for her. It had a false name that matched a credit card and a medical insurance certificate. Itchy had a similar set, and they both had new mobile phones. Fairchild assured her everything would stand up to scrutiny but it didn’t stop her feeling a wave of relief as they left the arrivals hall and strolled through the airport terminal.
She texted a number she’d been given and five minutes later a large Fiat van rolled into the pick-up area. A bulky man Silva recognised as Gavin – one of the two people Fairchild had pointed out to her back in Plymouth – was at the wheel. Gavin was built like a wrestler. Broad shoulders and huge biceps. A hand the size of a dinner plate when he thrust it out in a greeting.
‘Gav,’ he said, as they got into the van. ‘Porter, bodyguard, personal shopper, dogsbody.’
‘Right,’ Silva said, trying to be friendly as she shifted across and sat in the middle seat.
‘The journey will take about three hours,’ Gavin said as he nudged the van out into the traffic. ‘But Mr Fairchild thought it would be better to transit via Brindisi rather than Naples. Especially afterwards.’
Afterwards was when Karen Hope would be lying in the basement of an Italian hospital with a hole in her head. The world’s media would be camped outside. There’d be an international outcry, messages of sympathy from world leaders, meaningless virtue-signalling hashtags on social media. The mobilisation of a kill team to hunt down the assassin.
Fairchild had told her not to worry about the aftermath. There’d be uproar at first, but the information about the Hope family’s involvement with terrorism would tri
ckle out. Within a month Karen Hope’s name would be mud.
Gavin was talking again.
‘The place we’re going is up in the mountains. The Monti Picentini. Be cooler there.’
‘Thank fuck,’ Itchy said. ‘Hope it’s not too basic.’
‘The opposite. It’s a luxury retreat. You’ll be very comfortable and it has the bonus of being in the middle of nowhere. We can prepare without being disturbed.’
Soon they were heading away from the airport and the coast along an arrow-straight road across the flat countryside. Silva hadn’t been to Italy before, but so far she wasn’t impressed. Gavin turned his head.
‘It gets better,’ he said. ‘Once we cross to the west coast and begin heading up. The mountains where we’re staying are something else, and you should see Positano. Picture postcard is an understatement.’
Silva couldn’t help but think of the card her mother had left for her. She tensed. If only the message could have been a simple wish you were here… see you soon… love, Mum.
‘Picture postcard,’ she said. ‘Great.’
* * *
It was two weeks since their visit to Suffolk and they were back in Thames House in the little office under the stairs. Holm had written a long report for Huxtable detailing the trip to Ipswich and claiming it as a resounding success. He told her they’d liaised with Suffolk Constabulary and set up channels of communication to ensure any re-emergence of extreme animal rights groups in the area would be effectively monitored.
There hadn’t been any more tweets from TCXGP1505 and it seemed as if the reference to the dead SeaPak operations manager was all the help the mysterious informant was going to provide. Still, it was enough. Holm pulled a sheaf of printouts towards him. Paul Henderson’s bank details. The new manager was clearing ten thousand dollars into the account each month. Only this wasn’t his normal account, not the one his salary was paid into, not the one he paid his bills from. This account was registered in the Channel Islands.
It had taken Holm a while to get the information but that was because he hadn’t wanted Huxtable to know what he’d been up to. Eventually the account details had pinged into his inbox, but while the financial details were interesting there was little else to help them.
‘The money’s coming from a numbered account in Singapore,’ Holm said. ‘So we’re buggered.’
‘Oh,’ Javed said.
‘Yes, oh.’ Holm jerked his arm and cleverly floated the piece of paper across the room and into a waste bin. He sighed. A numbered account had no name attached to it, or rather the name was known only to high-ranking bank officials. The information would only be revealed in a criminal investigation, and in Singapore that was unlikely to happen without some sort of international pressure. ‘It’s a dead end unless we can get the shipping manifests, and that isn’t going to happen without spilling the beans to the Spider.’
‘But if you have an ordinary job like Paul Henderson you don’t set up an offshore account and you don’t receive a secret gift of ten thousand dollars a month for doing nothing.’
‘Of course you don’t. The trouble is, unless we can get some sort of intelligence on Henderson or the manifests we’re not going to get any further.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘You go and fetch some coffees while I think on it, right?’
Javed muttered his disapproval, but he got up and left the room. By the time he’d returned with two coffees and a plate of blueberry muffins, Holm had worked out a solution.
‘Nazi memorabilia,’ he said.
‘You what?’ Javed crunched his face. ‘Have you lost the plot?’
‘A twist in the plot, more like.’ Holm reached for a muffin. ‘It’s like this: during our investigations we’ve come across Henderson. We’ve discovered he’s importing Nazi artefacts and they’re like gold dust to fascist groups. Bits of the Führer’s bunker. Tatty old SS uniforms. Propaganda material from the thirties. The right-wing nutters worship this sort of stuff, make shrines of it. Henderson is creaming off a cool ten K a month simply by getting the stuff through customs. Once it’s here he auctions it to the highest bidder. To combat the trade we’re going to need the shipping manifests for SeaPak. We’ll need to obtain them surreptitiously so as not to alert Henderson but I reckon we can do that through the Border Force by telling them we need the manifests for every vessel for the past three months.’
‘Fascists? I thought we were investigating animal rights groups? Do you think the sudden change of strategy will wash with Huxtable?’
‘Remember the attack in Hamburg a few weeks ago? A right-wing terror group targeting immigrants? Perhaps I can weave that into the story. Anyway, as long as we’re bumbling along on our stupid little investigation, Huxtable doesn’t care.’ Holm took a bite of his muffin and then tapped the document in front of him. ‘I told her we were successful in disrupting an extreme animal rights group so who’s to say we can’t do the same with the fascists? She’ll sanction a request for the manifests to the Border Force. They’ll get them and pass them to us.’
‘And if the act of getting the manifests flags us up to somebody?’
‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take, right?’
Javed didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. ‘Right.’
* * *
An hour later the van was edging into low hills, following a winding route towards Naples. Before they hit the coast again they headed north, and at the town of Calabritto they left the main roads behind and forged up into the foothills of the Monti Picentini. Dense forests clung to steep terrain, with lush grassy valleys below, and as they pushed deeper, high stony crags towered above them, angular and bare. The tiny road they were on hairpinned back and forth, and just as Silva was tiring of the constant weaving, they turned off the lane onto a small track. The track skirted a steep valley and at the far end, nestled under a mass of near-vertical forest, stood a wooden lodge. Something like a large ski chalet, with a steep pitched roof and a balcony running across the front of the building.
‘È qui,’ Gavin said as they rumbled towards the house. ‘Own water and power, satellite internet. The only thing you can’t get is a mobile phone signal.’
‘Our stuff?’ Itchy said, leaning forward.
‘In the outbuildings. I drove overland from the UK with everything except the weapons. For obvious reasons they had to come via a different route. You don’t need to know about that.’
‘This terrain doesn’t look good. Too many trees. We’ll never be able to get a clear line of sight to set up a range.’
‘On the contrary.’ Gavin stopped the van. He gestured to the side of the lodge where a path disappeared into the forest. ‘A twenty-minute walk takes you to the top of the ridge. There’s another ridge running almost parallel around a kilometre away. You can hike over and set up some targets. Will that do?’
‘What do you think, Silvi?’
‘Sounds good,’ Silva said. ‘LNs?’
‘LNs?’ Gavin switched the ignition off and turned to Silva. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Local natives. Is anybody going to be around to see this?’
‘Oh! No, we’re on our own up here. There are a few walkers to look out for, but I don’t think there are any trails near. Anyway, this isn’t the UK. The Italians like hunting and guns.’
Inside the place was as luxurious as Gavin had promised. Downstairs was open plan with a huge living area centred round a fireplace with a teetering stone chimney that rose through the house. Gallery bedrooms sat to either side, accessed by a balcony which ran round the entire upper level.
‘Nice,’ Silva said. ‘This Fairchild’s?’
‘Mr Fairchild told me information should be on a need-to-know basis.’
‘And we don’t need to know, right?’
‘Correct. If the operation is compromised the fewer details each member has the better.’
‘I can tell you’ve done this before.’
‘No comment.’ Gavin pointe
d to the gallery above. ‘Pick yourself a room and I’ll fix us a late lunch.’
‘You’re a cook too?’
‘Usually there are staff, but in the circumstances Mr Fairchild thought it best we self-cater. And I’m afraid that includes clearing up afterwards.’
‘Blimey,’ Itchy said. ‘Just like being back in the army and messing together.’
‘But better paid.’ Gavin smiled flatly and headed for the rear of the lodge and a kitchen area.
Silva and Itchy did nothing for the rest of the afternoon except chill out, and in the evening Silva retired early. Her room had an antique four-poster bed and a large en suite bathroom. A glazed door led to a small balcony. She stepped out. The heat of the day had subsided now the sun was behind the mountains. She breathed in the scent of the hillsides: pine needles, earth, wild flowers. Sean, she thought, would have loved to come to Italy. He’d often talked about how they should take a tour of Europe. She wondered whether she’d ever see him again. The ways things were she doubted it, but then she couldn’t see beyond the fifteenth of August. How life was going to pan out afterwards was anyone’s guess. Sean, as a CIA agent, was almost certainly going to be involved in the hunt for Karen Hope’s killer, and that wasn’t going to be conducive to whatever was left of their relationship.
Silva shivered. A breeze had sprung up, cool air flowing down from the mountains. The sky above the distant peaks now wore a corona of burnt ochre, while way down the valley the street lights of a distant town started to flicker on. One by one, dots of white in the dark shadows of the night. She turned and went back into her room.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning they carted a dozen cardboard boxes in from one of the outbuildings and set about unpacking and checklisting everything. Itchy gawped at the quality of some of the pieces.