The Sanction

by Mark Sennen

  ‘The what?’

  ‘There was a shooting in Italy yesterday. The wife of a businessman who was attending a party in the town of Positano.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. The businessman was a high-ranking Saudi national. As you can imagine, the Saudis are not best pleased. The diplomatic fuss is considerable.’

  Silva shrugged.

  Weiss raised his right hand and used his forefinger to scratch the corner of his eye. ‘One interesting fact to emerge is that the bullet used was a .338 lapua magnum. I’m sure you’re familiar with that type of ammunition since it is precisely the calibre you would have fired hundreds of times yourself.’

  Once more Silva kept silent. Itchy shifted his position, nervous. He tapped his fingers on the table.

  ‘The sniper must have been a crack shock because he… or she… was out on a boat off the coast. Hitting the target at that range while on a moving platform was quite an achievement.’ Weiss looked pointedly at Itchy’s fingers as the nails drummed out a rhythm. ‘The Italian authorities believe the attack was some sort of internal dispute among Saudi factions.’

  ‘There you go, then. Case closed.’

  ‘Not really, Ms da Silva. You see there was somebody else at the party last night. A VIP. It’s been kept out of the news for security reasons, so you won’t read about it in the papers or online.’

  ‘I’m not interested in celebrities. Not really my thing.’

  ‘Oh, this isn’t a celebrity, Ms da Silva. This person is a friend of yours.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But I haven’t told you who it is yet, so how can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I don’t have many friends.’

  ‘I guess I can understand that.’ Weiss curled his lip. ‘Bearing in mind what happened in Afghanistan.’

  Silva tensed but kept still. Weiss was trying to gall her, to provoke some sort of response. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  ‘Well, I’m going to cut to the chase. The VIP was Karen Hope. Congresswoman Karen Hope. This wasn’t an internal Saudi matter at all, this was an attempt to assassinate the next US president. What do you say to that?’

  ‘What is there to say? I met Karen Hope once for about thirty seconds. She isn’t a friend and I can’t see what this has to do with me.’

  ‘Let’s stop this charade, Rebecca.’ Weiss banged the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Matthew Fairchild persuaded you that your mother had uncovered some vast conspiracy involving Karen Hope. Despite my warning you fell for his patter and agreed to go on his little mission to Italy. Unfortunately the operation went wrong and, instead of killing Karen Hope, you shot an innocent Saudi woman. I tried to tell you about Fairchild, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’ll have to suffer the consequences.’

  ‘I didn’t shoot anyone.’

  ‘I think you did.’

  ‘As Richard said, we were on holiday in north Wales.’

  ‘Camping,’ Itchy added helpfully.

  ‘Yes, so you claim.’ Weiss pointed out the window in the direction of the BMW and the motorbikes. ‘Where’s your tent?’

  ‘We didn’t use a tent, we bivvied,’ Silva said.

  ‘What about food? Where did you buy it?’

  ‘Local shops, here and there.’

  ‘Card payment or cash?’

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘What about restaurants?’

  Silva shook her head. She knew Weiss was trying to pin her down to something he would be able to verify.

  ‘We didn’t eat out, our budget wouldn’t stretch to it.’

  ‘It’s all so, so convenient, Rebecca.’ Weiss cocked his head on one side. A smile became a grimace. ‘But it won’t wash. You’re lying, and one way or another I intend to find out the truth.’ Weiss pushed back his chair and stood. ‘You’d better come up with a more believable story because we’ll be questioning you again. Next time I can’t promise the surroundings will be quite so friendly.’

  Weiss turned and walked away, his aide following. Itchy bent to his coffee and took a sip.

  ‘You reckon he bought it?’ he said. ‘The Wales stuff?’

  ‘No.’ Silva stared after Weiss as he pushed through the doors to the outside. ‘I don’t think he did.’

  * * *

  They pulled up outside Itchy’s place mid-afternoon. Itchy hefted his panniers from his bike.

  ‘Thanks,’ Silva said. ‘And I’m sorry for getting you involved in this.’

  ‘I’m a grown up, Silvi,’ Itchy said. ‘I knew the score before we set out. My only regret is we didn’t get Hope.’ Itchy moved towards the front door. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Go home and sleep. After that I have no idea.’

  ‘I’ll see you though, right? Around?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Silva flipped her visor down and fired up the bike.

  When she got back to the boatyard, Fairchild’s black Range Rover was parked up by Freddie’s office. Inside Fairchild was chatting with Freddie and the two Dobermanns lay curled at his feet.

  ‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild nodded to Freddie and came bounding out. He took her arm and walked down to the pontoons with her. ‘Look happy. I told Freddie I had some good news for you.’

  ‘You don’t though,’ Silva said.

  ‘Not really.’ Fairchild patted a newspaper he’d tucked under his arm. He pulled it out. Princess Dies punned the tabloid headline. ‘Lashirah Haddad is dead.’

  ‘Shit.’ They’d reached the pontoon and Silva had to stop and steady herself. She wondered why Weiss hadn’t told her. Perhaps he reasoned that she already knew and he could trick her, or else she’d be more likely to confess if the crime wasn’t murder. ‘This is a nightmare.’

  ‘The worst kind.’ Fairchild waited until Silva began to walk again. ‘The general consensus appears to be this was an attempt to take out Haddad. There’s nothing about Karen Hope and no reference to the fact the villa is owned by her brother.’

  ‘And where are they, the Hopes?’

  ‘They’ve gone to ground. No sign of them anywhere. I’m sure a few journalists’ palms have been crossed with gold so as to downplay the connections between Haddad and the Hopes. They’ll spin some story about this being a terrorist plot against the Saudis, neatly turning the tables. I wouldn’t be surprised if the regime use Lashirah’s death as an excuse to crack down on opposition groups at home.’

  ‘This is so wrong.’

  ‘Yes.’ They’d reached Silva’s little boat and Fairchild gawped at the yacht as if he couldn’t believe anyone could live on such a craft, let alone go to sea in it. ‘Your home?’

  ‘It suits me.’

  ‘I can see why it would.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘In a house you’re attached to the earth by concrete and bricks and mortar. Here you’re only tied on with the dock lines. You could flick them free and sail away.’

  ‘This isn’t the time for pap psychoanalysis.’ Silva stepped over the lifelines and moved to the cockpit. She slid open the hatch and descended the companionway steps, shouted back over her shoulder for Fairchild to come aboard. The boat rocked as he stepped onto the deck. He poked his head in the hatch and turned round to descend the steps.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘About Gavin.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fairchild seemed to shrink. He looked longingly at the seats in the saloon and moved across and slumped down at the table. There was a large circular burn mark where Silva had accidentally placed a hot pan on the surface. He reached out and touched the blackened circle. ‘Do you know what would happen if Haddad found out who did this?’

  ‘I can only imagine.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound racist, but they regard life differently out there. People are stoned to death. They have their hands chopped off. They’re beheaded. Haddad will want more though. He’ll want to see s
omebody suffer. He’ll track down everybody connected with this and kill them. At least he’ll kill them after he’s done torturing them.’

  ‘It’s a bit late to be having regrets now. I’m sorry the job went wrong but it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘You misunderstand. I came here to warn you. You should take precautions, perhaps go away for a while.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But nothing that happened in Italy can lead Haddad back here, can it?’

  Fairchild didn’t answer. He touched the burn mark on the table again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘There’s a possibility the location of the training base might have been compromised.’

  ‘The lodge?’

  ‘Yes. I heard there were people up there yesterday. Not police, nor were they Italian.’

  ‘Is there a link back to you?’

  ‘The lodge is owned by a holding company based in Bermuda, so not directly, no. With a lot of digging Haddad might be able to find out, but that’s not the issue.’

  ‘So what is?’

  ‘Apparently there were a couple of cars and a van. They didn’t go inside the lodge but they took away bags of rubbish, among other stuff.’

  ‘And?’ Silva was having trouble comprehending. ‘We made sure all the military gear was kept separate. Nothing incriminating went in the bins.’

  ‘It’s not the rubbish they were interested in, it’s what was on the rubbish. What was on the cans of beer, the bottles of water.’ Fairchild rubbed at the burn mark as if trying to erase it. ‘I’m talking about fingerprints belonging to you and Itchy. You’ve both got convictions. I don’t think it would be too hard for Haddad to run a check, and when he does your name will come up. Rebecca da Silva. Olympic shooter. Sniper. Now that’s incriminating enough, but when Haddad mentions your name to Karen Hope the motive for the shooting will be obvious.’

  ‘Fuck. Do you think he’ll take this to the authorities?’

  ‘Put yourself in his position. Would you?’

  ‘No,’ Silva said quietly.

  ‘And, given what your mother knew, Haddad and Hope won’t want to either.’ Fairchild turned and peered through a porthole. A fishing boat was passing close by and Silva’s yacht began to bob as the wake washed against the hull. ‘They’re going to come after you, Rebecca. You have to get away from here. You are, quite literally, a sitting duck.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Taher received a call.

  ‘There are some loose ends,’ the voice on the end of the phone said in Arabic. ‘Rebecca da Silva and her spotter, her father, Matthew Fairchild, the journalist at the news agency.’

  ‘That’s a lot of loose ends,’ Taher said. ‘Sounds as if somebody has been a bit careless.’

  ‘Nobody has been careless, it’s simply a matter of good housekeeping. Don’t the Bedouin take their shoes off at the threshold to prevent dirt entering the tent?’

  ‘We do, but we also try not to step in shit in the first place.’ As soon as he’d spoken Taher wondered if he’d gone too far. He was annoyed at the way things were panning out, but he needed to keep his paymasters sweet for just a little longer. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Milligan. The journalist. We warned him but he obviously didn’t take the threat seriously. We need to deal with him as soon as possible.’

  ‘Neil Milligan and Francisca da Silva? People will put two and two together.’

  ‘If you do this right they’ll come up with nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence.’

  Taher sighed. It was no good arguing. Milligan should have kept his blabber mouth closed. He knew what would happen if he told anybody about the story Francisca da Silva had been working on. Now it looked as if he hadn’t paid heed to the warnings. Was journalistic integrity really more important to the man than the safety of his wife and children?

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘For now you just worry about Milligan.’ Silence for a moment. ‘An unfortunate coincidence, OK?’

  The phone went dead and Taher moved to the window and considered the problem he’d just been handed. Looking out over the city was always his first action when it came to making decisions. Up here above everything there was a clarity missing at ground level. The hustle and bustle and anarchy were replaced by silence. Chaos turned into serenity.

  He thought of the violence he’d committed or helped orchestrate. Explosions, bullets ripping into flesh, vehicles ploughing into crowds. He understood the damage he’d caused and the scars he’d left behind – both physical and emotional – but that was the idea. Only by giving these people something they couldn’t forget would they begin to remember they only had themselves to blame.

  Neil Milligan. Case in point. The journalist only had himself to blame for what was going to happen to him. He was a niggle in the grand scheme of things, but at the moment he’d become the most important item on Taher’s busy agenda.

  He turned from the window, turned from the peace and quiet.

  An unfortunate coincidence.

  He nodded to himself. Yes, that’s exactly what people would say.

  * * *

  Kowlowski didn’t appear to be in a rush to get back to Rotterdam and the journey took a couple of days. Holm and Javed at first followed behind the truck, stopping whenever the Pole stopped, but after the destination seemed obvious they overtook the lorry and headed north as fast as possible, Holm reasoning they needed to get to Rotterdam first.

  ‘What if you’re wrong?’ Javed said. ‘What if they stop off en route?’

  ‘They won’t.’ Holm turned his head. The truck was somewhere back there, miles behind them. ‘The captain of the Angelo mentioned the UK, didn’t he? Plus we know the container keeps appearing on the manifests, and if Latif and his mate wanted to go somewhere in mainland Europe they could have done it in a car.’

  They reached Rotterdam early on the second morning. The app on Javed’s phone showed the truck hadn’t reached Germany so Holm took an executive decision.

  ‘We’ll get a room somewhere.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and he could smell his own body odour. Always a bad sign. ‘We need a wash and a bed and some proper sleep.’

  ‘A room? A bed?’ Javed smirked. ‘Didn’t know you cared, boss.’

  ‘Two single beds. We’ll clean ourselves up and get our heads down. We should be able to manage a few hours’ kip before the lorry turns up.’

  They found a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam. The receptionist looked at them a little oddly. Two men wanting a room on the spur of the moment at nine in the morning. Holm mentioned they were British police officers on a case.

  ‘What was that about?’ Javed said.

  ‘She thought we were… well… you know? I think I put her straight.’

  ‘Straight? I doubt it, boss.’

  Holm ignored Javed. He was too tired to care what the hell the receptionist thought. He needed to sleep.

  In the room Holm was pleased to see the single beds were a good distance apart. He dumped his bag in the corner, kicked off his shoes and lay down on one of the beds. The last thing he remembered was asking Javed to set an alarm and the first thing he saw when he woke was the young man leaning close.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Holm put up his hands. ‘Get off!’

  ‘It’s five p.m., boss.’ Javed stood. ‘I’ve showered and had something to eat at the cafe next door.’

  ‘The truck…?’ Holm sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘We haven’t missed it?’

  ‘Kowlowski’s just crossed the border into the Netherlands. He’ll be a couple of hours yet.’

  ‘When does the Excelsior depart?’

  ‘It’s sails this evening. They’ll start loading shortly.’

  ‘Good.’ Holm swung his legs off the bed but paused before standing. ‘We need flights to the UK. We need to be there before the ship arrives back in Felixstowe.’

  Holm had a shower, grabbed som
ething to eat at the cafe and then they made for the port.

  Kowlowski arrived about an hour later. The Pole swung the truck in and coasted down to where containers were already being plucked from the dockside by huge cranes. Holm got out of their car and went across to the customs building.

  ‘You again.’ It was the same officer as before. He nodded over to a small Portakabin. ‘The toilets are over there. If you can be bothered.’

  As they left the officer was speaking to a colleague and laughing, an accusing finger pointing at Javed. The story of the urinating Englishman had obviously done the rounds.

  ‘God knows what kind of reputation British intelligence is getting thanks to you.’ Holm shook his head. ‘Come on.’

  They sauntered along the dockside down a narrow corridor of containers, trying to look like a couple of jobsworths.

  ‘We’re not really interested, right?’ Holm pulled the collar of his coat up against a wind that was funnelling between the stacks of containers. ‘The last thing we want to do is make ourselves any more work. We just want to tick the boxes and get on home to a cool beer and a warm woman.’

  ‘I might remind you that I don’t like either of those things.’

  ‘There. Kowlowski’s done.’ Holm glanced sideways while pretending to inspect the doors of a nearby container. At the end of the row the crane grabber had positioned itself over Kowlowski’s truck. The arms lowered and clamped themselves in place. The container soared upwards and outwards in a manoeuvre Holm found strangely balletic. ‘The stowaways are on board. Let’s go back to the hotel and book some flights from Schiphol for early tomorrow morning. With luck we’ll be in Felixstowe for breakfast.’

  Javed gave Holm a smirk. ‘Not much on the menu there, boss, right?’

  Thanks for reminding me, Holm thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Silva rose early. She climbed from her bunk, dragged the kettle onto the hob and lit the gas. Flipped the radio on as a presenter read a news summary. Train drivers were on strike and there was countrywide commuter chaos. Overseas, the Pope had condemned the killing of a foreign dignitary on Italian soil, pleading for all religions to work together for peace and understanding. Back in the UK a fifty-seven-year-old man had been stabbed in north London. Another murder in the capital. The victim was one Neil Milligan, the owner and editor of the well-regarded Third Eye News agency. Police enquiries were continuing but so far no arrests had been made. The end of the piece noted the agency had, coincidentally, been struck by tragedy earlier in the year when noted foreign correspondent Francisca da Silva had been killed in a terrorist attack in Tunisia.