by Mark Sennen
Her father spoke softly, but she felt the fury in his words. It was as if he was the one who’d been betrayed. She felt light-headed, giddy. ‘Sean, he wouldn’t—’
‘Enough!’ Mavers raised a hand. ‘We’re leaving.’ He motioned at the man with the gun and then pointed at Silva’s father. ‘Make sure he can’t get free. You’re with me, Rebecca.’
Mavers gestured at the door and for one moment Silva wondered if, alone with Mavers, she could escape. Her hopes were dashed when they encountered another man in the corridor. Like the first grunt, he had a gun.
‘After you,’ Mavers said. ‘And no tricks, no funny stuff.’
They went downstairs and outside. Parked round the side of the house there was a silver Ford van with diplomatic plates. Mavers slid the rear door open and the grunt pushed Silva in. Mavers stood by the door and glanced at his watch. Minutes ticked by.
‘What’s going on?’ Silva said. ‘What are we waiting for?’
‘That.’ Mavers turned his head and peered back at the house. The second grunt ran from the front door and down the steps. A high pitched repetitive beeping pierced the air. ‘Now we go.’
The grunt jumped into the van and started the engine. Silva strained to see what was going on. There was a glow from one of the downstairs windows. Yellow and orange light flickering. The shrillness of the smoke alarm over the crackle of flame.
‘No!’ Silva shouted. She leapt forward, trying to make for the door before Mavers could slam it shut.
The man in the back raised his gun, turning the weapon so he could bring the handle down on Silva’s head. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then nothing.
* * *
She woke to a moving light. A single bulb hanging from a piece of wire in the ceiling. A draught from somewhere moved the bulb and the arc of its shadow crept over the walls and swept her face. Silva rolled over, aware of a throbbing at the side of her head and a sensation of stickiness round her left eye. She raised a hand and a scab of dried blood fell away. The light bulb swung and flickered and she was remembering the fire.
They’d left her father tied to the chair in his room and torched the place. She imagined him sitting there as the flames rose around him, imagined the fear he must have felt. She closed her eyes and almost inevitably thought of her mother too. What evil could have conspired to take both her parents from her in a handful of months? And the only other person she loved, Sean, had given her up to the enemy.
That thought caused the throbbing in her head to pulse faster. Had he really done that? Put his loyalty to his country above her? She held back a sob. Perhaps he’d never really loved her at all, perhaps everything had been a sham. She remembered the times they’d spent together, the quiet, tender moments, the laughs… no he had loved her.
Had or did?
A wave of emotion hit her and it was as if she was falling into the weir at her mother’s house all over again. Sliding down the weed-covered sill and plunging underwater. No air. No light. Slipping down into the depths. She tried to take a breath but could do nothing but wheeze. She gagged against a constriction in her throat, fighting asphyxia.
Sean?
His face was distorted in a blur of tears and then she was biting her lip in anger, feeling pain, tasting blood.
She blinked, the copper tang of the blood snapping her back to reality. She was lying on a piece of sacking stuffed with straw. The light bulb illuminated four walls of crumbling bricks and mortar rising to a roof of asbestos sheeting. In one corner there was some kind of trough, and water dripped from a join in the galvanised pipe that ran from the trough to a stopcock halfway up the wall. Scattered in one corner were several piles of dried faecal matter. Silva looked closer, but couldn’t distinguish if the crap was animal or human. The latter would suggest she wasn’t the first to be brought here. Not the first to wait in trepidation of what was to come.
Did Sean know where she was or what fate awaited her? Would he really have turned her over to the American authorities? Then again, this was nowhere official. Not a prison or a police station or a military base. She thought of Afghanistan. There’d been places where al-Qaeda militants had been taken. Black sites. Deniable. Places where the Geneva Convention didn’t apply. American operatives had waterboarded suspects and worse. Not that the British were without guilt. Silva knew UK intelligence officers had been present when militants had been interrogated. Silva hadn’t much cared back then. The militants had to be stopped by any means necessary. Now, though, the tables had been turned.
Thanks to Sean.
He must have called Greg Mavers, told him Silva knew about Karen Hope and Haddad. She didn’t think he had any knowledge of what Mavers intended to do, but his loyalties were divided. When pressed, had he come down on the side of his country? Like Hope, Mavers would have appealed to his patriotism for sure. He’d have told Sean the very future of democracy was at stake, that there was only one option.
She pushed herself up from the ground, sat upright and looked round. At the roof eaves there was a small gap where the rafters met the wall. A patch of blue sky and a smudge of cloud.
How long had she been here? She rubbed her head. Just a few hours, or had she been unconscious for longer? It didn’t really matter. Nobody knew where she was and nobody was coming to rescue her. Sean had always been an unlikely knight in shining armour, and now his armour was tarnished.
Silva stood, feeling dizziness and a sharp pain in her forehead. She took a moment to recover and then walked round the room, examining every inch. The door was of heavy boards, bolted through. There was no handle on her side, nor did there seem to be any sign of a lock or hinges. She figured the door must open inwards, which if the room was for animals made sense. She gave the door a tentative push, but it was solid and immovable.
The only other thing of interest was the water pipe. The piping looked substantial, but the fixings holding it to the wall had corroded. Silva reckoned she could pull the pipe free and use a length of it as a weapon.
She was about to test the strength of the wall fixings when bolts clattered on the door. Silva stepped back into the corner of the room as the door swung open.
‘You’re awake.’ Greg Mavers stepped into the room. Close behind came the two men who’d been with Mavers at her father’s house. One held a pistol while the other carried an iron bar and a length of rope. Mavers waved a hand at the room. ‘I’m sorry the surroundings aren’t up to much, but there you go.’
‘This can’t work. There’s too much of a trail. Too many people know.’
‘Oh but they don’t, Rebecca. Not the damaging stuff. They know about a few arms deals and some money which may or may not have come from various unsavoury sources. They don’t know about the rest of it.’ Mavers moved a finger to his right eye. Scratched something. ‘The problem is, you do know everything.’
‘And I’ve told others. If I disappear it will all come out.’
‘Then I’ll need to know the names of the people you’ve told.’
‘I won’t talk.’
‘You will. You must have had enough training to know that not talking isn’t an option. It doesn’t take much for people to spill the beans. I should know, I’m ex-CIA. Been there, done that. So if you thought you were dealing with some pen-pushing diplomat, then I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’
‘You won’t know if I’m lying or not.’
‘Let me explain.’ Mavers tilted his head at the man with the iron bar and rope. ‘We’ll need to investigate everyone you say you’ve told. So lie if you wish, but it’s not going to be pleasant for those you finger because we’ll have to interrogate each and every one of them.’
‘Well, I haven’t told anyone.’
‘You’ve changed your tune, but if that’s true then good. The problem is we need to be sure. The iron bar will help. We can beat you with it. We can break your fingers or smash your kneecaps. We can do other things. Think what it would feel like with that piece of metal inside you. Espec
ially if we heat it up. At the end, we’ll know if you’re telling the truth or not.’
‘You’re going to kill me.’
‘You’re an assassin, Rebecca. You killed Lashirah al Haddad. Sure, you denied it earlier, but I don’t believe you.’ Mavers moved forward. ‘Our friends in Saudi Arabia would like you turned over to them, but I won’t hear of it. Their methods make ours look positively benign. To be honest I’d like nothing better than for you to be taken to the US to face trial, but the issue with that is your mouth. Far better you simply disappear.’
‘Don’t you think there’ll be questions asked? First my mother, then Neil Milligan, then me? Too much of a coincidence.’
‘There are questions asked about the moon landings, about Elvis Presley, about 9/11. Compared to those world events your death will be but a footnote. I really don’t think anyone will be interested.’ Mavers stepped back towards the door, careful not to turn his back. ‘Now, think very carefully about what you are going to tell us when we return, OK?’
Mavers slipped out the door and the two men followed. The door swung shut, the bolts clunked across and the light swung gently in the draught.
Chapter Thirty-One
Holm slept in his own bed for the first time in days, but the following morning he was back in the office with Javed. The lad fired up his computer and his fingers hovered over the keys.
‘If I do a search it will be logged,’ Javed said. ‘The Spider probably has a screen on her wall showing what each of us is googling. Cheap flights, gnocchi recipes, ripped abs, that sort of thing.’
Holm eased himself into his chair. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep this quiet anyway. ‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘RAF Wittering.’
Within in a few seconds Javed had found a Financial Times article detailing a trade summit that had taken place at the airbase. A huge arms deal had been signed off by the secretary of state for defence, and a top Saudi diplomat had attended along with the US deputy ambassador and several senior military figures from the UK and American military. There’d been a ceremonial handover of the first tranche of arms and the shipment included surface-to-air missiles and other air defence equipment. Afterwards there’d been a reception hosted by Allied American Armaments.
‘Surface-to-air missiles,’ Javed said. ‘The thought of Taher getting his hands on a couple of those is chilling.’
‘American Armaments.’ Holm looked at the article. ‘That’s the Hope family, right? The Hope family, as in Karen Hope.’
‘Yes.’ Javed rapped the keyboard and did a fresh search.
Holm leaned in and read more. The Hope family were of Italian origin and Brandon Hope had returned to his roots. He’d married an Italian and settled in Italy. This after several years as a diplomat in Riyadh. His experience in the Middle East had come in handy when he’d begun to get involved in the family business, and according to the Financial Times he’d been instrumental in brokering the recent deal thanks to his relationship with Jawad al Haddad, a billionaire Saudi with connections to the royal family.
‘Haddad. Shit.’ Holm remembered something he’d overheard in the situation room earlier. ‘There was an attempt on his life a few days ago. Dissident Saudis apparently, but whoever it was, his wife was killed in the attack. Have a guess where?’
‘Saudi Arabia, I assume?’
‘Wrong. Positano. A stone’s throw from Naples. It only stuck in my mind because we were there at the time. Now the location appears to be more than a coincidence.’
‘Definitely, boss. Look at this.’ Javed had clicked open another page. ‘Several years ago Brandon Hope set up an aid charity that operates across the Middle East and North Africa. Among other things it runs a boat that rescues migrants who are attempting to cross the Mediterranean.’ Javed looked up. ‘That was the boat we saw Mohid Latif disembark from. The Angelo.’
‘A rich man’s plaything. That’s what Luigi the cafe owner said. And remember the captain of the Angelo explaining to Mohid Latif that a meeting had been called off? Something about helicopters and police and it being too risky? Latif could have been going to meet Haddad in Positano. We should have been on to this before. We were too blinkered in going after Taher. I was too blinkered. Shoe leather rather than research.’
‘Do you think Brandon Hope is directly involved with Taher?’
‘Possibly.’ Holm sat for a minute and spun the facts round in his head, tried to jigsaw them into place. ‘But more likely he’s simply turned a blind eye to help out Haddad. Anything on our system on him?’
‘You mean internally?’ Javed moved his hands from the keyboard as if he was scared he might accidentally type something incriminating. ‘Isn’t that a bit risky, sir?’
‘We have to know.’
‘Right.’ Javed paused, still nervous, then he punched the keys and stared at the screen. ‘Haddad’s on a CIA watch list. He’s believed to have orchestrated funding to various extremist factions.’
‘I’m getting a feeling in my water, Farakh. What about American Armaments and the Hopes?’
Javed typed some more. Clicked. Sat back in his chair. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing on American Armaments, just a biographical entry on the Hopes.’
‘There can’t be nothing? What about the arms dealing and Brandon Hope’s relationship with Haddad?’ Holm peered across, sure there must be some mistake. Javed shrugged. ‘Nothing is highly suspicious.’
‘Perhaps, in the light of Karen Hope’s next job, the material has been moved to a higher security-clearance level. You could always ask Huxtable.’
‘Pah.’ Holm dismissed the suggestion and instead reached for his phone. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
* * *
The blue under the eaves slipped away to be replaced by near black, the occasional twinkle from a star. Silva knew Mavers would be making her wait, as time passing was one of the most effective ways of arousing fear. When he came back she’d have to try and play him. If she could make him believe there was something else she knew perhaps she could do a deal. Then again Mavers didn’t seem like the kind of person to haggle with.
She took a drink from the galvanised trough. The water tasted of rust and earth, but it quenched her thirst. She examined the pipe again and was convinced she could pull off a length. With the element of surprise, she fancied her chances against Mavers and one guard; with Mavers and two guards, not so much.
She lay on the makeshift bed of straw and tried to conserve her strength. Mavers was right, resisting torture was impossible. She’d have to tell him something. She was working out exactly what when the door rattled open again.
‘Ms da Silva.’ Mavers entered first, the two grunts behind him. One held a pistol and the other had swapped the iron bar for something that looked alarmingly like an electric cattle prod. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’ Silva sprang to her feet. ‘And you should know my mother hid some papers to do with Karen Hope.’
‘Clever Mommy.’ Mavers shook his head. ‘But it doesn’t work like that, Rebecca. If the documents do exist – and I very much doubt they do – then I’m not going to ask you to take us to them, you’re simply going to tell us where they are.’
Mavers made a small gesture with his hand but Silva didn’t wait for his henchmen to react. She flung herself at the water trough and grabbed the pipe. It broke away from the wall and she was left with a metre-long section of metal in her hands. Water sprayed out in a jet, momentarily disorientating the nearest grunt. Silva stepped forward and swung the pipe at the man holding the gun. He dodged and moved away. She lunged at him again, but as she did so she felt a sharp pain in her midriff followed by a spasm that rushed down her leg. She stumbled to the ground to see the man with the cattle prod standing over her.
‘Shoot her in one knee to start with,’ Mavers said. ‘That will stop her misbehaving. Then get her clothes off and we’ll move on to the next step.’
The man with the gun walke
d across the room. He raised the weapon and pointed it at Silva. She flinched as a sharp report echoed in the room and a spray of blood flicked across her face.
The man with the gun fell forward, his mouth half open in pain or surprise. He slumped to the floor, fluid pumping from a hole in the side of his head. For a moment Silva thought the gun had suffered some kind of catastrophic failure and exploded in his face. Then she saw the masked figure at the doorway. Dark-blue combat fatigues. A Heckler & Koch machine gun. Special forces. British special forces.
‘Don’t move!’ The figure brandished the gun and came into the room followed by another masked soldier.
‘I don’t know who the fuck you are,’ Mavers said. ‘But I’m with the US government and you’re interfering with an important operation. You’re also trespassing.’
‘Shut up.’ The figure in blue gave an almost imperceptible nod and the second soldier let off a round. The man with the cattle prod reeled back, crumpled and went down. The soldier bent and picked up the gun. He checked the clip and then calmly walked over to Mavers.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Mavers said. ‘There’ll be serious repercussions.’
He raised an arm but the soldier thrust the weapon into his face and fired. Mavers keeled over, his substantial body shuddering as it hit the floor.
‘What the—?’ Silva said as she recoiled from the shots.
‘No questions.’ The soldier held out a hand and hauled Silva to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’
The soldiers thrust her out of the room and led her into a large cow barn. Dim light came from overhead fluorescent tubes; on the ground was a mass of straw, fresh manure and a row of troughs with the remains of a feed. They jogged through the barn and out one end. A security floodlight on a pole hung over a green tractor. Parked beside it sat a black Range Rover. As they approached, the door clunked open and a man climbed out. Dusty hair and a colonial tan suit.
‘Rebecca.’ Matthew Fairchild nodded. ‘Good to see you’re OK.’