by Mark Sennen
‘I don’t…?’ Silva stood still, for a moment utterly confused. She pointed towards the cowshed. ‘You realise your men just killed the US ambassador?’
‘The deputy ambassador to be precise.’
Fairchild gestured at the Range Rover but Silva didn’t move. Then she turned, intending to thank the two special forces guys, but they’d vanished.
‘What is this place?’ she asked.
‘A black site run by the US. Totally deniable and off the books, unless they all of a sudden decide to admit to its existence, which they won’t.’
‘But the tractor, the cows…?’
‘It’s a working farm with an American expat owner. Isolated, plenty of outbuildings, a surprising array of useful equipment, and the potential for lots of unexplained noises. Just the place for working over enemies of the state.’
‘Which state?’
‘That depends.’
‘On British soil? Bloody hell.’
‘Come on, Rebecca. You can’t get squeamish now simply because the tables were turned.’ Fairchild got back into the Range Rover. ‘Let’s go.’
‘How’s this going to work?’ she said as she went round and climbed in the passenger side. ‘I mean three dead men, one of them the US deputy ambassador?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fairchild started the Range Rover and eased off. ‘To be frank, the fact Mavers went rogue is not my problem. It’s an American mess and they’ll have to sort it out for themselves.’
They passed a collection of farm buildings and threaded through a dense forest, black against the Range Rover’s headlights. For half an hour she saw nothing she recognised, then there was a sign for London and the M40. Fairchild hadn’t spoken again and every question she asked had been answered with a shake of his head. Now, as they joined the motorway, he appeared to relax.
‘How did you find me?’ Silva said.
‘Later. When we get home.’
‘Home?’
‘My home. It’s obviously not safe for you to go anywhere near your own place.’
‘Oh my God, you don’t know about my dad, he’s—’
‘He’s alive, Rebecca. Bruised but in fine fettle. He’d have come with me if I’d let him.’
‘He’s alive?’ Silva choked, tears filling her eyes. ‘I thought… God!’
Fairchild put a hand out and touched her on the knee. ‘He’s in a safe house being watched over by a couple of mates from the regiment.’
She slumped back in her seat. The thought that he’d died had wracked her with guilt. They’d never properly made up but now there was a second chance for her to do that. She made a silent promise to herself she wouldn’t let the chance slip by.
The past few hours had been overwhelming and tiredness swept in. She closed her eyes for one moment and the next there was a hand on her shoulder.
‘We’re here.’
The night was gone, the darkness replaced by golden sunbeams shining through lush woodland, Fairchild’s mansion standing bathed in the morning light. Fairchild showed her in and took her through to a huge dining room; within seconds a pot of tea and a cooked breakfast had arrived.
‘Tuck in,’ Fairchild said. ‘You must be hungry.’
Silva nodded as the tray of food was placed on the table. She went across and sat down. ‘Where’s Itchy?’
‘He’s upstairs chilling out. Don’t worry, he told us everything. It’s all under control.’ Fairchild took a chair opposite her as she began to eat. ‘You’ll be wanting answers, but I’m not the person to give them to you.’
‘Who is, then?’ Silva muttered through a mouthful of bacon.
‘He’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Right.’ Silva carried on eating. Took a drink of tea. When she’d finished, Fairchild asked if she wanted some more. ‘No,’ she said.
Ten minutes later there was the sound of the front door opening and one of Fairchild’s aides appeared.
‘He’s here, sir.’
‘Show him through.’
Silva turned her head to see a man in a dark suit walk into the room. Rectangular frameless glasses. Short brown hair. A hand moving up to touch his glasses. The bank manager-cum-wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Simeon Weiss.
* * *
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Silva pushed back her chair from the table and glared at Fairchild. ‘You’ve sold me out, you bastard!’
‘Nobody’s sold anyone out, Ms da Silva,’ Weiss said. ‘Leastways not yet.’
‘Please, Rebecca.’ Fairchild gestured at the table. ‘Sit down and listen to what Simeon has to say.’
‘He threatened me and he killed Neil Milligan.’
‘We did not kill Mr Milligan,’ Weiss said.
‘Who did, then?’
‘Hope’s people.’
‘Mavers? The CIA?’
‘She paid off Mavers and a few others, but the CIA? Good God, no, she hasn’t got control of them. At least not yet.’
‘That’s what this is all about, Rebecca.’ Fairchild approached the table and drew out a chair. ‘Stopping Karen Hope before it gets to a point where she can’t be stopped.’
Silva turned to Weiss. ‘I thought that’s what you were trying to prevent me doing? Stopping Karen Hope.’
‘Well—’
‘I think,’ Fairchild said, ‘it’s about time we came clean.’
Silva snorted. ‘Right. As if I’d believe anything you said after all that’s happened.’
‘Let’s start at the beginning.’ Weiss was at the end of the table. He sat down and laid both hands flat before clasping them together. ‘Karen Hope is not what people think she is. Not the saviour come to lead us out of the wilderness. Not a Kennedy-type figure. Not even a moderately competent politician. But she is power hungry, corrupt, and will stop at nothing to achieve her ambition of becoming president.’
‘I know that.’ Silva gestured towards Fairchild. ‘Matthew briefed me on the whole thing. Hope killed my mother in an attempt to cover up her brother’s dealings with Jawad al Haddad.’
‘Yes.’ Weiss’s hands went flat on the table again. He leaned forward. ‘Although it will never become public, your mother was something of a hero. We knew of Hope’s relationship with the Saudis, of course, but we only discovered the true extent of it through your mother’s research.’
‘We?’
‘The security services.’
‘You were keeping tabs on her?’
‘We keep tabs on a lot of people, Rebecca, and every now and then all the watching and listening and hacking pays off. That was the case with your mother. We intercepted some of her file uploads and discovered the information about Hope. We followed up various leads and checked the veracity of your mother’s work. We came to the shocking conclusion it was not only true, but there was even more dirt buried.’
‘And that is?’
‘You don’t need to know.’ Weiss shook his head. ‘Suffice it to say it confirmed our plan of action had to be put into place immediately. We needed to prevent Hope from becoming president – not, I’m afraid, because of a moral imperative, rather because of the risk of massive global destabilisation if the information came out at a later date. Imagine the scandal. There’d be an impeachment, her removal from office, a totally unsuitable vice-president stepping into the job, questions about America’s role in the world. If, on the other hand, she wasn’t exposed, think of the leverage the Saudis and Haddad in particular would have over her. Policy in the Middle East would be in hock to them for the next four to eight years.’ Weiss paused and took a breath. ‘However, getting rid of Hope was easier said than done. We could allow your mother to continue her work and cross our fingers that when the story came out it would result in Hope having to withdraw her candidacy. There were several risks though. One, would your mother be able to get the story out in time? Two, would she be believed? Three, the revelations would do untold damage to the UK’s relationship with the Saudis. Our defence contracts are worth
billions and support thousands of jobs. And think about the other ways the Gulf states invest in this country. They own football teams, property, huge chunks of well-known companies. In short, we are dependent on the whole region for our financial security and stability. There had to be another way to stop Hope; the question was, how?’
‘Yes, how,’ Fairchild said. He smiled across the table at Silva. ‘Were it to be discovered the British government had interfered in the democratic process of another country there’d be UN sanctions, a trade war, perhaps even, in the worst case, military conflict.’
‘Although,’ Weiss said, ‘I was hearing snippets of information from my colleagues in various agencies Stateside that they were looking for a way out of the situation themselves. They saw the danger of Hope becoming president too. However, they didn’t have the information we did, and even if they had it’s debatable whether there’d have been anybody brave enough to release the material.’ Weiss bowed his head for a moment. ‘And then something happened, something both serendipitous and tragic, and I realised the argument for more extreme measures had swung heavily in our favour.’
‘My mother’s murder,’ Silva said.
‘Yes,’ Weiss said. ‘Once that happened and we joined the dots the time for diplomatic pressure and subterfuge were over. Hope had proved herself to be beyond the pale. She’d sanctioned a terrorist attack, which left many people dead, to further her ambitions. In ordinary circumstances we’d have been seeking extradition and a trial. However, these are far from ordinary circumstances. I was summoned to a meeting with my boss, Thomas Gillan – the head of MI5 – and he agreed with my analysis. The problem was that when he went to Downing Street and made subtle hints that for the sake of British national security Hope had to be stopped, the prime minister wouldn’t hear of it. Risk the special relationship? Act against our closest ally? Inconceivable! After the meeting the cabinet secretary and the national security adviser spoke privately with Gillan, expressing their dismay at the prime minister’s stance. I’m afraid our politicians lack bravery and are more inclined to think short term and of their own political futures than for the good of the country. Despite the prime minister’s attitude, there was an understanding between Gillan and the two civil servants. Gillan came back to me and authorised an operation to stop Hope whatever it took. I explored several options, options that didn’t involve the death of Hope, but in the end I concluded there was only one with minimal risk and maximal chance of success. The secrecy involved was such that myself, Gillan and Matthew are the only people who know the whole truth. You can imagine the consequences if this ever got out.’
‘Simeon knew my area of expertise,’ Fairchild said. ‘He came to me seeking a third party, a rogue operator, who could kill Karen Hope. Because I knew of you through your father, I told him we didn’t have to look very far to find the perfect assassin with all the motivation we needed. We prepared the files and sent them to your father, making out they’d come from a time-controlled online vault. All I had to do was call him, and with a little prompting he asked for my help. At first he was sceptical when I made the proposal to kill Hope. To be honest he was concerned for your safety. I told him the operation was foolproof, and with a little persuasion he came round to my way of thinking. To our way of thinking.’
‘So the whole thing was a set-up.’ Silva bristled. ‘All you had to do was approach me with a plan and show me the evidence.’
‘It wasn’t quite that simple,’ Weiss said. ‘The intelligence services as a whole know nothing of this. Hence my little performances at the service station and on the Hoe in Plymouth. They were staged so I could say you’d been investigated. I wanted to make sure your name was in the system, but the reports I submitted were tagged with the label no further action. Spooks watch spooks, and anyone observing either incident would have concluded there was absolutely nothing friendly about our meetings.’
‘And the break-in at my mother’s house?’
‘Yes, a ruse. The break-in sowed the seeds of a conspiracy in your mind. As did the act of pushing you into the water.’
‘You could have killed me.’
‘Time was short and we needed to spur you on. By then we’d already identified Positano as possibly the last chance to carry out some kind of attack, at least on non-US soil. The problem was, we needed deniability. A bomb or a close-quarters assault was much more likely to go wrong or be traceable. A sniper attack, on the other hand, could see Hope killed with a single shot, carried a low risk of other casualties and stood little chance of detection. It just so happened you appeared on the scene. Not only one of the world’s best shots, but somebody with the motivation to carry out the attack.’
‘And if I’d succeeded you’d have given me up afterwards, right?’
‘That might have seemed a good option, but it would have been much too risky. At some point connections would be made. Matthew is a freelancer, but he’s been in the intelligence services earlier in his career. Far better for us to ensure you killed Hope and made your escape.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘No.’ Weiss sighed. ‘And that brings us to the here and now and our little problem.’
‘Which is?’
Weiss scraped his chair away from the table and stood. He glanced across at Fairchild before walking across the room. He stopped at the door and turned.
‘Karen Hope.’ He reached out and hit the door frame with a clenched fist. Tap, tap, tap. ‘And how we’re going to make sure you get another chance to kill her.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Taher stood and looked through the window. This time the vista was not of the crowded streets of London, but of rows of olive trees on a vast plain that stretched to the border with Algeria. Sand dunes rippled the horizon, reminding him of home, reminding him of why he was here in Tunisia waiting for the weapons.
He’d fulfilled his side of the deal. He’d set up the route and arranged all the details. They’d carried out a dozen trial journeys with the containers and not once had there been any sign the authorities knew what was going on. On the last trip Latif and Saabiq had ridden in the container from Naples to Rotterdam. Once on board the Excelsior they’d emerged from their hiding place and retired to an empty cabin, courtesy of the captain. Later, when the ship had unloaded, they’d left the ship along with the crew. There’d been no checks on either of the containers.
That had been the final test and now Taher was confident the operation could succeed. Every month or so a large delivery of armaments would arrive at the airfield near Cambridge. The Saudis would send an aircraft to collect them, but a single pallet would go missing from the consignment and end up on the Excelsior bound for Rotterdam and beyond. And these were no ordinary weapons. Not cast off Russian goods from decades ago. Not cheap Chinese copies. There were the latest in hi-tech rocket launchers. Laser guided. Massive destructive power. In the coming months the weapons would be distributed, ready for an offensive early next year. The plan was to disrupt tourism in Morocco, Tunisia and Egypt, from West to East Saharan Africa, and the rockets would help to accomplish that aim.
For Taher it wasn’t enough. Africa was a long way from northern Europe where the previous attacks had done little to bend the minds of the sanctimonious British, the arrogant French or the smug Germans. They needed to be reminded of what it was to be afraid, of what it was like to have death call at their own front doors. When he’d informed Haddad he was ready for the big one, the Saudi had smiled.
‘Of course you are,’ he’d said. ‘Once all this is over I promise you will have what you desire.’
So Taher had done everything asked of him. As well as setting up the smuggling route, he’d eliminated Francisca da Silva and dealt with Ben Western and Neil Milligan. The reward was continued support from Haddad and something else too. A present from the Saudi that Taher had stored in the roof space of a lock-up garage he rented in west London. Long and sleek things they were. Massive destructive power. He smiled to himself. When
the deal was done and the first tranche of weapons had been handed over, he’d head back to the UK. Latif was waiting for him, and together they would avenge the deaths of Taher’s family.
He took a second to whisper two words, clenching his fists as he did so.
‘Collateral damage,’ he said.
* * *
Harry Palmer wasn’t free at short notice, so Holm had arranged to meet for lunch the following day.
‘Next door to yours?’ Palmer said, referencing the Pizza Express across the street from Thames House.
‘No, too close to home,’ Holm said. ‘Do you know the place we used to go years ago? Twelve thirty.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Palmer said before confirming he’d be there and hanging up.
The place they used to go years ago was the Pear Tree Cafe in Battersea Park. Holm liked it for a clandestine meet because there were numerous entrances to the park and, once inside, dozens of paths to follow.
Holm and Javed found a rare parking spot close by and entered the park at twelve. They approached the cafe in a circuitous manner and Holm had Javed stand off and keep watch while he went in and awaited Palmer’s arrival. An expanse of glass curved round one side of the cafe and Holm sat at a table near the entrance. At twelve twenty-five Palmer slipped into a seat opposite Holm, appearing to materialise out of thin air, but likely coming in through the kitchens.
‘Very good,’ Holm said. ‘You got me.’
‘What is this, Stephen?’ Palmer winked. ‘Are we playing at lovers or co-conspirators?’
Holm grimaced. ‘Not the former, please.’
‘I thought you’d gone over to the other side.’ Palmer gestured through the window. ‘He’s a good-looking lad, I’ll give you that.’
‘You spotted him?’
‘He’s down at the lake pretending to feed the ducks.’ Palmer raised a hand and made a little pecking motion with his thumb and fingers. ‘Only, what sort of twenty-something male would be doing that? Plus he hasn’t got any bread.’