The Sanction

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Algeria,’ Lona said. ‘Nearly a million square miles. The olive farm is close to the border, perfect as a handover point for the smuggled weapons. They could be going to AQIM groups in Algeria or to Daesh in Sudan, perhaps even as far as al-Shabaab in Somalia. The whole of North Africa is a mess, to be honest.’

  ‘But why on earth is Karen Hope going to be there?’

  ‘That’s just what I’ve been told.’ Lona turned to the back. ‘I follow orders and don’t ask too many questions. Life’s easier that way.’

  Right, Silva thought. Or perhaps you know more than you’re telling.

  The sun burned red as it sank in the west, somewhere amid the vastness of Algeria, and as dusk fell they entered a large town. Vehicles were honking their horns, people everywhere until they turned down a small alley and drew up outside a house with a high concrete wall. Lona got out and opened a pair of heavy gates and the car eased in alongside a white Land Cruiser.

  The house was newly built and cool inside. Lona gestured to a couple of doors off the hall.

  ‘You’ll sleep in there.’ She turned. ‘There’s food in the kitchen, so eat and then rest. You leave at five a.m.’

  ‘Not we?’ Silva said.

  ‘Nasim will take you out to the olive farm in the 4 × 4. The kit’s already packed. When the job’s done he’ll drive you straight to the airport and you’ll rendezvous with the jet. I’m going back via a different route. We won’t meet again.’

  ‘And you’ll be somewhere safe in case anything goes wrong.’

  ‘Nothing will go wrong, you’ll make sure of that. You’ve got Nasim too. He can be trusted. He’s one of ours.’

  ‘One of ours?’

  ‘Our assets.’ Lona tilted her head. ‘The UK’s assets.’

  Silva had it then. ‘You’re not with Fairchild, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I work for Simeon Weiss. I was placed in Fairchild’s organisation to watch over him, to make sure he did as he was told.’

  ‘You can tell Mr Weiss I’m not happy at being duped like this.’

  ‘Simeon has no regard for you emotional well-being.’ Lona paused and smiled. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small envelope. ‘However, he did ask me to give you this. He called it a reward.’

  ‘What?’ Silva watched as Lona ripped the envelope open and extracted a photograph. The image was one Silva had seen before: Karen Hope and two men at the villa in Italy. One was Latif, the other unidentified. ‘This is nothing new.’

  ‘No, but the information that goes with it is.’ Lona passed the photograph across. ‘The other man is known as Taher. He’s the terrorist who planned and carried out your mother’s killing.’

  ‘And how is that a reward?’

  ‘Taher will be at the farm tomorrow.’ Lona shrugged. ‘Two birds, one stone, right?’

  With that, Lona was gone.

  ‘This bloody stinks,’ Itchy said. He gestured after Lona. ‘She’s setting us up for something. One phone call by Mr Taxi out there and we could be in the hands of this Taher and his mates. Next thing there’s a video on the evening news and then…’ Itchy drew a finger across his throat. ‘Schlick!’

  ‘Lona’s on our side, remember?’ Silva said. She looked at the photograph and wondered not about Taher, but Simeon Weiss. What his endgame was and how he’d managed to play her at every turn.

  ‘I don’t trust any of them.’

  ‘Neither do I but now we’re here we don’t have much choice.’

  Nasim came through from the rear of the house. ‘You eat. Now, please.’

  In a rear living room a low table had been set out with food. Large round flatbreads, slices of meat, a bowl of couscous garnished with slices of red pepper, some triangular pastries that looked similar to samosas.

  Nasim left and they sat on cushions to eat.

  ‘Looks great,’ Silva said. ‘He’d hardly prepare all this if he intended to shop us, would he?’

  ‘He’s fattening us up,’ Itchy said, piling stuff into a bowl.

  ‘Well, as a last meal you can’t complain.’

  Later, Nasim cleared away and Silva and Itchy went to their rooms. Itchy said something about taking it in turns to stand guard, but Silva disagreed. They were getting up before dawn and she wanted all the sleep she could have.

  ‘See you in the morning, then,’ Itchy said. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  * * *

  Holm and Javed took a Lufthansa scheduled flight from Heathrow to Tunis. They were, Holm thought as they landed at Carthage International, woefully ill-equipped. He’d managed to blag a satellite phone, but they had no weapons, no surveillance gear, and no cover documents. They were relying entirely on Palmer’s promise to provide in-country support should things go wrong.

  Once they’d negotiated passport control, they hired a car and drove the short distance down the coast to their destination. Holm had been rather pleased with himself in that he’d managed to book a couple of rooms in a hotel on the seafront using a TripAdvisor app on his phone.

  ‘A couple of rooms?’ Javed said. ‘That’s our cover blown.’

  Al Hammamet sat some twenty miles south of Tunis on a curve of sandy coastline. A jumble of white buildings surrounded a marina complex, and away from the coast the land stretched away, pan flat. There were hotels and plazas and, despite the terror attacks, a good smattering of tourists.

  They checked in to the hotel and Javed opened his marine traffic app. The Angelo was three quarters of the way across the Med from Naples and looked as if it would arrive at some point in the evening.

  ‘Let’s take a recce,’ Holm said. ‘And get something to eat.’

  ‘Maybe a club later?’ Javed said. He puckered his lips and kissed the air. ‘Just to embellish our cover story?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  They strolled towards the marina area, past restaurants where staff attempted to entice them in.

  ‘How the hell can a boat as big as the Angelo fit in here?’ Holm said. As they approached the marina he could see an array of small yachts, but nothing approaching the size of the Angelo.

  ‘There.’ Javed pointed beyond the masts to where a breakwater provided protection from the open sea. Several large motor cruisers were berthed on the marina side. ‘Those probably belong to some of the guests coming to the fundraiser.’

  Holm turned his head. South of the marina a swathe of beach ran down the coast as far as the eye could see. Hotels lined the waterfront for a mile or so. A quiet and secluded spot for smuggling it was not. Plus they’d seen a good number of soldiers patrolling the streets, presumably there to reassure the tourists.

  ‘This is too public,’ Holm said. ‘How are they going to get the weapons ashore?’

  ‘Marine parts, remember?’ Javed gestured across to where a large white van had parked near one of the cruisers. ‘These boats require all manner of servicing. A few crates offloaded won’t seem suspicious.’

  ‘Let’s pray you’re right.’

  They went for a stroll down the strip. Holm ducked into a minimarket and purchased a couple of bottles of water and some snacks in case they needed them later. The light eased away as dusk fell and the resort was transformed. Coloured lights flickered on and strobes flashed from several bars. There was a heavy thump thump thump of a bassline as an eager DJ began to play tunes to lure customers into his establishment. When they returned to the marina the place was lit up like a Christmas tree, and several of the motor cruisers had underwater lights that illuminated the water surrounding them. There were dozens of soldiers, and several police officers had set up a checkpoint at the entrance. On the far side of the marina a large white boat was making sternway into an alongside berth. Crew in smart uniforms threw ropes and marina staff made the craft secure.

  ‘We’re on,’ Holm said. ‘The Angelo.’

  He found a restaurant which offered a good view of the Angelo while Javed fetched the car and parked it close by. Holm ordered food and drinks, and when Javed return
ed he pushed a Coke over to him.

  ‘Now we wait,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so, boss.’ Javed took a quick sip of his drink and nodded towards the Angelo. ‘Look, action.’

  A series of deck lights had come on and the white van they’d seen earlier had pulled up close by. A derrick on the quayside swung its arm over the boat and hoisted a large wooden crate from the deck.

  ‘The weapons,’ Holm said. He began to rise. They needed to get to the car. ‘Now all we have to do is follow them to Taher.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Javed’s gaze went to a smart yellow SUV parked alongside the van. ‘There’s something else happening.’

  An electric passerelle slid out from the side of the boat; in the shadows Holm could see a woman waiting on the deck as a member of the crew carried two bags down the passerelle and loaded them into the back of the SUV.

  ‘That’s…’ Holm could hardly believe his eyes. He blinked, wondering if he needed glasses. Before he could speak the woman had walked down the passerelle and moved across to the car. One of the crew opened the door for her and she got in. The vehicle slipped away down the quayside, the white van following close behind. ‘I wasn’t expecting her to be mixed up in this.’

  ‘Who, boss?’ Javed said. ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘Karen Hope,’ Holm said, grabbing a handful of banknotes from his pocket and shoving them on the table. ‘Brandon Hope’s sister and the next president of the United States of America.’

  * * *

  The yellow SUV cruised out of the marina gate with the van behind. Holm and Javed raced for their car and followed at a distance.

  ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Holm said as they cruised down the main strip.

  ‘Brandon’s hosting a charity event, remember?’ Javed nodded forward. ‘Having his sister come along would certainly encourage guests to part with their cash. He’s probably sold the seats at her table. Ten K to share a Pot Noodle with a future president.’

  ‘But she’s no longer at the charity event. She’s in a convoy with a van containing a stack of smuggled weapons. Explain that, Farakh.’

  ‘Perhaps she doesn’t know what’s in the crate.’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t know what’s in the crate.’

  They were leaving al Hammamet now, passing the last of the hotels on their right. Holm concentrated on following at a reasonable distance, trying to banish a niggling thought from his mind: what if Karen Hope did know what was in the crate?

  They headed south for a few miles, hugging the coast before turning inland into what seemed to Holm to be wilderness. In the darkness there was only the intermittent flash of oncoming headlights and the occasional glimmer from a settlement off in the distance.

  They drove for several hours, the road surface deteriorating until finally tarmac gave way to gravel. Ahead, the mini convoy continued to forge into the night and Holm was forced to stay well back and drive on dipped headlights. He grudgingly admitted to Javed that they could have done with his tracking device.

  Javed nodded while reading a map on his phone. His finger hovered over the screen.

  ‘Algeria,’ he said. ‘Just a few miles to the border.’

  ‘Shit.’ Holm glanced down. ‘If they cross then we’re done. This is dangerous enough as it is.’

  His worries were ended when a few minutes later the SUV and the van turned off the road and headed up a rough track. Holm slowed the car to a stop and wound down the window. Off to the right, red tail lights were disappearing up a rising escarpment. Some kind of settlement sat on the ridge, silhouetted against a sky burning with a million stars.

  Holm got out and after a moment so did Javed. He came round the car, stood next to Holm and peered into the blackness.

  ‘Before you ask,’ Holm said. ‘I have no bloody idea what Karen Hope is doing up there.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Silva didn’t sleep much. There was some kind of festival taking place in the town, and car horns sounded throughout the night. There were fireworks too, the first of which brought Itchy scampering into her room, half asleep, almost as if he was suffering from combat stress.

  It was still dark when Nasim tapped on the door.

  ‘OK we go in thirty minutes, yes?’

  Silva shouted out an acknowledgement and got up and washed. Nasim had packed breakfast in a basket and they ate as they cruised out of the town and onto a dirt road. The town sat on the edge of a desert plain, and as they left the last house behind the sun slipped over the horizon, illuminating a landscape of reddish-brown rock and low hills, a sea of sand dunes in the distance.

  ‘One hour.’ Nasim held up a single finger. ‘Then we there.’

  Silva recalled Itchy’s words of the previous night: This bloody stinks. He was right. They had no idea where they were going, no idea of the terrain or the distance or anything. All they knew was Hope was supposed to be at their destination. She prayed that part was true and this time she could put an end to it all.

  Nasim was as good as his word; at six they edged along a track that rose up the side of a stony hill. He stopped the Land Cruiser before they reached the top, wrenched on the handbrake, turned and nodded. No words were necessary. They were here.

  Silva and Itchy climbed out and moved up the track towards the summit where a rocky outcrop cast a long shadow in the low morning sun. Over the crest the ground fell away to a deep ravine and on the far side of the chasm lay something like an oasis: a grove of ancient olive trees surrounding a number of buildings. Beyond the buildings a vast plateau spread into the distance and more olive trees marched in rows to the horizon.

  They crouched next to a boulder and Silva noted the sun would swing round to their right, but never get behind them. She looked at the ground nearby where a few pieces of greenery sprouted from dry soil. She could lie there but they might need to rig some kind of camouflage screen. She peered through the low glare to the farm. Several buildings sat together but the biggest was obviously the farmhouse. There was a large white van and a yellow SUV parked on one side of the walled complex. She turned to Itchy.

  ‘Three fifty.’ Itchy stretched out his hand and raised his thumb. ‘Tops.’

  She’d guessed the same. Depending on exactly where Hope appeared, the shot was an easy one.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Silva said.

  * * *

  An hour later and they were set. Itchy had the spotting scope out and had ranged the distance to be three hundred and thirty nine metres to the front of the farmhouse. The rifle was lying on a mat and they’d arranged a desert cammo net on a couple of poles in front of their position. Through her binoculars Silva could see a veranda to one side of the house. A couple of tables sat beneath a billowing canvas awning. She pointed it out to Itchy.

  ‘If Hope goes out there to eat or have something to drink it would be perfect.’

  ‘Killing al fresco,’ Itchy said, laughing at his own joke. ‘Assassination au naturel.’

  Silva winced. The humour wasn’t appreciated. Not right now. She wanted Hope dead, but if it could be accomplished with a snap of her fingers she’d have taken that over having to sight through the scope and squeeze the trigger, wait a second and watch for the spray of blood as the bullet hit Karen Hope in the head.

  They took it in turns to sit in the shade of the rocky outcrop while the other one kept watch. Itchy fiddled with a SIG pistol which had been in among the extensive array of equipment, while Nasim hovered near the car, the doors open for a quick getaway. If necessary they’d leave the gear behind; it was unlikely to fall into the hands of the authorities, not out here.

  At a little after eight thirty, just when Itchy was beginning to annoy Silva with his constant shifting about, two men came out from the farmhouse, climbed into the white van and headed off down the track to the road. In the centre of the farmyard, previously hidden behind the van, stood an old pick-up truck. On the bed of the truck sat a large wooden crate.

  ‘That’s what we saw a
t RAF Wittering,’ Silva said. ‘Weapons from Allied American Armaments.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Itchy turned to Silva. ‘If you had any doubts, the crate should banish them.’

  ‘The only doubts I have are over the intel. There’s no sign of Hope, is there?’

  ‘The target’s in there.’ Nasim knelt behind them. He tapped a chunky fake Rolex on his wrist. ‘You patient, please.’

  They resigned themselves to waiting, ate some more food and kept hydrated. The van had been gone an hour now and Silva was beginning to wonder if they’d been sold some kind of dummy. Perhaps Hope had got wind she was in danger and had sneaked out in the back of the van. Perhaps she’d never been here at all.

  Silva tried to relax. She shifted her position and peered through the rifle scope. She had a clear view of the rear veranda; if Hope came out it was a relatively simple shot. If she came out.

  ‘What the…’ Itchy prodded her arm and pointed. ‘What the heck are they doing here?’

  Halfway up the side of the ravine that cut below the farmhouse, two figures were scrabbling across a scree face, small pieces of stone skittering down as they attempted to stay upright. Silva reached for her binoculars.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘It’s the guys we saw at RAF Wittering.’

  * * *

  They’d kipped in the car, Holm having found another track running parallel to the one the van and the SUV had gone up. He reckoned they were well hidden from both the road and the settlement, but still the night was an uncomfortable one and neither he nor Javed had slept much. By six it was light and they could see the lie of the land. Fortuitously, they’d managed to park in a deep wadi that led in the general direction of what they could now see was a farmhouse with assorted buildings. Holm broke out the water and snacks and stood looking towards the farm. Karen Hope was up there. Karen Hope. Holm had to repeat the name to himself just to make sure he’d got it right and the whole thing hadn’t been a bad dream.