‘I don’t like it, I really don’t like it,’ he said. He glanced in the mirror as they pulled up and stopped at the battered gates to the complex. ‘We stay only five minutes, OK?’
‘Sure.’ Silva got out, reached in through the driver’s window and snatched the keys from the ignition. ‘But just in case we go into the red, I’ll take these.’
Nasim raised his hands in a gesture of despair and resignation.
‘We’ve only got the one weapon.’ Itchy patted the SIG. ‘Let’s be careful.’
They slipped in through the front gates, Itchy in the lead. Silva pointed to the right and Itchy nodded. He moved to the side of the yard. A small dust devil spun up and danced for a few moments before dying back down. Other than the gentle hiss of the wind and the occasional snap of the canvas awning at the side of the house, there was silence.
They reached the main building. A low wall ran from the building and ancient olive trees stood behind the wall in a small grove. Itchy jerked his gun in the direction of the grove.
Silva nodded. There was an opening in the wall and they could cross the grove and get to the veranda without having to go into the house.
They went through the opening and crept along the wall to where a series of steps led upwards. When they reached the steps they stopped again. Still no sound. Silva held out her arm. She’d go first, Itchy would cover.
She eased up the steps and onto the veranda. Karen Hope lay in the centre. She’d fallen backwards, her right leg contorted beneath her, the left stuck out at a weird angle. One hand clamped the pistol tight while the other hand had risen to her chin, a finger gracing her lower lip as if she was attempting to wipe away a morsel of food. The upper part of her face round the right eye had gone. Everything from there backwards had been ripped apart by the bullet. She was dead all right.
Silva paused for a moment, but she was still pumped. This wasn’t the time for reflection. She moved to the edge of the veranda and looked over. Bare earth and some olive leaves that had been knocked off when the two men had fallen. She swung back to the house where an arch led into the building proper. No door, just a dark shadow.
‘I’ll go first.’ Itchy had his hand on Silva’s shoulder. ‘You stay back.’
Itchy moved along the veranda towards the arch while Silva checked nobody was sneaking up behind them, before they slipped into the relative cool of the house. After the brightness outside, the interior was like ink. She slid her feet across the tiled floor and turned a corner. Ahead Itchy was waiting in another doorway, light flooding through from some sort of central courtyard behind him. As Silva approached, he held out a clenched fist, thumb down.
Enemy spotted…
Itchy pointed to the upper storey where a series of windows overlooked the courtyard. A shadow passed across one opening and then another. Itchy placed his hand in front of his face and pointed to the right of the door where a corridor ran parallel.
Form ambush…
Martin ‘Harry’ Palmer walked down the corridor towards them. Taher’s AK-47 was cradled in his arms, the finger of his right hand on the trigger. Holm stepped back, aware of his damp shirt, the sweat cold and clammy on his back.
Palmer. Harry bloody Palmer.
The chill on his skin brought forth a shiver as realisation set in. How could he have been so stupid? So blind? All those briefings at Thames House, Palmer there with his dinky little visitor’s pass bearing the highest security level. Worse than that, the years of personal friendship between the two of them. The curries, the nights out together, the drunken chats on the state of the security services or on the progress Holm was making in catching Taher.
I can’t understand it, Harry. We were so close. He just seemed to slip away without a trace.
Never mind, Stephen. There’s always a next time, eh?
Not with Palmer there wasn’t. Not with Harry bloody Palmer.
‘Hello, sir.’ Javed, innocent of the true situation, smiled and put out a hand in greeting. ‘A timely arrival if I might say so.’
‘Farakh.’ Holm touched Javed on the shoulder. In his head he played back the conversation he’d had with Palmer at the cafe in Battersea Park. ‘There’s nothing timely about it. He’s been here a while. Isn’t that right, Harry?’
‘Yes.’ Palmer stopped a few steps away. ‘I was beginning to get bored of waiting for your call, to be honest.’
‘Taher got away with the weapons.’ Javed lowered his shoulders as if by way of an apology. He still hadn’t got it. ‘But the good news is we eyeballed him.’
‘That’s about the only good news though.’ Palmer raised the gun a little. ‘I mean, events have taken a turn, haven’t they, Stephen? You come here to catch Taher and instead a president ends up dead.’
‘She wasn’t a president,’ Holm said. ‘Not yet.’
‘But she would have been if somebody hadn’t meddled.’ The gun swung up and Palmer gestured for them to move down the corridor. ‘Now everything’s gone to shit.’
‘Boss?’ Javed turned to Holm for some kind of answer.
‘Harry’s not all he seems, Farakh.’ Holm shook his head. ‘He’s played us, played everyone. All this time Taher managed to keep one step ahead of us and I couldn’t work out how he did it. The answer is Martin Palmer.’
‘What?’ Javed looked at Holm. ‘Are you saying—’
‘Downstairs!’ The gun jerked again. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got to do with the death of Karen Hope, but you’ve caused a whole lot of trouble.’
‘Nothing, Harry.’ Holm spread his hands wide as he walked to the end of the corridor. ‘We’re unarmed. An old guy who will shortly need a
