‘My boss.’ Weiss almost seemed to bow his head in deference. ‘The new Director General of MI5. Fiona Huxtable.’
‘Ms da Silva.’ Huxtable’s hand was extended as she strode across the room. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
Silva shook Huxtable’s hand. If the title was supposed to impress her it hadn’t. If anything it had made her suspicious.
‘What’s this about?’ she said.
‘Loose ends,’ Huxtable said. She gestured to the chairs near the fireplace. Silva went across and sat while Huxtable perched on the edge of her chair like a bird. ‘I came here to thank you. You’ve done this country a great service, perhaps not just this country.’
‘You used us,’ Silva said. ‘We were pawns on the board.’
‘I don’t like the word used,’ Huxtable said. ‘Utilised is a better one. From what I understand we were running low on choices and you were the optimal bet. In a percentage game only a stubborn fool passes up the best chance of winning.’
‘I should have been told from the start.’
‘Look, Rebecca, I knew nothing of Simeon’s operation. The activities of the Special Accounts Unit are a mystery to everyone but the director of MI5.’ Huxtable shot Weiss a glance. ‘To say there’s been a lot to take in since I was appointed is a monumental understatement. To be honest I feel a little used myself.’
‘Your head isn’t on the line.’
‘Simeon assures me everything is being done to remove you from the picture. We’re all working to produce the best possible outcome, and that includes keeping your part in the operation under wraps.’ Huxtable’s lips slipped into a thin smile. ‘Sadly that means no wider recognition or thanks for your actions. You see, if for some unfortunate reason your part in the assassination came out we’d have to deny you completely.’
A cough came from over by the table. Weiss raised a fist to his mouth.
‘Thank you, Simeon.’ Huxtable glanced across and then back at Silva. ‘Do you understand what that means?’
‘It means you’ll kill me if I talk, right?’
‘The safety of the sixty million citizens of this country comes before the welfare of any single individual. There’s always a bigger picture.’
‘It’s a pity you lot didn’t see the bigger picture before you started selling arms to the Saudis.’
‘We did, Ms da Silva. The problem is, most of the time our masters don’t want to hear the truth. Politicians are cowards, basically. It’s people like you who have the bravery to act.’
‘Don’t patronise me. The army was my career, but I killed Hope because she murdered my mother, not through any desire to serve my country.’
‘We’re still grateful.’ Huxtable nodded at Weiss and he came across bearing a manila folder. He placed it on the coffee table. ‘And as a mark of our gratitude we’d like to offer you a position in Simeon’s outfit.’
‘What?’
‘We need people like you, Rebecca. People who have the skill and courage to carry out extraordinary missions that can’t—’
‘I don’t think so.’ Silva pushed the envelope across the table towards Huxtable. She stood. ‘If that’s it, then I’ll be off.’
Weiss moved swiftly, intercepting her as she reached the door.
‘Let her go, Simeon,’ Huxtable said. ‘She’ll come round, you’ll see.’
The arrogance in the statement almost made Silva turn and scream, but she composed herself and walked from the room.
Her father sat on the rickety chair at the end of the jetty. He appeared to have given up on the fly rod and now held a long pole in his hands. The fluorescent tip of a fishing float bobbed in the water beneath the end of the pole. As Silva placed a foot on the jetty her father spoke.
‘Stupid buggers.’ He lifted the pole, swung the float in, and examined the hook. ‘They’ve stolen the worm. I don’t know how Matthew managed to catch those trout. I get nothing or a measly gudgeon. Waste of money stocking the bloody lake.’
‘Hello, Dad.’ Silva removed her foot from the jetty and waited for her father to rise. ‘I’m back.’
‘So I see.’ Her father put the pole down and pushed himself up from the chair. Silva moved aside as he walked towards her. ‘Matthew called to let me know you’d be coming. Itchy all right?’
‘He’s fine. Richer. Then again he’s going to need the money with the kid on the way.’
‘A kid, eh? Boy or girl?’
‘Itchy wants a girl.’ Silva smiled to herself as her father frowned.
‘Right.’ They strolled up towards the terrace. The table had three glasses. Lemonade. Just like before. He gestured for Silva to sit. ‘We’ll have tea later.’
‘Will we?’
‘Yes. I’ve made some sandwiches.’
Silva pointed at the third glass. ‘Are we expecting a visitor?’
‘We are.’
‘Might I ask who it is?’
‘You’ll see presently.’
‘Aren’t you going to say anything? About what happened?’
‘There’s no need. Karen Hope is dead. It’s over. Job done.’
Job done.
She wondered if it was ‘job done’. If, now Hope was dead, she’d be able to return to some kind of normality. He father certainly seemed to have moved on. There were builders round the front of the house dealing with the damage from the fire and on the table she could see an index card with her father’s handwriting scrawled on it. ‘Housekeeper Wanted’, it said at the top. Poor Mrs Collins wasn’t long in the ground and he was already advertising for her replacement.
‘Job done and you’re home safe.’ He looked over at her for the briefest of moments and then turned away. ‘That’s what matters.’
‘Dad, I—’
‘Rebecca?’ A glass chinked and she was aware of her father pouring the lemonade. ‘Our guest is here.’
She looked up as a figure passed in front of the sun.
‘Becca?’ An American accent. A hint of Irish. Whiskey, wood smoke, coffee, peach.
‘Sean.’ Silva answered flatly as she stood.
‘I’m sorry.’ Sean gave a tentative smile, putting out feelers.
‘You told your boss about me and he shopped me to Mavers.’
‘My head of station knew nothing about what Mavers was up
