‘All right, I get it.’
Javed poked at the froth on his coffee with a wooden stirrer and Holm let the silence build. After a minute he spoke.
‘What do you know about the animal rights lobby?’
‘Hey?’ Javed cocked his head on one side as if he’d misheard. ‘You mean the people who break into laboratories and stuff?’ He dumped the stirrer in his cup. ‘Nothing, boss.’
‘Well, I’ve decided that’s our brief. No one cares about animal rights. It’s not sexy like Islamic terrorism or espionage or threats to our national infrastructure from foreign governments, but there you go. Now, because we know nothing, we won’t be accomplishing much in the first couple of months. We’ve got to do research and map out our strategy. Lay the groundwork, build from the base up. Actually producing any meaningful results is a long, long way in the future.’
‘You’re kidding me, boss? This isn’t what I signed up to do. I speak fluent Arabic, I’ve got a degree in Middle Eastern Studies, my MA thesis was on the rise of ISIS, I know sod all about torturing bunnies.’
Holm smiled and gave a wink. ‘Calm down, lad, I think you’re missing the point here.’
‘I…’ Javed bit his lip. His gaze wandered to the computers and over to the filing cabinet. ‘We’re not really going to be investigating animal rights groups, are we?’
‘Of course bloody not. It’s a cover story.’
‘So what are we going to be doing?’
‘Keeping secrets. We don’t have to report to anyone but the Spider, and that’s down to me, right? You keep your lips sealed and if people ask you say nothing other than we’re looking into the activities of various, potentially violent, animal liberation groups.’
‘Sure, but you still haven’t told me what this is all about.’ Javed gestured at the sparse surroundings. ‘I mean we’re not exactly set up for a high-profile investigation.’
‘Look, Huxtable has given me the freedom to do whatever I like. She either expects me to bimble along doing relatively little or she’s hoping to give me enough rope to hang myself. Well, skiving isn’t my cup of tea and I don’t intend to get caught in her web.’
‘You’re mixing your metaphors, sir, and if I might say so, you’re continuing to evade my questioning. You’ve also not mentioned the information I gave you yesterday.’
‘Guilty on all counts.’ Holm raised his hands. ‘Time I came clean. The username was a cipher of RAVEN and my birthday, right? As you said, more than odd.’
‘But the cipher was simple. I cracked it easily.’
‘Just so. Which means whoever was behind the tweet wants us to know that they know the code name we use for Taher. What’s more, by sending it to you and using my birthday as part of the username, it was plainly intended for us both.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘However, if they know our code name they either have direct access to our systems or they’re being fed information by somebody.’
‘There’s a leak then, a mole.’
‘Or this is something different.’ Holm paused. He glanced over to the filing cabinet where he’d found the index card relating to the troubles in Northern Ireland. ‘Back in the day the IRA used code words to let the police know when they’d planted a bomb. It showed a threat was genuine and not a hoax. This could be similar. Somebody has passed my birthday and the code name of Taher – RAVEN – to an informant in the field. By using those two pieces of information in the username the informant has established they’re genuine.’
‘So, a benevolent mole?’
Holm shrugged. He didn’t really have a clue what was going on but he wasn’t going to let Javed know that.
‘Anyway, in light of this latest twist, perhaps you can guess what I intend to do with our little two-person operation now?’
‘I don’t believe it.’ A look of astonishment spread across Javed’s face. ‘We’re going to go after Taher?’
‘Precisely.’
Chapter Nine
Silva spent another restless night at her mother’s house and the next morning rode cross-country from Marlborough to Matthew Fairchild’s place which, according to his business card, was located south of London, a few miles from Gatwick airport. The weather had changed from the previous day and she hurtled along beneath dark clouds, heavy rain making the road surfaces treacherous. She turned off a main road, the headlight on her bike piercing the gloom as she drove into thick woodland. After a mile the trees gave way to manicured parkland surrounding a large mansion, the grounds protected by high fences. A light glared out from a stone gatehouse, a shadow in one window. Silva rolled the bike to a stop at the heavy iron gates and removed her helmet. The door to the gatehouse swung open and a security guard emerged. He nodded at Silva.
‘You got a delivery?’ he said. ‘Only everything gets signed for down here. No need to go up to the house.’
‘The delivery is me,’ Silva said. ‘Tell Mr Fairchild Rebecca is here. Rebecca da Silva.’
‘Wait a moment.’ The guard strode across to the gatehouse and disappeared inside.
Silva sat astride her motorbike, drumming her fingers on the petrol tank. The guard was taking an age. She was about to forget about the whole thing when he reappeared.
‘You can go up there.’ He pressed a little key fob and the gates began to swing open. ‘Somebody will meet you at the front.’
Moments later she was gliding to a stop at the front of the house. At the top of a set of grand steps a door opened and Matthew Fairchild emerged.
‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild spread his arms wide and trotted down the steps as if he was making an entrance in some glitzy musical. ‘Why on earth didn’t you call ahead and let me know you were coming?’
‘I was in the neighbourhood.’ Silva removed her helmet. ‘I thought we needed a chat about Karen Hope.’
‘Right.’ Fairchild’s expression turned sombre. ‘You’d better come in.’
Inside, dark
