‘A what?’
‘They were stored in the cloud, and if your mother didn’t log into the vault once every week, the files would be emailed to a trusted address.’
‘My dad.’
‘Yes. He hadn’t a clue what he was dealing with when he received the files so he called me.’
Silva slumped in her chair. The vast sitting room somehow appeared to be getting smaller, the ceiling lowering, pushing her down, weighing on her. Even as the room shrank, Fairchild appeared to be fading into the distance while at the same time his voice was getting louder.
‘Do you understand now, Rebecca? Why you, as the best in your particular field, need to be involved in this? What you need to do?’
The room had returned to normal but Silva had the sense she was floating above everything, looking down at herself in the armchair.
‘No,’ she saw herself say. ‘I don’t.’
‘You need to travel to Italy. Once you’re there, you’ll make your way to the Amalfi Coast and the town of Positano. Every year Brandon and his sister spend a week there in the summer. It’s a family tradition and could well be the last chance Karen gets for a relaxing holiday before she’s elected president.’
‘And when she turns up?’
‘It’s quite simple.’ Fairchild tapped the photograph again, this time with more force. ‘When Karen Hope turns up… you’re going to kill her.’
Chapter Ten
London had been Taher’s base for a number of years. The city was filled with people from a hundred different countries and they practised a dozen different religions. It offered instant anonymity. He owned a small flat high up in a grotty tower block far to the west of the centre where nobody bothered him, nobody asked what he was up to and nobody cared.
His journey back to the UK after the Tunisian mission had been a convoluted one. The trip took several days, but the route was well tested and allowed him to come and go without the risk of capture. On his return to the flat he prayed, unpacked, and ate a meal. That done, he stood at the window and looked out as the daylight faded. He caught sight of himself in the glass and moved closer to the window in order to banish his reflection. Lights blazed at the heart of the capital and he could imagine the night unfolding. It was a tableau that played out each evening, but he doubted the scenes were much different in Paris or New York or Sydney. The same type of people doing the same type of things. Alcohol and drugs leading to sex and violence. It was, he thought, a debasement of what it meant to be human. A dismal waste.
In front of his face the glass blurred and distorted as his breath misted the pane. He brushed the window with the tips of his fingers and wiped the mist clear. Peering out again, he saw not the bright lights of London, but a tiny settlement on the border between Saudi Arabia and Iraq. A small concrete dwelling surrounded by a number of billowing tents. A young boy running errands for his parents.
He is twelve years old. Not nearly twelve, not twelve and a bit, but twelve exactly. Nothing is planned for the day of his birth – his father explains to him the celebration of anniversaries and birthdays is the way of disbelievers. Still, his mother has given thanks to God and asked that Taher should live long and be humble. Taher has given thanks too and when, in the late afternoon, his mother asks him to tend to the goats in the paddock, instead of moaning he nods and goes out the back to collect some fodder.
It’s hot outside and Taher sweats as he carries the food to the goats. He can hear laughter from inside the house. His little brothers and sisters playing happily, too young to lend a hand, too young to understand the hardship. After he’s fed and watered the animals he kicks a rusty tin can round the yard. The sun is touching the horizon now, the heat slipping away as the stars rise in the east. A majestic spread of brilliance in the heavens over the desert. Taher imagines the stars are the glittering floodlights above a football stadium. It’s the World Cup final and he’s the best player on the pitch. He flicks the can up and over his shoulder and then boots it against a wall. ‘Goal!’ he shouts as his mother’s voice floats out into the night air. It’s dinner time. He looks over, seeing her silhouetted in the door to the house, his father behind carrying bread to the low table, his little sister Kaya on the floor at his mother’s heels.
Then the world explodes, a fireball erupting from behind his mother, a heat hotter than a thousand suns searing through the air. Night turns to day and the scene imprints itself, scorching deep into his memories like a brand burned into the side of an ox.
His mother is torn into three pieces, her chest and head slamming against the wall, her legs and lower torso spiralling into the air, one arm flailing to the ground and rolling into the distance. He sees Kaya run out into the yard, for a moment thinking she might be saved but then realising her flesh is melting before him, peeling away in layers as she burns, her screams mercifully dying with her in a few seconds. From inside the house nothing but the roar of flame, his father and three other siblings in there somewhere. Dead or dying. Gone.
Taher runs towards the house but the heat is intense. He raises his arm to protect his face, the wash of flame scorching his skin. He staggers forward one step, two, three, but it’s no good. He can’t get any closer and even if he could there’s nothing he can do. Everyone he knows and loves is
