She sat in the cubicle for a few minutes and then emerged and splashed water on her face. She went back to the gallery to find Sean hovering near the entrance.
‘Where have you been?’ he said. ‘Come on.’
He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowded room. There was an inevitability to what happened next, as if some unseen force was pulling her forward. Bodies parted and then Silva was face to face with Karen Hope.
‘Sean Connor.’ Mavers stood alongside Hope. Blustery, sweaty and, all of a sudden, quite obnoxious. ‘Sean’s a rising star in the Agency. One to watch. And Rebecca…’ Mavers turned. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get your last name?’
Silva couldn’t speak. Her mouth opened but there was nothing but a gasp of air.
‘Da Silva,’ Sean said. ‘Rebecca da Silva.’
There was a momentary flash of something in Hope’s eyes. A twitch from a muscle in her neck. ‘That name sounds familiar. Do I know you?’
‘Rebecca’s mother was killed in the recent attack in Tunisia,’ Sean said. ‘The Islamists were targeting a women’s charity if you remember?’
‘The journalist.’ Hope wore a mask of pure innocence and compassion. She reached out and grasped Silva’s hands with both of hers. ‘How awful. I’m so sorry for your loss, Rebecca. The world deserves to be a better place so we don’t have to endure this type of tragedy.’
Silva muttered something and it was all she could do to restrain herself from wrenching her hands free. She tried to speak, but still nothing coherent came out. Hope gave a little nod towards Sean. Do something, it said. An executive order. Comfort on command.
Then Hope released Silva’s hands and was wheeled away by Mavers to press more worthy flesh.
‘Jeez, Becca, are you OK?’ Sean had his arm round her. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘Air,’ Silva said. ‘I need air. I need to get out of this fucking place.’
An elderly man close by gave Silva a glance. Bad form, swearing, the look said. Especially from a lady.
Silva stumbled away, shrugging off Sean’s attempts to come with her. She passed through security and ran outside. She walked across Trafalgar Square to one of the fountains and sat on the edge. She clenched her fists. Hope had known. What Sean and Mavers had taken for being well briefed was in fact evidence of her guilt. Silva had seen the fleeting look of horror cross Hope’s face. The realisation this was the daughter of her nemesis. What else had she realised? Did she have an inkling that Silva knew the whole story?
The air was warm and the stone wall she sat on radiated the heat of the day but despite this she shivered. After a few minutes she walked back up the road to the gallery. She slipped inside and made for the toilets. Along the corridor a couple of guests waited by the cloakroom desk while an attendant retrieved their belongings. To one side there was an anteroom, and a sheet of paper with the words Green Room printed in bold type had been stuck to the door. A raised voice floated out. Instead of going into the toilets, Silva moved towards the door. She hung near the entrance and casually peered through the crack. Greg Mavers stood over near one wall, his bulbous face white, his eyes wide and staring. A disembodied finger jabbed at his face. Silva shifted her position, but she already knew who the finger belonged to because she could hear the near screech from Karen Hope echo round the room.
‘An apology isn’t enough, Greg. Not nearly fucking enough.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t think it would be—’
‘That’s the problem, you didn’t bloody think.’ The finger jabbed again, this time the long fingernail grazing Mavers’s pallid skin. He tottered backwards, the overbearing, buffoon-like character Silva had talked to earlier reduced to a cowering wreck. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you are ambassador material after all. I might have to reconsider my offer.’
‘Please, ma’am, give me another chance, I—’
Silva eased away from the door. A security guard was coming down the corridor so she moved off towards the toilets. The guard disappeared inside the green room and moments later reappeared with Hope and Mavers. Mavers dabbed at his cheek with a tissue and scurried along a couple of paces behind Hope as she made for the gallery entrance. Silva followed.
Outside a limo had drawn up. The director of the gallery waited on the pavement and shook Hope’s hand as a press photographer took pictures. Hope’s demeanour had changed and she was all white teeth and smiles for the camera. Silva thought about Fairchild’s words: appearance is everything in politics. He was right. Hope wasn’t what she seemed. Silva had seen a chink of what lay beneath the surface when she’d come face to face with her at the reception, and in the green room the mask had slipped completely.
With the pictures done, Hope said goodbye to the director and sauntered towards her car. Mavers opened the door for her and she climbed in. More smiles and a wave, Hope exuding confidence, acting as if the election was in the bag. Slam dunk. Home run. Touchdown.
Silva stepped to the side of the pavement and leaned against a wall as the car pulled away. Her nausea had returned with the realisation that this woman, this murderer, this… bitch, would be the next US president.
Unless somebody could stop her.
Chapter Fourteen
The evening in London hadn’t ended well. Eventually Sean emerged from the gallery, but he was on a high, unable to pick up on Silva’s mood. When they got back to his apartment he wanted to talk about Hope.
‘You saw her,’ he said. ‘Sensational. Just what the country needs – damn it, what the whole world needs.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Silva said as she slipped out of the black dress. ‘Sure she isn’t just a little bit too good to be true?’
Sean eyed Silva as the dress fell to the floor, misreading her again. ‘This
