‘You mean protection?’
‘If you want to put it like that, yes.’
‘What I want is for you to get to the point.’
‘OK.’ Fairchild took another sip from his glass and made a face. ‘This is one of those wines that actually gets worse with each mouthful. I really shouldn’t have accepted it.’
‘Mr Fairchild?’
‘You’re perhaps wondering why I’m involved in all this.’ Fairchild put his wine glass down. He contemplated the pale liquid, wistful. ‘Back in the Gulf War your father saved my life. He didn’t get a medal for it, but he has my eternal thanks nonetheless.’ Fairchild glanced up. ‘Life, Rebecca, is what you make of it. I like to think I’ve made something of my time on earth, but I wouldn’t have had the chance had your father not risked his own skin to save mine.’
‘He never said.’
‘True heroes tend to keep quiet and they don’t ask for anything in return for their deeds.’ Fairchild turned his hands palms up. ‘But when your father came to me with your mother’s files I knew I had to help.’
‘Help I can understand, but this plan of yours is madness.’
‘Killing Karen Hope is the only way to avenge the death of your mother.’
‘I don’t buy that. Why not just release all the material to the press?’
‘If it was so easy why hasn’t Neil Milligan published the information? He’s the only other person who’s seen your mother’s files. The story would be the biggest he’d ever covered. Fame and fortune. The scoop of the century.’
‘He told me his family was threatened, but that doesn’t scare me. We should simply hand all the material to the newspapers.’
‘Brave words, but futile. You see I wouldn’t mind betting the authorities know some, if not all, of this already. No media outlet will touch the story, firstly because the government will issue D notices to prevent publication, secondly because the forces that threatened Milligan will threaten anybody who tries to disseminate the information.’
‘I told you, that doesn’t worry me.’
‘Well it should.’ Fairchild held his wine glass and swirled the contents, gazing down into the pale alcohol. He appeared distracted, disturbed perhaps. He took another sip and put the glass down. ‘Your father wants Hope dead and he thinks you’re the right person to kill her.’
‘Great. Nice he has faith in me for a change.’
‘Rebecca, there are dozens of stories floating around the US media about Karen Hope. Everything from dodgy arms deals to devil worship. One I read says she had a baby and killed it and ate the child’s heart as part of a witch’s spell. Depending where you choose to get your news, she is either a white supremacist or a communist. She’s secretly a Muslim. A Jew. A Scientologist. A radical pro-lifer. A vegan who lives on spinach smoothies. An alien.’
‘Fake news.’
‘Exactly. Day and night the public are bludgeoned with these stories – why do you think they’ll believe your mother’s?’
‘Because there’s proof. The photograph with Haddad and Latif.’
‘I saw an image the other day that showed Hope having sex with a horse. Is that proof she’s into bestiality?’
‘Of course not.’ Silva stayed silent for a beat. She turned her head in the direction of the man with the lager. ‘If you and my father are convinced killing her is the only option why don’t you use your own people? You must have dozens of mercenaries you can call on.’
‘You’ve overestimated my set-up. I have people on the ground in various countries, but most are freelancers and none as capable as you. This is a job for a specialist, for somebody at the top of their field.’ Fairchild looked at Silva and sighed. ‘Here.’
Fairchild unzipped a leather document folder and pulled out a large envelope. He reached in and carefully extracted a couple of pictures. One was an aerial photograph, the other a similar image to the one of the villa Fairchild had shown her before; this time the little terrace was empty aside from a table with a parasol.
‘I think I mentioned that Brandon Hope’s holiday house is in Italy on the Amalfi Coast,’ Fairchild said. He pointed at the aerial photograph. ‘This is the town of Positano and the villa sits on the cliffs on the west side. I’ve rented a house on the east side. It’s a little over one kilometre across the water to the villa. The fifteenth of August marks the end of the festival of the town’s patron saint. In the evening there will be a spectacular firework display with a lot of very loud bangs. For the past five years Karen Hope has spent the week of the festival at the villa. Brandon always holds a small party on the night of the fifteenth. The guests watch the display from the terrace, food and drinks first of course and then the fireworks. There’ll be plenty of time to set up and no rush to get away. With the confusion in the town it will take the police ten or fifteen minutes to arrive and they’ll have absolutely no idea where Hope was shot from. Even if they were to bring in ballistics experts, it will be weeks before they conclude it was an extreme long-range shot from a sniper. Pinning down the shooter’s position will be impossible so whoever does this will be able to escape scot free.’
Silva looked at the pictures. Fairchild had it all worked out. Did he really believe he could convince her? ‘You’re mad.’
‘No, you’re the one who’s mad, remember? Cracking up because of the mistake you made in Afghanistan. Angry you can do nothing about your mother’s death.’ Fairchild reached for his napkin and dabbed his mouth. ‘I can understand. We all make mistakes and frequently we’re powerless to do anything to effect a change. Well now’s your chance to put things right.’
‘If what you told me is true, I still don’t understand your reluctance to go to the media. Somebody will get the story out there. The conspiracy can’t
