Plenty of time.
‘There are people,’ his uncle said on one of Taher’s visits to the desert. ‘People who are sympathetic.’ His uncle indicated the patch of ground where Taher’s family home had stood. ‘You should know there are those who would be willing to provide you with the means to succeed. Not just to avenge the deaths of my brother – your father – but to ensure a different future. It has been done before and it can be done again.’
Taher nodded. 9/11. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had funded the operation and that sum was peanuts compared to the millions al-Qaeda had received in funding from benefactors across the Middle East.
‘Do you know these people?’ Taher wasn’t sure how his uncle, who lived a subsistence existence miles from anywhere, could possibly be acquainted with men who might have sufficient wealth to support an ongoing campaign. ‘And can I meet them?’
‘If you so wish.’
He did so wish.
Silva’s call to Fairchild had consisted of precisely three words: ‘I’ll do it,’ she’d said before hanging up and instantly wondering what the hell she was doing. Despite her reservations, she allowed Fairchild to set his plan in motion, and early on the tenth of August she found herself at Heathrow boarding a plane for Italy.
Three hours later the sparkling blue of the Adriatic filled the window to Silva’s left as the aircraft banked on its final approach to Brindisi. A hum came from the plane’s hydraulics as the pilot tightened the turn and then the blue sea turned to brown earth and grey concrete. Ground rush. The skid of wheels. A steward making an announcement. Local time is ten thirty. The temperature is twenty-eight degrees. Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete standstill.
Itchy woke as the plane rolled to a stop and people stood and reached for the lockers.
‘We’re here?’ He blinked and looked around. ‘Italy?’
Silva had been feeling tense, but she laughed. ‘Where else? Afghanistan?’
‘Might as well be,’ Itchy said, as the aircraft rolled past flat terrain and old warehouses.
For a moment Silva regretted involving him, but then she shrugged off the feeling. Itchy was an adult. She’d presented him with the facts and he’d made up his own mind. There was also the small matter of the twenty-five thousand pounds Fairchild had reluctantly stumped up when Silva said she needed her spotter and wanted him well paid.
‘I’m in,’ he said, as they sat in a noisy pub in Plymouth city centre. ‘How could I not be for twenty-five big ones?’
‘Don’t let the money blind you to what we’re doing,’ Silva said.
‘I’m not. If what you told me is true, the cow killed your mother.’ Itchy lifted his pint and supped. ‘That being the case, I’d whack her for fifty quid and expenses.’
‘Right. What kit do we need?’
‘Beyond the shooter?’ Itchy put his pint down as Silva nodded. ‘The obvious, like a scope, binos, et cetera. Then we need a couple of accurate maps, large scale. A high-resolution satellite image. A quality camera with good optics, a video cam with a long lens so we can watch on a screen without having to put ourselves on view. A GPS so we can measure an accurate distance for practice shots.’ Itchy lifted his glass again and gave a small nod with his head. ‘Finally, a bottle of champers we can crack open when it’s all over.’
‘I won’t be celebrating.’
‘I thought you said this Hope woman was instrumental in the deaths of civilians, that she was connected with some Arab scum who’s supplying weapons and cash to terrorists? If topping her isn’t a reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is.’
‘I guess.’
‘Come on, this’ll be fun.’
‘Fun?’
‘You don’t miss it, Silvi? Sure, we were shit scared half the time out there, but this…’ Itchy looked at the people crowding the bar. There was a darts match taking place on one side of the room. Little arrows thrown at a target. One hundred and eighty. Bullseye. Not much at stake other than pride, maybe a round of drinks. Itchy shook his head. ‘Fuck this, right?’
He had a point, Silva conceded. She’d been a lot of things in the army – frightened, exhilarated, downright bored – but she’d never felt as isolated as she did now in the hubbub of the surrounding conversations.
See the Pilgrims lost last night. Crap, hey?
My landlord’s kicking up a fuss about the rent again. Much more and I’ll thump the Paki bastard.
Look at the arse on her, mate. Bent over the table you wouldn’t mind her piggy face, would you?
‘You’re right.’ Silva turned away, gave a thin smile and reached for her glass. ‘Fuck this.’
They waited in baggage claim for what seemed like an age until their luggage appeared on the carousel. There was little security and only a cursory check of their passports. Still, Silva was nervous since her passport was one Fairchild had procured for her. It had a false name that matched a credit card and a medical insurance certificate. Itchy had a similar set, and they both had new mobile phones. Fairchild assured her everything would stand up to scrutiny but it didn’t stop her feeling a wave of relief as they left the arrivals hall and strolled through the airport terminal.
She texted a number she’d been given and five minutes later a large Fiat van rolled into the pick-up area. A bulky
