Breakfast was leisurely and Gavin chatted about his time with Fairchild. He, like Silva and Itchy, was ex-military, but navy rather than army.
‘Logistics,’ he said. ‘That’s why Mr Fairchild took me on.’
‘What about Lona?’ Silva said.
Lona had eaten quickly and disappeared into town on what she said was a reconnaissance mission; even so, Gavin lowered his voice.
‘She’s new. I only met her a few weeks ago. She’s cool, very assured, but I have no idea what her background is.’
‘Do you trust her?’
Gavin reached for his cup of coffee. He took a sip. ‘Not really, but I trust Fairchild.’
After breakfast Gavin left them to it while they got to work. Silva set the rifle up in the centre of the room a couple of strides in from the balcony. The barrel rested on a small bipod, while the stock sat nestled in a gel bag. A camping mat provided some cushioning from the hardwood floor. Out on the balcony, Itchy rigged the video camera. Ostensibly he’d be filming the fireworks, but in reality the camera was zoomed in on the Hopes’ villa. A feed from the camera was displayed on a monitor inside the room. A pair of drapes hung over the doors to the balcony, a narrow slit giving Silva enough field of view so she could see the villa. Itchy poked his spotting scopes beneath the drapes. They loaded cartridges into spare magazines and placed them within easy reach. There was a water bottle, a towel for drying Silva’s hands, a foil strip of painkillers, some snacks, tools for making adjustments to the rifle, a first aid kit, binoculars, lens wipes for the optics.
‘We’re done,’ Itchy said. He walked across to Silva and gave her a fist bump. ‘If this doesn’t work out it’s not for lack of planning, right?’
Silva nodded. Itchy hadn’t meant it that way, but his words implied that if it didn’t work out it was down to her.
They packed all the other kit away and stowed the bags near the front door; when they left it would be in a hurry. Gavin prepared a cold meal for dinner that evening. He began to wipe down the surfaces in the bedrooms to remove any fingerprints.
‘There’s a family of five arriving the day after tomorrow. Beforehand a cleaner will be coming in. If the police ever do manage to work out this place was where the shot originated from, any traces will be obscured by the holidaymakers who stay here in the next few weeks.’
‘Logistics?’ Silva said. ‘I can see why Fairchild employed you.’
The rest of the day ticked away with a slow inevitability and eventually the sun disappeared behind the cliffs leaving a shifting sea of orange behind. The orange faded and white light flared from the boats lying offshore. During the day they’d arrived one after the other, each finding their own little spot to anchor. Now it was dusk the parties on board were in full swing.
‘It’s another world out there, Silvi,’ Itchy said as he panned his binoculars from boat to boat. ‘Where do these folk get all their money and why haven’t we got any of it?’
Once it was dusk, Silva lay prone and checked the rifle. Itchy stared through his spotting scope, looked at the DOPE book and calculated the numbers for the umpteenth time. He suggested some adjustments, but the time for any last-minute changes was slipping away.
Lona had slipped away too. After her morning reconnaissance she’d returned and announced she had business elsewhere. Gavin muttered something under his breath, but whatever his complaint was it was silenced by a stare from Lona. When she’d gone, he was more vocal.
‘We’re the ones taking the risk,’ he said. ‘If it goes pear-shaped, we’ll be the ones in the penitenziario. Lona will be miles away.’
Silva ignored Gavin. Grunts always complained about their superiors and that’s what Gavin was, a grunt. Itchy and her too. Soldiers in the line of fire. Obeying orders, taking the shilling, generally getting shat on. Still, with zero hour nearly upon them, she wondered if she’d been foolish in following Fairchild’s plan. Given the information, she could have tracked down Karen Hope and taken her out herself. That way she’d have been in control of the situation.
‘Silvi?’ Itchy. Moving. Beginning to fidget. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah.’ She’d spent countless hours with Itchy, sometimes in the most uncomfortable or dangerous situations. Confined in a makeshift hide with the enemy all round, the pair had developed a sixth sense about the other person and now was no different.
‘Good, because the party’s starting.’ Itchy gestured at the screen to one side of the room. The brightness had been turned way down so as not to dazzle them in the darkness, but the picture was clear enough. A man had emerged onto the terrace. He had a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He put the glass down on a small table and raised his hand and ruffled his glossy blond hair.
Silva bent to one of the spotting scopes. The image was framed by a myriad of white flowers and greenery which spiralled round an iron trellis. Low lighting on the terrace illuminated the figure in the centre: Brandon Hope. Hope moved towards the edge of the terrace and looked out to sea. He took a drag on his cigarette and a sip of his wine. Then he turned to his left and stared across towards Silva.
Silva flinched, for a moment uneasy, but then she calmed. There was no way Hope could see her. Not at a distance of over a kilometre and into the shadows of a darkened room.
She peered through the spotting scope once more. Brandon had been joined by an elegant and well-dressed Italian woman Silva recognised as his wife, Pierra, and an older man with little hair and round glasses. There was no sign of Karen Hope.
‘Well?’ Silva said to Gavin. Fairchild’s aide was pacing the room, every so
