‘You two, out.’ Lona had returned. She gestured at Silva and Itchy. ‘Take my car and drive to the airfield. Gavin and I will dump the gear in the van and make our own way back to the UK. Mr Fairchild will contact you when you get there.’
Silva nodded and she and Itchy retrieved their bags from the back of the van.
‘The weapons and ammo?’ Silva said. ‘My fingerprints are all over the rifle.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure there’s no evidence left behind.’ Lona pointed at the car. ‘Now go.’
And that was it. Silva glanced back at Gavin but he could only offer a shrug. Then they were in the car, Silva climbing behind the wheel and starting up, the headlights sweeping the sky as they pulled away.
‘Fuck,’ Itchy said, punching the dash. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
They drove through the night, stopping every couple of hours to swap over. As the sky lightened in the east, they were on a motorway an hour from Florence.
‘We need to eat,’ Silva said, taking an exit to a small service station. ‘And other things.’
‘You’re growing soft.’ Itchy laughed. ‘You used to carry a funnel and a bottle in Afghanistan.’
‘Well I haven’t got either and this isn’t Afghanistan.’
The services sold coffee and a few pastries and not much else. They ordered using the smattering of Italian they’d picked up from Gavin and returned to the car where they found a police motorcyclist had parked alongside and was now peering in the driver’s window. After a short debate as to whether they should run for it, they approached the car.
‘Hello?’ Silva said.
The police officer looked up. ‘American?’
‘English. Is there a problem?’
‘Identification, please.’ The officer stepped back. His eyes flicked sideways to the cafe.
Silva tried not to panic. This was a routine stop. The officer was more interested in getting his breakfast than making an arrest.
She unlocked the car and found her fake passport. Itchy did the same. There was a folder containing driving documents in the glove compartment. The only issue was a driving licence. Silva hadn’t expected to be driving, and anyway her own genuine licence would have been useless alongside the fake passport.
The officer took a cursory look at the passports and then turned his attention to the other documents. There was a wad of material from the hire car company. Insurance, warranty, breakdown cover. He leafed through several pages and nodded before handing it all back.
‘Si. Good. Now your licence, please.’
Shit. She considered the options. Fight or flight. Either meant they would become fugitives in a foreign country. There was another alternative. Bluff.
‘Yes.’ Silva bent to the car again before recoiling and raising her hands to her face. ‘Oh no! My handbag! I must have left it at the last place we stopped.’
‘Your driving licence.’ The officer appeared not to have understood.
‘It’s in my bag.’ Silva tapped herself on the head and turned and pointed down the road. ‘It’s back there. How stupid.’
‘Where did you stop, please?’
‘Miles down the motorway. Ages ago.’ Silva scrunched her eyes up and willed tears. ‘Oh God, what are we going to do?’
‘Are you hungry?’ Itchy. He had his passport in his hand and sandwiched in the pages were several fifty-euro notes. He held the passport out to the policeman. ‘Perhaps you could just check my documents again. We can be on our way and you can get yourself a nice breakfast.’
Silva held her breath. Time seemed to stop for several seconds before the officer turned and a smile washed onto his face as his gaze alighted on the passport. He reached out and a finger and thumb closed on the notes. He pulled his hand back and the notes disappeared into a pocket.
‘Si, si. All good.’ He began to walk away but then turned and looked back. ‘Drive safe.’
The officer strolled off towards the services and Silva let out a low whistle.
‘Jesus, Itchy,’ she said. ‘That was risking it.’
‘Nah, easy.’
‘Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.’
Silva tried to keep her speed down as they drove up the motorway and half an hour later she took a turning signposted towards the airfield. They drove across flat countryside populated with vineyards. They passed through a village with nothing more than a garage and a cafe. Several old men sat drinking their morning espressos, faces like walnuts, heads turning to follow the car as if they’d never seen one before.
The airfield appeared on their right. A small terminal building was all glass and steel and a runway stretched into the distance, the concrete surface shimmering in the heat. To one side a succession of light aircraft were parked on a huge apron, while a number of maintenance hangers sat up against the boundary fence.
They slotted the car into a space in the car park, pulled out their bags and walked to the terminal.
Inside there was a single desk in the entrance foyer. Flowers and cool air. A woman with a smile walking from behind a desk to greet them.
‘Rachel and Steve, right?’ The woman was using the names on their false passports. She continued in perfect English. ‘Your aircraft arrived half an hour ago and is being prepped. If you’d like to come through to the lounge I can serve you refreshments.’
‘How—?’ Silva tried to prevent her jaw from hitting the floor.
‘Mr Fairchild informed us you would be arriving this morning. The flight plan was short notice, but we are well used to dealing with VIP customers here.’
‘VIP…?’ Itchy appeared to be equally gobsmacked as they followed the woman through to the lounge.
Several sofas faced a huge window which looked out across
