‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘About Gavin.’
‘It’s a bit late for that now.’
‘Yes.’ Fairchild seemed to shrink. He looked longingly at the seats in the saloon and moved across and slumped down at the table. There was a large circular burn mark where Silva had accidentally placed a hot pan on the surface. He reached out and touched the blackened circle. ‘Do you know what would happen if Haddad found out who did this?’
‘I can only imagine.’
‘I don’t want to sound racist, but they regard life differently out there. People are stoned to death. They have their hands chopped off. They’re beheaded. Haddad will want more though. He’ll want to see somebody suffer. He’ll track down everybody connected with this and kill them. At least he’ll kill them after he’s done torturing them.’
‘It’s a bit late to be having regrets now. I’m sorry the job went wrong but it wasn’t my fault.’
‘You misunderstand. I came here to warn you. You should take precautions, perhaps go away for a while.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No.’
‘But nothing that happened in Italy can lead Haddad back here, can it?’
Fairchild didn’t answer. He touched the burn mark on the table again.
‘Hello?’
‘There’s a possibility the location of the training base might have been compromised.’
‘The lodge?’
‘Yes. I heard there were people up there yesterday. Not police, nor were they Italian.’
‘Is there a link back to you?’
‘The lodge is owned by a holding company based in Bermuda, so not directly, no. With a lot of digging Haddad might be able to find out, but that’s not the issue.’
‘So what is?’
‘Apparently there were a couple of cars and a van. They didn’t go inside the lodge but they took away bags of rubbish, among other stuff.’
‘And?’ Silva was having trouble comprehending. ‘We made sure all the military gear was kept separate. Nothing incriminating went in the bins.’
‘It’s not the rubbish they were interested in, it’s what was on the rubbish. What was on the cans of beer, the bottles of water.’ Fairchild rubbed at the burn mark as if trying to erase it. ‘I’m talking about fingerprints belonging to you and Itchy. You’ve both got convictions. I don’t think it would be too hard for Haddad to run a check, and when he does your name will come up. Rebecca da Silva. Olympic shooter. Sniper. Now that’s incriminating enough, but when Haddad mentions your name to Karen Hope the motive for the shooting will be obvious.’
‘Fuck. Do you think he’ll take this to the authorities?’
‘Put yourself in his position. Would you?’
‘No,’ Silva said quietly.
‘And, given what your mother knew, Haddad and Hope won’t want to either.’ Fairchild turned and peered through a porthole. A fishing boat was passing close by and Silva’s yacht began to bob as the wake washed against the hull. ‘They’re going to come after you, Rebecca. You have to get away from here. You are, quite literally, a sitting duck.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Taher received a call.
‘There are some loose ends,’ the voice on the end of the phone said in Arabic. ‘Rebecca da Silva and her spotter, her father, Matthew Fairchild, the journalist at the news agency.’
‘That’s a lot of loose ends,’ Taher said. ‘Sounds as if somebody has been a bit careless.’
‘Nobody has been careless, it’s simply a matter of good housekeeping. Don’t the Bedouin take their shoes off at the threshold to prevent dirt entering the tent?’
‘We do, but we also try not to step in shit in the first place.’ As soon as he’d spoken Taher wondered if he’d gone too far. He was annoyed at the way things were panning out, but he needed to keep his paymasters sweet for just a little longer. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Milligan. The journalist. We warned him but he obviously didn’t take the threat seriously. We need to deal with him as soon as possible.’
‘Neil Milligan and Francisca da Silva? People will put two and two together.’
‘If you do this right they’ll come up with nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence.’
Taher sighed. It was no good arguing. Milligan should have kept his blabber mouth closed. He knew what would happen if he told anybody about the story Francisca da Silva had been working on. Now it looked as if he hadn’t paid heed to the warnings. Was journalistic integrity really more important to the man than the safety of his wife and children?
‘And the others?’
‘For now you just worry about Milligan.’ Silence for a moment. ‘An unfortunate coincidence, OK?’
The phone went dead and Taher moved to the window and considered the problem he’d just been handed. Looking out over the city was always his first action when it came to making decisions. Up here above everything there was a clarity missing at ground level. The hustle and bustle and anarchy were replaced by silence. Chaos turned into serenity.
He thought of the violence he’d committed or helped orchestrate. Explosions, bullets ripping into flesh, vehicles ploughing into crowds. He understood the damage he’d caused and the scars he’d left behind – both physical and emotional – but that was the idea. Only by giving these people something they couldn’t forget would they begin to remember they only had themselves to blame.
Neil Milligan. Case in point. The journalist only had himself to blame for what was going to happen to him. He was a niggle in the grand scheme of things, but at the moment he’d become the most important item on Taher’s busy agenda.
He turned from the window, turned from the peace and quiet.
An unfortunate coincidence.
He nodded to himself. Yes, that’s exactly what people would say.
Kowlowski didn’t appear to be in a rush to get back to Rotterdam and the journey took a couple of days. Holm and Javed at first followed behind the
