‘It was perfectly legal when I was in Iraq. Defending the realm. Putting my life on the line for others.’
‘Dirty work, Dad. You don’t get the credit, only the blame.’
‘Well I’ll face the consequences when the police get here. There’ll be an outcry if they lock me up simply because I shot a burglar.’
‘I don’t think he was a burglar.’ Silva cast a glance at Itchy. ‘And I don’t think we should call the police either.’
‘Why not?’
‘I told you this man is a US agent.’ Silva moved her foot and prodded the man’s arm. Blood was pooling on the carpet. ‘He and his mate were sent here to kill me.’
‘Rebecca?’ Her father looked at her as if she was a child again and had performed badly in a school test. ‘What on earth have you got yourself into?’
‘What have…?’ Silva wondered if her grandmother’s dementia was hereditary. ‘This guy is working for the US government, Dad. Do you understand what that means?’
‘I told you this wasn’t simple. I told you the only way was to kill Karen Hope. Now it’s all gone fubar.’
Her father was right about one thing, she thought. This was fubar. Fucked up beyond all repair.
‘Folks.’ Itchy. ‘We haven’t got time for this. We’ve got to split.’
‘What about the body?’ Silva stepped back. The pool of blood had grown. ‘We can’t just leave it here.’
‘You go. Kenneth and I will deal with that.’ Mrs Collins stood in the hallway looking at the stain on the carpet with some concern. ‘After all, cleaning’s what I’m good for, right?’
‘What the hell was that all about?’ Itchy’s voice buzzed with static in Silva’s helmet as they rode into a brightening sky. ‘Did Mrs Collins just reinvent herself as some kind of fixer?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Silva grimaced to herself. There was something going on between Mrs Collins and her father, but what it was, aside from possibly fulfilling each other’s sexual needs, she didn’t know.
They put a couple of dozen miles between themselves and her father’s place before Silva suggested they pull over and take a break. They headed down a lane and bumped the bikes through a gate and into a field. She pulled her helmet off. Talking on the bike-to-bike headsets was one thing, but she couldn’t think straight while she was riding and they needed some sort of plan.
Itchy kicked down the stand on his bike and waited for orders. As if Silva knew what the hell she was doing.
‘Well?’ he said after a minute.
‘I don’t know, Itch.’ She looked at the dawn sunlight filtering through a nearby hedgerow. ‘I always thought Fairchild was bullshitting about a global conspiracy. It seemed straight out of a Dan Brown novel. But those two men back at Dad’s place suggest he’s not far short of the mark.’
‘If we’re up against the US government – hell, any government – we might as well turn ourselves in now.’
‘Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps Karen Hope has a few people on her dodgy payroll. If she’s happy to pay for somebody to kill my mother then bribing a few agents would be par for the course.’
‘Sean.’ Itchy fiddled with his helmet. Stared at the ground. ‘Could he…?’
Itchy didn’t finish the sentence but he didn’t need to; Silva had already played out the chilling possibility in her head that Sean could somehow be involved with Hope. He’d certainly been enamoured with her. Was it pushing the bounds of possibility to think she’d recruited Sean to her side? Silva knew it wasn’t. Sean was a patriot, and if Hope had appealed to that part of him he’d have been with her.
‘Silvi?’ Itchy had his head up now and he met gaze. ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’
‘I don’t know.’
And she didn’t. All Sean’s words, all his declarations of love, all his talk of a future together, was that a charade? She remembered when he’d called her after her mother’s death. It was the first time they’d been in contact for months. Was the call out of genuine concern or had Karen Hope initiated it? Perhaps Hope had a notion her mother might have a backup plan which involved passing the files to somebody else. The obvious person would be Silva. Get close to her, Sean. Find out what she knows. Silva could imagine Hope intense and passionate, her hand on Sean’s arm. This isn’t about me, it’s about our country’s future. God bless America.
‘Silvi?’
‘I’m going to call him,’ Silva said. ‘I’ll use Fairchild’s burner phone.’
Itchy nodded. They’d both turned their own phones off and removed the batteries so there was no chance of anybody tracking them, but the burner phone was clean. Once she’d made the call she’d ditch it.
Sean answered after a couple of rings, a tentative ‘hello’ to an unrecognised number.
‘It’s me,’ Silva said. ‘Rebecca.’
‘Rebecca!’ Sean’s voice jumped an octave. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m out and about.’ Silva was already on the defensive. Why would his first words be a question about her location? ‘Just pottering around.’
‘I heard about Neil Milligan. I understand he worked with your mother.’
‘He was murdered, Sean.’
‘I know. Tragic. Wrong place, wrong time.’
Wrong place, wrong time. The same phrase she heard so often about her mother’s death.
There was a pause before Sean continued. ‘You sound like you’re having a hard time. Can we meet up?’
There. The bait. The hook.
‘Sure. I’d like to see you.’ Silva played along. ‘When and where?’
‘Well that depends where you are. I’m in London at the moment but I have to go to Cambridge later today for a trilateral US/UK/Saudi trade summit. After this evening I’m free for a couple of days. Perhaps we could explore Cambridge together.’
‘Cambridge?’
‘Yes. I’ll be at a British military base close by. RAF Wittering. Do you know it?’
‘RAF…?’ Silva nearly dropped the phone. She swallowed. ‘No.’
‘Well, we could meet in Cambridge tomorrow sometime. I’ll book a hotel. Do you want to text me your ETA?’
‘I’ll do that. Got
