‘Silvi?’ Itchy was standing a little way off. ‘What is it?’
She unzipped her leather jacket. The postcard was in an inner pocket. She pulled it out and passed it to Itchy.
‘This.’ Silva told Itchy what Sean had said and let him read the postcard. ‘Mum said Wittering had hidden secrets to be passed on from one generation to the next. I thought it had something to do with the beach in Chichester Harbour, but I was wrong. Sean is going to a trade summit at RAF Wittering for some Saudi trade deal.’ Silva pointed to the date at the top of the postcard. ‘My mother post-dated the card for the eighteenth of August. That’s today. It can’t be a coincidence.’
‘A military base and Saudi involvement? Sounds like a pie the Hopes might have their fingers in.’
‘It does.’
‘And Sean, do you think he’s mixed up in all this?’
‘I don’t know. Would he have told me about RAF Wittering if he was trying to keep it hush-hush?’
‘He might have.’ Itchy lowered his shoulders in a sign of resignation, as if he was apologising before he spoke. ‘If it’s a trap.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The descent into Heathrow was bumpy, nothing but cloud swirling outside the cabin window until all of a sudden the aircraft lurched lower and west London appeared below as they lined up for the final approach.
An hour later they were on the M25 heading round the top of London in stop-start traffic.
‘No worries,’ Javed said, his fingers on the screen of his phone. ‘The Excelsior is still a good few hours out. Plenty of time.’
Holm gripped the wheel and willed the traffic to clear. Did they have plenty of time? The issue, he thought, was Huxtable. At some point he’d have to inform her, but if there really was a mole in any branch of the intelligence services then as soon as they began to formulate a plan Taher would be alerted. Holm wanted Latif, but he wanted Taher more. For now he had to keep quiet.
They’d arranged to meet Cornish at Felixstowe and she was waiting in the port car park as they pulled in some time after twelve.
‘I want you to know I’m not happy,’ she said as Holm and Javed got out of their car. ‘You just breeze in and compromise a case we’ve been working on without a moment’s thought and now this.’
‘Sorry, Billie.’ Holm held up his hands. The need to keep things under wraps just a little longer meant getting on the wrong side of Cornish once again. ‘You know how it—’
‘Yeah, right. National fucking security. Well I can tell you if anything goes down here in Suffolk, I’m holding you personally responsible.’
‘Sure.’ Holm was no longer interested in arguing. He wanted the old Cornish back. The one who had, despite being married to somebody else – a woman indeed – ignited a tiny spark in his belly, made him feel something. ‘Shall we just get on with it?’
They walked across to a four-storey office building. The top floor doubled as an observation post and comprised one large room with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree outlook.
‘We can watch from up here.’ Cornish had calmed. She indicated a number of desks. There were several pairs of binoculars and a number of workstations. On one screen was a map showing marine traffic data. Another flicked between security cameras. A third had a feed from the main gate, one side showing CCTV of the barrier and the other detailing the trucks and their drivers as they were cleared to enter or leave. ‘I’ll get some food and drink sent up.’
‘Thanks,’ Holm said.
‘She’s in the fairway.’ Javed stood over by the screen showing marine traffic. He touched the screen and a pop-up appeared next to the symbol for the boat. ‘ETA thirty minutes, it says here.’
‘You saw the container loaded in Rotterdam?’ Cornish said.
‘Yes.’ Holm walked over to Javed. The screen was awash with little symbols and at intervals of thirty seconds or so there was a flicker and each symbol moved a fraction. ‘We’re guessing at some point during the crossing the cargo was transferred to the second container. The second container was loaded here, hence when it arrives it won’t be subject to a customs check.’
‘We could flag it for inspection anyway. Run it through the X-ray scanner.’
‘No. We need to let the container go so we can track it to its end point.’
‘And what if the terrorists escape?’
Holm saw Javed look away from the screen for a moment.
‘There are no terrorists,’ Holm said flatly and without much conviction. ‘We were barking up the wrong tree. The container is full of Nazi memorabilia. The stuff fuels the right-wing nutters and might well turn a few of them into terrorists. Which is why we need to get on top of it.’
‘Crap. We both know that’s rubbish. Stephen Holm wouldn’t be chasing artefacts from the Third Reich as if this was some twisted edition of the Antiques Roadshow.’
‘I told you, I’m out of favour. Destined to do the petty little jobs nobody else wants to do until the day I draw my pension. When we were here before I thought we’d cracked something big, but it turned out to be a minor case of nasty Nazis.’
‘Right, and I’m head of the Met.’ Cornish walked across to Holm and her hand brushed his forearm. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I want you to promise me if you need help you’ll ask for it, OK?’
Holm gave a small nod of his head. Point conceded. Offer accepted.
Cornish whirled about and headed back down the stairs.
‘We should tell her the truth,’ Javed said. ‘We’re out on our own with no backup. She could come in handy.’
‘Perhaps.’ Holm moved his attention from the screen to the quayside. A huge container ship was easing away from the dock. The water frothed and boiled as the bow thrusters and the
