Cornish returned a few minutes later with a tray laden with cups of coffee and a plate of sausage rolls. As she and Javed tucked in, Holm went over to the window.
‘You’re right, Billie,’ he said. To hell with it, he couldn’t bring himself to deceive her any longer. ‘We’re talking terrorists, but it is vitally important the information stays secret.’
‘Christ.’ Crumbs fell from Cornish’s lips and she reached for a paper napkin. ‘How many?’
‘Two, we think. One of them at least was part of the group that carried out the Tunisian attack. The one I fucked up on.’
‘But JTAC and the security services are all over this, right?’ Cornish put down her plate and joined Holm at the window. She gestured across the estuary towards the town of Harwich on the opposite bank. ‘I mean, you’ve got agents out there ready to track these people. To take them down at the appropriate time.’
Holm continued to stare out of the window. He didn’t speak. The Chinese boat had left the port and was steaming towards the open sea.
‘Stephen, it’s just you? Can you tell me why?’
‘Walls and ears, Billie. That’s why. We’ll be going to my boss as soon as we know what we’ve got. Until then I’d be grateful if you’d keep to our original story about the Nazis.’ Holm turned and smiled. ‘And yes, I’d be grateful for your help too.’
Cornish smiled back but before she could speak Javed was on his feet, binoculars raised to his eyes.
‘She’s here,’ he said. A small container ship was passing to starboard of the Chinese vessel and a pilot boat was waiting to guide her to a berth. ‘The Excelsior.’
Trap or not, they headed east, skirted London and took the motorway to Cambridge. A succession of smaller roads followed until they eventually coasted along a country lane that ended at a small copse overlooking RAF Wittering.
‘Nice one,’ Silva said, patting Itchy on the back as they parked their bikes. Itchy had worked out the route before they’d set off, finding a circuitous way in and a place to watch the airfield which wouldn’t bring them to the attention of personnel on the base. As an observation point it was near perfect. The copse sat halfway down a hill overlooking the runway. A muddy car park looked well used and a board with a map on showed a number of public footpaths criss-crossing a nature reserve. In the late afternoon the place was deserted.
Itchy took a pair of binoculars from his pannier and handed them to Silva.
‘Badger watching,’ he said. ‘Right?’
Silva nodded. She had no idea if there were any badgers about but it was a decent cover story.
They walked through the woodland until they neared the edge. They dropped to the ground and began a slow crawl. Silva pushed through a patch of brambles, the thorns scratching her face. Itchy followed.
‘I feel like a badger,’ he said. ‘I just hope I don’t come across one down here.’
No chance of that, Silva thought, as Itchy’s curses soured the still air.
At the edge of the wood they crouched behind a clump of bracken. Silva broke off a few fronds and wove them round her binoculars, but she hardly needed the optics; the runway was only a couple of hundred metres from their position and the main part of the base lay beyond that. There was an industrial estate at the top end of the runway and various military buildings sat behind a control tower. Farther away lay a small village of near-identical brick houses – accommodation for the base staff. Silva remembered similar houses from her childhood. Far from the outward appearance of sterility and blandness, the places she’d grown up in had felt welcoming and safe. A sanctuary away from what lay beyond the fences and the barriers. Nobody could hurt you while the base was patrolled by soldiers with guns. The danger came when you ventured outside into the real world.
‘Something’s going on.’ Itchy was head down, peering through the bracken. ‘Several police cars and four trucks have just driven out to one side of the runway. There’s a limo there too.’
Silva raised the binoculars. Itchy was right. The convoy had taken up a position near the base of the control tower. The day had turned gloomy, with heavy clouds overhead, and the strobing lights on the police cars swept the tower with a blue flash every second. To one side of the tower was an area of raised decking and a red carpet ran from a series of steps towards the runway. A number of soldiers in dress uniform stood near the decking.
‘What the hell is this?’ Silva said. ‘It looks like a presentation or a ceremony of some kind.’
‘The trucks,’ Itchy said. ‘Look at the trucks and the logo on those banners at the back of the stage.’
She swung the binoculars and adjusted the zoom. White letters on a background strip of red and blue, the red colour matching the carpet. Allied American Armaments. ‘The Hope family’s company.’
‘The trucks must have come from the factory in Birmingham. There’s an advanced avionics research centre there. They build surface-to-air missiles and guidance systems among other stuff.’
Birmingham was forty miles to the west so Itchy’s guess was probably right.
‘The limo.’ Silva refocused. The chauffeur had opened the door to the car and a man ducked out and straightened his jacket. ‘That’s Jonathon Walker, Secretary of State for Defence.’
‘Wouldn’t know him from Adam, but if you say so.’ Itchy tapped Silva’s shoulder. ‘I do know him though.’
A man in a pale suit had followed the minister out of the car. A pasty face, glowing
