‘Brandon Hope.’
Brandon was an awkward figure, a shambling man hardly in control of his own body. He had nothing like the presence of his sister Karen. Walker placed his arm at Brandon’s back and guided him along the red carpet to greet a couple of military personnel. A photographer was walking backwards taking pictures; beside him a woman with a video camera on her shoulder swung round to keep the men in shot as they passed.
‘This is all wrong,’ Silva said. ‘This isn’t clandestine.’
Her mother had mentioned something about secrets at RAF Wittering, but there was nothing dodgy going on here, not with all the soldiers and the truck drivers, not to mention the photographer and the camerawoman.
‘What the hell was the postcard on about, then?’
‘I don’t know.’ Silva pulled away from the binoculars and returned Itchy’s tap on the shoulder. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough. There.’
She pointed to the east where a star hung incongruously in the late afternoon sky. There was a low hum and the brightness moved lower. Now they could hear a roar and make out the silhouette of a large aircraft.
‘You’re right. Not clandestine at all,’ Itchy said. ‘Not in a jet of that size.’
The aircraft glided in. The body of the plane was windowless and a logo of a golden palm with crossed swords adorned the tail fin. A screech of rubber on tarmac came as the jet touched down and the aeroplane rolled along the runway. It turned onto a taxiway and slowed to a stop.
‘Saudia,’ Silva said. ‘The national airline of Saudi Arabia.’
Ground crew were busy moving a set of steps into position at the front of the plane and then the door opened and a man in Arab dress descended the steps.
Walker moved forward to shake the man’s hand, Brandon Hope close behind. Walker gestured to his left where there was a woman in a Royal Air Force uniform. Silva had her as the base commander. Next came an American general. An angular face and a severe haircut. Stars on his shoulders, a host of colours on his left breast. After him, a man and a woman in suits. As Walker introduced them, each received a handshake from the Saudi.
‘Who’s he?’ Itchy said.
‘No idea.’ Silva tried to remember the photos Fairchild had shown her of Haddad. In some there had been other Saudis, but she didn’t recognise the man from the plane.
As the introductions were going on, a pair of forklift trucks appeared and the tailgates of the lorries came down. Each lorry now disgorged pallets of equipment which were picked up by the forklifts and ferried across to the aircraft and lined up. A single pallet was taken to a point a few metres in front of the stage and somebody draped a Saudi flag in the centre, while a Union Jack was placed on one side and the Stars and Stripes on the other.
‘Exports,’ Silva said. ‘This is nothing more than a ceremony to mark a trade deal between American Armaments and the Saudi government. In this case the weapons have been manufactured in the UK at the factory in Birmingham, hence the trilateral nature.’
At the end of the line of dignitaries there were two more men in suits. For a moment the binocular lenses were full of the backs of Walker, Hope and the Saudi. Silva pulled right and the pudgy face of Greg Mavers slipped into view. Standing next to Mavers was a very sober-looking Sean Connor.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the time the Excelsior had docked and the container had been unloaded it was early evening. Straddle carriers roved up and down the rows of containers and moved them onto waiting lorries. Holm and Javed sat in their car on the ring road and waited. At eight o’clock Holm’s phone buzzed. It was Cornish.
‘The container’s on a lorry and it’s leaving now,’ she said. ‘Index Tango Alpha three, four Lima X-ray. White cab.’
‘Thanks, Billie,’ Holm said. ‘I owe you.’
‘Forget it, Stephen. Just stay out of trouble and keep us safe, OK?’
‘Will do.’
Javed flicked the sun visor down and peered into the little vanity mirror on the back.
‘Here we go,’ he said a couple of minutes later. ‘Tango Alpha three.’
There was a grunt of diesel engine and a rumble as the truck drove past. Holm waited a couple of moments and pulled out. Before long they were rounding Ipswich and heading west.
‘Where do you think?’ Javed said.
Holm shrugged. To be honest, he had no idea. The truck could stop anywhere. All it took was a couple of minutes to open the back doors and Mohid Latif and his companion could scramble out and be off.
After an hour the lorry was at Cambridge, and as the road bent to the right Holm settled in for a long drive. They were closing on the A1, the main trunk route to the north, the destination surely either northern England or Scotland. However, twenty miles up the A1 Holm was surprised when the lorry abruptly turned off the main road into a small industrial estate. Dim lights on low poles glowed in the dusk. Beyond the estate there was a succession of identical buildings and a tall chain-link fence.
‘What the hell is this place?’ Holm said. The lorry had stopped at a barrier next to a security box. Beyond was an area of hard standing and a large warehouse. Inside the box a solitary figure stood in a blaze of yellow light. To the right of the box a number of shipping containers were stacked two high. After a moment or two the barrier hinged upwards and the lorry drove in.
Javed was head down over his phone. ‘RAF Wittering.’ He looked up. ‘At least the bit behind that fence. This looks like some kind of business park attached to the base. Probably aerospace industries related to the airfield.’
‘This is crap. We’re going to get spotted here.’ Holm turned his head. A few car lengths back they’d
