‘Haddad. Shit.’ Holm remembered something he’d overheard in the situation room earlier. ‘There was an attempt on his life a few days ago. Dissident Saudis apparently, but whoever it was, his wife was killed in the attack. Have a guess where?’
‘Saudi Arabia, I assume?’
‘Wrong. Positano. A stone’s throw from Naples. It only stuck in my mind because we were there at the time. Now the location appears to be more than a coincidence.’
‘Definitely, boss. Look at this.’ Javed had clicked open another page. ‘Several years ago Brandon Hope set up an aid charity that operates across the Middle East and North Africa. Among other things it runs a boat that rescues migrants who are attempting to cross the Mediterranean.’ Javed looked up. ‘That was the boat we saw Mohid Latif disembark from. The Angelo.’
‘A rich man’s plaything. That’s what Luigi the cafe owner said. And remember the captain of the Angelo explaining to Mohid Latif that a meeting had been called off? Something about helicopters and police and it being too risky? Latif could have been going to meet Haddad in Positano. We should have been on to this before. We were too blinkered in going after Taher. I was too blinkered. Shoe leather rather than research.’
‘Do you think Brandon Hope is directly involved with Taher?’
‘Possibly.’ Holm sat for a minute and spun the facts round in his head, tried to jigsaw them into place. ‘But more likely he’s simply turned a blind eye to help out Haddad. Anything on our system on him?’
‘You mean internally?’ Javed moved his hands from the keyboard as if he was scared he might accidentally type something incriminating. ‘Isn’t that a bit risky, sir?’
‘We have to know.’
‘Right.’ Javed paused, still nervous, then he punched the keys and stared at the screen. ‘Haddad’s on a CIA watch list. He’s believed to have orchestrated funding to various extremist factions.’
‘I’m getting a feeling in my water, Farakh. What about American Armaments and the Hopes?’
Javed typed some more. Clicked. Sat back in his chair. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing on American Armaments, just a biographical entry on the Hopes.’
‘There can’t be nothing? What about the arms dealing and Brandon Hope’s relationship with Haddad?’ Holm peered across, sure there must be some mistake. Javed shrugged. ‘Nothing is highly suspicious.’
‘Perhaps, in the light of Karen Hope’s next job, the material has been moved to a higher security-clearance level. You could always ask Huxtable.’
‘Pah.’ Holm dismissed the suggestion and instead reached for his phone. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
The blue under the eaves slipped away to be replaced by near black, the occasional twinkle from a star. Silva knew Mavers would be making her wait, as time passing was one of the most effective ways of arousing fear. When he came back she’d have to try and play him. If she could make him believe there was something else she knew perhaps she could do a deal. Then again Mavers didn’t seem like the kind of person to haggle with.
She took a drink from the galvanised trough. The water tasted of rust and earth, but it quenched her thirst. She examined the pipe again and was convinced she could pull off a length. With the element of surprise, she fancied her chances against Mavers and one guard; with Mavers and two guards, not so much.
She lay on the makeshift bed of straw and tried to conserve her strength. Mavers was right, resisting torture was impossible. She’d have to tell him something. She was working out exactly what when the door rattled open again.
‘Ms da Silva.’ Mavers entered first, the two grunts behind him. One held a pistol and the other had swapped the iron bar for something that looked alarmingly like an electric cattle prod. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’ Silva sprang to her feet. ‘And you should know my mother hid some papers to do with Karen Hope.’
‘Clever Mommy.’ Mavers shook his head. ‘But it doesn’t work like that, Rebecca. If the documents do exist – and I very much doubt they do – then I’m not going to ask you to take us to them, you’re simply going to tell us where they are.’
Mavers made a small gesture with his hand but Silva didn’t wait for his henchmen to react. She flung herself at the water trough and grabbed the pipe. It broke away from the wall and she was left with a metre-long section of metal in her hands. Water sprayed out in a jet, momentarily disorientating the nearest grunt. Silva stepped forward and swung the pipe at the man holding the gun. He dodged and moved away. She lunged at him again, but as she did so she felt a sharp pain in her midriff followed by a spasm that rushed down her leg. She stumbled to the ground to see the man with the cattle prod standing over her.
‘Shoot her in one knee to start with,’ Mavers said. ‘That will stop her misbehaving. Then get her clothes off and we’ll move on to the next step.’
The man with the gun walked across the room. He raised the weapon and pointed it at Silva. She flinched as a sharp report echoed in the room and a spray of blood flicked across her face.
The man with the gun fell forward, his mouth half open in pain or surprise. He slumped to the floor, fluid pumping from a hole in the side of his head. For a moment Silva thought the gun had suffered some kind of catastrophic failure and exploded in his
