‘Don’t move!’ The figure brandished the gun and came into the room followed by another masked soldier.
‘I don’t know who the fuck you are,’ Mavers said. ‘But I’m with the US government and you’re interfering with an important operation. You’re also trespassing.’
‘Shut up.’ The figure in blue gave an almost imperceptible nod and the second soldier let off a round. The man with the cattle prod reeled back, crumpled and went down. The soldier bent and picked up the gun. He checked the clip and then calmly walked over to Mavers.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Mavers said. ‘There’ll be serious repercussions.’
He raised an arm but the soldier thrust the weapon into his face and fired. Mavers keeled over, his substantial body shuddering as it hit the floor.
‘What the—?’ Silva said as she recoiled from the shots.
‘No questions.’ The soldier held out a hand and hauled Silva to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’
The soldiers thrust her out of the room and led her into a large cow barn. Dim light came from overhead fluorescent tubes; on the ground was a mass of straw, fresh manure and a row of troughs with the remains of a feed. They jogged through the barn and out one end. A security floodlight on a pole hung over a green tractor. Parked beside it sat a black Range Rover. As they approached, the door clunked open and a man climbed out. Dusty hair and a colonial tan suit.
‘Rebecca.’ Matthew Fairchild nodded. ‘Good to see you’re OK.’
‘I don’t…?’ Silva stood still, for a moment utterly confused. She pointed towards the cowshed. ‘You realise your men just killed the US ambassador?’
‘The deputy ambassador to be precise.’
Fairchild gestured at the Range Rover but Silva didn’t move. Then she turned, intending to thank the two special forces guys, but they’d vanished.
‘What is this place?’ she asked.
‘A black site run by the US. Totally deniable and off the books, unless they all of a sudden decide to admit to its existence, which they won’t.’
‘But the tractor, the cows…?’
‘It’s a working farm with an American expat owner. Isolated, plenty of outbuildings, a surprising array of useful equipment, and the potential for lots of unexplained noises. Just the place for working over enemies of the state.’
‘Which state?’
‘That depends.’
‘On British soil? Bloody hell.’
‘Come on, Rebecca. You can’t get squeamish now simply because the tables were turned.’ Fairchild got back into the Range Rover. ‘Let’s go.’
‘How’s this going to work?’ she said as she went round and climbed in the passenger side. ‘I mean three dead men, one of them the US deputy ambassador?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fairchild started the Range Rover and eased off. ‘To be frank, the fact Mavers went rogue is not my problem. It’s an American mess and they’ll have to sort it out for themselves.’
They passed a collection of farm buildings and threaded through a dense forest, black against the Range Rover’s headlights. For half an hour she saw nothing she recognised, then there was a sign for London and the M40. Fairchild hadn’t spoken again and every question she asked had been answered with a shake of his head. Now, as they joined the motorway, he appeared to relax.
‘How did you find me?’ Silva said.
‘Later. When we get home.’
‘Home?’
‘My home. It’s obviously not safe for you to go anywhere near your own place.’
‘Oh my God, you don’t know about my dad, he’s—’
‘He’s alive, Rebecca. Bruised but in fine fettle. He’d have come with me if I’d let him.’
‘He’s alive?’ Silva choked, tears filling her eyes. ‘I thought… God!’
Fairchild put a hand out and touched her on the knee. ‘He’s in a safe house being watched over by a couple of mates from the regiment.’
She slumped back in her seat. The thought that he’d died had wracked her with guilt. They’d never properly made up but now there was a second chance for her to do that. She made a silent promise to herself she wouldn’t let the chance slip by.
The past few hours had been overwhelming and tiredness swept in. She closed her eyes for one moment and the next there was a hand on her shoulder.
‘We’re here.’
The night was gone, the darkness replaced by golden sunbeams shining through lush woodland, Fairchild’s mansion standing bathed in the morning light. Fairchild showed her in and took her through to a huge dining room; within seconds a pot of tea and a cooked breakfast had arrived.
‘Tuck in,’ Fairchild said. ‘You must be hungry.’
Silva nodded as the tray of food was placed on the table. She went across and sat down. ‘Where’s Itchy?’
‘He’s upstairs chilling out. Don’t worry, he told us everything. It’s all under control.’ Fairchild took a chair opposite her as she began to eat. ‘You’ll be wanting answers, but I’m not the person to give them to you.’
‘Who is, then?’ Silva muttered through a mouthful of bacon.
‘He’ll be here in a minute.’
‘Right.’ Silva carried on eating. Took a drink of tea. When she’d finished, Fairchild asked if she wanted some more. ‘No,’ she said.
Ten minutes later there was the sound of the front door opening and one of Fairchild’s aides appeared.
‘He’s here, sir.’
‘Show him through.’
Silva turned her head to see a man in a dark suit walk into the room. Rectangular frameless glasses. Short brown hair. A hand moving up to touch his glasses. The bank manager-cum-wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Simeon Weiss.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Silva pushed back her chair from the table and glared at Fairchild. ‘You’ve sold me out, you bastard!’
‘Nobody’s sold anyone out, Ms da Silva,’ Weiss said. ‘Leastways not yet.’
‘Please, Rebecca.’ Fairchild gestured at the table. ‘Sit down and listen to what Simeon has to say.’
‘He threatened me and he killed Neil Milligan.’
‘We did not kill Mr Milligan,’ Weiss said.
‘Who did, then?’
‘Hope’s people.’
‘Mavers? The CIA?’
‘She paid off Mavers and a few others, but the CIA? Good God, no, she hasn’t
