‘So.’ Fairchild moved over to the map and jabbed a finger at North Africa. ‘Contact will be initiated in Tunisia.’
‘Tunisia?’ Silva wondered if she’d heard correctly.
Fairchild looked apologetic. ‘Yes. Apposite, if nothing else.’
‘Tunisia.’ Silva repeated the word. Fairchild was right. How apt. Hope’s blood spilling on the same soil as her mother’s had. Job done. The circle complete. Go home and sleep easy.
Who was she kidding?
Fairchild moved his finger down over the map. ‘Brandon Hope owns an olive farm near the border with Algeria. According to Simeon, Karen Hope will be staying at the farm overnight next Thursday.’
‘How the hell can he be sure?’
‘Remember Brandon’s charity and the rescue boat?’ Fairchild inclined his head and Silva nodded. ‘Well, the boat is going to be in the marina at the resort of al Hammamet. Brandon is throwing a fundraising party and various politicians and celebrities are going to be flying in or crossing the Med in their superyachts to attend.’
‘Including Karen Hope?’
‘Yes. There’ll be massive security around the marina, but Simeon’s source says Hope will be journeying to the farm at some point.’
‘Forgive me if I’m sceptical.’
Fairchild glanced at the map screen, perhaps wishing Hope had her own icon. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to trust Simeon on this one.’
Silva followed Fairchild’s gaze to the screen. She had the sense she was a marionette. Little sticks attached to her arms and legs, pushing and pulling. Simeon Weiss the puppet master controlling her and just about everybody else on the stage.
She mentioned it to Fairchild and he shrugged.
‘The analogy is perfect, my dear,’ he said. ‘But are any of us truly free to do as we please?’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Holm and Javed examined the shipping manifests for the Excelsior. The schedule suggested the weapons shipment would be on the boat and heading for Rotterdam on the following Monday. They had to factor in how long the drive would take from Rotterdam to Naples and the length of the crossing to the Tunisian marina where the Angelo had made repeated visits.
Holm was struggling to work out an ETA based on the speed of the yacht when Javed tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Forget it, boss,’ Javed said. ‘The Angelo will be in al Hammamet on Thursday evening.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘Because there’s going to be a party on board to raise money for the charity. All sorts of celebrities are going to be there, many arriving in their own boats.’ Javed pointed at his monitor. ‘It’s here in La Stampa. It just came up in a search. Stroke of luck really.’
Holm picked up his phone and called Palmer. ‘We’re on for dinner on Thursday at your place.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Palmer said and hung up.
They’d gone over the details at their previous meeting and Palmer agreed with Holm that the operation had to be kept hush-hush right up until the last possible moment.
‘When we’ve found Taher and the weapons?’ Holm said.
‘Yes. Then you call me up and give me the location. I’ll put plans in place so a force can be mobilised the instant you contact me. Probably some UK/Tunisian joint venture, maybe a drone strike. Whatever, as soon as I know I’ll action my plan and hopefully we’ll have Taher and the weapons.’
‘Hopefully.’
At that point Palmer had reached out and put his hand on Holm’s arm. ‘But not a word before you are one hundred per cent sure, Stephen, OK? If you’re right about a mole then this is much too big to risk a cock-up.’
‘Boss?’ Javed turned from his screen. ‘What are we going to tell Huxtable? We can’t exactly expect her to believe the Nazi story again, and I don’t think the Tunisians have much of an animal rights movement.’
‘We tell her nothing,’ Holm said. ‘I’ll buy the tickets on my credit card and if anyone asks we’re going on holiday together. If they enquire further then it’s harassment.’
‘I’ll be the laughing stock,’ Javed said. ‘My reputation will take a dive.’
Holm raised an eyebrow. ‘Your reputation?’
The feeling of powerlessness came again when, on Thursday morning at a little after eleven, Silva found herself strapped into a seat in the same private charter jet that had flown them back from Italy. Itchy sat across the aisle, and opposite and facing her, Lona.
As the aircraft accelerated down the runway and rose into the air, Itchy leaned across.
‘It’ll be all right, Silvi,’ he said. ‘Karen Hope is going down.’
Itchy had been ‘in’ from the moment he’d known there was to be another chance to take out Hope. Loyalty to Silva and professional pride had seen to that. Silva insisted on another twenty-five K too. Fairchild had thrown his hands up, but she’d dug her heels in: no payment to Itchy, no Rebecca da Silva.
‘You know,’ Itchy continued as he broke into a bag of cashew nuts and gazed out of the window. ‘I could get used to this lifestyle.’
‘Don’t,’ Silva said.
She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes and there was Sean’s face hovering in front of her. Over the past few days she’d tried not to think about him but he’d always been there like a dull ache. Perhaps more than an ache, perhaps a deeper malady spreading inside her, consuming her. She’d wanted to contact him so she could discover the truth about what had happened, but Fairchild had forbidden it and, in addition, he’d refused to answer any questions as to Sean’s involvement.
‘Operational details, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘We have people on the other side, so the less you know the better.’
Was that the real reason? More likely it was yet another underhand tactic devised by Simeon Weiss. Let her stew, let the anger build. The meaner she was, the better. Sean’s face smiled in her dream. He laughed and Silva tensed. Angry wasn’t the half of it.
They touched down at Tunis–Carthage International mid-afternoon, taxied to a spare slot and were met by a pair of customs officials
