‘Nothing is too much trouble these days,’ Lona said. ‘Tunisia relies on tourism and olives, and since the Bardo and Sousse atrocities tourism has been badly hit. People were just beginning to come back when the attack that killed your mother took place.’
A car stood waiting for them in the pick-up area, a Tunisian man at the wheel. Silva and Itchy loaded their bags into the boot and climbed into the back seat. Lona sat in the front.
‘This is Nasim,’ Lona said. ‘He’s our guide and driver.’
Nasim smiled in the rear-view mirror, said something to Lona in French, and then the car was nosing into the heavy traffic.
‘We’re staying in a town fifty miles from the farm,’ Lona said. ‘You’ll head there first thing in the morning so you can arrive before it’s light.’
As they sped out of the city along a busy three-lane highway, Silva remembered that when she’d arrived in Tunisia to visit her mother several months earlier it had appeared exotic. Now she stared out blankly at white low-rise apartments, the rubbish-strewn kerbs and the uninspiring monotony. Soon they were out into flat, arid country. The occasional olive plantation. The concrete shells of half-finished buildings. She dozed, awoken every now and then as they turned at a junction or hit a pothole at speed. After a while the flatness was replaced by rocky hills, sparse vegetation, anonymous towns. The road crested a ridge and swept left, a vast plain of undulating nothingness spread out to their right.
‘Algeria,’ Lona said. ‘Nearly a million square miles. The olive farm is close to the border, perfect as a handover point for the smuggled weapons. They could be going to AQIM groups in Algeria or to Daesh in Sudan, perhaps even as far as al-Shabaab in Somalia. The whole of North Africa is a mess, to be honest.’
‘But why on earth is Karen Hope going to be there?’
‘That’s just what I’ve been told.’ Lona turned to the back. ‘I follow orders and don’t ask too many questions. Life’s easier that way.’
Right, Silva thought. Or perhaps you know more than you’re telling.
The sun burned red as it sank in the west, somewhere amid the vastness of Algeria, and as dusk fell they entered a large town. Vehicles were honking their horns, people everywhere until they turned down a small alley and drew up outside a house with a high concrete wall. Lona got out and opened a pair of heavy gates and the car eased in alongside a white Land Cruiser.
The house was newly built and cool inside. Lona gestured to a couple of doors off the hall.
‘You’ll sleep in there.’ She turned. ‘There’s food in the kitchen, so eat and then rest. You leave at five a.m.’
‘Not we?’ Silva said.
‘Nasim will take you out to the olive farm in the 4 × 4. The kit’s already packed. When the job’s done he’ll drive you straight to the airport and you’ll rendezvous with the jet. I’m going back via a different route. We won’t meet again.’
‘And you’ll be somewhere safe in case anything goes wrong.’
‘Nothing will go wrong, you’ll make sure of that. You’ve got Nasim too. He can be trusted. He’s one of ours.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Our assets.’ Lona tilted her head. ‘The UK’s assets.’
Silva had it then. ‘You’re not with Fairchild, are you?’
‘No, of course not. I work for Simeon Weiss. I was placed in Fairchild’s organisation to watch over him, to make sure he did as he was told.’
‘You can tell Mr Weiss I’m not happy at being duped like this.’
‘Simeon has no regard for you emotional well-being.’ Lona paused and smiled. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small envelope. ‘However, he did ask me to give you this. He called it a reward.’
‘What?’ Silva watched as Lona ripped the envelope open and extracted a photograph. The image was one Silva had seen before: Karen Hope and two men at the villa in Italy. One was Latif, the other unidentified. ‘This is nothing new.’
‘No, but the information that goes with it is.’ Lona passed the photograph across. ‘The other man is known as Taher. He’s the terrorist who planned and carried out your mother’s killing.’
‘And how is that a reward?’
‘Taher will be at the farm tomorrow.’ Lona shrugged. ‘Two birds, one stone, right?’
With that, Lona was gone.
‘This bloody stinks,’ Itchy said. He gestured after Lona. ‘She’s setting us up for something. One phone call by Mr Taxi out there and we could be in the hands of this Taher and his mates. Next thing there’s a video on the evening news and then…’ Itchy drew a finger across his throat. ‘Schlick!’
‘Lona’s on our side, remember?’ Silva said. She looked at the photograph and wondered not about Taher, but Simeon Weiss. What his endgame was and how he’d managed to play her at every turn.
‘I don’t trust any of them.’
‘Neither do I but now we’re here we don’t have much choice.’
Nasim came through from the rear of the house. ‘You eat. Now, please.’
In a rear living room a low table had been set out with food. Large round flatbreads, slices of meat, a bowl of couscous garnished with slices of red pepper, some triangular pastries that looked similar to samosas.
Nasim left and they sat on cushions to eat.
‘Looks great,’ Silva said. ‘He’d hardly prepare all this if he intended to shop us, would he?’
‘He’s fattening us up,’ Itchy said, piling stuff into a bowl.
‘Well, as a last meal you can’t complain.’
Later, Nasim cleared away and Silva and Itchy went to their rooms. Itchy said something about taking it in turns to stand guard, but Silva disagreed. They were getting up before dawn and she wanted all the sleep she could have.
‘See you in the morning, then,’ Itchy said. ‘Fingers crossed.’
Holm and Javed took a Lufthansa scheduled flight from Heathrow
