‘A British prison,’ the man said. ‘We do things differently.’
Taher lunged at the man and grabbed him by the shoulder. He jerked him round and at the same time brought the butt of the gun up and smashed it into the white, sweaty face. The man staggered backwards and tripped. He went down hard.
‘You do things differently?’ Taher spat on the ground. ‘In the Iraq War my family was incinerated by a missile launched from a British ship by a British commander. A British prime minister gave the order to attack. Over the centuries you have decimated whole continents and then scuttled back home and ignored the mess you left behind.’
The younger man bent to help the older one. Taher waved his gun and gestured that they should climb the steps to the veranda.
‘It’s over, do you understand? We are in a new age now. No longer can you treat foreign policy like a game. There will be consequences to your actions.’
‘Problems?’ Hope slipped out of the door as they reached the veranda. Her gaze moved to the two men.
‘They’re from the UK.’ Taher had to keep himself from laughing. If this was the state of the country’s secret service it was no wonder they hadn’t had much success in catching him. ‘So-called British intelligence.’
‘You were expecting them?’ Hope’s eyes showed a flare of anger. She lowered her voice so the men couldn’t hear. ‘You should have warned me. You know I like to be informed of everything. Especially with Greg out of the picture.’
Taher grimaced. The deputy ambassador, along with two of his bodyguards, had been involved in a car accident a few days ago. It appeared Mavers had been drinking and had insisted on driving. The car had left a winding country road and ended up upside down in a river. There’d been no survivors. Taher didn’t buy the story, of course, but at this point the fate of Mavers was inconsequential. The man didn’t know the details of the smuggling route, didn’t know anything about Taher, and wasn’t much more than Hope’s well-paid lackey, someone who’d grovelled at her feet in expectation of a reward when she became president.
‘Greg told me the girl must have had high-level backup.’ Hope was speaking again, her voice harder and laced with anger. ‘So these two could have been part of the team that tried to kill me in Italy.’
‘It’s possible.’ Taher turned his head. The older man could barely stand. Blood ran from a cut above his left eye and he was breathing heavily. The younger man stood muscles taunt, like a cat about to pounce. Taher pulled out the Glock from his holster and handed it to Hope. ‘Cover them.’
A couple of lengths of nylon twine hung near the doorway, part of the rigging used to hold the sun awning in place. Taher pulled them off and told the men to face away from the house. In turn he wrenched their hands behind their backs and bound their wrists tightly together. That done, he stood and stared at the men. Wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now.
‘Remember what I said inside?’ Hope’s voice was not much more than a whisper, meant just for Taher’s ears. ‘About not letting anything stand in my way?’
‘Yes.’ Taher said. ‘What of it?’
‘Well, they’ve seen me, haven’t they?’ Hope was holding the weapon in both hands. There was a sheen of sweat on her face. ‘We can’t let them go.’
Hope’s tone was insistent and menacing, and he realised he was right not to have crossed this woman. She’d stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Even if that meant executing an old man and a boy in cold blood.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘We can’t.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Silva and Itchy had watched the men clamber up the side of the ravine and edge up a gully towards the house. At one point she’d thought the older man would fall; he appeared frozen against the sheer rock face and through the binoculars she could see he’d closed his eyes and was clinging on for dear life. Eventually he began moving upwards and the pair crested the cliff top and crawled into the olive grove where they crouched behind a low wall.
Now, though, everything had gone pear-shaped.
‘Fuck,’ Itchy said. While Silva was looking through the scope at the veranda, Itchy was concentrating on the two men. ‘They’ve been made.’
Silva pulled her eye from the scope and picked up the binoculars again. The two men were getting to their feet at the behest of a man with a smooth face and a wispy beard. The man from the photograph Lona had given her. Taher. He cradled a machine gun and jabbed it at the men as he marched them up to the veranda. Then he hit the older man in the face.
‘We could take him,’ Itchy said. ‘Give them a chance to escape.’
Before Silva could think on that, Karen Hope walked out from the farmhouse. The billowing white sun awning flapped back and forth, obscuring the view every few seconds.
‘It’s Hope!’ Silva slipped back down into a firing position and eased her right eye up to the scope. ‘Tell me what’s happening!’
‘Taher’s got some twine and he’s tying the men’s hands behind their backs. Whatever their stupid plan was it hasn’t worked.’
‘Perhaps they’ve got backup.’ Silva’s other eye glanced at the sky, hoping to see a smudge of distorted air and hear the chop chop chop of a helicopter. There was nothing.
‘We’re the only backup.’
‘What the hell were they playing at?’
‘Soldiers.’ Itchy rolled on his side and glanced at Silva. ‘Only you don’t, do you? Play at it?’
‘No.’
Now Taher was waving his gun at the two men, forcing them over to the edge of the veranda. They both knelt, the older man falling
