The Sanction Page 15

  ‘This is Emma,’ Cornish said. ‘My wife.’

  ‘Hi.’ Emma was blonde like Cornish, mid-thirties, good figure. ‘You must be Stephen. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  Holm opened his mouth but then closed it again. He realised he’d probably say something inappropriate. Behind him Javed sniggered.

  ‘What a turn-up, boss,’ Javed said. ‘You’re outnumbered three to one.’

  Cornish looked at Javed and turned to Holm. ‘He’s not, is he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Holm said. He shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  An hour later Silva and Fairchild were seated at an outside table in a restaurant down in the Barbican. Fairchild pondered the menu briefly and selected a seafood platter. Silva chose bass served with couscous. The waiter brought over a carafe of house white and, after Fairchild had tasted it, poured two glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ Fairchild said, raising his glass to Silva. ‘Here’s to success.’

  ‘In what?’ Silva couldn’t believe the arrogance of the man. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything and it’s unlikely I will.’

  ‘Right. Here’s to you, then.’

  She reluctantly picked up her glass and chinked it against Fairchild’s. He smiled and glanced round.

  ‘Well?’ Silva said.

  ‘You see that guy at the cafe next to us?’ Fairchild jerked his head to the right. ‘Gavin. He’s one of mine.’

  Silva looked across to where a thickset man sipped from a lager glass, an open paperback in his other hand. The man turned for a second and met Silva’s gaze.

  ‘And the girl leaning against those railings talking on the phone?’ Fairchild made a small hand gesture towards an attractive woman in a short skirt. She looked like a secretary who’d just popped out of the office to call a friend, but she too rotated her head slightly in their direction. ‘Lona. She’s with me too.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Silva said. ‘Are you trying to intimidate me?’

  ‘I very much doubt that would be possible, Ms da Silva. Anyway, scaring you isn’t the intention. Gavin and Lona are aides.’

  ‘You mean protection?’

  ‘If you want to put it like that, yes.’

  ‘What I want is for you to get to the point.’

  ‘OK.’ Fairchild took another sip from his glass and made a face. ‘This is one of those wines that actually gets worse with each mouthful. I really shouldn’t have accepted it.’

  ‘Mr Fairchild?’

  ‘You’re perhaps wondering why I’m involved in all this.’ Fairchild put his wine glass down. He contemplated the pale liquid, wistful. ‘Back in the Gulf War your father saved my life. He didn’t get a medal for it, but he has my eternal thanks nonetheless.’ Fairchild glanced up. ‘Life, Rebecca, is what you make of it. I like to think I’ve made something of my time on earth, but I wouldn’t have had the chance had your father not risked his own skin to save mine.’

  ‘He never said.’

  ‘True heroes tend to keep quiet and they don’t ask for anything in return for their deeds.’ Fairchild turned his hands palms up. ‘But when your father came to me with your mother’s files I knew I had to help.’

  ‘Help I can understand, but this plan of yours is madness.’

  ‘Killing Karen Hope is the only way to avenge the death of your mother.’

  ‘I don’t buy that. Why not just release all the material to the press?’

  ‘If it was so easy why hasn’t Neil Milligan published the information? He’s the only other person who’s seen your mother’s files. The story would be the biggest he’d ever covered. Fame and fortune. The scoop of the century.’

  ‘He told me his family was threatened, but that doesn’t scare me. We should simply hand all the material to the newspapers.’

  ‘Brave words, but futile. You see I wouldn’t mind betting the authorities know some, if not all, of this already. No media outlet will touch the story, firstly because the government will issue D notices to prevent publication, secondly because the forces that threatened Milligan will threaten anybody who tries to disseminate the information.’

  ‘I told you, that doesn’t worry me.’

  ‘Well it should.’ Fairchild held his wine glass and swirled the contents, gazing down into the pale alcohol. He appeared distracted, disturbed perhaps. He took another sip and put the glass down. ‘Your father wants Hope dead and he thinks you’re the right person to kill her.’

  ‘Great. Nice he has faith in me for a change.’

  ‘Rebecca, there are dozens of stories floating around the US media about Karen Hope. Everything from dodgy arms deals to devil worship. One I read says she had a baby and killed it and ate the child’s heart as part of a witch’s spell. Depending where you choose to get your news, she is either a white supremacist or a communist. She’s secretly a Muslim. A Jew. A Scientologist. A radical pro-lifer. A vegan who lives on spinach smoothies. An alien.’

  ‘Fake news.’

  ‘Exactly. Day and night the public are bludgeoned with these stories – why do you think they’ll believe your mother’s?’

  ‘Because there’s proof. The photograph with Haddad and Latif.’

  ‘I saw an image the other day that showed Hope having sex with a horse. Is that proof she’s into bestiality?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Silva stayed silent for a beat. She turned her head in the direction of the man with the lager. ‘If you and my father are convinced killing her is the only option why don’t you use your own people? You must have dozens of mercenaries you can call on.’

  ‘You’ve overestimated my set-up. I have people on the ground in various countries, but most are freelancers and none as capable as you. This is a job for a specialist, for somebody at the top of their field.’ Fairchild looked at Silva and sighed. ‘Here.’

  Fairchild unzipped a leather document folder and pulled out a large envelope. He reached in and carefully extracted a couple of pictures. One was an aerial photograph, the other a similar image to the one of the villa Fairchild had shown her before; this time the little terrace was empty aside from a table with a parasol.

  ‘I think I mentioned that Brandon Hope’s holiday house is in Italy on the Amalfi Coast,’ Fairchild said. He pointed at the aerial photograph. ‘This is the town of Positano and the villa sits on the cliffs on the west side. I’ve rented a house on the east side. It’s a little over one kilometre across the water to the villa. The fifteenth of August marks the end of the festival of the town’s patron saint. In the evening there will be a spectacular firework display with a lot of very loud bangs. For the past five years Karen Hope has spent the week of the festival at the villa. Brandon always holds a small party on the night of the fifteenth. The guests watch the display from the terrace, food and drinks first of course and then the fireworks. There’ll be plenty of time to set up and no rush to get away. With the confusion in the town it will take the police ten or fifteen minutes to arrive and they’ll have absolutely no idea where Hope was shot from. Even if they were to bring in ballistics experts, it will be weeks before they conclude it was an extreme long-range shot from a sniper. Pinning down the shooter’s position will be impossible so whoever does this will be able to escape scot free.’

  Silva looked at the pictures. Fairchild had it all worked out. Did he really believe he could convince her? ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘No, you’re the one who’s mad, remember? Cracking up because of the mistake you made in Afghanistan. Angry you can do nothing about your mother’s death.’ Fairchild reached for his napkin and dabbed his mouth. ‘I can understand. We all make mistakes and frequently we’re powerless to do anything to effect a change. Well now’s your chance to put things right.’

  ‘If what you told me is true, I still don’t understand your reluctance to go to the media. Somebody will get the story out there. The conspiracy can’t be that big.’

  ‘Hope springs eternal. A new Hope. However bad things get, there’s always Hope. Love and Hope conq
uer fear and hate.’ Fairchild crossed his arms. ‘Campaign slogans from the primaries, Rebecca. The US is waiting, but the bigger picture is the globe is waiting. There’s an overwhelming imperative that Karen Hope becomes the next leader of the Western world. We are living in dangerous times. A steady hand on the tiller is what’s required. Straight ahead. Not left, not right, but down the middle. Nobody is going to believe this crap.’ Fairchild gestured at the envelopes. ‘On the other hand, those who know it’s true will do anything to prevent it coming out. Anything, understand?’

  Silva glanced over at the blonde woman. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘That’s why they’re here. Not to say they’ll do much good if my card is marked. Much as I want to stop Karen Hope, I value my life too. It’s why evil people are able to do evil things, Rebecca. Because most of us are too scared to stop them.’

  ‘What about the terrorists who carried out the attack?’

  ‘We’ll deal with them separately.’ Fairchild put his napkin down on the table, pushed back his chair and stood. He slid the envelope across the table. ‘There’s more information in here and the evidence you want too. When you’ve read through everything, call me. If you’re still not interested then our relationship is at an end. I’ll respect your decision either way, but I’m not sure your father will.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Silva glanced to where the waiter was carrying two plates of food over. ‘Without eating?’

  ‘Tell him I was called away.’ Fairchild pulled out his wallet and laid two fifty-pound notes on the table. ‘Urgent business.’

  ‘But…?’

  ‘My time is precious. You’ll make your decision based on the evidence. I don’t think anything else I say will sway you.’ Fairchild gestured at the envelope. He’d done arguing and there was an air of resignation about his manner. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you’re more than this, more than passing time here, delivering letters, marking the days. You’ve done some remarkable things in your life so far, Ms da Silva, and I fully expect you to carry on in that vein. If we don’t meet again, then I wish you luck.’

  Fairchild stepped away from the table and whirled round. He headed along the quayside, his aides moving from their positions and following at a discreet distance. The waiter laid the two plates on the table and glanced at the rapidly disappearing figure of Fairchild.

  ‘Change of plan,’ Silva said. She pointed at the seafood platter. ‘It’s just me, but you can leave that and I’ll see what I can do.’

  * * *

  Six a.m. the next morning and the bleeping of the alarm on his phone came all too early. Holm rose, showered and dressed. He’d slept badly and was still suffering from a thumping headache as he met Javed in the car park. There’d been four empty bottles of red wine on the table when the night had finally ended and Javed hadn’t moved beyond fizzy water.

  ‘You drive,’ Holm said, chucking the keys to Javed. ‘Be a bit rich if I got pulled over for drunk driving.’

  Javed nodded and wisely chose not to make a joke.

  Felixstowe lay a few miles to the south-east of Ipswich but the journey was quite long enough for Holm. Every turn of the steering wheel or dab of the brakes had him feeling nauseous.

  The port was bordered by an industrial area with dozens of warehouses housing companies, all of which appeared to have something to do with shipping. SeaPak occupied a site adjacent to the railway. Hundreds of containers sat in stacks and a large building had a loading bay on each side. They cruised past and swung into the port proper. At the gate they were met by one of the port police, given visitor badges and shown where to park. They waited in the car for Cornish.

  ‘Not much security,’ Javed said, pointing at the fence. ‘The place is wide open. Can you remember anything being flagged up recently?’

  ‘No.’ Holm grunted a reply. He turned his head as a little Mazda sports car pulled alongside. Cornish. She lowered the window.

  ‘Well, one of you looks like they had a good night’s sleep at least,’ she said.

  ‘That’ll be Farakh.’ Holm wondered how Cornish could appear so radiant. Perhaps it was the fifteen years she had on him. ‘Me? I’m looking forward to my own bed.’

  ‘I try to avoid mine if possible,’ Javed said. ‘Makes for more fun.’

  ‘You, Emma and I should go out clubbing sometime,’ Cornish said. ‘Could be quite a night.’

  ‘That’s a date. I just need to think about what to wear and—’

  ‘Stop!’ Holm scrunched his eyes shut. He needed a coffee and a couple of painkillers. Something to eat too. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Stephen,’ Cornish said smiling. ‘You sound like the proverbial bear. Can’t take your booze any more, is that it?’

  ‘We didn’t get breakfast.’ Javed placed his hand over his mouth and said in a stage whisper. ‘Proceed with caution.’

  ‘Once we’re done here, I’ll buy you breakfast. There’s this great truckers’ place just along the road that does—’

  Holm held up his hand. ‘For God’s sake! The port. SeaPak. What we came for.’

  ‘OK.’ Cornish nodded. Last night she’d tentatively put forward her idea there was some kind of smuggling operation going on. As she’d elaborated, Holm listened and pretended he was hearing the theory for the first time. This wasn’t about drugs or cigarettes or any other low-grade contraband, she said. This was something far more valuable and explained why a professional hit – and that’s what the ammunition and weapon suggested – had been carried out. The conversation hadn’t gone further because Emma had said talk about the job was off-limits. Now Cornish elaborated.

  ‘People,’ she said, waving at a stack of containers in the distance. ‘Into the UK by the back door. I don’t know what the hell that has to do with animal rights, but there you go.’

  Beside Holm, Javed coughed. ‘That’s a gotcha,’ Holm said. ‘The animal rights thing is bogus.’

  ‘A ruse?’

  ‘Just so.’ Holm clicked open his door and got out. Javed and Cornish got out too and the three of them stood in front of the cars. A giant blue crane straddled a line of containers and plucked one from the ground. Like some sort of monstrous insect it scurried away down the dockside to its lair, a huge ship already laden with hundreds of containers. The crane plopped the container onto the boat.

  Cornish gestured and they began to walk across to a large warehouse. ‘This is a BIP, or border inspection post. Containers can be pulled in here for examination. There’s a refrigerated section for cargoes for human consumption and an ambient section.’

  ‘So it’s mainly health and safety?’

  ‘Yes. The Border Force have an X-ray scanning unit though. Any container can be passed through so it can be inspected without unloading the contents.’

  ‘So what has SeaPak and the murder of Ben Western got to do with this?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but as a manager at SeaPak Western had unrestricted access to shipping manifests and logs. Container shipping is a complicated business and each container has a number which identifies it. The number determines where the container goes. For instance that ship in the harbour.’ Cornish pointed to the boat at the end of the quay. ‘It could have come from the Baltic. Some containers might be offloaded and others might be loaded. Some may stay on the boat because they’re heading for an onward destination. The boat could then go to Rotterdam where a similar thing happens. And so it goes on, containers loaded on and off at every stop.’

  Holm reached up and placed his palm against his forehead. The pain behind his eyes was, if anything, growing. ‘Your point?’

  ‘If you’ve got control of the manifests you can decide where each container goes. You can also falsify the records of what’s in each container.’

  ‘But you just said the Border Force can open and inspect any container they want.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there you are. Your theory breaks down.’

  Cornish was silent for a moment. ‘Have you he
ard of the CSCL Globe?’

  ‘No, what is it? Sounds like some kind of movie award.’

  ‘Not quite. The China Shipping Container Lines Globe is one of the largest ships in the world. It’s four hundred metres long and can carry over nineteen thousand containers. And that’s just one ship. Each year this port handles over four million TEUs.’

  ‘TEUs?’ Holm thought again about a strong coffee and something sweet to eat.

  ‘Twenty-foot equivalent units,’ Cornish said. ‘No matter about the terminology, you get my point. Ten thousand containers a day. Up to four thousand lorry movements too. Then there are the trains.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Holm turned towards the quayside. Rows and rows of containers stretched into the distance, stacked three or four high.

  ‘I think “needle” and “haystack” are the words you’re looking for, boss,’ Javed said. ‘If ten K containers go through here each day the chance of finding something must be minuscule.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Cornish said. ‘But intelligence from various sources allows the Border Force to target individual cargoes. Even so, when one of the big vessels comes in it really is needles in haystacks.’ Cornish halted at the vast doorway to the warehouse. ‘I think it’s about time you came clean with me, don’t you think?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Silva left Fairchild’s envelope untouched until the next day. It sat on the saloon table along with a letter from her bank and a postcard from Sean. The picture on the front of the card was of a cute kitten and the caption said: You are Purrfect. On the other side Sean had scribbled a brief note: Sorry. Can we talk? Love, Sean.

  No, they couldn’t talk. At least not about the most pressing issue in Silva’s life. She realised she’d been petulant walking out on him, but the situation around Karen Hope had to be resolved before she could even begin to consider if she had any kind of future with Sean.