The Sanction Page 9

  * * *

  Holm was ensconced in his little office under the stairs by eight the next day. His head was clear and his body had recovered from the hammering he’d given it on the night out with Palmer.

  After Javed had dropped the bombshell about the tweet, Holm had sent the lad away. He needed time to think, and Javed talked ten to the dozen. There was barely a gap between his words for a breath and he’d wanted Holm to act on the information immediately. They should go to Huxtable, make a request to Twitter for more information on the account that had sent the tweet, raise the terrorist threat level, possibly recommend cancelling the weekend’s football fixtures. The latter suggestion had caused an ache to thump in Holm’s forehead which had nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Go home and act normally. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Javed had slunk away like a scolded dog and Holm once again felt guilty for raising his voice. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He needed space to himself.

  Back in his flat he’d made himself a strong black coffee and sat at the kitchen table, a pencil and a pad of paper at the ready. Now, in the office, he pulled out the pad from his briefcase and looked at his scribblings. Holm didn’t really understand Twitter or social media or why so many people lauded a medium that seemed to exist merely to allow the sharing of either pictures of cute animals or vile abuse. He did, however, understand the world of espionage, the world of covert communications. Except the tweet hadn’t been covert. It was hidden in plain sight. An account directly referencing Taher and Holm. There were a couple of possibilities he considered and discounted. First, it was a stunt by Palmer or another of his colleagues. No, the security services didn’t do pranks like that. It would be too easy for such a joke to backfire and endanger personnel in the field. The second possibility was the username was simply a coincidence. That seemed unlikely because the contents of the tweet mentioned the innocent one – which was what the name Taher meant, and the chance of random characters resolving to a cipher of RAVEN and the numbers of Holm’s birthday was astronomical.

  Which left the real possibility that somebody was trying to communicate with him and Javed. Somebody, Holm reckoned, who was prepared to betray Taher.

  Who will listen to my voice? Who will stop this madness?

  Holm felt a buzz of excitement each time he recalled the message. Was this the beginning of the end for Taher? Slowly it dawned on him that here was the solution to his problems. A way to make amends, get his mojo back and, quite possibly, finish his career on a high note.

  Javed arrived at nine in his now customary manner, carrying two coffees on a cardboard tray. Holm nodded his thanks and reached for the piece of paper which had been stuck to the door of the office earlier in the week.

  The Top Top Top Secret Department.

  ‘See this?’ Holm held up the note. ‘This isn’t wrong. Not the way I’m going to play it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘This says it all. Tells you everything you need to know about what people think of us.’ Holm flapped the piece of paper in the air again. ‘We’re a laughing stock. The has-been, washed-out time-server and the wet-behind-the-ears recruit. What relevance could we possibly have? Whatever we’re investigating must be trivial and hardly worth a moment of anyone’s time. We’re going to be ignored down here in our broom cupboard. If anyone thinks of us at all it will be as an afterthought. We’ll be mentioned in jokes over lunch, but the big boys will be concentrating on loftier matters.’

  Javed looked disappointed. ‘But Huxtable said we’d be working on something important.’

  ‘Important?’ Holm tapped himself on the chest. ‘If that was the case, then what the hell am I doing here? No, Farakh, your career is at an end before it’s even begun. You’ve fallen at the first fence, spun off at the end of the straight, blown your load before—’

  ‘All right, I get it.’

  Javed poked at the froth on his coffee with a wooden stirrer and Holm let the silence build. After a minute he spoke.

  ‘What do you know about the animal rights lobby?’

  ‘Hey?’ Javed cocked his head on one side as if he’d misheard. ‘You mean the people who break into laboratories and stuff?’ He dumped the stirrer in his cup. ‘Nothing, boss.’

  ‘Well, I’ve decided that’s our brief. No one cares about animal rights. It’s not sexy like Islamic terrorism or espionage or threats to our national infrastructure from foreign governments, but there you go. Now, because we know nothing, we won’t be accomplishing much in the first couple of months. We’ve got to do research and map out our strategy. Lay the groundwork, build from the base up. Actually producing any meaningful results is a long, long way in the future.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, boss? This isn’t what I signed up to do. I speak fluent Arabic, I’ve got a degree in Middle Eastern Studies, my MA thesis was on the rise of ISIS, I know sod all about torturing bunnies.’

  Holm smiled and gave a wink. ‘Calm down, lad, I think you’re missing the point here.’

  ‘I…’ Javed bit his lip. His gaze wandered to the computers and over to the filing cabinet. ‘We’re not really going to be investigating animal rights groups, are we?’

  ‘Of course bloody not. It’s a cover story.’

  ‘So what are we going to be doing?’

  ‘Keeping secrets. We don’t have to report to anyone but the Spider, and that’s down to me, right? You keep your lips sealed and if people ask you say nothing other than we’re looking into the activities of various, potentially violent, animal liberation groups.’

  ‘Sure, but you still haven’t told me what this is all about.’ Javed gestured at the sparse surroundings. ‘I mean we’re not exactly set up for a high-profile investigation.’

  ‘Look, Huxtable has given me the freedom to do whatever I like. She either expects me to bimble along doing relatively little or she’s hoping to give me enough rope to hang myself. Well, skiving isn’t my cup of tea and I don’t intend to get caught in her web.’

  ‘You’re mixing your metaphors, sir, and if I might say so, you’re continuing to evade my questioning. You’ve also not mentioned the information I gave you yesterday.’

  ‘Guilty on all counts.’ Holm raised his hands. ‘Time I came clean. The username was a cipher of RAVEN and my birthday, right? As you said, more than odd.’

  ‘But the cipher was simple. I cracked it easily.’

  ‘Just so. Which means whoever was behind the tweet wants us to know that they know the code name we use for Taher. What’s more, by sending it to you and using my birthday as part of the username, it was plainly intended for us both.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘However, if they know our code name they either have direct access to our systems or they’re being fed information by somebody.’

  ‘There’s a leak then, a mole.’

  ‘Or this is something different.’ Holm paused. He glanced over to the filing cabinet where he’d found the index card relating to the troubles in Northern Ireland. ‘Back in the day the IRA used code words to let the police know when they’d planted a bomb. It showed a threat was genuine and not a hoax. This could be similar. Somebody has passed my birthday and the code name of Taher – RAVEN – to an informant in the field. By using those two pieces of information in the username the informant has established they’re genuine.’

  ‘So, a benevolent mole?’

  Holm shrugged. He didn’t really have a clue what was going on but he wasn’t going to let Javed know that.

  ‘Anyway, in light of this latest twist, perhaps you can guess what I intend to do with our little two-person operation now?’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ A look of astonishment spread across Javed’s face. ‘We’re going to go after Taher?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Chapter Nine

  Silva spent another restless night at her mother’s house and the next morning rode c
ross-country from Marlborough to Matthew Fairchild’s place which, according to his business card, was located south of London, a few miles from Gatwick airport. The weather had changed from the previous day and she hurtled along beneath dark clouds, heavy rain making the road surfaces treacherous. She turned off a main road, the headlight on her bike piercing the gloom as she drove into thick woodland. After a mile the trees gave way to manicured parkland surrounding a large mansion, the grounds protected by high fences. A light glared out from a stone gatehouse, a shadow in one window. Silva rolled the bike to a stop at the heavy iron gates and removed her helmet. The door to the gatehouse swung open and a security guard emerged. He nodded at Silva.

  ‘You got a delivery?’ he said. ‘Only everything gets signed for down here. No need to go up to the house.’

  ‘The delivery is me,’ Silva said. ‘Tell Mr Fairchild Rebecca is here. Rebecca da Silva.’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ The guard strode across to the gatehouse and disappeared inside.

  Silva sat astride her motorbike, drumming her fingers on the petrol tank. The guard was taking an age. She was about to forget about the whole thing when he reappeared.

  ‘You can go up there.’ He pressed a little key fob and the gates began to swing open. ‘Somebody will meet you at the front.’

  Moments later she was gliding to a stop at the front of the house. At the top of a set of grand steps a door opened and Matthew Fairchild emerged.

  ‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild spread his arms wide and trotted down the steps as if he was making an entrance in some glitzy musical. ‘Why on earth didn’t you call ahead and let me know you were coming?’

  ‘I was in the neighbourhood.’ Silva removed her helmet. ‘I thought we needed a chat about Karen Hope.’

  ‘Right.’ Fairchild’s expression turned sombre. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Inside, dark oak panelling adorned the walls and Silva’s feet moved silently across a thick carpet. Fairchild led her past a room where an open door showed a well-equipped office. There were several computer monitors and keyboards and a number of television screens showing rolling news channels. An array of newspapers lay spread across a large desk.

  ‘The hub of my business,’ Fairchild said, noticing Silva’s interest. ‘My game is security. Protecting business interests or charity projects, supporting governance through the provision of law and order. There are many places in the world where a little stability can go a long way. I seek to provide that stability.’

  ‘And what about a terrorist attack in Tunisia? How does that fit in?’

  ‘Through here.’ Fairchild ignored her question and strode on until they reached a heavy wooden door. He pushed the handle down and went through. The room beyond was a cross between a library and a lounge. Tall bookcases towered over a set of armchairs that clustered round a huge fireplace. A window seat looked out onto a terrace. Fairchild gestured at the armchairs. ‘Take a seat. I’ll be back in a mo.’

  He returned a minute later with a sheaf of papers under one arm. He put the papers on a low coffee table and settled into an armchair.

  ‘Who killed my mother?’ Silva said. ‘I don’t believe it was Karen Hope, but I’m prepared to accept she’s mixed up in all this somewhere.’

  ‘Mixed up?’ Fairchild cocked his head to one side. ‘Oh, I’m afraid “mixed up” is the least of it.’

  ‘Show me.’ Silva pointed at the fan of documents.

  There was a pause before Fairchild spoke. ‘What do you know about Hope?’

  ‘Not much. She’s a Democrat, but right wing. Her family are involved in the military in some way. She’s the front runner in the race to be president. It seems as if she’s a compromise candidate who can win over the centre ground.’

  ‘For a young woman, you’re remarkably well informed.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Fairchild held up his hands. ‘Most people these days, of all ages, can barely recognise any of our own politicians, let alone those from another country.’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Let’s start with some background.’ Fairchild extracted a sheet from the pile of documents. He slid it across the table. ‘Everything you need to know is in here, but I’ll summarise.’

  Silva reached for the piece of paper. There was a picture of Hope at the top. Beneath the smiling face a couple of paragraphs listed Hope’s biographical details and notable achievements.

  ‘You are right about the military angle. Karen Hope’s father founded what is now Allied American Armaments. By sales it’s the fifth largest arms manufacturer in the US. The family connection helps Karen Hope appeal to a wide voter base, and many Republican voters are going to turn to her at the next election. Just think, recent presidents have been despised by roughly fifty per cent of the population. Karen Hope is different and offers exactly what her name suggests. A rare chance for unity in a divided country.’

  ‘What is this? American Studies 101?’ Silva shook her head. ‘Can we get back to the point? About how Hope is responsible for the death of my mother?’

  ‘Of course.’ Fairchild reached for another piece of paper. A printout of a spreadsheet. Columns of figures. Dollar signs. Lots of zeros. ‘How do you think Karen Hope funds her campaign?’

  ‘Her father?’

  ‘Right. American Armaments provide a good chunk of money, but here’s the thing: until recently the business was fighting to be profitable and it looked as if the company would go under.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Here.’ Another photograph. A fifty-something man with a Panama hat over glossy blond hair. Perfect teeth bared in a grimace and white skin flushed red with the heat. Next to him a glamorous woman with a slim figure. ‘Brandon Hope, Karen’s brother. The woman beside him is his Italian wife, Pierra. Brandon used to be a diplomat and for several years he was the United States’ top man in Saudi Arabia. He retired from the diplomatic corps a while ago and founded an aid charity which operates from a base in Italy. Of course at some point in the future Brandon or his sister will be expected to head American Armaments, but for now the father remains in charge.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘The arms industry has been notorious for kickbacks. Think British Aerospace, now BAE Systems. Remember the allegations concerning huge bribes the company paid to the Saudis?’ Silva nodded and Fairchild continued. ‘Well, Brandon Hope has been exploiting some of the personal connections he built up when he was a diplomat. As a kickback for arms contracts with the Saudi Arabian government worth hundreds of millions, he’s been helping a wealthy Saudi backer distribute cash directly to terrorist groups across the Middle East and North Africa. This is done through his charitable operations in regions where accountability is close to zero. The effect the arms deals had on the bottom line of American Armaments was dramatic and occurred right around the time Karen threw her hat in the ring. Brandon’s plan, I guess, was to ensure Karen would be president when it was time for the father to pass control of the company to his offspring.’

  ‘Karen Hope can’t have been aware of the link.’

  ‘You know her, do you? Personally?’ Fairchild reached for the picture of the congresswoman surrounded by cheering supporters. ‘Appearance is everything in politics and Karen Hope has cultivated an image that shows her to be strong but fair, compassionate while at the same time willing to make tough choices. Don’t be fooled though – behind the mask there’s a woman determined to grab power by any means possible. Can you imagine her state of mind when she found out her brother had brokered an arms deal that involved funding terrorists? She’d have known if the information became public she would be swept aside, her political ambitions shattered.’

  ‘I still don’t believe she was involved.’

  ‘Let’s go on, then.’ Fairchild paused and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Brandon Hope lives in Naples, but he owns a holiday villa close by on the Amalfi Coast in the town of Positano.’ Fairchild reached for a photograph
on the table and passed it over. There was a green wall and a metal bench. Brandon sat at one end of the bench staring out at the sea. Beside him was an Arab businessman wearing traditional Saudi clothes and with a white keffiyeh on his head, and two younger men of Middle Eastern origin who wore Western clothes. One was clean-cut with dusty black hair, an engaging smile and piercing brown eyes. He had clear skin and a wisp of hair on his chin. The other had a rich head of hair and a full beard. ‘Brandon Hope and next to him the Saudi backer. His name is Jawad al Haddad and he’s an extremely rich businessman with connections to the Saudi royal family. He owns an airline, a shipping company, a football club in the Netherlands and a large amount of commercial property. He’s been involved in brokering a number of significant arms deals between the Saudi government and defence firms in the US and the UK, notably, of course, several eye-watering contracts involving American Armaments.’

  ‘You said he had something to do with terrorism?’

  ‘Just so. Haddad is on a US watch list of terrorist sympathisers. Allegedly he helped fund a training camp in Somalia and provided advice and contacts to ISIS commanders in Syria who were involved in selling oil on the black market to Turkey. Such overt activity had to stop a few years back when the Saudi government launched a crackdown on their nationals funding terrorists. In reality the crackdown was half-hearted and it was easy for Haddad to find another way of getting money out of the country.’

  ‘Brandon Hope.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And who are the other men?’

  ‘The good looking one is unidentified, but the guy with the beard is a man by the name of Mohid Latif.’

  ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘Not yet, but the security services do.’ Fairchild lifted another photograph from the table. ‘This picture comes courtesy of the Tunisian police. It’s taken from a CCTV camera on a building close to the cafe where your mother was killed.’