‘We’re here?’ He blinked and looked around. ‘Italy?’

Silva had been feeling tense, but she laughed. ‘Where else? Afghanistan?’

‘Might as well be,’ Itchy said, as the aircraft rolled past flat terrain and old warehouses.

For a moment Silva regretted involving him, but then she shrugged off the feeling. Itchy was an adult. She’d presented him with the facts and he’d made up his own mind. There was also the small matter of the twenty-five thousand pounds Fairchild had reluctantly stumped up when Silva said she needed her spotter and wanted him well paid.

‘I’m in,’ he said, as they sat in a noisy pub in Plymouth city centre. ‘How could I not be for twenty-five big ones?’

‘Don’t let the money blind you to what we’re doing,’ Silva said.

‘I’m not. If what you told me is true, the cow killed your mother.’ Itchy lifted his pint and supped. ‘That being the case, I’d whack her for fifty quid and expenses.’

‘Right. What kit do we need?’

‘Beyond the shooter?’ Itchy put his pint down as Silva nodded. ‘The obvious, like a scope, binos, et cetera. Then we need a couple of accurate maps, large scale. A high-resolution satellite image. A quality camera with good optics, a video cam with a long lens so we can watch on a screen without having to put ourselves on view. A GPS so we can measure an accurate distance for practice shots.’ Itchy lifted his glass again and gave a small nod with his head. ‘Finally, a bottle of champers we can crack open when it’s all over.’

‘I won’t be celebrating.’

‘I thought you said this Hope woman was instrumental in the deaths of civilians, that she was connected with some Arab scum who’s supplying weapons and cash to terrorists? If topping her isn’t a reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is.’

‘I guess.’

‘Come on, this’ll be fun.’

‘Fun?’

‘You don’t miss it, Silvi? Sure, we were shit scared half the time out there, but this…’ Itchy looked at the people crowding the bar. There was a darts match taking place on one side of the room. Little arrows thrown at a target. One hundred and eighty. Bullseye. Not much at stake other than pride, maybe a round of drinks. Itchy shook his head. ‘Fuck this, right?’

He had a point, Silva conceded. She’d been a lot of things in the army – frightened, exhilarated, downright bored – but she’d never felt as isolated as she did now in the hubbub of the surrounding conversations.

See the Pilgrims lost last night. Crap, hey?

My landlord’s kicking up a fuss about the rent again. Much more and I’ll thump the Paki bastard.

Look at the arse on her, mate. Bent over the table you wouldn’t mind her piggy face, would you?