‘You’re right.’ Silva turned away, gave a thin smile and reached for her glass. ‘Fuck this.’

They waited in baggage claim for what seemed like an age until their luggage appeared on the carousel. There was little security and only a cursory check of their passports. Still, Silva was nervous since her passport was one Fairchild had procured for her. It had a false name that matched a credit card and a medical insurance certificate. Itchy had a similar set, and they both had new mobile phones. Fairchild assured her everything would stand up to scrutiny but it didn’t stop her feeling a wave of relief as they left the arrivals hall and strolled through the airport terminal.

She texted a number she’d been given and five minutes later a large Fiat van rolled into the pick-up area. A bulky man Silva recognised as Gavin – one of the two people Fairchild had pointed out to her back in Plymouth – was at the wheel. Gavin was built like a wrestler. Broad shoulders and huge biceps. A hand the size of a dinner plate when he thrust it out in a greeting.

‘Gav,’ he said, as they got into the van. ‘Porter, bodyguard, personal shopper, dogsbody.’

‘Right,’ Silva said, trying to be friendly as she shifted across and sat in the middle seat.

‘The journey will take about three hours,’ Gavin said as he nudged the van out into the traffic. ‘But Mr Fairchild thought it would be better to transit via Brindisi rather than Naples. Especially afterwards.’

Afterwards was when Karen Hope would be lying in the basement of an Italian hospital with a hole in her head. The world’s media would be camped outside. There’d be an international outcry, messages of sympathy from world leaders, meaningless virtue-signalling hashtags on social media. The mobilisation of a kill team to hunt down the assassin.

Fairchild had told her not to worry about the aftermath. There’d be uproar at first, but the information about the Hope family’s involvement with terrorism would trickle out. Within a month Karen Hope’s name would be mud.

Gavin was talking again.

‘The place we’re going is up in the mountains. The Monti Picentini. Be cooler there.’

‘Thank fuck,’ Itchy said. ‘Hope it’s not too basic.’

‘The opposite. It’s a luxury retreat. You’ll be very comfortable and it has the bonus of being in the middle of nowhere. We can prepare without being disturbed.’

Soon they were heading away from the airport and the coast along an arrow-straight road across the flat countryside. Silva hadn’t been to Italy before, but so far she wasn’t impressed. Gavin turned his head.

‘It gets better,’ he said. ‘Once we cross to the west coast and begin heading up. The mountains where we’re staying are something else, and you should see Positano. Picture postcard is an understatement.’