Lona had slipped away too. After her morning reconnaissance she’d returned and announced she had business elsewhere. Gavin muttered something under his breath, but whatever his complaint was it was silenced by a stare from Lona. When she’d gone, he was more vocal.

‘We’re the ones taking the risk,’ he said. ‘If it goes pear-shaped, we’ll be the ones in the penitenziario. Lona will be miles away.’

Silva ignored Gavin. Grunts always complained about their superiors and that’s what Gavin was, a grunt. Itchy and her too. Soldiers in the line of fire. Obeying orders, taking the shilling, generally getting shat on. Still, with zero hour nearly upon them, she wondered if she’d been foolish in following Fairchild’s plan. Given the information, she could have tracked down Karen Hope and taken her out herself. That way she’d have been in control of the situation.

‘Silvi?’ Itchy. Moving. Beginning to fidget. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah.’ She’d spent countless hours with Itchy, sometimes in the most uncomfortable or dangerous situations. Confined in a makeshift hide with the enemy all round, the pair had developed a sixth sense about the other person and now was no different.

‘Good, because the party’s starting.’ Itchy gestured at the screen to one side of the room. The brightness had been turned way down so as not to dazzle them in the darkness, but the picture was clear enough. A man had emerged onto the terrace. He had a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He put the glass down on a small table and raised his hand and ruffled his glossy blond hair.

Silva bent to one of the spotting scopes. The image was framed by a myriad of white flowers and greenery which spiralled round an iron trellis. Low lighting on the terrace illuminated the figure in the centre: Brandon Hope. Hope moved towards the edge of the terrace and looked out to sea. He took a drag on his cigarette and a sip of his wine. Then he turned to his left and stared across towards Silva.

Silva flinched, for a moment uneasy, but then she calmed. There was no way Hope could see her. Not at a distance of over a kilometre and into the shadows of a darkened room.

She peered through the spotting scope once more. Brandon had been joined by an elegant and well-dressed Italian woman Silva recognised as his wife, Pierra, and an older man with little hair and round glasses. There was no sign of Karen Hope.

‘Well?’ Silva said to Gavin. Fairchild’s aide was pacing the room, every so often making a whispered telephone call. ‘Where’s our target, Gavin? We haven’t seen sight nor sound of her since we arrived yesterday.’

Gavin stopped pacing. ‘She’s supposed to be at the party. I can’t tell you any more than that.’

‘Great.’