Holm turned round. A huge white motor boat loomed at the end of the slip, deck lights ablaze, crew members at the rails. She eased forward, water churning around her. On the dockside several port workers appeared and ropes were thrown from the boat and made fast. A gangway was towed into position and crew members began to come ashore. As they did there was a splash of blue light as three police cars approached along the dock. The vehicles stopped and police officers and customs officials got out. To one side there was a small temporary building and the customs officers disappeared inside. Then the passengers began to disembark, some helped because they could barely walk, one carried on a stretcher, a woman with a baby which Holm reckoned could only be a couple of days old.

‘Look at the state of them,’ Javed said. ‘They’re half dead.’

Aside from the medical emergency on the stretcher, the others were shepherded into a long line and, one by one, taken into the makeshift customs checkpoint.

‘Your theory’s pretty much out the window,’ Javed said. ‘There’s no smuggling going on here, is there?’

‘No.’ Holm wondered how he would explain the situation to the Spider. He’d intended to tell her their search for Nazi memorabilia had chanced on a terrorist smuggling operation. To come back with absolutely nothing was asking for trouble, and to say she wouldn’t be happy was a vast underestimation of her probable mood when she discovered they’d been on a wild goose chase.

‘You can’t win them all, boss.’ Javed smiled. ‘And at least we get to have a decent Italian meal tonight.’

‘Bollocks,’ Holm said.

The clock on the wall ticked slowly towards ten. Each minute dragged and yet the time slipped away all too quickly. On the terrace the party guests conversed as if they were in a silent movie, but there were no subtitles and Silva could only imagine the words as she hunched over one of the spotting scopes.

I haven’t seen you for ages, Karen. How’s life?

Good but hectic. So much to do before the end of the year.

Like killing journalists so they don’t ruin your chances of getting elected?

Oh, gosh! That was nothing, a minor hiccup, soon dealt with. Another drink?

‘Rebecca?’ Itchy nodded at the clock. ‘Five to. We should get ready.’

Silva nodded and moved to the rifle and eased herself down to the floor. She flexed her fingers and wrapped her hands round the weapon. She began breathing in and out slowly, relaxing herself, and making a rhythm she could work between. She would fire just after an exhale, when her chest had stopped moving and her body still had high oxygen levels.

‘No rush,’ Itchy said. ‘Once the display starts you’ll have ten minutes, so take your time getting comfortable.’