‘It’s not the rubbish they were interested in, it’s what was on the rubbish. What was on the cans of beer, the bottles of water.’ Fairchild rubbed at the burn mark as if trying to erase it. ‘I’m talking about fingerprints belonging to you and Itchy. You’ve both got convictions. I don’t think it would be too hard for Haddad to run a check, and when he does your name will come up. Rebecca da Silva. Olympic shooter. Sniper. Now that’s incriminating enough, but when Haddad mentions your name to Karen Hope the motive for the shooting will be obvious.’

‘Fuck. Do you think he’ll take this to the authorities?’

‘Put yourself in his position. Would you?’

‘No,’ Silva said quietly.

‘And, given what your mother knew, Haddad and Hope won’t want to either.’ Fairchild turned and peered through a porthole. A fishing boat was passing close by and Silva’s yacht began to bob as the wake washed against the hull. ‘They’re going to come after you, Rebecca. You have to get away from here. You are, quite literally, a sitting duck.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

Taher received a call.

‘There are some loose ends,’ the voice on the end of the phone said in Arabic. ‘Rebecca da Silva and her spotter, her father, Matthew Fairchild, the journalist at the news agency.’

‘That’s a lot of loose ends,’ Taher said. ‘Sounds as if somebody has been a bit careless.’

‘Nobody has been careless, it’s simply a matter of good housekeeping. Don’t the Bedouin take their shoes off at the threshold to prevent dirt entering the tent?’

‘We do, but we also try not to step in shit in the first place.’ As soon as he’d spoken Taher wondered if he’d gone too far. He was annoyed at the way things were panning out, but he needed to keep his paymasters sweet for just a little longer. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Milligan. The journalist. We warned him but he obviously didn’t take the threat seriously. We need to deal with him as soon as possible.’

‘Neil Milligan and Francisca da Silva? People will put two and two together.’

‘If you do this right they’ll come up with nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence.’

Taher sighed. It was no good arguing. Milligan should have kept his blabber mouth closed. He knew what would happen if he told anybody about the story Francisca da Silva had been working on. Now it looked as if he hadn’t paid heed to the warnings. Was journalistic integrity really more important to the man than the safety of his wife and children?

‘And the others?’

‘For now you just worry about Milligan.’ Silence for a moment. ‘An unfortunate coincidence, OK?’