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Back The Sanction Save as PDF
Chapters (41)
  1. Cover
  2. Epigraph
  3. Prologue
  4. Chapter One
  5. Chapter Two
  6. Chapter Three
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Chapter Nine
  13. Chapter Ten
  14. Chapter Eleven
  15. Chapter Twelve
  16. Chapter Thirteen
  17. Chapter Fourteen
  18. Chapter Fifteen
  19. Chapter Sixteen
  20. Chapter Seventeen
  21. Chapter Eighteen
  22. Chapter Nineteen
  23. Chapter Twenty
  24. Chapter Twenty-One
  25. Chapter Twenty-Two
  26. Chapter Twenty-Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-Four
  28. Chapter Twenty-Five
  29. Chapter Twenty-Six
  30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  33. Chapter Thirty
  34. Chapter Thirty-One
  35. Chapter Thirty-Two
  36. Chapter Thirty-Three
  37. Chapter Thirty-Four
  38. Chapter Thirty-Five
  39. Chapter Thirty-Six
  40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  41. Epilogue

Javed gave Holm a smirk. ‘Not much on the menu there, boss, right?’

Thanks for reminding me, Holm thought.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Silva rose early. She climbed from her bunk, dragged the kettle onto the hob and lit the gas. Flipped the radio on as a presenter read a news summary. Train drivers were on strike and there was countrywide commuter chaos. Overseas, the Pope had condemned the killing of a foreign dignitary on Italian soil, pleading for all religions to work together for peace and understanding. Back in the UK a fifty-seven-year-old man had been stabbed in north London. Another murder in the capital. The victim was one Neil Milligan, the owner and editor of the well-regarded Third Eye News agency. Police enquiries were continuing but so far no arrests had been made. The end of the piece noted the agency had, coincidentally, been struck by tragedy earlier in the year when noted foreign correspondent Francisca da Silva had been killed in a terrorist attack in Tunisia.

The kettle whistled out a warning and Silva turned off the hob before slumping down at the saloon table in shock. Milligan was dead, taken out by either Weiss or, more likely, Jawad al Haddad. Her mother had been close friends with Milligan. Not lovers – at least Silva didn’t think so – but confidantes. His death meant another part of her mother’s life was erased for good, another link to the past broken.

She sat for a few minutes and then got up and peered out of the companionway; she thought about Fairchild and his warning. The estuary was grey and almost still, just a slight movement as the tide began to ebb. Three boats up from hers a rope frapped against the mast and across the water there was a low rumble as a conveyor belt carried aggregate from a large cargo ship to the shore. All of a sudden she felt exposed. The little marina had a high fence and twenty-four-hour security with a guard, but the fence was old and rickety and Freddie likewise.

She ducked below and slid the hatch shut. She drew the curtains and hunkered down at the table. Fairchild had left her a burner phone, a pay-as-you-go mobile that was untraceable. Silva pulled it out. She was tempted to ring him but then wondered about Itchy. Was he a target? She didn’t want to phone him either in case Weiss was somehow listening in, but she felt responsible and he deserved a warning. She hadn’t unpacked the day before, but now she pulled the pannier bags open and took out all the clothing she’d taken to Italy. She rummaged in a locker for some fresh items and stuffed them in the bags. Then she clambered up through the companionway, slid the hatch shut and locked it, and made for her motorbike.