‘The trucks,’ Itchy said. ‘Look at the trucks and the logo on those banners at the back of the stage.’

She swung the binoculars and adjusted the zoom. White letters on a background strip of red and blue, the red colour matching the carpet. Allied American Armaments. ‘The Hope family’s company.’

‘The trucks must have come from the factory in Birmingham. There’s an advanced avionics research centre there. They build surface-to-air missiles and guidance systems among other stuff.’

Birmingham was forty miles to the west so Itchy’s guess was probably right.

‘The limo.’ Silva refocused. The chauffeur had opened the door to the car and a man ducked out and straightened his jacket. ‘That’s Jonathon Walker, Secretary of State for Defence.’

‘Wouldn’t know him from Adam, but if you say so.’ Itchy tapped Silva’s shoulder. ‘I do know him though.’

A man in a pale suit had followed the minister out of the car. A pasty face, glowing blond hair, a roman nose like his sister’s.

‘Brandon Hope.’

Brandon was an awkward figure, a shambling man hardly in control of his own body. He had nothing like the presence of his sister Karen. Walker placed his arm at Brandon’s back and guided him along the red carpet to greet a couple of military personnel. A photographer was walking backwards taking pictures; beside him a woman with a video camera on her shoulder swung round to keep the men in shot as they passed.

‘This is all wrong,’ Silva said. ‘This isn’t clandestine.’

Her mother had mentioned something about secrets at RAF Wittering, but there was nothing dodgy going on here, not with all the soldiers and the truck drivers, not to mention the photographer and the camerawoman.

‘What the hell was the postcard on about, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ Silva pulled away from the binoculars and returned Itchy’s tap on the shoulder. ‘But we’ll find out soon enough. There.’

She pointed to the east where a star hung incongruously in the late afternoon sky. There was a low hum and the brightness moved lower. Now they could hear a roar and make out the silhouette of a large aircraft.

‘You’re right. Not clandestine at all,’ Itchy said. ‘Not in a jet of that size.’

The aircraft glided in. The body of the plane was windowless and a logo of a golden palm with crossed swords adorned the tail fin. A screech of rubber on tarmac came as the jet touched down and the aeroplane rolled along the runway. It turned onto a taxiway and slowed to a stop.

‘Saudia,’ Silva said. ‘The national airline of Saudi Arabia.’

Ground crew were busy moving a set of steps into position at the front of the plane and then the door opened and a man in Arab dress descended the steps.