‘Possibly.’ Holm sat for a minute and spun the facts round in his head, tried to jigsaw them into place. ‘But more likely he’s simply turned a blind eye to help out Haddad. Anything on our system on him?’

‘You mean internally?’ Javed moved his hands from the keyboard as if he was scared he might accidentally type something incriminating. ‘Isn’t that a bit risky, sir?’

‘We have to know.’

‘Right.’ Javed paused, still nervous, then he punched the keys and stared at the screen. ‘Haddad’s on a CIA watch list. He’s believed to have orchestrated funding to various extremist factions.’

‘I’m getting a feeling in my water, Farakh. What about American Armaments and the Hopes?’

Javed typed some more. Clicked. Sat back in his chair. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing on American Armaments, just a biographical entry on the Hopes.’

‘There can’t be nothing? What about the arms dealing and Brandon Hope’s relationship with Haddad?’ Holm peered across, sure there must be some mistake. Javed shrugged. ‘Nothing is highly suspicious.’

‘Perhaps, in the light of Karen Hope’s next job, the material has been moved to a higher security-clearance level. You could always ask Huxtable.’

‘Pah.’ Holm dismissed the suggestion and instead reached for his phone. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

The blue under the eaves slipped away to be replaced by near black, the occasional twinkle from a star. Silva knew Mavers would be making her wait, as time passing was one of the most effective ways of arousing fear. When he came back she’d have to try and play him. If she could make him believe there was something else she knew perhaps she could do a deal. Then again Mavers didn’t seem like the kind of person to haggle with.

She took a drink from the galvanised trough. The water tasted of rust and earth, but it quenched her thirst. She examined the pipe again and was convinced she could pull off a length. With the element of surprise, she fancied her chances against Mavers and one guard; with Mavers and two guards, not so much.

She lay on the makeshift bed of straw and tried to conserve her strength. Mavers was right, resisting torture was impossible. She’d have to tell him something. She was working out exactly what when the door rattled open again.

‘Ms da Silva.’ Mavers entered first, the two grunts behind him. One held a pistol and the other had swapped the iron bar for something that looked alarmingly like an electric cattle prod. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’ Silva sprang to her feet. ‘And you should know my mother hid some papers to do with Karen Hope.’