Silva looked across the lawns. Near a boundary hedge a man with a German Shepherd walked his rounds. At the gatehouse another of Fairchild’s staff stood on guard. What were her options? Get out of here and hide away somewhere? Hope would know about the death of Greg Mavers by now and Silva would be on her radar. She’d be even keener to track her down and shut her up. There was Haddad to consider too. Then there was the implicit threat from Weiss: help us or your father suffers. No, running wasn’t the right move.

‘It looks like I don’t have much of a choice,’ Silva said. ‘Do I?’

‘No.’ Fairchild nodded and then handed Silva the plate of biscuits. ‘Not really.’

Later they were in Fairchild’s operations room. Screens and terminals. News reports from CNN, Al Jazeera and the BBC. A huge map of the world dominated one wall; when Silva looked closer she could see that, too, was a screen complete with little flashing icons.

‘So.’ Fairchild moved over to the map and jabbed a finger at North Africa. ‘Contact will be initiated in Tunisia.’

‘Tunisia?’ Silva wondered if she’d heard correctly.

Fairchild looked apologetic. ‘Yes. Apposite, if nothing else.’

‘Tunisia.’ Silva repeated the word. Fairchild was right. How apt. Hope’s blood spilling on the same soil as her mother’s had. Job done. The circle complete. Go home and sleep easy.

Who was she kidding?

Fairchild moved his finger down over the map. ‘Brandon Hope owns an olive farm near the border with Algeria. According to Simeon, Karen Hope will be staying at the farm overnight next Thursday.’

‘How the hell can he be sure?’

‘Remember Brandon’s charity and the rescue boat?’ Fairchild inclined his head and Silva nodded. ‘Well, the boat is going to be in the marina at the resort of al Hammamet. Brandon is throwing a fundraising party and various politicians and celebrities are going to be flying in or crossing the Med in their superyachts to attend.’

‘Including Karen Hope?’

‘Yes. There’ll be massive security around the marina, but Simeon’s source says Hope will be journeying to the farm at some point.’

‘Forgive me if I’m sceptical.’

Fairchild glanced at the map screen, perhaps wishing Hope had her own icon. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to trust Simeon on this one.’

Silva followed Fairchild’s gaze to the screen. She had the sense she was a marionette. Little sticks attached to her arms and legs, pushing and pulling. Simeon Weiss the puppet master controlling her and just about everybody else on the stage.

She mentioned it to Fairchild and he shrugged.

‘The analogy is perfect, my dear,’ he said. ‘But are any of us truly free to do as we please?’

Chapter Thirty-Three