Itchy had been ‘in’ from the moment he’d known there was to be another chance to take out Hope. Loyalty to Silva and professional pride had seen to that. Silva insisted on another twenty-five K too. Fairchild had thrown his hands up, but she’d dug her heels in: no payment to Itchy, no Rebecca da Silva.

‘You know,’ Itchy continued as he broke into a bag of cashew nuts and gazed out of the window. ‘I could get used to this lifestyle.’

‘Don’t,’ Silva said.

She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes and there was Sean’s face hovering in front of her. Over the past few days she’d tried not to think about him but he’d always been there like a dull ache. Perhaps more than an ache, perhaps a deeper malady spreading inside her, consuming her. She’d wanted to contact him so she could discover the truth about what had happened, but Fairchild had forbidden it and, in addition, he’d refused to answer any questions as to Sean’s involvement.

‘Operational details, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘We have people on the other side, so the less you know the better.’

Was that the real reason? More likely it was yet another underhand tactic devised by Simeon Weiss. Let her stew, let the anger build. The meaner she was, the better. Sean’s face smiled in her dream. He laughed and Silva tensed. Angry wasn’t the half of it.

They touched down at Tunis–Carthage International mid-afternoon, taxied to a spare slot and were met by a pair of customs officials at the foot of the boarding steps. Lona, all smiles and flirtation, handled the formalities in French, and within five minutes they were heading for the VIP arrivals lounge.

‘Nothing is too much trouble these days,’ Lona said. ‘Tunisia relies on tourism and olives, and since the Bardo and Sousse atrocities tourism has been badly hit. People were just beginning to come back when the attack that killed your mother took place.’

A car stood waiting for them in the pick-up area, a Tunisian man at the wheel. Silva and Itchy loaded their bags into the boot and climbed into the back seat. Lona sat in the front.

‘This is Nasim,’ Lona said. ‘He’s our guide and driver.’

Nasim smiled in the rear-view mirror, said something to Lona in French, and then the car was nosing into the heavy traffic.

‘We’re staying in a town fifty miles from the farm,’ Lona said. ‘You’ll head there first thing in the morning so you can arrive before it’s light.’