‘Simeon has no regard for you emotional well-being.’ Lona paused and smiled. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small envelope. ‘However, he did ask me to give you this. He called it a reward.’

‘What?’ Silva watched as Lona ripped the envelope open and extracted a photograph. The image was one Silva had seen before: Karen Hope and two men at the villa in Italy. One was Latif, the other unidentified. ‘This is nothing new.’

‘No, but the information that goes with it is.’ Lona passed the photograph across. ‘The other man is known as Taher. He’s the terrorist who planned and carried out your mother’s killing.’

‘And how is that a reward?’

‘Taher will be at the farm tomorrow.’ Lona shrugged. ‘Two birds, one stone, right?’

With that, Lona was gone.

‘This bloody stinks,’ Itchy said. He gestured after Lona. ‘She’s setting us up for something. One phone call by Mr Taxi out there and we could be in the hands of this Taher and his mates. Next thing there’s a video on the evening news and then…’ Itchy drew a finger across his throat. ‘Schlick!’

‘Lona’s on our side, remember?’ Silva said. She looked at the photograph and wondered not about Taher, but Simeon Weiss. What his endgame was and how he’d managed to play her at every turn.

‘I don’t trust any of them.’

‘Neither do I but now we’re here we don’t have much choice.’

Nasim came through from the rear of the house. ‘You eat. Now, please.’

In a rear living room a low table had been set out with food. Large round flatbreads, slices of meat, a bowl of couscous garnished with slices of red pepper, some triangular pastries that looked similar to samosas.

Nasim left and they sat on cushions to eat.

‘Looks great,’ Silva said. ‘He’d hardly prepare all this if he intended to shop us, would he?’

‘He’s fattening us up,’ Itchy said, piling stuff into a bowl.

‘Well, as a last meal you can’t complain.’

Later, Nasim cleared away and Silva and Itchy went to their rooms. Itchy said something about taking it in turns to stand guard, but Silva disagreed. They were getting up before dawn and she wanted all the sleep she could have.

‘See you in the morning, then,’ Itchy said. ‘Fingers crossed.’

Holm and Javed took a Lufthansa scheduled flight from Heathrow to Tunis. They were, Holm thought as they landed at Carthage International, woefully ill-equipped. He’d managed to blag a satellite phone, but they had no weapons, no surveillance gear, and no cover documents. They were relying entirely on Palmer’s promise to provide in-country support should things go wrong.