‘If Hope goes out there to eat or have something to drink it would be perfect.’

‘Killing al fresco,’ Itchy said, laughing at his own joke. ‘Assassination au naturel.’

Silva winced. The humour wasn’t appreciated. Not right now. She wanted Hope dead, but if it could be accomplished with a snap of her fingers she’d have taken that over having to sight through the scope and squeeze the trigger, wait a second and watch for the spray of blood as the bullet hit Karen Hope in the head.

They took it in turns to sit in the shade of the rocky outcrop while the other one kept watch. Itchy fiddled with a SIG pistol which had been in among the extensive array of equipment, while Nasim hovered near the car, the doors open for a quick getaway. If necessary they’d leave the gear behind; it was unlikely to fall into the hands of the authorities, not out here.

At a little after eight thirty, just when Itchy was beginning to annoy Silva with his constant shifting about, two men came out from the farmhouse, climbed into the white van and headed off down the track to the road. In the centre of the farmyard, previously hidden behind the van, stood an old pick-up truck. On the bed of the truck sat a large wooden crate.

‘That’s what we saw at RAF Wittering,’ Silva said. ‘Weapons from Allied American Armaments.’

‘Unbelievable.’ Itchy turned to Silva. ‘If you had any doubts, the crate should banish them.’

‘The only doubts I have are over the intel. There’s no sign of Hope, is there?’

‘The target’s in there.’ Nasim knelt behind them. He tapped a chunky fake Rolex on his wrist. ‘You patient, please.’

They resigned themselves to waiting, ate some more food and kept hydrated. The van had been gone an hour now and Silva was beginning to wonder if they’d been sold some kind of dummy. Perhaps Hope had got wind she was in danger and had sneaked out in the back of the van. Perhaps she’d never been here at all.

Silva tried to relax. She shifted her position and peered through the rifle scope. She had a clear view of the rear veranda; if Hope came out it was a relatively simple shot. If she came out.

‘What the…’ Itchy prodded her arm and pointed. ‘What the heck are they doing here?’

Halfway up the side of the ravine that cut below the farmhouse, two figures were scrabbling across a scree face, small pieces of stone skittering down as they attempted to stay upright. Silva reached for her binoculars.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘It’s the guys we saw at RAF Wittering.’