The man froze, his finger still touching the trigger.

‘Or what?’ He didn’t seem surprised as he turned his head towards her. ‘This is a Mexican stand-off, right? If you shoot me, I’ll shoot at least one of them.’

‘I’ll take that chance if I have to.’

‘It’s Ms da Silva, isn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘You see, Stephen, there is actually no mystery at all, no global conspiracy to assassinate a president, rather a cheap and dirty personal vendetta.’

Silva wondered how he knew who she was, and in that split second the man swung the machine gun and fired a burst. Silva was already moving, diving behind the wooden box and letting off a single shot as she rolled out the other side. This close she went for the body. This close there was no chance of missing.

The man staggered back as the bullet hit him in the chest, stopping his heart instantly. For a moment some part of his sympathetic nervous system continued to work and he stood balanced like a statue. Then he toppled backwards and folded to the floor.

Silence.

Silva stood and walked over to the body, gazing down. She had no idea who the man was except he was something to do with the weapons smuggling, something to do with Taher, ultimately something to do with the death of her mother. Yet, staring at the husk at her feet, she felt nothing. Neither was there much relief that Karen Hope was dead. There was no feeling of triumph, no sense of celebration. A sudden wash of despair overcame her and she wished she was away from here, away from everyone, up on the moor, just running, running, running until she’d sweated all the anger from her body.

She was brought back to her senses as Itchy uttered a groan. He grimaced and held his leg and turned to Silva. The grimace became a smile and he gave her a nod of respect.

‘Shot,’ he said.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Holm and Javed arrived back in the UK in the early hours of the next morning. An MI5 detail met them at Heathrow and they were ferried into central London in the back of a windowless van. As the van’s doors opened and they climbed out into the underground car park beneath Thames House, Javed looked across at Holm for reassurance.

‘It’ll be OK, lad,’ Holm said. ‘We’re on the right side.’

His words, he knew, were rubbish. There was no right side, only the winning one, and the victor had yet to be decided.

Huxtable met them as they emerged from the lift.

‘Stephen, Farakh,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re both in one piece, but what a mess, hey?’

Holm nodded. Wondered if she was glad they were in one piece because it would mean she had more to tear apart when she got to work on them.