The Old Enemy

by Henry Porter

  ‘No . . . I can do this. But I can’t fucking do us, Samson!’

  ‘We’ll talk about that later. Need to get you to hospital first.’

  A female officer was with them. ‘Who are you, love?’ she asked Jo.

  ‘Inspector Joanna Hayes. I’m with Met Ops – MO2.’

  ‘Are you on an operation? Someone I should contact?’

  ‘Oddly enough, this is a night off,’ she said dryly. ‘Tell Assistant Commissioner Steve Raven. There will be someone at MO2 now.’

  The officer checked that Samson knew what he was doing, moved away and spoke into her lapel mic.

  ‘There’s this fella in my village,’ continued Jo. ‘Restores furniture. Sings in the choir. Grows special tulips . . .’

  ‘Later,’ he said.

  Two paramedics were in the room. Others were coming through the door with more police. One used a pen torch to peer into the eyes of the assailant. She spoke to her controller and gave a read-out of vital signs, which were zero in every department. A man came over with a bag to check Jo. ‘We’ll get you into the ambulance,’ he said when he’d looked at the wound beneath Samson’s temporary dressing. ‘You’re going to be fine.’ Then he focused on Samson. ‘Actually, I’m just as concerned about that leg of yours, sir. You have a nasty cut there and you’re still bleeding. Are you aware of that?’

  He looked down. His trouser leg was soaked beneath a small tear. The blood on the floor was his, not Jo’s.

  ‘We’ll need stretchers for you both.’ He spoke into a radio. ‘And you, sir, stop moving about! You’ll lose more blood if you go on like that. Sit down and put your leg up here,’ he said, patting the ottoman. He cut the trouser leg off, plugged the wound on the inside of Samson’s right thigh and uncoiled a dressing tightly round his leg

  ‘What about that man?’ asked Samson.

  The paramedic looked over his shoulder at his colleagues going through CPR, and shook his head. ‘He’s suffered trauma to the head. Severe brain haemorrhage, most likely, but we’ll see if they can get him breathing again. He attacked you both, right?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Samson, and reached over to the table where there were two phones and a half-consumed kebab wrapped in pitta bread. Who goes to kill with a takeaway? He looked at the attacker’s phone. The call had ended, but he entered the last-dialled number in ‘Notes’ on his own phone and for one moment considered pocketing the attacker’s phone.

  ‘It’s a crime scene, Samson,’ Jo said wearily. ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot.’

  He put it back on the table.

  ‘I assume the alarm was you,’ she said. ‘He had his jeans round his ankles when it went off. He was going to have his fun. What the fuck is it with men, by the way? You must tell me some day. He didn’t have time to pull them up properly before you got inside the flat. It was his undoing. Once you were in he had to stay quiet. He held the knife to my face to keep me from making a noise. Then he went for you. I heard him stumble and I assume you hit him at that moment. Jesus, what a noise! You must have cracked his skull. But you came exactly at the right moment – neither too soon, nor too late. Perfect timing, as usual. Thank you.’ Her eyes glinted.

  He tipped his head towards the paramedics working on the unconscious man. ‘Fuck him,’ she hissed. ‘He was going to rape me and kill us both. Fuck him.’ She felt her arm gingerly. ‘This really aches – how’s yours?’

  ‘Hurts,’ he said. ‘Look, sorry, Jo. Here, in my flat – I’m appalled that you were attacked.’

  ‘You can’t help it. People always want to kill you, and someday some bloody idiot will succeed.’

  He didn’t answer. Suddenly he felt faint, and colder than he could ever remember, and one of the paramedics was by his side shouting for help.

  Chapter 12

  The Gravel Washer

  In the afternoon, Anastasia set up an office in a hospital room used for counselling. It had a line of five bonsai trees that she decided to keep. She would stay until Denis had emerged from his coma. There was a lot to do. Lawyers came to formally put in place the power of attorney. Two bankers followed, ostensibly to wish Denis well but in reality to find out whether he was going to be permanently incapacitated. She thanked them, smiled and lied through her teeth. The head of Denis’s West Coast office flew in, bringing half a dozen decisions and his own frank concerns about the future of the operation without Denis at the helm. The San Francisco office consisted of sixteen people, and in New York a further eight were employed. Small numbers, but the calibre of employee meant a sizeable payroll, something Denis had always avoided in the past. They paid for themselves in profits, but $450,000 left Denis’s accounts each month before he had even settled bills for office space, health care, and all the rest of it. Guided by Tulliver, she gave the go-ahead on two investments, told him to stall on three and cancel one. She had no idea whether she was right, but she was at least decisive.

  When the room was eventually clear, Tulliver handed her two pages about Denis’s unexplained movements in the last year and a half, together with a handwritten note that read, ‘If you’ve got questions, we’ll go to the roof.’ He made a circling motion with his hand to indicate that the place might be bugged. She knew that his concerns about surveillance meant that he wouldn’t have emailed her the information.

  Before she could read them Tulliver looked up from a message on his phone and said, ‘Jesus, Martin Reid is in the building! He wants to see you. I’ll get rid of him.’

  ‘What does he want?’ The billionaire was sometimes Denis’s ally; others his enemy.

  ‘Christ knows.’

  ‘I’ll see him.’

  A few minutes later Reid and an aide appeared in the room. Reid dismissed the aide and, expecting Tulliver to take the hint, glowered when he showed no sign of leaving. ‘While Denis is sick,’ said Tulliver, ‘Mrs Hisami and I are working this ride together. You can take it or leave it. Isn’t that right, Anastasia?’

  ‘Absolutely, Jim.’

  Reid sat down and considered what to say. Known as the ‘gravel washer’ for his habit of periodically removing the entire drive of his estate in Wyoming and having it cleaned, Reid was more or less retired from a career of nailing competitors to dry on a washboard in the prairie wind, as he put it. He’d lost his childhood-sweetheart wife to a rapid form of dementia and then a son to a helicopter accident and was seldom seen on the West Coast nowadays. The last time Anastasia met him was at a fundraiser, when he talked unceasingly about the life of Julius Caesar, with whom he was obsessed, and obliquely warned her about Hisami’s enemies. He told her Denis should lie low and lay off, whatever that meant. She didn’t like Marty Reid. He was opinionated, never listened or suffered the slightest doubt, and his politics were anathema to her. He was terrifying and brutal, yet she felt some sympathy for him that evening. He was lost without his wife and son. All his money and power meant nothing to him and he freely admitted that his life was ending in disappointment and loneliness.

  After Reid had progressed, rather awkwardly, through the formalities of asking how Denis was, he said, ‘I don’t like your politics, Ana, and I don’t like Denis’s politics either.’ He was the only person on the planet who called her Ana, but seemed deaf to frequent correction.

  ‘You’ve made that clear before,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I imagine I have. But I’m different to the charlatans in this town. I’m a conservative, but I believe in the Constitution, which means that comes first with me and my views about American society come second. That’s why I admire your husband, and why I have time for you, Ana. You’re principled people and you have beliefs that are guided by values. They’re not mine, but I recognise they are values, which is more than you can say for most people.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking, but where’s this going, Marty?’

  He raised a hand – he wasn’t done yet. ‘What happened t
o Denis was an offence to the body politic, not just to his rights and the man who died. It showed contempt for our democratic institutions, and that I will not tolerate.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ she started.

  ‘I won’t tolerate it,’ he repeated, as if she hadn’t understood. His face had darkened and seemed to have expanded. She suddenly thought of what Denis had once said: ‘The thing with Martin Reid is that he’s all granite outside, but twice as hard inside.’

  Tulliver came to the rescue. ‘What are you proposing we should do?’

  ‘I’m not proposing that you do anything, dammit. I’m telling you now that I’m going to act.’

  Tulliver put up a hand, rose and whispered to him. Reid nodded and also got up. They all three walked to a deserted seating area with a water cooler and vending machines where there was no risk of electronic surveillance. Tulliver leaned forward with hands clasped together and spoke confidentially. ‘The FBI, Homeland Security and CIA are all working on the case. We appreciate your concern, and I know Mrs Hisami is touched that you came, but how can you help? Even you, Mr Reid, what can you do alone?’

  ‘Does anyone understand what actually happened at that goddamn company?’ Reid snapped, causing Tulliver to recoil slightly.

  ‘We think so, yes,’ Tulliver answered, and gave a well- rehearsed summary about the company TangKi, in which Denis Hisami and Reid had invested. ‘TangKi was a front for Adam Crane, a Ukrainian named Chumak who was likely working for a branch of Russian intelligence. Denis uncovered the operation to launder millions of dollars and pass them to far-right terror groups in Europe. Anastasia was kidnapped and held in Russia to prevent Denis revealing what he knew.’

  ‘Where did the money come from?’

  ‘You were on the board,’ said Tulliver, slightly exasperated. ‘You know it came from investors and the company’s regular business. Crane drained the accounts with a lot of fake research and investment projects, then vanished.’

  ‘My people went over the figures. A lot more money was involved – tens of millions of dollars. So where did that come from?’

  ‘A hundred and forty-six million dollars in total,’ said Tulliver. ‘Over a hundred and twenty shell companies were used. We didn’t determine precisely all the sources, but, for example, I recall that a chain of realtors in the Pacific North West was involved.’

  ‘But you don’t know where the bulk of the money came from. No one does. Is that correct?’

  Tulliver conceded that and said no agency had bothered to investigate and pin down the source of all the money.

  ‘So that’s where we’re going to start,’ said Reid. ‘There was never any inquiry, because the authorities had persecuted Denis and they wanted to bury the whole goddamn affair. And Denis was relieved he’d got you back, Ana. Then he needed to focus on his business problems, so he didn’t pursue it.’ He looked at them in turn, attempting to soften his manner. ‘I have an instinct about this. I will use everything I have. Is that all right with you, Ana?’

  ‘What do you think, Jim?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t do any harm.’

  She levelled her gaze at Reid. ‘You think these hearings in Congress are part of the campaign against Denis? Maybe the same people who went after him two and a half years ago?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What is your opinion about the allegation that Denis is supplying arms to the Kurds?’

  ‘I am agnostic. I’ve no evidence either way, but I know you two are involved in humanitarian work and I believe Denis when he says he decided to put the money he’s made recently to good use in the land of his birth.’

  Did she catch something in Tulliver’s eyes? She looked hard then said, ‘I don’t have a problem with your offer of help.’

  They rose together. Reid held out his hand. ‘You be sure to give Denis my good wishes for his recovery.’ He studied her for a beat. ‘I have to say, you’ve come through this experience very well. You are indomitable Ana, and I admire that in a person.’

  She felt as indomitable as someone clinging to a life raft. There were no other options. She nodded her thanks and watched him retreat down the hallway to collect his aide. ‘He’s got a spring in his step,’ she said, turning to the papers Tulliver had handed her earlier.

  Denis had flown to Europe ten times since the late autumn of 2019 on his own plane. What interested her was that she had hardly been aware of these trips because most of this had been her dark period, which she didn’t now even want to acknowledge, as she sat, so composed, in the hospital and very much in charge of her own and Denis’s destiny. She was aware that he had gone to Estonia once to meet with and thank Robert Harland, but not five times. And then there were trips to Vienna and London, which could not be directly related to his business, which was now focused in Asia and the United States. There was no clue as to their purpose, although she assumed he would have met with Macy Harp in London. None of the trips lasted more than two days and most were completed in twenty-four hours. He always travelled alone. Occasionally, there were restaurant bills for two or three people. One in Vienna was for four. Denis usually slept on the plane so it didn’t surprise her that he rarely seemed to stay overnight in any of the destinations, except in Tallinn, where he spent the night on two different occasions. The thought of her husband talking to Robert Harland and Ulrike made something snatch at her stomach because it was under their roof that she had renewed her affair with Samson and set in train a disastrous period. But the Harlands were far too discreet to let anything slip and, if Denis suspected anything, he had never let on.

  The log of Denis’s movements didn’t tell her much other than that he had been pursuing a project with his usual determination and secrecy. When she had been through it twice, Tulliver pointed upwards and they went to the roof.

  ‘I didn’t want to put it in writing, but he’s been paying Macy Harp a lot of money, especially in the last month. This is mostly for the protection of the young woman, but there’s also a lot of work on company searches, which has been paid for by Hendricks Harp and reimbursed by Denis.’

  ‘He’s using them as a channel?’

  ‘Kind of, but I don’t think there’s anything sinister in that.’

  ‘What companies?’

  ‘I couldn’t get that data from Harp. He says he can only deal with Denis. He was pretty upset when we spoke. He and Robert Harland went back a long way.’

  ‘Call him.’

  He dialled and handed her the phone. Macy picked up on the third ring.

  ‘It’s me, Anastasia, on Jim’s phone.’ She reminded him that the power of attorney meant that any confidential arrangements that existed between Macy and her husband were now, perforce, to include her. ‘I have to know everything, Macy. What we are committed to; where we are exposed.’

  He replied that there was a lot he didn’t know.

  ‘How long have you been looking after this woman?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a few weeks.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘I cannot say. Denis and our late friend believed she was the very best type of asset. Absolutely vital in their project.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me what that project is.’

  ‘I have some ideas, but these are for face-to-face conversations.’

  ‘When did this all start?’

  ‘I never spoke to our late friend about this. I dealt only with Denis. I would say it was towards the end of 2019.’

  ‘How much did you know?’

  ‘We began to research some companies in the United States, as well as individuals. The list was in our late friend’s handwriting. He didn’t do email – didn’t trust it. That research didn’t seem to go anywhere, but that was the start of it all.’

  ‘So this is a really big operation. Which companies? Which people?’

  ‘Again, I will happily share that in
person, or in a more secure manner.’

  Macy blew his nose furiously, which gave her time to think. ‘So what are the reporting arrangements? Who does she send her information to?’

  ‘Our late friend and Denis. Nothing came through this office. Only they knew.’

  ‘And they talked.’

  ‘Yes, they talked all the time. This was very important to them.’

  ‘And do you think someone tried to kill them on the same day because of this thing they were doing?’

  ‘Has to be a possibility.’ Then he added: ‘Yes, I do think that.’

  ‘Then where does Samson fit in? Why was he attacked in the street?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You must have an idea – you employ him. You’re responsible for him. You figured out what he would be doing with my husband.’

  ‘As I say, I’m not sure.’

  From old, she knew Macy to be evasive. ‘Come on, Macy – tell me. I am running things, don’t fuck with me.’

  ‘Not on the phone, Anastasia! How’s Denis?’

  She shook her head in irritation and said, ‘Some improvements.’ She’d been to see him three hours before. There were fewer tubes and they had raised him a little to guard against pneumonia. His colour was better, too, and a nurse reported that his eyelashes had fluttered as though he was about to open his eyes. His breathing was good and there seemed to be some response when the soles of his feet were gently rubbed. ‘I think we’re going to need to talk, Macy,’ she said. ‘I mean, face to face.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t come to you. It’s our friend’s funeral.’

  ‘Let me look into it, see what I can do. What about Samson?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Does he know I’m running things?’

  ‘I told him.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, and hung up.

  ‘I can go to London, if you’d prefer,’ said Tulliver.

  ‘No, you stay here, Jim. I need to find out what the hell’s going on, and I’m the only one who has the power to do that. He can’t tell you anything, but he has to tell me.’