White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked quietly.

  He took no notice but looked around. ‘You recognise cabin, no? This is cabin of Chinaman. He sent email to Denis Hisami – email you wrote. Do you see Chinaman now? Do you see Chinaman’s possessions?’ She shook her head. ‘He no longer exists. He is gone. Everything is gone. And no one will ever ask where. A life lost – that is the result of what you did.’

  She was appalled. Five people were now dead, but this death was all her fault. The strange little man, so lonely and idiosyncratic, had sent the email, and they killed him. She shook her head, looked down and let out one guttural sob.

  ‘There are always consequences,’ the man said, examining the palm of each hand in turn. ‘If you attempt to escape or try to communicate with your friends again, be assured, I will kill you. It is not problem for me – you mean nothing to me. You understand? If you behave, you may live to see your husband.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked again.

  ‘I cannot say that, Mrs Hisami. But I will say to you that things have gone in some ways more easily than we expected, and in some ways worse. It is good that your husband has been put in jail.’

  ‘He’s not in jail. You’re lying.’

  ‘If you knew me, you would know that I have come this far in life by telling truth. I repeat so you understand – your husband is in jail in New York, which was reason you could not reach him when you called. Then you called your lover Paul Samson and told him where you were and we assume he alerted Western authorities – NATO, EU, etcetera, etcetera – and ship was followed. That was certainly inconvenient.’

  ‘He can’t be in jail. He hasn’t done anything wrong.’ Only then did she realise that the man had mentioned Samson. How did he know she had spoken to him?

  ‘Your husband was arrested on immigration fraud – he lied on citizen application form and did not disclose past as war criminal. I am sure he told you his real name is Karim Qasim. He took the name of his hero, the Kurdish writer Hisami, for the purposes of moving to the United States with his sister, Aysel. They were both involved in the cover-up of the murder of thirty-four Iraqi soldiers in 1995.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘That does not worry me, Mrs Hisami. American authorities are in possession of photographs that prove presence at the scene of crime, and Denis Hisami, or I should say Karim Qasim, is now in jail because they know he is war criminal and liar. You see, Mrs Hisami, we have followed your husband’s career since our agents came across him when he was a young man fighting for the PUK. He was brilliant commander but very violent man.’ He looked at her with contentment as she tried to absorb all this. ‘Surely you knew of these things in your husband’s past? A person who witnessed the elimination of IS unit in Macedonia must ask how a man like Hisami, a Californian billionaire, was able to shoot four terrorists – bang, bang, bang, bang – in few minutes: three in barn and one in farmhouse. When we learned your husband was in Macedonia, we knew he was the one to carry out killings. Macedonian security forces, they took credit, but we knew true story, Mrs Hisami. And that is story you know also because you were there, and so was Paul Samson, the man who became your lover in Venice. Yes, we are aware of all these things.’

  ‘How do you know I called Samson?’

  ‘You just told me. Now we have his number, which may be useful one day.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Ah, I see you do not question these things any longer, and that is because you suspect they are true. Good. We are getting somewhere. How do we know all this? That is easy. We watched Karim Qasim’s climb through American society because we knew he was very smart man. We admired his financial abilities and way he learned how to work system to his advantage, and so quickly, too. But we knew one day we would have reason to disclose what we know about him. His personality and his politics dictated that there would be conflict between his interests and ours. It was written in stars and we were prepared.’

  ‘Denis is a good person, as his sister was. They would never cover up a war crime. It’s against everything he believes in. Aysel was known for her humanitarian work, her love of humanity.’

  ‘You believe this, yet you see him cover up the killing of the terrorists in Macedonia. You know your husband covered up killings in Macedonia. This is the way he operates, and his sister went back to front line to fight. She had to be there.’

  ‘She was a doctor. She was helping the wounded. That’s why she was there.’

  ‘Believe what you like, Mrs Hisami, but does it occur to you she was atoning for sins in past?’

  ‘Our organisation is named after her because of her humanity and the sacrifices she made to help others,’ she said with sudden vehemence. ‘I know my husband. He is not a war criminal – he was a soldier.’

  He drew a gun from inside his jacket. ‘Lean forward,’ he commanded, and placed the gun at the nape of her neck. ‘Here is where I shoot you. The bullet enters skull here.’ He screwed the muzzle into her hair. ‘Your death will come with no warning. You will know nothing.’

  She jerked her head up and strained back to look into his eyes. ‘You enjoy this?’

  He shook his head. ‘I just tell you how things are. I am civilised man and I will treat you well while you are with me, but you should know that I will end your life if it is required. Simple as that.’ He stopped. ‘I forgot – my name is Kirill.’

  He replaced the gun and went to open the door to the men waiting outside. One of them carried a huge blue bag.

  ‘We give you shot now,’ he said. ‘Then we have long journey but you will be unconscious for that – your beauty sleep.’

  They assembled in Macy Harp’s London office, but without a word Macy beckoned Samson and Zillah Dee to follow him along several corridors to a room in another building. ‘Leave your phones in the wall safe,’ he said, opening a panel outside the room which hid a small green safe. ‘Better to be on the safe side.’

  Samson and Zillah decanted their numerous devices into the safe and Macy placed his smartphone alongside them. ‘I thought you didn’t use a mobile phone,’ said Samson.

  ‘For my bookie and my wife,’ said Macy with a routine twinkle. A woman that Samson hadn’t seen before appeared and settled at a desk beside the panel. They went inside and Macy closed the door firmly. The room had no natural light and Samson noticed there were no desk lights, no electrical or telephone sockets – nothing that could be used to eavesdrop on the conversation. The air-conditioning had chilled the room to an uncomfortable level.

  Samson poured three mugs of coffee from a flask. Macy nodded on receipt of his mug, folded his hands under the usually beaming red face and thought for a few moments.

  ‘The first thing we need to do is to decide what the hell SIS are up to. They know Crane isn’t dead. They probably knew from the moment the body was found. They must have suppressed that knowledge because they have an interest in Crane. Now what could that be?’

  ‘He’s their man?’ offered Zillah.

  ‘Doesn’t make sense. He’s the bad hat, surely. He was the one channelling money into London, washing it by various means – including the art market – and moving it to Europe. What do they want with him?’

  ‘Well, they’ve got to be watching him,’ said Zillah. ‘Then Samson here comes along and spoils it by spooking Crane. So Crane has the poor sap on the balcony murdered and does a vanishing act.’

  ‘Seems clumsy,’ said Samson. ‘Anyone in that situation would know that the police would eventually identify the body by means of DNA. If I thought of recovering hairs from the shower, so would the police. It’s an obvious thing to do.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Macy, ‘and I suspect they did precisely that, or established in some other way that the body wasn’t Crane’s. That means the Security Service and MI6 leaned on them to keep it quiet. So, yes, Zillah, they are watching something unfold, something current and important. The reason they hauled you in this morning, Paul, was to find out how m
uch you knew and what was on your phones. They weren’t in the least bit interested in Anastasia – right? Then Nyman had to let you go because you threatened his entire operation by promising to go to the media, right? So that means he would rather have you running around with this information than jeopardise his operation, right again? And that leads me to conclude that Nyman is what I believe the experts term fucking desperate.’

  ‘You understand this?’ Zillah said, turning to Samson.

  ‘No, but I’m sure Denis Hisami does, and I think I should go to see him.’

  ‘You okay with that?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure, he’s employing me, and we both want Anastasia free.’ He studied them in turn. ‘Looks like Crane organised the kidnapping.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ said Macy quickly.

  ‘I was paid a visit by the Camorra in the car park at the airport. I guess they were told where to find me by the Carabinieri. They’re angry about two of their men being killed on the ship – the police now assume both kidnappers were eliminated. They wanted any information that I could provide in the future and in return they showed me a photograph of Crane, whom they knew as Shepherd. They said he was connected to the eastern Mafia – part of their world.’ He fished the paper with the numbers, together with the card they had given him, from his top pocket. ‘They put something in his drink and went through his things. These are bank-account numbers he kept on his phone. They want to know what’s in the accounts and who has access to them.’

  ‘Maybe these are the accounts where the money from TangKi is ending up,’ Zillah said, taking hold of the paper. ‘Can I see what we’re able to find out about them? I think I’ll need to show these to Mr Hisami and Jim Tulliver – you okay with that?’

  ‘Why don’t you let me do that?’ said Samson. ‘I’ll leave in the next twenty-four hours, so I can ask him.’ He took back the paper.

  ‘You may have to see him in jail – the outcome of the hearing is not certain,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The authorities are taking their time to prepare their case and the judge said she doesn’t want to see either side until she has some evidence to assess. This is to determine whether Mr Hisami is a risk out of jail. It’s not a trial.’

  Macy waited for this exchange to end before clearing his throat. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Samson, ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We have to think of the whole picture. What’s going on here? What’s the end point?’

  Zillah folded her arms and focused. ‘By end point,’ she said, ‘you mean what is Crane actually doing? What’s the purpose and why was everything so urgent? Why was the man on the balcony killed? Why are they in such a heck of a hurry?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Macy, taking the role of the tutorial supervisor. ‘Peter Nyman came to visit while you were in Italy, and he said something that interested me. He asked me, apropos of nothing, whether I had any interest in certain European extremist political groups. His remark followed some discussion of the money. He was sounding me out to see how much we know, because he basically finds Samson here such a bloody nightmare to deal with.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Samson.

  ‘I wondered about the connection in his mind and whether he thought this money was destined for these extremist groups in Europe. It’s not like Nyman to give away his thinking, but I did note the connection.’

  Zillah looked at her smart watch and frowned. ‘I need to make a call to my people in Sevastapol. Is there somewhere I can do that?’

  Macy told her to ask Maureen, who was sitting on the other side of the door. ‘Oh, and you can leave that watch in the safe before you come back in,’ he said.

  After she had left, he turned to Samson. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ Samson replied.

  He frowned a doubt. ‘That call from the ship didn’t bother you?’

  ‘Yeah, it bothered me because I didn’t like hearing her in distress, but she’s another man’s wife now and I’m working for him and I have it all straight in my head.’

  ‘There’s always the chance it may not end well. You know that, don’t you?’

  This was the unsentimental intelligence officer who had seen dozens of operations collapse and who knew the consequences of failure. To Macy, failure was to be expected.

  Samson nodded.

  ‘If it goes wrong, you’re never going to forgive yourself,’ said Macy sympathetically. ‘I hate to say this, but you have to look after yourself in this affair.’

  ‘Which is why we have to get her back.’ Samson paused to think. ‘Can I summarise? You think we have American money trying to illicitly influence European politics, is that right?’ Macy nodded. ‘Yet we also have a smooth-talking Ukrainian mafioso – aka Crane – who does deep cover very well. Then we have the obvious Russian connection with the boat and its destination. None of this conceivably adds up, does it?’

  Macy rocked back and placed his fingertips together. ‘Well, obviously, these days, there’s less of a gap between the Russian and American regimes than there is, for example, between the two political tribes in America. And, if I read Nyman right, that’s what’s eating him.’

  ‘“Snow on his boots” is what he said about Crane.’

  Macy smiled. ‘Indeed, “snow on his boots”. I’d forgotten that phrase. Nyman is certainly obsessed with Crane’s Russian connections, but I think his attention is focused on the States.’

  ‘Hisami has all the answers,’ Samson murmured.

  ‘Yes, he probably does. Look, I should mention something before Zillah comes back. Denis hasn’t paid us yet. He has a liquidity problem, which has nothing to do with this situation. Our friend Denis is a gambler at heart, just like you. I gather he got caught up in a speculative riptide earlier this year, which made a dent in his fortune. He’s not broke but he has temporary cashflow difficulties that he’s finding it hard to address from a prison cell. Of course, he’s very, very rich and we will be paid, but I felt I ought to warn you, given the situation with the restaurant.’

  Samson remembered Anastasia asking what he would do with Cedar when his mother had gone. He’d told her he would run it in his parents’ memory. But that was before he knew of the debts his mother had taken on and the way the finances of the restaurant were set up – it was virtually impossible to cover the costs. A payment of £45,000 was outstanding. ‘When do you think we’ll get it?’ he asked.

  ‘As soon as he’s out of jail. I talked to Tulliver last night. Denis is worth a lot, so there isn’t a problem, but I guess Zillah won’t be using that plane for much longer. Must be costing forty to fifty grand a week.’

  Samson was thinking about his own liabilities and made a mental note to call his sister, Leila, after the meeting. Leila had a chaotic emotional life but when she concentrated she was good with figures and far better than Samson at talking with their bank manager, who, after their mother’s death, told them flat out that the only course was to close Cedar. Leila and he had decided that wasn’t going to happen, though, in truth, it would have been far easier for both of them if it had.

  Zillah came back with some notes and sat down. ‘So, I have some news. It seems Anastasia was taken off the ship last night, because the Grigori has already set sail for a shipyard at Kerch in Eastern Crimea, where it will be repaired. I have two of my guys there, but the conditions are challenging. They arrived too late to do anything and they weren’t able to get to any of the crew. Jonathan established that a handful of containers were taken off the boat and one was loaded on to a truck almost immediately. He got the registration of that truck and the name of the freight forwarder that operates out of St Petersburg.’ She looked up from her notes. ‘Basically, she’s gone and we have no goddam idea where they’ve taken her, but we start by working on the freight agent.’

  Samson shook his head at the hopelessness of the situation.

  Macy absorbed the news. ‘My concern is that the Russian government is in on this. If it
is, we’re properly jiggered.’

  Zillah shook her head. ‘Everything we know about the FSR or the GRU – they’re the only state agencies that would undertake an operation like this – suggests they would have gotten her into Russia far more efficiently. She wouldn’t have been allowed to escape and roam that vessel, stealing phones and persuading the crew to send emails. These people are, relatively speaking, amateurs. This is all about organised crime.’

  ‘What are you two going to do?’ asked Samson.

  ‘I’m going back to the States right now,’ said Zillah. ‘Need a ride?’

  Samson shook his head. ‘I’d like that, but I’ve got a few things to sort out here. I’ll take the first flight tomorrow.’

  They left the room and collected their phones from the safe. Samson’s immediately pinged with a text from Jo Hayes. ‘You owe me dinner – 8 p.m. tonight your place?’

  He could do without this, but he owed Jo and he wanted to sound her out.

  Samson would have asked Jo up to the office above Cedar for a drink so they could talk in private, but he was sure that it had been bugged when he was away. Everything seemed to be in place, but when he phoned Leila to talk about the money, he noticed a slight popping on the landline and moments of interference when she spoke. If the phone was bugged, so were the room and the computer he used for the business. He would eventually have it all swept, but it certainly wasn’t safe to have a frank conversation there with Detective Inspector Hayes.

  Jo had the presence of a performer. When she arrived, the eyes of both male and female customers followed her to the table. She wore a dark grey business suit, black shirt and silver necklace and she’d had three or four inches cut from her hair, which made her seem less like the amateur nightclub singer. ‘What do you think?’ she said, flipping it with the back of her fingers, first one side then the other. ‘It’s all in honour of our date, Samson.’