White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  CHAPTER 16

  With his bare feet up on a coffee table piled with exhibition catalogues bought by Anastasia that he couldn’t bring himself to throw away, Samson picked up with her phone where he’d left off when Leila had called the previous afternoon to go through Cedar’s figures. With Jo asleep next door, he wondered if he should feel more discomfort than he did, but he swiftly put the thought out of his mind because there was nothing to be gained from it, and Jo had given him some distance and helped him see things more clearly, particularly with the information about Daniel Misak, the man without a face.

  He sipped from a mug of tea and went through the photographs. He found a series taken in Germany when they had both gone to visit Naji Touma, the young boy – now young man – that he had been hired to find among tens of thousands of refugees on the road to northern Europe three years before. The family was struggling with the practicalities of life, as well as with the growing hostility to refugees. Naji’s sisters had been bullied at their school and his mother was experiencing a greater sense of isolation and despair than she had in the Turkish refugee camp. A film of Naji being roughed up had appeared on the Web.

  Anastasia was at her best. She found a new apartment for the family and put a bomb under the social workers that were meant to be looking after their welfare. She contacted local refugee associations; liaised with the German officials who had brought Naji to Germany; and eventually made the connections which won Naji a handsome scholarship in Latvia, where the family subsequently moved. There was a photo of them all, Naji, standing between his mother and two sisters, and behind them Samson and Anastasia, who was wearing a determined expression, as though she had just walked from a meeting with the welfare people. The growing distance between Anastasia and him seemed obvious now.

  He moved on to the Notes section of the phone, where he found a cache of Anastasia’s most private thoughts about Denis Hisami and himself, which he supposed were either jottings for a journal or a means of working through her options. Full of abbreviations and half-formed sentences, they were obviously not intended for anyone else, and he imagined that, after all this time, she might have forgotten they were there. There was something girlish about them, but also something hard-headed.

  D called again. Embarrassing because am with Samson, and had to lie. Once Denis wants something he never lets up … I feel a little like a company he’s taking over … so much more rounded than Samson … he can give everything I want for my career. The good we could do! Real improvement for refugees’ lives. But I love S. for myself. That’s the me part satisfied, not the good part that wants to help people. Leave him when we have so much? Samson’s faults 1. Gambling addiction/ likes risk 2. Remote even when tries not to be. 3) sister, pain in the neck 4) obstinate 5) irresponsible with himself and his money. Qualities – funny, bed wonderful, generous, and he reads and knows a lot, likes food. CAN COOK. Sexy and doesn’t know it. TOUGH. OMG so TOUGH!

  There were no dates to any of the entries, but he had an idea when they were made because of occasional references to things they had been doing together – a movie at the British Film Institute; a race meeting at Newmarket, which he knew she’d loathed and about which she’d written: ‘Red-faced English people. All drunk. Horses beautiful’; and a weekend in Prague where they had failed to rekindle the magic of Venice and which came very near the end of their relationship. Anastasia wrote:

  He doesn’t understand me, or what I need to do in life. We are like bad teenagers. There is no future with Samson. Denis called. Said he wanted to make a Foundation with me to remember his sister. He already had business plan and structure. When he flew to Lesbos and told me of his plans, I didn’t believe him. Now I do.

  Samson noted that she hadn’t told him about Hisami’s visit to Lesbos, but then he wasn’t surprised and had known they were seeing each other, or at least that they were in touch regularly. He moved on to a list, which was evidently Anastasia trying to order the arguments for leaving him.

  1 He will be happier without me. 2 No more arguments 3. S. wants children – I don’t 4. Pressure from mother to have grandchildren 5. I cannot be happy in London and he doesn’t want to live anywhere else. 6. I need to follow my career.

  There was a postscript.

  Must say, I love S. and my heart breaks with all this. We have been through a lot together and he will always be special to me. No one has made me laugh as much or enjoy simple things. He is a GOOD man and I love him!!!

  As far as he could recall, this was exactly the way her speech had gone, and almost in the order she’d sketched out. He hadn’t bothered to argue his case because by that time he knew all about Hisami and she was adamant, but he did know, or thought he knew, that she still loved him. He saw that particular softness in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. And, absurdly, he had banked on her coming back to him eventually.

  He moved on through the notes, which described the new life she had found in California, with guest lists, possible members of committees, notes from meetings, memos to herself, must-do lists before big occasions, all of which seemed to be events arranged around the new foundation. She was much more organised than Samson had ever imagined. She collected her thoughts before meetings, wrote down ideas for presents, even listed the things she needed to bring up with her new husband. Samson groaned inwardly. It seemed like they were the type of couple who set aside time to go over each other’s schedules. She was right. This was not a life that he could ever have given her. Samson did not possess a diary.

  In the later notes, he noticed that Denis was always referred to and signed himself as Hash, and it occurred to Samson to search her emails with just that name. In her inbox he came up with a series of laconic messages from an email address, DH1Spoleto@spoletomix.com, which he assumed came from a private server, though they were notoriously easy to hack. Hisami said nothing of note in them, but then he began to read the emails Anastasia had sent to him and his replies.

  Nine months before, she had written from Germany.

  I just called. I don’t want you to make this investment, Hash, darling. I think it will turn out badly for you, because you are not allowing yourself to make the judgement with your usual criteria. I don’t get back for another week and by that time I know it will be too late. I love you and I don’t want you to waste your life on an unnecessary fight. You are too big for that. XXXX

  He replied:

  In a meeting. We’ll speak in the morning. Don’t get this out of proportion. I send my love. Sleep well. Hash X

  Samson was sure that the disagreement was over the investment in TangKi but, frustratingly, there wasn’t any more on this. He combed the later emails and found nothing until some exchanges within the last month.

  She wrote:

  Up here in the State of Washington, things seem clearer, Hash. I couldn’t say it last night, but I did want to tell you how much I admire you. It’s something people should say to their partner more often. I also wanted to say this – sell your stake and let things be.

  Again, a short reply:

  It’s a matter of principle. I can’t back off. Anyway, my sweet, with patience and good thinking, I will win.

  And then Anastasia showed her mettle:

  Hash, accept you are wrong. You need to think about your motives and realise what you stand to lose. I’ve decided to go to Italy from Seattle. Saves time and I know I won’t miss the boat I am hoping to meet. And you can handle that reception without me, right!!!

  This was the Anastasia he knew, and he was momentarily pleased to find that this part of her personality – truculent and really difficult – hadn’t been altered by all Hisami’s money. She was as capable of having a row with Hisami as she was with him. Samson was now certain that TangKi was the issue between them. He thought for about five minutes and briefly considered taking a cigarette from the unopened packet that lay beneath the framed photograph of his mother, but her gaze deterred him. She hated smoking and blamed it for her husband’s prem
ature death – that, and the stress of his gambling.

  He got up and started for the bedroom, but then had a thought and sat down again with one of his own phones and tapped out an email.

  Naji, Hope you and your family are doing well. I need your help urgently. If you call me tomorrow morning early, will explain everything. Can you get into this email – DH1Spoleto@spoletomix.com? I need to see it all. It belongs to Denis Hisami – Samson.

  He rose and went into the kitchen where he and Anastasia had spent so many hours cooking, dining and, of course, sparring – part of the fun of dinner for her – and made for the stove. He reached up and with two index fingers pulled away the stainless-steel splash-plate behind the cooker to reveal a tiled surface, a remnant of his old kitchen decoration. Then he levered out a section of four tiles, which came away with some difficulty. Behind it lay the wall safe he had installed when he was gambling and had kept large amounts of cash in the flat. He punched the eight-digit code into the pad and the safe door popped open. He placed Anastasia’s phone inside, on top of some documents he’d gathered while researching Adam Crane.

  He paused before returning to the bedroom. Reading the exchanges between Anastasia and her husband had certainly convinced him that they had a close and equal relationship, but it had also put her voice in his thoughts again and it seemed strange to be returning to his bed where another woman lay – a woman he liked and very much wanted to sleep with, but another woman nonetheless. He grimaced to himself, more from irritation at Anastasia’s continued hold over him than actual remorse, and went into the bedroom. He slid in beside the unconscious form of Jo Hayes, who stirred and a few seconds later murmured. ‘What’ve you been up to, Samson?’

  ‘Doing the crossword,’ he replied.

  ‘Such a bloody liar,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Hisami never managed more than a few hours’ sleep at a time in the detention centre, and on the night before his hearing he did not sleep at all but instead lay thinking about the events of the last few weeks, not sparing himself in the process. The guards had removed the fraudster from the cell and he was left alone with Nelson, a fifty-five-year-old father of four who had been snatched on the street by officers of ICE who were convinced he was in fact an individual named Aldane Coombes, an illegal immigrant from Jamaica. Nelson had never lived anywhere but Queens, New York, but it seemed he bore a striking resemblance to Coombes and he was, at the moment, unable to prove his real identity.

  Nelson’s plight struck Hisami and listening to the man’s tale not only convinced him of the raw injustices that occurred in America without anyone ever hearing about them but gave him distance from his own problems. In the small hours, Nelson sat up on his bunk, leaned over and touched Hisami on the shoulder. ‘You’re not sleeping Denis. I know you’re just lying there beating up on yourself. I got no idea why, but you just gotta straighten yourself out. You have a powerful rage inside of you, sir, and it don’t do no good in a situation like this.’

  Hisami crooked an arm under his head and turned to him. ‘You’re right. Thank you. My wife calls it my white-hot silence: she mistakes concentration for anger.’

  ‘Which is it now, friend?’

  ‘Some of both: I’m thinking through a problem. I have a few urgent issues that can’t be addressed until I get out of here, plus, I’ve got an enemy and I don’t know who it is.’

  ‘Tell me about your foe, brother?’

  Hisami didn’t go into any detail, but he sketched the characters of Micky Gehrig, Martin Reid, Gil Leppo and Larry Valentine. He saw each one in Castell’s conference room as he described them, and that process made him think more deeply about their characters.

  Reid was not someone he had ever warmed to. Too definite for Hisami’s tastes, and he never showed the slightest sign of self-doubt, or empathy for that matter. A hard, obsessive man was the gravel-washer, but he had his own code of honour and, no matter what the pressure, he would not sit in front of Hisami and look him in the eye, knowing that he was orchestrating the abduction of his wife. The same applied to Larry Valentine, who was simply too rich to reach into this particular gutter. Rocket-boy Gehrig was basically a ruthless attention-seeker. His trip into space would ensure that he could talk about himself for the rest of his life, but Gehrig – unlike Martin Reid and Larry Valentine – was a Democrat and had been a big donor to the Clinton campaign in 2016. Going by what Daniel Misak had told him, the money was leaving TangKi to finance right-wing groups in Europe. So, this wasn’t Gehrig. That left his friend, Gil Leppo. It was inconceivable that Gil, who had brought them a gift of a puppy at Thanksgiving, would do anything to harm Anastasia. They had become so close that Hisami suspected Gil came over more to talk to Anastasia than to him. He almost seemed dependent on her.

  ‘You’ve got a lot of rich friends,’ said Nelson when Hisami paused. ‘How come you’re in here?’

  ‘I miscalculated.’

  ‘I miscalculated my first wife. And she miscalculated me, too.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I knew maybe something was going on behind my back so I get myself one of them tiny little cameras from RadioShack and I rig it in the bedroom right there, then I have the pleasure of seeing my wife’s huge fat ass being screwed by a man from across the street. And that’s how I lose my wife, who is also my soulmate.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Do you regret it?’

  ‘I regret it – yeah. I regret it. All I’m saying is that your best friend is the person who can trick you most easy. Think about that, Denis. If you’re close to someone, that treachery thing is always a possibility, and some people, they really can’t help it.’

  Hisami did think about that.

  When Samson arrived at the Immigration Court on Federal Plaza in lower Manhattan, it was crowded with media. Hisami was evidently now a big story and the absence of his wife from these proceedings the subject of much speculation. But Hisami had hired the best publicist in New York City, who had spun the line that while the billionaire was defending himself against a politically motivated attack on his reputation, Anastasia had travelled abroad to view the Aysel centres and had been unavoidably detained, which was certainly true.

  He had read versions of this statement, going through news sites in the cab from JFK. When he switched on his phone he’d hoped to pick up a message or email from Naji, but there was nothing from him. He sent another email, saying it was vital they speak before the end of the day.

  He went straight to Federal Plaza, took the lift to the twelfth floor and found the noticeboard he had been directed to by a guard. Hisami’s hearing was listed at the bottom, under several other cases, and by the time he had worked out which courtroom it was in and had threaded his way through the supporters of those whose cases were being heard, the judge – a crow-like woman in her mid-fifties with a sharp, impatient manner – was already speaking to the lawyers representing Hisami and ICE and Homeland Security. Tulliver caught sight of him and did a kind of salute then sat down in the front bench. The last time they had seen each other was when Samson was being deported from Macedonia and Tulliver had swapped places with him at Skopje airport, so leaving Samson to pursue young Naji in the mountains of northern Macedonia.

  Journalists were already writing stories on their devices; they could insert detail and quotes as the hearing progressed. Samson watched the young woman next to him type, ‘Billionaire Denis Hisami, who faces allegations that he lied on his immigration application, did not notify the authorities of his change of name and concealed a past that included war crimes and terror-related offences, was returned to prison after Judge Jean Simon concluded that he was a risk to the public. Judge Simon said …’

  Hisami was brought in wearing civilian clothes, not the prison uniform Tulliver had warned Samson about on the phone. He looked exhausted but also oddly removed from his surroundings. Samson knew Hisami had spotted him but there was no acknowledgement and he simply turned his back to the public and sat down while the two gu
ards who had brought him from the prison moved to the side of the courtroom and watched him as though he represented a major threat to national security.

  The judge tapped the microphone then looked down at some papers. ‘The purpose of a Reasonable Cause hearing is to decide just one thing – whether Mr Hisami’s continued detention is justified. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the only thing we are here for. We are not here to determine the merits of the case against Mr Hisami, or order a removal or any other action. And in this narrow context ICE and the Homeland Security – and I quote – “has the burden of proving clear and convincing evidence that the alien should remain in custody because the alien’s release would pose a special danger to the public”.’ She removed her glasses and looked at the government lawyers. ‘The evidence you have produced so far is unimpressive. You will need to up your game, sirs, if you are to continue to hold Mr Hisami.’

  A rather sinister lawyer with a shaven head, button-down collar, club tie and a drab suit rose and assured her that he was in possession of a very considerable amount of evidence.

  ‘Then let’s hear it, Mr Balstad.’

  But before he could begin, Hisami’s lawyer got to his feet. He was in his sixties, wore a bow-tie and had the woebegone expression of someone who had just heard the words ‘Brace! Brace!’ over an aeroplane’s intercom. His mouth hung open, his eyes darted about the court and he had a nervous tic that made him pinch the edge of his lapel. Samson assumed his appearance belied his expertise as an immigration lawyer and that he had been chosen by the two tanned lawyers next to him because he knew what he was doing. ‘Judge,’ he started, ‘I hope we can dispense with the term “alien”. Mr Hisami is a legitimate American citizen and has no other citizenship. He has contributed more than most people to the well-being and prosperity of the nation and it seems inappropriate, not to say inaccurate, to refer to him as an alien. My client is as American as you or I, Judge.’