by Henry Porter
‘So you’re saying all they require him to do is sit on that dossier until they’ve made it obsolete. Once they’ve completed their task, they can let Anastasia go. Is that it?’
‘Effectively, yes. But on the day of his release Denis received another threat, and this is what put him in such a bitch of a mood and why he was so damned difficult to deal with.’
‘What could be worse than Anastasia’s death? What was that threat?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So Anastasia’s safety is secondary to this new threat.’
‘No. He’s desperately worried about her.’
Samson looked up and down the deserted street. ‘I’m sure he is. So where does that leave us?’
‘I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Samson. Anything you do to upset things right now could damage the chances of getting her back.’
‘You’re warning me off?’
‘Not exactly. I just want you to know everything that I know.’
‘Is that why Denis hasn’t paid Zillah, to stop her working on the case? Or is he broke?’
‘He’s got money, but it’s true he’s got a lot of problems with finance,’ said Tulliver wearily. ‘Zillah will be paid in full.’
‘But she has no guarantee and is pulling her people.’
‘She will be paid.’ He paused. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘This new threat has no meaning for me, Jim. That’s Denis’s business. Getting Anastasia back is the only thing I give a damn about.’
‘You won’t hold off for a few days? You see, he’s got another play, another strategy he thinks is promising.’
‘What kind of play?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘You need to spit it out, Jim.’
There was silence the other end.
‘Have it your own way,’ said Samson. ‘I know Denis told you to call me. Just say to him that I’m not prepared to back off, and it’s for this reason: there’s no guarantee they won’t kill her when they’ve done everything they need to to cover their tracks. They’re keeping her alive so they can film her on FaceTime just as long as they need to stop Denis publishing his dossier. Whatever else he’s doing, you tell him I’m not backing off.’ He hung up and walked slowly up and down the street, thinking, until he heard the chimes for five o’clock. Then he returned to the hotel for an hour of fitful sleep.
At first light, he got up and left the hotel, omitting to tell them that he wouldn’t be back, and went to the far side of the old town to a café, where he bought coffee and a kind of cheese pastry. Tulliver had cleared things in his mind. Snatching Crane was the only solution. If Crane were suddenly taken out of circulation, they would remain exposed to Hisami’s dossier, and that would keep Anastasia alive.
The new threat against Hisami was irrelevant. If Hisami was damaged, too fucking bad. He had stolen Anastasia from him, put her in appalling jeopardy and then, despite all his wealth and power, was incapable of helping her.
He consciously moved on to think about the challenge of seizing a well-protected Ukrainian gangster. He would need people and probably more money than he had allowed for. He made a list on his phone, went through it several times, committed it to memory and deleted it. Just past eight, he left the café, bought a smart card and boarded a tram that took him through suburbs of a very Nordic character bearing little trace of the country’s communist past. He alighted at a stop on the east of the city, where no one else got off, waited and watched, then headed into the old city.
Harland’s place was indeed pretty: a low white wall topped by ironwork from the twenties, a pale green building with shutters painted in a darker green and a doorway with a carved porch. He pulled the metal rod that operated the doorbell and waited. After a minute or two and another tug at the bell, Harland appeared, his glasses on top of his head.
‘We have some former colleagues here,’ he said, ushering him in with pained look. ‘They expected you to make contact with me because of the Macy connection. So they invited themselves to breakfast.’
Samson followed him down a bare wooden corridor of white panelling and minimal furniture into a large kitchen and living area which opened on to a conservatory. Peter Nyman and Sonia Fell were sitting together on a sofa. Fell gave him one of her prim looks.
Nyman nodded and said, ‘I was just complimenting Robert on his paintings – they really are very good indeed.’ He gestured to a wall of marine paintings, executed in oil and watercolour. ‘Did you know that our host was now a respected artist, Samson? Second act. Gives us all hope. They’re marvellous, aren’t they?’
An elegant woman in her sixties – grey hair cut into a bob with side-swept bangs, and dressed in beige and cream – appeared with a jug of coffee and a mug for Samson and flashed him a generous smile.
‘This is my wife – Ulrike,’ said Harland.
Samson greeted her, dropped his bag and sat down. Harland lowered himself cautiously into an upright Windsor armchair and drained his mug. ‘I’ll let Mr Nyman explain,’ he said unenthusiastically.
‘Peter – please call me Peter,’ said Nyman. Harland sniffed. ‘It’s quite an honour to be in the presence of such a luminary of our trade. I hope you appreciate Robert’s heroic past, Samson, and of course, Ulrike’s.’ He darted an ingratiating look in her direction.
Samson shrugged. ‘What do you want?’
‘As I have explained, we are here in an official capacity, representing the British government, and our message is quite simple. We have come to tell you to desist in all your efforts to contact, monitor or otherwise engage with Ray Shepherd, also known as Adam Crane, while you are in Estonia.’
‘The man who you and the British police maintain is dead,’ said Samson quickly.
Nyman gave him a weary look. ‘That’s as may be. But we will not allow you to sabotage an operation that has taken months to put together and on which our national interest depends.’
‘In what way does the national interest depend on a Ukrainian gangster and murderer?’
‘I am not at liberty to say,’ said Nyman. He moved forward. ‘Be very clear, Samson, that we will brook no opposition in this matter. The UK government is resolved. And that, as far as you are concerned, is an end to it. Go home and look after your restaurant. I hear it needs your full attention.’
Samson looked from Nyman to Fell but said nothing.
‘Do I have your assurance?’ said Nyman.
‘You always forget that I’m not working for you, or for the British government. And we’re not in London and you have no authority here.’
‘But we do have the power to cause you considerable inconvenience,’ said Sonia. ‘Be reasonable. There’s so much you don’t understand about all of this.’
‘I was hired to find Anastasia by her husband, and that is what I am going to do. Now you come to me and talk about Crane. Is this because you have knowledge of his involvement in her abduction? If so, you’ll be covering up not only a murder but also a kidnap. You want that made public, Peter?’
Nyman shook his head. ‘You’re emotionally involved, Samson. We understand that, but you must not let these feelings interfere in matters of national security. We’re asking for a few days. That’s all.’
‘For what?’
‘Look, everyone in this room has been in the intelligence business.’ Samson glanced at Ulrike and wondered about her. ‘We all know how delicate these things are. You’ve got to allow us to complete an immensely complex intelligence operation, of which you have not the slightest notion.’
‘What is there to fear from me if I don’t have the slightest notion about this?’
Nyman’s temper snapped. ‘Take it from me that I will personally see that you are destroyed if you mess with me on this.’ He stopped and controlled himself. ‘You will not – I repeat not – get in our way.’
‘Is that because you support the aims of a Ukrainian gangster? Because it very much looks like that from where I’m standin
g, and I’m sure it will to the media on both sides of the Atlantic.’
Nyman looked exasperated. Fell glanced at him and took over. ‘You know us better than that, Paul.’
‘Do I? Frankly, I don’t rule out anything these days. But it doesn’t matter one way or another. I am here to find and free Anastasia. You both know her and of the work she does. She was abducted while trying to help people. If there is anyone in this room who has done more for their fellow human beings, I’d be very surprised.’
Ulrike had appeared from the far end of the room and perched on the long dining-room table. ‘I’d be interested to hear about her work,’ she said, with a slight German accent.
‘She runs several centres for the psychological rehabilitation of migrants with trauma – mostly people from the Middle East and northern Africa. The centres were financed by her husband, Denis Hisami, in the memory of his sister, who was killed by ISIS. There’s nothing else to say. They do a very good job. I saw for myself in Italy a few days ago.’ He stopped, realising that he was sounding too passionate.
‘This is not relevant,’ said Nyman.
‘On the contrary,’ started Ulrike. ‘I think it’s very relevant that—’
‘Let me assure you it isn’t,’ said Nyman rudely.
Harland shifted and said, ‘I’d very much like to hear what my wife was going to say.’
Ulrike nodded to him. ‘It seems to me you’re placing the interests of an intelligence operation involving a very bad man and with uncertain outcomes – these things are never certain, are they? – above helping someone who is evidently a very good person.’
‘I am not here to debate the issue,’ said Nyman rattily. ‘I am here to represent the British government and tell Samson to cease and desist.’
Harland cleared his throat. ‘Just as it escaped your notice that Mr Samson is no longer in SIS, you also failed to comprehend that we are Estonian citizens and that our interest in what the British government is demanding tends to be on the low side.’
Samson’s attention wandered while this was going on. He looked around and saw how elegant the place was. A door led from the conservatory to an enclosed garden, at the end of which stood a Gothic gateway set in an ancient wall. Pot plants in the conservatory were still blooming among off-white and blue garden furniture. Books were piled high and neatly; jars of brushes and pencils were lined up on a table in the corner where the morning light flooded in. Anastasia would like it.
Nyman was looking appalled. ‘You’re no longer a British citizen, Robert! How can that be?’
‘The only thing I took from England is my language and this chair, which belonged to my father. When we got married and moved here we both decided to leave our citizenships behind.’ Ulrike aimed a smile at him from across the room. ‘You two coming into my house and trying to bully your way doesn’t cut any bloody ice. Is that clear?’
Nyman looked down at his shoes then up at Harland. ‘My apologies. You must forgive me. These are difficult times and this is a very important operation.’ He glanced at Samson. ‘And I believe Samson has some idea how important it is.’
Samson said nothing.
‘Come on, you know what this means,’ said Nyman.
‘Maybe, Peter, but my task is to save Anastasia.’ He got up in order to leave, but Harland gestured impatiently for him to sit down.
‘Look, I’m going to be frank with you,’ said Nyman. ‘We’re not some fascist cabal. We’re genuinely concerned to map what is going on and to prepare for the undoubted tumult that will occur if this all goes through. You have referred to the American origin of the money. Please understand that this is what concerns us most. I want you to see that we are on the same side, but that I can’t have my operation interfered with.’
‘Well, we know where we both stand,’ said Samson, not giving an inch.
‘I think this conversation is at an end,’ said Harland quietly. Nyman worked his way to the front of the sofa and got up, followed by Fell. At this point there was a crash from upstairs. They both looked up.
‘The lodger,’ said Ulrike. ‘A student. He must have dropped something.’
Harland’s eyes danced for a fraction of a second before he rose to show Nyman and Fell to the door.
When he came back he said, ‘He’s a pompous ass, but I think he’s telling the truth about his motives and he makes a good point about his operation. I’d feel pretty much the same way if I were running it. I hear about these threats from the far right all the time from our friends in the government here. It’s no bloody joke. They have to stay on top of it.’
‘I know,’ said Samson. ‘But with every day that Crane has to reorganise it becomes less likely that we will see Anastasia again. Once he’s done what he needs to do, he will have her killed. Taking Crane is the only way to save her.’
Harland looked at Ulrike and something seemed to pass between them. She said, ‘Now, let’s get our lodger down here. I am sure you’ll want to talk to him.’
CHAPTER 24
Anastasia woke with the gun in her lap. She had been forced off the track when she saw headlights coming from the compound and had plunged into the forest, thinking that she could make her way back easily. But she soon became lost and wandered around in the dark, occasionally clicking the lighter to see her way through the dense pine trees. She took many tumbles and when she tripped over a stump and went flying, the gun went off. The recoil drove the stock into her ribs and the report and muzzle flash left her trembling. It was then she looked for and found the safety slide, just where her thumb came to rest when aiming the gun. Pushed back, the slide made the gun safe.
She had no experience of being in the wild, and no taste for it. She remembered Naji talking about his journey through the mountains of Macedonia and how he and the Yazidi boy Ifkar always made sure they were dry. Cold was a deadly enemy, Naji advised her gravely – it was much better always to sit out a storm and conserve your strength. He took pride in telling her about making fires and heating stones that would keep you warm through the night and using food cans as saucepans. In a dripping forest without a torch, it was impossible to follow his advice, but beneath one of the bigger pines she found a bed of pine needles and dead leaves that was almost entirely dry, and she lay with her back propped against a tree and massaged her injured shoulder against its smooth trunk. She longed to make a fire but feared it would be seen.
When she woke up, she guessed by the angle of the sun that it was between eight and nine o’clock. She examined the bruises and cuts she’d acquired during the night and told herself that she couldn’t do another night in the forest. Most of the food she had grabbed in the kitchen had fallen from her pockets as she climbed the fence, or when she scrambled away from the track to avoid the pursuing vehicles. She was left with a small jar of pickles, a tin of some kind of fish and a packet of dried biscuits. What she craved was water. She got up and moved stiffly to the outer boughs of the trees and stroked the moisture on the needles into her open mouth. It helped a little. She ripped back the ring pull on the tin of fish and ate the entire contents with her fingers then poured the oil into her mouth, believing it would contain much-needed calories. The biscuits, which were like an infant’s rusk, were dry, but she softened one with her saliva and managed to get it down her parched throat. She felt better and began to think about which way to go. There were no clues and the position of the sun told her nothing because she didn’t know which direction she’d come from. Kirill had obviously chosen the hunting lodge because of its isolation, and she might go for many miles without hope of hitting the track or seeing any other signs of civilisation. But remaining under the tree was not an option. With the rifle slung over her shoulder and a stick in her left hand to help her through the patches of mossy bog, she headed south towards the sun because, that way, she at least knew she wouldn’t be walking in circles.
Nothing stirred around her until, about half an hour into her walk, she thought she heard something moving off to her
right. She stopped and, remembering Naji’s story about his encounter with a bear in Macedonia, listened intently. Everything was still for a few moments, but then whatever the creature was started moving again, plodding determinedly in her direction. She raised the rifle, pushed the catch forward and waited for what seemed like an age, aware only of her breathing and the approaching sound. The animal – she could hear it snorting now – was very close and she considered firing a warning shot into the bushes but realised she would have to reload. There was a series of crashes as the creature raced ahead of her, then a black boar with massive shoulders and small, curved tusks trotted into the open twenty metres in front of her, stopped and glanced in her direction before barrelling into the undergrowth to her left. Amazed by the size of the thing and its turn of speed, she lowered the rifle with a smile, the first genuine sign of joy that had crossed her face in – God, she had no idea how long it was. She looked up at the tops of the trees and smiled again.
The sight of the boar, its flanks steaming with exertion, gave her a lift. There was something else that occurred to her a little later, the certainty that she would pull the trigger on whatever threatened her. When she took the gun and shells from the cabinet she had had her doubts, but now she was sure she’d shoot to kill if her survival depended on it. Once, on the terrace of Mesopotamia, when, unusually, Denis and she had opened a second bottle of wine and talked late into a warm night, he told her that the only reason he’d managed to stay alive as a young man was because he had resolved he would always ‘make it out’. That attitude saved him countless times, he’d said. Now Anastasia told herself the same. She’d seen two men murdered and woken up to find a pair of bodies in that container, but she wasn’t damn well going to join them.