by Henry Porter
There were seven in the young congresswoman’s offices – Anastasia, Hisami, Jim Tulliver, a lawyer named Stewart Steen, Ricard and two members of her team. Anastasia said nothing, though occasionally nodded to her husband when he glanced at her to see if she agreed. She was worried for him. After investigations and court appearances lasting two years, he had become gloomy and defensive in his manner, and he wasn’t coming over at all well on TV.
‘You have a lot to talk about with the foundation’s work,’ said the congresswoman brightly, ‘a proven record of humanitarian care. I guess you need to refer to Anastasia’s background and the projects in the Mediterranean and then you call these fucking guys out. They’re mostly lawyers and they’ve done damn all to help their fellow human beings.’
It was at this point that Jim Tulliver, who was sitting next to Anastasia, withdrew the phone from his inside pocket to read a text. Anastasia couldn’t help but see Samson’s name and the brief message about Robert Harland’s death. She touched Tulliver discreetly on the arm and shook her head to tell him not to show her husband then shrugged helplessly to apologise for reading over his shoulder. He nodded and returned the phone to his pocket. The news was indeed bad – she was fond of Harland and Ulrike and he, of course, was partly responsible for saving her life – but why did Tulliver look so devastated? As far as she knew, he’d never met Harland.
The planning went on for a few minutes more before one of her staff appeared to say that the session was due to commence in ten minutes. ‘Okay, so we better get our asses over to the Rayburn,’ said the congresswoman. ‘Remember, there’s no elevator from this floor.’ She glanced at the lawyer, who was still looking put out at her remarks about his profession. ‘Come along, Mr Steen – we all know the world needs lawyers, just fewer Southern trial lawyers and the ones that defend the coal industry.’ She dived into her desk. ‘You people go ahead and I’ll see you in 2172.’ She straightened and gave Hisami a brief hug. ‘That’s on the taxpayer. You’ll be fine, Denis.’
Four of them hurried along the endless corridors towards the northern foot tunnel, the southern one being closed as part of the renovation works. When they reached it, the Capitol Police told them there was a demonstration – climate-emergency protestors had positioned themselves at the far end of the tunnel – so it was going to take a lot longer to reach the Rayburn. Tulliver explained that they were in a hurry and an officer led the way, breaking through the line of demonstrators, who were in the process of gluing themselves fast to the walls, the railings and each other. When they emerged in the hygienic sixties splendour of the Rayburn and started to push through the media scrum, they were already several minutes late.
Anastasia caught hold of Tulliver’s arm. ‘What’s going on, Jim? They weren’t here this morning.’
‘Maybe they’ve been tipped off about questions we haven’t anticipated. I’ll talk to Denis.’
‘And what was that about Harland?’
‘Later,’ he said.
Hisami had gone ahead with Steen, forging through the crowd of reporters with the help of the officer, nodding but refusing to answer questions hurled at him about his past as a military leader in Iraq. She saw him stop as a thickset man in a suit and tie blocked his way and thrust a bundle of papers into his hands, as though he were delivering a subpoena. Hisami glanced at the papers, shook his head with irritation and looked up to try to find the man, who had retreated into the crowd. He passed the bundle to Steen, who clamped it under his briefcase arm and pointed ahead to the committee-room door.
The hearing started sedately enough, with the chair of the committee, an old Democratic congressman from New York named Harry Lucas, making a short opening statement about the delay caused by protestors all over the Capitol. Hisami sat alone at the table with a few papers in front of him. Anastasia and Steen were a little to his right, while Tulliver took the chair immediately behind Hisami. As Lucas consulted a member of his staff, he leaned forward and whispered to Hisami, who listened without turning round.
It was the turn of Ranking Member Warren Speight, the representative for the First Congressional District of Louisiana. He had an easy, pleasant manner, but the day before had twice caught Denis out and made him look evasive.
‘Mr Hisami, you told us this morning that you and your wife have spent millions of dollars in the provision of psychological and therapeutic care, is that right? Speight did not look up to see Denis nod. ‘And this foundation of yours was set up in the memory of your sister, Dr Aysel Hisami, correct? Would you care to tell us a little more about her, Mr Hisami?’
‘Yes, she was a dedicated doctor. She worked with children undergoing treatment for cancer. In 2014 she returned to our homeland in northern Iraq to help treat the huge number of battlefield casualties in the war against Islamic State. She was taken prisoner and died in captivity. We don’t know exactly when that was, but her death was eventually confirmed by women who were held with her. My wife and I wanted to keep her memory alive so we set up the Aysel centres to deal with the trauma experienced by refugees – from torture, the loss of loved ones, and the hardship of leaving everything they know behind. My wife is a psychologist and was an aid worker in Greece, and this was an area where we knew we could make a real difference.’
‘And you have started working on the border with Mexico. That’s much more controversial territory. You have come up against ICE – Immigration and Customs Enforcement – right?’
‘It’s a pilot programme. We’re working through the issues with ICE.’
‘Tell me about your sister. You were close?’
‘We went through a lot together. We were also once refugees.’
‘When you were defending yourself against allegations made by ICE, in effect the Department of Homeland Security, in New York two years ago, the court heard evidence about your past as a commander in the PUK – the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan. That was when you were known by your birth name, Karim Qasim, is that correct? Your sister changed her name, too.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because she was also a fighter with the PUK, a front-line combatant.’
‘Yes, for a short while.’
Anastasia saw the way this was going. Speight was drawing a picture of two fanatical young Kurds who had laundered their reputation in the States but remained committed to the armed struggle for Kurdish independence. The mention of the tiny operation on the Mexican border, which had been her project, was only meant to stoke opposition to her husband. She glanced at Steen, who shook his head and then did something odd. He got up, stretched to the witness desk and grabbed the water carafe that was set in front of the empty chair beside Denis. Harry Lucas looked over his glasses disapprovingly but let it go because Steen looked like he really needed it.
‘And there were photographs shown to the court of you at the scene of a war crime,’ continued Speight, ‘where scores of Iraqi soldiers had been massacred.’
‘Yes, I was in the company of the CIA officer named Bob Baker, who’s in the photographs and gave evidence in court. That was at a time when the United States and the PUK worked closely together. We were allies. Regrettably, on that occasion, we were too late to save those men from being murdered.’
‘It is fair to say that you are a fighting man. You were a successful commander – you’re someone who knows how to handle himself in a war setting.’
‘That was true, yes. But not today . . .’
‘Yet you believe there are times when only aggression – that is to say, military action – will get the job done.’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Like the time when you avenged your sister by killing the men whom you believed imprisoned her. That was in Macedonia, sometime in 2015, right?’
‘There were reports, but they were inaccurate in almost every respect.’
That at least was true, thought Anastasia. The one site that eventually re
ported the events in the remote farm in northern Macedonia had got almost everything wrong, except Denis’s presence.
A point of order came from the congressman sitting next to Ricard to the effect that this was not relevant to the matter in hand – namely the allegation that Mr Hisami was supporting the military effort in Iraq against America’s allies. The chair overruled him, but the intervention gave Hisami time to pour a glass of water and compose himself. Anastasia saw his face was ashen and one hand was shaking where it rested on his leg.
‘Whether the reports go to the point that Mr Hisami is a man of action,’ said Speight, ‘he has undeniably donated large sums to humanitarian causes. He has used this as a cover to supply money to buy weapons for the Kurdish forces within the last few months.’ He reached down and retrieved some papers. ‘I have documentation here, which I enter in the record, that shows in excess of $50 million of transfers to accounts known to be operated by the Kurds. All I ask Mr Hisami now, is where are the medical centres and hospitals? Where are the scores of doctors and nurses? Where is the life-saving equipment which that kind of money buys?’
This is what the reporters had been waiting for. A murmur ran through Room 2172. Photographers jumped up to catch Hisami’s expression, but he had his head in his hands and was looking down. Anastasia moved forward, but before she could do anything Stewart Steen made a helpless flapping motion, thrust his legs out and lay back rigid in his chair. His eyes were staring at the ceiling and his mouth foamed at the corners. ‘We need help here!’ she yelled. ‘Get a doctor!’
Then it was Hisami’s turn. He pushed his chair back, kicked out his legs and waved his arms about wildly. His eyes searched the room with a total lack of comprehension and then he seemed propelled backwards by some unseen force, which caused him to fall over the back of his chair. His most trusted aide was unable to prevent him falling to the ground, where he lay rigid with a sound of gurgling in his throat.
‘Clear the room and get a doctor in here now!’ shouted the Chair. ‘Call 911. I said clear the room, goddammit.’
But a louder voice, that of Warren Speight, prevailed. ‘Don’t touch them!’ he commanded. Then, leaning forward, he called to Tulliver, who was crouched over Hisami. ‘Sir, sir, do not move. They’ve likely been poisoned. Step away from him now, sir! Do as I say, please.’
The word ‘poisoned’ was all that was needed to clear the room. Over seventy people filed out instantly, only a few of them daring to look back. Very soon, the periphery of 2172 was swarming with Capitol Police, and not long afterwards came men in biohazard suits, trained for precisely this emergency. Anastasia and Tulliver stood rooted to the spot, looking down at the two men, who, in their agony, were completely unrecognisable.
Chapter 5
Bulletin
Samson waited over an hour in his office before he spoke to Macy Harp, time he filled with Cedar’s accounts and invoices that needed attention. A text had arrived from Imogen postponing the conference call at Macy’s office– clearly everything had been upended by Harland’s death. Macy eventually phoned at 8.25 p.m.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Samson. ‘I know what Bobby meant to you, Macy.’
There was a brief silence at the other end. ‘He only had a few months left and the fucking bastards robbed him of that.’ His voice faltered. ‘He had cancer, but kept going.’ He stopped, overcome with grief. ‘He was a great man and as reliable and brave as hell. I loved him dearly.’
‘Of course you did, Macy. I’m sorry – I’m bloody useless at this. Never know what to say.’
‘What can anyone say?’
‘Any idea who’s responsible? I had Nyman round here. He told me about it, but he hadn’t got any details.’
‘Yes, I guess the Office will be getting worked up, though Bobby thought they were a bunch of clowns latterly. Our conference call – the one I wanted you in on – has been delayed and I don’t want to talk about this on the phone. Let’s have a bite.’
‘Not here. Nyman’s having dinner with a woman – probably Sonia Fell – and he said that I am going to be monitored from now on because of that business in Narva. He thinks there’s a connection with Bobby.’
‘Well, you know how to avoid them. There’s an Italian restaurant off Shepherd’s Market – Corfinio. I’ll see you there in ten minutes.’
Samson put on a clean shirt and changed jackets then left through the kitchen and down an alley where Cedar’s bins were lined up. Not many minutes later he found Macy in the restaurant with a bottle of red wine and the menu.
‘We’ll order then talk,’ he said. He was flushed and distraught, and angrier than Samson had ever seen him.
‘I met Bobby when I was twenty-seven, you know. I was a lad, just joined MI6 and didn’t know shit from sawdust. Bobby was my senior by five years and he taught me everything. We worked on a lot of the same operations. Good judgement! Really had a nose for it. Almost second sight. And he never, ever fucking played games.’
They ordered and were silent for a few minutes. Harp slung back a glass of wine and poured another with a fierce look.
‘Did you talk to Ulrike?’
‘Not yet – she’ll be devastated. Of course, she was preparing for his death. He was in the final stretch. I pray he had the sense to tell her how much he loved her, because he did! She was the love of his life, you know.’ He stopped. There were tears in his ears. ‘It’s absolutely bloody, the whole thing.’
Samson looked down. ‘I know.’
‘We have to find these fuckers and deal with them.’ Macy gripped his hand. ‘Deal with them. That’s what he would have done. That’s what he did. He dealt with the people who killed Ulrike’s husband. He sorted out some bastards in Bosnia and the Czech Republic. This was a man who was tortured, blown up in a fucking plane, and he never, ever buckled. He fought the good fight is what he did.’ He raised his glass. Samson did likewise and for the second time that evening he drank to the memory of Robert Harland.
Presently, Samson asked, ‘What do you think about Nyman’s theory? He says it’s the Russians avenging the deaths of Chumak and Bukov. All those who were at Narva are now targeted. That’s me, Anastasia, Naji Touma, and, I guess, my friend Vuk Divjak.
‘The Serb rascal?’
‘The same.’
Macy looked away and frowned. ‘Why now? Why not a couple of years back? And who were Chumak and Bukov? They were nothing. You don’t go assassinating a man like Bobby Harland because of a couple of dead grease monkeys. It doesn’t add up.’
‘They had a go at me today,’ said Samson, and Macy looked up from his glass. ‘I thought he was going to attack Zoe Freemantle, but there’s no doubt he was after me, though he was about as useless an assassin as ever lived. I believe they put a tracker on my bike.’ He told him the whole story.
‘Well, that does change things. Did you tell Nyman?’
Samson shook his head.
‘Good.’
The food arrived and Macy ordered another bottle of wine.
‘I thought we had a conference call later.’
‘We do, and it’s important but, frankly, I need this.’ He stopped, pushed the veal around his plate, ate a potato then put his knife and fork down. ‘So Nyman put surveillance on you without knowing about this attack on you. He will have got the security services involved, and they wouldn’t be up for that unless they thought there would be success at the end of it. So what’s he told them? What does he know that he hasn’t told you?’ Macy may have been feverishly trying to forget his grief, but what he said made sense.
Samson thought for a few moments. ‘My rule with Nyman is that the thing he tells you is usually dead opposite of the truth, so I’m working on the assumption that it has nothing to do with Narva. Oh, by the way, I got sacked from GreenState. Zoe eyeballed me at the Junction and had me fired for stalking her, so I guess that’s the end of that job. And another
thing, I had to lose the motorbike.’
‘You’ve had a busy day. That’s a pity, but it couldn’t be avoided. You had to defend yourself.’ He paused and considered his uneaten meal. ‘Actually, the conference call is all to do with her.’ He put his hand up. ‘Don’t ask! Denis will fill you in.’
‘Hisami! What’s he got to do with this?’
‘He’s paying the bills. That’s why you were getting two grand a day, Samson.’
‘Why’s he protecting a young environmentalist in London?’
‘You can ask him yourself shortly.’ He checked his watch. ‘I told him you needed more information and that you were likely to get bored and chuck in the towel unless he told you more.’
As Samson would remember it, Imogen phoned a few moments later. In fact, Macy and he talked for twenty minutes about Berlin and how Harland had extracted firstly an Arab terrorist and, on the night when the Wall came down, brought two agents over, the art historian Rudi Rosenharte and the woman who was known as Kafka – Ulrike Klaar – whom Harland eventually married. Both had been working for Bobby.
When Imogen’s call came, Macy listened intently then exclaimed, ‘Jesus Christ! Is he alive?’ Without looking at Samson, he asked, ‘What about his wife, Anastasia? She’s okay – good.’ He listened a few more seconds, then hung up and searched for a text from Imogen with the link she’d mentioned.
‘What the hell’s happened?’
‘Hisami was poisoned in Congress. He’s still alive. A lawyer is dead. It’s all on CNN.’
Macy found it on his phone and held it so Samson could see the screen. The clip started with a reporter in the hallway of the Rayburn Building explaining that a Foreign Affairs hearing had been cleared because a witness and his lawyer had fallen ill at a dramatic moment in the proceedings. The voice of the reporter continued as footage from inside Room 2172 was shown. The Ranking Member, Congressman Speight, was seen flourishing evidence of money transfers to Kurd-controlled accounts. The cameras turned to the lawyer, who was gripped by some sort of spasm. Samson saw Anastasia jump up and call for help. At that moment, Denis fell over the back of his chair and collapsed at the feet of Jim Tulliver. There followed random footage from the media cameras in the room, as well as from people’s phones, which did a better job of capturing the chaos of the situation. The report cut from a close-up of Denis Hisami’s body on the floor to a shot of the lawyer, who already looked dead but was said to have survived another thirty minutes, then to the chair of the committee waving people out of the room and Speight shouting at someone and gesticulating.
