by Henry Porter
‘There’ll be a biometric check at the ferry terminal.’
‘Never been a problem before.’
At this the Bird woke from a reverie. He had a better idea. He’d need to make a call, because he wasn’t sure his contact was still in business. He pulled out a surprisingly sophisticated smartphone, dialled and waited, looking up at the ceiling with an absolutely insane expression on his face. Samson shook his head and began to make moves to collect his bags, which had been brought round from Cedar by a waiter. Macy raised a hand to him to say, hold on. At length, the Bird’s face lit up and after several barks of pleasure he said, ‘I have a friend who needs a ride.’
They waited until first light the next day for the spring tide to float Silent Flight, the forty-eight-foot sloop skippered by Gus Grinnel, an old MI6 hand who had come close to qualifying for the Olympics as helm in the Flying Dutchman Dinghy Class but instead ended up representing his country in the year-round Cold War regatta in the Southern Baltic. The yacht crept along a channel between the mudflats to the north of the Kent town of Faversham and took about half an hour to reach open water, whereupon Samson was stood down from his duty of buoy spotting.
Gus was cantankerous and almost certainly a drunk. Samson saw that relations between him and his Belgian crew, Fleur – thirty years his junior – were more or less broken. They snapped at each other constantly and disagreed about everything. They were proficient sailors, however, and Samson decided to let them get on with it. He went down below to rest his leg and read the Times obituary for Harland which Macy had cut and pasted into an email. He’d added a note: ‘Needless to say, Nyman didn’t show his notes to me before submitting them. I won’t bother sending the news story. Suffice to say that it was inaccurate in almost every detail and identified the killer as a man with known mental-health problems, without giving his nationality. But the obit is okay, as far as it goes.’
Robert Harland
The spy’s spy and hero of the Cold War
Born into a Scottish family with a history of colonial adventure, particularly on his mother’s side, Robert Harland seemed destined to find a role for himself in MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service, and to become one of its key operatives in the final decade of the Cold War. Many of his exploits remain subject to the Official Secrets Act because the ideas and tradecraft he developed are still used by a younger generation of spies today, but what is known of his career amply confirms Harland’s reputation as the ‘Spy’s spy’.
Although bright and athletic, Harland was not a success at school and was twice expelled for flouting regulations and for youthful pranks. His mother died when he was sixteen and his father, with whom Harland had a distant relationship, despaired of his son and put him to work on a local farm in Argyll. The tough life of a hill farmer suited the young man, but Harland made arrangements on his own to prepare for and sit the Oxbridge entrance exams. He went up to Oxford to study modern languages, where he gained a hockey blue and was spotted by MI6. After coming down he joined the army and the Black Watch. He was stationed in Germany and later in Northern Ireland, where he saw first hand what he regarded as the inept and brutal treatment of Catholics at the beginning of the Troubles. He held a lifelong belief that the North and South of Ireland should be united.
He joined MI6 in 1976 and after a routine posting to an embassy – in his case, New Delhi – he was sent to Berlin Station, then housed in the city’s old Olympic Stadium. Harland’s exceptional linguistic skill and attuned ear came into play: he was capable not only of speaking a language idiomatically but shifting from one regional accent to another, a talent that proved a great advantage when operating behind the Iron Curtain. He soon showed himself to be one of the more resourceful operatives, and by 1980 was running the Green Glass network across three Warsaw Pact countries.
The Green Glass network was based on the agricultural salesmen and suppliers who travelled extensively in the Warsaw Pact countries and had frequent contact with the West because of the Communists’ desperate need for foreign currency. When the Stasi uncovered the GDR part of the network three years later, it was felt that Harland had nothing more to offer in that particular theatre of the Cold War, and he moved to take up postings in Ankara and Cairo, neither of which he enjoyed as much as Berlin. By the end of the 1980s, however, he was back in Europe, preparing for one of the great intelligence operations of the era – extracting the Stasi-sponsored Arab terrorist Abu Jemal from a safe house in Leipzig, where the terrorist enjoyed the company of mistresses laid on by the GDR. The planning and execution were all Harland’s, and on the night the Wall came down he was responsible for springing his agent Kafka from the Stasi interrogation centre in Hohenschönhausen and, after a dash across East Berlin, he, Kafka and a double agent named Rudi Rosenharte reached the Wall at the moment it became possible to cross to the West without papers.
He always said that luck and good timing were as important as preparation and tradecraft, although he excelled at both. In Turkey, he happened upon the lynchpin figure – a Russian pilot – in the plot to flood Western Europe and America with Afghani heroin. In Egypt he was responsible for identifying key Libyan agents supplying arms to Western terrorists, as well as the man providing mortars and anti-personnel mines to civil wars across the continent, who also happened to be Russian.
A good-looking man with a commanding presence, Robert Harland was also famously taciturn, and he did not suffer fools, particularly in the upper echelons of SIS. But he could wear a suit and tie with the best of them. In New York, he worked undercover in the UK mission to the UN and was an impressive and convincing figure. Yet even there he could not escape drama and was one of the few passengers to survive an air crash at La Guardia.
Harland suffered for his country, at one stage being held and tortured by the feared Czechoslovak State Security, the StB. He never spoke of this ordeal and refused all honours. It is believed that he became disenchanted with MI6 and with his own country, especially after Brexit, which he deplored. Having helped the Estonians establish an intelligence service to defend the country against the Russian threat, he took out Estonian citizenship and made a new life with his wife, Ulrike, in Tallinn.
He leaves his wife, Ulrike, and a stepson – the German filmmaker Rudi Rosenharte, the son of his wife’s first husband and the man who Harland rescued from East Berlin.
Forty miles out from Zeebrugge, the wind swung round to the east and increased. Samson went up on deck. Gus, who had been taking regular pulls from a flask for most of the voyage, darted a black look at Fleur, handed over to her and went to sleep it off below. There were still five hours to port. Fleur amused herself by showing Samson the basics of sailing, teaching him to keep his eye on the luff of the sail, in the angle between the mast and the boom, as they steered as close as he could into the wind. He found himself enjoying the feel of the yacht surging forward in a force five and suddenly understood why Anastasia, a lifelong sailor, went on about it.
Fleur made them coffee and, as she handed him the mug, said, ‘I’m leaving him when we get there. I’ve had enough.’
Samson gave her an understanding nod but said nothing.
‘He was once a hero, but now he’s just a sad old drunk. Sometimes he hits me,’ she added casually.
‘Then you should probably leave.’
‘But of course I hit him back, and he always comes off worse. Have you got anyone special?’ she asked, with some interest in her eye.
He shook his head.
Later on, as they approached port and came within range of cellphone masts, his phone began to ping with messages, then it rang and Anastasia said hello for the first time in two years.
He was taken aback, and she was also unsettled, it seemed, and blurted, ‘Hi. Where are you?’ then corrected herself before Samson had time to respond. ‘I meant to say, how are you? Macy told me what happened. I was shocked. I would have called before but I was o
n a plane. Are you okay?’
‘It’s good to hear you, but we can’t talk on an open phone. I’ll send you a link to an encryption package, plus another number. Call me in two or three hours.’
He hung up.
Fleur gave him a knowing smile. ‘So you do have someone special. I can tell by your expression. That was her, no?’
PART TWO
Chapter 18
Leverkusen-Opladen Intersection
Anastasia tried, but in vain, to reach Samson over the next few hours, so she went to the terrace overlooking the Acropolis, drank wine and occupied herself with administrative emails for the foundation. She completed all she had to do then dialled Naji’s number. It rang out once and there was no voicemail message, but a second call was answered.
She heard a dog barking in the background and a man shouting, then an older woman’s voice close by.
‘Naji?’ she said.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s me – Anastasia. I’m using a different phone.’
‘Hi,’ he said, rather tentatively.
‘Everyone’s been trying to get you.’
‘Not everyone – just Samson.’
‘Well, I have also. Samson is very concerned about you, and I think you know why, Naj.’
He didn’t respond.
‘I was there when they tried to kill Denis. A lot of people might have died.’
‘Yes, I saw this on the news. I saw you, and I was concerned, but then I heard you were okay.’
‘They tried to kill Samson. He desperately needs to speak to you. Will you do that for me? It’s really, really important.’
‘We have talked already. I will see him at the funeral for Mr Harland. Maybe you, too.’
‘Ah, he didn’t tell me that you’d spoken. Yes, I will be there at the funeral.’
‘It was a short conversation. I was on an airplane.’
She heard the dog barking again and a young man call out. ‘Where are you? Is that your dog?’
‘Friend’s dog,’ he said.
Then she suddenly knew. ‘That’s Moon!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re at that farm with the family. With Ifkar! That’s where you’re hiding . . . Naji? Naji?’ He had hung up.
Having installed the encryption package, she phoned Samson. Again, she was alert to the background noise in the call. She heard people speaking around him and the French public address system. ‘Where are you?’
‘Brussels. I’m waiting for a train to take me to our favourite city. I’ve been told they’re checking airports in Europe, and this seemed more discreet. And where are you?’
‘Athens, I needed to see the team before going to the funeral.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really! I have a job to do. Decisions that can’t be delayed.’
‘I understand.’ His tone softened. ‘It’s good to hear your voice – really good! How’s Denis?’
‘I spoke to the hospital. He’s no better, no worse. It’s just going to take a lot of time. I’m seeing the foundation people in Athens again tomorrow, then I’ll be travelling to the funeral.’ She paused and looked across the city to the illuminated Parthenon. ‘I spoke to Naji. Did you know he’d gone to the farm and is with Ifkar and the old couple?’
‘No, I had no idea.’
‘He sounded strange. He hung up on me. Is he in danger?’
‘Very much so. They are trying to eliminate anyone who might have knowledge of what Denis knew. From their point of view, that includes me, maybe you and maybe Naji.’ He told her about spotting Naji leaving the Herbert Street building, and concluded, ‘I don’t know what the hell Bobby was doing embroiling Naji in all this, but it seems irresponsible of him.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Let me think about it,’ said Samson. ‘The nearer we get to solving this, the more dangerous things are going to become for all of us. Denis was preparing to reveal something. Do you know what that was?’
‘No. And nor does Jim Tulliver.’
‘What about the calendar in his briefcase?’
‘The Bureau asked me about that. It means nothing to me. Those codewords and the scrambled numbers.’
‘Well, I can help with the codewords. They are all colours: pitch black, pearl grey, Berlin blue, saffron yellow, red aurora – the choice of an artist. Does that ring any bells? What about the bank accounts? Mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t got the calendar with you?’
‘They gave me photocopies and kept everything else.’
‘Look, I think you should call Naji again and try to make him understand the danger he’s in.’
‘He won’t pick up. In any case, he’ll just ignore a warning from me.’
‘I have the sense there are a lot of young people in this thing. Denis was paying me to watch over a young woman named Zoe Freemantle who was working at an outfit called GreenState, which is important to the whole story, although only Denis and Bobby were in a position to tell us why.’
‘GreenState? Denis and I went to a fundraising evening with GreenState in LA last year. And I sat next to someone who is showing a very close interest in all this – Martin Reid, a right-wing billionaire. He’s offered to help.’
‘Yeah, I know who he is. I’m also interested in a character called Jonathan Mobius, who runs it, but I haven’t got on to that yet.’
‘That’s what we’re paying you for, isn’t it, Samson?’ It was out before she could stop herself.
He waited a few seconds before replying. A familiar coolness ensued. ‘I was employed to see no harm came to Zoe Freemantle, but the real reason I was put in there by your husband and Harland was to act as a decoy. As a result, my friend Jo and I were stabbed. Denis wasn’t paying me to investigate anything and, by the way, he wasn’t compensating me for the risk either.’
‘Your friend – how is she?’ she asked.
‘She’s okay, but badly shaken. It was unpleasant – a sexual aspect to it.’
‘As to what Denis was doing, I am as much in the dark as you.’
He grunted and said, ‘Perhaps we should wait until we meet for this conversation. I’ll be travelling for a day or so. You can phone, but I won’t have anything new.’
‘I’m going to be busy. I have meetings here.’
‘Okay, my train has been called. I need to go,’ he said.
The call had not gone well, and she had to admit that was probably her fault. She should have had more sense than to needle him, yet, there again, he knew nothing of what she’d been through in the past two years, because he hadn’t made the effort to find out. He could have called when she crashed, but he didn’t. He assumed that she had rejected him when, in fact, she simply wasn’t in any state to talk to him, though desperate to do so. Like every man she knew, he thought it was about him. And the mention of the friend who’d been stabbed, the woman he’d had an affair with before, that didn’t help matters.
And apart from telling her to call Naji again, he hadn’t given any proper help. Naji was now her first concern.
The call went on playing in her head and half an hour later she realised that Samson had sounded strained and tired. She texted him with ‘Sorry – XX.’
Samson boarded the night train to Düsseldorf, where he would change for Berlin and catch the service to Warsaw. He was among the first passengers but, instead of finding his seat straight away, he waited at the door, looking down the platform at the forty or so people making their way to the train. It would be surprising if he’d picked up a tail on the journey from Zeebrugge to Brussels, but he wanted to be sure. The only likely candidates were two men, apparently travelling separately, who boarded the carriage next to his. One, wearing a flat cap and a quilted vest under a dark jacket, stepped aside to allow two women in hijabs on to the train, glanced at Sams
on then looked away. The other, in a black skiing anorak and with a rucksack hanging from one shoulder, climbed on without looking in Samson’s direction but made his way through the carriage and sat a few seats away from the connecting door. The first man went to a seat three rows behind him and began to study his phone. There was absolutely nothing to say they were following him. Samson reminded himself that he hadn’t slept properly for two nights and that the pain of his leg might be making him jumpier than usual. Nevertheless, at the moment the doors began to close, he stepped down on to the platform and moved away. The man in the cap looked up as the train drew out of the station. Samson couldn’t tell if there was anything more than indifference in his expression.
He bought a ticket for Amsterdam, where he would connect with Deutsche Bahn’s intercity service to Cologne and Berlin. The whole journey would take about eight hours, during which time he could rest and put his leg up. He went through the same checks as the train prepared to leave Brussels for the Dutch capital, then again when he was leaving Amsterdam Centraal in the early hours, and both times satisfied himself that he was alone.
Once on the almost-empty train for Berlin, he ate a baguette and drank one of two half-bottles of red wine he’d bought. He lifted the leg with both hands to rest it on the opposite seat, but this seemed to make it worse. He looked around. No more than half a dozen people were in the carriage. He dived into his bag and took out one of the three morphine pen injectors and, as per the instructions, placed the blunt purple end to his good thigh and pressed as firmly as he could. He winced at the pain. Nothing much happened so he distracted himself by making a list.
His lists were the subject of mockery by Jo and Anastasia, yet they worked to reduce a tangle of facts and ideas in his mind to a few simple statements.
He wrote:
1. Nov. 2019 Harland saw someone in Berlin – the ‘Ghost from the East’.
