by Henry Porter
‘Nothing.’
‘Please, Paul, don’t offend my intelligence. You are a prime target of the people who killed Bobby and tried to poison the whole of Congress.’
Samson shrugged.
‘That latest was the third attempt on your life, or have I missed one?’
He nodded.
‘Well, I’m glad I caught up with you tonight – who knows whether you’ll be here tomorrow. By the way, they didn’t catch the man who tried to kill you this afternoon.’ He studied Samson. ‘You left a message on my phone this morning saying you wanted some help. Hit me! What do you need?’
‘I wanted to see the man who killed Bobby – Nikolai Horobets, but . . .’
‘Well, I am sorry to inform you that Nikolai passed.’
‘Pneumonia? I didn’t realise he was so sick.’
‘No, VX nerve agent. Ring any bells?’
‘Jesus – in the hospital?’
‘You know what VX stands for? Extremely fucking venomous. An individual wearing full protective equipment gained access to the secure section where he was being treated, removed his oxygen mask and sprayed his face with the nerve agent. He died a few minutes later. There was no trace of the assassin. But this now conforms to a pattern. Vladan Drasko died in the Virginian motel. The FBI must know that that was no accident, and today we received good information that Miroslav Rajavic, the man who attempted to kill you, was found dead in Belgrade yesterday. Yes, the Matador is no longer with us! That means that all the assassins are dead, including the one that you killed in self-defence.’ He placed air quotes around ‘self-defence’ with a wicked smile.
‘Did you get anything out of him before he died?’
‘We did. But that’s a secret, Paul.’
‘Have you told the Americans about him?’
‘They’ll learn in due course. No need to talk to them.’
Samson asked himself why he said that. ‘So, what do you want?’
Tomas smiled regretfully, as though he had left his wallet at home and needed Samson to pick up the tab. He was asking a favour, yet not a very large one. ‘We want to know everything, but before you start telling me, there is someone I want you to meet.’ He brought his hands together in a gentle clap. A slim man who’d been at the far end of the bar with a newspaper swivelled on the bar stool and slid off. He looked like an architect or a designer, with his cropped blond hair, navy blue spectacle frames, white shirt and knitted black tie. He sat down on the chair at the end of the booth table. He seemed familiar to Samson.
‘This is our director, Mr Sollen,’ said Tomas. The man offered his hand, palm facing down. ‘Aaro Sollen,’ he said and tipped his head towards Tomas.
‘We know that Bobby and Mr Hisami were collaborating,’ began Tomas. ‘We became curious when Mr Hisami’s plane began appearing at the airport and we concluded they were involved in a project. But we wondered who, what and why they were investigating, and why they needed the help of the young Syrian genius, who was also often in Tallinn.’ He looked at Samson hard before saying, ‘The boy who so impressed us all two years ago. What was he doing in Tallinn again? We realised that his role was probably technical, so we wondered exactly who they were damn well hacking.’
‘I don’t know who they were targeting, but I think this all started in Berlin,’ said Samson, and went on to explain the Ghost from the East theory – Harland spotting an individual from the old Soviet bloc.
‘A Russian?’ asked Tomas.
‘No, East German, and I heard something about a man called Anatoly Stepurin.’ He let Tomas winkle out the connection about a Russian special forces veteran who may or may not have been the paymaster for a man named Oret, who’d turned to the Balkan, Ukrainian and Dutch underworlds for an impromptu team of hit men. Tomas didn’t know about Oret, or his death, but KaPo knew of Stepurin. ‘That sounds right,’ he said. ‘Who’s he working for – American or Russian interests, do you think?’
‘Maybe it’s both.’
Tomas caught on quickly. ‘You mean Americans that are Russian assets, and these assets may also include Britons.’ He stopped. ‘So we’re talking about long-term, high-level penetration by the old enemy.’
‘The old enemy,’ repeated Samson.
‘But now this is all about power and influence, not ideology.’
‘That’s always true these days, isn’t it?’
‘And your own people at SIS?’
‘They’re not my people, Tomas, but I will say their reaction is pretty fucking weird. They want to explain all this as blowback from Narva – gangsters settling scores for the deaths of Chumak and Bukov – and so keep it well away from the Russian state. But that doesn’t stop them wetting their pants about what was going on in some run-down buildings in east London.’
‘East London – that’s where this whole operation was based?’
‘Yes.’
‘And financed by Hisami. He was paying you as well?’
Samson nodded.
‘Something puzzles us,’ said Tomas. ‘Why was your and my friend Robert Harland killed when we believe he had ceased working with Mr Hisami because he had just weeks to live?’
‘The people who ordered the hit didn’t know Harland was ill, nor that they’d stopped collaborating.’
‘We think they were attempting to eliminate his knowledge – same with Hisami. That makes us ask why they tried to kill you.’ He looked up as the waitress appeared with their dinner.
Sollen smiled and said, ‘Why did they try to kill you? You knew nothing. We understand that because the first thing you did when you arrived in Estonia was to go out to Karu Saar in search of whatever you could find. You had a relatively minor role. Why you?’ He waited for Samson to respond, but got nothing. ‘But you know what you’re looking for, because the moment you arrive in Estonia, you choose to go out to the cabin and conduct a search. What did you find?’
‘A man with a sniper rifle – I had to get out of there fast.’
‘You found something,’ said Tomas. ‘I can feel it.’ He waved his fork at him. ‘You’re a very determined person.’
‘Don’t pretend you haven’t searched the place,’ Samson said. ‘You know there’s nothing there, Tomas.’
‘Ulrike didn’t come back to Tallinn after Bobby was murdered. She wanted to grieve alone without people fussing over her. We didn’t search the place.’
Samson didn’t believe him. Ulrike had returned to Tallinn. If they had been spying on Harland’s meeting with Denis Hisami, they wouldn’t be averse to poking around his hideout. But he nodded understandingly.
‘How did you find the cabin?’ asked Sollen.
‘Ulrike gave me instructions.’
‘By phone?’
‘She got a message to me.’
‘How?’
‘She sent a note to my hotel with a key.’
‘Why didn’t you go to see her?’
‘She didn’t want me to. Maybe she’s being watched.’
‘Yes, the people who killed her husband are here, and they are no doubt watching. Presumably, there was an intermediary who left the note at your hotel. Someone she could trust.’
‘I don’t know. I was asleep.’
‘Such a lot of trouble to take to get a painting and a sketchbook: she could’ve sent someone from the gallery – they’ll do anything to help her right now. But she wanted you to go because she knew that with her help you would find all the data that Bobby accumulated. Was she waiting for you to come to Estonia for the funeral so that you could retrieve those secrets from their hiding place? Perhaps that’s why she stayed at the cabin for as long as she did.’
Samson began shaking his head before Sollen finished. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he said. ‘And while you’re about it, you should talk to her about Berlin. I was there, but Bobby didn’t tell me about t
he individual he spotted. He must have told Ulrike.’
Tomas said simply. ‘We know you have what you went looking for, Paul, so there’s no point talking about Berlin.’
Sollen studied him. ‘Can I ask where you were in the cabin when the man shot at you?’
‘In the kitchen, near the back door.’
‘And he shot at you from the front of the house, through the window of the main room – that’s what the police say. How long were you there before he shot?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Sollen smiled. He knew Samson couldn’t admit to being there much longer than it took to pick up the painting and the sketchbook.
‘Does it occur to you that he was watching what you were doing through binoculars and only shot when he was certain you’d found what you were looking for? The fact that he took the shot tells me he thought you had.’ He raised a hand. ‘Please don’t embarrass yourself or us by denying it. The question is, what are we going to do now? Obviously, you’re at great risk, but if they think you have shared the information, they may wait to decide what to do next.’ His hand now dropped to lie across Samson’s, where it remained. ‘In Estonia we are on the frontline. Every moment of our professional lives is dedicated to preserving the freedom that we won thirty years ago. That means we have to concentrate very hard on what they’re up to in Moscow and how they’re trying – and in most cases succeeding – to disrupt Western democracy. I don’t need to tell you that these people are very bad. They work through proxies like Stepurin, but the source of the evil resides in those ex-KGB men who run things. These people never went away. They’re exactly the same, but now they believe only in money and their own power.’ He removed his hand and turned to the waitress to order a cognac, evidently a rare event, from the look on Tomas’s face. Nothing was said until the drink arrived. He held the glass up, admired the colour of the liquid and said, ‘To the memory of Robert Harland – a friend to liberty and Estonia.’ Samson again drank to Harland’s memory,
‘What would Bobby advise you to do now?’ continued Sollen. ‘I believe he would tell you to share his information with us. First, this course makes it less likely that you’ll be targeted. Second, if anything does happen to you, the information can still be used. We would make sure that it was used to good effect.’
Samson looked around the bar, which was now nearly empty. He had no objection in principle to sharing information with them, but only at the right moment. He was under no illusions about these two. While he dined with Tomas and his boss, his room would have been searched and fitted with bugs and possibly a camera over the desk, the place where he was likely to research the five names he now had.
He drank the remainder of his wine. ‘If there were such a cache of secrets, wouldn’t it be wise to share it with the CIA and FBI?’ he said. ‘They’ve already made big advances, based on material found in Hisami’s briefcase.’
Sollen swivelled to him. ‘You must not share with the Americans. You have to consider whether the Americans are as corrupted as your own intelligence service appears to be. When penetration has taken place at the highest level, the instinct to cover up and hide the weakness in the system is even greater. These secrets should be used appropriately, and in some cases made public so people understand what the other side is capable of.’
Samson wondered about the vehemence of Sollen’s reaction. In the great intelligence bazaar, information was never disclosed without profit, but rather used to gain influence and leverage. Information was the reserve currency – the only thing that actually mattered.
Samson began to make his excuses, but before he could leave two men appeared and waited a little distance from the table. Sollen got up, nodded to Tomas. ‘I will see you at the funeral, Mr Samson. Good night.’
Tomas watched the three men move towards the back entrance of KandaBaar. ‘Someone tried to poison him with ricin just a few weeks ago. He’s too good for them, and they know it.’ He paused to deliver one of his winning smiles. ‘The deal is this – we will protect you here and make sure that Ulrike is safe, but we need to know everything.’
‘Then you will have to find someone who can tell you, because I don’t know everything.’
They had reached the end of the road. KaPo wanted everything, but for precisely what purpose wasn’t clear, and Samson needed to know.
Chapter 22
Ulrike’s Story
At the hotel, he gave the desk clerk a €50 note and asked to change rooms because of the likelihood that his room had been bugged while he was at dinner. He moved his things but decided that he wouldn’t conduct internet searches of the five names using the hotel’s wifi for the reason that Tomas might have compromised that, too. He sent a text to Ulrike. It was eleven o’clock, but he knew she would be up and wasn’t surprised when he received a message with instructions to use the garden entrance to her home. He arrived at the door in the mediaeval wall at the back of the Harlands’ house. It couldn’t be opened from the street without a key. He pushed at it without success then heard it being unlocked from the inside. As the door opened, a match flared and he saw Ulrike briefly. She took his hand and led him through the rambling roses that had got out of control over the last year. ‘Be careful, they will cut you to pieces,’ she said. They reached the conservatory. The door was open. A cigarette smouldered in an ashtray that rested in a large flower tub by the door. She turned and embraced him and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. ‘How good of you to come, dear Samson. In the few years Bobby knew you, he came to like and admire you. That was rare for him. He would be pleased you’re here.’
She picked up the cigarette and took a last drag before extinguishing it, shaking her head. ‘I gave up for Bobby, though I knew he was smoking when he was out there. But now, well, I think there is no point, so I smoke.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I know you are, Samson. I know.’ She studied him. ‘It’s odd – you’re like him in so many ways.’
They moved inside. She offered him a whisky, which he accepted to keep her company, and they sat down opposite each other on a pair of wicker sofas. ‘I’m glad you came, but you didn’t bring the painting and the sketchbook!’
‘Didn’t want everyone to know where I was going. I’ve just had dinner with the KaPo.’
‘And they want to know everything. They came to see me – Tomas and his boss. I stalled, but, well, I rely on them for my security.’
‘You didn’t tell them about this,’ he said, taking out the Nomenclature of Colours and laying it on the table. ‘Do you know what’s inside?’
‘Bobby never let me look at it and he changed his hiding places. Of course, I guessed it was near his mother’s cookbook because I caught him with the book in his hands two weeks ago. He never showed the slightest interest in cooking. Never! It was there only to remind him of her.’ There was something heroic in her grief. She was still beautifully turned out in her usual colours of grey and beige. Mourning made no difference to the care she had taken over her hair, held in a clip at the back and still quite dark.
‘Does anyone else know? Naji?’
She shook her head. ‘I was against Bobby using Naji. It was too much of a risk after what that boy had been through. But they needed him and he wanted to do it. There was no question of pressure. I would not have allowed that. But, yes, Naji knows everything.’
‘He knows about all the names in this book?’
She nodded and reached into a bowl of sugared almonds. ‘I don’t cook now. There’s no need, so I graze. That is the English expression, isn’t it? I like to graze.’
‘When I was out at the cabin, I saw a young couple there. There were signs they’d stayed the night. I’m certain one of them was Zoe Freemantle, the woman I was paid to protect in London. Did you know they were there? Were they looking for this?’ He tapped the book.
‘Ach! They didn’t tell me they
were going.’ She gave him a frustrated look. ‘I’ll tell you about them later. There are things I have to explain to you. It’s complicated.’
It seemed odd but he let it go. ‘They were lucky not to be killed.’
‘I think the gunman was waiting for you. They can’t know about Zoe’s involvement. That was an important part of the whole operation. They never knew about her.’
‘And the young man?’
She clasped her hands. ‘That was my son, Rudi Rosenharte the second.’
Samson’s head spun. He’d met Rudi in Berlin but hadn’t recognised him at the cabin. He sat back. ‘They’re a couple?’
‘Yes, they are.’ She sighed. ‘It’s very, very complicated, but there’s plenty of time for that later.’ She topped up the whisky with water and looked at him, gently nodding, as though encouraging herself. ‘This story begins in 1989, when I was held for a brief time in Hohenschönhausen prison in East Berlin. But do you want to hear this now? Maybe wait until tomorrow.’
He shook his head.
‘I don’t sleep, so it makes no difference to me.’ She stopped. ‘I miss him beside me, you see.’
Samson leaned over and touched her arm. ‘We don’t have to speak about it now. We can sit here and get drunk on Bobby’s whisky.’
‘But you have brought the book and you risked your life to get it! I don’t think we can ignore that. Bobby was killed for it, and Macy told me that they tried to kill you in London, twice. You and your friend were stabbed, and now they want to arrest you.’
‘We’re both okay now,’ he said, opening the book and handing it to her. ‘Who is Mila Daus?’
Ulrike was silent for a few moments as she looked at one of Bobby’s early paintings – a study of grass bent in the wind. She glanced at him. Fury had replaced hurt in her eyes. ‘Mila Daus is the most evil person I have ever met. You read about those female guards in the camps – that is Mila Daus. There is nothing else to be said. She is everything beyond the gates of Hell. I saw her for a few minutes when she prescribed for me a regime to break my spirit. Because I was suspected of spying against the state, I was to be crushed before the trial. That was the word she used to me – crushed. She said she would see me again in six months, when I wouldn’t recognise myself.
