by Henry Porter
Tomas reached for the book. Samson placed his hand on it. ‘All in good time. Happy to give you a copy of the relevant pages and the list we found at the back, but that’s on the condition that you take no action and don’t use the information in a way that will damage outcomes in the United States and United Kingdom. We – I – need to have a free hand.’
Sollen placed his fingertips together and looked out of the window. ‘We thank you for this information, but let me ask you how you are going to prove this woman is a Russian asset, and that all the people associated with her are, in effect, working for the Russians? You have her name and an allegation. You have other names. What ties her to all these crimes? What ties them to her?’
‘That’s why I need a free hand.’
‘You need to work quickly, and we will not stand in your way, or pre-empt actions. However, I want us to be informed of your findings as you proceed, the proof that you assemble. We may be able to fill in the gaps for you.’
Samson agreed that there would be contact between him and Tomas.
Sollen was silent for a minute before saying, ‘And your troubles in the United Kingdom you ascribe to Mr Harland’s Book of Revelations, which you have there. Who does he name in the UK?’
‘Jonathan Mobius, a powerful American-born resident, and Anthony Drax, the Prime Minister’s chief adviser. Those two we know about. There will be more.’
‘The Prime Minister’s adviser! That is really something. But, then, Russia has successfully targeted your country for many years, and the political establishment seems content with the interference because they believe it helps them.’ He opened his hands incredulously.
‘We live in strange times. But we’re at the beginning of this. We have a long way to go.’
‘No, Mr Samson, you’re at the end. You either win or you lose in the next few days and, frankly, I cannot see how you win.’
The spies of Europe gathered at St Olaf’s Baptist Church to celebrate Robert Harland’s life. One of the outstanding intelligence officers of the post-war era had been assassinated in what were certainly the last few weeks of his life. The manner of his death made a difference, never mind the conviction in the judgement of most of those attending – whether they knew the details or not – that he had been killed in the course of his last great operation. That was somehow a given, even though it was well appreciated that he had been gunned down while painting.
A bell tolled from the tower of St Olaf’s, once used by the KGB as a radio mast and observation platform during the Cold War. The streets were sealed off to allow cars to arrive at the door and deposit men and women who would rather not be gawped at. A lovely light, filtered by the lime trees in the churchyard, filled the entrance, where – unusually – the widow greeted each mourner. If there was a person she didn’t know, the young officers from the Kaitsepolitseiamet checked an iPad, asked polite but firm questions and led them to a place in the church. Only one was rejected, and this turned out to be a German journalist.
Samson watched from a little way off. He’d got there early and was waiting for Naji and Anastasia. It would be the first time he had met her in over two years, but this wasn’t on his mind. He wanted to see who was attending the funeral. Among the earliest to arrive, in search of a good place in the church, no doubt, were the British contingent – Peter Nyman, Lewis Ott and a young stiff from the Foreign Office. The youthful British ambassador came a little later in his own car, and he was followed by what Samson assumed were various members of the European intelligence services, though he recognised only one – a member of the DGSE, the French Director-General for External Security, whom he had come across in Macedonia. Then there were the old lags – Macy Harp, the Bird and several men in their seventies who Samson had learned from Ulrike had gathered in a hotel the night before to talk about old times, a reunion for the Cold War warriors that included former agents from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, East Germany and Poland. For the funeral, Macy was wearing a straw hat, as though attending the races; the Bird had a baseball cap that had faded from red to pink, which he doffed on seeing Ulrike before planting a kiss on both her cheeks. There were a handful of Estonian friends, who all knew each other, the couple from the art gallery, whom Samson had just met, and then Zoe and Rudi, dressed entirely in black to mourn the man they both regarded as their father. Zoe held her head up high and looked ahead. Rudi hugged his mother, who then placed a hand against his cheek as he stepped away into the shadows of the entrance.
There was one surprise, and that was Frank Toombs, who never knew Robert Harland, but who’d made an impression on Ulrike and was invited nonetheless. He wore dark glasses and a blue suit and was accompanied by one of the young Agency men Samson had seen in the anonymous building close to the American embassy in London. Samson began to think that Toombs must be more senior than he’d first imagined, and it was significant that Ulrike had invited him – possibly a signal to the British, for whom she had no love.
He moved closer to the church as police began to prepare for the arrival of the President.
‘Still lurking, Samson?’ came a voice from behind him. He turned to find Anastasia and Naji a few metres away. She approached and kissed him on both cheeks, stepped back with a radiant smile. ‘It’s good to see you, Samson. I thought we’d never get here, with Naji’s driving.’
‘We are here because of Naji’s driving,’ Naji said.
Samson smiled, and something moved in him, despite his very keen desire to remain as cool as possible. It was something like being reunited with his family, and Anastasia looked so utterly beautiful in the spring sunshine. A new line or two on her brow and at the corners of her mouth, but the strain he had noticed on the live stream from Congress was, surprisingly, not present.
‘Hi, Naj,’ he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘So good to see you both here. Thank you for bringing Anastasia safely.’
Anastasia was beaming. ‘Shall we go in?’ she said.
They turned to the church. ‘How’s Denis?’ asked Samson.
‘He’s going to make it. The procedure was pretty simple, but it saved his life. The odd thing is that if they hadn’t tried to kill him in Congress, he would almost certainly have died quite soon anyway. He’d like the irony. It turns out that it was extremely fortunate he was in the hospital.’ They began to walk towards the church.
‘He’s still in a coma?’
‘Yes, and they’re worried about the long-term effects. God knows what’s going to happen. But we must hope.’ She grabbed his hand and squeezed it briefly then let it go. ‘It’s been very hard, seeing him like that.’
‘Bloody awful for you,’ he said, and turned to Naji. ‘You and I have a lot of catching up to do, Naj, don’t we?’
Naji nodded. ‘You know how big this is, Samson? I mean, it’s really super-massive.’
‘I do, but I have no idea what we do with the information you have dug up, Naji. No idea whatsoever.’
Before they reached the entrance an electric vehicle pulled up and the President got out with her bodyguards. In the background was her husband, who arrived separately on a bicycle. She spoke to Ulrike for a few seconds, then the two women entered the church, the President taking Ulrike’s arm. Samson, Anastasia and Naji followed and found space in the pews at the rear of the congregation.
The church was very light and plain with all the paraphernalia of modern faith– children’s paintings of the holy story, developing-world project boards, leaflets and posters with smiling faces. There was no coffin, Harland having been buried by Ulrike, Zoe and Rudi in a ceremony immediately after the post-mortem – his wish, Ulrike had said. And, naturally, the order of service for a famous spy gave no hint who would be contributing. A list of music and readings was headed by a quotation from Cavafy – ‘When we say “Time” we mean ourselves. Most abstractions are simply our pseudonyms. We are time.’ Naji put his forefinger on this and sho
wed it to Anastasia, and she nodded. At the bottom of the list was a drawing by Harland of a sea bird in flight.
Any idea that this would be a simple affair vanished with the beat of a half-muffled drum. The congregation turned to see a drummer and a four-man brass section – all wearing dark red cassocks – begin the slow march to Purcell’s funeral music for Queen Mary II. The solemn pomp seemed most unlike Harland, who was simple in taste and expression, however it jolted the congregation to focus on the moment. Harland, in his own way, was a great man, and that was the theme of the welcome by the minister and of the President’s opening address, in which she admitted that only on her election to office did she come to appreciate the service he had rendered to his adoptive country. She couldn’t go into detail, but it was enough to say that he had helped more than any single foreigner to defend Estonia’s fledgling democracy from those who even now worked to destroy it. Samson noticed Peter Nyman nodding vigorously at the front.
A choir sang, there were readings in German and English, one by Lewis Ott, who read Shakespeare’s ‘Fear not the heat o’ the sun’ with all the feeling of a customs officer, and a short speech by the owner of the gallery, who told how he had come across one of Harland’s paintings fifteen years before and sought him out, only to find that Harland suspected him of being an enemy agent.
Then Ulrike read an account of meeting Harland in East Germany and how, in the wake of her first husband’s murder, he became her protector and friend, and, by degrees, her lover and companion. It was unadorned testimony, without much colour or humour, but Samson liked it for that. At the end, she paused and looked around the congregation. ‘Both my husbands were murdered, and by the same evil. Over thirty years separate their deaths, but I have reason to believe that the same people were responsible for their murders. Many of you here are engaged in the struggle that Bobby, Rudi Rosenharte and I committed to many decades ago in the GDR. I ask those present not only to seek justice for their deaths, but please – never give up. Bobby is with you because you are all that stands between civilisation and barbarism, between freedom and tyranny. And for that I cherish you, as I did my dear, beloved, sweet, eccentric Bobby.’ She stood silently for several moments. Samson caught Anastasia looking at him. She wiped away the tears that were coursing down her face. And then someone started clapping and the congregation followed and there were one or two muted cheers. It was a minute or two before the applause died down and Ulrike returned to her seat.
The last to speak was Macy Harp, who seemed caught off guard, as though he had only been asked minutes before. He had no notes and didn’t seem sure where he should stand, so positioned himself between the two front pews in the aisle and began telling stories of Harland’s staunchness, good judgement and exceptional tradecraft, as though reminiscing with a few intimates. ‘Bobby was my lifelong friend. I loved the man,’ he concluded. ‘I respected him beyond any person on this earth. In his later years, he devoted himself to his painting and I saw much less of him, but these paintings are extraordinary, each one a revelation. They teach us about the hidden world we live in. It is vital that those of us who loved Bobby now honour his memory by ensuring that the largest possible audience is made aware of these revelations. We owe that to him.’
Half the congregation no doubt believed that this red-faced gentleman from England was merely paying homage to Harland’s paintings, but the former and current intelligence officers present knew exactly what Macy was saying. Robert Harland’s murder would not go unpunished. A smile twitched in the Bird’s crazy old face.
Early that morning Ulrike decided that the art gallery was the only place large enough to hold the wake for so many and opened the exhibition to all. There would be a private event for a few of them later that evening. Naji, Zoe and Rudi went off to prepare. Samson told them that they would be going through everything and then they would decide on a course of action. They said others had come to Tallinn but had stayed away from the funeral because they’d never met Harland in person, although he was aware of each one of them. Samson agreed that they should be there too.
He followed Anastasia to the wake. He wanted to talk to her and see the paintings, which turned out to be much freer and more deeply felt than he had ever expected. The catalogue said each painting had been completed in a day and so the exhibition was a kind of diary of Harland’s last anguished months, ending with the painting that Samson had brought in that morning, which now stood in the centre of the space, framed and untitled, fixed to a Perspex glass screen. Anastasia gazed at it for a long time and said it reminded her of one of Van Gogh’s last pictures, ‘Wheat Field under a Clouded Sky’. ‘Look at the urgency. This is a man who’s dying and knows he’s seeing these things for the last time. It’s incredibly moving.’
‘Did Van Gogh know he would die?’ he said.
‘In the last letter to his brother, Theo, he said he was risking his life for his art. That letter was found on his body. I guess Harland risked his life for his art, painting out there, making this beautiful work with no protection.’
She didn’t mention the bullet hole. It was left to Peter Nyman to do that. ‘A very poignant symbol of Bobby’s life and death,’ he said, having approached them unseen.
‘Not really,’ said Anastasia, and went off to look at the other paintings.
Nyman wasn’t put off. ‘A word, Samson?’ he said, not taking his eyes from the painting. ‘It’s very much in your interest.’
‘You must be desperate, Peter. I mean, the arrest warrant! Pressuring a senior police officer to change her statement. What’s that going to look like when people get to hear about it? Here’s a promise for you and Ott. Unless you have that arrest warrant lifted, I will sink your fucking boat. And if you think that you and that upper-class fool can play games with me, I’ll make sure that the names you are trying to protect, or are trying to deal with in your own way, will be made public, with all the evidence of Russian penetration at the highest level. Got it?’ He turned away.
‘Have it your own way. But this will not turn out well for you.’
‘Don’t threaten someone who’s carrying a bloody big axe, Peter. First law of intelligence work.’
He was saved by the Bird, who had never encountered Peter Nyman before but knew exactly who he was and, more particularly, what he was. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ he said, steering Samson away. ‘His name is Bruno. Macy and I had an interesting chat with him last night.’ They walked towards a small man wearing a beret, a charcoal grey suit and bow tie. ‘This is Herr Bruno Frick. He was a friend of Bobby’s and they worked together in the GDR. Herr Frick was one of our best people there, until his network was rolled up and he was imprisoned and came across a certain female employee of the Stasi. He took some splendid photographs of her in 2019, which I believe you’ve seen.’
‘Of course,’ said Samson, gripping Frick’s hand. ‘Impressive work.’
The man’s astonishingly blue eyes sparkled behind small square spectacles. ‘And Bobby put them to a good use, I understand.’
Samson was aware of Nyman and Frank Toombs watching him from different sides of the room. ‘Yes, Herr Frick, he did. But can we continue this conversation elsewhere? Maybe we could meet at the café in the Hotel Sweden two blocks from here in, say, ten minutes. I am going to bring a person with me who’s closely involved in this work. Will that be all right?’
‘By all means, but I do not wish to miss the exhibition.’
‘It won’t take more than half an hour.’ He shook his hand as though to say it had been a pleasure meeting him and moved off to find Ulrike.
Herr Frick was already there when he and Anastasia arrived, a small glass of cognac in front of him, hands folded above his stomach and a beatific expression on his face. He offered them a drink and they accepted because the wine had been hard to come by in the crowd at the gallery. When Anastasia sat down beside him he looked pleased and patted her k
nee, which surprised her.
‘Can I leap in with our problem?’ started Samson. ‘We can connect the woman known as Mila Daus to three husbands and multiple businesses as well as scandals but, apart from your photographs and your evidence that you saw her, we have nothing to say that she is the same person who was a senior Stasi officer at Hohenschönhausen prison. Ulrike can testify that she saw her there, but both your and Ulrike’s testimony can be dismissed as unreliable, because of the mental stress you were under at the time, and it is over thirty years ago. We have to tie her to Hohenschönhausen and the Stasi if we are to make the case that she is Russia’s primary asset in the United States, and do it so there can be no doubt. We’ve got just one shot at this.’
Herr Frick took a sip of his cognac and dabbed his lips with a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket.
‘You know Leipzig?’ he started. ‘It is the city where Ulrike was born. Many beautiful things come from Leipzig, apart from her – Bach’s music, for example. The 1989 Revolution was born in the square outside the church. And there is this. Actually, I should say these. He stretched to the pocket of the raincoat on the seat next to him and withdrew an envelope and a jam jar with a sealed top. He placed the jar on the cushion beside him and directed their attention to the envelope. This contains the proof you need of Mila Daus’s identity.’ He held the envelope horizontally and slid his entire hand inside, then brought it out with two cards held with a paper clip resting on the flat of his hand like a tray. ‘This is the report of her arrest.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Samson.
‘When Daus was nineteen and a student at Leipzig University she was arrested. The Stasi spotted her and decided to take a closer look. They sometimes did this to test a candidate’s suitability and observe their behaviour under duress. She was arrested because she was with a disorderly group of students who were drunk. It was probably a set-up.’ He turned over the first of two cards. There were three photographs in a row of a stern but pretty young student – facing the camera, in profile and half-profile. Underneath was her name, Mila Gretchen Daus, her address and date of birth – 20 August 1955. The document was dated 12 December 1974. ‘Here in a margin note are the remarks of a senior officer named Colonel Joachim Ropp, and I quote, “This is the finest candidate that I have seen in ten years. Immediate recruitment recommended.” But there is more.’ He removed the paper clip and turned over the second card and held it up. ‘Her fingerprints. She was arrested, so naturally they took her fingerprints.’
