by Henry Porter
California was Chester Abelman’s realm. He ran GreenState West from a spacious building in Palo Alto, as Anastasia noted, not far from the offices of Hisami’s own lawyers. Of mixed Jewish and Irish parentage, Abelman moved easily among the scientific community of the West Coast under the cover of GreenState’s funding activities and the organisation’s interest in the environment. Originally an academic at Stanford, he had set up GreenState West five years before and he and his socially active wife had made connections with the partners of a coterie of right-leaning entrepreneurs.
They ended with the Pitch Black network, which was smaller than the other three and also relied on a powerful wife, in this case Betsy Kukorin, a publicist from a conservative family in Ohio. Erik Kukorin, originally a cable-TV news producer, moved in the background, making connections at parties Betsy threw for her celebrity clients, a good cover for gathering intelligence on banks and hedge funds. There were some forty names associated with Kukorin’s network, three of which were prominent Wall Street figures, including the head of a bank. Most of his activity, however, was in the large-scale financing of dark operations on the Web – false-flag Antifa sites and accounts, partisan provocateurs, YouTube channels that openly praised the Nazi ‘experiment’ and a myriad of Facebook groups pushing for one form of violent disruption or another. Kukorin had a television producer’s eye for plausible, fresh-faced advocates among young fascists and backed half a dozen with enormous sums.
The last slide showed hundreds of names in the three networks. Macy raised his hand again. ‘That’s impressive. Fine work. But there’s a great deal of difference between intelligence and proof. You can’t publish a list like this and say all these people work for Mila Daus and are effectively betraying their country. How many of them are there by chance?’ The Bird nodded and muttered something.
Samson stepped in to smooth the differences between the Cold War warriors and young hackers. ‘I think we accept that this is a first draft, Macy, and that the complete work that answers these questions is with Denis Hisami. What do we have on Mila Daus herself? Where does she live? Where does she work? What’s her routine? Does she travel much? We’ve heard that she’s in London and Berlin – does she go to Moscow? And what about the foot-doctor husband? How does he fit in? Does he know about her past? Does he know that she’s sleeping with her stepson?’
‘That’s Rudi’s area,’ said Zoe.
Rudi got up and stood in the pool of light beside her. He glanced at Macy and began speaking. ‘Mr Harp, this is the woman who murdered your friend and my stepfather. Before that, she killed my father, Rudi, and she had a lot to do with the psychological torture and medical neglect that killed my uncle just a few weeks before the Wall came down.’ He walked over to Naji and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘My friend Naji’s dad was tortured and broken by a different group of thugs. We have an interest in this investigation. Yes, we seem young to you, but we have been through very bad times. We aren’t frivolous and we haven’t made errors. Now we will show you some photographs.’ Ulrike smiled at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. Zoe laid her hand briefly on his arm.
A picture of a group of houses appeared. They were arranged around a rocky outcrop that overlooked mountains and forests as far as the eye could see. Each house had a separate driveway and parking area but no garden. The bluff and the house looked like the prow of a ship heading into an ocean of trees. In some places the houses incorporated parts of the sedimentary strata, giving the impression they’d grown out of the native rock.
‘This is Seneca Ridge,’ said Rudi. ‘It’s one and a half hour’s drive from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. There are seven houses and they are all owned by Mila Daus, through her husband, Dr John Gaspar. We have satellite imagery from six years ago showing the construction of passageways between some of the houses. The area has been landscaped so these are invisible. Gaspar owns a lot of land around the hill. A private road of two kilometres leads to the ridge. We acquired drone footage from a local man we hired last winter when the trees were bare. He was surveying the property for us from high up, operating at a thousand metres, which is way above the legal limit. That’s why they didn’t see the drone. We were fortunate. Watch this.’
Naji ran the footage. At first there was just a clear view of the houses in snow. From the left of the picture, three cars followed a pickup snaking up the metalled private road. The drone zoomed in as the cars peeled off and parked in different driveways. ‘We think these two cars are her bodyguards and this one contains Mila Daus. Watch.’ The rear door of a black Escalade opened and a woman wearing a scarf, dark ski jacket and black trousers got out. The man who’d jumped from the wheel of the pickup went to join her. He was in a cap and green jacket and was carrying a rifle case over his shoulder and a box with both hands. ‘This is John Gaspar,’ said Rudi. ‘He’s a gun freak. We think they’d been to a restaurant ten kilometres away and a gun range that he owns. It was a Saturday. The man we hired to take this film was using very good equipment so we were able to enlarge the images.’ He stopped and nodded to Naji. Two close-ups showed the woman Samson had seen in the photographs taken by Harland’s friend Frick. There was no doubt that they were looking at Mila Daus.
‘They live here with a small security detail,’ continued Rudi. ‘She’s at the Ridge two or three days of every week. Gaspar is there most of the time and doesn’t usually travel with his wife, but sometimes they go together to Clouds Ranch in Idaho, where he hunts. The security detail always travels with his wife, so he’s on his own when she’s away. They almost never travel long distances by road. Instead, they take a helicopter from their own airfield three kilometres away and fly to the local airport, where she has a plane. But we get the impression that Clouds Ranch is her domain. It’s where she does a lot of her business and hosts target guests.’
Macy and the Bird murmured their approval. This all sounded like more familiar intelligence work.
‘What do you know about the foot doctor?’ asked Samson.
‘John Gaspar is fifty-five, ten years younger than his wife. He has his own life. He still practises at two local clinics. He spends a lot of time at the gun range. He deals in rare weapons and he takes hunting trips to Africa – which is amazing, considering GreenState’s campaigns against big-game hunting. He collects vintage hunting rifles. We found this ad last week on a collectors’ website.’
A screenshot showed a double-barrelled rifle in a case with two-inch brass ammunition lined up in front of the case. The advertisement read: ‘The real deal. A 470 Nitro Express from 1909 in immaculate condition. All documentation is available, including the original sales invoice from William Evans Ltd of St James’s, London.’
In the text below, Gaspar admitted that he was loth to part with the gun but the recoil was proving too much for his injured shoulder. He attested to the reliability and killing power of the weapon by publishing pictures of himself with a variety of slaughtered animals. Gaspar, always wearing a ridiculous camouflage hat, was photographed standing on or beside a dead giraffe, two buffalo, a warthog, a hyena and an elephant. The elephant had been stopped in its tracks and had ploughed an enormous rut in the red earth of the savannah. Around the dead beast was a shooting party of three men in hunting garb, Gaspar at the front, toting the double-barrelled rifle. ‘Disgusting!’ exclaimed the Bird, which reminded Samson that the Bird had set up a wildlife sanctuary in Northern Australia.
But Samson’s attention was drawn to one of the men in the background and he rose to get a closer look. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ he asked Naji, pointing to the only member of the party not smiling, a stocky individual of about fifty with a shaven head and heavy brow carrying a gun that looked more suited to warfare than killing defenceless animals.
Naji enlarged the area of the photo. ‘Yes, he was at the hotel!’ he exclaimed
‘This, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Samson, ‘is Anatoly Stepurin, the man who’s responsib
le for Bobby’s death and the poisoning of Anastasia’s husband.’ He turned to Rudi. ‘Well done. You’ve got the vital evidence that proves the link between Stepurin and Gaspar. And the photograph is dated. They’ve known each other for four years. That covers the time of Anastasia’s kidnap. I cannot stress how important this is. Thank you. Thank you all.’
He stopped and thought for a few seconds before speaking again. ‘So Denis had all this, plus the information from his own inquiries. We’re sure he had nothing with him when he went to Congress, and if he had been going to speak about this, he would need a lot of evidence with him. But let me ask you – was he going to use it that day?’
‘Naji?’ Zoe said. ‘You met Mr Hisami twice, you helped him on the tech side?’
Naji didn’t look up from his screen. ‘I don’t think so. Everything is encrypted on a special laptop. This computer has never been used on the internet and only Mr Hisami knows access code.’
‘Oh, great,’ said Macy.
‘He has a device I adapted – an old calculator. I reprogrammed it.’
‘His Tandy calculator!’ said Anastasia ‘The one in his briefcase!’
Naji nodded. ‘You enter a twenty-digit number into calculator and it will give you the code.’
‘You have that number?’ asked Samson, remembering that Naji had adapted an online game to hide the information he had stolen from hacking ISIS computers.
‘No, Mr Hisami has the unlock code for the calculator.’
‘He’s in a coma!’
Naji shrugged. ‘Yes, but I could maybe bypass . . .’
‘The FBI have the briefcase with the calculator in it,’ said Anastasia.
‘Can you get it back?’ asked Samson.
‘Possibly,’ she said a bit doubtfully, ‘but that means Naji has to go to the States.’
‘That will not be a problem for me,’ said Naji.
Chapter 30
In pectore
They dispersed in ones and twos, and for the young this was a final parting. They were bound for destinations across Europe and few of them would meet again. Zoe and Rudi were catching a ferry to Finland. Before leaving, she came over to Samson and shook his hand. ‘You’re going to get her, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘I hope so. I believe we can.’
‘I know you will,’ she said, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘For my dad’s sake.’
Then Ulrike and Anastasia left together to meet up at the house with Macy and the Bird, who had already taken off to find a drink. Samson and Naji stayed behind to put away the screen and projector and order the chairs. As Samson turned off the lights, he thought he heard a noise from the small gallery above the rehearsal space. He put his finger to his lips and waited. Naji nodded in the half-light – someone was there. Samson indicated to the passageway and they made their way to the gate, pressed the button to open it and banged it behind them. They moved to the far side of the street and withdrew into a doorway, not far from the drama-school entrance. After a few minutes Samson told Naji to go to the house with his bag and enter by the garden entrance. He would stay because he needed to know who had been listening in.
It was a full half-hour before he heard the gate lock being operated and caught sight of Tomas Sikula pull up his collar and set off in the opposite direction. Samson dialled his number and watched him stop and search for his phone in his jacket.
‘Keep it to yourself, Tomas,’ he said.
‘Ah, Samson. How good of you to call. Where are you?’ He looked up and down the street.
‘You’ll get us all killed if that information gets out, Tomas.’
He let out a light, sardonic laugh. ‘In pectore, as they say in Rome. You realise that I was there with Ulrike’s consent. It was the only way we’d allow a meeting like that to happen in our capital city. Besides, dear Samson, it saves you having to brief me tomorrow.’ He was still searching the street.
‘We’re depending on you, Tomas.’
‘You have my word. We have already made assurances to Ulrike. By the way, the drama school was my idea.’
‘Then I’ll say goodbye, Tomas.’ Samson stepped from the shadows and held up a hand.
‘You take care, Samson.’ Tomas acknowledged the wave and turned to continue on his way.
Samson didn’t go immediately to Ulrike’s house but found a bar with tables outside and, after begging a cigarette from the waitress, he considered what he was going to say to Toombs. He had an agreement and he was prepared to keep to it as much as he could, but it was a delicate calculation.
He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, swallowed most of the wine in one gulp and dialled the number on Toombs’s card.
‘Yep,’ said Toombs. Samson heard the sound of a lavatory flushing.
‘Where are you?’
‘Guess!’
‘I’m calling to say we’re going ahead.’
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘A few hours ago you said you wanted a heads-up and . . .’
‘You’re mistaken,’ said Toombs. He grunted as if lifting something.
‘This sounds like a bad moment. Maybe another time.’
‘It’s not a bad moment, I just don’t understand why you’re calling me.’
‘I’ll say goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight.’
Samson hung up. Toombs had been shut down and was being extremely circumspect on the phone, though, clearly, he was in a bathroom and alone. Had the staff of the Director of National Intelligence got to the CIA? Or maybe it was the Deputy National Security Advisor, Mike Proctor? Either way, it amounted to the same thing. The argument to cease and desist was simple enough: the supply chain for the nerve agent had been notionally eliminated and the end user, Vladan Drasko, had died in his motel room, so the threat to Congress and the American people could be said to no longer exist, although of course Stepurin was still at large. The same instruction had probably reached the FBI. With its domestic remit, there was even less reason for the Bureau to pursue the case, particularly if the administration had embraced the argument that the affair had nothing to do with Russia, or its agents. In these circumstances, it was almost inconceivable that the results of Harland’s investigation would be aired and acted upon, whatever the proof that lay in Denis Hisami’s air-gapped computer. He got up and, finding he had nothing less than a €50 note, waved it at a waitress. She came over with a tray of dirty glasses, set it down and counted out €38. One of the notes fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and placed it on the saucer for her. She thanked him then something caught her eye. Her smile faded. He spun round. A man in a motorcycle helmet was approaching. His hand reached inside his jacket. Samson knew he was going to be shot at and his only concern was that the waitress wasn’t killed too. He pushed her to the ground, knocking over two metal tables and the tray of dirty glasses. He heard a screech of brakes and shouting, looked up and saw the same SUV in which he had been subjected to Toombs’s disdain a few hours earlier. The vehicle had slewed to a halt, blocking the path of the man in the helmet. Three young agents with Toombs surrounded him. Although they weren’t openly carrying weapons, Samson knew they wouldn’t be other than armed. The man was pulled to the side of the street, frisked and relieved of two guns. He was forced to remove his helmet and was struck three times on the back of the head. The agents led him down to the cobbles and propped his head against the wall. Samson had never seen the man before.
He helped the waitress to her feet and examined the heel of her hand, which had been cut by broken glass. He wrapped a napkin around the cut then held her shoulder; she was shaking a little. Two of her colleagues rushed out to help. Samson picked up his rucksack and stood back.
‘Sir!’ said the voice behind him. ‘Mr Toombs repeats – if you want to get killed, you’re going the right way about it. He says you should leave
Tallinn immediately.’
‘I will do exactly as he suggests. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, sir! There’s one other thing. I have a message from Mr Toombs. He says, keep going. That’s all. I hope it means something to you.’
