by Henry Porter
On the way back the Bird said, ‘The second trigger is not quite what it should be, old chap. A bit sticky, wouldn’t you say? Can your gunsmith look at it?’
‘Are you kidding me? It’s in perfect condition, General.’ Gaspar was outraged.
‘Well, it’s just my impression, but otherwise I like the gun. What do you say, Aymen?’
Samson agreed and said he thought it worth the price of $75,000.
Nothing more was heard from Gaspar until they reached the Ridge. He said he would look at the trigger and maybe use a little oil. They’d talk it over inside; maybe the General would like a fine malt whisky he’d opened.
Samson got out, said he’d go back to the car to check something, and headed for the passageway.
He found Hector waiting in the spot, a bag at his feet. ‘I have what you want,’ Hector said.
‘That’s terrific. What did you get?’
‘Razor for the legs and a comb for the hair. In freezer bags.’
‘You got these items pretty quickly. How did you do that?’
‘Martha, the maid, brought them to me. I pay her. It was hard because Mrs Gaspar, she is here.’
‘Gaspar’s wife is here now!’ It was a Thursday. Daus wasn’t meant to be at the Ridge.
Samson looked him in the eye, saw nothing to mistrust and handed him the money.
‘She is with Mr Gaspar and your friend in the den right now.’
‘How do I go back in – through the front?’
‘Ring the bell – someone will come. Maybe Martha.’
He went to the car and locked the two freezer bags and the rest of the money in the glove compartment. He waited for a couple of minutes in the hope that the Bird would extricate himself, but the risk of Mila Daus testing his story was too great to leave it any longer and he went to ring the bell. Within a few seconds a young maid in uniform opened it. She was flushed and darted a look of terror at him. ‘Martha?’ he said quietly. ‘Is she with them?’
She nodded, wrung her hands and indicated the way.
‘Don’t worry about a thing.’ He hissed then asked loudly, ‘Where’s the general?’
Mila Daus stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, each hand resting on the opposing bicep. She was looking at the Bird, who’d flung himself down in a leather chair and was descanting on boar hunting in Hungary, a whisky in his hand. She looked up with sudden focus when Samson came in.
‘This is Mr May-lek,’ said Gaspar, ‘the general’s driver. Speaking of help, I let Hector go.’
‘Hector?’ she murmured.
‘He’s gone. It doesn’t matter. A servant.’
‘There will be no problem for lunch?’ she said, still without acknowledging Samson verbally, although her gaze had not left him.
‘I got it covered,’ said Gaspar. Out in the woods, Samson had wondered what Mila Daus was doing with this crude, parochial and not very bright individual. It was now clear. Gaspar ran things for his wife as a major domo and, when required, he did her dirty work. There was no hint of an equal relationship between them.
The Bird coughed. ‘Aymen is my driver and friend. He’s in banking. Lives in France.’
‘Actually, I am more involved in politics now,’ Samson said, not wishing to be tested too closely on banking.
She took this in with a nod. ‘How interesting,’ she said. ‘Which party?’
‘Le Front,’ replied Samson. ‘Le Front National but at the local level.’ He didn’t want to be caught if she tried out some names on him.
She moved closer. ‘But you are an immigrant, no? From which country? Algeria? Morocco?’
‘No, Madame, Lebanon. But I am French, as were my parents.’
‘But why are you involved in Le Front National if you are from a family of immigrants?’
He had offered his hand. But she neither took it nor returned his smile. ‘The truth is I am French and I feel French,’ he continued. ‘My parents taught me the value of work. Like them, I’ve worked hard and now I am very concerned about the state of my country and the millions who feel they have a right to rely on the generosity of the State.’
She didn’t react to this.
He smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘This is Mrs Gaspar, May-Lek,’ said Gaspar. ‘My wife.’
‘A pleasure!’ He gave a tiny bow and glanced at the Bird who wore his hangdog look. ‘I think we should be going, General.’
‘You seem familiar to me,’ she said to Samson. ‘I know you from somewhere.’ She moved closer, into the light of the recessed spotlight to get a better look at him. ‘Where have I seen you?’
Samson grinned. ‘Perhaps we have met before. Who knows?’
‘Aymen is quite the society man. He gets about, Mrs Gaspar,’ said the Bird.
It was now his turn to study her and he did so candidly, as though trying to place her. He thought she’d maybe had some work done around the eyes and mouth and that the frown lines had been smoothed. Up close, her extraordinarily pale skin looked thin, papery. The whites of her eyes had suffered some discoloration; brownish veins were showing at the corner of each eye. However, the pupils were youthfully unclouded and as unforgiving, no doubt, as when they settled on a victim in the Stasi prison. Her pupils oscillated slightly, both with scrutiny and calculation. ‘No,’ he said in conclusion. ‘I feel sure we’ve never met.’
Again she didn’t react. Maybe these silences were an error-forcing technique. He returned her a pleasant look and opened his hands accommodatingly. It was then that he understood that the only life in her face was to be found in the eyes. Her eyebrows and mouth, carefully delineated with make-up, hardly moved, even when she spoke, and they gave no hint of what went on in her mind. Her face was an icy mask. And there was something else. When she spoke to assert that she was never ever mistaken in matters of recognition, he noticed the smell of her breath, the smallest hint of corruption.
She took a step closer and began to speak rapidly in French, asking him where he lived. She knew the 14th arrondissement quite well. How far did he live from the Gare de Montparnasse? Did he frequent the famous Lebanese restaurant in the 14th? He replied no, he had never been to Chez Marc Libinais and, anyway, he preferred French cuisine to Lebanese. The restaurant that she referred to was in the 15th, and quite far from his apartment in the Rue Hallé, as was the train station, which was mostly in the 15th. He answered a couple of questions about his life in banking without hesitation but when she tried to return to politics, he said with good-natured exasperation. ‘It’s almost as if you were testing me, Madame.’
Samson had looked into the eyes of some bad people in his time, but this woman was something else. She made his flesh crawl, not out of fear, he reflected, but revulsion. It was as though her gaze alone was enough to poison a person. He had noticed Gaspar’s nervousness. The man knew exactly what his wife was about and Samson was sure that she absolutely terrified him.
‘It’s obvious that you have a busy schedule,’ said Samson.
‘Indeed, we shouldn’t detain you any further’ said the Bird, slapping his leg. He put his glass on the table and scrambled up.
‘The Nitro?’ said Gaspar. ‘What about the rifle?’
‘I’ll come back next week,’ said the Bird. ‘Get the trigger fixed and I’ll be pleased to take it off your hands.’
They bid Mila Daus goodbye, the Bird giving one of his weird salutes, and headed for the door, where Gaspar started up about the deposit. The Bird said that wouldn’t be appropriate just yet and they exited before he could protest further.
The Bird got in the car with a look of dark abandon. ‘In all my years, I’ve never met a more gruesome couple,’ he said. ‘To think they ordered the death of my dear friend, well, it makes me very angry indeed.’
Samson reversed out and moved off without hu
rry. ‘What the hell were you doing in there, Cuth? You made yourself pretty comfortable.’
‘She was there when we got back so there was no escaping.’
‘Did you get anything?’
‘They’ve got politicians flying in for a big do on Saturday. And they’ve got someone coming today. She announced that before she saw me. There seemed to be something up, if you know what I mean. All hands on deck, and so forth. And she’s in Washington the first half of next week.’ He winked. ‘That’s what we call intelligence work, Samson.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Terrible breath. Smells like roadkill,’ he said, wiping his face with a folded red-spotted handkerchief. He glanced at Samson. ‘She’s a real bad’un. Wicked beyond words. We’ve got to fix those two,’ he concluded with a fierce look.
‘We certainly do,’ said Samson quietly.
Chapter 33
Angel
Anastasia sat with Denis for most of the day and the evening. She talked to him, but stopped when she ran out of things to say or felt she might be boring him. What could be worse than having to listen to someone when you wanted to sleep or be with your own thoughts and being able to do nothing to stop them talking? She held his hand and stroked his forehead and spoke about the solar-powered calculator, showing it to him in the hope of a response. When the nurse came in – a less frequent event now, which she read as resignation on the part of the medical staff – she slipped the calculator into the inside pocket of a light jacket she wore in the particular chill of the air conditioning in the room.
When the police guard shift changed in the afternoon she noticed that had been reduced too. Now there was just one uniformed officer by the elevator and he was playing a game on his phone whenever she passed. She went to the canteen twice for coffee and to keep in touch with Naji, and Samson, who was on his way back from Pennsylvania with news. But there was no word from Jim Tulliver. He had indicated that everything was okay in the morning but hadn’t been in touch since. That worried her.
At seven the doctor appeared, but he said little. She again asked what could be done. He looked blank. The scan had shown no abnormalities whatsoever. For the moment they had no option but to make sure Denis was comfortable and wait for signs that he was emerging from the trance. He asked her if he slept. No, he hardly ever closed his eyes.
She did, though. When the doctor had gone she napped for half an hour. She was woken by a nurse with the news that Mr Angel from New York was waiting to see her. She went out and found Angel in the hallway with a bag. ‘Angel, how nice of you to come.’
‘Mrs Hisami, we need to speak.’ He looked around. ‘In private.’
‘Okay, why don’t you come and see Denis? We can talk in his room, and I think it would be good for him to hear another voice. Would you mind that? He’s really not well, so prepare yourself.’
‘First, I need to tell you that Mr Tulliver is in hospital.’
‘Jesus, what with?’
‘He was attacked last night in the street outside the apartment.’
‘Come to the room – we’ll talk there.’
Tulliver had left the apartment before Angel. They had agreed to meet up near a sports bar half an hour later so that Angel could hand over the computer, but Tulliver never showed. Angel waited at the bar. He tried calling him, but there was no answer. In the morning he realised he had been using the wrong number. He tried several times more before the police broke into the phone and called him. Tulliver had been badly beaten and was unconscious in New York-Presbyterian Lower Manhattan Hospital. Angel understood that Tulliver’s attacker thought he was carrying the computer, or was in possession of some valuable knowledge, so he’d decided to catch the train straight away and bring the computer to her personally. He felt it was best not to call her.
‘Do you know how Jim is?’
‘I called from the train station but they wouldn’t tell me because I’m not a relative.’
Angel gave her the direct line for the ward where Tulliver was being treated and eventually Anastasia persuaded a duty doctor to give her an update. Tulliver had been beaten unconscious and had suffered brain swelling. He was still in a coma. He had three fractured ribs, a broken hand and contusions all over his back and sides. The police reports said there were two men and they had used baseball bats. If they hadn’t been disturbed, he would probably not have survived the battering. The doctor said they were anxious to trace his next of kin. Anastasia knew Jim had a sister in Kentucky named Hope. She called Denis’s office in LA and left that task with them.
While she was speaking, Angel had sat down by Denis and had started talking to him normally, as though nothing were wrong. Anastasia noticed that Denis’s eyes had shifted to focus on Angel and, moreover, they were engaged and he appeared to be listening.
‘Tell him about Jim,’ she said. ‘It’s really important that he knows what’s going on.’ Angel looked doubtful. ‘Go ahead. And don’t hide anything from him – he’s still your boss and he wants to know.’ She leaned over and squeezed Denis’s hand. ‘We’re going to win,’ she said. ‘I promise we are going to win.’
She mimed to Angel that she was stepping outside to make some calls. He nodded and picked up the hand she’d just held. She’d be surprised if there was anyone on the planet more empathetic than Angel Oliviera.
They were both convinced they had been followed from Seneca Ridge – not an aggressive pursuit, by any means, but a definite weight on their tail which they both sensed. When they hit DC, the Bird suggested that Samson drop him at Union Station Bus Terminal and he’d lose himself in the crowds: it was vital not to lead anyone to Naji Touma’s hotel. Samson did so then took the Range Rover to his hotel garage, left the fob and documents with the attendant, called the rental company and went for a walk. He had plenty of calls to return. He spoke with Ivan at Cedar, who had left three messages. The office and the restaurant had been raided that morning. Computers and documents were seized by the police, who had shown a warrant to Ivan that stated that under Section 15 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act the Metropolitan Police would search the premises for evidence of an unspecified indictable offence. Ivan sent him a photograph of the warrant with a note saying they’d forced entry into his flat in Maida Vale. This was confirmed in a message from his tenant, Derek, who had observed police that morning removing folders but little else. They had already searched the place once, after the death of Pim Visser, and had found nothing, so all this was a feeble attempt to intimidate him.
There were much more pressing matters on his mind. In his bag was the sample jar containing the old cotton wool swab and a strand or two of hair belonging to the young Mila Daus that Herr Frick had handed over in the hotel in Tallinn. Against all his wildest hopes, he had managed to acquire two more samples of Daus’s DNA, that is, if he hadn’t been sold a pup by Hector and the maid at Seneca Ridge. Everything relied on a match being found between the two sets, separated by nearly forty years of history. Without this, the allegations against Daus herself and the high-ranking officials and businesspeople on both sides of the Atlantic would implode.
At nine fifteen, at her request, he began sharing his location on a messaging app with Zillah Dee as he moved through downtown Washington. That way she could watch to see if he was being followed then choose her moment to make herself known. She called it her ‘mobile rendezvous’. At nine thirty-five two SUVs pulled up beside him outside Ford’s Theater, the place, he noted on a plaque, where President Lincoln had been assassinated in April 1865. A door was pushed open and he was invited to climb in. ‘Good to see you, Samson. I almost didn’t recognise you with that beard.’ Zillah gave it her appraisal. ‘Yeah, I think it’s working for you. Pity about the grey.’
Very little had changed in her appearance since they worked together during Anastasia’s kidnap – the same practical yet high-end wardrobe, the same short, asymmetrical hairstyle and strin
g of tiny pearls. The brisk manner hadn’t changed either, although was that warmth he spotted in those neutral grey eyes? He thought so.
‘We have a lot to discuss,’ she said. ‘I have hired some space.’
When Zillah said ‘space’ she meant several different suites of offices that had been rented for a few hours and which allowed her choice and a last-minute change of venue.
They went to a boardroom in a former hotel. It had reproduction pictures of twentieth-century politicians on the walls and in a corner a vase of bird-of-paradise flowers and palm fronds that trembled in the air conditioning. The room smelled of air freshener. Two of her staff busied themselves with coffee and water.
He delved into the backpack and produced first the jar containing the hair sample and the swab, then the zip-lock freezer bags with the shaver and the comb. ‘I’m looking for a match,’ he said, ‘but I need the sample jar intact with as much hair left in it as possible.’
Zillah picked it up and curled her lip at the yellowed cotton wool. ‘What the hell is this – urine?’
‘No, age! The important thing is the hair in the jar.’ He explained how the Stasi had tried to capture people’s essences before DNA science was properly developed and had included a DNA sample in the jar. ‘I need to know whether the hair matches. On this hangs everything.’
She picked the jar up and squinted at it. ‘This doesn’t prove anything – who’s to say where these samples came from? And even if you do get a match, that doesn’t prove they’re from Daus. These items were all stolen, right? It only works if you can absolutely prove where the jar came from and that the things in the bag were hers, or you get another sample from her in front of witnesses – you yank her hair out or you take a swab in her mouth. And that does not seem feasible.’
