White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  He turned in the chair and buzzed down to Ivan to tell him he was ready to see Peter Nyman.

  A little over three years before, Nyman had climbed the stairs to this office above the restaurant to find out whether Samson would take on the task of finding a Syrian boy who had escaped from the camp in Lesbos and was on the road north in the Balkans, pursued by an ISIS hit squad. Samson had not seen Nyman, or his ambitious sidekick, Sonia Fell, since the debrief in Macedonia, when the boy – Naji Touma – had given European intelligence services the access code to his cache of secrets. It had made Nyman, who had doubted the boy’s value as a source, look flat-footed and out of touch.

  He rose and greeted Nyman, who wore the same lifeless expression and shapeless suit as always, but did not take his hand. Nyman chose a chair without consulting Samson, hovered over it and let himself down so the cushion gasped with the impact.

  ‘Keeping busy?’

  ‘That’s the sort of question my hairdresser asks,’ said Samson.

  ‘I’ll come to the point,’ said Nyman, pausing to pat down his pockets for something. Eventually, he produced a tin of mints, took one and proffered the open tin. Samson shook his head. ‘Yes, you see, your chap Ray Shepherd has been found dead. Nasty business. Tortured, then a bullet to the head. Someone wanted something from him. Once they’d got it – or not, as the case may be – they killed him, and left his body for all to see on the balcony of his flat overlooking the park.’ He grimaced with distaste. ‘An observant schoolboy spotted him on the school’s early-morning exercise in the park. He pointed out to his PE teacher that it was odd the man was sitting without a shirt on his balcony on a cold autumn day and odder still that, if you looked closely, he didn’t seem to possess a face.’

  Samson said nothing.

  ‘You’re surely not going to pretend you didn’t know of Ray Shepherd?’

  ‘I’m not working for SIS, and I’m no longer at your disposal, Peter. So what I know and what I don’t is none of your bloody business.’

  ‘True, but you do have responsibilities as a citizen, and one of them is telling the police everything you know about Shepherd and why you were hired to investigate him. They will no doubt be interested to learn of the very considerable energy you applied to finding out that he owned a penthouse in this expensive block, the one that he was murdered in last night. Might put you in the frame as a suspect. Never know your luck.’

  Samson didn’t rise to that. ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, this character Shepherd might have looked the perfect gentleman but his rap sheet includes gangsterism, money-laundering, murder and mayhem. We have kept a watchful eye on him. You knew, of course, that he had snow on his boots.’ Nyman smiled to himself. ‘That’s what we used to say in the Cold War when things were oh so much simpler. But to a member of the younger generation who has no memory of those days, we say he was Russian, or possibly Ukrainian. But besides that, he was an anti-Semite. All in all, a grade-one shit.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Samson, shifting. ‘Can I get you anything – coffee, water?’

  Nyman shook his head. ‘I’m sure you don’t need your life further complicated by the police crawling through your affairs.’ Then he stopped and simulated forgetfulness. ‘Of course! I should have said how very sorry I was to learn of your mother’s death. She must be a great loss to you and your sister. It can’t be an easy time for you.’ His eyes swept the room and lingered on the wall of photographs he’d admired three years before. ‘It’s always a difficult moment, however old you are – becoming the next one on the conveyor belt to oblivion, and all that.’ His eyes returned to Samson. ‘You’ve had some problems, I know. Debts you inherited and debts you’ve made for yourself.’

  ‘My mother has nothing to do with this so please don’t embarrass me, or yourself, by thinking you can make some leverage out of her death and my position, which is, incidentally, perfectly secure.’ Nyman shook his head, as though this was the furthest thought from his mind. ‘It was a great shock and, yes, her death came at a difficult time for us,’ continued Samson, ‘but Leila and I will continue running the restaurant and, as you saw for yourself downstairs, we are already busy for lunch and there are two sittings for dinner that are booked out. We’ve had a lot of support from my mother’s regular customers.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But you are doing other work besides ordering in the wine and tahini, yes? And that is because, before your mother’s death, you suffered a very big loss on the racecourse – a quarter of a million pounds, they say, on a horse you owned called Legend Run. Sire, Midnight Legend; dam, Deep Run, eight years old and a big, big jumper. I didn’t think you touched the jumps, Samson, because everything is, as it were, up in the air.’ He smiled at this feeble joke. ‘You see, I know all about it. I’ve read up on it. The horse wasn’t running under your name that day at Newbury, as is often the case with owners who like to hide their interest, but it was yours all right and you made that huge bet. I don’t need to remind you this was precisely the scenario envisaged by the risk-averse fusspots of the HR department, which is why you were defenestrated.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  ‘I want to stay on the subject of that race for the moment. Why on earth did you make that bet? What in heaven’s name induced you?’

  Samson wasn’t going to give Nyman the pleasure of gloating. ‘It was in the racing press – read it for yourself.’ It had been a disaster, and it was all due to the setting sun at Newbury Racecourse, which at particular times of the year shines along the line of the five fences on the home straight. The racecourse authorities deem this to be a hazard for the jockeys because they are blinded by the sun and cannot see when to kick their horse over the jump, or where they are landing. After a hurried consultation, the stewards removed the five jumps from the race, placing boards along the top of the fences, leaving just seven fences on the far side of the course. Legend Run loved the air. He gained as much as a length and a half over every fence. On the flat, he was as good as any of his regular opponents and more tenacious at the finish. He was the perfect steeplechaser and at the height of his powers, but the absence of those five fences made all the difference and he struggled to make third. Samson had committed his money long before there was any question that the sun would show itself on that otherwise overcast afternoon. The only good thing about the day was that Anastasia hadn’t been there to see his humiliation. By then, their break was complete.

  Nyman sucked at his mint and revolved it around his mouth contentedly. ‘I suppose the point I’m making, in an oblique way, is that the story about your gambling debts and those that your mother left on this place might explain why you were so interested in tracking down Ray Shepherd and relieving him of some of the enormous funds at his disposal.’

  Samson smiled. ‘Now you’re being silly, Peter. How much money did he have?’

  ‘Tens of millions. We’re trying to trace it, which is why we want to know who you’re working for.’

  ‘You’re going to have to ask Macy about all that.’

  Nyman produced his pained look. ‘I was rather hoping to keep this between ourselves. I have a problem with private-intelligence companies – I suppose it’s the difference between working for the public good and making money.’

  ‘You were happy to resort to the private sector to find Naji in the Balkans.’ Samson smiled. ‘Look, I told Macy you were here. Anything you have to say to me, you say to Macy. That’s the way we work. And let me make a couple of things clear. Please don’t try to intimidate me with any financial difficulties you think I have and don’t expect me to breach client confidentiality.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You don’t know who the clients are?’

  ‘It’s not your business.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help you out a little. They’re American and they’re acting through a proxy named Zillah Dee. She’s an interesting person – a very modern person. And I don’t just mean young. She leaves the
NSA by mutual agreement and looks for all the world like an East Coast debutante. She’s the CEO and founder of a company called Dee Strategy, and here I quote from the company’s landing page, “Dee Strategy Inc. is an elite corps of former US, European and Israeli intelligence officers. Operating out of Washington and Tel Aviv, DSI provides litigation support, financial investigation and conflict resolution.”’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘Well, she’s very pally with Macy and she’s been here twice over the last two weeks. Flies into Blackbushe Airport on a jet – a Gulfstream G550 – and takes the helicopter into Battersea, whence she is conveyed to the offices of Hendricks Harp in Mayfair. I just assumed that, if you were doing the work, you must have met her and that you knew she was using Denis Hisami’s company jet.’

  Hisami’s involvement was certainly news to him, but he showed no surprise. No doubt that was the reason Macy had been so cagey with him.

  ‘If that’s all,’ he said, rising, ‘I should be getting on with ordering the tahini. If you want more, go see Macy.’

  A hangdog look was followed by a pout. ‘Later, Samson, later,’ said Nyman. He clambered from the chair with a little grunt and moved to the door, pausing on the way to look at the photographs. ‘You understand that I must inform the police and security services about your connection to Shepherd – as a matter of openness and cooperation.’

  ‘You must do as you see fit.’

  ‘These photographs are so poignant now that both your parents are gone. Must be sad for you to see them in the splendour of their youth. They were a very glamorous couple. Beirut was where they came from, wasn’t it? Marvellous place in the fifties and sixties – it’s where that drunk Kim Philby lived before he bolted to Russia, you know.’

  ‘An age ago,’ said Samson.

  ‘I suppose so, but we’ve got the same problems now as then, only the people causing them are no longer labelled communists.’ With this he gave a curious flick of his hand and vanished through the door to the stairway.

  Samson picked up the phone, then replaced it and took one of the five mobile phones on charge in the cupboard on his father’s side of the desk and called Macy Harp. ‘He says our friend has been killed,’ he said. ‘Found on the balcony at Hyde Park.’

  ‘You’d better come round.’

  It was a minute’s walk but Samson didn’t make it. He had gone a few paces from the Cedar’s entrance when two men emerged from an unmarked Range Rover and intercepted him. One held out a Metropolitan Police ID while the other stood back slightly, as though Samson were going to make a run for it.

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions, sir,’ said the one who’d shown his card. ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘Am I being arrested?’

  ‘No, but we’d like you to come with us now, sir. It’ll save a lot of fuss if we get this over with.’

  ‘I’m late for a meeting. I’d better phone.’

  ‘We’d rather you didn’t, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I’m not under arrest.’

  ‘No, but we do need to talk to you urgently.’ The other policeman took hold of Samson’s arm and steered him towards the car, where a third man waited in the back seat. He was no more a policeman than Samson was.

  CHAPTER 6

  At his Mesopotamia Estate in the Bay Area, Denis Hisami had not slept. His eyes were still open when the light showed at the edges of the curtains. He swung his legs from the bed and sat thinking for a few moments before taking a shower and dressing.

  Waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom was a tray with juice, sliced mango, oval breads called samoon, and gaymer, a thick white cream made from buffalo milk, all prepared by his Yazedi chef. He took the juice and sat down at a small round table with a view out over the ocean. He glanced at the framed photographs of Aysel and Anastasia surrounded by children in a refugee camp, thought for a few seconds and thumbed the numbers of his passcode into his phone.

  He hoped a message would be waiting for him but he did not expect it. The coordination of Anastasia’s kidnap and the seizing of his passport were proof enough of what they wanted. They didn’t need to underline the point with an email, although he had received three in the previous forty-eight hours from different addresses which obliquely suggested he back off and sell his shares in TangKi. The situation was now clear to him. Her abduction had been triggered by news of the meeting in Palo Alto. He had said little of what he knew but now everything he’d found out, all that he suspected about Adam Crane, could not be revealed if he wanted to see Anastasia again.

  His eyes moved to her photograph, a black-and-white shot he’d seen on the New York Times site before they were together and bought from the photographer. This time, he would not lose, he told himself again, though he had no idea how he could win and that, for Hisami, was a frighteningly new experience.

  Downstairs in the Ocean Room, the group of six had already assembled when he entered, so quietly that no one heard him, took a cup of coffee and set it down with his mobile phone beside a high-backed chair facing them. There were three from his company, including Jim Tulliver, and three from Dee Strategy, two of whom were about to leave for Italy. Zillah Dee came in wearing ear buds and clutching two phones. A young man came behind her, holding two more phones. She wore black pants, a loose grey shirt, trainers and her usual string of pearls. The tiny tattoo on the underside of her wrist was just visible. She chose a chair near to Hisami. ‘We’re ready, sir. Craig, you can go ahead,’ she said to the man who’d followed her into the room.

  ‘Before you start, have the Italian authorities had any kind of demand?’ asked Hisami.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Sometimes it takes a long time for them to make the demand. It’s all part of softening up the loved ones, sir.’ She said this as a matter of fact. It was one of the things Hisami liked about Zillah – no frills, no sentiment.

  A big screen set up in front of a fireplace came to life. ‘This is an aerial of the place where Mrs Hisami was abducted yesterday,’ she said. ‘The bodies of the two African migrants used by the kidnappers were found at or near the places marked beside the road. The second body, which we believe to be Louis, was hard to recover because it had fallen down a deep crevice and lay in a small watercourse at the bottom.’

  She got up and moved to the screen. ‘Here is the track where the Mercedes waited for the interception to take place. We assume the kidnappers needed to know that Mrs Hisami’s vehicle had been stopped before they made their move. The Carabinieri believe that this indicates they did not want to attempt the abduction while the car was moving, which means they wanted to make sure no harm came to her. We know that they turned the Mercedes here and headed east, but the important fact is that officers picked up cigarette stubs here, and these are being examined for DNA.’

  ‘What about the plate?’ asked Hisami.

  ‘That’s interesting – they’ve tied it to the underworld in Naples. The registered owner is a man who runs a funeral parlour and is part of one of the connected families. He uses the van to collect the bodies from people’s homes. The Carabinieri are talking to him now.’

  ‘My wife’s phone?’

  ‘No sign of that, sir, and it’s going straight to voicemail. We’ve tried getting a fix, but there’s nothing doing. No signal, or the battery is down. We used the phone towers in the area to confirm her position when she was taken. I asked the police to do analysis of other calls made around the time locally and they were already on it. We believe that one of the migrants phoned or sent a text to the men waiting up the track. And if we can trace that, we can get a number for the phone the men were using and track it.’

  Hisami nodded. ‘What else?’

  ‘I recorded the conversation with the man who is leading the investigation. His name is Colonel Fenarelli. He speaks good English – he did some time on attachment to the NYPD.’ She nodded to Craig, who played it through the TV set. ‘We’ll go straight to the relevant part
.’

  ‘We are sure,’ said the Italian policeman, ‘that this was a well-planned operation which was initiated in Sicily and depended on exact intelligence of Signora Hisami’s plans. The two men who took Mrs Hisami groomed these two men, so we are tracing their movements to learn where contact took place. We have a description of the two abductors, which Mrs Hisami gave to Mr Ciccone in Prianzano and Mr Hisami in the voicemail. This is being used by officers in Napoli to find the names of the two men, and we have our own database, of course. We are certain that we will trace them.’

  ‘What do you need from us?’ Zillah asked the police officer in the film.

  ‘We want to know when Signora Hisami changed her plans and when she told her husband.’ Zillah stopped the recording and looked at Hisami for an answer.

  ‘She told me in the phone call yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘I expected her to be on a plane by then.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll inform them,’ she said. ‘But there were others who knew before you. Eight members of the charity’s team knew she was going to the village. I’ll be giving their names to the police.’ She nodded for the recording to continue.

  ‘Typically, how does a case like this go?’ Zillah asked Fenarelli.

  ‘Mr Hisami is a very rich man, so we believe there will be a ransom demand. But we must ask ourselves questions.’

  ‘What are those questions?’

  ‘Kidnapping is rare in Italy today. There is too much inconvenience for the criminals. It is complicated to collect the money without being arrested and they risk being sent to prison for many years. Those men who made a living doing this sort of crime now earn millions of euros selling drugs.’