White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  ‘How far out was he found?’

  ‘About a hundred and seventy miles due south of the heel of Italy, near Greek waters.’

  ‘Why so far? You don’t need to take a body a hundred and seventy miles to dispose of it.’

  ‘Maybe he was alive for a good part of that journey.’

  Samson thought. ‘This isn’t sounding good.’

  ‘None of it’s good. Look, Samson, you should have told me you were coming out here to interview Ciccone.’

  ‘Yes, I should have. Sorry. Was there any reason that the Camorra wanted their own men dead? Were they using people who they knew were expendable?’

  ‘The Carabinieri are investigating that line. Now I have some questions for Mr Ciccone, so …’

  She walked back to the café and Samson returned to the centre to retrieve the phone. Without looking up, the receptionist said. ‘Vous avez beaucoup de messages, Monsieur. Le téléphone n’a pas arrêté de cingler.’ Alerts on the phone hadn’t stopped sounding. She unlocked the cabinet and fanned her face, as though the phone were hot from activity.

  He took it and saw the messages and missed calls listed on the screen. If the phone hadn’t still been attached to the charger, he would have dropped it. The missed calls and texts were all from Hisami – this was Anastasia’s phone! He checked on his own phone, where he had a copy of the final voicemail, and listened intently to the end of the recording – the moment when she murmured something and her voice became muffled, followed by rustling and the sounds of shots before the call ended. She must have handed the phone to Louis or maybe placed it in his pocket, which was why it had fallen with his body into the crevice, where, of course, there was no reception. That’s why the messages and log of missed calls had come through on the phone only once it was charged.

  Having unplugged the phone, Samson sat down on one of the chairs, a little shocked. The receptionist shot him a confidential look from over the counter and whispered, ‘Vous pouvez garder le chargeur si vous voulez. Nous en avons plusieurs comme celui-là.’ He replied that it would be very helpful to keep the charger since they had so many and thanked her.

  He bent over the phone and pressed the home button so the screen illuminated again. This surely couldn’t be the same phone she’d had when they were together! He had never taken much notice, so he couldn’t tell, but he remembered sitting at the restaurant on the Giudecca and her resetting her password because another device had been hacked. Yes, she said she would make it his birthday so she would never forget it – 09/10. It seemed unlikely that she hadn’t changed it by now, but he tapped 0910 gently into the keyboard. A photo of Denis Hisami in tennis shorts and a white cap appeared, with a small dog under his arm.

  CHAPTER 11

  In prison jumpsuit and loafers, Hisami waited in the interview room of the Daniel Patrick Moynihan US Courthouse for Tulliver and his lawyer, Sam Castell. Detention was nothing new to him. As a young commander, he had been held twice by the Iraqis, both times in circumstances where his captors had no idea who he was or what he did. On the second occasion he escaped before they found out, bludgeoning two guards into unconsciousness, yet for the time he was detained he’d entered a sort of torpor, reducing his metabolic rate and banishing anxiety until his opportunity arrived.

  This incarceration was much tougher. In effect, he had been placed in a kind of quarantine that meant that he could take no action to save his business empire and his wife, and now the judge had just denied him his liberty on the grounds that he might be declared an illegal alien and ICE would need to instigate an immediate deportation order.

  The team put together by Sam Castell under immigration-law expert Marcus Phinney argued that there was no substance to allegations that Hisami had lied on his immigration form; that there was no credible evidence he had ever been a part of a terrorist group – on the contrary, he was once a heroic young commander with forces that had been America’s allies; and that he wasn’t going anywhere, because business deals were in play; plus, he had responsibilities to his investors and the numerous charities that relied on him. Denis Hisami had made his home in the United States, implored Marcus Phinney, and created wealth and many thousands of jobs. This was no way to treat a leading member of the Bay Area community who was doing so much to improve the lives of his fellow Americans.

  Conceding all this to be true, the judge had looked over her glasses and addressed Hisami. ‘I am afraid, sir, that you will have to spend at least another week in the Metropolitan Correctional Center while the other side assembles its case.’ She shook her head when Phinney asked her to consider an ankle monitor and house arrest. ‘Mr Hisami, if minded, has the means to do anything he wants, Mr Phinney. Once a terrorist connection has been mentioned, I have no choice.’

  There were now fifteen minutes before Hisami was due to be returned to the hellhole of the prison a few blocks away. Tulliver and Sam Castell arrived and told him about developments on the legal side, and about the TangKi board meeting, where his allegations had been raised but more or less dismissed. Hisami listened intently but did not react. There was only one question in his mind. If Crane was dead, who was working the levers? Who had the power and the necessary information about his past to engineer his investigation by the immigration authorities? One of the men in the room who had been with him in Castell’s office was responsible, but there was no clue in the investigation he had done on the company as to which of them was Crane’s collaborator. He also had to consider that this individual was not merely Crane’s wingman but the principal actor, and that this man knew he would be paralysed, even if released, to take any action on TangKi. If Hisami were to use any of the mass of information he had accumulated, this man would ensure Anastasia’s death. There had been communications from the kidnappers, and he knew that was the tacit message when she was taken as the meeting in Castell’s office began.

  No one could know he had been contacted, and that would remain the case as long as Anastasia was held. His silence was probably her only chance of survival, although he was a little relieved that Samson had agreed to work alongside Zillah Dee and thought that combination might just produce results. But then, as they sat there in the interview room, Tulliver received a text message to the effect that the body dragged from the Adriatic was definitely that of one of the kidnappers. Hisami was silent for a few seconds. ‘That obviously means she is no longer in Italy,’ he said eventually. ‘It eliminates the idea that it was for ransom.’

  ‘Zillah reached that conclusion,’ said Tulliver.

  Castell chose this moment to intervene. ‘Can I ask you something, Denis? These people are coming at you from all sides, and they’re really getting to you. You got the US government bearing down on you with all its might, the media too. They’ve put your ass in jail, investors are threatening to pull out of projects you’ve worked on for years, and they may’ve taken your wife as a hostage. Why don’t you quit pissing off everyone at TangKi, sell your stock and step away?’

  ‘Sam, you should know me better than to ask that,’ Hisami replied. ‘Besides, it’s not that simple. Do you think I’d risk my wife’s safety for some principle at TangKi? We’re in a situation here which is like a trap – the more I struggle, the tighter I’m held.’ He fixed Castell with his eyes, as if willing him to understand. ‘You do get this, Sam?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s really hard to represent you if I don’t have the full picture. I need to know why you’re behaving like this. Why don’t you just quit?’

  ‘Because it won’t make any difference.’ Hisami got up. His black loafers looked ridiculous with the orange prison suit. He placed both his hands on Castell’s shoulders. ‘Sam, all you have to do is find a way of getting me out of jail. Forget TangKi. Forget the board. Just get me out of here. Then at least I’ll have some options.’

  Castell moved to the door. ‘I will get you out, Denis, even if I have to call in every political favour.’

  ‘Be careful who you ask for help – check with Jim.
’

  Castell shrugged and was gone.

  ‘Have you got my phone?’ he said to Tulliver.

  Hisami began to go through his emails, dictating replies to Tulliver, who recorded them on his own phone.

  In the space of ten minutes, they dealt with the investigation of the missing money, Crane’s murder, the back-up finance for a deal with the purchase of a biotech start-up and the response to media requests for information on Hisami’s youth and period with the PKK.

  Suddenly, Hisami stopped and grabbed Tulliver’s forearm. ‘Jim, Anastasia’s sent an email.’ He read it again. ‘It’s from someone else’s account, which explains why I didn’t notice it. She’s on a ship headed for Odessa … or Burgas. She’s got one of the crew to send an email to me … ship’s name appears to be Black Sea Star … held in container … now free and is in hiding.’ He handed Tulliver the phone. Tulliver read the email, which was poorly spelled and littered with random characters. Immediately, he phoned Zillah and read it out.

  Hisami took the phone back. ‘You need to move quickly – looks like this was sent at least twenty hours ago. She may already have reached the Black Sea. The body likely came from the ship, so they have a reason to arrest the captain and search the ship.’

  Two large prison guards opened the door and beckoned to Hisami. He handed the phone to Tulliver. ‘Find a way of getting me news.’

  ‘Should I have access to your email?’

  ‘Can’t do that, Jim. Just not possible.’

  ‘But what if she sends another email?’

  Hisami was aware of the sense of what Tulliver was saying but he simply couldn’t risk anyone seeing his emails and wished he could explain to Tulliver. ‘Just get me out,’ he said quietly. ‘Do anything! But watch Castell. He’s a hothead.’

  Samson parked on a stony track off the coastal road where there was good mobile-phone coverage and sent the film from Anastasia’s phone to Zillah Dee and Fenarelli’s team at Carabinieri headquarters. He didn’t drive off immediately but watched the footage again. She had held the phone remarkably still as she emerged from the trees and scaled the slope towards the road. And once on the road, she had walked so slowly that the two men and the quaking migrant were clearly visible. Then she jinked to her right and a second later the video ended. But the audio continued, as it had on the voicemail, with the microphone recording the sound of the man running, gun shots and a succession of impacts as he tumbled into the crevice.

  He got out and walked away from the car, thinking about Anastasia and what it took for her to risk her own safety with such a slight chance of saving that man’s life. An old woman, working in the field nearby, a huge basket of tomatoes beside her, said good afternoon. Samson raised a hand to her and smiled. Yes, he thought, Anastasia wanted a larger, more meaningful life than he could ever offer her, and she was probably right. Many in her position would have simply acquired the billionaire’s lifestyle but she had used it to create something heroic and useful, and she cared enough about each individual’s life to sacrifice herself on that road.

  Zillah called him. ‘This film is from her phone? Why didn’t you tell me you had it when we saw each other?’

  ‘I didn’t know until I charged the phone. I thought it belonged to the second victim, Louis. She slipped it to him before he ran.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘On the way back to the hotel. I left a note on your car. I looked for you and both your numbers were busy. She took a lot of film – it’s all there.’

  ‘You’ve got access to the phone! How?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter – there are clear pictures of the two kidnappers.’

  ‘Samson, I’m afraid that’s not as important as it was. Anastasia escaped and managed to fire off an email to Denis. She’s on a boat headed to the Black Sea. We’re trying to get an interception in international waters. The Israelis have a naval vessel in that area, but we’re probably too late. We’re taking the plane there. Jonathan, Pete and I are on the way to the airport now. Sorry, we can’t wait for you.’

  ‘Understood. Let me know where and when you land and I’ll find a way of joining you.’

  He looked up the flights on his phone. There was no direct service from Naples to Odessa. He would have a ten-hour journey via Vienna and that flight wouldn’t leave Naples until noon the next day. Hendricks Harp made the booking for him. He set off for the hotel, having left a message for Macy to call him.

  When he arrived, he took a beer on to his balcony, which faced not out to sea but inland to the mountains, a hazy blue in the late-afternoon light and threaded with the smoke of autumn bonfires. The town came to life in the streets below him with the whine of mopeds and young Italians calling out to each other. He took out Anastasia’s phone and began to go through the photo album. The most recent images were from Italy and had plainly been taken for professional reasons, or possibly to show Hisami the work that half a dozen Aysel centres across Southern Europe were doing. There were offices and therapy rooms, staff meetings and several groups of people in T-shirts bearing the organisation’s logo and a run of photographs from a voyage on a rescue boat in the southern Mediterranean.

  He found more evidence of her commitment further back, a big fundraiser at a San Francisco hotel for the Foundation and visits to Europe. He flashed through the months, pausing to look at a series with Hisami, who seemed rarely to be without papers or a laptop in front of him, even when they were at their pool or tennis court. This was an album with a few friends and no evidence of family on either side, although it was lightened by Anastasia’s obsession with garden flowers, close-ups of which there were many, and the arrival of a puppy. Hisami was seen lying in the grass, the puppy asleep on his chest and a cocktail beside him.

  He found the photographs of Venice, about three dozen of them, starting with shots from the Maria Redan as they chugged into the lagoon. But they weren’t just of the city. There were some of him, lying on the bed in the hotel, gazing from the window, shivering in a gondola, and in one of the grand cafés on the main square drinking brandy, none of which he knew she had taken. There were a couple of them together in the cloister of a monastery, which he recalled being posed for by her friend Gianni. She wore sunglasses and the coat she’d bought at an expensive store. She insisted that if you see something that’s truly perfect for you, it’s imperative to get it, no matter what the expense. His eye was still puffy from the beating he had received in Macedonia and he looked tired yet also happy, so much so that he almost didn’t recognise himself. There was nothing from the rest of their time together except one of his mother in profile sitting in the filtered light of her kitchen in her flat. It showed that Anastasia had an eye for composition, and he made a note to forward the photograph to himself at some stage.

  Had Denis seen all the evidence of their closeness, he wondered, and why hadn’t Anastasia deleted the record of those few days in Venice? Their infatuation was plain to see. Maybe she hadn’t forgotten that time altogether. Perhaps she’d scrolled through them smiling, as he had just found himself doing. He closed the album and moved to search the email account.

  Starting with recent emails she’d received, he found a timeline of her arrangements in Italy, the five days at sea with the rescue boat and the four days divided between the two centres in Sicily where migrants were offered emergency psychotherapy. It was easy to distil the information because Anastasia always wrote sparingly and to the point. He got a good idea of the last fourteen days, but there was nothing that was going to help him, no chance encounters, nothing out of the ordinary.

  He moved to the emails in her ‘Sent’ file and found little to interest him except a recent one to her husband, whom she addressed as ‘Hash’. This was confirming her return date, which she had broken. She added that they would talk everything through when she got back. He put Hisami’s address into the search bar of sent emails and found dozens, again mostly discussing their schedules, but there were two longer ones from the previou
s year when she was in Germany and had visited Naji’s family for a second time – this time without Samson. He noted that Naji hadn’t mentioned this to him. She was concerned about an issue that she didn’t specify.

  ‘What’s the problem with backing off, Hash?’ she wrote. ‘These people – whoever they are – have the power to hurt you. And to what end? What are you going to gain? Why don’t you let it go? It’s not important to your life. And it’s not important to our life, and yet this thing is taking us over. That is REALLY unlike you, Hash. You’ve always got the big picture in front of you, which is why I love and admire you. I know you have to win, but is this worth your time? Do you really want them to dig up all those things in your past? I don’t know much – I guess that’s for a reason. But you are a fine and good man, and the therapy centres are doing great work. Why don’t you move on? As ever, all my love, A.’

  Her second email on this subject included his reply, which Samson read first.

  ‘Ana, what you say is right, but I took a legitimate stake in this company and built my investment, while offering support to the management. So, yes, I feel really sore about their treatment of me. I will consider what you ask.’

  Anastasia’s reply thanked him profusely and referred to the phone call they’d had since she received the email. Apparently, they kept missing each other because of the time difference between the West Coast and Germany.

  ‘It was lovely to speak just now, and I was so touched that you would consider this for me. You must know I hold you in great esteem and that I value your wisdom and intelligence above all things. You spoke of calling out the corruption, but why is that for you to do? Why not leave it to the authorities? This is your world. I guess you know best, but I want to understand why you’re doing this. It’s crazy to take them on.’

  It was like overhearing a rather formal marital spat in the next room. There was respect between them and she expressed admiration for him, but there was no sign of passion, or of Anastasia’s humour. When she and Samson were together, they’d laughed and fooled around and teased each other remorselessly, but this seemed more like a business partnership, where the parties were bound by a memorandum of understanding. Is that what she had left him for? She wanted to influence her world for the better and Hisami’s money and connections gave her that, but did she really have to accept bloodless formality? But this was all incidental to the revelation that Hisami was hell-bent on ‘calling out the corruption’ at the new company, which must be TangKi.