by Henry Porter
‘You do nothing about TangKi, Sam. You have no status with the company. We warned its major shareholders, and we have done our duty. Anastasia is the only thing that matters. Getting me out and Anastasia home – that’s what we have to focus on.’
Tulliver brought his hand up to his mouth and coughed. ‘Meanwhile, I’m afraid I have some further bad news.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Hisami calmly.
‘The website – newsJip – that ran the original story about you which started all this contacted the office last night and sent some images by email, and they want your reaction …’
‘Go on.’
‘They aren’t good.’
‘Show them to me.’
Tulliver took out a file of legal papers and parted them. He withdrew three printouts and spread them in front of Hisami. They showed a group of armed men standing around a ditch in which bodies were piled. Hisami, a gun over his shoulder and a pistol in his hand, was clearly visible in all three shots. The same flying jacket, the same beard and the same commanding presence.
‘They say you supervised the massacre of these Iraqi soldiers.’
‘Do they?’ said Hisami. He picked one up and squinted at it then nodded to himself. ‘I remember this well. These were indeed Iraqis, but Saddam’s forces executed them because their commander was about to come over to our side in the 1995 uprising.’
‘Can you prove that?’
He let the photograph drop from his hand so it landed in front of Tulliver. ‘See the man in dark glasses – the one without a uniform and just a side arm?’ Tulliver bent down and searched the photograph. ‘That’s Bob Baker of the CIA. He writes books now and is on CNN. I see him when he comes out to San Francisco.’
‘I’m lost,’ said Castell.
‘I imagine you are,’ said Hisami.
‘So, he can testify to that fact?’ asked Tulliver.
‘Put it this way,’ said Hisami. ‘If they publish that photograph and say the men standing round that ditch are responsible for the massacre, Bob will sue them for libel. In fact, I recommend we give them no response whatsoever and let them go ahead and publish. Bob could use the money.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. We saw a lot of terrible things, some of them done by my side, but this was not one of them. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. This is their first mistake, and it proves something to me.’
‘What?’
‘This didn’t come from the CIA or from any other US agency. I was worried about that. Anyone who had access to this photograph in an American agency would know exactly what was going on in it. So it came from someone else who didn’t know that one of the CIA’s most talented agents to work in the Middle East was in the photograph. The Agency would know that.’
Tulliver looked concerned. ‘You’re saying go ahead and let them publish without saying anything. That seems like an awful risk.’
‘Why not? My reputation has been shredded. If Bob comes out and says what this photograph is really about, people are far more likely to believe him than me. He will be totally convincing.’
‘So where did this happen? What were you doing?’ asked Castell.
‘Long story, but it involved an American attempt to bring forces together to overthrow Saddam Hussein. Baker was let down by the Clinton administration, even though this was an American operation to combine the PUK, the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan, of which I was a part, Shi’ite forces and some Sunni officers.’
‘There’s something else. They say you lied on your immigration form and gave a false name.’
‘A different name, actually. My sister, Aysel, and I legally changed our names. It was necessary.’
‘You want to tell us about that?’ said Castell.
‘Another time.’
‘We need your help on this, Denis,’ pleaded the lawyer.
‘It’s not relevant,’ said Hisami firmly. Castell looked at Tulliver for backup, but again he didn’t get it.
‘I appreciate that you have some kind of secret past, Denis. But at some stage you’re going to have to cough.’
That wasn’t going to happen and, besides, Hisami knew his past was of interest only in as much as it was being used to pile pressure on him. He gave the smallest shake of his head and retreated into his white-hot silence until the guard walked in and, in a curiously high voice, given his size, told Hisami to get up. He thought for a second or two longer, which caused the guard to take a couple of paces towards him, then he rose. ‘I may need to see Samson,’ he said to Tulliver.
CHAPTER 14
Doing nothing when nothing was to be done was a discipline Samson had learned as a young intelligence officer, and it had come in useful when Denis Hisami had hired him to find Aysel in the ISIS caliphate and he endured the scorching Turkish summer in a flyblown hotel, waiting for a man to cross the border from Syria. He’d hunkered down, put his mind in neutral and read, among other things, Anna Karenina on a tablet. He did much the same thing after the Camorra had left the car park. Hour after hour passed, with occasional trips to get food and something to read in the airport terminal, but mostly he sat in the car, waiting for phone calls. Macy Harp and Zillah Dee kept him up to date with the ship’s movements, but as the day progressed it became clear that there would be no interception before it entered Russian territorial waters.
He didn’t think about Anastasia – not for one second – because it never helped. Instead, he methodically sifted all the facts and came to the only conclusion there was. Everything pointed back to Denis Hisami, and that meant he had to talk to him. If Anastasia had been taken to Russia, there was virtually no hope of locating her or extracting her. Hisami had to make the deal.
He booked the first flight to London the next morning, returned the car and checked into the hotel nearest the airport. All this he could have done earlier, but while there was a possibility that he might have to fly somewhere in the east, he preferred to be near the terminal. He did not undress in the hotel room but took a beer and a packet of crisps from the mini bar and lay down on the bed. The call from Zillah came at 1 a.m.
‘So, we’re done here,’ she said. ‘The ship is likely headed for Crimea, but which port we have no idea. It’s going to be tough to get anyone there in time. I need far more people to cover the ground. But I do have some news for you. The DNA results came through.’ She paused to read something. ‘Says here that the samples taken from Crane’s house in California do not match the blood sample. I repeat: do not match the blood sample from the balcony of the apartment in London. They do, however, match the samples taken from the shower drain in the apartment. Seems like you got the result you expected. The body with the face blown off isn’t Crane.’
‘Can you send that to me?’
‘It’s already in your inbox. Unless there’s anything else, I should go. I’ll see how things develop here, but my instinct is to head back to the States and figure out with Mr Hisami what we should do next. They hope to have him out tomorrow. I’ll stay in touch.’
Samson reached London Heathrow by 11.30 a.m. after changing planes in Frankfurt. As he left the plane he switched on the phone he was using and glanced through his messages. There was a one-word text from Zillah – ‘Sevastopol’. The Grigori had indeed docked in Crimea, since the 2014 annexation part of Putin’s Russia. He headed for Immigration and found himself waiting in an unusually long line of business people snaking round the hall. At some point he became aware of two men wearing lanyards scanning the crowd from the other side of the immigration desk. He got through passport control and was moving in the direction of the escalator down to the baggage hall when they approached him from behind.
‘Mr Samson, would you come with us?’ said one.
‘Depends why.’
‘We want to ask you some questions.’
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘Not at the moment, sir.’
He followed them through a
door and was led into a room, where Peter Nyman was seated, reading a copy of Flight International with his arm crooked around the back of his neck.
‘Ah, there you are, Samson. I thought you’d be on that flight. So glad the old intuition hasn’t quite deserted me yet.’ He dropped the magazine on the table and produced his more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger look. ‘Knowing we are old colleagues, our friends at the Metropolitan Police here wanted my help in tracking you down. And I decided to make the journey out here to ensure that they did in fact collar you.’
Samson sat down and placed his backpack beside him. ‘As you no doubt know, I am investigating the abduction of an American subject who has been taken to Russian territory on a container ship. Time is of the essence, so I would appreciate it if you could keep this as brief as possible.’
‘We are aware of what is going on,’ said Nyman.
The officers gave their names as Sergeant James Christie and Detective Inspector Kevin McDowell.
McDowell – Samson noted the beginnings of a paunch and thick, black Celtic hair cropped to a brush – began. ‘This is not a formal interview, so we are not recording the conversation. Just a few questions, but arrest and a formal interview may follow and, after that, charges.’
Samson gestured indifference.
‘We believe that you entered an apartment at the Wardour Park Tower in Knightsbridge three days ago and interfered with a designated crime scene. As you will be aware, this is a serious offence. There is CCTV footage of you entering the building that day.’
‘Yes, I did enter the building.’ Samson knew there was no CCTV in the flat to prove he had been there, and he was also sure that Jo Hayes wouldn’t have admitted to anything. That was always the deal – total denial – and he wasn’t going to compromise her by saying he had been in the apartment.
‘What was your intention?’
‘To check that the apartment where the body was found did in fact belong to Ray Shepherd, which is one of the aliases of Adam Crane, an individual I was investigating for an American client.’
‘What were you doing with Detective Inspector Hayes?’
‘No doubt you have asked her, but it’s very simple. She’s an old contact of mine and she suggested that, in the course of my inquiries about Crane, I might be able to help the Metropolitan Police with information about him. As Mr Nyman must have told you, I am investigating the possible theft of millions of dollars from a company named TangKi. Given Crane’s many identities, I just wanted to make sure that the body had been found in one of the flats I had under observation. And the only way to establish that was to get into the building.’
‘But all you would need for that was an apartment number.’
‘I had an apartment number, it is true, but I wanted to make sure this tallied with the apartment that I had watched from the park.’
‘And so you entered the apartment with Detective Inspector Hayes.’
‘No.’
‘You are saying that you didn’t go into the apartment?’
‘Yes,’ said Samson confidently. He was certain that the forensics officer in there when they arrived would not have jeopardised his job by admitting he’d let them in. And Jo would have seen him straight.
‘I find it hard to believe that you went up there just to check a number,’ said Sergeant Christie.
Samson turned to the officer, a peevish-looking blond of about forty with ear piercings but no rings or studs. ‘There was something else, but I didn’t tell Jo at first.’
‘And what was that?’ said the officer.
‘One aspect of the case I was investigating was the use of artworks to launder money. Mr Crane collected valuable pictures and it seemed likely that he had developed his interest in the art market because it is still one of the best ways of laundering money and keeping assets hidden from tax authorities and crime-fighting agencies. Often these works of art are held in secure warehouses in freeport zones, but I believe that Mr Crane kept much of his collection on his walls, at least temporarily, before they were shipped.’
‘Yes,’ said McDowell.
‘I wanted to get a glimpse of the apartment through the door. I saw that all the paintings that I knew had been there had been removed. Even from the doorway it is possible to see marks on the wall where a big work has been.’
‘And what did that suggest to you?’ continued McDowell.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Samson.
‘Explain.’
‘I asked Jo whether the police had removed the paintings because of their value. She didn’t know, but thought not. So I suggested the first thing the police needed to do was to go back into the CCTV recordings and see when they were taken out of the building, because clearly that might have relevance to your investigation – it could provide a motive for the murder.’ Samson glanced at Nyman, who had his eyes firmly fixed on a loose ceiling tile. ‘I did suggest to Jo that CCTV was checked to establish the date when those artworks were removed. She will confirm that.’
‘We’ll definitely ask her,’ said McDowell.
‘If you have nothing else, I’ll be getting along.’
The two policemen consulted and then McDowell stood and said, ‘We’re arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice, Mr Samson. I must warn you that anything you say …’
Samson raised his hand from the desk. ‘Stop right there.’ He put his hand down to snatch his backpack from Christie’s grasp. ‘First, you do not have reasonable suspicion that I have committed a crime, because you know that Jo Hayes has confirmed everything I have just told you. And the second point is, if you go ahead, there will be consequences that no one in this room desires. I will speak to Mr Nyman alone.’
McDowell protested that it wasn’t up to Samson to dictate to police officers whether he was about to be charged with a serious offence.
‘I will talk to Mr Nyman – the rest of you can leave.’ He looked at the officers. ‘I bloody well mean it.’
They didn’t move.
‘Maybe,’ said Nyman, ‘I should hear what Samson has to say. He’s not going anywhere.’ He made an imperceptible jerk towards the door with his head. ‘Just a few minutes.’
They left. Nyman looked down at the magazine. ‘What do you want to tell me?’
‘I know exactly what you’re doing.’
‘Oh, really! Do tell.’
‘You want to get me charged so you can all have a good look at my phone.’
‘I believe the police do indeed have powers to seize a phone or any other device after a person has been charged.’
‘And that is why you’re here. Even for these strange times, it’s unusual for a member of the intelligence services to be present in a police interview, however informal that interview is said to be. A lawyer would make a lot of that in court because it looks like you’re putting pressure on the police, the suspect, or both. But this case won’t get to court. Once you have looked at my phone, the charges will be dropped – right, Peter?’
Nyman just gazed at him.
‘But that’s not going to happen, and you know why. You and I know that Crane is still alive. You’ve known all along, and I can prove that.’ He couldn’t, but Nyman had no idea of that. ‘Two things follow from this fact, Peter. The first is that you are withholding information from a police investigation, which is a far greater crime than anything you can hope to pin on me, but the second, bigger problem for you is that you don’t want anyone to know that Crane is still alive, do you? You need Adam Crane to be dead because he’s the centre of an operation.’
Nyman blew his cheeks out and shook his head vigorously. ‘You’re groping in the dark, Paul. This won’t save you.’
Samson leaned forward so he could look straight into Nyman’s eyes. ‘Let me tell you this. If I’m charged, this will go straight to the media. Not only will that embarrass you, it will screw your operation. So do not fuck with me on this, Peter. I am not in the mood for it. I’m not interested in your spook game
s with Crane – I just want to see Anastasia released.’ He stopped, rose and hooked his backpack over one shouder. ‘I’ll let you tell them that they aren’t going to arrest me. They’ll have to agree, because this was all your bloody idea in the first place.’
Nyman looked up at him. ‘Are you really going to take us on, Paul?’
He rested the pack on the table. ‘The only thing I give a damn about is Anastasia’s freedom. If you obstruct me and endanger her life, there is simply nothing I won’t do to hurt you and your operation. Nothing. Please understand that.’ Samson straightened and turned to the door.
Nyman grunted. ‘Have it your own way, Paul, but you have no idea what you are dealing with. No idea whatsoever.’
CHAPTER 15
When the boat docked, a man came into the cabin, where Anastasia waited. He was short, with fine Slavic hair brushed forward into a point and the air of a busy official. He sat down on the only chair in the cabin, clasped his hands over his belly and regarded her through rimless glasses that were tinted blue, which he then took off. Her hands and feet had been bound just before he entered by the men who had lifted her out of the box and she had shrunk from this man when the door had opened, but he had told her in good English with a Russian accent to relax and listen to him.
‘We do not want to harm you, Mrs Hisami. The captain is fool and treated you badly. There was no need to keep you in container – he should have given you cabin like this, then you would not have wanted to escape. But you have made things very difficult for us because you told others where you were. The crew found the phone you used and we know that you called a friend and gave him all information you had. That phone call identified ship, which is why we were shadowed until we reached our Russian waters. Our plans have been disrupted and we must make certain adjustments for the new situation, you understand.’ She tried to speak but he cut her off, chopping the air with his hand several times. ‘Do not interrupt me, Mrs Hisami. Just listen. Naturally, one option is to dispose of you, and we have considered this, but that would be waste of all our hard work and we still do not have what we want.’
