White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  Samson shook his head impatiently. ‘Anastasia is now your wife and I accept that – okay? I’m here to help you get her back. I am not going over this history.’

  ‘Do you have anyone else? Have you found love?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant, and you have no right to ask.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you, quite frankly, that I think there’s something about you that she misses. After all, she remembered your number when she was on the boat.’

  ‘You were in jail and your phone was locked because you won’t let anyone use it.’ He got up and looked down at Hisami. ‘We’re talking about Anastasia’s life.’

  ‘Do please sit down, Paul. I should explain that I cannot allow anyone access to my phone and my email because it’s the kidnappers’ main channel of communication to me and I have to have absolute control over that. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, but if you’re re-arrested, then there’s no way we can respond if they make a demand.’

  ‘There won’t be any demand.’ Samson watched as Hisami’s gaze swept the enormous space. It was then that Samson noticed the Patrick Heron painting in the dining area, which he had last seen with Anastasia in the window of a gallery in St James’s. She had stopped and admired it. Hisami must have bought it for her soon afterwards.

  Hisami coughed. ‘That individual you just met, he is Crane’s man on the inside. I wasn’t sure until earlier this evening, when he twice mentioned that Anastasia was in Italy. Okay, so people know she’s abroad but she could have been anywhere – we have centres all over Europe and two in the Middle East. Only four people in the US knew she was there, and Gil wasn’t one of them.’

  Samson absorbed this. ‘Does he know where she’s being held?’

  ‘I doubt it. But I’m sure he believes that I accept that Crane is dead, and that’s vital.’

  Samson nodded. ‘You’re saying you’ve got nothing with which to bargain for her life. What about threatening to publish what you have?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. If I do that, I have nothing to bargain with.’

  ‘So you’re just going to sit here, trusting that a man who’s already responsible for four or five deaths will agree to release Anastasia when he no longer has anything to fear from your dossier? Is that really your strategy?’

  ‘Paul, you’re not hearing me.’

  ‘My problem is that I am.’ Samson got up. ‘You put her by that fucking grave – now you have no idea how to help her.’ An idea came into his mind so quickly he was unaware of the logic behind what he said next. ‘There’s something else. They’ve got something else on you.’

  Hisami stared up at him, eyes blazing, face like a stone. But Samson wasn’t having it. ‘Don’t try this shit with me, Denis. What have they got on you?’

  ‘This is not your concern,’ he snapped. ‘You’re on my payroll, and you’ll do what I say. You will continue to work with Zillah to look for Anastasia. Leave the rest to me.’

  Samson moved away. ‘It’s not as if you’ve done a great job so far, is it? Remember, I was with her first and, if she’d stayed with me, she wouldn’t be in the position she is now. So, let me make this plain. I’m no longer on your payroll, but I will do everything to get her back. You have my numbers,’ he said over his shoulder as he headed for the lift.

  He crashed at the hotel but was woken by a call from Zillah Dee. ‘We’ve located the truck driver. He’s on the road to Novosibirsk and we know his destination, just outside the city. Our agent will find him and she will get the information we need from him.’

  ‘That needs to happen – we don’t have long.’

  ‘She will. We have people in western Russia to verify the information the moment she acquires it, so there shouldn’t be much of a delay.’ She paused.

  ‘What?’ he prompted.

  ‘You know this operation is costing a lot of money. I’m not sure Denis can pay us what he owes. Tulliver has been dodging my questions about invoices sent two weeks back.’

  ‘How much is he in for?’

  ‘Approximately a million dollars. People like you are very expensive and we’re burning money in Russia.’

  He told her that he was no longer on the payroll and explained the reasons. ‘But I’m still committed to finding and freeing her.’

  ‘That’s good, but I can’t afford to do this for free, Samson. I must know that my bills will be met. Otherwise, I have to pull out.’

  Samson reached over to the mini bar and pulled out a miniature Jack Daniels, unscrewed the top and took a sip.

  ‘How much trouble is he in? A few million is short change for someone like Denis.’

  ‘Yes, but he had a big, big loss when he bet some pharma stock would fall and it rose. He is still recovering from that.’ He heard her inhale on the e-cigarette he’d seen her use discreetly a couple of times.

  ‘I hope he pays Macy soon, for obvious reasons. And Macy won’t tolerate not being paid for long.’

  ‘Nor me,’ she murmured. ‘My organisation runs close-hauled. Macy most likely has more resources than we do.’

  He wondered briefly if she’d been got at by the powerful forces that were bent on destroying Hisami, but then dismissed the thought.

  ‘Can I ask you something? Why’s he holding back?’ It’s obvious there’s a lot he’s not telling us.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve got something else.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Maybe abducting Anastasia and threatening to kill her wasn’t their last shot. They might have another play, which could be even more devastating to him.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘With his past, there’s likely to be something. By the way, did he talk to you about his friend Leppo?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The matter is in hand.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Denis is very thorough. He had us check out Leppo a few months back. That information will be released tomorrow and Mr Leppo will find out what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a federal investigation. The Israeli government is going to formally raise concerns about him with the State Department. I can’t tell you the details, but the allegations are firmly based in fact. It’s the end for him. The Israelis will push it out in public channels once they’ve talked with State. He deserves it – this guy is like a tapeworm.’

  Early next morning, Samson was headed to the check-in machines, thinking he would call Naji once he was through Security, when one of his phones received a call from a number he didn’t recognise.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Jo Hayes. ‘Are you still in New York?’

  ‘Hi, yes, I’m about to leave.’

  ‘Don’t come back to London. They know which flight you’re taking and they will almost certainly arrest you.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Hell knows – they’ll find something. They need to take you out of circulation for some reason, which is why I’m phoning on a friend’s phone, not mine.’

  ‘This is about Crane?’

  ‘I guess. They’re all over Hendricks Harp, which is how they knew which flight you’re on. And I’m pretty sure the Security Services have searched your place.’

  ‘Did they find anything that interested them?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because they told me. I’ve agreed to work for them.’

  ‘Just to be clear, is that why you slept with me?’

  ‘No, I fancy you, and it was a great excuse. But seriously, they really are going to bang you up if you set foot back in this effing country of ours. Make yourself scarce – I would.’

  ‘Okay. Can you call me if you hear anything else that seems important? And please use this number.’

  ‘On the condition that we have dinner at your restaurant again.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said. And hung up.

  He consulted flight times using the web then texted Tina with a message intended for others to read: ‘New developments here
. Sorry, can’t make flight. Will be in NYC for next few days. Can you get refund at this late stage? Many apols again. Samson.’

  He left Terminal 7 and got a ride on a shuttle bus to Terminal 8, where he bought a business-class ticket on a flight to Helsinki, which would leave in two and a half hours’ time.

  CHAPTER 21

  Kirill had meant to cover the screen with his hand so she couldn’t see Samson’s face, but as he backed away from her to capture the whole scene she had fleetingly seen him and registered the outrage and dismay in his eyes. When Samson had said, ‘I am with you, dear Anastasia,’ she knew that he was giving her more than just support. He was coming for her, and that’s why she’d tried to smile at the camera.

  Kirill didn’t miss that and, after he’d made another call, he caught her and her guards up on the way back to the compound, prodded her and said he’d certainly found the right man in Samson. He would make sure her husband complied with all the demands.

  They had taken her watch, but she estimated it must have been two or three in the morning when they got back to the compound. Kirill had seized the bottle of vodka by the fire and now followed her into the building, behind the man who had her chained. He dismissed the guard when the chain had been unlocked and came into the room and fumbled at her breast, saying he couldn’t help but be excited by the way she had handled herself. Most women would have become hysterical in those circumstances, he exclaimed, but she was strong and defiant, and that had really turned him on. She felt like hitting him, but she simply removed his hand, looked into his face and shook her head slowly.

  Next morning, she noticed the room was much colder and her breath smoked in the air, and when no food arrived she realised that Kirill was punishing her. She sat shivering on the bed, wrapped in the rug from the night before and with a coverlet over her feet. But at least she wasn’t trussed up in a box. Around mid-morning, a hand appeared around the door and a paperback was chucked into the room, Ivan Turgenev’s First Love, a novella she’d read in college. Her only memory was that she had wanted to slap both protagonists and tell them to stop being so self-indulgent.

  She read the book and kept her hunger at bay by rubbing toothpaste in her mouth and drinking water. Night fell and the room became colder still and the air stale. It was late when the man came to handcuff her to the chain and led her out into the open. Kirill was seated beside a roaring fire and, by the look of things, was already well into a bottle of vodka. He wore a hunting cap with earflaps, mittens, a jacket and waistcoat, breeches and lace-up ankle boots. Around his neck was a loosely tied silk scarf with a pheasant motif. She suspected he was dressing up for her.

  He handed her a glass, which she refused. ‘I can’t drink without food. It will make me ill.’

  Between them was a metal picnic table on which lay the Russian edition of the book. The cover showed a woman in a long white dress and hat standing by cheery trees in blossom. Kirill picked it up, gazed at the picture for a moment and showed it to her. ‘This is very good art. Good Russian art.’ Then he issued instructions in Russian and very soon a vacuum flask of soup was brought, together with some bread and smoked cheese in the shape of a sausage.

  She gorged on the bread and cheese and sipped the soup while Kirill flipped through the book and very soon her blood sugar had risen and she was feeling more herself.

  ‘You like this book we study? I chose for you.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ she murmured, looking down. ‘I find the character of the boy irritating and the woman is manipulative. She is five years older than he is and she’s playing with his emotions for no reason. She has many suitors and doesn’t love him and, anyway, she is his father’s goddamn mistress. She is deceiving everyone then she dies: end of story. What’s the point?’

  ‘Drink,’ Kirill commanded.

  She considered the vodka and downed it all.

  ‘This is great Russian work about love,’ said Kirill.

  ‘And disappointment,’ she said. ‘But my main problem is that people don’t behave like that.’

  Kirill let out a guffaw. ‘This happened to writer. Turgenev fell in love with his father’s mistress! There was good reason I chose this book – because of your situation. You remind me of Princess Zinaida, and Samson is young boy Vladimir.’

  ‘You have me as the flirtatious bimbo! And Samson as the lovesick youth! Jesus! Then I guess my husband, Denis, takes the role of the father. It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘But Hisami is father figure to replace your father.’

  ‘How do you know my father is dead?’

  He gave her a weary look. ‘We researched you, Anastasia. And Denis is older than you. He is in his fifties and you are thirty-five years of age.’

  She shook her head and looked away.

  ‘Read to me in English the passage where the son discovers the truth.’ He took her book from her, found it quickly and handed it back with a finger placed at the spot.

  ‘It’s ridiculous – I can’t read this.’ But he threatened to take her shoes away and keep her without food the following day so she read, with a tone of sarcastic melodrama, the scene where the father of the smitten boy Vladimir takes his riding crop to his mistress. ‘“Zinaida shuddered, looked at my father without a word, and then, slowly lifting her arm to her lips, kissed the streak of red that had appeared upon it. My father flung the whip away from him and, hastily running up the steps, dashed into the house.”’ She dropped the book. ‘It’s sentimental rubbish.’

  Kirill affected shock at this. ‘Maybe this is like your husband?’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  ‘Your husband is out of jail and he has met with Samson, but nothing has happened. He has not done what we want and Samson leaves New York and goes home to London. He spurns you.’

  She straightened. ‘But you’ve told my husband of your demands.’

  ‘He knows what we want, but he plays games with us. Yet he can do nothing. He is under house arrest. They put tracker on his leg and he cannot leave apartment. So Samson went to New York and he was unable to persuade Denis to help you. We were watching.’

  ‘Let me talk to Denis. I can tell him what he needs to do. Please, Kirill! I’m sure he will help when he hears from me. Call him.’

  ‘No!’ He stabbed the fire with a long stick and sparks flew into the night. ‘Did you know your husband was CIA agent and so was his sister?’

  ‘They went through difficult times in Kurdistan. Working with the CIA would be part of that, I guess. But he doesn’t talk about it and I never knew his sister.’

  ‘Professional killers.’

  ‘You have that wrong. She was a doctor who helped children with cancer.’

  ‘Your husband killed four men in Macedonia and saved your life. Where do you imagine he learned that kind of skill? With CIA, of course.’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, although she had always had her suspicions, which stemmed from his relationship with the polite Bob Baker and their occasional huddles in the pool house in Mesopotamia.

  ‘Men like your husband will do everything to save themselves,’ mused Kirill. ‘They have different psychology. They are very cold, very strong. That is now problem for you because he will try to win and that means you may die in process.’

  ‘There’s something I don’t understand about you, Kirill. How can you sit here and drink with me and talk about books at the same time as threatening me with a bullet in my head? How many people have died? Five people, including the poor chef? Why?’ She felt light-headed and bold, and she knew that she should be flattering her jailer rather than challenging him. She stopped and glanced at him, then decided to press on, knowing that the drink was talking. ‘Please explain to me what is so important to you and your associates that you are prepared to kill so many people?’

  ‘There are many casualties in these times, but your husband is responsible for deaths. Remember that.’

  ‘Denis didn’t kill them – your organisation did.’
She sprang forward but the man holding the other end of the chain yanked her back and wrenched the shoulder that had been injured on the boat.

  ‘Why?’ she shouted as the pain flooded her mind. ‘What do you damn well want?’

  Kirill smiled. ‘What is ours – nothing else.’

  He kept her by the fire another two hours, drinking and making rambling speeches on the decline of civilisation and the Russian soul, all of it tinged with a sentimental fascist longing. She feigned interest, indulged him by arguing with him and once – more out of boredom than anything else – launched an attack on the corruption of his country. ‘Russia is run by men for men, gangsters who do not understand the meaning of work or community, because they’ve only ever stolen from the people, so please don’t preach to me about the values of the goddamn Motherland.’ He enjoyed this and countered with a sharp analysis of the United States, but she couldn’t be bothered to reply and yearned for the solitude of her room. Eventually, he tired, staggered to his feet and ordered her to be taken into the building.

  But this was not where things ended. Later, he came to her room and felt his way to her bed in the half-light, tripping at the last moment on the leg of the table – the only furniture in the room – so that he sprawled over her and breathed alcohol in her face. He groped her breasts, saying something about admiring a woman with her spirit, though it was hard to tell because he was so drunk, and fumbled at the fastener on her trousers. For one moment she wondered if she should let him do what he wanted, but that thought soon vanished when his hand slipped inside her pants. She struggled upright and brought her knees to her chest. ‘No!’ she said. He stopped and raised his head. ‘Kirill, these are not the actions of a civilised man.’

  ‘But … I want you.’ He could barely get these few words out. He lay motionless on the bed and mumbled something in Russian to himself. She saw that his fly was open and penis was out.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she said. ‘Kirill, you have to decide whether you want to be my executioner or my lover, because you sure as hell can’t be both.’