White Hot Silence

by Henry Porter

  Finding the track was a piece of luck, which came to her because she’d decided to look around and notice where she was, rather than moving blindly through the forest. When she happened to glance at the sunlight on some brilliant, pale yellow leaves that were clinging to a sapling’s lower branches she noticed that beyond the tree was a flat brown surface. This was a bend in the track and, if she hadn’t looked at the tree, she would have missed it because this was the only point where her route going south came close to it. After checking the track was empty both ways, she stepped out into the open and made for a puddle, where she scooped up water, taking care not to disturb the mud at the bottom. She wasn’t enjoying any part of this, but she felt alive and free.

  Which direction? She had no idea but decided to head south. She walked for five or six kilometres, keeping to the side so that she could dive for cover if one of the cars from the compound came along. She ate some biscuits and a few of the mixed pickles – small onions and slices of carrot – and sometimes she hummed to herself.

  In the middle of the afternoon she spotted a thin male figure in a black anorak, about three hundred metres ahead of her. She slowed and watched. He seemed to be moving with difficulty. She quickened her pace and came within shouting distance, but instead of calling out she kept walking towards him. When she got close she said, ‘Hello.’ He turned round, and she saw the haunted, white, elfin face of a young man of about nineteen or twenty. He looked puzzled and fearful, but then smiled and nodded. He uttered something and she shook her head to say that she didn’t understand. He was saying, ‘Igor! Igor!’ That was his name. She said it with a smile, and he grinned and his fingers danced in front of his mouth, perhaps as a kind of substitute for the words he could not speak, for it was clear he had the mental age of a young child. He got close and peered at her to check she really meant him no harm, and she smiled again and he clapped his hands and clasped them together by his heart to say that he liked her, then she did the same, which delighted him. She touched him on the shoulder and pointed ahead of them. She was asking whether they should continue on their way together. And he got the point and smiled and his fingers fluttered his joy. So they walked together, Igor dragging his left foot and shyly sneaking looks at her.

  This boy must be going somewhere, she thought. Someone must look after him, someone who might have a phone and possibly a place she could sleep. These thoughts were uppermost in her mind, yet she responded to Igor as she had to the damaged young people she saw in the camps in Lesbos during the mass migration from Syria. She found herself making jokes with him and pointing things out, even though there was not much to see in the unchanging forest on either side of them. In his own way, the boy was beautiful, and she began to feel there was more character locked up in him than she had first thought. After a little while, she tapped him on the shoulder again and handed him the stick she no longer needed. He looked down then tried it and his eyes lit up because it did make things easier. Why hadn’t anyone thought to give him a stick? And why was he alone on this long road in the middle of nowhere and without food?

  The ‘lodger’ making a noise upstairs in Harland’s house turned out to be Naji. He had arrived with his older sister, Munira, half an hour before Nyman and Fell appeared on Harland’s doorstep. Harland had got them upstairs, while Ulrike kept Nyman waiting at the door with questions about the purpose of their visit. In the time Harland had spent with Naji before Nyman arrived, he’d told him everything concerning Anastasia’s situation, which he later explained to Samson was because Naji already knew she was in trouble and he was obviously capable of dealing with the news. That was certainly true: Naji’s foremost traits, which had taken him all the way through the Balkans as a boy, were resilience and unrealistic optimism.

  He seemed to have grown even taller since Samson last saw him as he came in behind Munira, gave Samson an awkward hug and immediately sat down at the table and asked for the Wifi password, which Ulrike read out. Munira, without the hijab she had worn when Samson saw the family in Germany, took him aside and made him promise to look after Naji. She had to return to Riga for a part-time job she was doing alongside her maths degree, so she couldn’t stay to make sure he stayed safe. She left, wagging her finger at Naji and telling him in Arabic to remember he had responsibilities, which he took no notice of, although Samson nodded to reassure her.

  He sat down beside Harland, facing Naji. ‘So, what’ve you got, my friend?’

  Naji looked sheepish and mumbled that he felt a little weird hacking Hisami’s email account when he’d been so generous to the family. He spun the computer around so they could both see. Samson examined the strangely configured inbox and shook his head. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘These are the emails from Kasim08@Kasim.com. This is the man who gave information to Mr Hisami many weeks ago. Three were deleted.’ Naji spun the computer towards him and pulled one up. Samson went round to his side of the table and began reading.

  ‘Kasim is Misak in reverse,’ said Samson. ‘That’s Daniel Misak, whose body was found on Crane’s balcony. He was Hisami’s source in TangKi.’

  He began reading, summarizing as he did so. ‘A total of $146.7 million US has been transferred through the company since April last year. Over an eighteen-month period, 123 different accounts were used – never the same one twice. The money is entered as loans as well as payment for consultation and a lot of vaguely defined services – tax advice, legal fees, research, export facilitation … that kind of BS. There’s a shitload of shell companies involved, here and in Europe. Lists follow. There is no trace of any of the US companies trading, with the exception of a chain of realtors in the Pacific North-west. It’s impossible for me to follow the money trail beyond the wall of phoney outfits in the US, but the government would have no difficulty doing this. Right now, we don’t have access to the crypto records which will tell the rest of the story. All you need to make a case is attached.’

  Samson looked down the list of US companies and the list for those in Europe, many of which were either registered by Companies House in London or in Cyprus. The attachments were screenshots of TangKi’s accounts and statements from its several bank accounts showing transfers abroad.

  He read out parts of the email while Ulrike poured coffee and gave Naji a glass of water. Then he opened the next email, which was more recent.

  Transfers have ceased. The operation is over and accounts are being sanitised – you had better move on this soon, or there won’t be anything to see. Also, I made progress on the artworks aspect. Before the accounts were altered, there were payments to three art dealers in London for art delivered in Europe and London. The artworks were sent to two destinations in Europe (see attachment) plus the Geneva Freeport facility where most are held in the names of shell companies. Payments total $62 million, but I am sure I didn’t get all of them.

  Crypto. $14.7 million invested in building via crypto. Dates and real estate portfolios are all listed in 2nd attachment – ‘Ledger’. This was done through TangKi’s normal operations, the money coming from accounts that are attached to suspicious-looking companies.

  Samson looked through the attachments and, at length, said, ‘So, we know how the money left the States, but there’s nothing to say where it came from or who will be the beneficiaries.’

  Naji turned the laptop without a word and worked the touchpad. ‘Here!’ he said, in a tone that suggested Samson was an idiot. There was a third email which didn’t answer these questions, however it was dated four weeks before Anastasia was kidnapped.

  Hi, here it is. Now you have what you want, I’m leaving town for a few weeks – maybe longer. Thanks for the package. It’s a huge help. By the way, I’m pretty sure he is skimming most of the value of the artwork. Once the money has left the country, the donors – whoever they are – have to trust that our friend will get it to the parties he intends it for. Big mistake. This is the last time you will hear from me – over and out.

  Misak’s final
report was another attachment and contained all the information in the previous emails. The key part was a list of political organisations which Misak must have prised out of Crane’s personal computer. The groups were listed alongside the financial requests they had made, each making its pitch for staff, office space, social media, website advertising costs and concluding with a statement that, without exception, referred to a mission that combined racial purity and the forcible return of migrants to their place of origin, to be supported by other actions, which Samson took to mean violence. The statements were so similar that Crane must have helped write them. The important part was that each one was named with its country of origin, as were the companies that were to receive the money, their bank details and the amount they were to be given.

  All followed the same pattern. The name of the organisation – such as Zászló Testvérei (Brothers of the Flag) – came first, followed by the country where it was based, in this case Hungary, followed by shell-company names and bank-account numbers.

  There were, in all, twenty-five organisations from across Europe and each was associated with three or four companies. By using the web translation service, they established that many of the organisations had the same name. There were four groups called Our Land – Naše země (Czech Republic), Vårt Land (Sweden), A Mi Földünk (Hungary), Vores Land (Denmark); three with the name People’s Voice – Glas Naroda (Croatia), Die Stimme der Leute (Germany), La Voce del Popolo (Italy); and two called White Nation – Białe Barody (Poland) Valkoiset Valtiot (Finland).

  Harland said he’d heard of almost none of them, although he was familiar with Metsa Sõbrad – Friends of the Forest – a shadowy Estonian group usually known as MS which he said was more like a masonic club than a political group. He would make a call to a friend in KaPo, the Estonian domestic intelligence service – Kaitsepolitseiamet – and see what they had on them.

  Samson ran through the list again and looked up to meet Naji’s expectant eyes. ‘This is really important, Naji. You’ve done a great job. We’ve got the dossier.’ He squeezed him on the shoulder. ‘My goodness, you’re a clever guy.’

  ‘Is it possible to exchange for Anastasia?’ Naji asked.

  Samson shook his head and explained that they were holding her to give them time to cover their tracks by changing all the shell companies and bank accounts and making everything that he had discovered irrelevant.

  Harland folded his arms and looked over his reading glasses. ‘They can cover up what happens from now on, but they can’t go back and erase everything that happened in the US. You may not have got that information now, but the US authorities would be able to get it.’

  ‘Which is dangerous to Crane,’ said Samson. ‘Another reason for them not to let Anastasia go. But if we get Crane, that’s a very different matter. They have to exchange her for him.’ Harland looked at him sceptically. Naji was nodding furiously.

  ‘You both have a lot of emotional investment in this, but think of the practicalities,’ said Harland. ‘First, you have to find him. Second, you have to kidnap and hold him until they contact you, because you can’t phone them, can you? Third, you have no one to help you, because my days of putting bags over people’s heads are long gone. Fourth, you will be breaking the law here and, if you are caught, you will go to jail for a very long time.’

  When confronted with unyielding opposition, Samson generally changed the subject. ‘There’s something I really don’t understand. The Russians have caused all the trouble they wanted in the European Union. Far-right groups are really well financed. Why is an American pushing money at them now?’

  ‘It’s obvious they’ll take it further. They’re almost certainly proposing violence. But there’s a lot of money going into online activity. That’s the tool they’re concentrating on – the kind of crap we saw in the US and across Europe, but much worse.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Samson. ‘So wouldn’t it be good if we could publish the dossier while it’s still relevant?’

  Harland had seen the argument coming. ‘And you suggest the only way to do that is to kidnap Crane, swap him for Anastasia and publish the moment you’ve got her safe and sound?’

  ‘Precisely. These are bad people and they need to be exposed.’

  Harland sniffed. ‘You’re sounding like an idealistic journalist.’

  ‘It’s the only way we can save her life.’

  ‘And her husband’s efforts – you think they have ceased entirely?’

  ‘That’s why I need your help to find Crane. It’s all I’m asking. And, hell, the Estonians won’t want this man in their country, organising racist insurrection across Europe. You look at the dossier. Crane and his backers have built a network. They’ve probably set up some of these groups.’

  Harland was unmoved. ‘You mentioned last night that you thought Crane had something else over Hisami. Do you have any idea what it is?’ He glanced at Ulrike. ‘I mean, what could be worse than someone holding a gun to your wife’s head and threatening to kill her if you don’t do what they say?’

  Naji’s fingers scurried over the keyboard. ‘There are emails here with numeric addresses.’

  There were three brief messages. Samson looked at the first, which was from 50527121Z@beatface.org and dated two days after Anastasia’s kidnap. It read, ‘Keep quiet and she will stay alive.’

  The second, from 58975a576@troubadawk.com, read, ‘Now you’re out of jail, don’t screw up. Stay quiet and you’ll get her back. A word or any action will put her in that pit.’

  Then came a message from a third email address, 476df476@conspie.com. It read, ‘The vid of the little bomber girl is ready to fly. With your troubles, there’ll be a big market for that one. Don’t fuck up, Denis.’

  ‘These are direct threats from Crane.’ Samson looked at the time and date of the last one. ‘Hisami must have seen this when I was in his apartment in New York.’

  ‘Interesting to know what he means by “little bomber girl”,’ said Harland. He got up and put on his coat and a black flat cap and left through the conservatory door. Samson expected him to make for the Gothic door in the old stone wall, but he crossed to the opposite side of the garden and disappeared behind a shrub, where there was evidently another exit. Ulrike watched him go then suggested Naji take a nap.

  Samson agreed. ‘There’s nothing for us to do at the moment, Naji. Grab it when you can.’

  Naji went upstairs, clutching his computer and a pastry in a paper napkin.

  Samson texted Zillah Dee. ‘Has Denis talked to you? Any news on the truck driver? Has anyone accessed those accounts?’ He put down his phone and turned to Ulrike.

  ‘I’m sure Bobby will help you,’ she said, sitting down opposite him. ‘He’s incapable of refusing when there’s so much at stake. And, of course, he’s a romantic, though he would be very angry if he heard me say that.’

  ‘How did you meet?’ asked Samson.

  ‘During an operation not unlike this one.’ She wrapped her hands around her coffee and smiled. ‘It was thirty years ago and we were both involved in the abduction of an Arab terrorist who carried out attacks in the West with the help of the Stasi. Classic state-sponsored terrorism.’

  ‘This story I know well,’ said Samson. ‘What part did you play?’

  ‘I was the SIS contact in Leipzig, where Abu Jemal visited.’

  ‘You were their East German source? You were Kafka? Jesus! I had no idea.’

  ‘Yes, a silly name, but I didn’t choose it. There was another East German involved, a man named Rudi Rosenharte. Bobby was running the operation for London. It’s a long story, but Rudi and I fell in love in those few weeks.’ She leaned forward and grinned at him, almost coquettishly. ‘He was devastatingly handsome, an aesthete, a roué with a thrilling intellect. They were the best of times – for Europe, for us, for everyone – and we had no option but to fall in love.’ She stopped and dabbed the corner of one eye with her knuckle. ‘Forgive me. Remembering that time and seeing what�
�s occurring today in Europe makes me emotional.’

  ‘And Bobby – where does he come in?’

  ‘Bobby helped Rudi get me out of Hohenschönhausen jail in Berlin, where I was being held and questioned by the Stasi. Then Rudi, Bobby and I crossed into the West on that same night, which was when the Wall came down. It was a miracle.’ She clapped her hands together and repeated the word ‘miracle’ several times.

  ‘I know about this – he defied orders to get you out. They still use this case to teach the new intelligence officer intake not to become involved with agents.’

  She laughed and clapped her hands again. ‘That’s so funny. Of course, Bobby never took any notice of his superiors. You saw his reaction to your Mr Nyman.’

  ‘But then what happened to Rudi?’

  Her face clouded. ‘We were married and I became pregnant. Before the birth we decided to drive to Spain. Rudi was an art historian, one of the top scholars in the whole of Germany. He had never visited the Prado – Velásquez, Goya, El Greco and of course Hieronymus Bosch, about whom he was writing a monograph. They were wonderful days. We were free. We were part of a free, democratic Europe and we were deeply in love. I never saw him so happy as in those weeks we spent in Madrid.’ She stopped. ‘Then they killed him. They shot up the car as we drove back to Germany. It was in the Pyrenees. Ex-Stasi officers. They missed me but they killed Rudi. Our car crashed. I was injured. But my baby survived.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Samson. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Why should you? I am sure it isn’t part of the SIS training manual.’ She got up and went to a small box of inlaid wood on the side. ‘Do you smoke, Samson?’