The Old Enemy by Henry Porter (read with me .TXT) 📕

‘I knew that Denis went to Estonia, but Anastasia doesn’t, and I’m sure that Denis would prefer you keep it that way. And to your point about theories – I’m hearing a lot of them right now, and we need to concentrate on what happened, which is that someone walked into Congress with a bunch of papers drenched in nerve agent and handed them to Denis. It’s profoundly shocking to the country and, frankly, no one is thinking in straight lines at the moment.’

‘Did they ID the man who gave them to Denis?’

‘They’ve got a clear shot of him, but no name as yet. The FBI will track him through the CCTV around the Capitol and they’ll get a pretty good idea of his route into the Rayburn and where he came from. But none of that has been made public. Denis had only momentary contact with the agent, but that poor guy Stewart Steen had it all over him.’

‘Seems odd, doesn’t it? If you’re going to attempt to kill someone, the Capitol is the very last place you’d try, unless . . .’

‘. . . You were making a point,’ said Tulliver.

‘Who would want to make that point?’ He considered telling Tulliver about his own narrow escape but saw no point. ‘Will you let me know what happens, Jim, and if it’s appropriate, pass on my concern to Anastasia for both her and Denis.’

‘I will. She read your text over my shoulder . . .’

‘That’s like her . . .’

‘Wish I had acted on it, Samson,’ Tulliver said quickly. ‘Wish I’d shown it to Denis. But she told me not to. She’s asked me to find out about Harland. I’ll tell her we’ve talked.’

‘Stay in touch, Jim.’

‘I’ll do that.’

He walked on, crossed the Serpentine and vaulted over the low fence into Kensington Gardens, now locked for the night. He found the balsam poplar, which was at its fragrant best, and after listening to the sounds of the birds out on the water and thinking about that night and all that had passed since, moved to exit the gardens through the turnstile at Lancaster Gate. It took him a further twenty minutes to reach the avenue of tall, mid-nineteenth-century white townhouses in Maida Vale where he owned two flats, the top one now occupied by a composer of distracted nature named David Jericho and his husband, Derek, a set designer, whom Samson met with his dog as he thumbed through his post in the lobby.

‘I thought you were in – we heard the TV,’ said Derek.

‘My friend, I suspect, but thanks for keeping an eye out,’ said Samson, heading for the stairs. He had already checked the street thoroughly and seen no sign of any surveillance.

Jo Hayes was waiting for him on his bed with a bottle of white wine. ‘I saw what happened in Washington,’ she said, after he kissed her right and left. ‘That was her?’

He nodded.

‘I’d never seen her before. Is she okay?’

‘Looks like it, but her husband is in a coma. I spoke to his right-hand man. It’s touch and go.’

She eyed him. ‘So is this connected – the cross-dressing knifeman and what happened to them?’

He lifted his shoulders and sat down on the bed next to her. ‘Different kinds of attacks: one involved weapons-grade nerve agent, the other a kitchen knife. They don’t tally.’

‘But there’s something going on, Samson.’

He thought for a few moments then told her about Harland. ‘You are now one of three people who know that there were three separate attacks within 10 hours of each other on individuals who were, in one way or another, associated with the events surrounding Anastasia’s kidnap and her subsequent rescue at Narva. The obvious conclusion, which is supported by my former colleagues at SIS, is that Harland’s murder was revenge by the Russians.’ He took her hand. ‘There’s a lot to say for the theory, but it doesn’t feel right to me.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine, but I’m worried about Denis and I liked Robert Harland a lot.’

‘And Anastasia?’

‘She’s going to be okay. But thanks for asking.’

‘They know who tried to kill you. I don’t have a name, but he’s a Serb – hit man, people smuggler and enforcer with a lot of aliases. Brought in for the job, apparently.’

‘Yet he’s not very good at it.’

‘He would have killed you! You were saved by one of our officers.’

‘True.’

‘They still don’t know who you are. I’m breaking every rule in the book by not telling them. I could lose my job.’

‘You recognised a jacket – that’s all.’

‘Which I notice you’ve changed.’

‘Yes, for reasons of identification,’ he said without skipping a beat. ‘Look, if you tell them it was me, my life becomes a lot more difficult. I can’t spend the next few days being interviewed by the police.’

‘You are, however, going to have to tell me what you were doing at the Junction.’ She reached for the glass of wine on the bedside table and gave him a look that was halfway between investigating copper and sexy lover. He waited to see where it would settle, which it did, to the former.

‘I was waiting for someone, a young woman I was hired to keep an eye on, make sure she was safe. I thought she might turn up there – that’s all.’

‘Name?’

He shook his head. ‘Client confidentiality.’

‘And did she turn up?’

‘Maybe. It was a pretty confused situation.’

She looked doubtful. ‘If she was there, and I am assuming she was, I hope she had nothing to do with the building opposite where you were attacked.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s an official secret,’ she said. ‘Let’s just say that I heard that particular building holds a lot of interest for the police and security services.’

‘What kind of interest?’

‘I don’t know. But beware, Samson – this is a really serious matter.’ She put down the glass. ‘Now, I’m going to have a shower. Then you can decide whether you want to make love, or not. I’m easy either way.’

He caught her as she passed him, hooked his arm around her waist and pulled