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

you? Why didn’t you call instead of arriving like secret police at the dead of night? What do you want to say to me?’

‘We’ve been in touch with Mr Samson, as I believe you have. I wanted to warn you that we’re certain he’s being followed by persons that wish to kill him. There may be others who have the same intention towards you. Samson knows how to look after himself, but you don’t. So it seems odd – not to say, extremely dangerous – for you to be headed towards the country that provided two of the four suspects in this affair, indeed the two men who tried to kill your husband and your former lover.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t think . . .’

‘I don’t think anything. I just want to know what you’re doing. We’re trying to keep you and Samson alive. I suggest you take the first flight back to the States.’

‘I’ll be returning as soon as I can.’

‘Make that tomorrow! Your husband needs you. I’ll remind you that this investigation is undoubtedly the most important thing going on in America right now. We need to be able to speak to you in person. Tomorrow, I want to hear you’re on your way back to DC. Tomorrow, Mrs Hisami!’ He rang off.

She accompanied Luka to the nearly empty car park but stopped short of his Toyota and asked for a cigarette from the packet she’d spotted in the top pocket of his bush jacket. She moved away to smoke and think about the call. Why would the FBI track her to Athens then Skopje and, when they found her, have almost nothing meaningful to say, except to warn her of the dangers she faced, which were, in any case, obvious, because they had tried to kill Samson twice and she’d been beside her husband in Congress? The FBI were keeping tabs on her and letting her know about it, and that, apparently, was an end in itself. It was bizarre. She took out her phone and left a message for Tulliver that she would be out of reach for a while, then turned it off. Samson would know what to do about a phone that was being tracked, but she hoped switching hers off and burying it in the bottom of her bag would be enough.

The farm was exactly as she remembered, though a brand-new barn had replaced the one where Almunjil’s gang of IS killers had held her, Naji and Samson captive. The collection of stables, the broken stone courtyard, the bent rails and crooked fencing around the pens were all as they had been, but the old tractor and trailer had gone and new machinery glinted in the sunlight. As the car pulled up in the yard, Moon appeared, barking, and in her wake came three puppies, two white and one cappuccino-coloured. Anastasia got out and crouched down and was immediately surrounded by the puppies, while Moon stood back, not letting up with the barking. Above her, Naji appeared on the old wooden walkway and folded his arms with an exasperated look. She called out hello, and he shook his head then ran down the steps to shake her hand and, finally, let her embrace him and look him over. ‘I had no idea how tall you were,’ she said. ‘You’re a man now!’

‘Yes,’ he said, and a rueful look darted from beneath his brow, which she remembered from when she had first encountered him as a boy. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘I wanted to see that you were all right and to tell you that you should have the conversation with Samson. There’s a lot going on, and no one – not the intelligence agencies, the FBI, nor even Samson – can figure it out. He says you know everything?’

He shrugged and looked up at the hill. ‘Some things, not everything.’ At this, Ifkar came out with a sports bag hooked over his shoulder. He tore down the steps to join them and shake hands with Anastasia and Luka, then kissed her awkwardly on both cheeks. He was larger than she remembered, broad and as strong as a bull. When she saw him last, he had been recovering from an infected bullet wound and, before that, he’d been on the road for months, wandering the mountains alone with Moon until they teamed up with Naji.

The old couple followed. Darko had aged and was now using a stick. He descended the steps arthritically and was shooed forward by Irina, who was impatient to greet Anastasia. She beat her husband to the clinch and gave Anastasia a floury hug, which left hand imprints on her jacket. The ritual was repeated with Darko, who then stepped back and kept slapping his thigh, looking round and laughing with tears in his eyes.

‘How long will you stay with us?’ asked Irina in the Macedonian language, which Anastasia just about understood. She replied in a combination of Macedonian and Greek that she wasn’t planning on staying. The couple weren’t having that. Why would she travel all this way just to say hello? She must stay. There was lamb stew and a pastry filled with summer cherries, preserved in the finest home-made brandy, all prepared in Naji’s honour. There would be plenty for Luka, too, though she wasn’t sure of a bed for him. It would be a feast, and they would drink a beautiful light red wine that came from her people’s vineyard in the south. There was no question of Anastasia returning to Skopje to stay in a hotel. She would sleep at the farm and Luka would go to Pudnik, where there was a decent little place run by a young woman, who had recently inherited it from her parents.

Anastasia was moved. Things had worked out well at the farm, where there had been so much terror and slaughter. For the first time in his life, Ifkar knew what it was to have loving parents, while Darko and Irina had found a