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

Tomas let out a laugh. ‘What you know now is a fraction of what there is to know. What about the things you learn about in the next few hours and days? Will you give us access to those?’

‘We can discuss it.’

‘I believe that is a yes.’

Samson said, ‘Yes.’

‘Your friends need to go to Valka on the border. They are probably on the A1, so they will have to go across country to the A3. That will take them longer. I will need you to provide the registration of the car. When they get to the border, they will leave the car in Latvia and cross on foot. At the border they need to say, “Mr Sikula is expecting us.” I’ll need a phone number for them and they must share their location with me on WhatsApp. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the debriefing that you promise now. We have an agreement, Samson. That is good.’

Samson phoned Anastasia and gave her the instructions. For good measure, he asked her to share her location with him also – he needed to know how close they were to the rendezvous. He heard her relaying all this to Naji and telling him to slow down. ‘He says we will be there in one and a half hours.’

He conveyed the information to Tomas then started watching the app for their location. A pulsing blue circle appeared near a town called Limbazi. He could see they were heading directly east and would hit the A3 at Valmeira. It occurred to him that if he was tracking Anastasia with such ease, it was very likely that Stepurin either had access to one of their phones or had a tracker fitted to the car he was using. He sent a message to Tomas. ‘Can you give them cover before they reach the border?’ Immediately the reply came.

‘Not easy with this notice, but I will see what we can do.’

Chapter 25

Zoe

Speed was the only thing that separated them from the two cars that were, at most, only ten minutes behind them. That, and an unpredictable route which took them first north towards the border then east. They passed through shuttered parishes and municipalities whose names flashed into Anastasia’s consciousness – Naukšēni, Kārķi, Vēveri, Ērģeme – and tore along dead-straight roads, the scent of forests and fields in springtime coming from the Audi’s ventilation. Naji didn’t talk, which was a blessing. She wanted him to concentrate. His driving terrified her, but she had quite given up trying to get him to slow down. She kept her eyes on her screen, knowing that Estonian intelligence and Samson were watching their progress. But, as Naji reminded her, that very same phone was likely to be revealing their position to the two cars in pursuit. It was almost certainly her phone that had led them to the farm in Macedonia, and, he added, the reason they were now running from Russian hit men. He also observed that a tracker might be fitted to a valuable car like this Audi Q7. They debated swapping to Naji’s phone, but he said there were very good reasons not to give his number to KaPo, so they kept using hers.

They reached a string of small, darkened houses spread over about half a kilometre, a place that had neither name nor street lighting. About three hundred metres beyond the point where the houses petered out, there was a truck stop tucked into the woods, visible because of the neon light proclaiming the name Valdis Bar. They shot past it, then Naji abruptly pulled up and began to reverse. ‘Turn your phone off, please,’ he said. ‘It is better for us.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Wait for some minutes,’ he said. He drove up to the building. Cars and a few small trucks were parked randomly at the front. Music and swirling lights came from inside. They could have been in Tennessee, she thought. Naji jumped out and went inside. Anastasia undid her seat belt and followed. But before she reached the door Naji backed out, propelled by a jabbing finger that belonged to a large man in braces and a leather cap. Naji put his hands up in surrender and started speaking rapidly in a mixture of Latvian and English, with a few German words thrown in. ‘Das ist ein russisches Auto,’ he kept insisting. The man stopped and looked over to the Audi. ‘You can have the car and this lady will give you €1,000,’ said Naji, selling the deal with all the skill of his youth in Syria behind a cart full of second-hand trainers.

The man asked, ‘Woher hast du das auto?’ Where did you get the car?

‘Wir haben es den russischen Gangstern gestohlen,’ said Naji with an enormous grin. We took it from Russian crooks. He added: ‘We need to borrow another car to go to Valka.’ Then he corrected himself. ‘Rent a car from you, mein Herr.’

The negotiation went on for five minutes. The man began to find Naji quite the comedian and presently Anastasia handed over all the cash in her wallet – €1,300 – in exchange for the keys of an old green Passat. They were given the instruction to leave the car at the Alko 1000 market near the border post and place the key in the gap behind the rear bumper. Naji checked the petrol, kicked the tyres and got into the driving seat.

She shook her head. ‘You need a rest. I will drive now, for the simple reason that I rented the car, and this gentleman doesn’t want a lunatic behind the wheel.’

He rolled from the seat. ‘Phone – have you turned off?’

She nodded.

About five kilometres along the road they saw two sets of lights close together, speeding towards them. ‘I thought they were following us,’ she said. ‘They wouldn’t be coming from the other direction, surely.’

‘Headlights are different. Other people come from Russia. We are not so far from Russia.’ Not