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

in the churchyard, filled the entrance, where – unusually – the widow greeted each mourner. If there was a person she didn’t know, the young officers from the Kaitsepolitseiamet checked an iPad, asked polite but firm questions and led them to a place in the church. Only one was rejected, and this turned out to be a German journalist.

Samson watched from a little way off. He’d got there early and was waiting for Naji and Anastasia. It would be the first time he had met her in over two years, but this wasn’t on his mind. He wanted to see who was attending the funeral. Among the earliest to arrive, in search of a good place in the church, no doubt, were the British contingent – Peter Nyman, Lewis Ott and a young stiff from the Foreign Office. The youthful British ambassador came a little later in his own car, and he was followed by what Samson assumed were various members of the European intelligence services, though he recognised only one – a member of the DGSE, the French Director-General for External Security, whom he had come across in Macedonia. Then there were the old lags – Macy Harp, the Bird and several men in their seventies who Samson had learned from Ulrike had gathered in a hotel the night before to talk about old times, a reunion for the Cold War warriors that included former agents from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, East Germany and Poland. For the funeral, Macy was wearing a straw hat, as though attending the races; the Bird had a baseball cap that had faded from red to pink, which he doffed on seeing Ulrike before planting a kiss on both her cheeks. There were a handful of Estonian friends, who all knew each other, the couple from the art gallery, whom Samson had just met, and then Zoe and Rudi, dressed entirely in black to mourn the man they both regarded as their father. Zoe held her head up high and looked ahead. Rudi hugged his mother, who then placed a hand against his cheek as he stepped away into the shadows of the entrance.

There was one surprise, and that was Frank Toombs, who never knew Robert Harland, but who’d made an impression on Ulrike and was invited nonetheless. He wore dark glasses and a blue suit and was accompanied by one of the young Agency men Samson had seen in the anonymous building close to the American embassy in London. Samson began to think that Toombs must be more senior than he’d first imagined, and it was significant that Ulrike had invited him – possibly a signal to the British, for whom she had no love.

He moved closer to the church as police began to prepare for the arrival of the President.

‘Still lurking, Samson?’ came a voice from behind him. He turned to find Anastasia and Naji a few metres away. She approached and kissed him on both cheeks, stepped back with a radiant smile. ‘It’s good to see you, Samson. I thought we’d never get here, with Naji’s driving.’

‘We are here because of Naji’s driving,’ Naji said.

Samson smiled, and something moved in him, despite his very keen desire to remain as cool as possible. It was something like being reunited with his family, and Anastasia looked so utterly beautiful in the spring sunshine. A new line or two on her brow and at the corners of her mouth, but the strain he had noticed on the live stream from Congress was, surprisingly, not present.

‘Hi, Naj,’ he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘So good to see you both here. Thank you for bringing Anastasia safely.’

Anastasia was beaming. ‘Shall we go in?’ she said.

They turned to the church. ‘How’s Denis?’ asked Samson.

‘He’s going to make it. The procedure was pretty simple, but it saved his life. The odd thing is that if they hadn’t tried to kill him in Congress, he would almost certainly have died quite soon anyway. He’d like the irony. It turns out that it was extremely fortunate he was in the hospital.’ They began to walk towards the church.

‘He’s still in a coma?’

‘Yes, and they’re worried about the long-term effects. God knows what’s going to happen. But we must hope.’ She grabbed his hand and squeezed it briefly then let it go. ‘It’s been very hard, seeing him like that.’

‘Bloody awful for you,’ he said, and turned to Naji. ‘You and I have a lot of catching up to do, Naj, don’t we?’

Naji nodded. ‘You know how big this is, Samson? I mean, it’s really super-massive.’

‘I do, but I have no idea what we do with the information you have dug up, Naji. No idea whatsoever.’

Before they reached the entrance an electric vehicle pulled up and the President got out with her bodyguards. In the background was her husband, who arrived separately on a bicycle. She spoke to Ulrike for a few seconds, then the two women entered the church, the President taking Ulrike’s arm. Samson, Anastasia and Naji followed and found space in the pews at the rear of the congregation.

The church was very light and plain with all the paraphernalia of modern faith– children’s paintings of the holy story, developing-world project boards, leaflets and posters with smiling faces. There was no coffin, Harland having been buried by Ulrike, Zoe and Rudi in a ceremony immediately after the post-mortem – his wish, Ulrike had said. And, naturally, the order of service for a famous spy gave no hint who would be contributing. A list of music and readings was headed by a quotation from Cavafy – ‘When we say “Time” we mean ourselves. Most abstractions are simply our pseudonyms. We are time.’ Naji put his forefinger on this and showed it to Anastasia, and she nodded. At the bottom of the list was a drawing by Harland of a sea bird in flight.

Any idea that this would be a simple affair vanished with the beat of a half-muffled drum. The congregation turned to see a drummer and a