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

‘He’s in a coma!’

Naji shrugged. ‘Yes, but I could maybe bypass . . .’

‘The FBI have the briefcase with the calculator in it,’ said Anastasia.

‘Can you get it back?’ asked Samson.

‘Possibly,’ she said a bit doubtfully, ‘but that means Naji has to go to the States.’

‘That will not be a problem for me,’ said Naji.

Chapter 30

In pectore

They dispersed in ones and twos, and for the young this was a final parting. They were bound for destinations across Europe and few of them would meet again. Zoe and Rudi were catching a ferry to Finland. Before leaving, she came over to Samson and shook his hand. ‘You’re going to get her, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘I hope so. I believe we can.’

‘I know you will,’ she said, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘For my dad’s sake.’

Then Ulrike and Anastasia left together to meet up at the house with Macy and the Bird, who had already taken off to find a drink. Samson and Naji stayed behind to put away the screen and projector and order the chairs. As Samson turned off the lights, he thought he heard a noise from the small gallery above the rehearsal space. He put his finger to his lips and waited. Naji nodded in the half-light – someone was there. Samson indicated to the passageway and they made their way to the gate, pressed the button to open it and banged it behind them. They moved to the far side of the street and withdrew into a doorway, not far from the drama-school entrance. After a few minutes Samson told Naji to go to the house with his bag and enter by the garden entrance. He would stay because he needed to know who had been listening in.

It was a full half-hour before he heard the gate lock being operated and caught sight of Tomas Sikula pull up his collar and set off in the opposite direction. Samson dialled his number and watched him stop and search for his phone in his jacket.

‘Keep it to yourself, Tomas,’ he said.

‘Ah, Samson. How good of you to call. Where are you?’ He looked up and down the street.

‘You’ll get us all killed if that information gets out, Tomas.’

He let out a light, sardonic laugh. ‘In pectore, as they say in Rome. You realise that I was there with Ulrike’s consent. It was the only way we’d allow a meeting like that to happen in our capital city. Besides, dear Samson, it saves you having to brief me tomorrow.’ He was still searching the street.

‘We’re depending on you, Tomas.’

‘You have my word. We have already made assurances to Ulrike. By the way, the drama school was my idea.’

‘Then I’ll say goodbye, Tomas.’ Samson stepped from the shadows and held up a hand.

‘You take care, Samson.’ Tomas acknowledged the wave and turned to continue on his way.

Samson didn’t go immediately to Ulrike’s house but found a bar with tables outside and, after begging a cigarette from the waitress, he considered what he was going to say to Toombs. He had an agreement and he was prepared to keep to it as much as he could, but it was a delicate calculation.

He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, swallowed most of the wine in one gulp and dialled the number on Toombs’s card.

‘Yep,’ said Toombs. Samson heard the sound of a lavatory flushing.

‘Where are you?’

‘Guess!’

‘I’m calling to say we’re going ahead.’

‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘A few hours ago you said you wanted a heads-up and . . .’

‘You’re mistaken,’ said Toombs. He grunted as if lifting something.

‘This sounds like a bad moment. Maybe another time.’

‘It’s not a bad moment, I just don’t understand why you’re calling me.’

‘I’ll say goodnight then.’

‘Goodnight.’

Samson hung up. Toombs had been shut down and was being extremely circumspect on the phone, though, clearly, he was in a bathroom and alone. Had the staff of the Director of National Intelligence got to the CIA? Or maybe it was the Deputy National Security Advisor, Mike Proctor? Either way, it amounted to the same thing. The argument to cease and desist was simple enough: the supply chain for the nerve agent had been notionally eliminated and the end user, Vladan Drasko, had died in his motel room, so the threat to Congress and the American people could be said to no longer exist, although of course Stepurin was still at large. The same instruction had probably reached the FBI. With its domestic remit, there was even less reason for the Bureau to pursue the case, particularly if the administration had embraced the argument that the affair had nothing to do with Russia, or its agents. In these circumstances, it was almost inconceivable that the results of Harland’s investigation would be aired and acted upon, whatever the proof that lay in Denis Hisami’s air-gapped computer. He got up and, finding he had nothing less than a €50 note, waved it at a waitress. She came over with a tray of dirty glasses, set it down and counted out €38. One of the notes fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and placed it on the saucer for her. She thanked him then something caught her eye. Her smile faded. He spun round. A man in a motorcycle helmet was approaching. His hand reached inside his jacket. Samson knew he was going to be shot at and his only concern was that the waitress wasn’t killed too. He pushed her to the ground, knocking over two metal tables and the tray of dirty glasses. He heard a screech of brakes and shouting, looked up and saw the same SUV in which he had been subjected to Toombs’s disdain a few hours earlier. The vehicle had slewed to a halt, blocking the path of the man in the helmet. Three young agents with Toombs surrounded him. Although they weren’t openly carrying weapons, Samson knew they wouldn’t be other than armed.