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

he was free to help Tulliver locate the computer. They now had everything except the code to access the computer and proof of Daus’s identity. These were enormous challenges, but what he dwelt on as they headed on the 270 to the city of Frederick was what the covert help from two intelligence agencies meant. He sounded out the Bird and got a surprisingly cogent answer. ‘Those two senior officers wouldn’t be acting without the knowledge of their superiors so that means there’s a struggle inside Executive with the British sucking up to the White House, which, for reasons we cannot fathom, is keen to keep Russia out of the story of the attack on Congress.’

‘What are those reasons?’

‘Too soon to say,’ said the Bird. Samson glanced over. The madness in his eyes for once was replaced by thoughtfulness. ‘But if we can prove Daus is the former Stasi beauty queen and that she’s actively working for Vlad the Impaler, a lot of the rest will take care of itself.’

The traffic was heavy and just past Frederick they came to a stop with an accident involving a truck and a boat transporter. The boat, which had fallen from the trailer into the bank to the right, reminded Samson of his trip across the North Sea.

‘Ah yes, Gus. He died, you know. A heart attack the day after you left,’ said the Bird.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that. What about Fleur?’

‘She gets the boat, and her freedom. Gus was a very brave man, but extremely keen on the sauce and an absolute demon to live with on a boat, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘I’d have liked to have known about his drinking.’

He passed a hand across his forehead. ‘Slipped my mind. A lot going on, what with Macy and so forth.’

‘Macy and so forth?’

‘I am afraid Macy is on his way out. Like Bobby, he’s been given a few months. But in Macy’s case there’s absolutely nothing to be done. It’s his liver. He’s given it quite a pasting these last few years.’ The Bird looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, but I thought you needed to hear. He wants you to know, but he’s never going to tell you himself because he’s that kind of bloody fool Englishman. He has plans for you to take over Hendricks Harp and he was asking me what I thought about that when you bowled into the office the other day. Loves you like a son, he does.’ He stopped. ‘You’d do well, running Hendricks Harp.’

Samson felt a profound sadness wash over him. Macy was, in truth, the best friend he had, but the idea of succeeding him at Hendricks Harp was ridiculous. It wasn’t him.

‘I know you’re very fond of him,’ the Bird continued, ‘even though Macy is on the slippery side.’

‘Yes,’ said Samson, to both those things.

‘Everyone’s moving on – Bobby, Gus, and now Macy – and they’re leaving the fight to the likes of you and those impressive young people I met in Tallinn. Same fight, same old enemy.’

They stopped on a rural road so that the Bird could watch a bull elk sloshing in a stream a little distance from the road. He took the opportunity to relieve himself and, as he did so, shouted over his shoulder that the Lakota tribe, members of the Great Sioux nation, valued the elk for its sexual prowess; male babies were given an elk tooth to ensure lifelong courage and potency.

The entrance to Seneca Ridge was so inconspicuous they missed it and had to turn back. They found the gate and a lodge hidden around a bend. A man wearing a green jacket with ‘Seneca Ridge Staff’ printed on the breast pocket looked at their passports, made a note of the Range Rover’s plate and called up to the ridge, as he put it. The gates opened and they travelled up the winding drive to the cluster of houses they knew well from the drone footage, parked and got out. The door to Gaspar’s quarters opened and a man in hiking clothes and lightweight boots exited, his hand outstretched.

‘It’s an honour to meet you, General,’ he said. ‘Glad you could make it.’ He did not offer a hand to Samson, but merely nodded in his direction and turned towards the open double doors. The Bird shook his head and winked at him.

They entered a wide hallway with walls filled with old guns, cases of medals, and nineteenth-century photographs of hunters standing on and around slaughtered animals. Further on, there were displays of Bowie knives, a moccasin jacket with tassels and a confederate cap and flag. Samson took in Gaspar: an edgy manner, bodybuilder’s neck and forearms, a small, downturned mouth and eyes set too close together. He was as tall as Samson yet seemed to be overly conscious of the Bird towering over him. Apart from his very blue eyes, Gaspar was unremarkable – more like a construction worker or a plumber than a doctor, certainly not someone who seemed capable of ordering the murder of Robert Harland and the attack on Denis Hisami in Congress, or, indeed, the subsequent liquidation of all the deadbeat assassins hired by his hunting buddy Anatoly Stepurin. And there was no suspicion in his eyes whatsoever, even though he had apparently signed off on the contracts on Samson by Miroslav Rajavic – the Matador – and, subsequently, the Dutch lowlife Pim Visser. Samson doubted whether he ever knew these names, so remote was he from the actual fact of the killings and attempted killings.

‘I have something to show you, gentlemen,’ said Gaspar, moving them on from the displays in the hallway. ‘We can take a glass of lemonade while we talk about the gun.’

They turned into a huge room that made the Bird gasp. From floor to ceiling were arranged severed heads, stuffed bodies, amputated limbs, stretched hide and mounted skins; and tusks, teeth, tails and claws – evidence of Gaspar’s lifetime asymmetric war against the animal kingdom. It was a revolting sight. The Bird looked