The Old Enemy Henry Porter (best black authors txt) 📖

to make quite sure that you understand that this committee has voted to support the principle that no one should be defamed, degraded or incriminated by these proceedings.’

‘We have seen all of the material,’ said Reiner. ‘By which I mean everything on Mr Hisami’s computer. It was delivered to me early this morning.’

Speight nodded and weighed his next question. The room held its breath. ‘To the best of your knowledge, has the American government been penetrated by a network operated by and for the benefit of the Russian government, an operation run by five key players that has spread its tentacles and corruption through the top of our society, as well as using its considerable resources to gather personal details of millions of Americans under the guise of environmental and climate-change campaigns?’

‘Yes, to all those questions,’ said Toombs. ‘Special Agent Reiner and I have been informally working on this for some time, though it took us a while to put everything together. However, it is right to state we were way behind Mr Hisami’s investigation. That is what broke this open.’

Lucas cleared his throat. ‘May I ask you gentlemen a question? Was the attack that took place here roughly two weeks ago carried out by the people you were investigating?’

Toombs looked at Reiner and answered. ‘Yes, it was a coordinated assassination of Mr Hisami, Robert Harland and a man who has worked closely with both – Paul Samson, a former officer in MI6 in the UK.’

‘And Mr Samson was the only one to survive,’ said Speight.

‘Yes,’ said Toombs. ‘Without Mr Samson and many others, including, obviously, Mrs Hisami, none of this would have seen the light of day. Paul Samson is right here in this room, if you want to thank him.’ Samson looked down as the journalists scanned the room for likely candidates.

‘And you were stopped from pursuing the investigation because someone was pulling strings behind the scenes?’

‘We cannot speak to the motives or indeed the fact of any cover-up, but they have the dossier now and I believe resignations and arrests are already taking place.’

‘That’s good to hear. And what now for you both?’

‘We’re waiting to hear,’ said Toombs. ‘Though my seniors won’t be pleased to see me here.’

‘Well, I guess that’s just too bad. Congratulations on a fine job, the two of you, and also to Mrs Hisami and Mr Samson. I have no further questions, Mr Lucas.’

The stunned silence that followed was broken by a moan from Daus’s direction. Samson and Anastasia jumped up to see her levitate from her seat, fight through the standing figures around, cuffing Ulrike in the process, and tear to the front, where she stood berating Warren Speight. ‘You are a traitor. I will destroy you.’

Speight pulled the microphone towards him. ‘That is an epithet that surely applies to you more than me, ma’am.’

She went on shouting. Unperturbed, he shuffled his papers, rose and paused for a moment to seek out Anastasia’s face in the crowd jostling to see and take pictures of Mila Daus. And, when he found her, he placed his hand on his heart and bowed, as they do in Afghanistan, where Speight had briefly served his country as a reservist and learned a whole lot more about chemical weapons. He looked up and mouthed the words, ‘You won!’

Chapter 37

Old Friends

Macy Harp and the Bird were unaware of the drama unfolding in Congress. They were travelling through wooded landscape in the rental car, each with a cup of coffee in the beverage holder. They did not speak but occasionally glanced at each other and grinned. After many operations during the Cold War the once inseparable spies were working together again.

For much of the weekend they’d recced the area north of Seneca Ridge, probing tracks that looped through the woods and weren’t visible on the public satellite photography of the area, which had all been shot in the summer months. They went unhurriedly, stopping to look at an otter lying in the sun on the bank of a stream and a bald-eagle nest. They had plenty of food. Macy had loaded up at a high-end food store in DC and the Bird made a neat little fire that was as hot and efficient as it was small. He fried steak in a skillet that he’d bought on the way in an outdoor sports store. They were content, like two boys playing hooky, and they talked of old times, going back forty years and more. Macy drank his fair share, while the Bird watched him with a wild affection. How many operations had they done together? the Bird mused. Something like twenty, the most hair-raising of which, they both agreed, had been undertaken in the winter, on a boat skippered by Gus Grinnel, when they searched for, and found, a man in a canoe with a tiny home-made sail off Sassnitz, on the East German coastline. They drank to Gus and to their old friend Bobby.

By mid morning they were in position. The Bird winked at Macy and got out of the car. With the pistol he’d bought on the street in Washington tucked in the back of his waistband, he began the long trudge up to Seneca Ridge. It took about forty minutes to reach the incline to the houses. He walked two thirds of the way to the top then waited in the shade of a broad leaf oak, watching for any movement. There was none. He knew that Gaspar had no appointments at either of the two clinics because those were only held from Tuesday to Thursday. He approached the Pinzgauer truck, looked around and went to the door Gaspar had used to exit the building, which he’d noticed wasn’t locked. He entered and headed straight for the den, where two computer screens sat on a desk.

The Bird was so quiet that Gaspar didn’t hear him. He was concentrating on one of the screens, a pair of reading glasses on the end of his