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

about it, you should talk to her about Berlin. I was there, but Bobby didn’t tell me about the individual he spotted. He must have told Ulrike.’

Tomas said simply. ‘We know you have what you went looking for, Paul, so there’s no point talking about Berlin.’

Sollen studied him. ‘Can I ask where you were in the cabin when the man shot at you?’

‘In the kitchen, near the back door.’

‘And he shot at you from the front of the house, through the window of the main room – that’s what the police say. How long were you there before he shot?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Sollen smiled. He knew Samson couldn’t admit to being there much longer than it took to pick up the painting and the sketchbook.

‘Does it occur to you that he was watching what you were doing through binoculars and only shot when he was certain you’d found what you were looking for? The fact that he took the shot tells me he thought you had.’ He raised a hand. ‘Please don’t embarrass yourself or us by denying it. The question is, what are we going to do now? Obviously, you’re at great risk, but if they think you have shared the information, they may wait to decide what to do next.’ His hand now dropped to lie across Samson’s, where it remained. ‘In Estonia we are on the frontline. Every moment of our professional lives is dedicated to preserving the freedom that we won thirty years ago. That means we have to concentrate very hard on what they’re up to in Moscow and how they’re trying – and in most cases succeeding – to disrupt Western democracy. I don’t need to tell you that these people are very bad. They work through proxies like Stepurin, but the source of the evil resides in those ex-KGB men who run things. These people never went away. They’re exactly the same, but now they believe only in money and their own power.’ He removed his hand and turned to the waitress to order a cognac, evidently a rare event, from the look on Tomas’s face. Nothing was said until the drink arrived. He held the glass up, admired the colour of the liquid and said, ‘To the memory of Robert Harland – a friend to liberty and Estonia.’ Samson again drank to Harland’s memory,

‘What would Bobby advise you to do now?’ continued Sollen. ‘I believe he would tell you to share his information with us. First, this course makes it less likely that you’ll be targeted. Second, if anything does happen to you, the information can still be used. We would make sure that it was used to good effect.’

Samson looked around the bar, which was now nearly empty. He had no objection in principle to sharing information with them, but only at the right moment. He was under no illusions about these two. While he dined with Tomas and his boss, his room would have been searched and fitted with bugs and possibly a camera over the desk, the place where he was likely to research the five names he now had.

He drank the remainder of his wine. ‘If there were such a cache of secrets, wouldn’t it be wise to share it with the CIA and FBI?’ he said. ‘They’ve already made big advances, based on material found in Hisami’s briefcase.’

Sollen swivelled to him. ‘You must not share with the Americans. You have to consider whether the Americans are as corrupted as your own intelligence service appears to be. When penetration has taken place at the highest level, the instinct to cover up and hide the weakness in the system is even greater. These secrets should be used appropriately, and in some cases made public so people understand what the other side is capable of.’

Samson wondered about the vehemence of Sollen’s reaction. In the great intelligence bazaar, information was never disclosed without profit, but rather used to gain influence and leverage. Information was the reserve currency – the only thing that actually mattered.

Samson began to make his excuses, but before he could leave two men appeared and waited a little distance from the table. Sollen got up, nodded to Tomas. ‘I will see you at the funeral, Mr Samson. Good night.’

Tomas watched the three men move towards the back entrance of KandaBaar. ‘Someone tried to poison him with ricin just a few weeks ago. He’s too good for them, and they know it.’ He paused to deliver one of his winning smiles. ‘The deal is this – we will protect you here and make sure that Ulrike is safe, but we need to know everything.’

‘Then you will have to find someone who can tell you, because I don’t know everything.’

They had reached the end of the road. KaPo wanted everything, but for precisely what purpose wasn’t clear, and Samson needed to know.

Chapter 22

Ulrike’s Story

At the hotel, he gave the desk clerk a €50 note and asked to change rooms because of the likelihood that his room had been bugged while he was at dinner. He moved his things but decided that he wouldn’t conduct internet searches of the five names using the hotel’s wifi for the reason that Tomas might have compromised that, too. He sent a text to Ulrike. It was eleven o’clock, but he knew she would be up and wasn’t surprised when he received a message with instructions to use the garden entrance to her home. He arrived at the door in the mediaeval wall at the back of the Harlands’ house. It couldn’t be opened from the street without a key. He pushed at it without success then heard it being unlocked from the inside. As the door opened, a match flared and he saw Ulrike briefly. She took his hand and led him through the rambling roses that had got out of control over the last year. ‘Be careful, they will cut you to pieces,’ she said. They reached the conservatory. The door was open. A cigarette smouldered