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

the border with Anastasia and Naji, change and shower before arriving at the offices just outside Tallinn’s old town. It was typical of Sikula to look as fresh as the morning dew after a sleepless night and also to choose not to mention the incident at the border, but that was because he’d probably drawn a blank with Naji and Anastasia, neither of whom Samson had seen. They were already resting at the Harlands’ little green house, filling it to capacity. Naji, he had gathered from Anastasia’s text, was more interested in the helicopter than anything Sikula had to say.

Samson was already in a suit and tie and clutching a bag with the sketchbook and Harland’s last painting, which KaPo’s director, Aaro Sollen, said he would very much like to see. Samson drew it out of the bag and rested it against the wall on a glass table in the conference room. They said nothing. The beauty of the study of a burst of light far out to sea overwhelmed the significance of the bullet hole at the bottom of the canvas, and that is the way Harland would have wanted it. It was his last painting – that was all – and it was magnificent. Samson told them it would be framed and placed in the exhibition for the opening later that day.

They sat down. ‘There are formal requests from the British government for your arrest,’ said Sollen. ‘But since we are talking to a citizen of Hungary named Norbert Soltesz, I don’t think we have to pay much attention to that.’

‘They’re behind events,’ said Samson. ‘Whatever happens will happen without the British government having the slightest influence.’

Sollen nodded.

‘What is going to happen?’ asked Tomas.

‘I cannot say. Denis Hisami owns this information, but he’s just had an emergency heart operation. I’m here to look after the interests of Harland’s widow and Mr Hisami’s wife. They should have increased security over the next forty-eight hours and, obviously, Ulrike needs looking after long term.’

‘They will have everything they need. That part of town will be in lockdown. No one will get near the church or the gallery. Our President will be attending, so there would be security in any case, but we guarantee the safety of each one of you while you are in Estonia and, of course, we have Ulrike’s best interests at heart. Is that satisfactory?’

Samson pulled out the Nomenclature of Colours. ‘This is what Robert Harland gave his life for. There are seventeen names here, and each one is working for Mila Daus, a Russian asset who started her career in the Stasi and has since become a very powerful figure in the United States.’ Sollen allowed a puzzled look momentarily to cross his face. ‘It’s unlikely that you’ve heard of her. But she’s responsible for the kidnap of Anastasia Hisami nearly three years ago, the support of numerous far-right, racist organisations, the death of Robert Harland, the use of nerve agents in Congress and countless other deaths, which include all the suspects on the initial team of hit men.’

Tomas reached for the book. Samson placed his hand on it. ‘All in good time. Happy to give you a copy of the relevant pages and the list we found at the back, but that’s on the condition that you take no action and don’t use the information in a way that will damage outcomes in the United States and United Kingdom. We – I – need to have a free hand.’

Sollen placed his fingertips together and looked out of the window. ‘We thank you for this information, but let me ask you how you are going to prove this woman is a Russian asset, and that all the people associated with her are, in effect, working for the Russians? You have her name and an allegation. You have other names. What ties her to all these crimes? What ties them to her?’

‘That’s why I need a free hand.’

‘You need to work quickly, and we will not stand in your way, or pre-empt actions. However, I want us to be informed of your findings as you proceed, the proof that you assemble. We may be able to fill in the gaps for you.’

Samson agreed that there would be contact between him and Tomas.

Sollen was silent for a minute before saying, ‘And your troubles in the United Kingdom you ascribe to Mr Harland’s Book of Revelations, which you have there. Who does he name in the UK?’

‘Jonathan Mobius, a powerful American-born resident, and Anthony Drax, the Prime Minister’s chief adviser. Those two we know about. There will be more.’

‘The Prime Minister’s adviser! That is really something. But, then, Russia has successfully targeted your country for many years, and the political establishment seems content with the interference because they believe it helps them.’ He opened his hands incredulously.

‘We live in strange times. But we’re at the beginning of this. We have a long way to go.’

‘No, Mr Samson, you’re at the end. You either win or you lose in the next few days and, frankly, I cannot see how you win.’

The spies of Europe gathered at St Olaf’s Baptist Church to celebrate Robert Harland’s life. One of the outstanding intelligence officers of the post-war era had been assassinated in what were certainly the last few weeks of his life. The manner of his death made a difference, never mind the conviction in the judgement of most of those attending – whether they knew the details or not – that he had been killed in the course of his last great operation. That was somehow a given, even though it was well appreciated that he had been gunned down while painting.

A bell tolled from the tower of St Olaf’s, once used by the KGB as a radio mast and observation platform during the Cold War. The streets were sealed off to allow cars to arrive at the door and deposit men and women who would rather not be gawped at. A lovely light, filtered by the lime trees