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

four-man brass section – all wearing dark red cassocks – begin the slow march to Purcell’s funeral music for Queen Mary II. The solemn pomp seemed most unlike Harland, who was simple in taste and expression, however it jolted the congregation to focus on the moment. Harland, in his own way, was a great man, and that was the theme of the welcome by the minister and of the President’s opening address, in which she admitted that only on her election to office did she come to appreciate the service he had rendered to his adoptive country. She couldn’t go into detail, but it was enough to say that he had helped more than any single foreigner to defend Estonia’s fledgling democracy from those who even now worked to destroy it. Samson noticed Peter Nyman nodding vigorously at the front.

A choir sang, there were readings in German and English, one by Lewis Ott, who read Shakespeare’s ‘Fear not the heat o’ the sun’ with all the feeling of a customs officer, and a short speech by the owner of the gallery, who told how he had come across one of Harland’s paintings fifteen years before and sought him out, only to find that Harland suspected him of being an enemy agent.

Then Ulrike read an account of meeting Harland in East Germany and how, in the wake of her first husband’s murder, he became her protector and friend, and, by degrees, her lover and companion. It was unadorned testimony, without much colour or humour, but Samson liked it for that. At the end, she paused and looked around the congregation. ‘Both my husbands were murdered, and by the same evil. Over thirty years separate their deaths, but I have reason to believe that the same people were responsible for their murders. Many of you here are engaged in the struggle that Bobby, Rudi Rosenharte and I committed to many decades ago in the GDR. I ask those present not only to seek justice for their deaths, but please – never give up. Bobby is with you because you are all that stands between civilisation and barbarism, between freedom and tyranny. And for that I cherish you, as I did my dear, beloved, sweet, eccentric Bobby.’ She stood silently for several moments. Samson caught Anastasia looking at him. She wiped away the tears that were coursing down her face. And then someone started clapping and the congregation followed and there were one or two muted cheers. It was a minute or two before the applause died down and Ulrike returned to her seat.

The last to speak was Macy Harp, who seemed caught off guard, as though he had only been asked minutes before. He had no notes and didn’t seem sure where he should stand, so positioned himself between the two front pews in the aisle and began telling stories of Harland’s staunchness, good judgement and exceptional tradecraft, as though reminiscing with a few intimates. ‘Bobby was my lifelong friend. I loved the man,’ he concluded. ‘I respected him beyond any person on this earth. In his later years, he devoted himself to his painting and I saw much less of him, but these paintings are extraordinary, each one a revelation. They teach us about the hidden world we live in. It is vital that those of us who loved Bobby now honour his memory by ensuring that the largest possible audience is made aware of these revelations. We owe that to him.’

Half the congregation no doubt believed that this red-faced gentleman from England was merely paying homage to Harland’s paintings, but the former and current intelligence officers present knew exactly what Macy was saying. Robert Harland’s murder would not go unpunished. A smile twitched in the Bird’s crazy old face.

Early that morning Ulrike decided that the art gallery was the only place large enough to hold the wake for so many and opened the exhibition to all. There would be a private event for a few of them later that evening. Naji, Zoe and Rudi went off to prepare. Samson told them that they would be going through everything and then they would decide on a course of action. They said others had come to Tallinn but had stayed away from the funeral because they’d never met Harland in person, although he was aware of each one of them. Samson agreed that they should be there too.

He followed Anastasia to the wake. He wanted to talk to her and see the paintings, which turned out to be much freer and more deeply felt than he had ever expected. The catalogue said each painting had been completed in a day and so the exhibition was a kind of diary of Harland’s last anguished months, ending with the painting that Samson had brought in that morning, which now stood in the centre of the space, framed and untitled, fixed to a Perspex glass screen. Anastasia gazed at it for a long time and said it reminded her of one of Van Gogh’s last pictures, ‘Wheat Field under a Clouded Sky’. ‘Look at the urgency. This is a man who’s dying and knows he’s seeing these things for the last time. It’s incredibly moving.’

‘Did Van Gogh know he would die?’ he said.

‘In the last letter to his brother, Theo, he said he was risking his life for his art. That letter was found on his body. I guess Harland risked his life for his art, painting out there, making this beautiful work with no protection.’

She didn’t mention the bullet hole. It was left to Peter Nyman to do that. ‘A very poignant symbol of Bobby’s life and death,’ he said, having approached them unseen.

‘Not really,’ said Anastasia, and went off to look at the other paintings.

Nyman wasn’t put off. ‘A word, Samson?’ he said, not taking his eyes from the painting. ‘It’s very much in your interest.’

‘You must be desperate, Peter. I mean, the arrest warrant! Pressuring a senior police officer to change her statement. What’s that