She waited, staring at the door because she was certain she had not heard the sound of the lock turning after he entered. About an hour later, she rolled away from him and on to her stomach so that she could let one foot drop to the ground then the other and push up from the bed causing as little disturbance as possible. Not even the wire stretched on the bedframe protested. She had kept her trainers on because of the cold and, though they made one tiny squeak on the wooden floor, she moved silently the rest of the way to the door, grasped the handle and pulled it open on to the dark passageway. She stepped out and listened before pulling the door to, rather than closing it. Then she slipped down the passage that led into the largest room in the dacha, where she had been given soup on her arrival. The building creaked a little and, outside, the rain pounded on the tin roof of an extension and drainpipes gushed water, but there was no sound inside the building.
At every step she stopped and listened. There were bound to be men on guard – there were so many of them. She had noticed a one-storey building inside the compound, a little distance from the dacha, and during her two evenings outside with Kirill by the fire she had seen lights on and a door being opened. Maybe that was where most of them slept. Kirill maintained his distance from the men, so there seemed a possibility that there were no guards in the main building, but she was sure there’d be someone on the gate. For the moment, she had no realistic thought of escape. She would recce the place and look for opportunities – that was all. And she hadn’t ruled out returning to her room and to Kirill’s side.
There was a very dim light in what she guessed was a kitchen. She crossed the main room and saw that it came from the display panel of a freezer. The light was enough to see by and she made out a pile of groceries just dumped on a sideboard. She took what came to hand and stuffed some items in her pockets, not knowing what they were. This would be an explanation if she were caught; she would say she had been driven by hunger to raid the kitchen. To take one of the knives in the drawer below the work surface would destroy that alibi, so she left them. But she did pick up a long oven lighter and pulled its trigger to see if the flame worked. This, she could use.
She kept exploring, growing more confident that she was the only person awake in the building. The place was cluttered with hunting paraphernalia and possessed the musty smell of somewhere that hadn’t been occupied for a long time before Kirill’s men arrived. There were shelves of books and crockery, a few paintings and one or two framed photographs of men with slaughtered deer and boar. Kirill was not among them.
The flame from the lighter illuminated a staircase, which, after testing the stairs for creaking floorboards, she climbed. There was just one large suite at the top, with windows that faced in three directions and a large shower and bathroom on one side. This was where Kirill slept. His ridiculous hats were lined up on the dresser. She could see that he’d emptied his pockets in preparation for bed – a wallet, a leather key holder, a penknife, his cheroots, a lighter and some kind of ID were on the bedside table. But then his drunken libido had plainly got the better of him and he’d gone from the room in his socks, leaving his boots on their side by the dresser. She searched around for his phone but found nothing and began her descent, occasionally clicking the lighter to see where she was going. Halfway down she noticed a flash reflected back from a metal cabinet tucked into a recess that she hadn’t noticed on her way up. She reached the bottom and went over and tried the handle. It wouldn’t shift. Maybe he locked his phone away; maybe there was a computer in there. She listened. Nothing stirred in the building. She went back up to the bedroom, took the key holder and returned to the cabinet. Only two of the many keys were candidates for the small lock. The second worked the mechanism and the door opened with a metallic scraping noise. She froze and waited before holding the flame of the lighter inside the locker. ‘Jesus!’ she whispered. Three hunting rifles stood in a rack; two had scopes. Several boxes of different-sized shells and an ammunition belt lay below them, together with a spouted tin of oil and some cleaning rags. An open padlock hung at one end of a bar that secured the guns into the rack. She removed the padlock from the hole in the bar and swung it towards her.
She had never in her life touched a gun, was instinctively afraid of them and had no concept of how heavy a gun was or how to carry one. She selected the smallest rifle, which had a strap but no scope, eased it from the slot made for the stock and gently lifted it out of the cabinet. It was much lighter than she’d expected. She didn’t know how to open the breach and, anyway, she couldn’t manage the gun while holding the lighter to see what she was doing. She took a handful of different-length shells from the cartons and stuffed them in the inside pockets of her jacket. Then she stepped back and carefully replaced the padlock and secured the cabinet.
Even as she did so, it seemed bizarre to return the keys to the place beside Kirill’s bed, but she was keeping her options open. In her mind, she was still not committed to any course of action. She needed to think things through. She sat on Kirill’s bed for five minutes and breathed deeply, calming herself and going through the options, none of which seemed very practical, even with a gun in her hands. She worked the bolt distractedly and eventually managed to open the breach. It turned out that all three lengths of shell were the same calibre and slotted neatly into it. She left one in and pocketed the rest.
One option was to return to the room, leave the gun and the shells under her bed – they never searched the room – and wait for a good opportunity. But what was the point of that? They would certainly be found when her captors discovered the gun was missing and she would never have a better chance of escaping than now. Emboldened by the gun, she stole back to her room. Kirill was in the same position but, as she pulled bits of clothing from the towel hanger by the basin, he stirred and all thought of patting down his pockets for his phone deserted her. She backed from the room and eased the door shut, turned the key in the lock and removed it. The noise stirred him. She heard him murmur something then call out, but this was just Kirill talking in his sleep.
She had no thought of killing him, but she knew that if his bedroom was empty and the door of the room where she was kept locked and the key nowhere to be found, it would cause a delay that might be vital for her. She put on the T-shirt she’d washed, the patterned jumper they had given her and a scarf that was in the room – and then went to look through the windows towards the gate. She could see very little, but someone was out there because a cigarette lighter flared.
She was now committed to a course of action. She moved quickly to the kitchen, scooped up the cooking oil, turned on the gas rings without lighting them and closed the door. She went to the corner of the large room furthest from the kitchen. Behind a heavy upholstered armchair she formed a pile from magazines, kindling wood from the log basket by the fire, books and a plastic table cover, on to which she placed any combustible ornament she could find. She poured cooking oil over the top and set light to the paper at the bottom. At first, the flames didn’t take. She crouched down and blew softly. The paper caught light, followed by the kindling. She stepped back, willing the flames on, and at length the fire took hold at the top of the heap and the back of the armchair began to smoke. The light from the flames now danced on the ceiling, but she wasn’t done yet. She dragged an ornamental bamboo table over to the fire and toppled it on to the flames.
In a state of pure flow and almost unaware of herself, she moved behind the main door and waited. The whole room was now illuminated and smoke billowed beneath the ceiling. She shut her eyes and covered her mouth and nose with the scarf. Seconds later, the door bust open and two men rushed in, their arms shielding their faces from the flames. One dashed to the stairs, the other to the back room where she had been held. She slipped out behind them and ran along the front of the building and into the dark. She tore over the damp grass and reached the gates. They were chained and padlocked. She looked back to see if there was a vehicle she could use to ram them but then some part of her mind told her she was being ridiculous: she must scale the fence. She strapped the rifle across her back, gripped the wire either side of the metal gatepost and began to climb, placing one foot in front of the other on the post, causing the gate to rattle. The pain in her shoulder burned each time she hauled herself up with her left arm. At the top, she had to hang with her right arm so that she could unwrap the scarf from her face and neck and place it over the loops of razor wire that were strung haphazardly along the line of the fence. There was a lot of shouting behind her and she knew that if anyone looked towards the fence they would undoubtedly spot her. It took two or three agonising minutes for her to get enough of the wire covered, but even then her hands were cut as she swung one leg over and lifted herself clear of a big hoop of barbs. Her trousers caught and she had to wrench them free, ripping the material and giving herself a long scratch on the back of her calf. But she had managed the fence – just – and she hung there, panting in the rain, to give her arms and shoulder a rest before descending to within a metre of the ground then letting go and landing squarely on both feet to face the compound.
The fire had taken hold of the front of the building and the part nearest to her. Men darted about, silhouetted against the glow. She couldn’t make out much of what was happening but she found herself hoping that no one had been killed or injured in the flames. Too many people had died already.
But that concern was short-lived. A loud bang came from the dacha and reverberated around the forest. The gas in the kitchen had ignited and blown out part of the ground floor. She couldn’t escape the truth that she had done something that might have killed or injured people. She turned and followed the track away from the building into the vast, dripping forest and, gradually, the glow of the fire diminished and her eyes became accustomed to the dark. ‘I am with you,’ Samson had said, and she prayed he was.
Because of the house arrest, the only way Denis Hisami could take some air in New York was on the roof of the apartment building. He went up regularly during his house arrest, lit a cigar that mostly smouldered in an ashtray, and stood in the shadow of the building’s water tank to gaze up at the towers of Midtown. The fresh air made him think clearly and it was good for him to spend time away from his computer and talking to his bankers.
Tulliver’s head appeared around the metal fire-escape door and he called out. ‘He’s here. I’ve given him a whisky. Zillah’s waiting.’
Hisami found Gil Leppo sitting at his dining table, hair still damp from the gym, bangles clinking as he leafed through that morning’s New York Times, which had lain unopened all day. ‘Hey,’ he said, jumping up to give Denis another hug, which again was barely returned.
‘How good of you to come over,’ Denis said, moving away to the other side of the table, where two dark red Moroccan folders lay ready. He brushed the tips of his fingers over one folder, briefly enjoying the smoothness of the leather. ‘I’m glad you stayed in town.’
‘The place has great vibe in the fall – always the best time to be in New York.’ He sat down. ‘You’re certainly causing the shit to go airborne at TangKi.’
‘It’s good to hear they’re taking it seriously, Gil, because this is not just my problem.’
‘Yeah, everyone agrees with you now.’
‘Have you everything you need?’ Leppo nodded and glanced at Tulliver. ‘And you have some whisky – I forgot to ask, what do you think of Aberlour?’
‘Fantastic,’ said Gil, now picking up the tension in the room. ‘So how can I help?’
‘I hope you can help me. I really do.’ Hisami stretched and walked to the far end of the table, where he rested for a second, leaning on the back of a chair, then continued towards Leppo. ‘For both our sakes’ – he patted Leppo on the shoulder – ‘I hope you can help me.’
Leppo looked up, and Hisami knew he’d seen something in his eyes because his face instantly drained of its usual eager charm.
‘Sure, name it – tell me what you want.’
‘My wife – I want her back,’ said Hisami. Then he fastened his hand around Leppo’s neck and started pressing into the back of the solid dining-room chair. Leppo’s arm lashed out, sending the tumbler skidding across the table and on to the floor with a clink. ‘You fucking snake! Just four people knew she was visiting the centres in Italy, and you weren’t one of them. We were exceptionally careful about who we told because we’ve had many threats from your fascist friends.’ He was aware of Tulliver shouting for him to stop, but he braced his arm with his left hand and bent down to Leppo’s face. ‘You are going to get her back, Gil. Understand?’ He gave him a jerk upwards, with half a mind to kill him there and then. Leppo managed to gurgle an affirmative.
Tulliver bellowed, ‘Let him go now!’
Hisami released him and watched him fall forward, holding his throat and gasping for breath. When at last he could speak, he said, ‘Jesus, have you gone crazy?’
‘Shut the hell up. That’s a fraction of the pain and terror Anastasia’s experienced over the last few days.’ He looked away towards the painting he had bought for her. ‘She welcomed you into our home. She cooked for you, listened to you, indulged your self-obsession, empathised with you. And now they film her by her own grave in some fucking Russian forest. My wife! This is my wife you used against me. My wife!’ He was shouting, spittle projecting from his mouth.
Leppo looked up and shook his head. Tulliver appeared at his side with a glass of water, now the imperturbable butler. Leppo took it and swallowed some.
‘How long have you been involved?’ demanded Hisami.
‘You’ve got it wrong. You need help with that temper of yours, Denis.’ He looked up, rubbing his neck. ‘You can’t treat me like this. I’m more than your fucking equal.’
‘Don’t tempt me, Gil. In other circumstances, I would have killed you and, frankly, it almost seems worth it right now.’ He meant it, so took himself to the other side of the table and sat down in front of the folders that Zillah Dee had prepared for him. ‘Quite apart from Anastasia’s kidnap, have you any idea what this money will do in Europe? Did you even think of the mayhem Crane plans to cause?’
Leppo was silent. Hisami changed his position so he could look into his eyes. ‘Don’t go on denying it, Gil. It’s all here.’ He tapped one of the two folders.
‘I knew nothing about Anastasia.’
‘Maybe that’s true, but then Crane told you just so you were up to your neck in it and you couldn’t back out when things got rough, right? My guess is he had something on you. Actually, I think I have a lot more, but we’ll talk about that in a moment. You got one of those emails from an account without a name with the documentary evidence attached. And in that email was the information you dreaded people knowing – the thing that could destroy you, if, as happened to me, it appeared on one of those far-right news sites Crane has connections with. And then one of his proxies – a lawyer, a politician, a business associate – or maybe even Crane himself tells you what to do, and you do it because you have no option. In your case, I guess it was something recent, like the shipment of arms to the Central African Republic that you brokered a couple of years ago.’
He picked up the first folder and drew out several documents and some photographs and pushed them over to Leppo. ‘It’s all there. Orders, end-user certificates, money transfers, even clear photographs of you doing the deal in a café in Tel Aviv. See, the Israelis don’t like people doing arms deals in their country without their knowledge.’
Leppo looked dumbly at the papers in front of him.
‘Gil, throughout our friendship’ – he put air quotes around the last word – ‘I never quite trusted you. I kept my ears open and I heard about this kid in Antioch. What age was she at the time that scumbag paedophile Griffin Bluett brought her to your home for a fee – fourteen, fifteen years of age? How much did you pay her family – $2 million plus her college fees? That was a nice touch. But you gave her pills – she didn’t know what they were – and alcohol to wash them down, and for the next ten hours you abused her. All this was in Griffin Bluett’s testimony, but you avoided prosecution because neither the girl nor her parents were prepared to testify.’ The second folder opened on a high-school portrait of a pretty young girl with light brown hair cut into a bob. He turned it round to face Leppo. ‘Nancy Milsum is her name and today she is nineteen years old. She never went to college because she had a breakdown. You weren’t her only abuser. She was handed around five or six men – those are the ones she can remember – by Bluett, who was feeding her drug habit. Bluett destroyed Nancy Milsum’s life, and you have your part in that. Just imagine what this is going to do to your reputation, Gil. And that’s to say nothing about the risk of prosecution, which must now be high.’
Leppo looked at him, now totally beaten and compliant. ‘What do you want?’
‘Let’s forget the pretence that Crane is dead, okay? We both know he’s alive and that he arranged the kidnap and is holding Anastasia somewhere in Russia. We both know that he’s trying to stop me using the information that Daniel Misak gave me. By the way, I also figured out that you were the go-between who persuaded Daniel to fly to London, where he was tortured and killed by Crane. He trusted you because you were a friend of mine.’ He paused. ‘And it was you, Gil, who passed the information on my years in Kurdistan, provided by Crane’s Russian masters, to the authorities here, which is why I’ve spent most of the last week in jail.’ He inhaled heavily and was silent.
Hisami waited a little longer before answering. ‘I’m prepared to forget everything if you go to Crane and have him release my wife. You have seventy-two hours. If you negotiate her freedom, none of this will be used. Now get the fuck out of my home, and of course I never want to see you again. If I do, be sure that I will kill you.’
A clock tolled some way off in the city of Tallinn. It was four in the morning and Samson had given up all hope of sleep. He got up, thinking about Anastasia, and found one of two cigarettes that he’d kept from another packet he’d thrown away and, shaking his head with mild self-disgust, lit up and opened the window to let the smoke out. It was no good thinking about her, so he set his mind on Hisami’s strange reluctance to act to save his wife’s life. He considered phoning Tulliver to see if there had been any developments and took out the phone, but then he noticed a movement down in the street. Someone had stepped back as he exhaled a plume of smoke into the rain. He drew back, turned off the light and stubbed out the cigarette so he could relight it, if needs be. He shut the window and angled his face so as not to be seen from the street. Someone was staking out the hotel and that person was no professional – the entrance could be watched from much further off. Then he saw there was another man, short and dressed in a parka, who was apparently unconcerned about being seen. With these two men on his doorstep, Samson didn’t want Naji turning up, so he texted him with Robert Harland’s address and sent Harland a message to explain that a young man would be showing up at his house, in all likelihood with his sister.
He watched the two men for a while. Unless Nyman had managed to locate the hotel then hired particularly useless local hoods to watch him, he had acquired some other interest. Did Adam Crane already know of the presence of a Hungarian national named Norbert Soltesz in Tallinn, a few hours from the Russian border? He decided to test them, picked up the cigarette butt and went down to the lobby, where the night porter, a young man with a textbook open in front of him, was serenely asleep with his chin resting in his hand. He woke up with a start, almost snapped to attention and made a move to the door. Samson said he’d get it himself, eased it open and stepped smartly into the street. He made for the men, holding up the cigarette. He called out in English for a light, but the two men immediately shot off in opposite directions. At least he had confirmed that he was being watched.
His phone rang – no caller ID. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘It’s Jim Tulliver.’
‘How can I help?’ said Samson stiffly.
‘You’re still working on Anastasia?’ Tulliver sounded exhausted.
‘I told him I would, yes.’
‘Right.’
‘Has he decided to help me?’
‘It’s complicated – can we speak off the record?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘This is where I think we are. First, the dossier on the money and how it was to be used to stir up trouble across European democracies was devastating to the parties concerned, both in the US and Europe. Once they had found out what Misak had done for Denis and the extent of Denis’s knowledge, they realised they had to change absolutely everything about their operation – the bank accounts, the signatories on those accounts, the shell companies they were using to distribute the money. That’s complicated when banks are so wary of money-laundering. So they had to buy time, and they did that by kidnapping Anastasia and having Denis thrown in jail. Follow me?’
‘So you’re saying all they require him to do is sit on that dossier until they’ve made it obsolete. Once they’ve completed their task, they can let Anastasia go. Is that it?’
‘Effectively, yes. But on the day of his release Denis received another threat, and this is what put him in such a bitch of a mood and why he was so damned difficult to deal with.’
‘What could be worse than Anastasia’s death? What was that threat?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So Anastasia’s safety is secondary to this new threat.’
‘No. He’s desperately worried about her.’
Samson looked up and down the deserted street. ‘I’m sure he is. So where does that leave us?’
‘I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Samson. Anything you do to upset things right now could damage the chances of getting her back.’
‘You’re warning me off?’
‘Not exactly. I just want you to know everything that I know.’
‘Is that why Denis hasn’t paid Zillah, to stop her working on the case? Or is he broke?’
‘He’s got money, but it’s true he’s got a lot of problems with finance,’ said Tulliver wearily. ‘Zillah will be paid in full.’
‘But she has no guarantee and is pulling her people.’
‘She will be paid.’ He paused. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘This new threat has no meaning for me, Jim. That’s Denis’s business. Getting Anastasia back is the only thing I give a damn about.’
‘You won’t hold off for a few days? You see, he’s got another play, another strategy he thinks is promising.’
‘What kind of play?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘You need to spit it out, Jim.’
There was silence the other end.
‘Have it your own way,’ said Samson. ‘I know Denis told you to call me. Just say to him that I’m not prepared to back off, and it’s for this reason: there’s no guarantee they won’t kill her when they’ve done everything they need to to cover their tracks. They’re keeping her alive so they can film her on FaceTime just as long as they need to stop Denis publishing his dossier. Whatever else he’s doing, you tell him I’m not backing off.’ He hung up and walked slowly up and down the street, thinking, until he heard the chimes for five o’clock. Then he returned to the hotel for an hour of fitful sleep.
At first light, he got up and left the hotel, omitting to tell them that he wouldn’t be back, and went to the far side of the old town to a café, where he bought coffee and a kind of cheese pastry. Tulliver had cleared things in his mind. Snatching Crane was the only solution. If Crane were suddenly taken out of circulation, they would remain exposed to Hisami’s dossier, and that would keep Anastasia alive.
The new threat against Hisami was irrelevant. If Hisami was damaged, too fucking bad. He had stolen Anastasia from him, put her in appalling jeopardy and then, despite all his wealth and power, was incapable of helping her.
He consciously moved on to think about the challenge of seizing a well-protected Ukrainian gangster. He would need people and probably more money than he had allowed for. He made a list on his phone, went through it several times, committed it to memory and deleted it. Just past eight, he left the café, bought a smart card and boarded a tram that took him through suburbs of a very Nordic character bearing little trace of the country’s communist past. He alighted at a stop on the east of the city, where no one else got off, waited and watched, then headed into the old city.
Harland’s place was indeed pretty: a low white wall topped by ironwork from the twenties, a pale green building with shutters painted in a darker green and a doorway with a carved porch. He pulled the metal rod that operated the doorbell and waited. After a minute or two and another tug at the bell, Harland appeared, his glasses on top of his head.
‘We have some former colleagues here,’ he said, ushering him in with pained look. ‘They expected you to make contact with me because of the Macy connection. So they invited themselves to breakfast.’
Samson followed him down a bare wooden corridor of white panelling and minimal furniture into a large kitchen and living area which opened on to a conservatory. Peter Nyman and Sonia Fell were sitting together on a sofa. Fell gave him one of her prim looks.
Nyman nodded and said, ‘I was just complimenting Robert on his paintings – they really are very good indeed.’ He gestured to a wall of marine paintings, executed in oil and watercolour. ‘Did you know that our host was now a respected artist, Samson? Second act. Gives us all hope. They’re marvellous, aren’t they?’
An elegant woman in her sixties – grey hair cut into a bob with side-swept bangs, and dressed in beige and cream – appeared with a jug of coffee and a mug for Samson and flashed him a generous smile.
‘This is my wife – Ulrike,’ said Harland.
Samson greeted her, dropped his bag and sat down. Harland lowered himself cautiously into an upright Windsor armchair and drained his mug. ‘I’ll let Mr Nyman explain,’ he said unenthusiastically.
‘Peter – please call me Peter,’ said Nyman. Harland sniffed. ‘It’s quite an honour to be in the presence of such a luminary of our trade. I hope you appreciate Robert’s heroic past, Samson, and of course, Ulrike’s.’ He darted an ingratiating look in her direction.
Samson shrugged. ‘What do you want?’
‘As I have explained, we are here in an official capacity, representing the British government, and our message is quite simple. We have come to tell you to desist in all your efforts to contact, monitor or otherwise engage with Ray Shepherd, also known as Adam Crane, while you are in Estonia.’
‘The man who you and the British police maintain is dead,’ said Samson quickly.
Nyman gave him a weary look. ‘That’s as may be. But we will not allow you to sabotage an operation that has taken months to put together and on which our national interest depends.’
‘In what way does the national interest depend on a Ukrainian gangster and murderer?’
‘I am not at liberty to say,’ said Nyman. He moved forward. ‘Be very clear, Samson, that we will brook no opposition in this matter. The UK government is resolved. And that, as far as you are concerned, is an end to it. Go home and look after your restaurant. I hear it needs your full attention.’
Samson looked from Nyman to Fell but said nothing.
‘Do I have your assurance?’ said Nyman.
‘You always forget that I’m not working for you, or for the British government. And we’re not in London and you have no authority here.’
‘But we do have the power to cause you considerable inconvenience,’ said Sonia. ‘Be reasonable. There’s so much you don’t understand about all of this.’
‘I was hired to find Anastasia by her husband, and that is what I am going to do. Now you come to me and talk about Crane. Is this because you have knowledge of his involvement in her abduction? If so, you’ll be covering up not only a murder but also a kidnap. You want that made public, Peter?’
Nyman shook his head. ‘You’re emotionally involved, Samson. We understand that, but you must not let these feelings interfere in matters of national security. We’re asking for a few days. That’s all.’
‘For what?’
‘Look, everyone in this room has been in the intelligence business.’ Samson glanced at Ulrike and wondered about her. ‘We all know how delicate these things are. You’ve got to allow us to complete an immensely complex intelligence operation, of which you have not the slightest notion.’
‘What is there to fear from me if I don’t have the slightest notion about this?’
Nyman’s temper snapped. ‘Take it from me that I will personally see that you are destroyed if you mess with me on this.’ He stopped and controlled himself. ‘You will not – I repeat not – get in our way.’
‘Is that because you support the aims of a Ukrainian gangster? Because it very much looks like that from where I’m standing, and I’m sure it will to the media on both sides of the Atlantic.’
Nyman looked exasperated. Fell glanced at him and took over. ‘You know us better than that, Paul.’
‘Do I? Frankly, I don’t rule out anything these days. But it doesn’t matter one way or another. I am here to find and free Anastasia. You both know her and of the work she does. She was abducted while trying to help people. If there is anyone in this room who has done more for their fellow human beings, I’d be very surprised.’
Ulrike had appeared from the far end of the room and perched on the long dining-room table. ‘I’d be interested to hear about her work,’ she said, with a slight German accent.
‘She runs several centres for the psychological rehabilitation of migrants with trauma – mostly people from the Middle East and northern Africa. The centres were financed by her husband, Denis Hisami, in the memory of his sister, who was killed by ISIS. There’s nothing else to say. They do a very good job. I saw for myself in Italy a few days ago.’ He stopped, realising that he was sounding too passionate.
‘This is not relevant,’ said Nyman.
‘On the contrary,’ started Ulrike. ‘I think it’s very relevant that—’
‘Let me assure you it isn’t,’ said Nyman rudely.
Harland shifted and said, ‘I’d very much like to hear what my wife was going to say.’
Ulrike nodded to him. ‘It seems to me you’re placing the interests of an intelligence operation involving a very bad man and with uncertain outcomes – these things are never certain, are they? – above helping someone who is evidently a very good person.’
‘I am not here to debate the issue,’ said Nyman rattily. ‘I am here to represent the British government and tell Samson to cease and desist.’
Harland cleared his throat. ‘Just as it escaped your notice that Mr Samson is no longer in SIS, you also failed to comprehend that we are Estonian citizens and that our interest in what the British government is demanding tends to be on the low side.’
Samson’s attention wandered while this was going on. He looked around and saw how elegant the place was. A door led from the conservatory to an enclosed garden, at the end of which stood a Gothic gateway set in an ancient wall. Pot plants in the conservatory were still blooming among off-white and blue garden furniture. Books were piled high and neatly; jars of brushes and pencils were lined up on a table in the corner where the morning light flooded in. Anastasia would like it.
Nyman was looking appalled. ‘You’re no longer a British citizen, Robert! How can that be?’
‘The only thing I took from England is my language and this chair, which belonged to my father. When we got married and moved here we both decided to leave our citizenships behind.’ Ulrike aimed a smile at him from across the room. ‘You two coming into my house and trying to bully your way doesn’t cut any bloody ice. Is that clear?’
Nyman looked down at his shoes then up at Harland. ‘My apologies. You must forgive me. These are difficult times and this is a very important operation.’ He glanced at Samson. ‘And I believe Samson has some idea how important it is.’
Samson said nothing.
‘Come on, you know what this means,’ said Nyman.
‘Maybe, Peter, but my task is to save Anastasia.’ He got up in order to leave, but Harland gestured impatiently for him to sit down.
‘Look, I’m going to be frank with you,’ said Nyman. ‘We’re not some fascist cabal. We’re genuinely concerned to map what is going on and to prepare for the undoubted tumult that will occur if this all goes through. You have referred to the American origin of the money. Please understand that this is what concerns us most. I want you to see that we are on the same side, but that I can’t have my operation interfered with.’
‘Well, we know where we both stand,’ said Samson, not giving an inch.
‘I think this conversation is at an end,’ said Harland quietly. Nyman worked his way to the front of the sofa and got up, followed by Fell. At this point there was a crash from upstairs. They both looked up.
‘The lodger,’ said Ulrike. ‘A student. He must have dropped something.’
Harland’s eyes danced for a fraction of a second before he rose to show Nyman and Fell to the door.
When he came back he said, ‘He’s a pompous ass, but I think he’s telling the truth about his motives and he makes a good point about his operation. I’d feel pretty much the same way if I were running it. I hear about these threats from the far right all the time from our friends in the government here. It’s no bloody joke. They have to stay on top of it.’
‘I know,’ said Samson. ‘But with every day that Crane has to reorganise it becomes less likely that we will see Anastasia again. Once he’s done what he needs to do, he will have her killed. Taking Crane is the only way to save her.’
Harland looked at Ulrike and something seemed to pass between them. She said, ‘Now, let’s get our lodger down here. I am sure you’ll want to talk to him.’