The Old Enemy

Samson drop him at Union Station Bus Terminal and he’d lose himself in the crowds: it was vital not to lead anyone to Naji Touma’s hotel. Samson did so then took the Range Rover to his hotel garage, left the fob and documents with the attendant, called the rental company and went for a walk. He had plenty of calls to return. He spoke with Ivan at Cedar, who had left three messages. The office and the restaurant had been raided that morning. Computers and documents were seized by the police, who had shown a warrant to Ivan that stated that under Section 15 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act the Metropolitan Police would search the premises for evidence of an unspecified indictable offence. Ivan sent him a photograph of the warrant with a note saying they’d forced entry into his flat in Maida Vale. This was confirmed in a message from his tenant, Derek, who had observed police that morning removing folders but little else. They had already searched the place once, after the death of Pim Visser, and had found nothing, so all this was a feeble attempt to intimidate him.

There were much more pressing matters on his mind. In his bag was the sample jar containing the old cotton wool swab and a strand or two of hair belonging to the young Mila Daus that Herr Frick had handed over in the hotel in Tallinn. Against all his wildest hopes, he had managed to acquire two more samples of Daus’s DNA, that is, if he hadn’t been sold a pup by Hector and the maid at Seneca Ridge. Everything relied on a match being found between the two sets, separated by nearly forty years of history. Without this, the allegations against Daus herself and the high-ranking officials and businesspeople on both sides of the Atlantic would implode.

At nine fifteen, at her request, he began sharing his location on a messaging app with Zillah Dee as he moved through downtown Washington. That way she could watch to see if he was being followed then choose her moment to make herself known. She called it her ‘mobile rendezvous’. At nine thirty-five two SUVs pulled up beside him outside Ford’s Theater, the place, he noted on a plaque, where President Lincoln had been assassinated in April 1865. A door was pushed open and he was invited to climb in. ‘Good to see you, Samson. I almost didn’t recognise you with that beard.’ Zillah gave it her appraisal. ‘Yeah, I think it’s working for you. Pity about the grey.’

Very little had changed in her appearance since they worked together during Anastasia’s kidnap – the same practical yet high-end wardrobe, the same short, asymmetrical hairstyle and string of tiny pearls. The brisk manner hadn’t changed either, although was that warmth he spotted in those neutral grey eyes? He thought so.

‘We have a lot to discuss,’ she said. ‘I have hired some space.’

When Zillah said ‘space’ she meant several different suites of offices that had been rented for a few hours and which allowed her choice and a last-minute change of venue.

They went to a boardroom in a former hotel. It had reproduction pictures of twentieth-century politicians on the walls and in a corner a vase of bird-of-paradise flowers and palm fronds that trembled in the air conditioning. The room smelled of air freshener. Two of her staff busied themselves with coffee and water.

He delved into the backpack and produced first the jar containing the hair sample and the swab, then the zip-lock freezer bags with the shaver and the comb. ‘I’m looking for a match,’ he said, ‘but I need the sample jar intact with as much hair left in it as possible.’

Zillah picked it up and curled her lip at the yellowed cotton wool. ‘What the hell is this – urine?’

‘No, age! The important thing is the hair in the jar.’ He explained how the Stasi had tried to capture people’s essences before DNA science was properly developed and had included a DNA sample in the jar. ‘I need to know whether the hair matches. On this hangs everything.’

She picked the jar up and squinted at it. ‘This doesn’t prove anything – who’s to say where these samples came from? And even if you do get a match, that doesn’t prove they’re from Daus. These items were all stolen, right? It only works if you can absolutely prove where the jar came from and that the things in the bag were hers, or you get another sample from her in front of witnesses – you yank her hair out or you take a swab in her mouth. And that does not seem feasible.’

She was right, but Samson said that for his own peace of mind he had to know she was the same person who had terrorised dissidents in the Stasi jail.

‘Okay,’ she said, passing the samples to one of the young men who hovered but never said anything. ‘What else?’

‘We need to go through what you researched for Denis, what your brief was and how you delivered the information to him . . .’

Until I have confirmation from Denis Hisami or Jim T., I can’t discuss the details of our work.’

‘I’m running it all now,’said Samson.

‘I haven’t heard that. Literally, the only people in the world that I would accept instructions from are Denis or Jim. They’re the guys who pay me and I’m adamant about maintaining client confidentiality.’

‘If I get Anastasia on the phone . . .’

‘Nope. Doesn’t work. She was never involved in the investigation and she’s not my client.’

‘She has power of attorney.’

‘Then she has to show me those papers. I’m sorry, Samson, but I’m not going to bend the rules.’

‘Okay, I’ll get Jim to sort it out.’ He turned to the matter of the famous businessman. ‘Ulrike mentioned that Bobby told her about a famous businessman who had been set up with a young woman who was under-age. This was thought to have taken place at Clouds Ranch. I have an