She stiffened. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? I don’t trust you, Samson. Never! You’re too devious.’
‘But I trust you.’
‘You delude yourself.’
He grinned. ‘So what is this?’
‘Well, we have these things in common – we’ve both had our hearts broken yet we don’t see why we should be denied sex and companionship. We find the same things funny. We like each other, but we give each other a lot of space. I love my place in the country, and I don’t want you there.’ Jo had bought a cottage outside a Berkshire village and kept a horse in local stables with the legacy from a relative, sang in the choir and had started gardening. ‘For a while,’ she continued, ‘I thought it was like a brother-and-sister thing.’
Samson grimaced.
‘But lately it seems more like a gay relationship between opposite sexes.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘It does, because we know exactly the way the other works, i.e., like two members of the same sex, or, indeed, a brother and sister. There’s a lot less mystery than when you’re in love and, of course, there’s no rapture, but it’s pretty good, and you’ll do.’ She squeezed his thigh, rose and stood above him with a look of high-spirited, erotic challenge. ‘I’m going to wash the Met right out of my hair,’ she said, and took off her shoes and untucked her shirt.
‘You’re magnificent,’ he said. ‘However, I need to think through things in the next room.’
‘You’re going to make one of your little diagrams – how exciting!’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Okay,’ she said, and moved closer so that her breasts were at eye level, waited for a few seconds then kissed him with a passionate commitment that made Samson reconsider the urgency of going next door.
Chapter 7
Cock and Bull
The meeting at Carlton House Terrace to discuss the Harland assassination and the official reaction started at 10 a.m. in the building where Samson was first interviewed before joining SIS several years before. Chaired by Lewis Ott, the deputy head of SIS, the gathering included Peter Nyman and Sonia Fell and two from the security services who gave only their first names – Shriti and Caroline – and appeared to be on good terms with Sonia. Macy Harp and Samson were shown in at ten fifteen after the intelligence services had, as Ott put it, rolled the pitch.
‘We’re going to be got at,’ said Macy in the waiting area, as he lowered the pot of poorly filtered coffee with a look of dismay. ‘The only reason we’re here is because they want information. You know better than to tell them anything, of course, Samson.’
Ott, tall, with the limitless self-esteem and quiet menace of the mandarin spy, said he was sure he didn’t have to remind them that they had all signed the Official Secrets Act, then moved to Harland’s murder, describing in detail the events on Bear Island Peninsula. He had been shot four times, three bullets to the chest and one to the leg. His wife was on the scene in minutes, but he was already dead. She saw a man fleeing – the same figure that had aroused her suspicion fifteen minutes before. The gunman seemed in some difficulty and it subsequently became clear that Harland had fought back and managed to set the man alight with a burner and turpentine. At the news that his friend hadn’t gone into that good night gently, Macy looked up at the ceiling and smiled.
‘The local police understand the importance of all this because Robert Harland was well connected, had advised on the setting up of the foreign intelligence operation and had many friends in the KaPo – the Kaitsepolitseiamet. So there’s been no lack of urgency and, after examining his phone, they found a photograph of the man in a series of rapidly taken landscape studies. Enhanced and enlarged, the photographs enabled them to track down the suspect in Tallinn, where he was being treated in hospital for burns to his stomach and thighs and, as it happens, a developing case of pneumonia. He’s a Ukrainian national who was hired for the job – not your average international hit man, by any means; a thug who was paid €30,000. He’s told the police everything but appears to know little about the people who hired him, and he certainly didn’t ask them about the target. If Robert Harland hadn’t managed to inflict those injuries on the killer in the last minutes of his life, he would never have been caught. Even in death, our former colleague and, if I may say so, the hero of our service, was as effective as ever.’ He looked around and his eyes came to rest on Macy. ‘Does anyone want to say anything about him now?’
Macy shook his head; Samson didn’t lift his eyes from the table.
‘The Foreign Secretary,’ continued Ott, ‘is anxious that Robert Harland is accorded all the honour our country has to offer. He has sent his condolences to the widow. There will be an announcement later today and I gather an obituary is underway for The Times.’
‘Who’s writing that?’ asked Macy.
‘I’m drafting notes,’ said Nyman. ‘Their security correspondent will knock them into shape.’
‘Peter, what the fuck do you know about Bobby?’ Macy said.
Nyman was unfazed. ‘A lot of his career is in the archive – the main operations, and so forth. And I did know him, of course, Macy. I worked with him. I respected him greatly.’ He pursed his lips in a tiny, round hole, which the French describe as the cul de canard – the duck’s arse.
‘Bollocks, you did! You didn’t know him. You weren’t in Berlin in ’89. Were you there with him in Czechoslovakia? Bosnia?
