His phone vibrated with a text from Ulrike: ‘They are with you now.’ He looked around and saw no one, then spied a white bow wave rounding the lighthouse to the north. A rigid inflatable hoved into view with several men on board. The boat was moving very fast then swerved left towards an old concrete jetty, where it rapidly deposited four men. They were armed with wildfowling guns and quickly went to take up positions across the peninsula, two hundred metres apart, as though they were preparing to drive game down the peninsula. Samson moved to see what was happening and was astonished as the line of men started towards the south, letting off volleys from their shotguns as they walked. He ran to the top of the rise to see what the effect would be on the shooter. It was immediate. He snaked backwards then crouched with binoculars to look at the line of men advancing in his direction. He didn’t linger further. He shouldered the gun, jogged to the cover of some wind-blasted bushes and vanished.
Samson texted thanks to Ulrike. She replied: ‘Police are waiting for him. They’ve located his vehicle. Can you bring Bobby’s painting to the house?’
He entered the cabin and retrieved the painting from the floor. It was lying face up. A bullet had passed clean through the bottom of the canvas where there were a few strokes of translucent colour.
Chapter 21
KaPo
He was in Tallinn by 9 p.m. – too late to return the car. He parked outside the old town walls, quite near to the hotel, and passed through the gates at the Fat Margaret Tower. As he turned into the narrow street leading to the Cloister Hotel, a voice called his name. He turned to see Tomas Sikula, one of his contacts in the KaPo – a senior officer who he’d met in the debriefing after Narva and who, it turned out, was a good friend and protégé of Harland’s.
He approached with his usual dazzling grin, grasped Samson by the hand and elbow. ‘Paul, you must be losing it – using the same crappy ID at the same hotel!’
‘Ah!’ said Samson. ‘Thought I’d make things easy for you.’ The Hungarian ID he’d used on the registration form had no doubt triggered an alert at KaPo’s offices, not that it mattered.
‘It’s good to see you, Paul. I gather you had some trouble this afternoon, but that conforms to recent patterns, no?’ His eyes danced with mischief. ‘What are your plans for this evening? I know a bar where we can have dinner.’ He looked down. ‘What is this here – a painting by Bobby?’ He peered at it. ‘What have you done to it – used it for target practice?’
‘You mentioned dinner,’ said Samson. ‘I need a wash and, anyway, I want to put the painting in a safe place at the hotel.’
‘Okay, there’s a bar at the end of the street. KandaBaar.’
‘I know it.’ It was the bar where he’d met Harland the first time. ‘I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes.’
He arrived at the bar, having photographed the pages from the Werner Nomenclature. The book was tucked into the inside pocket of his old, scarred leather jacket.
‘Beer or wine?’ asked Tomas. ‘You may need something stronger after being shot at.’ Another grin. ‘We know all about it – the police informed us immediately. It could only have been you. What were you doing out there, Paul?’
‘Picking up a painting and a sketchbook Bobby’s widow wanted.’
‘A likely story.’
‘You saw the painting in my hand.’
‘With a bullet hole through it! A good summary of Bobby’s life, no?’ The waitress came, and Tomas went through his usual routine of flirtation. A strikingly good-looking man, he seemed to need to seduce everyone, even though he was openly gay for what he described as most of the time. At length, he let her go with an order for steak, fries and beer. ‘So what were you looking for out there? What else were you retrieving for Mrs Harland?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Please, Paul, don’t offend my intelligence. You are a prime target of the people who killed Bobby and tried to poison the whole of Congress.’
Samson shrugged.
‘That latest was the third attempt on your life, or have I missed one?’
He nodded.
‘Well, I’m glad I caught up with you tonight – who knows whether you’ll be here tomorrow. By the way, they didn’t catch the man who tried to kill you this afternoon.’ He studied Samson. ‘You left a message on my phone this morning saying you wanted some help. Hit me! What do you need?’
‘I wanted to see the man who killed Bobby – Nikolai Horobets, but . . .’
‘Well, I am sorry to inform you that Nikolai passed.’
‘Pneumonia? I didn’t realise he was so sick.’
‘No, VX nerve agent. Ring any bells?’
‘Jesus – in the hospital?’
‘You know what VX stands for? Extremely fucking venomous. An individual wearing full protective equipment gained access to the secure section where he was being treated, removed his oxygen mask and sprayed his face with the nerve agent. He died a few minutes later. There was no trace of the assassin. But this now conforms to a pattern. Vladan Drasko died in the Virginian motel. The FBI must know that that was no accident, and today we received good information that Miroslav Rajavic, the man who attempted to kill you, was found dead in Belgrade yesterday. Yes, the Matador is no longer with us! That means that all the assassins are dead, including the one that you killed in self-defence.’ He placed air quotes around
