Desmond’s neck was flushed and his Adam’s apple was working furiously. Samson smiled from the doorway. ‘You look like you need a rest, Desmond. Have a good evening.’
As he left the building, the burner phone in his pocket pinged with a message from Zoe. ‘Now please fuck off, whoever you are, and leave this to me.’
He replied, ‘Thanks for that. Whatever you’re doing in the Edgar, you’re being watched. Stay safe.’
Chapter 3
Survivors of the Bridge
It was still raining when he arrived in Mayfair. The bookings for his restaurant, Cedar, were not good for that evening and it seemed unlikely that there would be any change, unless there was late trade from the Curzon Cinema nearby. Ivan, who had worked for Samson’s parents before him, and without whom he couldn’t run what was described as Mayfair’s premier Lebanese restaurant, appeared five minutes later and hovered at the door to the office as Samson began to go through the day’s invoices. ‘What is it, my friend?’
‘Mr Nyman is downstairs. He’s been waiting half an hour. I have served him coffee.’
‘Jesus, that’s all I need. Let’s make him wait a bit longer.’
‘He knows you’re here.’
‘Tell him I’m busy. I don’t want him thinking he can drop in any time.’
‘He’s booked a table for later. He is to be joined by a lady friend.’
‘Nyman with a woman! It can only be his sidekick, Sonia Fell. Make sure they order the ’89 Musar. That should deter him from coming again.’ The materialisation in his life of Peter Nyman, now of indeterminate status at SIS but always capable of making trouble, was never good news. After being shot or, rather, winged in a street in Tallinn, Nyman and his colleagues had tried to put the blame on Samson and have him arrested by the Estonian authorities. The last time Samson saw him, he was cowering in the street outside the club when Adam Crane – aka Aleksis Chumak – was lifted two years before.
He looked down at the message notifications accumulated on his phone. ‘Give me a quarter of an hour, Ivan. Thanks.’
There were two texts from Macy Harp and one from Macy’s assistant, Imogen, all of which told him that Macy’s and his conference call with Denis would now take place at nine that evening, and several texts on an encrypted app from Detective Inspector Hayes, Samson’s friend in the Met and occasional lover. ‘Call me!’ they all instructed.
He dialled Hayes’s number. She was busy and said she would call back, which she did in under a minute.
‘Samson, were you in north London this afternoon?’
‘Why?’
‘I bloody knew it was you.’
‘What’re you saying?’
‘You wrestling with a lunatic in a skirt and with a bloody great knife.’ She paused to wait for a response, which wasn’t forthcoming. ‘Look at your email – there’s one from my private address.’
He opened his laptop, found the email and clicked on the attachment, film taken with a phone camera. Someone outside the café had caught part of the fight and had evidently moved to get a better shot of the incident, although it was jerky footage and Samson was unrecognisable. There was much more screaming than he remembered and his assailant looked bigger. The man’s escape was filmed, too. And the number of the Suzuki was clearly visible.
‘You watching it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it was you because of that jacket I gave you.’
‘Ah.’
‘Well, at least you’re wearing it. I thought you didn’t like it.’ He didn’t, but had worn it to GreenState because it was so unlike anything he would choose for himself. ‘You’re the anonymous hero of social media – the man who saved lunchtime crowds from a knife-wielding crazy. The Met wants to interview you – this is a serious incident, Samson.’
‘Have you said it was me?’
‘No, because I know you are up to no fucking good. What were you doing?’
‘Waiting for someone.’
‘Right!’
‘Why do they need me? They’ve got the bike’s registration.’
‘And they know who he is.’
‘Who is he?’
‘You’re not getting that information so easily, Samson. I want to know what you were doing at the Junction before I tell you any more. There’s a lot of interest in that particular location and I guess that’s actually why they want to interview you. I’ll see you at your place later.’
‘I’ve got something on . . .’
‘I mean, later. I’ll stay the night so you have time to tell me what the hell you’re up to. That okay with you?’
‘Yes – I guess.’ This was characteristic of their relationship. It wasn’t love, by any means, but a friendly arrangement that suited them both and was the best distraction he had from his perpetual yet now diminished ache for Anastasia Christakos, who had returned to America and her marriage to Denis Hisami after the ordeal of her kidnap and violent release. On the bridge at Narva they had been injured by the same bullet and after that they spent two agonised, blissful weeks of recuperation together. Jo Hayes was smart and uncomplicated company. He admired and liked her a lot, but there was no question of love. There never could be with anyone else.
‘And Samson,’ she said with a note of admonishment.
‘Yes?’
‘This man isn’t your ordinary crazy. He’s a really bad’un. Not good. Look after yourself. I’ll see you about eleven thirty.’
He buzzed down and told Ivan to send Peter Nyman up.
Nyman had been to his office twice before and each time his appearance augured disruption in Samson’s life. It was Nyman who hired him to find a young Syrian refugee named Naji Touma on the migrant trail through the Balkans, and then, three years later, he blundered into Anastasia’s kidnap by Russian hoods. There was one thing you could say about Peter Nyman; whatever his failure to understand the thing that was staring him in the face, he never lost an unreal self-belief.
Samson didn’t get up when
