The Old Enemy, Henry Porter [important of reading books txt] 📗

to return to work yet had not contacted him to say she was in Europe, there was no future for them, and he certainly wasn’t going to embarrass them both by dropping in unannounced. He took the photograph down and put it in a drawer and, from that moment, the pain had begun to leave him.

Something had moved in him when he caught sight of her in the proceedings the day before, but now he simply wanted to check she was all right. He found the stream from Congress on C-Span. However, although it was past two o’clock in DC, there was no sign of the session starting. Staffers were milling around the committee room as if they didn’t expect the hearing to restart soon. There was no sign of Hisami and Anastasia, and no commentary to say what was going on.

He turned the sound down, took out his phone and composed a text message to Jim Tulliver. ‘Robert Harland is dead. Maybe a threat to others involved with the Narva affair. Call me urgently – Samson.’

Then he finished his drink and dialled Harland’s greatest friend, Macy Harp. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Chapter 4

Room 2172

Among members of Congress, the offices in the Cannon Building, on the south side of Independence Avenue, had the reputation of being the worst on Capitol Hill, and those on the fifth floor of that 120-year-old building were known as ‘Siberia’. Originally attic storage space, the fifth floor had been converted to offices to accommodate the newer representatives, and this is where Shera Ricard, the freshman member for California’s 14th District, ended up after winning her election. The offices were cramped, generally had a poor view and were several minutes’ walk from Room 2172 in the Rayburn Building, where the House Foreign Affairs Committee held its hearings. The Cannon was the only office space not served by the Capitol’s underground railway, and a seemingly endless programme of renovation meant that the thud of jackhammers and drills was transmitted through much of the structure’s fabric.

But for all this, Shera Ricard, one of the youngest members of the new intake, remained upbeat and smiling, and she was more than happy to play host while one of the major donors to her campaign, Denis Hisami, was appearing in front of the committee, of which she was a member. She had helped plan his evidence, which had now lasted four hours, and the responses to questions, but the afternoon session, delayed by half an hour already, was going to be the toughest for Hisami.

There were seven in the young congresswoman’s offices – Anastasia, Hisami, Jim Tulliver, a lawyer named Stewart Steen, Ricard and two members of her team. Anastasia said nothing, though occasionally nodded to her husband when he glanced at her to see if she agreed. She was worried for him. After investigations and court appearances lasting two years, he had become gloomy and defensive in his manner, and he wasn’t coming over at all well on TV.

‘You have a lot to talk about with the foundation’s work,’ said the congresswoman brightly, ‘a proven record of humanitarian care. I guess you need to refer to Anastasia’s background and the projects in the Mediterranean and then you call these fucking guys out. They’re mostly lawyers and they’ve done damn all to help their fellow human beings.’

It was at this point that Jim Tulliver, who was sitting next to Anastasia, withdrew the phone from his inside pocket to read a text. Anastasia couldn’t help but see Samson’s name and the brief message about Robert Harland’s death. She touched Tulliver discreetly on the arm and shook her head to tell him not to show her husband then shrugged helplessly to apologise for reading over his shoulder. He nodded and returned the phone to his pocket. The news was indeed bad – she was fond of Harland and Ulrike and he, of course, was partly responsible for saving her life – but why did Tulliver look so devastated? As far as she knew, he’d never met Harland.

The planning went on for a few minutes more before one of her staff appeared to say that the session was due to commence in ten minutes. ‘Okay, so we better get our asses over to the Rayburn,’ said the congresswoman. ‘Remember, there’s no elevator from this floor.’ She glanced at the lawyer, who was still looking put out at her remarks about his profession. ‘Come along, Mr Steen – we all know the world needs lawyers, just fewer Southern trial lawyers and the ones that defend the coal industry.’ She dived into her desk. ‘You people go ahead and I’ll see you in 2172.’ She straightened and gave Hisami a brief hug. ‘That’s on the taxpayer. You’ll be fine, Denis.’

Four of them hurried along the endless corridors towards the northern foot tunnel, the southern one being closed as part of the renovation works. When they reached it, the Capitol Police told them there was a demonstration – climate-emergency protestors had positioned themselves at the far end of the tunnel – so it was going to take a lot longer to reach the Rayburn. Tulliver explained that they were in a hurry and an officer led the way, breaking through the line of demonstrators, who were in the process of gluing themselves fast to the walls, the railings and each other. When they emerged in the hygienic sixties splendour of the Rayburn and started to push through the media scrum, they were already several minutes late.

Anastasia caught hold of Tulliver’s arm. ‘What’s going on, Jim? They weren’t here this morning.’

‘Maybe they’ve been tipped off about questions we haven’t anticipated. I’ll talk to Denis.’

‘And what was that about Harland?’

‘Later,’ he said.

Hisami had gone ahead with Steen, forging through the crowd of reporters with the help of the officer, nodding but refusing to answer questions hurled at him about his past as a military leader in Iraq. She saw him stop as a thickset man in a suit and tie blocked