The Old Enemy by Henry Porter (reading a book txt) 📗

‘May I continue while you do that?’ asked Nolan. He didn’t wait for an answer because he was clearly out of order. ‘Mrs Hisami, is it true that you have recently suffered serious mental-health issues – a complete nervous breakdown – and that after treatment failed you engaged in a controversial therapy involving the party drug MDMA, otherwise known as ecstasy?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was a controlled medical trial.’

‘Is it fair to suggest that you have made these allegations while you’re not only grieving for your husband but also under the influence of this drug?’

‘Absolutely not! I finished treatment two years ago. And I didn’t make these allegations, my husband did.’

‘Your husband, the war criminal,’ he said, and sat back. ‘I yield.’

Lucas looked around. ‘I think the representative has a good argument for a vote on the grounds that this hearing risks defaming or denigrating people who cannot defend themselves. We’ll leave the National Security aspect out of it because none of us is in a position to say what impact these papers may have.’

‘I may be able to help in that regard,’ said Speight, waggling a pen between his index and middle finger.

‘Would you mind if we just take the vote, Mr Speight?’ asked Lucas, now very much at the end of his patience.

‘Nope, you go ahead, Mr Lucas.’ He lounged in his chair and, unlike everyone else present, appeared completely relaxed.

Anastasia watched him and for one infinitesimal moment she thought she saw some encouragement directed at her. Before she had time to consider her next action, she was on her feet. ‘I have some things to say before you take your vote. I don’t wish to talk about myself, or my pain, but it is true that Denis and I have been through a rough time these past few years, and now my husband is dead. He didn’t survive the struggle with an immensely powerful enemy, an enemy that threatens us all. That enemy is in this room, sitting with us now, quietly and patiently working out her escape route with the man who is her stepson, but also her lover and fellow traitor. The vote you are about to take is their escape route.’

She picked up the two bags and pulled out the jam jar stolen by Herr Frick from the display in Leipzig and turned to face the back of the room. ‘Over there sits Mila Daus, a self-made billionaire, although it is fair to say she did have some help in acquiring her wealth from two rich husbands, named Muller and Mobius. Mila Daus started life in the German Democratic Republic as a member of the Stasi secret police and was the organisation’s most terrifying and cruel servant. She destroyed people’s minds for the cause. The lives of literally thousands of political prisoners were wrecked by this woman before she was even thirty-five years of age.’

‘What is that you are holding?’ snapped Lucas.

Without turning, she replied. ‘Proof that the woman sitting over there is the same person who committed these crimes. It contains a hair from a young student the Stasi arrested because she had been talent-spotted. That was the way the Stasi got to know people. The hair was an accident, but the DNA in this sample matches hairs collected by my associates at her home at Seneca Ridge just four days ago. They acquired two samples and the match was perfect in both cases.’ She held up the bag containing the woman’s razor and comb. ‘But that’s not all. As a matter of course, the Stasi fingerprinted everyone they arrested.’ She held up the arrest sheet. ‘Here are the fingerprints of that young woman.’ She picked up the zip-lock bag. ‘And here are her fingerprints, taken from a woman’s compact Mila Daus handled less than two hours ago in this room. They are a match and, lest there be any doubt about that, I believe we have mobile footage of her handling that compact.’

Daus sat with her head down and did not react, but Mobius rose and shouted, ‘You are defaming an innocent woman and an American patriot! Shame on you! Mr Chairman, you cannot lock us in here and subject us to these slurs. This isn’t justice.’ He looked down at his phone. ‘We both need to leave right now. We are dealing with a serious data breach of our companies’ servers and closed data. I demand that we are allowed to pass without being obstructed, or else you will be hearing from our lawyers.’

‘I have no idea who you are,’ said Lucas, ‘but you have no right to speak unless asked, still less to threaten Congress in that manner.’ He looked down at Anastasia. ‘All right, Mrs Hisami, I think we have heard quite enough. Please take your seat while I hold the vote.’

‘I will not,’ she said. Samson saw the flash of aggression that occasionally showed itself in their fights and had undoubtedly got her through her kidnap and incarceration in Russia. She was in command and the room was hers. ‘People are here today who were broken by this woman and can identify her.’ She turned. ‘Would you all please make yourselves known?’

Led by Ulrike, the five elderly Germans who had been sitting around Mila Daus, and, in one case, in the chair next to her, rose to their feet.

‘The lady at the front is Ulrike Harland,’ continued Anastasia. ‘She is the widow of Robert Harland, killed two weeks ago by a gunman. Her first husband was murdered by Daus’s Stasi associates in the nineties. She will introduce the others.’

Lucas was muttering his disapproval but, caught up in the drama of the moment, was too slow to intervene.

Ulrike began to speak. ‘This is Frau Lauerbach. Lilly was held in Hohenschönhausen prison then in Bautzen prison. She was released after four years of mental torture overseen by Mila Daus.’ She indicated another woman, a fragile, bird-like creature who stood with the aid of a