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

Francisco office consisted of sixteen people, and in New York a further eight were employed. Small numbers, but the calibre of employee meant a sizeable payroll, something Denis had always avoided in the past. They paid for themselves in profits, but $450,000 left Denis’s accounts each month before he had even settled bills for office space, health care, and all the rest of it. Guided by Tulliver, she gave the go-ahead on two investments, told him to stall on three and cancel one. She had no idea whether she was right, but she was at least decisive.

When the room was eventually clear, Tulliver handed her two pages about Denis’s unexplained movements in the last year and a half, together with a handwritten note that read, ‘If you’ve got questions, we’ll go to the roof.’ He made a circling motion with his hand to indicate that the place might be bugged. She knew that his concerns about surveillance meant that he wouldn’t have emailed her the information.

Before she could read them Tulliver looked up from a message on his phone and said, ‘Jesus, Martin Reid is in the building! He wants to see you. I’ll get rid of him.’

‘What does he want?’ The billionaire was sometimes Denis’s ally; others his enemy.

‘Christ knows.’

‘I’ll see him.’

A few minutes later Reid and an aide appeared in the room. Reid dismissed the aide and, expecting Tulliver to take the hint, glowered when he showed no sign of leaving. ‘While Denis is sick,’ said Tulliver, ‘Mrs Hisami and I are working this ride together. You can take it or leave it. Isn’t that right, Anastasia?’

‘Absolutely, Jim.’

Reid sat down and considered what to say. Known as the ‘gravel washer’ for his habit of periodically removing the entire drive of his estate in Wyoming and having it cleaned, Reid was more or less retired from a career of nailing competitors to dry on a washboard in the prairie wind, as he put it. He’d lost his childhood-sweetheart wife to a rapid form of dementia and then a son to a helicopter accident and was seldom seen on the West Coast nowadays. The last time Anastasia met him was at a fundraiser, when he talked unceasingly about the life of Julius Caesar, with whom he was obsessed, and obliquely warned her about Hisami’s enemies. He told her Denis should lie low and lay off, whatever that meant. She didn’t like Marty Reid. He was opinionated, never listened or suffered the slightest doubt, and his politics were anathema to her. He was terrifying and brutal, yet she felt some sympathy for him that evening. He was lost without his wife and son. All his money and power meant nothing to him and he freely admitted that his life was ending in disappointment and loneliness.

After Reid had progressed, rather awkwardly, through the formalities of asking how Denis was, he said, ‘I don’t like your politics, Ana, and I don’t like Denis’s politics either.’ He was the only person on the planet who called her Ana, but seemed deaf to frequent correction.

‘You’ve made that clear before,’ she said.

‘Yes, I imagine I have. But I’m different to the charlatans in this town. I’m a conservative, but I believe in the Constitution, which means that comes first with me and my views about American society come second. That’s why I admire your husband, and why I have time for you, Ana. You’re principled people and you have beliefs that are guided by values. They’re not mine, but I recognise they are values, which is more than you can say for most people.’

‘Forgive me for asking, but where’s this going, Marty?’

He raised a hand – he wasn’t done yet. ‘What happened to Denis was an offence to the body politic, not just to his rights and the man who died. It showed contempt for our democratic institutions, and that I will not tolerate.’

‘Yes . . .’ she started.

‘I won’t tolerate it,’ he repeated, as if she hadn’t understood. His face had darkened and seemed to have expanded. She suddenly thought of what Denis had once said: ‘The thing with Martin Reid is that he’s all granite outside, but twice as hard inside.’

Tulliver came to the rescue. ‘What are you proposing we should do?’

‘I’m not proposing that you do anything, dammit. I’m telling you now that I’m going to act.’

Tulliver put up a hand, rose and whispered to him. Reid nodded and also got up. They all three walked to a deserted seating area with a water cooler and vending machines where there was no risk of electronic surveillance. Tulliver leaned forward with hands clasped together and spoke confidentially. ‘The FBI, Homeland Security and CIA are all working on the case. We appreciate your concern, and I know Mrs Hisami is touched that you came, but how can you help? Even you, Mr Reid, what can you do alone?’

‘Does anyone understand what actually happened at that goddamn company?’ Reid snapped, causing Tulliver to recoil slightly.

‘We think so, yes,’ Tulliver answered, and gave a well- rehearsed summary about the company TangKi, in which Denis Hisami and Reid had invested. ‘TangKi was a front for Adam Crane, a Ukrainian named Chumak who was likely working for a branch of Russian intelligence. Denis uncovered the operation to launder millions of dollars and pass them to far-right terror groups in Europe. Anastasia was kidnapped and held in Russia to prevent Denis revealing what he knew.’

‘Where did the money come from?’

‘You were on the board,’ said Tulliver, slightly exasperated. ‘You know it came from investors and the company’s regular business. Crane drained the accounts with a lot of fake research and investment projects, then vanished.’

‘My people went over the figures. A lot more money was involved – tens of millions of dollars. So where did that come from?’

‘A hundred and forty-six million dollars in total,’ said Tulliver. ‘Over a hundred and twenty shell companies were used. We didn’t determine precisely all the sources, but, for example, I recall that a chain of realtors in