The commander of the MEK tactical assault team looked surprised to see Fabel squatting next to him, taking cover behind the large armoured van.
‘I was in the area and heard the call.’ Fabel predicted his question. He looked up at the four-storey block of flats white against the blue winter sky. Pristine and cheerful. Balconies with winter pansies. Mid-range cars parked outside. Heavily armed, black-uniformed MEK officers were rushing the occupants of the block out of the main door and along the street to where the ordinary uniformed police had hastily erected the perimeter on Jenfelderstrasse.
‘I heard you’d quit, Chief Commissar.’
‘I have,’ said Fabel. ‘I’m working out my notice. What have we got?’
‘Reports of a domestic disturbance. The neighbours called the police. The first local unit had just arrived when they heard shots. Then the guy inside took a pot-shot at one of the uniforms.’
‘Does he belong to the building?’
The MEK commander nodded his helmet. ‘Aichinger. Georg Aichinger. It’s his flat the disturbance came from.’
‘We know anything about him?’ Fabel slipped on the body armour that one of the MEK team handed him.
‘No record. According to the neighbours, never any trouble until now. The perfect neighbour, apparently.’ The MEK commander frowned. ‘He has a wife and three kids. Or maybe had. There hasn’t been much sound from the flat since the first gunshots. Four gunshots.’
‘What’s the weapon?’
‘From what we can see, a sporting rifle. He’s either half-hearted about it or he’s a lousy shot. The idiot from the first patrol car to arrive presented him with the perfect target by running headlong up the stairwell. Aichinger missed him by a metre. More a warning shot if you ask me.’
‘So maybe the family are still alive.’
The commander shrugged inside his Kevlar. ‘Like I said, it’s been pretty quiet since. We’ve got a negotiator on his way.’
Fabel nodded grimly. ‘Can’t wait. I’m going in to talk to him. Can you give me a man to cover me?’
‘I don’t approve of this, Chief Commissar. I’m not sure that I can allow you to put yourself at risk. Or one of my men at risk, for that matter.’
‘Listen,’ said Fabel. ‘If Aichinger’s family is still alive, then that could be a very temporary situation. If he’s talking to me, then he isn’t killing them.’
‘They’re already dead … you know that, don’t you?’
‘Maybe so, but we’ve nothing to lose, have we? I will just keep him occupied until the negotiator gets here.’
‘Okay. But I’m not at all happy with this. I’ve already got two men positioned on the landing outside the apartment. I’ll send another up with you. But if Aichinger doesn’t feel chatty, or if there’s any hint of things kicking off, then I want you straight out of there.’ The MEK commander nodded across to one of his team. ‘Go with the Chief Commissar.’
‘What’s your name?’ Fabel examined the young MEK trooper: young, heavy-muscled bulk beneath the body armour. Eyes bright and hard with excitement. The new breed. More soldier than policeman.
‘Breidenbach. Stefan Breidenbach.’
‘Okay, Stefan. Let’s go and see if we can talk our way out of you having to use that.’ Fabel nodded towards the Heckler and Koch machine pistol clutched to the MEK man’s chest. ‘And remember this is a hostage negotiation and a possible crime scene – not a war zone.’
Breidenbach nodded sharply, making no effort to conceal his resentment at Fabel’s remark. Fabel let him lead the way into the building and up the stairwell. Aichinger’s flat was on the second level and there were already two MEK men positioned there, pressed against the wall, faces hidden by helmets, goggles and flash masks.
‘Anything?’ Fabel asked the trooper at the top of the stairwell.
He shook his head. ‘All quiet. I reckon we’ve got a multiple. No crying, no movement.’
‘Okay.’ Fabel edged along the landing while Breidenbach trained his weapon on the closed apartment door.
‘Herr Aichinger …’ Fabel called towards the apartment. ‘Herr Aichinger, this is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg.’
Silence.
‘Herr Aichinger, can you hear me?’ Fabel waited a moment for a reply that did not come. ‘Herr Aichinger, is there anyone hurt in there? Does anyone need help?’
Again silence, but a faint shadow moved across the frosted glass of the small square window set into the apartment door. Breidenbach adjusted his aim and Fabel held up a cautionary hand to the young MEK man.
‘Herr Aichinger, we – I – want to help you. You’ve got yourself into a situation and I know that right now you can’t see your way out of it. I understand that. But there’s always a way out. I can help you.’
Again there was no reply, but Fabel heard the sound of the latch being taken off the door. It opened a few centimetres. All three MEK troopers moved forward, keeping their aim locked onto the open door.
Fabel frowned a warning at the three MEK men.
‘Do you want me to come in, Herr Aichinger? Do you want to talk to me?’
‘No!’ hissed Breidenbach. ‘You can’t go in there.’
Fabel dismissed him with an annoyed shake of the head.
Breidenbach inched closer to him. ‘I can’t let you make a present of yourself as a hostage. I think you should go back outside, Chief Commissar.’
‘I’ve got a gun!’ The voice from inside the apartment was tight with fear.
‘We’re very much aware of that, Herr Aichinger,’ Fabel talked to the crack in the door. ‘And as long as you keep hold of that gun, you are placing yourself in danger. Please, slide it out of the door and we can talk.’
‘No. No, I won’t. But you can come in. Slowly. If you want to talk, you come in here.’
Breidenbach shook his head vigorously.
‘Listen, Herr Aichinger,’ said Fabel, ‘I’m not pretending it isn’t a very complicated problem we have here. But we can solve it without anyone getting hurt. And we can do that in easy stages. I have to tell you that I have armed officers out here. If they think I am under threat they will fire. And I’m sure that if you think you are in danger you will do the same. What we need to do is move back from that situation. But we have to do that one step at a time. Agreed?’
There was a pause. Then: ‘I don’t want a solution. I want to die.’
‘That’s silly, Herr Aichinger. Nothing … no problem … is so hopeless that it’s better to die.’ Fabel looked around at the MEK men. In his mind he could see only too clearly that there would be three dead children and a dead wife lying in the apartment. And if Aichinger was determined to die, then this could end with ‘suicide by cop’. All he had to do was run out onto the landing waving his rifle around and Breidenbach and his colleagues would gladly oblige him.
A phone rang somewhere in the flat. It kept ringing. The negotiator had obviously arrived.
‘Shouldn’t you answer that?’ Fabel asked the crack in the door.
‘No. It’s a trap.’
‘It’s not a trap. It’s help. It will be one of my colleagues. Someone who can really help.’
‘I’ll only talk to you.’
Fabel ignored Breidenbach’s reproachful look. ‘Listen, Herr Aichinger. The person on the other end of the phone is much better qualified to help you out of this situation than I am.’
‘I said I’ll only talk to you. I know that whoever is on the phone is just going to try to psychobabble me into believing he’s my best friend. I’ll talk to you. Only you. I’ve heard about you, Herr Fabel. You’re the one who solved those murders last year.’
‘Herr Aichinger, I want you to open the door so we can talk face to face.’ Fabel paid no attention to Breidenbach’s frantic signalling.
‘They’ll shoot me.’
‘No, they won’t …’ But Fabel felt the need to look pointedly at Breidenbach. ‘I’m ordering them not to shoot unless you do. Please, Herr Aichinger. Open the door.’
There was a long silence.
‘Herr Aichinger?’
‘I’m thinking.’
Another pause. Then the tip of Aichinger’s rifle appeared as it nudged the door fully open.
‘I’m going to come and stand where you can see me, Herr Aichinger. I’m not armed.’ One of the other MEK troopers grabbed at Fabel’s jacket sleeve as he moved towards the door, but he snatched it free. Fabel’s heart pounded and he used every adrenalin-stretched second to take in as much as he could. The man standing in the hall was as unexceptional as it was possible to be. In his late thirties with dark hair cut short and gelled, he had what Fabel would have described as generic features: not so much a face in the crowd as the face of the crowd. A face you would forget as soon as he was out of sight. Georg Aichinger was someone you would never notice. Except now. Aichinger had a new-looking sports rifle in his hands. But he wasn’t pointing it at Fabel. His arms were stretched taut and his chin pushed upwards as he jammed the rifle barrel under his own jaw. His thumb quivered on the trigger.
‘Easy …’ Fabel held up his hand. ‘Take it easy.’ He looked past Aichinger, along the hall. He could see, projecting into the doorway, the feet of someone lying on the floor of the living room. Small feet. A child’s feet. Shit, he thought. The MEK commander had been right.
‘Georg. Give it up. Please … give me the gun.’
Fabel’s step forward made Aichinger tense. The thumb on the trigger stopped quivering. ‘If you come near me I’ll shoot. I’ll kill myself.’
Fabel looked back at the child’s feet. He felt sick at the sight of them. At that moment he didn’t care whether Aichinger blew his own brains out or not. Then he saw it. Tiny. So tiny he could have missed it. But he hadn’t. A small movement.
‘Georg … The children. Your wife. Let us get to them to help them.’ Fabel heard someone move into the doorway behind him. He turned and saw that Breidenbach had his gun aimed at Aichinger’s head. ‘Put it down!’ Fabel hissed. Breidenbach didn’t move. ‘For God’s sake, there’s already one gun on him – his own. Now lower your weapon – that’s an order.’
Breidenbach lowered the sights of his machine pistol slightly. Fabel turned back to Aichinger. ‘Your wife … the children. Have you hurt them? Have you hurt the children, Georg?’
‘Nothing makes sense.’ Aichinger said as if he hadn’t heard Fabel. ‘I suddenly realised that nothing makes any sense at all. I suppose I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, but then I woke up this morning and felt … well, I felt like I wasn’t real. That I don’t have a real identity. Like I’m just a character in a bad movie or something.’ Aichinger paused, his brow furrowed as if he were explaining something that he couldn’t fully understand himself. ‘There was this person, in my head, when I was a kid. The person I was going to be. Then it turned out that I wasn’t that person. I’m not who I was supposed to become. I’m someone different.’ He paused. Fabel listened to the silence, straining it for any sounds from the room beyond. ‘It’s all mad.’ Aichinger continued his tirade. ‘I mean, the way we lead our lives. It’s insane. The things that go on around us. It’s all shit. All chaos. None of it makes any sense … Take your colleague there. Just itching to put a bullet in my head. You’re here because I have a gun and I’m threatening to use it. He has a gun and is threatening to use it too. But that’s acceptable. Why? Because he’s a policeman. He’s supposed to keep order. Except it isn’t order.’
‘Georg …’ Fabel looked past Aichinger and down the hall to see if he could see the small feet move again. ‘The children …’
‘Do you know what I do for a living, Herr Fabel? I’m a “recruitment consultant”. That means I sit in an office for the greater part of my waking hours and find people to fill other offices in other companies. It’s the most pointless fucking waste of a life. That’s my life. That’s the me I became. I am one little hamster in his treadmill finding other hamsters for other treadmills. Supplying the meat to feed the big corporate mincing machine. That is what I spend my life doing. Where’s the sense in that? Thirty-odd hours a week. I calculated it: by the time I retire, I will have spent nearly forty thousand hours sitting at that desk. Forty thousand. It’s mad. I’ve always tried to do the right thing, Herr Fabel. Always. What was expected of me. Play the game according to the rules. Everything else is chaos, I was told. But none of this makes any sense. Don’t you see? All of the things I haven’t seen. Places I’ve never been.’ Tears streaked Aichinger’s face. Fabel tried to understand what he was saying; to grasp what could have caused such monumental grief. ‘It’s all illusion. We live these ridiculous little lives. Live in boxes. Work in boxes. Give ourselves to senseless work. Then we just … die. All because that’s the way we think it’s supposed to be. We think that’s stability and order. But one day I woke up and saw this world for what it is. Insane. There’s nothing rational or real or vital about it. This is the chaos. This is the anarchy. Well, I’ve done it. I’ve turned it on its head. On its head. This isn’t me. You’ve got to believe me: this isn’t me. I don’t want to be part of it any more.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Fabel reached out his hand, slowly. ‘Give me the rifle, Georg. You can explain it to me. We can talk about it. We can sort things out.’
‘Sort things out?’ Aichinger smiled a sad smile. It struck Fabel that there was a genuine but sorrowful gratitude in that smile. Aichinger’s posture seemed to relax. The thumb on the trigger stopped quivering. ‘I’m glad it was you, Herr Fabel. I know that when you think about what I’ve said, you’ll understand it. At least you do something. At least there’s some sense, some meaning, to each day that you wake up to. You save people. Protect them. I’m glad it was you who I could explain to. Tell everyone … tell them that I couldn’t live with being someone else. Tell them I’m sorry.’
The sound of the shot was muffled by the flesh pressed hard against the barrel under Aichinger’s jaw. There was a plume of blood, bone fragments and brain matter from the crown of Aichinger’s head and his legs folded beneath him.
Fabel leapt across the body and ran into the living room. Towards the tiny feet in the doorway.
Ansgar’s meal was ready.
Ansgar Hoeffer’s home in Cologne’s Nippes district was modest and scrupulously clean and tidy. It was also unshared, unvisited. Over the years he had gradually withdrawn to specific places: home, work, the journey in between. He often felt that his life was like a large country house in which only a few rooms were used and kept in perfect order, the rest closed and shuttered and dust-sheeted in the dark. Rooms, Ansgar knew, it was best not to visit.
The kitchen of Ansgar’s home was, given his occupation, surprisingly small but unsurprisingly well equipped; pristine and filled with light from the large window that looked out onto his house’s slim fringe of garden and the blank side wall of his neighbour’s house.
The oven chimed. The meat was ready.
The strange thing was that, when at home, Ansgar preferred to cook simpler meals. Uncomplicated dishes in which the true texture and flavour of the meat were allowed honest expression. As always, Ansgar had timed everything to perfection. The asparagus simmering on the hob would be cooked to the perfect consistency. He took the small dish of apple sauce from the fridge: it would reach the perfect temperature – cool but not chill – by the time he served the meat and asparagus. He poured half a bottle of Gaffel beer into a glass, the balance of body and foamy head exactly right. He removed the metal tray from the oven and unwrapped the single fillet of meat from its foil cocoon. Leaning forward, he sniffed the delicate scent of the tender flesh wrapped in thyme, his glasses steaming opaque for a second. He placed the meat on the plate, dressed it with a fresh sprig of thyme and some of the apple sauce. He drained the asparagus and laid it neatly beside the meat.
Ansgar took a sip of the Gaffel and contemplated his meal. The first mouthful of meat melted on his tongue. As it did so, he started to think again about that girl at work. The Ukrainian girl who worked with him in the restaurant kitchen, Ekatherina. He frowned and tried to eject her from his thoughts. Another mouthful of meat. As his teeth sank into the yielding flesh she returned again to his mind. Her pale young skin pulled taut over her voluptuous curves. Even in winter the temperature in the kitchen would soar with the humid heat from the ovens and hobs. Ekatherina’s pale skin would become flushed and moist with sweat, as if she were being slowly cooked herself. He tried to banish her and focus on his meal. But with each mouthful he thought of her buttocks. Her breasts. Her nipples. Her mouth. Most of all, her mouth. He continued eating. He frowned when he felt the tingle between his legs; the pressure against the material of his trousers. He sipped his beer and tried to compose himself. He ate some asparagus. He straightened the cruet set on the table. Another mouthful of meat. He hardened more. He felt sweaty moisture on his top lip. He thought of her pale flesh against the black T-shirts she wore. Again the swell of her breasts. Again, her mouth.
Ansgar’s face was now sheathed in a film of sweat. He fought and fought to banish the images that surged into his mind. Those twisted, delicious images in which the chaos he had regulated from his life reigned. Those sweet, sick, perverted ideas that he had forbidden himself. And she was part of them. She was there, always, in those scenarios of tender, succulent flesh and biting teeth. He chewed the meat, unable to swallow. Ansgar Hoeffer thought of the sensual feel of the food in his mouth and again of the girl at work. He shuddered as he ejaculated into his trousers.
It took Fabel four hours to go through the bureaucracy of death: all the form-filling and debriefings that gave Aichinger’s senseless actions some kind of official shape. As he had so many times in his career, Fabel had stood at the heart of a human tragedy, burned by its raw emotional heat, only to go on to play his part in turning it into a cold, sterile statistic. But he would never forget Aichinger’s final expression of sad gratitude. And he doubted if he would ever understand it.
Fabel sat on the edge of the table in the Murder Commission squad room on the third floor of the Police Presidium, Hamburg’s police headquarters, drinking vending-machine coffee. Werner Meyer, Anna Wolff and Henk Hermann were all there: the team that, after fifteen years of leading, he would soon be leaving. Only Maria Klee was conspicuous by her absence. She had been on extended sick leave for the last month and a half: Fabel was by no means the only one who had been marked by the last three major investigations.
He sighed wearily and looked at his watch. He had been forced to hang around because his boss, Criminal Director Horst van Heiden, had asked to see him once he was through with the form-filling and the internal review questions.
‘Well, Chef …’ Senior Criminal Commissar Werner Meyer, a thickset man in his fifties with a grizzly bristle-cut, raised his coffee cup as if it were a glass of champagne. ‘I have to admit, you like to go out in style.’
Fabel said nothing. The images of what had waited for him in Aichinger’s living room still buzzed around his head. The emotions, too. The dread and the hope that had flashed through his mind and had tightened his chest as he had sprinted along the short apartment hall.
‘You did well, Chef,’ said Anna Wolff. Fabel smiled at her. Anna still looked nothing like a Criminal Commissar in the Murder Commission. She was small and pretty and more youthful-looking than her twenty-nine years; her dark hair was cut short and spiky and her full lips were deep red.
‘Did I?’ Fabel asked joylessly. ‘I failed to disarm a mentally fragile man before he blew his brains out.’
‘You lost one,’ said Werner. ‘One that was lost before you even arrived … but you saved four.’
‘How is Aichinger’s family?’ asked Anna.
‘They’re fine. Physically, at any rate. But they’re in deep shock. The shots the neighbours heard had been fired into the ceiling … and thank God that there wasn’t anyone in the apartment above at the time.’ Fabel had found Aichinger’s wife, his seven-year-old daughter, his two boys, nine and eleven. Aichinger had tied them up and gagged them with parcel tape. Fabel would never know if Aichinger had done so to keep them safe, or for execution later. ‘It’s the little girl who’s taking it the worst. Kids see the world so simply. When she woke up this morning, everything in her life was the way it should be. Tonight her world has been turned on its head.’ Fabel paused as he realised he had just echoed Aichinger’s own words. ‘How do you explain what happened to a child of that age? How is she going to live with that memory?’
‘The main thing is that she is going to live with it.’ Werner sipped his coffee. ‘They all are. If you hadn’t kept Aichinger talking, they might all have ended up dead.’
Fabel shrugged. ‘I don’t know …’
The phone ringing interrupted Fabel. Werner answered it. ‘You’re summoned to the fifth floor …’ he said with a grin as he hung up. The fifth floor of the Polizei Hamburg Police Presidium was where all the top-brass offices were, including the Presidial Department. Fabel grimaced.
‘I better answer the call, then …’
Taras Buslenko already knew where the meet would take place, if Sasha’s intelligence was correct. But, of course, they didn’t know that: they would run him all over Kiev before revealing his final destination and he would have to jump through all their hoops.
When the call came on his cellphone, Buslenko had been told at first to head for the Hotel Mir in Goloseevsky Prospekt and to wait in the car park. He’d been there ten minutes when a second call told him to head back to the city centre, park in the Kyivsky Passage and start walking down Khreschatyk Street.
It was a Saturday evening: Khreschatyk Street was closed to traffic every weekend, allowing shoppers and tourists by day and clubbers by night the freedom to wander along it and appreciate its grandeur. Buslenko himself, as he made his way down the vast boulevard, couldn’t help but think how beautiful it looked still laced with glittering Christmas lights. There had been a fresh but light fall of snow and the wide thoroughfare and the trees that lined it looked sugar-dusted in the crisp winter night. As he had been clearly instructed, Buslenko walked in the opposite direction from Independence Square. He had been there in November and December 2003. He had thrilled then at the sight of the orange banners, the air electric with the promise of change. He had felt part of something huge. Unstoppable. However, Buslenko had not been there to lend support: he had been in charge of a detachment of security troops ordered to the square, supposedly to prevent bloodshed between the ‘Blue’ supporters of Yanukovych and the ‘Orange’ revolutionaries supporting Yuschenko. The truth was more likely that they had been sent as a show of regime strength, but the police and intelligence chiefs had recognised a true turning of the tide and many within the security services, like Buslenko, were sympathetic to the Revolution. Buslenko’s detachment had been stood down.
Buslenko made sure he walked past the Celestia nightclub without a glance. Maybe Sasha really had got it wrong. Or maybe the people he was supposed to be meeting were just being over-cautious.
He had almost reached the Central Universal Mall when his phone rang again. This time he was instructed to wait at the bar of the Celestia nightclub. Buslenko felt relieved. He had started to worry that he might be redirected to some more remote part of Kiev. The Celestia was good. Right in the heart of the city. More public. More difficult if you wanted to kill someone and dispose of a body.
The Celestia was one of the glittering symbols of the new Ukraine’s aspirations: a glitzy place in Kiev city centre at the Independence Square end of Khreschatyk Street. Buslenko, despite his background, remained a solid supporter of Ukraine’s new path: he had always been a patriot and now he saw the potential for the future that his country deserved. His heart had been with the Orange Revolution but places like the Celestia made him feel uncomfortable: they sought to reflect Western affluence and glamour, but something about them struck Buslenko as sham and borrowed, like seeing a ruddy-cheeked peasant girl in an over-glittery cocktail dress and inexpertly applied make-up.
There were two black-suited doormen outside the club. One was bull-necked and mutely massive; the second was smaller, leaner and friendlier, smiling at Buslenko as he held the door open. As he had been trained to do in every situation, Buslenko automatically assessed the risk the doormen presented. In a time too brief to be measured, he identified the smaller man as the main danger: he moved quickly and easily and hid whatever he was thinking behind a smiling mask. Buslenko recognised that the smaller man, unlike the cumbersome bodybuilder, would be capable of fast and lethal violence. A killer. Probably with a Spetsnaz background.
It was like looking in a mirror.
Buslenko made his way to the bar and ordered an Obolon beer. He was told by the unsmiling barman that the Celestia didn’t have Obolon, or any other Ukrainian beer. Buslenko ordered an overpriced German Pils. The Celestia was busy but not crowded; populated with young, affluent customers who glistened under a sheen of Gucci and Armani. The bar was a long, sweeping arc of glittering black granite above rich walnut. The walls were illuminated by uplighters that projected sinuous, mildly erotic shapes onto their velvety deep red surfaces. To Buslenko, the Celestia looked like some contemporary designer’s concept for Hell.
The best possible place, he thought, to encounter the Devil.
Buslenko became aware of someone at his side. He turned to see a young woman. She was tall and slender, with short blonde hair; her face was wide with high Slavic cheekbones, a broad pale brow and eyes that were a bright, glittering blue. It was a face that was truly beautiful and could not have come from anywhere except Ukraine.
‘Hello, sir,’ said the Ukrainian Beauty, with a perfect porcelain smile. ‘You are expected. I wonder if you would follow me. Your party has reserved a private room.’ She placed Buslenko’s beer on a tray and turned from the bar with a glance over her shoulder to ensure that he followed her. Before he did, Buslenko scanned the bar around him as if to satisfy himself that he was not being watched.
The Ukrainian Beauty led him through a double doorway into a dark tunnel of a hallway, walled with black glass and illuminated by strips of tiny, bright spotlights that repeated themselves infinitely on the reflective obsidian. She knocked at a door before holding it wide for Buslenko to enter the large, plush private entertaining room. Four men were seated around the low table on an expensive L-shaped sofa. There were vodka glasses and a bottle on the table, along with a blue-covered file. The men stood up as Buslenko entered. Like the doorman, they had special forces written all over them and they all looked to be in their forties, which meant that they probably had real combat experience. Buslenko registered the dark glass wall behind them, which obviously divided this from the next entertainment suite. The room beyond was in darkness and the connecting door was closed, but some vague, deep instinct told Buslenko that it was not empty.
The man who had been sitting at the centre had prematurely white hair that had been trimmed to a coarse stubble on his scalp. A scar reached down out of the bristle, across his broad brow and down to the outside corner of his right eyebrow. Buslenko had done his usual split-second survey of the room and had already guessed the seniority of the scarred man from the body language of the others. But it wasn’t Buslenko’s instinct or training that told him that he was looking at a mean, dangerous son of a bitch. He had recognised the Russian as soon as he had entered the room and his chest had tightened. Kotkin. What was Dmitry Kotkin doing here? He was too senior in the organisation to be a recruiting sergeant. Buslenko also didn’t need to turn around to know that there was now a fifth man behind him, at the door. But he sensed there was someone else. Someone who lay beyond the reach of Buslenko’s skills; someone who waited, silent and unseen, behind the dark glass wall in the room beyond.
The Ukrainian Beauty put Buslenko’s beer down on the table and left the room. He did not turn as he heard the door click shut behind him. The presence of the fifth man was academic: Buslenko was good and was perfectly capable of taking on four or five men in the right situation. But this was not the right situation and these were not the right men: they all had a similar background to Buslenko and, he guessed, had all killed before, more than once. At best Buslenko could take one or two with him. But he knew that if death were to come, it would come from behind and the man at the door.
‘You’re Rudenko?’ Kotkin spoke in Russian. Buslenko nodded.
‘Sit down,’ Kotkin said and sat down himself. The other three stayed on their feet. The scarred Russian opened the file. ‘You have a very impressive record. Exactly what we are looking for. Or so it would seem. But what I want to know is why you came looking for us?’
‘I didn’t. You contacted me.’ Buslenko answered in Russian. He thought about taking a nonchalant slug from his beer bottle, but was afraid that his hand would shake. Not fear. Adrenalin.
Kotkin raised his eyebrows and wrinkled the scar unpleasantly. ‘You went around asking questions. More than that, you knew the right questions to ask in the right places. That means only one of two things: you were advertising yourself or …’
Buslenko laughed and shook his head. ‘I’m not a cop, if that’s what you were going to say. Listen, it’s as simple as this. Money. I want to make money. A lot of it. And I want to work abroad. You do want people to work abroad, don’t you?’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ The scar-headed Russian nodded to the others, two of whom approached Buslenko and gestured for him to stand up and raise his arms. One frisked him manually while the other scanned him for a wire with a hand-held electronic wand. Buslenko smiled. When they had satisfied themselves that Buslenko was clean, they sat down again.
‘We know what we’re looking for. You need to convince us that you’re it.’
‘I’m guessing it’s already all in there,’ Buslenko nodded towards the file. ‘Twelve years’ experience. As a paratrooper, then with an Interior Ministry Spetsnaz. I can handle myself and I can handle any job you give me.’
‘I know the Spetsnaz unit you served with. Do you know Yuri Protcheva? He would have served about the same time.’
Buslenko made a show of trying to remember. He had been through the files, through all the team lists, a dozen times. He knew right away that there had been no Yuri Protcheva: it was an obvious trick. Too obvious. Kotkin didn’t want him to admit to knowing someone who didn’t exist. He wanted him to deny it too quickly, revealing he had been rehearsed.
‘No … I can’t say I did,’ Buslenko said eventually. ‘I knew everyone, just about. But no Yuri Protcheva. There was a Yuri Kadnikov – could that have been him?’
‘You say you got into trouble?’ Kotkin ignored Buslenko’s reply.
‘Some. Not much. We had to bust up a prisoners’ revolt in SIZO13 prison. I killed an inmate … Not a big deal, given the situation, but a prison official took one in the neck because he didn’t do what he was told and stay out of the way. Not my fault. His. But his brother was a big shot in the Interior Ministry. You know how it is …’
‘We’re not looking for misfits or drop-outs. We’re looking for soldiers. Good soldiers who can take and carry out orders.’
‘That’s what I am.’ Buslenko straightened himself up in the leather chair. ‘But I thought you were looking for people to … well, break the law.’
‘The only law we follow is the soldier’s code. If you join us, you will be a member of an elite. Everything we do is regulated by the highest military standards. It’s no different from normal service with a Spetsnaz unit. The only difference is that it pays a hell of a lot better. But you’re not in yet. I need you to answer a few questions.’
‘Go ahead …’ Buslenko shrugged nonchalantly, but his mouth felt dry and he had to resist the temptation to look over the Russian’s shoulder to the black glass wall behind. His instinct now jabbed at him incessantly. There was someone in there. Watching. Listening. He was there. Sasha’s intelligence had been right.
‘Do you know what it is that holds a military unit together?’
‘I dunno … obedience, I suppose. The ability to carry out an order as efficiently as possible.’
Kotkin shook his scarred head. ‘No, that’s not it. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s trust. The trust of true comradeship. Loyalty to one another and to your commander.’
‘I guess so.’ Buslenko detected something changing, like a sudden shift in air pressure just before a storm. He sensed the other three men on the long sofa tensing almost imperceptibly. But there was no change in the Russian’s demeanour. Too professional. The files on Kotkin showed that he had been an interrogator, or torturer, in Chechnya or elsewhere on the fringes of Russia’s crumbling empire. Maybe that was why he was there. Not as Buslenko’s recruiter, but as his torturer and executioner. And still Buslenko’s instinct nagged at him that there was someone watching and listening behind the glass wall.
‘Loyalty. That’s what holds a unit together. Brothers under arms.’ The Russian paused, as if waiting for Buslenko to say something. The other three men stood up. Buslenko strained to hear the hint of any sound behind him.
‘What’s the problem?’ Buslenko asked, trying to keep his tone even. It will come from behind, he thought again.
‘We all share a common experience.’ Kotkin continued as if he had not heard Buslenko’s question. ‘We are men of war whose lives depend on each other. What we fight for is secondary. What really matters is that we fight together. There is an unspoken, unbreakable bond of loyalty between us. There is no greater bond. And there is no greater treachery than when that bond is betrayed.’
As if responding to a cue, the other three men reached into their leather jackets and Buslenko found himself staring down the muzzles of three heavy-calibre automatics. But no one pulled a trigger.
‘Your name is not Rudenko,’ said the Russian. ‘And you didn’t serve with the Titan unit. Your name is Taras Buslenko. You served with the Sokil Falcon organised-crime Spetsnaz units and you are now an undercover agent of the organised-crime division of the Interior Ministry.’
Buslenko gazed past the Russian at the glass wall. He was in there. Buslenko was sure of it. Close to the kill, the way he always liked.
‘You’re alone, Buslenko,’ said Kotkin. ‘You couldn’t wear a wire and you couldn’t come armed. Your people are outside but we are better than your people. By the time they get in here, you will be dead and we will be gone. In short, you’re fucked.’
It was then that Buslenko heard the slightest hint of someone moving across the room behind him. He anticipated the next move perfectly. He had already worked out that they would want to kill him as quietly as possible and as soon as the loop of wire was whipped down in front of him he slid down in the leather chair. The wire dug painfully into his forehead before slipping off, having failed to hook under his jaw and the soft tissue of his throat. Buslenko rammed his heels into the coffee table. It was heavy and protested as it slid on the floor and it did not slam into the shins of the gunmen with the force he had hoped. He rolled sideways on the floor. Still no gunshots: it was clear that they were certain they could kill him without opening fire.
Buslenko rolled again but the fifth man, the one who had failed to strangle him with the high-tension wire, slammed his boot into the side of his head. It hurt like hell but Buslenko was not stunned as his assailant had intended and caught the boot as it came down again – expertly, edge first – towards the cartilage of his throat. Buslenko twisted his attacker’s foot and swung his own boot upwards and into the other man’s groin. Buslenko knew he was going to die. What the Russian had said was true: his support would not get here in time, but he sure as hell was going to take someone with him. Now Buslenko moved without the panic of someone fighting for his survival; instead every part of his training came together in a perfect final performance. He leapt to his feet, spun his assailant around and in a single, continuous movement, snapped his neck and threw his dying body into the path of his attackers. The Russian feinted to the left and let the body fall on his companions. Buslenko saw something bright flash towards him and only just dodged the first thrust of Kotkin’s knife. With a grace and skill to match Buslenko’s own, the Russian changed his grip on the knife and brought it back in an arc. This time Buslenko did not move fast enough and, although he felt no pain, he knew the blade had sliced into his shoulder. The other three had now recovered their composure and a series of blows rained onto Buslenko. He found himself pinioned to the wall by his assailants, helpless against their combined strength. Kotkin moved close. He lifted the knife and jabbed the point into the side of Buslenko’s throat. Buslenko knew what was coming next. It was a classic form of silent killing: forcing the blade in behind the windpipe then forwards and out. It was how they used to kill pigs on farms. No squealing. Just a breathless second of silence, then death. Buslenko looked straight into the Russian’s cold grey eyes.
‘Fuck you,’ he said, and waited for the knife to sink deeper.
There was a cursory knock and the door to the entertaining room swung open. Everyone, even Buslenko, turned to look. The Ukrainian Beauty stepped in, a tray in her hands and started to ask if they needed more drinks. Her words trailed off as she saw the dead man on the floor and Buslenko pinned against the wall, a knife at his throat.
‘Get her!’ Kotkin barked at the others and two of them made towards her, leaving Kotkin and one other with Buslenko.
The girl dropped the tray, under which she had been concealing a Fort17 automatic. Calmly, she took Kotkin out first. Buslenko heard the round smack into the centre of the Russian’s forehead, and felt a light splatter of fluid against his cheek. As the Russian dropped, Buslenko grabbed the knife from his grasp and arced it up under the jaw of the man who still held him. The knife sliced up through the soft tissue of his victim’s underjaw, through his mouth and tongue and jammed into the hard palate of the roof of his mouth. There was a series of other shots and Buslenko knew that the other two men were dead. He shoved his last assailant, the knife still lodged in his jaw, away from him. As the man staggered back, Ukrainian Beauty fired two more rounds. The first hit the man in the body and brought him to the floor. The second, textbook style, hit him in the head.
She kept her automatic at locked-arm’s length, scanning the room. There was a commotion outside and a troop of Spetsnaz burst into the room. Buslenko, clutching a handkerchief to the side of his neck where the Russian’s knife had cut him, gestured towards the glass wall at the back of the room.
‘In there! I think he’s in there.’
Ukrainian Beauty walked over to Buslenko. ‘You okay?’
‘I think I owe you a large tip, waitress.’ Buslenko smiled bitterly and looked at the body of the man he had stabbed and she had shot twice. He had wanted to take at least one prisoner alive for interrogation and thought Ukrainian Beauty’s coup de grâce had been unnecessary. But considering she had just saved him from being slaughtered like a farm pig, he passed no comment.
The Spetsnaz commander came back from the other room. Like Buslenko, Peotr Samolyuk was a Sokil Falcon officer.
‘It’s clear.’
‘What do you mean, “clear”? He was in there,’ said Buslenko. ‘Watching. I know it.’
Peotr Samolyuk shrugged black armoured shoulders. ‘There’s no one there now.’
‘You sure it was him?’ asked Ukrainian Beauty.
‘Our primary fucking target was in there. I could feel him. And he’s the only reason we’re here. The intelligence we had that he would be with this group was as solid as it could be. But him …’ Buslenko frowned and nodded down to where the body of the scar-headed Russian lay. A halo of dark crimson had oozed from the exit wound in his skull. ‘He just doesn’t make sense … what was Dmitry Kotkin doing here?’
‘He’s part of the organisation. Why wouldn’t he be here?’
‘Right organisation, wrong side of it. He’s a Molokov man.’ Buslenko was still looking at the black glass wall. ‘And it wasn’t Molokov in there behind the glass. Watching. It was the big guy himself. Vasyl Vitrenko. Some big business has brought him back. Something really big or he wouldn’t have left himself exposed. Even Kotkin’s far too senior to be recruiting thugs. He’d reached a level where he was becoming less and less visible.’
‘All I can say is that we’ve got this place sealed up as tight as a drum. Whoever you thought was in there couldn’t have got out.’ Ukrainian Beauty followed Buslenko’s gaze to the adjoining entertaining room. ‘It was always going to be a long shot, Taras. Our intelligence was contradictory. We had information that Vitrenko was back in Ukraine and we had equally sound intelligence that he is still in Germany.’
‘Well,’ said Buslenko, turning to face the beautiful Captain Olga Sarapenko of the Kiev police militia, who had made such a convincing nightclub hostess. ‘That was what my grandmother always said about the Devil: he has the craft to be in two places at the same time.’
Fabel waited to be shown into Criminal Director van Heiden’s office and thought about how he would soon become someone else. And how everyone except Susanne seemed to be doing their best to talk him out of it. He guessed that van Heiden might be about to try again.
The whole idea of resigning from the Polizei Hamburg had been to get away from death. His entire career as a policeman had been founded on its violent intrusion into his life. The young Fabel had never considered being a police officer; with the absolute certainty of youth, Fabel had had his entire career as a historian planned out for himself. But then death, in its most sudden and violent form, had shouldered its way, unbidden, into Jan Fabel’s path.
It had happened while Fabel was still a student at the Universität Hamburg. Fabel had only been dating Hanna Dorn, the daughter of his history professor, for a few weeks when she had been randomly selected by a psychopath as his next victim. He knew that Hanna Dorn, in her own right, would not have made that much of an impression on his life. Without the trauma of her murder, she would have faded from his consciousness long ago. They would, no doubt, have had a relationship that would have lasted a while: they would have gone to parties, eaten out when they could have afforded it, met with friends. But every time Fabel thought back to her, he knew that they would not have stayed together and that Hanna Dorn would have diminished into the far distance of his memory. A name that would have to be prompted into his recall. It had not been Hanna’s presence in his life that had marked Fabel for ever. It had been her sudden absence.
Fabel had moved on from trying to make sense of Hanna’s death to trying to make sense of the death of strangers. Fabel had come to know so many names, so many faces of the dead. As head of the Polizei Hamburg’s Murder Commission, Jan Fabel had spent his career getting to know people who were no longer capable of knowing him. He had become a master at reconstructing a life and a personality that was lost to everyone else; to walking in the footsteps of the murdered and understanding the minds of those who had killed them.
What had kept Fabel sane had been the fact that, throughout his career, he had always sought to keep death at arm’s length. He had never been entirely detached: it had always been his empathy for the victims that had given him that critical edge. But since Hanna’s murder, he had tried never to let death come too close to him. The last three cases had changed all that: one officer dead, one seriously wounded and mentally scarred. And twice more he had seen his officers placed in serious peril.
It was time to go. A chance encounter with an old schoolfriend had resulted in an offer of a job. More than a job. An escape into a normal life, whatever that was. To become someone else. It had been a monumental decision for Fabel. And now everyone was trying to talk him out of it. Everyone except Susanne. Susanne saw it as more than a change in Fabel’s career; she saw the opportunity to change the basis of their relationship.
Fabel’s superiors had, with great reluctance, agreed that he would leave the Polizei Hamburg’s Murder Commission at the end of the so-called ‘Hamburg Hairdresser’ case. It had been this case, piled onto the three other serial-killer investigations he had undertaken, that had led Fabel to the final decision to quit. There was, he had decided, just so much horror and fear that one could experience, only so much bearing witness as foul, corrupted and sick minds opened themselves up in front of you, before you started to become more and more like the thing you hunted.
Criminal Director Horst van Heiden was Fabel’s boss, in charge of Hamburg’s Criminal Police, the investigative branch of the Polizei Hamburg. Fabel had been surprised at van Heiden’s persistence in trying to persuade him not to resign. Fabel and van Heiden were, in many ways, opposites. Van Heiden was the typical career police officer, with a background in the force’s uniformed branch. Fabel still saw himself as the accidental detective: an outsider. And he liked to think that he held little regard for the formalities of his occupation.
When Fabel entered the Criminal Director’s office, there was a tall, lean man with prematurely greying hair whom Fabel didn’t recognise waiting with van Heiden.
‘Fabel … allow me to introduce Herr Wagner of the BKA …’ said van Heiden. Fabel shook hands with the federal agent. The BKA was the Bundeskriminalamt – Federal Crime Bureau – the law-enforcement agency with a brief that covered the whole of the Federal Republic. Fabel had worked with them on several occasions, but he had never before encountered Wagner. Maybe this wasn’t going to be all about van Heiden trying to persuade Fabel to remain in the Murder Commission after all. However, Fabel’s hope was dashed with van Heiden’s first utterance.
‘I’m not going to beat about the bush, Fabel.’ Van Heiden indicated that Fabel should be seated. ‘You know my feelings about your leaving the Polizei Hamburg. I would rather see you in another department than lose you completely.’
‘I appreciate that, Herr Criminal Director. But my mind is made up.’ Fabel did not try to suppress the weariness in his voice. ‘And, with respect, we’ve been through this before …’
Van Heiden bristled. ‘I didn’t bring you up here just to repeat myself, Fabel. Herr Wagner and I have something specific to discuss with you.’
‘With the greatest respect,’ said Wagner, ‘I don’t agree with Herr van Heiden that an alternative to you resigning from the Polizei Hamburg would be a transfer to another department. I know that you have successfully concluded four serial-murder cases in recent years.’
‘It depends on how you define “successfully”,’ said Fabel. ‘I have lost one officer and another has been so traumatised that she is currently on extended sick leave.’
‘How is Frau Klee?’ asked van Heiden.
‘Maria’s tough,’ said Fabel. ‘Very tough. I suppose in many ways that’s been her problem. She tried to simply work through what happened to her. Didn’t give herself enough time to recover from either her physical or emotional wounds. That’s why she’s crashed now.’
‘Frau Klee was seriously injured in the case in which Herr Fabel lost an officer.’ Van Heiden clearly felt that Wagner needed an explanation.
‘And a local uniformed policeman was killed as well,’ said Fabel.
‘Yes …’ Wagner frowned. ‘The Vitrenko case. Believe me, I am only too well acquainted with the exploits of our Ukrainian friend. Vasyl Vitrenko is at the top of our wanted list.’
‘Added to that, Maria became …’ Fabel struggled for the right word ‘… involved – albeit unknowingly involved – with a killer in another case. I’m afraid it’s all taken its toll on her.’
‘Fabel,’ said van Heiden gently, ‘it’s more than a case of lost confidence and post-traumatic stress. Frau Klee has had a complete breakdown. We all know that otherwise she would be your successor. I hate to say this about an officer of Frau Klee’s ability, but I very much doubt if she has a future in the Murder Commission.’
‘I think that I should have a say in that,’ said Fabel.
‘But you won’t, Chief Commissar,’ van Heiden said. ‘By the time Frau Klee returns from sick leave you will be long gone. Your choice, Fabel. Not mine. Anyway, I’m sure we can put Frau Klee to good use elsewhere in the Polizei Hamburg.’
Fabel said nothing. Eventually Wagner broke the embarrassed silence. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Herr Fabel, you have a natural talent for complicated murder cases. And your last case was rather … high profile to say the least. Your reputation now extends far beyond Hamburg. Whether you like it or not, you have earned a name within the police community throughout Germany as the most experienced and successful investigator of complex and multiple murder cases.’
‘I certainly don’t think that I have any special qualities or credentials,’ said Fabel. ‘It’s more to do with bad luck … having four serial-murder cases in our jurisdiction. And the fact that I have a good team behind me and have had a few lucky breaks.’
‘We all know luck has had nothing to do with it, Fabel,’ said van Heiden.
‘Listen, Herr Fabel,’ said Wagner. ‘There are a number of murder cases that come up every now and then in different parts of the Federal Republic that, for one reason or another, are more complicated than the usual run-of-the-mill killings.’
‘Serial killers, you mean.’
‘No … well, yes, but not exclusively. Everything is changing. We now routinely come across all kinds of more complex cases. Killings with some other dimension to them … political, organised-crime-related, professional murders. That kind of thing. Also cases where the geographical scope of the crime exceeds the boundaries of any single Federal State and the operational scope of any single police force. A contract killer in Bremen might be working for a gangster in Leipzig, for example. Or we might find ourselves faced with a serial killer who uses the autobahn network to kill across the Federal Republic. Or it could simply be that a case is so complex or unusual that the local force simply has no frame of reference for their investigation.’
‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘Well, as you know, the usual form with cases that extend across the Federal Republic is that the State Prosecutor of the Federal State where the first killing took place takes charge and the BKA provides coordination between the investigating forces. But we live in a much more complicated world. It isn’t just business that is globalising. The Internet is providing a worldwide resource for sex criminals and organised crime is blind to national, far less federal borders.’
‘The BKA want to set up a special unit to deal with such crimes.’ Van Heiden took over. ‘A Super Murder Commission, so to speak. And they want you to head it.’
‘You would still be based here at the Hamburg Police Presidium,’ explained Wagner, ‘and you would still handle Hamburg cases as you have for the last fifteen years, but you would also be given additional staff and resources with which to build the special unit. Whenever there was a case that required your particular skills and perspective, your unit would respond.’
‘I’m very flattered but—’
Van Heiden cut Fabel off. ‘This is not about flattery. And it’s not just about you. This is an opportunity for the Polizei Hamburg to gain Europe-wide – even worldwide – recognition as a centre of excellence in murder investigation, in much the same way as the Legal Medicine Institute in Eppendorf is a global leader in forensics.’
‘But surely this unit would be a BKA unit?’
‘You would remain a full serving officer in the Polizei Hamburg,’ explained Wagner, ‘but seconded to the BKA. There would be an increase in salary to reflect the increase in responsibility. If you wanted, we could leave things the way they are here, but use you in a, well, consultative role in other parts of the country.’
Fabel took a moment to consider what was being said. ‘This is all very interesting, and it is an exciting challenge for any ambitious officer. But not me. I’m trying to get away from death on my doorstep. Not to take to the road to see more of it. I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ Fabel stood up. ‘I’ve made my decision.’
‘It really is a unique opportunity,’ pressed Wagner.
‘Listen, Herr Wagner, I appreciate the offer. I really do. But it’s time for me to move on.’ Fabel paused for a moment. ‘I’ve lost my way. When I first became a policeman, it was all very simple. I saw where I stood in the world, and that place was between the ordinary citizen and those who would do them harm.’
‘That’s a pretty good definition of what it is to be a policeman,’ said van Heiden. ‘And it’s as true today as it was when you joined.’
‘Maybe so,’ said Fabel, with a sigh. ‘But over the years … well, it’s got more complicated. More abstract, I suppose you could say. The people I’ve hunted, the things they’ve done … I never saw myself getting involved with all that darkness.’
There was a pause. Then Wagner said, somewhat uncertainly: ‘I mentioned earlier that I was only too well acquainted with Vasyl Vitrenko … I know that there is a certain amount of … well … unfinished business between you. I meant what I said about knowing Vitrenko well. He and his new partner Molokov are by far the most powerful figures in people-trafficking in Europe. They are selling women and children from Eastern Europe and Asia into sexual and other kinds of slavery. And they are using Germany not just as a prime market but as a gateway to the rest of the West. We have set up an interdepartmental task force dedicated to finding and taking Vitrenko out of action for once and for all. If you reconsidered your position, then your first task could be to help us nail him.’
‘Why is it that everyone seems to feel they have an insight into what motivates me? What do any of you know about what happened out there when Maria was stabbed?’ Fabel fought to keep the anger that flashed in him under control. ‘This is real life, not some corny American movie. I don’t burn with a desire for revenge and I’m not looking for some kind of final showdown. Vitrenko is not my problem. Not any more.’
‘That’s not the way we do business,’ said Wagner and Fabel could see he had irked the BKA man. ‘I’m not interested in personal grudges. I thought that as a professional investigator you would want to close a case that you have been so deeply involved in. And, from our perspective, you have a lot to bring to the table. No one has ever come so close to capturing Vitrenko as you and Frau Klee. Your insight could be invaluable. What I can also tell you is that we are much, much better off in terms of intelligence on Vitrenko than we were when you last crossed paths with him. For the first time ever we have an inside source on the Vitrenko–Molokov organisation and we’ve built the most comprehensive dossier ever compiled on him. With the help of our associates in the Ukrainian police militia we have succeeded in casting some light into the shadows. He’s running out of places to hide.’
Fabel returned Wagner’s gaze blankly, but he found himself wondering what was in the dossier. The truth was that as far as Fabel was concerned Vitrenko had ceased to be a person, a human being. He was a spectre.
‘The Vitrenko Dossier has cost lives to compile, Herr Fabel. Much of the intelligence has come from Ukrainian undercover operations as well as from our own resources. We believe Vitrenko is aware of the dossier and would give anything to get his hands on it.’
‘Why? It would only confirm what he can probably guess we know,’ Fabel asked in spite of himself.
‘Vitrenko is obsessive about loyalty. There are two versions of the Vitrenko Dossier. The master dossier and the working dossier. The main reason is that there is a limit to the intelligence we can share with our Ukrainian colleagues, which I know frustrates them. But the simple fact is that there is still a considerable amount of corruption within the Ukrainian security apparatus, added to which even the Ukrainians don’t know how many of Vitrenko’s people have infiltrated their own ranks. That’s why the working dossier is the one that all members of the task force work with. It gives all the most important intelligence but doesn’t identify the sources, which the master dossier does. But even if Vitrenko got his hands on just the working dossier, there would be enough clues in there for him to identify our sources within his organisation.’
‘But surely there aren’t any? Vitrenko’s men are fanatically loyal to him.’
‘That’s very true. But when he merged his operation with that of Valeri Molokov, he compromised his security. Molokov has less noble ideas about his chosen profession. Like Vitrenko he is ex-security services, in his case Russian rather than Ukrainian, but he is a good old-fashioned gangster, plain and simple. There is no grand philosophy uniting his men. Just greed and violence.’ Wagner paused, as if waiting for a reaction from Fabel.
‘Well, as I said – Vasyl Vitrenko, his operation, his associates … it’s all someone else’s problem now,’ said Fabel.
Van Heiden and Wagner exchanged resigned looks.
‘Would you at least think it over?’ asked van Heiden. ‘I am prepared to hold your position open for a further three months. Senior Commissar Meyer has agreed to head the department in the interim. After that, I will have to replace you.’
‘You can replace me now, Herr van Heiden. My mind is made up.’
‘Listen,’ said Wagner. ‘I accept what you’re saying, but in the meantime I wonder if you would look at this for me.’ He handed Fabel a thick file. ‘Just for your opinion. I understand that you won’t want to be involved directly, but if you could look at it I’d be obliged. Just for ideas.’
‘What is it?’ Fabel took the file and eyed it suspiciously.
‘It’s from the Polizei Nordrhein-Westfalen … There’s a Criminal Commissar Scholz working out of the Police Presidium in Cologne. He asked me if you would consider going down there to help with this case, but I understand now that that is out of the question.’
Fabel gave a cynical laugh. ‘I see … a little bit of bait to see if you can reel me in.’
‘I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t be disappointed if this case intrigued you enough to consider visiting Cologne and lending a hand. But I respect your decision. Nevertheless, I know that Herr Scholz would appreciate any comments or advice, Principal Chief Commissar Fabel.’
‘Okay …’ Fabel stood up, tucking the file under his arm. ‘I’ll take a look. But, as I said, that’s all I can promise.’
Van Heiden walked Fabel to the door. They shook hands.
‘We’re going to miss you,’ van Heiden said. ‘I have to tell you that I don’t see you as a computer salesman.’
Fabel smiled. ‘Educational software, Herr Criminal Director. For universities around the world.’
‘Whatever it is, you’re not cut out for it. You’re a policeman, Jan. Whether you accept it or not.’