‘I think he’s our man,
Chef
.’
Fabel frowned. ‘Why, Anna? You’ve seen what we’ve got on Vitrenko.’
‘MacSwain is a predator. It’s in the way he observes you … the way he moves around you. Like you’re prey.’ She shook her head slightly, as if irritated by the inadequacy of her description. Then she fixed Fabel with a bright, hard, resolute gaze. ‘He is a rapist,
Chef
. And, I suspect, a killer. Our killer.’
Fabel stared silently at his subordinate for a moment. He could not condemn a junior officer for responding to her instincts about a case or a suspect: it was how he operated himself, processing, in some deep part of his brain, the smallest details of how someone moves or talks or the minutiae of a scene. And from these deep processes would come forth a conclusion of which, like Anna, he would be certain, although he could not rationalise it with a solid piece of evidence. After all, it was just such a feeling, a judgement on the way MacSwain had reacted to finding two Hamburg policemen on his threshold that had led Fabel to suspect MacSwain.
‘Okay, Anna. I trust your judgement, but I can’t say I agree with your conclusion.’ The stubble rasped under rubbing fingers once more. ‘I’ll keep someone on MacSwain, just to make sure. But I definitely don’t want you seeing him again – especially if your instincts about him are right. Werner and I may pay him an official visit just to check out his whereabouts on the key dates. Of course that’ll alert him to the fact that we’re watching him.’ Fabel sighed. ‘But I have to say I think you’ve got it all wrong, Anna. We may not have a smoking gun, but the circumstantial evidence is pretty conclusive against Vitrenko.’
‘I know,’ Anna replied. ‘I see that. But thanks for keeping an open mind on MacSwain.’
‘That’s okay.’ Fabel took in Anna’s face. She looked totally drained. Fabel had never been undercover but knew many officers who had. It was one of the most physically, emotionally and mentally exhausting challenges for a police officer to undertake. The image of Klugmann, sitting opposite him in the interview room at Davidwache, slipped to the front of his mind. He remembered attributing the red-rimmed eyes to drugs. But it had more probably been stress. And the traces of amphetamine found in his autopsy would have probably been Klugmann’s way of taking the edge off it. Now Fabel detected the same leaden edginess in Anna’s movements, the same red rims and dark shadows around the eyes. ‘Listen, Anna. I’ve made sure you’re clear of duties for the next twenty-four. Go home and get some sleep.’
Saturday 21 June, 10.00 a.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg
.
At least Fabel felt cleaner. A change of clothes had been like sloughing off a layer of crumpled skin; but the couple of hours’ sleep hadn’t dispelled the shadow of tiredness that still clung to him, and he had to make an effort to shake it from his movements and thoughts. As promised, Werner had picked up Wolfgang Eitel shortly before eight a.m. and a second team, led by Paul Lindemann, had brought in his son at the same time. Eitel father and son were being kept apart, but their furious threats of litigation against individual officers, the Polizei Hamburg and the state government had been almost identical. Fabel knew that if they didn’t turn up something solid on the Eitels, these threats would have to be taken very, very seriously indeed.
To underline the fact, a small cluster of legal types, including Waalkes, were waiting in the main waiting area of the Präsidium when Fabel arrived. Waalkes spotted Fabel just as he was about to step into the elevator and set off full steam towards him. Fabel called out an enthusiastic ‘Good morning, Herr Waalkes!’ as the elevator doors closed, Waalkes halfway across the reception area and halfway through an infuriated protest.
Fabel called Werner out of interview room one, where he had been stalling Wolfgang Eitel, who was demanding immediate access to counsel.
‘There are enough of them downstairs,’ said Fabel. ‘Tell him he’s entitled to one legal representative to be present, but let the Corporate and Financial boys soften him up first. Same deal with Norbert.’
Fabel went to his office and closed the door behind him. He picked up the phone and called Susanne at the Institut für Rechtsmedizin. He had phoned her after he left the Speicherstadt the night before and a strained cord of worry had been stretched through her voice. He had reassured her that he was fine but that he would have to head off to the Präsidium and that she should sleep. As he had hung up, he felt slightly guilty about the warm glow he experienced from having someone to worry about him again. Now he called her to give her a summary of the evidence he had uncovered and to outline his theory about Vitrenko and his ‘spiritual father’
Blot-Sven
.
‘It makes some sort of sense, I suppose,’ said Susanne, but she sounded less than convinced.
‘But?’
‘I don’t know. Like I say, it all makes sense. And I think you’re right. At least in the main part. I have no sound professional grounds for doubting your theory. I just feel uneasy because of the scope of participation.’
‘What do you mean, Susanne?’
‘He doesn’t act alone. He may not even act at all. Remember Charles Manson in America? The mass killings in the Tate and LaBianca homes? Manson wasn’t even present at the Tate home and left the LaBianca residence after ordering his followers to murder the tied-up victims, but before the actual killings took place. So Manson didn’t actually commit the crimes personally. But they were his crimes. He manipulated others to commit them for him. He engineered a wider scope of participation that not only involved his so-called family, but excluded himself.’
Fabel thought over what Susanne was saying. He had studied the Manson murders in depth: Manson had cemented the bonds in his ‘family’ by having sex with all of ‘Charlie’s Girls’, the female members of his group. It was the same trick that Svensson had used to ensnare the loyalty of his female acolytes, like Marlies Menzel and Gisela Frohm. Fabel had come to realise that he and Gisela had not stood alone on that pier. Svensson had been there too. Invisible, insidious. His presence evident only to Gisela. Fabel exhaled loudly, as if blowing the ghosts from his skull.
‘I don’t know, Susanne. I see Vitrenko as a hands-on butcher. And, if I’m right, he sees himself as the natural heir of
Blot-Sven
, the master of the sacrifice …’
Fabel could hear her breath at the other end of the line. ‘Just be careful, Jan. Be very careful.’
Werner came into Fabel’s office just before lunchtime. The Corporate and Financial Crime officers were still with both Wolfgang and Norbert Eitel, two detectives questioning each man separately.
‘Markmann from Corporate Crime reckons we’re on to something with this property deal, but there’s no hard evidence as yet,’ Werner said glumly. ‘He’s setting up teams to raid Galicia Trading and the Eitel Group’s offices but the Staatsanwaltschaft is being a bit coy about granting a warrant on such flimsy evidence.’
Fabel nodded. He’d already had a call from Heiner Goetz, the chief state prosecutor, who had made clear his concerns about bringing in such high-profile personages on suspicion. Fabel had known Goetz for years and there was more than a little mutual respect between the two men, but Fabel knew that Goetz was a cautious and methodical prosecutor who didn’t like short cuts. Fabel also knew that Goetz would see through any hastily spun screen of bluster, so he had had to admit that he was taking a big chance with the Eitels. It all came down to a judgement call, and Goetz was prepared to allow the Hauptkommissar some latitude. Fabel, however, chose not to enlighten Goetz at this stage about his plan to bring MacSwain in for questioning: Fabel hoped that MacSwain would want to make a show of cooperation.
‘Corporate Crime say they’re screwed if the Staatsanwaltschaft won’t accept that they’ve established reasonable grounds for seizure,’ said Werner. ‘And without the paperwork to prove wrongdoing they can’t bring a case.’
Fabel’s face hardened and he snatched up the handset of his phone and dialled the cell phone number the Ukrainian had given him.
‘I was not expecting to hear from you so soon, Herr Fabel,’ said Vitrenko senior, in his perfect but accented German.
Fabel explained the situation with the Staatsanwaltschaft state prosecution service. ‘I need something, anything, concrete that gives us grounds for detaining the Eitels longer and getting our hands on their files. The Eitels are our only potential link to your son’s organisation.’
There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Then the Ukrainian said: ‘I don’t know if I can help you. There is certainly nothing I can give you right now. But meet me tonight, say eight o’clock, in the warehouse in the Speicherstadt.’
The hard resolve on Fabel’s face remained undiluted when he came off the phone. ‘Werner, go get Maria. We’re going to visit the BAO.’
Maria talked as the trio walked briskly along the corridor that led from the elevator to Volker’s office. She handed Fabel three or four pieces of paper stapled together.
‘I checked into Vitrenko. This is as close to a background as we’re likely to get. From what I can gather the
Berkut
unit is being built into a serious counter-terrorist and anti-organised-crime outfit, although its primary function has until now been basically that of a riot squad. As an operational unit it is similar to GSG9 here in the Bundesrepublik. They are clearly very highly trained. I contacted their headquarters in Kiev – they were cooperative but not overly forthcoming about Vitrenko. It would appear that he was one of their top experts on Islamic terrorism, mainly because of his time in Afghanistan and Chechnya. All I got from them was this résumé of Vitrenko’s career. Buried in amongst it all was this …’ Maria flipped over a couple of the pages Fabel was holding. There was a sheet headed with what Fabel guessed was the crest of the Ukrainian Interior Ministry above a page of Cyrillic text. The next page was the translation into German. ‘Look at this: two weeks training at a serial-offenders profiling unit in Odessa.’
Fabel came to a halt. ‘And you said my Europol paper on the Helmut Schmied killings was circulated in the Ukraine?’
‘Exactly. I’ve still to get a reply, but I’ll bet a month’s salary that it featured or was available as part of the course.’
Fabel felt the hunger that comes to the hunter when close to his quarry. ‘That’s why we’ve been dealing with a classic textbook case of psychotic serial murder; because it’s all based on textbook cases. And he chose me because he happened to read a paper I had published on serial offending.’
Werner gave a bitter laugh. ‘So he thought he could pull all of your strings and have you look in the wrong direction.’
‘Except you didn’t,’ added Maria.
Fabel handed the file back to her. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and Maria and Werner fell in behind him.
* * *
The secretary did her best to stop the train of Fabel, Maria and Werner as it steamed past her and into Volker’s office. Volker was sitting behind his desk and was talking in English to two shirtsleeved men who sat opposite him. Fabel guessed that the two
Amis
were members of the six-strong FBI team that had been seconded to the Polizei Hamburg following the September 11 attacks. Volker hastily wrapped a smile around his naked annoyance at being disturbed.
‘I take it this is a matter of some importance, Herr Hauptkommissar?’
Fabel did not answer but looked pointedly at the Americans.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ said Volker in what Fabel recognised as excellent English. ‘I wonder if we could conclude our briefing later?’
As they left, the Americans cast glances at Fabel that lay somewhere between curiosity and anger. Volker leaned back in his leather chair and held his hand out, as if inviting Fabel to bring it all on. It was a gesture of arrogant casualness that Fabel realised was intended to push him into anger, and therefore nudge the balance of any exchange in Volker’s favour. Having recognised Volker’s strategy, Fabel paused before speaking, moving over and taking one of the chairs recently vacated by an American.
‘Yes, Oberst Volker, this is a matter of importance. And some urgency. I intend to call a press conference about the murders I’m investigating,’ Fabel lied. ‘I need to set a few things straight for the public. In fact I intend to render you something of a favour.’ Fabel smiled coldly.
‘Oh? How so?’
‘Well, I have prepared a statement which categorically denies that the BND is protecting the murderer, a former Ukrainian counter-terrorist officer called Vasyl Vitrenko, just because he may be of use as a source of information on al-Qaeda and other Islamic terrorist organisations.’
Fabel could see that Volker was using every ounce of his will-power to keep his face from betraying his emotions.
Fabel continued. ‘I am going to make special mention that you, personally, would obviously have no truck with any such cover-up and all rumours to the contrary are false.’
Volker’s lips slipped back from his teeth in something that defied description as a smile. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Wouldn’t dare what? Protect your reputation in the face of such scurrilous rumours?’
‘There are no rumours …’
Fabel looked at his watch. ‘No? So it isn’t true that an incriminating, anonymous package of information has been received by
Stern
or
Hamburger Morgenpost
…’ Fabel leaned forward in his chair and almost spat the final word at Volker: ‘yet!’