The Blameless Dead

by Gary Haynes

  Both the unanswered questions and what he’d discovered at the Holocaust museum had been sufficient motivation to write the letters. He had nothing to lose in doing so; if it was simply a matter of his imagination being overactive, the letters would never be opened.

  He took another gulp of wine, the questions coming to him again, one after the other like radio waves. He forced his mind to where there was no sound, where no inner dialogue existed.

  When he allowed his thoughts entry once more, they settled on his reason for doing all this.

  He took out his smartphone and called a national courier service. The letters would be sent. He felt pangs of panic and self-doubt. Then, he felt a sense of cowardice encircle him like a shroud.

  *

  Robert Dubois was sitting on the polished wooden floor of his living room, with his back against a leather armchair. He was listening to vinyl on a record player he’d had since the early nineties. He was thinking about Carla, about how she must be feeling. About little Monize, too. He’d only met her once, when he’d gone to Washington ostensibly on official duty, but in fact just to see Carla. She’d seen through that and he’d had to promise not to do it again. He’d never wanted children of his own, but it didn’t stop him worrying.

  He was flung backwards, flipping in the air, the sound like a ten-wheel truck travelling at seventy miles per hour an inch from his face.

  Lying on his front, his left arm dislocated beneath him, he struggled to breathe and sensed blood running down his face.

  The controlled explosion had blown the cedar wood front door against the rear wall, where it had splintered for several inches at its centre, and shattered the protective glass of the single print that hung there. The room had erupted in violent shudders as the shockwave hurtled through it, the stench of cordite unmistakable.

  Blearily, through wet eyes and a thin cloud of white smoke, he saw two black shapes loom over him like colossal ants. Having registered black fatigues, gas masks and shotgun muzzles, he passed out briefly.

  94

  Berlin, the next day.

  Albert Müller, a heavy-boned Berliner in his early thirties with thinning blonde hair, liked to ski off-piste and swim alone in open water. Five yards from the bank of the isolated lake, executing a leisurely front crawl, his blue eyes covered with rubber goggles, he thought he saw something shimmering below. At first, he took it for a windscreen or shoal of silver fish. Curious, he trod water before diving down.

  Then, at a depth of some fifteen feet, he was confronted by plastic bags affixed to boulders that lay among the algae-ridden weeds, an inquisitive perch nibbling at one of them. Resembling giant limpets, they were too heavy to lift. But then, he just about made out a human torso.

  Near traumatized, he returned to the grassy bank and used his smartphone to call the Berliner Polizei, specifically Direktion 2, Spandau, rather than the local force. He told them that a dismembered corpse had been dumped in the lake.

  *

  The German police diver was a former Oberleutnant zur See in the Deutsche Marine, a man for whom water was as natural an enviroment now as it had been in the womb. Directed by Müller, he located four bags with his torch in less than a minute.

  Two hours later, he severed the rope that linked the boulders to the bags with his diver’s knife. The macabre contents were winched to the surface, whereupon they were transported in cold storage via a private ambulance to the local pathologist’s office.

  *

  The pathologist was Pia Neumann, a fair-haired woman of rare beauty, who had represented her county in the 100m hurdles at the Beijing Olympics. During an initial autopsy, she deemed an examination of the stomach contents mandatory.

  She used a scalpel on the torso as it lay on a stainless-steel gurney. If the stomach was empty, the victim had died more than six hours after a meal. The dissection of the stomach revealed traces of popcorn, and to her surprise, a small piece of latex that looked like the curled edge of a condom. She guessed the deceased was a drugs mule.

  However, after easing it out with a pair of surgical tweezers, and upon closer examination, it became evident that it was in fact not a fragment of burst condom. It was a capsule, like those used for protein supplements, except this one was evidently not prone to dissolving. She used the scalpel to slice open the capsule.

  It contained a tiny fragment. She made a cursory investigation of it with her microscope, which revealed the fragment to be a sliver of microfiche. To Pia Neumann, it was like finding buried Visigoth treasure.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, the microfiche had been read by a veteran officer in the Wasserschutzpolizei, the state water police. The minuscule writing stated the dead man’s name, his social security number and his rank in GSG 9. If his body was found it meant that he’d been murdered, but he’d had time to swallow the capsule beforehand.

  It also stated that his murderers were linked to a serial killer in Berlin, who was now a pensioner, but had no criminal record. He had a moniker: Snow Lion. It meant too that other men and women were in danger, among them, Raymond Dubois, a Belgian federal policer office. A pornographer known as the Chechen, who was known to be in the US, had sold a DVD belonging to the serial killer to an American, the deceased Jed Watson.

  Flabbergasted by the discovery, the veteran called a commander in Spezialeinsatzkommandos, the specialized armed response units of the German state police forces, the equivalent of GSG 9 of the federal police. He told the commander that the dismembered corpse taken from the lake had been a federal police officer named Finkel.

  *

  When the special deployment commando rang the Brussels federal police, an officer there said that Robert Dubois had been abducted from his apartment in a military-style operation, and that a terrorist attack could not be ruled out.

  95

  Brussels, the same day.

  Gabriel had agreed to meet Dubois at a named bar in the Grand Place. The Belgian had called him again on the disposable mobile phone given to him by Carla, this time a hundred yards or so from the hotel he was staying at. The hotel stood opposite a limestone Catholic church and an apartment building, with Juliet balconies. Dubois said he’d be wearing black jeans and a red polo shirt with matching trainers, and that he was clean-shaven.

  It was 5.13 pm, the air still, the sun well-defined. A teenage string quintet played Mendelssohn at the entrance to the side street leading into the cobbled market square, and a small, appreciative crowd had gathered around them. The square was dominated by its edifices, the Gothic-style town hall, with its splendid bell tower, the elaborate colonnades of the king’s house, and the baroque guildhalls, the sunlight reflecting off their golden embellishments.

  Leaving the side street, Gabriel saw a long-limbed, wide-shouldered man, with black wavy hair sitting at a wooden table under an awning outside the bar proper. He wore black jeans and a red polo shirt, with trainers. Gabriel walked over to him and the Belgian stood up. Gabriel stepped up onto the elevated decking, with its fixed tables and benches.

  ‘Gabriel Hall?’

  Gabriel nodded. He recognized the voice from the phone calls.

  ‘It’s good to meet you,’ Dubois said.

  ‘You too.’

  They shook hands and sat down at the table that would’ve comfortably seated eight people. Gabriel caught a waft of Dubois’s pungent aftershave. There was an elderly couple to their left and a Pekinese sniffed around the woman’s shoes, irritatingly. A waiter of North African descent came over and placed a fresh dish of nuts on the table and they both ordered lager.

  ‘Thank you for coming so far,’ Dubois said. ‘You should visit when the flower carpet is here. The cobbles are covered with a million multi-coloured begonias. It happens on the Feast of the Assumption.’

  Gabriel shrugged. ‘The flight was less than eight hours. What do you have for me?’

  Dubois bent to his right and lifted a tanned-leather briefcase and placed it on its side on the table. He opened it
and took out a smartphone.

  ‘The German federal police have found Kalmyk girls at several addresses in Berlin. Remote houses and barns were raided on a tipoff. They were all alive.’

  He thumbed in the passcode and handed the phone to Gabriel.

  ‘Is one of them your niece?’

  Gabriel hesitated at first, his neck muscles tightening. He flicked through the photographs of a dozen or more young women that all could have been from Kalmykia. As he did so, Dubois gave him what further information he said he could, which wasn’t much, it had to be said.

  Gabriel held out the phone to Dubois. ‘She’s not there.’

  ‘It seems you’ve had a wasted journey. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I realize you couldn’t email them to me. I’m grateful to you.’

  Dubois replaced the smartphone into the briefcase and put it under the bench. The waiter had arrived and placed the straight glasses bearing the alcohol brand on the table.

  ‘Did the Germans arrest anyone?’ Gabriel said.

  Dubois shook his head.

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘It appears the perpetrators had a tipoff, too,’ Dubois said.

  Gabriel observed Dubois with a serious expression. He said, ‘I imagine the flower carpet is a glorious sight. But begonias symbolize a warning of future misfortunes, don’t they? I’m not superstitious, Mr Dubois, but I am curious. Do you know who the old serial killer in Berlin is now?’

  Dubois blinked twice. ‘I don’t,’ he said.

  For a split second, the Belgian’s eyes betrayed a hint of fear. Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t gel.

  ‘Well, I’ll finish my drink and get a cab to the airport,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘As I said, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Have you heard from Carla again?’ Gabriel said.

  ‘Not since she told me she’d gone into hiding and what I told you about the FSB.’

  ‘Do you think the FSB are lying about Joseph Kazapov, or that their records are incorrect?’

  Dubois’s head titled to the side. ‘No, why would I?’

  Gabriel took a drink.

  ‘Were the begonias here when you first met her?’ he said, after lowering the glass to the table.

  ‘Met?’

  ‘On official business. What else?’

  Dubois cracked a half smile. ‘That’s an odd question.’

  ‘Carla said she first met you here in the Grand Place.’

  Dubois lifted the glass to his lips and drank.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘But it was June and there were no flowers.’

  Gabriel leaned forward, with his elbows on the table. ‘But you didn’t meet her here, did you?’

  The man looked at Gabriel, his teeth clenched.

  ‘She said she first met you in Bruges. I guess Robert Dubois wouldn’t forget that kind of detail. She leaves an impression. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I don’t like your tone, Mr Hall.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’ve been around cops most of my adult life, and you’re no cop.’

  ‘I’m Belgian, not American.’

  Gabriel nodded knowingly.

  He said, ‘I lied about Carla meeting Robert Dubois in Bruges. I don’t know when or where she first met him. So, who are you?’

  The man looked a little flustered. He got up, but Gabriel didn’t feel threatened by him.

  ‘Have a safe journey home, Mr Hall.’

  96

  The secret prison, the same day.

  Section Chief George Hester had had a call from a deputy director in the Criminal Justice Information Services Division of the FBI. The conversation had centred on intel from INTERPOL’s National Central Bureau for the United States in Washington, which had instant access to databases known as the Criminal Information System, via the I-24/7 network. A notice, which was an international alert of a suspected criminal, or a person linked to or of interest in an ongoing criminal investigation, had been issued by INTERPOL.

  The notice in question had given a moniker, Snow Lion, together with a few sentences of explanation. The source of the information had been GSG 9 of the German Federal Police in Berlin. When the deputy director told Hester that the notice had described Carla Romero as being at high risk, he’d made a secure phone call, demanding action by those with real power. Carla and her daughter, Monize, had been missing for days.

  After obtaining an official document, Hester had travelled back to the secret prison, masquerading as a military base, to speak with the Chechen, who was still there for his own protection and with his continuing consent.

  *

  Hester was sitting now at the same chair in the same facility. The Chechen sat across from him, as before, except this time Carla wasn’t there. The Chechen wore military fatigues and had shaved off his goatee, his hair was cut short to his head. He looked younger, healthier. Hester put it down to the nutritious food he was no doubt eating, and the fact that there was a ban on alcohol and all drugs other than tobacco.

  ‘They look to be treating you well,’ Hester said.

  The Chechen exposed the inside of his lower lip such that the corners of his mouth turned down, and he raised his eyebrows and shifted his head to the right: So-so.

  ‘Where’s the Amazon, the good-looking one?’ he said.

  Hester knew he was referring to Carla. ‘She’s busy.’

  ‘She’s in danger, isn’t she?’

  Hester forced himself not to clench his teeth.

  He said, ‘Do you know something?’

  ‘I know you’re here because you want more information on the serial killer and because you’re prepared to give me something in return. That much I know.’

  The Chechen grinned. He took a toothpick from behind his ear and snapped it between his fingers.

  ‘If he has her, you’d better pray to your Christian God.’

  ‘I didn’t take you for a religious man,’ Hester said.

  ‘There are many Muslims in Chechnya. We have an old saying; it was only when they pulled at his ear that the donkey was reminded that he was a donkey.’

  He grinned again.

  Hester put his hand in his pocket, took out an official-looking piece of paper and pushed it across the table top.

  ‘This is a promise of immunity from prosecution, signed by the Deputy Attorney General. I want the location of the serial killer. All other details that you know. You’d better hope that we find him.’

  The Chechen nodded. ‘You’re right. I don’t want him free after this. But I don’t know his name.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you his name. But you’ll need to state yours for the paperwork. You will enter a witness protection programme. You will be given the sum of 45,000 dollars a year, US, and a house in Idaho. You will be under surveillance twenty-four-seven. There’ll be restrictions on your movement. There isn’t anything else. If we don’t find him where you say he is, the deal is off.’

  ‘It was eight years ago,’ the Chechen said, his face betraying his unease.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Hester said.

  ‘It was a villa near Spandau. But he has a farm near Potsdam, too.’

  Hester took out his smartphone.

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  97

  Brussels, the same day.

  Gabriel was sure the man who’d just left hadn’t been a Belgian police officer. He was sure he wasn’t Robert Dubois, either. But in truth, he’d found the encounter with him unnerving, despite his bravado. He was used to dealing with criminals, but in the sanitized environment of his office, a police building, a prison, or courtroom. A place where he was safe and had the upper hand. Perhaps the man wasn’t a criminal. What was he then?

  He almost sniffed the clean air like a nervous animal as he checked the square. Shielded from the sunlight by the bar’s awning, he had a fair view of the sightseers there, a diverse bunch. One stood out for no other reason than his physique was squat, and he was looking in the direction of the bar.

  Gab
riel stood up. The man pretending to be Dubois had tried to, what? Derail him? If he had, that meant that he was getting close to something significant. Or did they know that he had already discovered something significant? But how could they? The squat man was probably nobody anyhow, he decided.

  He was duped into coming here, for sure, but what had just transpired wouldn’t put him off the scent and they must have known that. Perhaps they didn’t. But what now? If it was obvious he wasn’t to be derailed, they may do something more permanent. The thought rattled him.

  The squat man began to move towards the bar and Gabriel decided to move too. He put a twenty euro note under his glass and headed for the alleyway about ten yards to his left that he’d used to access the square. He would leave the Grand Place from there.

  Then what? They’d already killed Hockey. Hadn’t they?

  The thought had seemingly come from nowhere, although he realized a second later that it had risen from his subconscious.

  The alleyway was narrow and still busy. He convinced himself that no one would risk anything in the open and in daylight. He turned right at the end of the alley into a smaller square, and walked up the incline, past the bars and newsstands towards the underground railway station.

  He didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t want to run. He couldn’t be sure that the man was following him. He convinced himself he wasn’t.

  At the top of the square, the pink flagstones led to an arterial road. There was a pavement on the opposite side, bustling with inoffensive-looking people. It was as good a place as any to stand and hail a cab.

  Then where? Home? What then?

  He had to think. He had to decide.

  Was Carla in a safe house? Was Joseph Kazapov really Snow Lion?

  He turned. He couldn’t help himself, his negative inner dialogue undeniable. The squat man was less than five yards away, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with a cupped hand, his face shadowed. He wore black trousers and a black button-down shirt.