“And the prosecutor will be open to a deal?”
“This is a more complex case than people probably know and so I’d say the prosecutor will want quality information and evidence as fast as possible so he can pursue the case.”
“Any idea who’ll make the best pitch?” said Burke who had his own favourite.
Plaschke took a few seconds to consider the question. “From my interviews and what I know, I’d wager Kendall Young will be extremely eager to tell everything he knows in exchange for a deal.”
“He’s my pick, too,” agreed Burke.
They remained silent for a moment and then Burke had one more thought. “What’s the latest with Eric Chapman?”
Plaschke paused. “Off the record?”
“OK.”
“He won’t be charged with anything although he’s not in favour with my bosses.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eric Chapman is an internal security investigator with Worldwide Events Consulting. And so are Kristin Wagner, who’s not really his wife, and Matthew Shaw.”
“Who’s that?”
“He was pretending to be their son. He may look like a kid but he’s 25.”
Burke recalled how Matthew had seemed a very mature teenager whenever they had talked. And he also remembered how Kristin Wagner had been every bit as observant as her so-called husband.
“What were they investigating?”
“The security division of the company had an idea that something was wrong with your so-called inner circle and so they introduced Chapman, Wagner and Shaw into the mix to see if they could find out.”
“And did they?”
“It seems you beat them to the real story, but not by much. Chapman contacted us just before arriving in Vienna about their suspicions although he didn’t disclose everything they knew.”
“What did they withhold?”
“I can’t tell you that, but when they became aware of some criminal activity, they sat on the information for a while and that’s what’s got my bosses angry.”
“So why not charge the three of them?”
“Their involvement is being considered a distraction. However, Worldwide Events will be severely reprimanded for sanctioning their conduct. And Interpol will keep a record of what Chapman, Wagner and Shaw did which will make their jobs as investigators very difficult to do in the future.”
Burke sat back, stunned by Plaschke’s last comments.
So many surprises, so many secrets.
Chapter 64
Plaschke disappeared down the street. Burke flagged a taxi and went to Stephansplatz, the square in the centre of the city where thousands of people could usually be found shopping, strolling or sitting at an outdoor café with St. Stephen’s Cathedral towering over the entire area.
He found an empty table at a café specializing in coffee and cakes, hardly a surprise in a city famed for both, and ordered an espresso and a Sacher Torte, a chocolate cake with apricot jam filling and other ingredients that had stayed secret since the first cake was baked in 1832, according to the menu.
He knew he should return to the Sunna and see how Hélène was doing. And Claude, too. But he wanted to be alone and to let his mind drift in whatever direction it wanted.
It wanted to drift to the spouses and partners of the men held by the police.
How horrible it had to be for them, he thought. You’re with someone for years, you build a life and then you discover your partner has a fascination with child pornography. He wondered how a spouse wouldn’t know about such an addiction, but he recognized many people were experts at protecting their deepest, darkest secrets.
Then he had a vision of Andrea Beltran throwing a tantrum at the police station of such proportions that the flics would have to taser her. Of all the partners dragged into the child-porn case, she struck Burke as the most proud and the most vain – and the one with the most ferocious temper. She wouldn’t like anyone suggesting she knew anything about Young’s involvement or that her appeal wasn’t enough to keep the American from straying. Then Burke imagined what would happen if she ever got her powerful hands on Young. It would be an ugly result indeed, especially for him.
The coffee and cake arrived. The coffee was wonderful with a berry-type acidity mixing with a caramel sweetness. As good as the espresso was, the Sacher Torte tasted heavenly with a variety of chocolate flavours and those mysterious extra ingredients. The accompanying whipped cream was rich and yet light at the same time. For a few minutes, he forgot about everything but the dessert before him.
Then his phone buzzed with a text.
“Got a blog for me?” François Lemaire asked.
Burke had forgotten to send the video he’d shot at the police station. He ignored the dregs of his espresso and sent the video, adding a brief description of the scene.
“Tell me more,” Lemaire responded.
Burke texted back the information about the interviews with the family members. He paused. Should he mention the possibility of one of the accused “rolling over” on the others? He decided to send that info to Lemaire, leaving it up to the editor to decide if it was usable.
“Better, much better,” Lemaire said. “Who’s the source?”
“I can’t say,” Burke texted back. “But reliable.”
Lemaire replied that he’d manufacture a blog out of what Burke had given him and use the video to accompany it on the website for the newspaper group.
Burke then texted Hélène that he’d be back at the Sunna within a half hour and asked how matters were aboard the ship.
“Much calmer,” Hélène replied a moment later. “People depressed and worried. Uncle Claude and I are busy with next meal.”
After paying his bill, Burke went in search of a taxi. He wanted to see Hélène. He also wanted to do a little research.
When he returned to the Sunna, the scene was indeed quieter. The media were gone and the curious bystanders had left. The police at the bottom and top of the gangplank were still on duty, looking bored because no one was around.
He went aboard and straight into the dining room, spotting Hélène chatting with her uncle at the entrance to the kitchen.
“So, where did you go?” Claude asked.
Burke told them and asked what had been happening on board.
“The action died down about a half hour ago,” Hélène said. “Everyone went to their cabins or into the city. Maybe all the commotion is finally over.”
Burke doubted it, but didn’t say so.
“We’re also going to be staying on board for at least another night,” Claude said. “Someone from the police, with Captain Keller beside him, made the announcement a while back. We’re free to move around, but we won’t be getting back our passports till tomorrow or maybe even the day after.”
“How’s Delisle coping?”
“He seems to be doing fine. He was there at the announcement and said the tour organizers are cancelling the Opera House concert, but would still be providing meals and any other help that’s needed. It must be costing the company a bundle to pay these extra costs. I mean, we were supposed to be done a day ago.”
“I know the ship’s owners aren’t too pleased either,” Burke said. “It’s costing them a lot of money to have the Sunna out of commission. She was supposed to be used for another tour right after this one ended and they’ve had to re-schedule another ship to take over.”
“I’ll be staying in your cabin, too,” Hélène said. “Monsieur Delisle and the captain both suggested it. The crew moved a cot into the cabin so I don’t have to find a hotel and I’ll be able to continue helping in the kitchen. It’ll be nice and cosy with the three of us.”
Burke smiled. They’d be in each other’s pocket, but he knew they’d manage, at least for a night or two.
Hélène and Claude excused themselves and returned to the kitchen so they could help prepare dinner for everyone.
>
Burke looked into the ship’s lounge bar and saw a half dozen passengers sipping various drinks and talking quietly among themselves. A couple nodded at him but didn’t invite him over. The earlier chaos was in the past for them. Now it was just about getting home as soon as possible.
Burke returned to his cabin. The cot did indeed take up much of the cabin’s free space. But he didn’t mind. Hélène would be with him and that’s what mattered.
He pulled out his laptop, thought for a few minutes and then banged out a blog about how the mood of the passengers had changed from one extreme to the other when confronted with the shocking news of the child-porn ring. He wasn’t sure if anyone else would have that information and then he had doubts whether it was of any interest. After a minute of thinking, he sent it to François Lemaire. It was the editor’s decision whether to use it. That’s what he was paid for.
His laptop told him he had a new email.
It was Lemaire telling him that the child-porn story had just erupted with hundreds of arrests being made in a half dozen cities, not just in Europe but in Australia and the United States. “And more arrests are expected to be made. Your child-porn people are involved in an international, multi-million-euro ring.”
Despite the involvement of Interpol, Burke had thought the ring involved maybe a few dozen like-minded individuals, most of them working for Worldwide Events Consulting. He now realized that had been naïve thinking. He punched in a Google search and learned how arrests were being made in Amsterdam, Berlin, London, Lisbon, Chicago, New York, Toronto and Sydney. Investigations were undergoing in dozens of other cities around the globe. Somehow people with the same ugly inclinations had found each other, not just in the dozens but in the hundreds or even in the thousands.
He did another Google search and quickly saw the scope of child pornography around the world. According to several reputable websites, it was one of the fastest growing businesses on the internet with billions in estimated annual revenue. And then there were the children who had been victimized with thousands abused, kidnapped, sold into sexual slavery and even killed. There were also reports of more than 10,000 refugee children going “missing” on their way to Europe; the theory was many had been forced into the sex trade. It was horrific, worse than he had ever thought.
Burke turned on the TV in the cabin, switching to a local channel where a newscast was providing live coverage of the situation in Vienna. The main reporter, working from outside the Vienna police station, discussed how Interpol was working closely not just with the Vienna police but with law-enforcement agencies in several countries. “Law-enforcement authorities are calling this one of the biggest crackdowns on the child-pornography industry ever undertaken. They say the number of arrests could end up in the thousands.”
The report then showed video clips from London and New York with scenes of individuals being marshalled into police stations, handcuffed with jackets covering their faces. In a couple of instances, crowds were so threatening to those being arrested that the police had to form a human barricade to keep them safe.
Burke wondered if the collapse of the child-porn ring had begun because one of the Sunna’s inner circle had provided details as part of a plea bargain. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise. But then when did Interpol get involved? Had it been checking earlier into the ring and just needed a little luck in its investigation?
“A spokesperson for Interpol says the investigation into the child-pornography ring had been going on for several months,” the announcer said.
The story then provided a clip from Austria’s federal minister of justice, a burly, bespectacled man in his 50s who swore that his government would do its utmost to co-operate in ending the child-porn ring. He jabbed a finger at the camera and swore diligence in the government’s efforts. Burke wasn’t sure how sincere the minister was in his indignation, but the man seemed determined.
Burke’s phone buzzed with a text. This time, it was from Karl Plaschke. “The case is bigger than anyone thought,” the Krems flic said. “It’s expanding by the minute.”
Burke fired back a response, asking if Plaschke was back on the case.
“What do you think?” Plaschke said.
If Plaschke was back on the investigation, he was working not just with the Vienna police but Interpol, quite a jump for a small-town flic from Krems. Maybe someone had noticed that Plaschke was capable of investigating more than petty crime.
Burke’s phone buzzed again.
“Gast getting deal,” Plaschke texted.
Burke went back, requesting details, but Plaschke didn’t respond. Burke tried again. Nothing. Plaschke was done.
What had Gast given the police? And what had they given him in return?
Chapter 65
Burke locked his cabin and walked back toward the dining room, wondering how the latest news about the international child-pornography ring was being accepted by the Sunna’s passengers. After all, it wasn’t every day that a cruise ship became involved in an international story. If people were upset before, they might be apoplectic now. Burke didn’t want to be accosted by anyone, but he thought it might be intriguing to pay another visit to the dining area and hear what was being said.
When he entered the room, at least 50 people were standing around, exchanging information in excited voices. The tranquility of an hour before was gone, replaced by anger, hostility and, to Burke’s ear, even panic. It was a rollercoaster of emotions as people worried about what their families, friends and colleagues would think. Would they be guilty by association? Most believed they would have their reputations tainted with a handful suggesting it was a nightmare that wasn’t going to end anytime soon.
Several passengers saw Burke and immediately rushed over, peppering him with all kinds of questions related to the case. Burke could see they still believed he knew more than was being reported. When he told them he didn’t, he could see the anger in their faces increase. They didn’t believe him.
“You’ve been friendly with the police the last few days, especially with that officer from Krems, the black guy, so you’ve got to know something,” said a staffer for Roger Langford. “We’re stuck here in limbo, not able to do anything or go anywhere while the world wonders if we’re all involved in some kind of giant cover-up.”
Burke saw that the staffer, normally a soft-spoken man, was almost vibrating with rage. He guessed others felt the same. He gestured for the group to calm down. “Nobody has been telling me anything you aren’t hearing on the news.”
“So you’re still talking to the police, but you’re telling us that you’re getting nothing from them? That’s hard to believe.”
“If I knew something, I’d tell you,” Burke said, knowing that wasn’t entirely true.
“I wish we could believe that.”
Since the group seemed determined to stay angry and he figured the scene would replay itself if he remained, Burke excused himself and went outside onto the deck. He had heard what he had expected to hear. When he glanced back, he saw several passengers glaring at him, looking like they wanted to continue the discussion. That was enough for Burke who walked down the gangplank, past the police officers, and onto the dock. He saw a nearby bench and started to go over to it, figuring he’d relax and then decide what to do next. If any passengers pursued him that far, he told himself he’d escape to Stephansplatz.
He heard footsteps from behind.
Felicity Blake, dressed in mid-thigh red shorts and a tight-fitting blue T shirt, was out for a run. Burke was shocked. Given the latest circumstances aboard the Sunna, he had expected she’d be locked in her cabin.
“Not staying on board?” he said.
Blake stopped and shook her head. “Everything is so out of control. People are believing the worst of everyone, including the people right beside them. I don’t need that. I’ve got enough to deal with.”
That was true, Burke thought. “Your race is tomorrow, isn�
�t it? Are you still running in it?”
“I am. Normally I don’t run the day before a race, but, given the state of things on board the ship, I figured this would be a good time to escape, loosen my legs and see some of the course.”
“I expect it’ll take your mind off everything,” said Burke.
“Running does that for me. Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do until the next time the police want to talk to me. With the investigation still going on, I can’t even make any plans for Bennett’s funeral. Right now, the earliest it’ll be is two weeks and that’s optimistic.”
“You compete in a lot of races, don’t you?”
“Maybe a dozen a year, most of them half marathons. I think the half marathon is the perfect distance for me, long enough to keep me fit, but not so long as to demand a lot more training.”
Burke snuck a glance at the Sunna and spotted a couple of dozen surprised faces looking back at him. They were obviously as puzzled as he was by Felicity Blake’s willingness to talk with him.
“Where do you race?” he said. “I mean, it seems like you do a lot of traveling.”
“My last one was in Amsterdam. Before that, I did one in London and, before that, I ran in Manchester. That was my personal best.”
“All of those this year?”
“Yes. I like to change my race program, but it all depends on where we are,” she said. Then she paused for several seconds. “Or at least, it used to be that way. I guess it’ll change now that Bennett’s gone.”
“Sorry if I sounded nosy.”
“You didn’t. It’s nice to have a distraction, but I’ve delayed long enough and I better get going.”
And then with a wave, she was gone, covering ground with the same long, loping stride that made Burke, a clumsy runner, envious. He watched her until she disappeared and then he decided on a plan of action, texting Hélène that he was going to the police station to get some information for a blog. She replied she’d see him later.
Deception On the Danube Page 23
