‘How has the team been with you?’
‘Great. You’ve put together some squad there, Jan. Werner’s been a star, Dirk, Henk, Thomas and the others have been really good. Anna can be a little… feisty.’ Bruggemann grinned as she said the word.
‘Nicola, is this a job application?’
‘Could be, Jan. I know you’re a senior down since Maria Klee…’ She faltered. Everybody had learned to tiptoe around the subject of what had happened to Maria. ‘It’s just that you and I have always worked well together and I think it would be a good challenge for me. And I do know you could do with the support. Unless you don’t think I’m up to it…’
‘Don’t be silly, Nicola, you know how highly I think of you. It’s just that you have your own unit. You sure you want to be second fiddle again?’
‘Your team has a Republic-wide reputation, Jan. No one is going to see it as a backward step for me. And there’s a limit to how long you can work in the Child Crime Unit before it starts to really get to you.’
Fabel nodded; he could imagine. The Child Crime Unit was on the same floor as the Murder Commission and Fabel passed it often. There was a room set aside, incongruously bright and colourful against the rest of the Presidium’s tonal decor, as a playroom, with toys, children’s books and games. The intention was to put the children brought there at their ease; a place where it was safe to be a child. Every time he passed it, Fabel thought of the price each child must have paid before they could play in that room.
‘The other thing is that I have experience with dealing with that geek Kroeger. I sense you and he don’t hit it off too well. I’ve worked with him closely through the Child Crime Unit. He’s been invaluable at times and we get on. If I stick with the Network Killer case, I could maybe provide a more constructive liaison with the Cybercrime Unit.’
‘Oh, yes… I need you for your people skills.’ Fabel smiled. ‘Okay, Nicola, let me talk it over with the Criminal Director. I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t want your experience and skills on board, but Herr van Heiden is going to want to find a replacement for you.’
‘My deputy is ready to take over, but of course there will have to be a replacement for her.’
‘So apart from pitching your CV, I take it there was something else?’
‘Yes. While you were taking a constitutional dip in the Elbe, I was reading through the autopsy report on Julia Helling, the Network Killer’s most recent victim. I don’t get this thing with the killer keeping her in cold storage. Like you said, it just doesn’t fit. Why would he try to confuse us about time of death?’
‘He wasn’t. It wasn’t the killer who put her in cold storage. Listen, Nicola, I think I’ve got it all straight in my head. But I can’t prove a thing. I’ll get the team together and go through what I think is going on. But first I need to talk to Flemming, the guy who pulled me out of the river.’
Susanne came back into the room and said hello to Nicola. They had known each other for some time, Susanne providing psych assessments on both victims and suspects for the Child Crime Unit. But her greeting was muted by the frown that darkened her expression when she saw that Fabel was dressed. He held up his hands in apology and they argued for a minute or two over the rights and wrongs of him discharging himself. Eventually Susanne gave up.
‘I suppose we’d better take my car,’ she said, her tone still conveying her displeasure.
‘My car…’ Fabel suddenly looked taken aback, as if he had only just realised that his BMW convertible was lying at the bottom of the Elbe.
‘Make sure you drive, Susanne. Unless you stopped off at home to pick up your swimming cozzie…’ When neither Fabel nor Susanne laughed, Bruggemann moved on. ‘They’ve got a crane down there at the moment,’ said Bruggemann. ‘Lars Kreysig has taken personal charge of getting your car out, but it’s going to be a write-off.’
‘I loved that car,’ said Fabel melancholically.
‘Well, you shouldn’t have tried to drive on water,’ said Bruggemann. ‘I know everybody at the Presidium thinks you can walk on it, but…’
Fabel smiled sarcastically at Bruggemann, then turned to Susanne. ‘I think, given what’s happened, we’d better arrange an escort back. I want the apartment checked out, too. I’ll be with you in a minute, Susanne. I just need to talk to the guy who saved my neck.’
Flemming was waiting for Fabel in the reception area. He was dressed in dark blue overalls and sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
‘I begged these from the hospital,’ he explained, plucking at the blue overalls. He grinned. ‘I’ll send you a dry-cleaning bill for my suit.’
‘You can send me the bill for a new one. I thought I was a goner for sure. I don’t know how I can begin to thank you for what you did.’
‘Armani would be a start.’ Flemming’s grin widened. He was a big man with huge shoulders but otherwise slim. Fabel reckoned that he was someone who was more than a hobby-fitness fan. He estimated Flemming’s age to be somewhere in his mid-forties. Beneath the dark, curling hair a scar traced its way to the corner of his eyebrow.
‘What’s your background?’ he asked Flemming. ‘I mean, before Seamark International?’
‘Polizei Kiel Harbour Police for ten years. Before that Kampfschwimmer Kompanie.’
Fabel raised an eyebrow. ‘Then it was my lucky day.’ The Kampfschwimmer Kompanie was the special-forces unit of the German Navy. Commando frogmen. ‘How long?’
‘Twelve years. So taking a dip to pull you out of the water was nothing. To join the Kompanie you have to be able to swim at least thirty metres underwater without scuba and be able to stay underwater for at least sixty seconds without breathing. So today really was no big deal.’
‘Trust me,’ said Fabel. ‘It was a big deal to me. Can I get you another coffee?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Pleasantries over, Fabel’s tone became more businesslike. ‘What exactly have you been doing tailing me for the last couple of weeks?’
‘You spotted me that long ago?’ Flemming gave a small laugh. ‘I must be slipping.’
‘Well?’
‘Mustafa Kebir is more than a client, he’s a friend. He knows about my background, so when his niece went missing he came to me. Obviously the first thing I did was tell him to go to the police, but he said that Meliha would resent that. She’s very anti-establishment.’
‘You do know that impersonating a police officer is a serious offence?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herr Fabel.’ Flemming’s expression remained open and frank. He was good, thought Fabel.
‘Someone had the brass balls to walk into Butenfeld, flash a Polizei Schleswig-Holstein badge and ask to see the torso that had been washed up at the Fischmarkt after the storm. I put it down to the Pharos Project, but now…’
Flemming shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.
‘Isn’t it a huge coincidence that “Commissar Honer” showed a Kiel division ID? You know, where you served… Listen, Flemming,’ Fabel turned in his chair to face the big man square on. ‘After what you did for me today, I don’t want to make any trouble for you. But I could get someone up here from the morgue to see if they can spot anyone who looks a little like the Schleswig-Holstein detective who turned up to view the torso…’
‘Okay. It was me. I wanted to see if it was Meliha.’
‘And?’
‘You saw that torso. The only way to get a positive ID is to check against familial DNA, which I’ll leave to you, now that you know where to find a family member.’
‘But your instinct?’
‘I don’t have one. When I saw the torso it had been degassed — you know, to stop it exploding — but it was still quite bulked up. It could be Meliha. But it could be anyone. As you can imagine, I’ve seen a lot of floaters over the years and they’re always very difficult to age and size up. Your Fischmarkt torso had certainly been in the water for a long time. And the longer the immersion, the more diffi
cult it is to age them accurately. For all my subterfuge, it really didn’t do me any good.’
‘Okay. I’ll arrange for a DNA comparison with Herr Kebir. In the meantime, you keep your nose clean and out of official police business.’
Flemming sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Okay. But if there’s anything I can do — and I mean anything — then I want you to let me know.’
‘I appreciate it,’ said Fabel. ‘You can start by going through everything you know about Meliha Kebir…’
The next day, Fabel was in the Presidium early. He had woken up with a start and had known that something bad had happened the day before but, for a few seconds, had forgotten what it was. He had sat upright in bed, a cold sweat on his brow, until it fell into place.
Susanne had always worried about the stress Fabel’s job placed him under. There had been a time when, driven by the bad dreams that he experienced almost nightly, he had himself considered giving up the Polizei Hamburg. But the look on Susanne’s face that morning had been far beyond anything that he had seen before; more like fear than worry. Someone had made a pretty good stab at killing him.
She clung to him as they said goodbye in the morning. She was working out of the Institute for Legal Medicine and, in a reversal of the normal routine, she had dropped him off at the Presidium first. And she had been punctual, which worried Fabel most of all.
When he entered the Murder Commission Fabel was confronted with grim determination. The full team was there, including the officers who were not slated for duty. It was clear that Nicola Bruggemann had called them all in and had given them an informal briefing on what had happened; several of them came up to Fabel, asked if he was okay and expressed their support, each with appropriate gravity. Fabel noticed that there was a Kevlar bulletproof waistcoat sitting upright on the desk behind Nicola Bruggemann.
‘We’ve talked it through, Chef,’ said Bruggemann, her face set hard, using the informal title to identify Fabel as her commanding officer, ‘and we feel you need some extra protection. Werner…?’ She stood to one side to let Fabel have a view of the body armour. Werner grabbed the vest and pulled it to one side, like a stage magician whipping the cover from a cage of freshly disappeared pigeons. The room exploded into laughter: on the desk, until now hidden by the bulletproof vest, was a pair of bright yellow inflatable water wings, each complete with the neck, head, and bright red bill of a duckling.
Laughing, Fabel slipped off his jacket and slid the water wings onto his shirt-sleeved arms. He became aware of a sudden sobriety in the room and turned to see Criminal Director van Heiden standing framed in the door.
‘Fabel… a word.’
Fabel self-consciously slipped the water wings off, ignoring the smirks of his team, and guided van Heiden into his office.
It was a brief meeting, and Fabel realised it was van Heiden’s way of making his support for his junior officer clear. The Criminal Director confirmed what Bruggemann had told Fabel in the hospital: that he was now fully back in charge of all investigations and that he was to take whatever measures necessary and could request whatever resources he needed. It was clear that van Heiden was still out of his depth, even more so than before, but someone had tried to kill one of his own and that had fired up every policeman’s instinct that van Heiden possessed.
‘I just don’t understand what is going on,’ said van Heiden, genuinely perplexed.
‘I do,’ said Fabel. ‘That’s why I was pushed into the river. I can’t prove any of it yet. And I doubt that we will ever be able to prove all of it, or any of it. But there’s clearly a danger that someone is going to make another attempt on my life because of it, so I’m going to tell you.’
It took Fabel ten minutes to explain. Van Heiden sat silent, taking it all in but never looking any less perplexed.
‘I’ll get it written up,’ said Fabel. ‘But if you don’t mind I won’t email it. I’ll have it hand-delivered to your office. I don’t know how much our email system is compromised.’
‘So you believe all this?’ asked van Heiden.
‘Yes, but like I say, I can’t prove it. I’ve called Herr Menke to discuss it with him. We need all the help we can get with this one.’
For some reason, Fabian Menke had responded to Fabel’s call by asking that they should meet, neither at the Presidium nor the BfV’s office. Instead, he suggested a venue on the south side of the river, down by the docks. Fabel took a pool car and parked behind Menke’s BMW 3 series. A very corporate car, thought Fabel and wondered if the security agent sold insurance policies in his own time. When he got out of his car, Fabel realised he was on another quayside, parked next to the water’s edge. The sudden frisson he felt surprised him and he realised he was afraid of the water.
‘Are you okay?’ Menke asked as the two men shook hands.
‘I’m fine. Just a bit shaken up after my last trip to the waterfront.’
‘Oh God, yes,’ said Menke. ‘I should have thought. A pretty insensitive venue. Sorry. Do you want to go somewhere else?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
Menke led the way along the quayside. From here Fabel could see the arc of Hamburg on the far shore, from the Kohlbrandbrucke bridge to the Speicherstadt and HafenCity. This side of the Elbe, the south shore, was the working heart of the city. Huge cranes behind them arranged freight containers in piled-high rows, like children’s building blocks.
‘Before we start,’ said Menke, ‘do you have a cellphone with you?’
‘Of course. But it’s switched off and I left it in the car.’
‘I see,’ said Menke. ‘You clearly recognise what we’re dealing with here.’
‘We’re dealing with an idea,’ said Fabel. ‘Not a reality. I know that these people have massive technological resources and skills at their disposal, but I still think they’re not as omniscient as their PR makes out.’
‘No?’ said Menke. ‘I work in the business of watching others, Fabel. And I have technology at my disposal that you couldn’t begin to imagine. I can sit outside someone’s home and see what they’re seeing on their computer monitor. I’m not talking about hacking into their WiFi or anything like that. They don’t have to be connected to a hub or a network at all. We even have keystroke analysis where we can tell what’s being typed into a computer without breaking into the hard drive… all done purely externally. Or take where we’re standing now… there are at least five national intelligence agencies who have access to satellite technology so sophisticated that they could have a good stab at deciphering what we’re saying to each other right now. You’ve read the material I sent you on the Pharos Project?’ he asked when they reached the pier’s end.
‘I have, yes. And the more I’ve read, the more I’m convinced the Pharos Project is connected to the death of Berthold Muller-Voigt and the disappearance of Meliha Yazar. I am also pretty certain they are directly or indirectly behind the murder of Daniel Fottinger, and I think I know why. I wanted to talk to you because I think you can help me put the pieces together with the Fottinger case.’
‘I’ll do anything I can, Herr Fabel.’
Fabel gave an appreciative nod. ‘We fished a body out of the river and I believe he’s the motorcycle rider involved in the attack on Fottinger. He’s the guy I sent you a note about: Harald Jaburg.’
‘I know,’ said Menke. ‘You’re right that Fottinger’s death was arranged indirectly.’ He paused, looking out over the water for a moment before turning back to Fabel. ‘Do you know anything about quantum physics — superposition, unified string theory, holographic principle, that kind of thing?’
‘In a word, no.’
‘Quantum theory is throwing up ideas that would make your head hurt. And every cult, street-corner messiah, New Age guru and nut-job is giving these theories a spin to try to give their loopy philosophies some kind of credibility. And they’re using them to snare the more vulnerable in our society.’ Menke took a packet of cigarettes out of his pock
et and offered one to Fabel, who shook his head. ‘Harald Jaburg is indeed a person of interest for the Bureau. As soon as the name went into the system I was alerted. He’s red-flagged: a known member of the Guardians of Gaia, an extreme environmental group.’
‘One of the extreme environmental groups you didn’t want to go into details about with Muller-Voigt?’ asked Fabel.
‘Exactly. This job has made me paranoid. The Guardians of Gaia believe in direct action against any individual, group or organisation they believe is endangering the environment. So far it’s been more protests and minor vandalism.’
‘Setting cars on fire?’ asked Fabel.
‘Among other things. Our intelligence is that they’re becoming more and more militant.’
‘There’s nothing more militant than four bullets in the head,’ said Fabel.
Menke shook his head emphatically. ‘No, that doesn’t seem right. As far as we’re aware, they haven’t yet injured anyone they see as the enemy, far less carried out internal executions. This is a weird one, all right. You mentioned in your message that Jaburg had a distinctive tattoo. The green gamma on the chest is their symbol for Gaia.’
‘The Greek goddess of the Earth?’
‘In name, yes. But their interpretation is more in the sense of the Gaia Hypothesis, formulated way back in the seventies. Back then it was considered weird and New Age-y, but now mainstream science is buying into it. It’s the belief that the Earth’s biosphere, of which we are part, is actually a single, integrated, living system. An organism in its own right.’
‘Sounds harmless enough,’ said Fabel.
‘Yes, well, the Guardians of Gaia has a distinctly paramilitary structure. They believe that “Gaia” is dying and that mankind is the infection that’s killing her. So I’m sure you understand our interest in the group. They see themselves as soldiers. Soldiers engaged in a war against the forces of globalisation and industrialisation. And in some ways against mankind itself.’
Fabel thought back to the pale, skinny corpse of a young man lying on a mortuary trolley. ‘I think someone may have just fired the first shot.’
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