‘Is Frolov still here?’ asked Fabel.
‘Yep. Back inside for the moment. We moved him into a MOWAG armoured unit until we did a full sweep of the restaurant for a second bomb. It’s an old terrorist trick: set off one bomb prematurely to send a mass of people running for cover to exactly the place where they’ve hidden the second, bigger device. But nothing.’
‘We’re not dealing with a terrorist here.’ Fabel frowned. A bomb. ‘But it doesn’t fit my suspect either.’
‘Oh?’ said Timmermann. ‘Why?’
‘The bomber missed his or her target. My girl doesn’t miss. Ever. The other thing is I wouldn’t put a bomb down as her choice of weapon. A bomb is the weapon of choice of the indiscriminate and the cowardly – the terrorist at the end of the command wire or who has set the timer in advance to keep as much distance as possible between himself and potential harm, without caring how many innocent people get in the way.’
‘And that doesn’t fit with who you had in mind?’
‘No – I’m dealing with a perfectionist. A precision thinker and worker. This is all too … too sloppy. This doesn’t feel right for my girl.’
‘I’m not too sure, Jan,’ said Timmermann. ‘I’d take issue with this not being a precision weapon. The confinement of the blast and the sophistication of the explosive and the device … Like I said, the only thing that doesn’t fit with me is that the bomber didn’t shield the detonator from third-party radio transmissions.’
‘Anyway,’ said Fabel. ‘I think it’s time I had a chat with our Russki chum.’
‘I’d do that,’ agreed Timmermann. ‘Frolov’s own security people are kicking up. They’re all ex-Soviet special-forces types. All they’re interested in is putting as much distance as possible between Frolov and the scene.’
‘Then I’ll try not to detain him. See you later, Sepp.’
There was even more glass inside the restaurant than there was on the street outside. Fabel again had to hold up his ID to an MEK cop wearing a black riot suit and body armour and cradling a Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistol.
The tables nearest the windows were empty and Fabel noticed the strange mix of the normal and the abnormal that one always found at scenes of sudden, violent crime. One table had the food still in place, untouched on its plates, the restaurant’s exclusive cutlery untouched and the expensive table linen still white and crisp, except for a vivid spatter of blood that had begun to spider at the edges, like red ink spilled on a blotter. Dark droplets dotted the knocked-over silver candlestick. Other tables had been upended, either by the blast or by panicked diners rushing to seek refuge at the rear of the restaurant.
A man in his fifties with greying blond hair and a goatee beard sat at one of the tables at the back with a group of other men. Two were standing, watching Fabel as he approached. Fabel could tell from their conformation that these were not the brains of the outfit.
‘Herr Frolov?’ As Fabel drew near, one of the bodyguards placed a restraining hand on Fabel’s shoulder. Fabel looked up at the heavy and smiled.
‘I’m going to have you arrested if your hand is still there by the time I finish this sentence. Do you understand, Ivan?’
The man with the goatee said something in Russian to the heavy and the hand was lifted.
‘Yes, I’m Herr Frolov.’ He stood up. ‘And you are?’
Fabel held up his ID. ‘Principal Chief Commissar Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg Murder Commission.’
‘Murder? But no one was …’ Frolov made a sweeping gesture with his hands that indicated the chaos in the restaurant.
‘I know. More by chance than anything, I have to say. But my main interest in this incident is that it may be connected to some other murders. And you were the target.’
‘Undoubtedly.’ The Russian spoke with only a slight accent and his German had the near-perfect grammar of someone who had studied the language seriously. ‘The device was placed in my car. By the way, you must excuse the zealousness of Ivan and my other protectors. As you can imagine, they are rather agitated by what has happened.’
‘Who did it?’ asked Fabel.
‘The bomb?’
‘You must have some ideas,’ said Fabel.
‘Because I have so many enemies?’ Frolov smiled bitterly. ‘That would be because I’m a Russian oligarch, wouldn’t it? And that means, of course, that I can’t be entirely straight. Scratch a Russian businessman and you’ll expose an organised criminal. Isn’t that right?’
‘Herr Frolov, you’re doing all the talking here. I didn’t imply anything by my question. And I know that you’re not a crook. I’ve already checked you out.’
Frolov laughed. ‘Corporate crime division?’
‘And organised crime. Both say you’re clean.’
‘Ah, but do you believe them, Herr Fabel? Someone with my wealth and influence could bury a lot of embarrassing evidence under a mountain of money.’
‘They have no evidence against you – which doesn’t mean that you’re not involved with anything criminal. But, for what it’s worth, I’ve had years of dealing with crooks and I can smell them a mile away.’
‘And do I smell, Herr Fabel?’ Frolov seemed to be trying to read something in Fabel’s face.
‘No. You don’t.’
‘I do not do anything that is illegal. You have my word. I broke the laws of the former Soviet Union, I was a black marketeer. I sold illicitly distilled vodka and dealt in prohibited luxury goods. But that was the only way to do business back then. My crime was to be a businessman in a society that criminalised entrepreneurship. But this is not the Soviet Union. Hamburg is built on entrepreneurship. I don’t have to break the law to be what I am. In fact, I am a champion of the rule of law here.’
‘Like I said,’ said Fabel, ‘I believe you.’
‘But you don’t understand what I’m saying. I’m explaining why I was targeted.’
‘Because you don’t break the law?’
‘Because I scrupulously investigate every deal I’m potentially involved in. I have any potential partner examined to the tiniest detail. And if I find anything untoward, I report it to the relevant authorities.’
‘Were you about to report something?’ asked Fabel.
‘I don’t think whoever planted the bomb was sure what I was or wasn’t going to discuss with OLAF next week.’
‘Did you say Olaf?’ Fabel felt something tingle on his neck. The name in Jespersen’s notebook. ‘Who exactly is Olaf?’
‘Not who – what. OLAF is the European Anti-Fraud Office. OLAF is an acronym of its French title, Office Européen de Lutte Anti-Fraude.’
‘Of course.’ Fabel shook his head. ‘I just didn’t make the connection.’
Frolov looked at Fabel for a moment. ‘I take it this information has some significance for you?’
‘You could say that,’ said Fabel.
‘Anyway,’ continued Frolov, ‘I report anything dodgy to OLAF, Europol, Eurojust or Interpol. I have contacts in each organisation. But I have fewer and fewer opportunities to do so these days: word has got out about how I operate, so it tends to be only those businesses who have nothing to hide who approach me.’
‘But you have something you want to talk to OLAF about?’
‘I arranged to send them some information and talk to them next week. I’m guessing that this little firework display was intended to dissuade me.’
‘So you think this was a warning rather than a serious attempt on your life?’ asked Fabel.
‘Trust me, I was not meant to die. You see, my death would change nothing: the papers would still go to OLAF with or without my presence. This bomb was intended to scare me off sending the information on to OLAF and from having any more discussions with them.’
‘Then you know who’s behind it all?’
‘Tell me, Herr Fabel, do you have any suggestions? Something tells me that you might.’ Frolov smiled. It was a charming smile and Fabel guessed it came from the oligarch’s arsena
l of business weapons.
‘I’d rather it came from you, Herr Frolov.’
‘I have interests in every corner of Europe and I was dealing with a Balkan-based company. My investigators came up with a connection to cigarette smuggling into the EU. That in turn led us to a non-governmental organisation which was fraudulently benefiting from EU funding while in turn funding the warehousing and distribution of contraband cigarettes. Small-time stuff.’
‘Enough to go to all this trouble?’ Fabel indicated the shattered restaurant.
‘Not in itself.’ The smile had left Frolov’s face. ‘My staff includes what you would call forensic accountants and, well, private investigators. One of the investigators died recently in a car crash. He was drunk and speeding. Except I knew him personally – a Karelian called Kontinen. His father had died of alcoholism and Kontinen was a sworn teetotaller. He was also a very thorough man. And a careful driver. So we dug deeper. Kontinen had been looking into our Balkan partner but had come across something much, much bigger.’
‘What?’
‘Kontinen had found out that the company in the Balkans had been using a Serb warlord-cum-gangster as a subcontractor.’
‘Goran Vujaić?’
Frolov stared at Fabel for a moment. ‘Do I sense that our paths have just crossed?’
‘Tell me more about Vujaić’s operation,’ said Fabel.
‘First of all you need to know that Kontinen had discovered that Vujaić was involved in some dirty business out there that was not connected to the company we were investigating. Vujaić was as scummy as they come: a drug and human trafficker who was selling women into slavery and prostitution. He had been moving and warehousing the contraband cigarettes for the Balkan company, but he had also been subcontracting for somebody out here in the West.’
‘What kind of subcontracting?’
‘Vujaić ran three warehouses, using women as slave labourers. We tipped off the Serbian authorities and Vujaić disappeared. Unfortunately, so did the women. What happened to them we don’t know. Vujaić moved into major drug trafficking and ended up dead. In the meantime, we believe he found a new location for the greenwashing operation.’
‘China?’ asked Fabel.
‘Our paths cross again … yes. Western China.’
‘What exactly do you mean by greenwashing?’
‘One thing I’ve learned as a businessman is that the environment is setting the agenda these days. There are a thousand and one legislative and regulatory bodies out there ready to shut you down if you breach environmental standards. Greenwashing is when you take action on the cheap to make it appear that you’re complying. Green plus whitewashing equals greenwashing – get it? Anyway, one of the things you do is fake shipment manifests for sensitive waste and send it out of the regulatory zone to somewhere like an impoverished former Soviet republic—’
‘Or China or the Balkans.’
‘Exactly,’ said Frolov. ‘But less so the Balkans nowadays. Democratisation and regeneration are the enemies of this kind of enterprise. Anyway, you ship the stuff out of the regulatory zone, in this case the EU, and when you ship it back it’s been processed. Or it simply disappears. But the point is that because it’s been outside the regulatory zone, there’s no health-and-safety or any other control on the conditions or pay of the workers.’
‘So what was being greenwashed?’
‘Electronics, mobile phones, that kind of thing. Our investigator, before he died, had been in touch with a Norwegian journalist who had gathered some evidence. The journalist had obtained some samples from the warehouses and had got conclusive results. What they were I don’t know, my people are still trying to trace the journalist.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Fabel. ‘The journalist and the analyst he sent the samples to are both dead. They were getting close to proving something because the killer didn’t even take the time to try and fake accidents. They were both shot in the head. Professional executions.’
‘I see …’ Frolov sighed.
‘But I know what they were testing for,’ continued Fabel. ‘Polybrominated diphenyl ethers. And I know where the operation was moved to: Hunan Province in China and Bitola in Macedonia, although I guess Vujaić had to quit Macedonia too.’
A black-uniformed MEK officer came over.
‘We can move Herr Frolov out now, Chief Commissar.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Fabel. Then, to Frolov: ‘You’re their number-one target now – you realise that, don’t you? As soon as Vujaić got himself caught he had enough information to perhaps do a deal with the Danish police. So he was killed in Copenhagen. They killed your investigator, then Halvorsen, the Norwegian journalist, and Sparwald, the analytical chemist. Each of them died for having part of the evidence. And you have it all.’
‘I guess I’d better keep a low profile …’ Frolov shrugged. ‘Now, Herr Fabel, are you going to tell me the name of who was behind all this? Or shall I tell you?’
‘I’m investigating three other murders,’ said Fabel. ‘Armin Lensch, who worked for Norivon, an environmental waste-management company and part of the NeuHansa Group. Peter Claasens, a shipping agent who managed Norivon traffic – I’m guessing one or both of them tripped up over some irregularity and were killed before they got the chance to tell anyone, or even work out the real significance of what they had found. Then there was the murder of Jake Westland, the British rock star.’
‘He was involved with this? I thought that was the work of some crazed serial killer.’
‘That’s what you were supposed to think. The truth is that Westland was as careful with his investments as you are. He obviously smelt a rat. Because of his … well, his ancestry, I suppose you’d say, he would be particularly sensitive to anything that suggested the abuse of women. Poor bastard, he was probably lured to his death thinking he was meeting someone with information.’
‘So you already suspected Gina Brønsted?’ asked Frolov.
‘Yes. Or at least some element within the NeuHansa Group.’
‘Trust me, Herr Fabel. Look no further than Brønsted. You said you’ve developed a nose for crooks over your years as a policeman. Well, believe me, you develop the same kind of instinct when you’re in business. I’m sure you have a lot of experience with sociopaths in your line of work. Well, so do I. A certain ruthlessness, a lack of empathy, even a lack of conscience is positively encouraged amongst the commercially ambitious. The next time you talk to Gina Brønsted, take a long look into her eyes. I promise you, you’ll find nothing there.’
Fabel could see that Frolov was sincere about what he was saying. Whether it was Brønsted or not behind the attack, it was clear that Fabel had been wrong: this bombing was the work of the Valkyrie. She had deliberately missed with the same precision with which she usually hit her target. A warning. Timed perfectly.
‘Where were you when the bomb went off?’ he asked the Russian.
‘Here – this was our table. With things the way they are, we thought it was a good idea to sit away from the window.’
‘We?’
‘Frau Schilmann. An ex-colleague of yours. She’s been coordinating my security here. Much to the annoyance of Ivan.’
‘Well,’ said Fabel, ‘if you don’t mind we’ll take over now. Consider yourself under the protection of the Polizei Hamburg until you leave.’ He frowned. ‘Frau Schilmann suggested that you sit here?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she went outside?’
‘Yes. She chose the wrong moment to take a cigarette break.’
‘Okay,’ said Fabel, with a smile. ‘Let’s get you somewhere safe.’
3.
‘We’re in a race against time.’ Fabel stood at the front of the inquiry room, the screen lowered behind him. The forty to fifty officers assembled were reduced to shapes edged with the light from the projector. ‘We have been keeping a murder under wraps for as long as we can. Drescher – or Gerdes as he was known – lived a solitary enough life, but he
had neighbours, knew women, probably socialised with people we haven’t traced yet. He’s being missed right now, and it’s only a matter of time before his death becomes public.’
Fabel clicked the remote. The state hospital photograph of Paulus came up on screen.
‘This is Drescher’s killer: Margarethe Paulus. Dr Eckhardt suggests that she is probably psychotic rather than psychopathic. She is delusional. But her wildest story of all happens to be true. She is a Valkyrie. One of three highly trained and disciplined professional female assassins. The names of the other two Valkyries are Liane Kayser and Anke Wollner – although we can be sure that neither of them have used their real name in years. It looks like one of them, Liane Kayser, was either rejected in the same way Margarethe was or has gone her own way under an assumed identity. That leaves Anke Wollner, who seems to be our best bet to be the Valkyrie. Although, as I say, it’s all pretty academic. These names are useless to us because the full machinery of the Stasi was brought to bear on hiding them and creating new identities.’ Fabel clicked the remote and another face filled the screen.
‘This is Gennady Frolov. He’s the other reason we’re under pressure. He’s had his final warning from the Valkyrie – in the shape of the bomb down by the harbour. Now he’s on borrowed time. The Valkyrie never misses.’
‘She missed with the bomb,’ said someone from near the back.
‘No, she didn’t. Like I said: a warning.’
Another click.
‘These are the personal ads that have come out in this month’s issue of Muliebritas. We have – or rather Commissar Wolff’s friend has – matched the frequency and style of all the previous ads, including the tell-tale three-letter code that identifies each ad as a message carrier: it tells the Valkyrie that Drescher wants to meet with her in the Alsterpark next to the Fährdamm. Eleven-thirty, Wednesday. So if our girl has picked this message up, and believes it’s genuinely from Drescher, then we’re in business tomorrow.’
Another click.
The Valkyrie Song Page 33
