The Carnival Master

by Craig Russell

  Margaret Fabel shook her head, smiling reproachfully. ‘Sometimes, Jan, knowledge isn’t the answer to everything. That painting is what you think it is when you look at it. Not what its history makes it. That was another thing about you. You always had to know things. Find things out. You becoming a policeman isn’t really the great mystery you think it is.’

  Fabel looked again at the painting. Not night, day. Not police, an armed militia. A few days ago he would have said that it had more to do with Breidenbach, the young MEK trooper, than with Fabel. But Breidenbach had died defining what it meant to be a policeman: placing himself in harm’s way to protect the ordinary citizen. They changed the subject and talked about Fabel’s brother Lex for a while, and how his restaurant on the island of Sylt was doing its best business for years. Then Fabel’s mother asked about Susanne.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Is everything all right between you two?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ She frowned. Fabel noticed the deepening creases in her brow. Age had crept up on his mother without him noticing. ‘It’s just that you don’t talk about Susanne so much these days. I do hope everything is all right. She’s a lovely person, Jan. You’re lucky to have found her.’

  Fabel put his cup down. ‘Do you remember that case I was involved with last year? The one that took such a terrible toll on Maria Klee?’

  Margaret Fabel nodded.

  ‘There was a terrorist connection to the case. I got involved in investigating anarchist and radical groups that had kind of faded into the background. Raking up the past, I suppose you’d call it.’

  ‘But what has this to do with Susanne?’

  ‘I was sent a file. Background information more than anything. One of the photographs was of a guy called Christian Wohlmut. It was taken about nineteen-ninety, when German domestic terrorism was on its last legs. Wohlmut wanted to breathe new life into it. He sent parcel and letter bombs to US interests in Germany. Amateur stuff and most were intercepted or failed to go off. But one was professional enough to maim a young secretarial worker in an American oil company’s office in Munich. That’s where Wohlmut was based. Munich. And that’s where Susanne studied.’

  ‘It’s a big city, Jan,’ said his mother. But her frown indicated that she was already ahead of him.

  ‘There was a girl in the photograph with Wohlmut. It was blurred and she was only ever described as “unknown female”.’

  ‘Susanne?’ Fabel’s mother put her cup back in the saucer. ‘No! You can’t believe that Susanne could ever have been involved with terrorism?’

  Fabel shrugged and took another sip of tea. He had forgotten the sugar at the bottom and got a mouthful of nauseous sweetness. ‘I don’t know what her involvement with Wohlmut was. But I do know she’s very defensive, almost secretive, about her student days. And there was some guy in her past who she says was manipulative and domineering. It was I who suggested we should move in together … Susanne was wary at first because of some bad experience she’d had.’

  ‘And you think it was this terrorist, Wohlmut?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So what if it was? What does that matter now? If she didn’t actually do anything wrong – I mean, break the law?’

  ‘But that’s exactly it, Mutti … I’ll never know for sure that she wasn’t actively involved.’

  ‘You’re not seriously thinking about confronting her with this?’

  ‘She knows something’s wrong. She keeps on at me to find out what it is. Things aren’t so good between us and she knows I’m stalling over moving in together.’

  ‘Susanne works with the police, Jan. If her political views in the past were so radical, I don’t see her doing that.’

  ‘People change, Mutti.’

  ‘Then accept her for who she is now Jan. Unless …’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless you are simply using this as an excuse for you to get out of the relationship.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve got to know. I have to know what the truth is.’

  ‘Like I said, Jan,’ his mother smiled at him in the same way she had when he had been ‘such a serious little boy’ and she had sought to reassure him about something, ‘knowledge isn’t always the answer to everything.’

  3.

  The British had bombed Cologne to a pile of rubble. So much so that there had been a serious suggestion at the end of the war that the city shouldn’t be rebuilt. Just moved. But the cathedral had remained standing to remind everyone that this was Germany’s oldest city and deserved a new life. So they had rebuilt Cologne. Unfortunately, whole chunks of the city were brought back to an artificial and sterile form of life. Chorweiler was a perfect example of the kind of place architects and city planners at dinner parties would boast about creating, but would never themselves contemplate living in.

  When Maria thought about Slavko and his countrymen, she couldn’t believe that they thought that Chorweiler, with its towering clumps of multi-storey apartment blocks, was really the end of the rainbow. Chorweiler lay to the far north of the city and Maria reckoned that Viktor would start his Saturday pick-up run here and work his way back toward the city centre. She was pretty sure she had worked out which of the high-rises contained Slavko’s flat and she parked the Saxo some distance down the street from the block and sat with the engine switched off.

  Contrary to its depiction in American movies, surveillance from a car was not always the best way of keeping tabs on someone’s movements. Most of the time people would walk by a car and not notice anyone sitting in it, but once they did they would notice every time they passed. Maria was dressed in her grungy clothes and she had slumped slightly in the driver’s seat so that her head did not project above the headrest. Her main disadvantage was that she had no photograph of her surveillance target. She didn’t even have much of a description of Viktor from Slavko to go on. At about eleven-thirty an Audi pulled up and a big-built man of about forty went into the apartment building. Maria noted down the time and the make, model and licence number of the car. She had brought a small digital camera with a half-decent zoom, and she took a photograph of the man as he went into the building, then again as he came out with a younger man. Maria could tell that this was not her man and she didn’t follow the Audi when he drove off. She settled back down. The clothes she had bought were too big for her, but they were warm and comfortable. More importantly, the body she hated became lost in their bagginess.

  It was about twenty past noon when Viktor pulled up. Maria was in no doubt that this was Viktor. He had ‘organised crime, lower echelons’ written all over him – his clothes, his car. It sometimes felt as if Vasyl Vitrenko and his lieutenants were spectres, without form. It had only been at the very end of a long and detailed investigation that Fabel and Maria had actually come face to face with Vitrenko, and then only for a few deadly minutes. It was through people like Viktor that the Vitrenko organisation had form and visibility. Conspicuous visibility as far as Viktor was concerned. He was a large man, over two metres in height. He wore a long black leather coat that strained to contain his massive shoulders and his hair was dyed bright blond. The vehicle he double-parked outside the apartment block was a vast 1960s American ocean liner of a car. Maria took several photographs and made her notes. She guessed that Viktor would not be in the apartment building long, so she turned the key in the ignition of her own car and readied herself.

  As it happened, Viktor was in the building for nearly half an hour. A delivery van came along the street and could not pass Viktor’s Chrysler and the driver blasted his horn several times impatiently. When Viktor did eventually emerge, carrying a package bound in black plastic, the driver leaned from his cab window and berated the Ukrainian loudly. Viktor ignored him completely, walked round the Chrysler, opened the cavernous trunk and dropped the package in. Then, in the same unhurried manner, he walked over to the delivery van, wren
ched the door open, pulled the driver from his cabin and head-butted him with such force that the back of the man’s head slammed into the side of the van and he slid unconscious onto the road. Viktor calmly took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood that had splashed on his face, walked back to the car and drove off to where the narrow residential street joined the main road, the Weichselring, that looped around Chorweiler like a restraining lasso.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ Maria said to herself. ‘You’re definitely Viktor.’ She pulled out and realised that she now had the same problem that the van driver had had: the van now prevented her from following Viktor’s car. She looked at the van driver lying crumpled on the ground. In the same situation in Hamburg she would have given up the pursuit and made sure that the driver was okay. But this wasn’t Hamburg. Slamming the Saxo into reverse, Maria cut up a side street. On the way in she had driven up Mercatorstrasse, the main route into Chorweiler and guessed that Viktor would be heading along Weichselring in its direction.

  She took two rights, which she reckoned would bring her out onto the Weichselring. It didn’t. She cursed and looked wildly around for some landmark that would give her a clue to which direction she should take. She floored the accelerator and drove at high speed towards where the street swung left. She took the next right and saw the traffic on Mercatorstrasse. Maria had bypassed Weichselring completely. She reached the end of the street and was stopped at a red light. She scanned the Mercatorstrasse in both directions but could see no sign of Viktor’s distinctive Chrysler. The lights changed but she still had no idea which way to turn and didn’t move off. A car had come up behind her and the driver sounded his horn. She looked in her mirror to mouth a curse. A colossal American car with a colossal Ukrainian driver. She held her hand up in apology and pulled out onto Mercatorstrasse, turning left and hoping that Viktor would do the same. He did. Maria had no idea how she had managed to beat Viktor to the junction, but now the target she had intended to follow was following her. Her mouth became dry at the thought that it might not be coincidence but intention. Could he have spotted her outside the apartment block? Viktor did not look to Maria as if he was the most highly trained of Vitrenko’s goons. He was all thug and no soldier, she thought. But, there again, most Ukrainian and Russian gangsters had a Spetsnaz background and the way Viktor had dealt with the van driver had certainly been expert if a little unsubtle. She pulled up at the next set of traffic lights, looking in her mirror to check if Viktor was indicating a turn. He wasn’t, so she went straight on. He followed. Up ahead there were a couple of free parking bays. Maria indicated and pulled into one. Viktor drove by without looking in her direction and Maria let another couple of cars pass before pulling back out. She sighed with relief. As far as she could see the anonymity of her car had protected her from detection and she fixed her attention on the ridiculous tail fins of Viktor’s 1960s Chrysler, three cars ahead of her.

  They drove south through the city for about fifteen minutes without going back onto the A57 autobahn that had brought her to Chorweiler. Viktor made two stops to collect, both in run-down areas. After the second stop Maria became concerned when she found herself immediately behind Viktor, the two previously intervening cars having turned off at different junctions. She held back as much as she could, but whenever they stopped at traffic lights she ended up bumper to bumper with Viktor. If he looked in his rear-view mirror, he would see her face clearly. She tugged her woollen hat further down over her brow. Maria no longer had a clue where she was, but she tried to make a mental note of the road endings she passed. They were still within the city but the architecture changed from residential to industrial and she became painfully aware that there were fewer cars on the road, making her tailing more conspicuous. Eventually they passed under the autobahn and came into another residential area indicated by a yellow Stadtteil sign as Ossendorf. She noted the name of the road they passed along, Kanalstrasse, and followed Viktor as he turned along a street lined with four-storey apartment blocks. Now her and Viktor’s were the only cars driving along it. Maria decided to break off rather than risk Viktor identifying her as a tail. She took the next on the left, did a U-turn to face the road she had left and parked at the kerb.

  Maria cursed under her breath. She took the Cologne street plan from the glove compartment and checked Ossendorf. Her instincts had been right. This was a residential area and not a short cut to anywhere else. Either Viktor lived here or he was doing another pick-up. She would wait half an hour. If it was another pick-up, then he would probably come out of the area before the half-hour was up, and more than likely by the same way he had come in. And if she were unsuccessful either way, then she would watch Slavko’s apartment every day and pick up his trail again.

  Maria was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since her insubstantial breakfast of coffee and toast. And with the engine off she couldn’t switch on the heater. Her lightly fleshed frame felt chilled to the bone. That old feeling. The cold made her scared. She looked at her watch: three-fifteen. Already the sky was dark with more than the clouds. If it got any darker she would have significant trouble locating Viktor’s car. She remembered her shock at finding Viktor’s car behind her at the traffic lights. What if it hadn’t been a coincidence? What if he had been onto her from the start? All kinds of irrational fears began to well up inside her. Suddenly an idea came to her and she spun around suddenly to make sure that Viktor’s car wasn’t there, sitting behind her in over-styled American menace. It wasn’t. She turned to face front again. Pull yourself together, she told herself. For God’s sake get a grip.

  It was then that she saw the improbably long profile of Viktor’s Chrysler glide past the road end. She had been right: it had been a collection and he was heading back. Maria switched on the car lights, started the engine, and headed after him.

  4.

  Thirteen … fourteen … fifteen …

  Andrea counted each one silently and focused on her breathing, each inhalation hissed through tight-drawn lips.

  Sixteen … seventeen …

  She had added two kilos to the bench press. If she did twenty reps, three sets, that would mean that by the end of her routine she would have lifted an extra one hundred and twenty kilos.

  Eighteen … nineteen …

  She felt the muscles around her jaw set hard with every push. No need for a facelift if you did this kind of thing. It was called radiated stress. The whole idea was that with each exercise you isolated one part of your body, one set of muscles, to maximise the benefit to that area. But the muscle and sinew of neck and jaw always strained under the effort. The first sign of someone beginning a weight work regime wasn’t on their bodies, it was in their face.

  Twenty.

  Andrea eased the bench press slowly back to its resting position. It was the great thing about multi-gym equipment: you didn’t need a spotter to buddy you through your routine. But Andrea knew that when it came to building bulk and definition, it was the free weight that worked best: the system used since the gymnasia of the Greeks and Romans. But using this high-tech equipment freed her from the need to engage with anyone else in the gym.

  She took a slug of water from her bottle, sprayed the bench seat and back with anti-bacterial spray and wiped everything down. The etiquette of the gym. She liked coming at this time of night. It was always quiet. Few people, no noise, no chat. Even the usual dance-track muzak was switched off.

  Andrea moved across to the leg-extension machine. She performed a set of stretches to elongate and align the tendons of her legs before adjusting the seat and the cushioned shin bar. She pulled the pin from where the last person had set it and added ten kilos.

  One … two … three …

  Andrea felt the tight tingle that she knew was the signal that lactic acid was being released into the muscle tissue to lubricate and ease strain. It felt good. Sensual. A thrill ran through her limbs and chest. She knew these feelings came from her endocrine system releasing endorphins to combat the pain.r />
  Four … five … six …

  Her thighs were good. They responded to each abduction with a rope-ripple of muscle beneath her dark tanned skin. Yes, she was happy with her thighs. Her abs were probably her best feature, along with the stone-carved definition of her arms. It was her glutes that she was still disappointed with: both her medials and maxes. She spent hours working on them, but seemed unable to rid herself of the sheath of soft fat that cloaked their musculature.

  Ten … eleven …

  Andrea had six months until the competition. She had a good chance this time round, but her glutes would let her down. She had to work them harder. She would do an extra hour’s running tonight. Anything to try to burn off the last vestiges of the old Andrea. Soft Andrea. She thought of the couple in the café. About the girl and how she had let her boyfriend talk to her, treat her. The anger she felt whenever she thought about it drove her on harder. Another lift.

  Twelve … thirteen … fourteen …

  Andrea scowled through the pain of the lifts as a man came into the gym. She caught him staring at her. She met his gaze and he turned away to start his warm-up on the treadmill. Andrea was used to people looking at her. Some, like the man who had just come in, did so with an expression of part awe, part revulsion. And some, of course, just like the little shit in the café, with disgust.

  Fifteen … sixteen …

  What Andrea liked most was that moment when some men looked at her and were totally confused about their own reactions. In those faces she read a mixture of distaste and confused lust. And, of course, there was the way women looked at her. Andrea was proud of the body and the face she had sculpted for herself. Andrea the Amazon. She had added to the impact of her physical presence by dying her thick mane of hair platinum blonde. And she always wore expensive make-up: deep red lipstick and dark eyeshadow to emphasise the fire in her blue eyes.