by Reevik, Carl
Becker nodded. None of this was interesting, but now he could lead over to what had happened in the hotel.
Becker asked, ‘And you meet with your clients in the hotel across the street?’
‘Sometimes,’ Losch said. ‘But usually we just go there to have coffee and discuss among colleagues.’
Becker remembered what the receptionist had said about consultants going to the hotel pretending to be on a business trip. He couldn’t resist. ‘Why?’
Losch smiled faintly. ‘They put us into one big open office,’ he said. ‘Open, and bright, to encourage communication and the flow of ideas. In fact they turned it into a factory floor, squeezing in lots of cubicles to save money.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s our clients’ money, too, so I can’t object in principle. But if you want quiet, you better go someplace else.’
‘And what did you see there yesterday?’, Becker asked.
‘It was me and two colleagues,’ Losch replied. ‘There was a group of four men in the armchairs on the other side of the lobby. First it was just one, then the three others came in. They sat down and talked.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘No idea,’ Losch replied, ‘But they looked a bit tense. They weren’t just chatting. Then one of them got sick.’
Becker reached into his pocket and unfolded Zayek’s portrait that the man’s boss Theodorakis had printed out for him. ‘Was it this one?’
Losch frowned. ‘I think so, yes.’
‘And then?’
‘He ran to the toilet. Then one of the others followed him there.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one who had been there first.’
Becker raised his eyebrows. Not Tamberg, then.
Losch continued, ‘And then the second guy followed the first guy.’
‘Young or old?’
‘Young.’
So it wasn’t just Hans Tamberg, there’d been somebody else, the outsider, following Zayek first. This hotel must have had a very crowded toilet that day.
Becker asked, ‘Then what?’
‘We heard the explosion, and we went to have a look but we were told to leave, like the others.’
‘What others?’
‘Us, two women, they also work in our building, everybody.’
Becker nodded. This all made sense, but what about the man who had fought with Tamberg at the reception?
Becker asked, ‘Anybody else?’
Losch shook his head. ‘I don’t know, it was a bit confused. I don’t want to say anything wrong just because I can’t remember.’
‘Do you remember some fight, some commotion at the reception, before the explosion?’
Again Losch shook his head. ‘The whole thing was a big commotion.’
Becker nodded and took out the other picture Theodorakis had printed out. The security camera still from the entrance of the Commission building.
Becker asked, ‘Who is who on this picture?’
Losch took a look and pointed at Hans Tamberg. ‘That’s the younger one who got up and followed the other two. And that’s the older man who came in with him. He had some sort of heart attack after the explosion.’
Becker pocketed the picture and took out his notebook.
His computer made a sound. He moved his mouse and glanced at the revived screen. It was a message from the IT unit. Didier, We’ve been to Luxecur about the security camera footage, looks like Clara Weber is telling the truth. We went inside the system, did the usual checks and some of the unusual checks that we are allowed to do, and two more checks that we are not allowed to do. They have been hacked, it’s all gone, and no trace of who did it. Powerful stuff, this was a big company or a government or a small group with access to the resources of a big company or a government. Sorry, there is nothing else I can tell you.
Becker looked back up to his young visitor, business consultant Josy Losch.
‘Okay,’ Becker said. ‘Thank you, Mister Losch. Now let’s go through it once again, so I can write it all down. What was the name of your consultancy again?’
Rotterdam
All afternoon Hans had been sitting on a visitor’s chair in a corridor, slowly reading a glossy magazine with celebrity news about people half of whom he didn’t know, as visitors and policemen walked, strolled, hurried or ran past him. Most of the pictures were of nicely dressed men and women whose bodies had been neatly cut out from a photo and pasted onto a white background in the magazine. Since the photos had been shot at a weird angle, somewhere from above, the people looked oddly disproportionate, with large heads and short legs.
It was a relief to see Visser approach. Hans looked up to him as he came closer.
‘We got something back from Bulgaria. There is a man called Boris Zayek from Sofia,’ Visser said. ‘His parents reported him missing five years ago. He was thirty-four when he disappeared. They didn’t find anything. The case is open but cold. Probably they’ll pronounce him dead soon. Is that what you were looking for?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Your room should be ready by now. Go downstairs, to section B-3, and tell them who you are. You’ll get a sort of dinner there, too. Tomorrow morning you can report to the guard at the rear exit to the parking lot. Someone will take you to the airport. Good night, and good luck.’
They shook hands. Hans’s opinion of Visser was neither completely positive nor completely negative. He was efficiently and pragmatically helpful, that much was clear. But the final conclusion would be something on balance. Yet then everybody and everything was something on balance.
Luxembourg
The man at the other end of the line apologised. ‘Chief prosecutor Majerus is in a court session right now.’ It was the assistant who had taken notes in the car that morning. ‘It’s running late, I don’t think he’ll even return to the office. He’ll probably go straight home.’
Becker tapped with his pen on the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. The page was covered in his handwritten notes, including Doctor Offerbrück’s fresh conclusion about the DNA. Now another cloud of dots was being added to the writing.
‘Okay,’ Becker said. ‘If you reach him, tell him to call me, please.’
‘Yes, Inspector, I… wait, there he is, hold the line.’ The line went mute at the push of a button. There wasn’t any music, it was just the absence of sound. Becker was glad in particular about the absence of music. A few moments later Majerus himself picked up the phone.
‘Hello Didier, I’ve got to head back in five minutes, is it a quick question or a long question?’
Becker thought for a moment.
Majerus continued, ‘That means it’s long, and I can imagine it would be, in a case like this. You know what, come over to our house after dinner, we’ll talk there, all right?’
What an odd invitation, but Becker knew better than that. He was both enough of a subordinate and enough of a relative to accept it without feeling somehow offended.
Becker asked, ‘Ten, eleven?’
‘Let’s say eleven. I’ll open us some port wine.’
Becker preferred chilled dry white wine.
‘Great, see you later.’
***
Christine half-embraced Becker to receive two pecks on her cheeks. ‘How are you, Didier?’, she asked. ‘You must be very tired. And it is your special day, is it not? Happy birthday.’
Becker shrugged and looked past her into the dancehall-sized living room. He didn’t mean to be rude, and it wasn’t like he actively disliked Majerus’s wife. To the contrary, at some point he’d had something of a crush on her. But it had faded quickly, mostly because all that time, both before and after Becker’s divorce, she had treated him like a fellow attendant of a cocktail reception, just like she was doing now. It had become fairly clear fairly early on that her husband was aiming for the top level in his career, far above senior prosecutor. And it seemed that she had made it her life’s mission to be the chief prosecutor’s wife, maybe the justice
minister’s wife at some point. She and Becker were almost distant relatives, distant enough to not have grown up together and resent each other, but close enough to feel a bond of solidarity that went beyond mere acquaintance. But here the husband of your husband’s cousin comes in, and what do you say? Oh, you must be very tired. Yes yes, the caviar canapés, aren’t they delicious?
‘Didier, come in,’ Majerus called from the living room. He held a bottle of port in one hand and two glasses in the other.
Christine let go of Becker and flashed her phenomenally white teeth. ‘I’m sure you have work matters to discuss, Jacques has been waiting for you.’
She led Becker into the living room and disappeared, floating away into one of the other fifty or hundred rooms in this house. Becker didn’t wish Majerus any evil, but in moments like that he wondered what would happen if the ruling class’s nightmare did come true. The banks leaving the country, everybody trying to sell their obscenely expensive houses all at once. Majerus was living in a villa in one of the poshest areas outside Luxembourg city. The value of the plot alone, even without the house, could feed a whole family for two decades in most European countries.
‘Please, let’s sit down,’ Majerus said as Becker came closer. The master of the house was wearing a suit and tie. Maybe it was still from the dinner he’d just had, which no doubt had been a business dinner with some fellow semi-politician or better. It fit the interior of the room, which reminded Becker a lot of the interior of the American embassy. It was very cosy, especially now that it was dark outside while the room was pleasantly lit by discreetly positioned lamps emitting a warm light. But it was artificial, like a picture from an upmarket furniture catalogue. No doubt Christine had hired an interior decorator, or a whole team.
Becker sat down on a couch, Majerus took an armchair and poured the dark sweet liquid into the glasses.
‘I like the port,’ Majerus said as he put the bottle upright on the glass coffee table between them. ‘But I don’t get to drink it a lot. I’m expected to be seen drinking Luxembourgish sparkling wine.’ He grimaced and grinned. ‘Cheers!’
Becker picked up his glass, lifted it looking into Majerus’s eyes, and took a sip. It felt sweet on his tongue and warm in his throat. He put his glass back down.
‘So tell me,’ Majerus said, keeping his own glass in his hand. ‘How far are we on the Zayek case?’
‘You think this is about Zayek?’, Becker asked, not really knowing why. No, actually he did know why.
Majerus looked somewhat puzzled. ‘What else could it be?’
‘Of course it’s Zayek,’ Becker said. Now he was ready to tell him. ‘And I’ll be completely honest with you.’
Becker made himself comfortable on the sofa. Majerus took another sip and listened, choosing not to say anything.
‘This is what I have,’ Becker said. ‘The victim’s identity is not the problem. We matched the body’s DNA to a sample from where he lived. The quick test came back positive, which means the thorough test is unlikely to be negative. The fingerprints from his workplace were also a match. It’s him. So what I do know is that Boris Zayek exploded in the toilet.’
Majerus waited and said, ‘And the rest is shrouded in mystery and contradictions, I assume.’
‘Exactly, Jacques. It is. Right before the explosion the hotel receptionist sees some kind of brawl between three men: Hans Tamberg from the Commission, an unknown man in a black leather jacket who may or may not have had dark hair, and an American officer. Nobody’s on camera because the footage was swept clean, our technical people confirmed it. In the explosion itself a symbol that looks like a Russian letter got imprinted into the inside of the victim’s skull. Offerbrück from forensics says it’s part of the fuse.’
Majerus put his glass down and rested his hands on the sides of his armchair. He was still listening.
Becker continued, ‘We know nothing about the man in the black jacket. About the American we know what the American embassy wants us to know, which is that he was just visiting and has nothing to say. We only know a little something about Hans Tamberg.’
Becker didn’t want to start smoking in here, even if it was odourless, so he took another sip of port.
Then he carried on. ‘Tamberg says he was part of an internal anti-fraud investigation at the Commission. There were four people in his party, he said it himself and it’s confirmed by other witnesses from the lobby. There is Tamberg himself, plus an older man named Tienhoven who is his boss, then Zayek the victim, and a fourth man who Tamberg said is an outsider.’
‘What do you think the sequence of events was?’, Majerus asked. He picked up his glass, finished it and poured himself another one.
‘I’ll start with the end,’ Becker said. ‘The easiest theory is that Boris Zayek went to the toilet and committed suicide. But what came before that is dubious as hell. Four men go into a hotel with a convenient security camera malfunction which we know is a hack. One of the men runs to the toilet and explodes. The second is the outsider. He follows Zayek right before the explosion and disappears. The third is Tienhoven. He has a heart attack, leaves the hospital against medical advice, returns to work the next day, won’t answer any calls and then becomes generally unavailable. The fourth one is Tamberg. He follows Zayek, too, and then has a fight with two more men who then also disappear, one to America and the other to I don’t know where. Tamberg himself stays behind, bullshits the police, leaves the country and won’t answer any calls either.’
Becker leaned forward and came to the point he’d been approaching all along. ‘As far as I am concerned, the whole lobby was full of suspects on that day. But as it happens, Hans Tamberg from the European Commission is the only one who is on record as having lied to the police.’
Now Becker didn’t care anymore about whether it would be appropriate to smoke, and took out his e-cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, and put it away. Majerus didn’t react.
‘Tamberg said he was investigating something, but didn’t want to say what,’ Becker continued. ‘He said one of them was an outsider, but didn’t say who he was or where he was from. He said Zayek got sick and ran to the toilet, but he also said that the rest of them stayed behind in the lobby. In fact a witness saw the outsider get up and follow Zayek, which Tamberg said didn’t happen. We know Tamberg got up and followed the outsider, and that he got into a fight at the reception, two events Tamberg said didn’t happen either. Then the explosion occurred.’
‘Which brings you to the reason you are here,’ Majerus said.
‘I need Hans Tamberg from the Commission, Jacques,’ Becker said. ‘At this point he’s no longer a witness. He is my main suspect. He’s not the only one, to be sure, but he’s the only one who is clearly identifiable, and who clearly lied to hide something. And your cooperation request to the Commission obviously isn’t working. So the reason I’m here is that I need you to issue a Europe-wide arrest warrant for Hans Tamberg.’
21
Hans had slept awfully in the prison cell. Not that it had been uncomfortable. Visser had been right, it had basically been a simple hotel room. Not a holding pen for drunks, rather a place to stay for witnesses awaiting a hearing, with decent individual shower cubicles and even a vending machine with disposable toothbrush kits. Maybe it had been the mere concept of sleeping in a prison that had disturbed him. He had visited prisons during his time at the chief prosecutor’s office in Tallinn, and he usually had no inclination to be anywhere near one if that was in any way avoidable. Or maybe it had been what Tienhoven had said on the phone, about the Luxembourgish police looking for him. In their position he’d probably be looking for himself, too, he thought. Or it had been his state of mind in general.
He had tried to catch some sleep during the ride from the Rotterdam police station to Amsterdam airport, but that hadn’t worked either. The Dutch cop driving the car had been very talkative. Hans had wished they’d sent the mute bald guy from the SS again. See, now he was thinking it himself. Damn Viss
er. His head ached.
Airport departures had been the usual routine of checkin, security, passport, waiting around. He hadn’t wanted to sleep there because he’d been afraid he’d miss the boarding call. Instead he’d used the opportunity to buy himself a new t-shirt, socks and underpants in a store at the departures gate. He’d been wearing his old underwear since Thursday, and had slept in it for two nights in a row. He’d changed in a toilet cubicle and thrown away the old underwear. He’d used soap instead of deodorant to rub his armpits, then he’d stuffed his shirt into his trousers. He’d thought of buying a fresh shirt, too, but the price of the shirt-plus-tie combinations on sale had been demoralising. His old shirt still smelled acceptable enough.
Now Hans was sitting in a fairly comfortable business class chair on the scheduled Saturday morning flight from Amsterdam to Tallinn, and was hoping he’d get some proper sleep. Business class came with bonuses, like the leg room, and the sparkling wine, and the newspaper, and the better food. The biggest bonus was probably the malicious pleasure of hearing the announcements, whereby the whole plane was informed of the delights that would now be brought on in business class. On another day, Hans would have positively gloated. Now he was tired, and, he felt, generally not interested. He wished he’d sleep and not hear any of it.
The dreams he was having on this plane so far didn’t help much, either. It was mostly his brother Lennart, and Siim, knocking on small white tiles on the toilet floor with little hammers. Lennart told him they could insulate the body if they removed all the tiles, except those on which the dead man was lying. So Hans picked up a hammer of his own and started carefully knocking on the tiles, making them crumble one by one.
At least this was just harmlessly strange. At least he wasn’t dreaming about munching on a mouthful of his own teeth. He hated that one.
‘Some more sparkling wine, sir?’, the stewardess asked him.
Hans thought for a moment, then shook his head. It hurt, he should just have said no. But it was no. He had the whole day ahead of him, and he didn’t want to get sleepy later, or have an alcoholic breath during the morning. He’d have work to do.