Anna nodded her assent. She led the way up the steps to the nightclub. One of the huge doormen looked at Anna’s leather jacket and laughed derisively. As she passed him he placed a restraining hand on her left shoulder. Anna’s right hand shot diagonally across her body and grabbed the bouncer’s beefy thumb. The doorman tilted sideways, singing an ‘ahhhh’ song as he stared at his thumb, amazed that it could bend that far.
‘No touchie!’ said Anna sweetly.
The other hulk moved forward. Paul stepped in his way, holding his Kriminalpolizei shield in the doorman’s face. The heavy stepped back and swung the door open for Anna to enter. She let the doorman’s thumb go and he cradled it in his other hand.
‘She’s taking anger-management classes …’ Paul said to the swollen-thumbed doorman, and chuckled at his own witticism.
The dull bass throbbing they had heard outside the club exploded into an ear-splitting blast of dance music as they swung open the doors from the hall into the main dance area itself. Strobe lighting and lasers pulsed with the music. There were hundreds of clubbers on the dance floor, which was sunk lower than the walkways that circled it. The seething mass of bodies was not as impenetrable as it would be later in the week. Still, it was a daunting task to find one person in this throng.
Anna turned to Paul and shrugged the too-big shoulders of her leather jacket.
‘What’s the first thing you do when you come into a club?’
‘Get a drink?’
Paul nodded, scanning the periphery of the dance floor. There was a wide, sweeping bar slightly elevated at the far side. They split up and made their separate ways on either side of the dance floor, each scanning it for any sign of MacSwain. They arrived simultaneously at opposite ends of the horseshoe bar. There is an art to sweeping a space for a suspect without drawing attention to yourself: Paul didn’t have it. Nature and northern-German genetics had conspired to make him look as if his natural attire should be a SchuPo uniform. Here, surrounded by trendily and often scantily attired clubbers, Paul knew his best bet was to shrink as far back as possible into the undergrowth the environment provided. He squeezed his way to the bar and ordered a beer.
From his vantage point, Paul could see Anna. She was a master at this. She managed to make it appear that her attention was focused on the music and the dance floor, while glancing only occasionally and disinterestedly at the bar. She was coming towards Paul when she spotted MacSwain. The first thing that struck Anna was his looks; she had never seen MacSwain close up before and had used an identity photograph Fabel had secured from immigration as a reference. He had a broad, strong face with a heavily caged jaw and broad, pronounced cheekbones. His eyes were a glittering emerald.
MacSwain was engaged in a conversation with two blondes at the bar, who seemed to hang on his every word, laugh on cue and gaze hypnotised into the green jewel eyes. Anna was aware she had been staring at him a little too long and turned her back to the group. She let her eyes drift slowly across the dance floor until they came to rest on Paul. A subtle movement of her eyes signalled MacSwain’s position and Paul nodded acknowledgement. Casually, she turned back to check MacSwain was still there. He was. And his green, penetrating gaze was fixed on her. Anna felt an internal flutter of shock but sealed it tight inside, making sure nothing showed in her face. She looked away from MacSwain, everywhere and anywhere other than at Paul, which would give MacSwain a signpost to his other observer. Her heart thudded in her chest, yet she maintained an outer cool.
She allowed her gaze to return to MacSwain. His eyes were still fixed on her. The two blondes were engaged in a giggling conversation with each other. Shit, she thought, he’s sussed me. The corners of MacSwain’s lips curled in a knowing smile. All Anna could hope for was that if she slipped out of the picture, Paul could stay on him while she radioed up a new set of faces. She cursed silently to herself. They’d fucked up another surveillance. Fabel was lying in that hospital bed and when he got back to the Präsidium he’d discover she’d allowed MacSwain to eyeball her. The knowing smile on MacSwain’s face grew to a grin. Go on, you smart-assed bastard, thought Anna, rub it in. Then she realised: Shit, he hasn’t sussed me at all … the bastard’s hitting on me!
She smiled back. MacSwain said something to the two blondes and made an apologetic gesture; it was clear that they were not at all pleased and drifted off in search of less evasive prey. MacSwain took a few steps towards Anna and, without looking, she knew that Paul would have set himself on an intercept course. She stepped forward to the bar, wrong-footing MacSwain by passing him and leaning against the counter. She asked the bartender for a rye and dry. MacSwain turned back to the bar and smiled.
‘May I get this for you?’
‘Why?’ Anna responded in a cool, unimpressed tone. Over MacSwain’s shoulder she could see Paul approaching. She made the most subtle movement of her eyes which Paul read instantly, turning to conceal himself once again in the foliage of designer clubwear.
‘Because I’d like to.’
Anna shrugged and MacSwain paid when the drink arrived. She tried to make her movements relaxed, almost careless, but her brain was running on overload, playing catch-up with the situation. Surveillance had turned into undercover. And she hadn’t been prepared for that. All she had for backup was the tenuous line of sight that Paul maintained on her and, for all she knew, MacSwain could be the madman who was ripping women apart for kicks. Focus, Anna, she told herself. Keep breathing slow and easy. Don’t let him spot you’re scared. She sipped the bourbon and ginger ale.
‘I’ve never seen you here before,’ MacSwain said.
Anna turned to him, her face mocking. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘It was a genuine statement. I make conversation, I don’t do chat-up lines.’ As he spoke, Anna detected the hint of a foreign accent for the first time. His German was perfect, if a little stiff, and the accent was only just discernible under layers of learning.
‘You a foreigner?’ she asked bluntly.
MacSwain laughed. ‘Does it show that much?’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Anna, taking another sip of her drink.
You didn’t like that, did you? she thought. MacSwain clearly wasn’t used to women not hanging on his every word. His expression relaxed into one of resigned politeness.
‘Enjoy your drink,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ And he started to walk away.
Shit, thought Anna, what now? If he goes I can’t follow him, and I can’t stay with him for the rest of the night. Think.
‘I’ll be here Friday night … if you want to buy me another,’ she said without turning to face him. ‘About eight-thirty.’ She turned. Maybe Friday was too long-term for MacSwain’s agenda; maybe she should have said tomorrow night. But if Fabel were to go for this spontaneous idea, they would need time to assemble a plan and backup team.
MacSwain hit her again with a smile. ‘I’ll be here. But I’m here now …’
‘Sorry,’ said Anna. ‘Got things to do tonight.’
‘Eight-thirty Friday it is then.’
He didn’t show any signs of moving. Anna drained her drink too fast and it burned all the way down. Again she didn’t let it register on her face.
‘See you then.’
She could feel MacSwain’s eyes on her as she walked away, giving Paul a look as she passed. Paul read the signal as ‘You’re on your own.’ He stood up and walked over to the steel rail that bounded the dance floor, passing close to Anna without looking at her and allowing her to palm the car keys he passed to her.
Anna sat cramped in the car for two hours before she saw MacSwain walking back towards the Spielbudenplatz Parkhaus. He had a girl with him, a tall, attractive blonde who leaned into him and giggled or kissed him every few steps.
‘Ahhh …’ Anna said to herself, ‘so you’re cheating on me already …’
She saw Paul some distance behind them. There were quite a few night owls out on Spielbudenplatz and Paul w
as keeping a few of them between himself and his target. Anna slunk down into her car seat as MacSwain and his trophy passed by on the other side and went into the Parkhaus. Paul dropped into the passenger seat.
‘What do you reckon? Should I go in on foot and keep an eye on him?’
‘No. We might lose them on the way out. We have to make sure his date makes it home.’
Paul laughed bitterly. ‘Well, that all turned to crap. Your cover’s blown completely.’
‘I wouldn’t say it was a complete wash-out,’ replied Anna with a self-satisfied smile. ‘After all, I got a date out of it …’
Wednesday 18 June, 11.00 a.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.
Fabel’s eyes were shadowed and sunken into his skull. The only other evidence of the attack was the bronze and purple bruise on the side of his neck and the stiffness with which he moved his head, tending to shift his shoulders in whichever direction he wanted to look in. After being discharged at eight-thirty that morning, he had gone home to shower off the taint of the hospital and change his clothes. He had spent the last hour reading through the file on Klugmann and Kramer’s covert operation.
According to the BND file, the aim had been to gather intelligence on intergang rivalry and, specifically, on the encroachment by the Ukrainians into Ulugbay controlled areas. The file contained warrants from the Justizministerium for a phone tap on the main land line into the apartment. There was no mention of video equipment or bugging inside the apartment itself. Tina Kramer’s role had been as a back-up, conveying any materials or cash needed and keeping Klugmann isolated from direct contact with any agency. Her instructions were to stay overnight in the apartment anytime she had contact with Klugmann. That way, anyone watching Klugmann could not then trace Kramer back to BAO or BND. Kramer’s own apartment was in Eimsbüttel, far enough away from St Pauli to avoid any suspect accidentally bumping into her while she was buying groceries. Her instructions on counter-surveillance measures were complex. There were four safe houses set up. She would visit at least one of these, for at least an hour, every time she returned to her own apartment after making contact with Klugmann. She could also pick up materials and money at the safe houses. Like Klugmann, Kramer had not seen the inside of a federal-agency building for months. The idea was that, should anyone follow her, they would assume that she was visiting clients. Thereafter she would take a circuitous route to Eimsbüttel, punctuated by counter-surveillance checks and evasive manoeuvres. It would mean a very long journey home.
There was a subtext here. She was really just Klugmann’s courier, yet every move she made, every link back from Klugmann, was ring-fenced with precautions. Klugmann himself, ironically, had less cloak-and-dagger manoeuvring to do. He had one main form of protection: to live the life. He was to become so immersed in his identity as a low-life on the fringes of organised crime, and so totally isolated from his controls, that his cover would be impenetrable. Klugmann had two life-lines: Tina Kramer and his cell phone. These were not just his way of staying in touch, they grounded him; kept him connected with who he really was and what his true objectives were.
There was a lot of detail on the Ulugbay and the Varasouv criminal organisations, as well as other, peripheral criminal interests. But there was not enough on the new outfit, the so-called Top Team, despite Volker himself admitting it was the main focus of the operation. The transcripts of the bugged conversations from the apartment yielded nothing worthwhile either. Something was missing.
Volker had promised him the full story: Volker had lied.
Fabel asked Werner to gather everyone together in the main Mordkommission office for a briefing. As he stepped out of his room he was aware of the eyes of his team on him. He pulled himself as straight as possible and tried to invest his movements with as much vitality as he could muster. There was a low buzz in the office and Paul Lindemann was on the phone. Fabel waited for him to finish his call and clapped his hands together twice, sharply.
‘Okay people, what have we got? Maria?’
Maria Klee was sitting on the corner of her desk. She was wearing an expensive pale blue blouse and elegant grey trousers. The heavy black clump of her automatic looked totally incongruous on her hip. She reached over for a clipboard with some notes on it.
‘I have tracked down a member of the Temple of Asatru … someone called Bjorn Jannsen. He runs a New Age store of some kind in the Schanzenviertel. He’s also behind a website on Odinism or Asatru or whatever you want to call it …’
‘A pile of crap,’ volunteered Werner. There was a ripple of laughter which foundered on the rocks of Maria’s businesslike manner.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘it was through the website that I found him. When I asked him if he knew about the Temple of Asatru he freely and openly admitted membership of it – he’s one of its “high priests” apparently. He claims it’s all completely above board and describes Asatru as a “celebration of life”. I’ve arranged to see him on Friday, ten a.m.’
‘I’ll come along.’ Fabel turned to Werner. ‘Anything more on MacSwain?’
It was Werner’s turn to refer to notes. ‘John Andreas MacSwain …’ Like everyone in the Mordkommission with the exception of Fabel, Werner could not get his tongue around the soft Anglo-Saxon ‘w’ in MacSwain’s name. ‘Born 1973 in Edinburgh, Scotland. His father is a partner in an Edinburgh firm of corporate accountants. His mother is German, from Kassel in Hessen. He was privately educated at one of those snob schools the British have and has a degree in computing from …’ Werner struggled with the name – ‘Heriot-Watt University. He also has a degree in advanced applied computing from the Hamburg-Harburg Technische Universität here. He is a permanent resident in Germany but has not sought nationality. MacSwain works for the Eitel Publishing Group. But he’s not an employee. He has a freelance contract as an IT consultant.’
‘Perfect for sending encrypted e-mails,’ said Anna.
Fabel, sitting on the edge of Werner’s desk, absorbed the thought, allowing his chin to rest on his chest. He raised it again quickly when a pain jabbed him in the neck, where the Slav had exerted pressure. ‘Go on, Werner.’
‘He has no record either here or in the UK. Not even a speeding ticket.’ Werner lowered his notes, making a ‘that’s it’ face.
‘Anna, how about the surveillance? Anything to report?’
Anna and Paul exchanged a look. Fabel drew a long, slow, breath.
‘Okay Anna … let’s hear it.’
She related the events of the previous night.
‘Okay …’ Fabel’s expression was one of exaggerated astonishment. ‘You’re telling me that the outcome of your surveillance is that you have arranged to meet the target … for a date?’
‘What can I say? You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’
Fabel straightened himself up. ‘I’m glad you find this amusing, Kommissarin Wolff.’
‘Listen, Chef, this could work. I can pull out of the surveillance team and not keep my date with MacSwain … on the other hand, I could keep it and probably find out more about him than we could in a month of observation.’
‘And what if he is our guy?’ said Paul. ‘You could be the next victim.’
Fabel looked at the little-girl face behind the make-up, the small, defiant frame and felt a lurch of unease in his gut. ‘I don’t like it, Anna. I don’t want you in any jeopardy … but I’ll consider it.’
Paul Lindemann made a sound as if he’d tasted something noxious and threw his pen onto his desk. Fabel ignored him, but decided that, if Anna didn’t choose Paul herself, he would insist on him leading the back-up team: Paul would place Anna’s safety above his own life.
‘I want you to draw up an operational outline and have it on my desk today,’ continued Fabel. ‘And if it’s not watertight, we’re not going ahead. And, Anna, I want you to wear a wire. I want the back-up team to know everything that’s going on.’
‘Aw …’ Anna made a disappointed face. ‘You trying to cramp my
style?’ Then, when she saw her joke was not appreciated: ‘Anything you say, Chef.’
Fabel felt a band tighten around his head. The stark strip lighting in the Mordkommission office seemed to sting his eyes. He checked his watch: it was nearly half past noon; it would be another hour before he could take his next set of painkillers.
‘What do we have on Angelika Blüm?’ Fabel massaged his temples as he spoke. ‘Do we know anything more about her?’
‘I’ve got a full breakdown of her work history,’ said Werner. ‘There are a couple of interesting things that have been flagged up. You know that exhibition in Bremen?’
Fabel nodded, intrigued at what possible link there could be.
‘Well, Marlies Menzel, before she graduated to a career planting bombs in the Alsterarkaden, worked as a journalist and satirical cartoonist on a left-wing magazine called Zeitgeist. Angelika Blüm was also on the magazine. Her boyfriend at the time was the editor.’
‘Were Menzel and Blüm friends?’
‘That I don’t know yet. I was hoping you and I could interview Blüm’s former boyfriend to find out.’
‘You hardly need me along to do that,’ said Fabel, puzzled.
‘Oh I think I do.’ The rugged topography of Werner’s features shifted slightly to make room for a wry smile. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Kriminaldirektor Van Heiden wanted to come along.’
‘Why?’
‘Angelika Blüm’s lover at the time … and for four years in total … was a young left-wing lawyer and journalist with political ambitions. His name was Hans Schreiber.’
Fabel stared at Werner. ‘Not the Hans Schreiber. Not the Erste Bürgermeister?’
‘One and the same.’
Fabel raised his eyebrows. ‘What else have you got?’
‘Blüm had a good friend who works for NDR Radio. Erika Kessler. I talked to her on the phone. A bit prickly but very upset about Blüm’s death. She seems to know something, but not much, about what Blüm was working on. I’ve fixed up a meeting with her too.’
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