Blood Eagle

by Craig Russell

  Wolfgang Eitel smoothed the ivory hair at his temples with the heels of both hands. But it was his son who spoke: ‘We have business interests across Europe and beyond. We own publications in the Netherlands, in Poland, in Hungary. Our property business involves partners in the United States as well as those in the Ukraine. I don’t see that that is, in itself, particularly newsworthy.’

  Bull’s-eye. Fabel and Maria exchanged a quick, surreptitious look. Fabel fought to keep the exhilaration of discovery from his expression. He again addressed Wolfgang Eitel.

  ‘I think we all know that Frau Blüm’s article was based on more than a simple deal with eastern-European business partners, don’t we?’

  ‘Then you know more than I, Herr Fabel.’

  Waalkes, the lawyer, interrupted. ‘I think this has gone quite far enough, Herr Hauptkommissar. We have agreed to this interview because everyone here is horrified by Frau Blüm’s murder and we are committed to doing all we can to help catch this monster. But I have to say that your line of questioning seems both impertinent and irrelevant. You seem to be seeking to implicate my clients in some totally unrelated issue.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware we had accused anyone of anything,’ said Maria. ‘We’re simply trying to find the connection between the Eitel Group and Frau Blüm.’

  ‘And I think we’ve dealt with that.’ Norbert Eitel stood up to signal the discussion was at an end. None of the police officers followed his lead. Fabel addressed Waalkes.

  ‘I think it would be in everyone’s interest if both your clients supplied us with accounts of their movements on the dates of the murders we’re investigating, along with the names of anyone who can corroborate those accounts. And I’d be obliged if this could be done as soon as possible …’

  ‘This is outrageous!’ Eitel senior’s voice thundered as he rose to his feet with a swiftness that belied his age. ‘Are you accusing me or my son of involvement in these acts?’

  Fabel, remaining in his chair, said, calmly: ‘It is a routine enough request, Herr Eitel.’ Maria handed Fabel a piece of paper on which she had written the times and dates of each murder. Fabel stood up and turned again to Eitel senior. ‘Anyway, Herr Eitel, I should have thought that you have had some experience of answering difficult questions …’

  This time it was Waalkes who exploded. ‘That is quite enough, Herr Fabel! This is intolerable. I intend to notify your superiors about this …’

  Fabel stood up and handed Waalkes the slip of paper. ‘Times, places, witnesses … I need a full account for both your clients.’ He turned to Norbert and Wolfgang Eitel. Eitel senior’s eyes were incandescent beneath the thick white brows. ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Fabel and led Maria and Werner from the room.

  They didn’t speak until they were back in the elevator. As soon as the doors closed Fabel, Maria and Werner exchanged broad smiles.

  ‘I think we have a lot of digging to do, don’t you?’ said Fabel.

  ‘I’ll get on it right away,’ said Maria. ‘It was very good of them to point us in the right direction. I’ll start by getting a breakdown of all Ukrainian contacts Eitel Importing and the Eitel Group have had.’

  ‘That was an excellent piece of work, Maria,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Thanks, Chef.’

  Werner said nothing.

  ‘By the way,’ said Maria as the doors opened onto the foyer, ‘I meant to tell you earlier … I’ve got the details of any contact between currently serving Hamburg police officers and the Ukrainian security services. You’re never going to believe the one name that came up.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘What? I’ve never been to the Ukraine in my life.’

  ‘Remember you wrote a paper for the Europol convention on psychotic serial offending? The one about the Helmut Schmied killings?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Apparently it is used as a text at the Forensics and Criminology Centre in Odessa, where the Ukrainian police train to track down serial killers.’

  Werner and Maria made their way towards the huge glass and chrome double doors of the street exit. Fabel stood for a moment looking after his colleagues, before following on behind.

  Friday 20 June, 7.00 p.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.

  Anna Wolff’s colleagues were so accustomed to her customary neo-punk look of the overdone make-up, oversized leather jacket and the skin-tight jeans that they all looked somewhat startled when she walked into the main Mordkommission office. Werner and a couple of the back-up guys gave low whistles of appreciation, Maria complimented Anna on her look and Fabel made a small gesture of applause. Paul Lindemann simply looked worried.

  Anna’s make-up had been toned down to a subtle emphasis of her strong bone structure and she had softened the style of her short, dark hair. A black halter-neck dress that ended mid-thigh accentuated the curves of her body and exposed her shapely legs. Beneath the dress, tucked uncomfortably into her strapless brassiere, was the mobile transmitter, wire and microphone that Maria had helped her fit. Technical section had already tested that it was working.

  ‘I would say the bait is on the hook,’ said Maria with a smile.

  ‘Okay,’ said Fabel, ‘let’s go through it one more time. Anna?’

  Anna Wolff went through the operation in detail once more. She saved the most important point until last.

  ‘Remember my panic-button phrase. If you hear me say, “I don’t feel too well,” that’s the signal for you to come in and get me.’ Anna had chosen the words carefully. It was something you could say suddenly and in any context. The room buzzed with anticipation, nervousness and adrenalin. ‘You sure you don’t want to come along, Chef?’

  ‘No, Anna … this is your gig. But I’ll check in with the team to make sure everything is going okay. Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The team followed Anna out to the car pool, leaving Fabel and Werner alone in the Mordkommission. The room seemed empty and dull, drained of the electricity that had filled it a few seconds before. Fabel and Werner stood in silence for a minute, then Werner turned to Fabel.

  ‘Now?’

  Fabel nodded. ‘But stay well out of the operational area. Just move with the action and monitor the radio. I don’t want Anna and Paul to think that I don’t trust them to pull this off themselves. If there is any trouble, I’ll have my cell phone on all night.’

  ‘Sure, Jan.’

  ‘And Werner …’ said Fabel, ‘I appreciate you doing this. It sets my mind at rest knowing they’ve got your expertise and experience just around the corner.’

  Werner shrugged his tree-stump frame and grinned. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. He gave his car keys a small toss in his hand, turned and made his way out of the office.

  Friday 20 June, 8.00 p.m. St Pauli, Hamburg.

  A large dark-blue Mercedes Vario panel van, its sides bearing the company logo of ‘Ernst Thoms Elektriker’ was parked opposite the entrance to the nightclub. Passers-by would have hardly registered its presence: the driver’s and passenger’s seats were empty and there was no sign of life other than the steady, silent spinning of the roof vent. What most people would also have failed to notice was that the second roof vent didn’t spin, but remained open, facing the club.

  Anna Wolff smiled to herself as the doorman held open the door, clearly not recognising her as the same woman who had demonstrated so spectacularly the flexibility of his thumb joints. She half turned in the doorway and glanced idly in the direction of the Mercedes van. She tapped her fingers against her chest in an absent-minded gesture then turned and entered the club. She knew that Paul and Maria, sitting in the cavernous rear of the van, watching the image from the roof-vent camera on a monitor, would have seen her tap and should have heard her too. If they hadn’t, someone would have been straight over to pull her out. It was a disconcerting feeling, to be deaf but not dumb. Her watchers in the van could hear all that went on around her, every word that she spoke or that was spoken to he
r, yet she could not hear them. An earpiece would have been easily and quickly detectable. She knew, however, that there were already two members of the team inside the club, both equipped with earpiece radios, who would track her every move.

  Anna took a deep breath and swung the door open into the main dance area of the club. The pulsing beat washed over her, but failed to rinse the feeling of unease from deep within her belly.

  Friday 20 June, 8.00 p.m. Alsterpark, Hamburg.

  Fabel met Susanne for a drink and something to eat in Pöseldorf. Throughout the meal Fabel had been distracted and he apologised to Susanne.

  ‘I have an officer out in the field,’ he explained. ‘And I can’t say I’m totally happy with the situation.’

  ‘Is it to do with the Son of Sven case?’

  Fabel nodded. ‘At least, it could be. I’ve let a young woman officer allow herself to be used as bait.’

  ‘For Son of Sven?’ Susanne was genuinely shocked. ‘We’re dealing with a highly dangerous, unpredictable and intelligent psychotic. You’re right to be worried, Jan. I have to say I think it’s bordering on the irresponsible.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Fabel said, gloomily. ‘That makes me feel a lot better. But I’m not at all sure that this is our guy. Although he could well have something to do with the date-rape abductions.’

  ‘All I can say is I hope your officer can take care of herself.’

  ‘It’s Anna Wolff. She’s a hell of a lot tougher than she looks. In fact, she’s a hell of a lot tougher than most of us. And she’s got a full team backing her up.’

  Susanne looked unconvinced. Her concerns spurred Fabel to phone Werner, who was monitoring radio traffic from the surveillance team. Nothing to report as yet. This was Fabel’s third call and Werner’s tone was that of a babysitter reassuring an overanxious parent. He told Fabel that Anna was in place and waiting for MacSwain to show, and reassured him once more that if there was anything significant happening then he would let Fabel know right away.

  After their meal, Fabel and Susanne walked through the park and town to the waterfront and sat on one of the benches that looked out over the water. The sun was setting behind them and stretched their shadows out before them.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m not much company.’ He smiled weakly at Susanne, who leaned across and kissed him softly on the lips.

  ‘I know. It’s this case.’ She kissed him again. ‘Let’s go back to your place and get a little drunk.’

  Fabel smiled. ‘Okay.’

  They had just stood up when Fabel’s cell phone rang. Fabel snapped it open, expecting to hear Werner’s voice.

  ‘Jan … it’s Mahmoot.’

  ‘Christ, Mahmoot, where have you been? I was getting—’

  Mahmoot cut Fabel off. ‘Jan, I need you to meet up with me now. It’s important and I don’t want to talk on the phone.’

  ‘Okay.’ Fabel looked at his watch and then at Susanne, making an apologetic gesture. ‘Where are you?’

  Mahmoot gave an address in the Speicherstadt.

  ‘What on earth are you doing there?’ Fabel laughed. ‘Stocking up on coffee?’

  Mahmoot’s usual good humour seemed to have deserted him. ‘Just get over here. Now.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘And, Jan …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Come alone.’

  The line went dead. Fabel snapped his cell phone shut and stared at it. In all their dealings Fabel had never once compromised Mahmoot’s vital anonymity by bringing another officer along. Mahmoot could not have thought of a more redundant thing to say. The only way it made sense was if someone had told Mahmoot to say it: someone who wanted to make sure they got Fabel alone. He turned to Susanne.

  ‘I’m really sorry. I have to go …’

  ‘Is it to do with Son of Sven?’

  ‘No … I think a friend might be in trouble.’

  ‘You want me to come along?’

  ‘No.’ Fabel smiled and handed her the keys to his apartment. ‘But keep the bed warm for me.’

  ‘Is this dangerous? Shouldn’t you get help?’

  Fabel stroked Susanne’s cheek. ‘It’s okay. Like I say, just something a friend needs help with. I need to pick up my car. Let’s see if we can get a taxi …’

  Friday 20 June, 9.00 p.m. St Pauli, Hamburg.

  Anna had, at first, been polite and apologetic; but by the time the fifth guy in rapid succession had tried to pick her up, her responses had distilled to the sharp and bitter. When she heard yet another bar-room Romeo say ‘Hi!’ she spun round with her teeth bared.

  MacSwain backed away with his hands raised.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ said Anna, sheepishly. ‘I thought it was someone else … well, anyone else, I suppose …’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be. The competition’s lousy.’ Anna eyed him up and down. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.’

  ‘I got held up at work. Sorry.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m John MacSwain …’ and then in English: ‘it’s nice to meet you …’

  ‘Sara Klemmer …’ said Anna, using the name of a former schoolfriend. ‘Are you English?’

  ‘Almost,’ replied MacSwain. ‘You hungry?’

  Anna shrugged non-committally.

  ‘Let’s get out of here …’

  From the command post within the parked van, Paul Lindemann alerted the officers inside the club. ‘Get ready … we’re on the move.’ He turned to the MEK officer dressed in electrician’s overalls. ‘We go when the two lead cars are in position.’

  Friday 20 June, 9.00 p.m. Speicherstadt, Hamburg.

  Speicherstadt means ‘warehouse city’. The Speicherstadt is one of the most striking cityscapes in Europe. The Gothic architecture of the vast, seven-storey, red brick warehouses, capped with verdigris-covered copper turrets, thrusts out of the harbour with an overwhelming confidence. The monumental warehouses are interlaced with tight narrow streets and canals, and galleries span from one building to another, often at fourth-storey level.

  Speicherstadt is also the biggest bonded warehouse on the planet: millions of tons of coffee, tea, tobacco and spices are stored in ten square miles, along with more modern commodities like computers, pharmaceuticals and furnishings. In recent years, there had been an influx of antique dealers who had set up next to the offices of maritime and trading businesses, and some of the coffee companies had opened up cafés for the public. But this was still very much an active part of Hamburg’s life as one of the world’s most important port cities.

  Fabel parked in Deichstrasse, outside the customs-controlled Speicherstadt itself. He unholstered his Walther P99, checked the magazine and snapped it back with the heel of his hand before reholstering. He left his car and walked, the spires of the St Katharinenkirche and the St-Nikolai-Kirche piercing the sky behind him, across the Kornhausbrücke that spanned the narrow Zollkanal. As he crossed the bridge he looked along the canal, hemmed in by the red brick cliff face of the looming warehouses. The sun was lower now and infused the rich red brickwork with a deeper red. Something more than unease fluttered in Fabel’s chest. He walked past the customs point and found his way to St Annenufer. A couple of turns took him into the narrow cobbled street Mahmoot had mentioned on the phone.

  It was darker in the Speicherstadt than in the city beyond. The sun now sat lower in the sky and it could not squeeze past the hulking Victorian cathedrals of commerce. There were no offices or coffee bars at ground level in this street; the windows of the warehouses lay dark and blank. Fabel was aware of his footsteps echoing in the empty street. He almost passed the number Mahmoot had given him. A small sign indicated that the warehouse was occupied by Klimenko International. There was a large arched double doorway and no window at street level. Fabel turned the iron-ring handle and pushed: it was unlocked. He stepped through into a vast, open warehouse space, punctuated by the rows of brick and iron pillars that bore the weight of t
he floors above. The floor-to-ceiling height would have been almost nine metres and Fabel estimated there would be more than 400 square metres of floor area. The entire space was empty, except for a modular office cabin that sat elevated at the far end of the warehouse. It was dark. Only one of the many suspended striplights was switched on; at the far end of the warehouse the windows, more like glazed archways, were thick with grime and reduced the summer evening outside to a dim, orange bloom. The door swung shut behind Fabel, giving him a start and echoing in the vastness of the warehouse. If there was anyone here, Fabel had successfully announced his arrival.

  He drew his Walther and snapped back the carriage. He scanned the warehouse, checking the pillars for any hint of movement, although they were quite narrow and a man would have difficulty in concealing himself behind them. If there was anyone here, they were in the Portakabin or behind it. Fabel moved across to his right, hugging the wall to limit his exposure and, bracing his right hand with his left, extended his gun, keeping it in eye line. He inched up the wall until he was parallel to the office cabin. He took a swift decisive sidestep, braced to fire, so he could see behind the cabin. There was no one there. He relaxed the tension in his arms slightly and moved swiftly across to the cabin. Fabel rested his back against the wall. The brickwork upon which the cabin was elevated came to Fabel’s waist, so he reckoned that his head was just above floor level. He turned into the wall but could hear nothing. Fabel carefully made his way around to the steps and slowly climbed them, keeping his automatic trained on the door. There was still no sound from inside. He had just placed his hand on the door handle when he felt it: the cold, hard disc of a gun muzzle pressed hard against the nape of his neck.

  ‘Please, Herr Fabel. No trouble …’ The voice was a woman’s and she spoke in thickly accented German. ‘Remove your index finger from the trigger and hold your weapon above your head.’ Fabel complied and felt his Walther being snatched away from him in a fast, fluid action. He stared at the flaking green paint of the office cabin’s door and wondered if it would be the last image his brain would register. His mind raced, desperately trying to recall the strategies for negotiation in a situation like this that he had learned in training seminars. Then the door to the cabin opened. Before him stood a short, stocky man in his late sixties. Fabel recognised the Slavic architecture of his face. But most of all he recognised the piercing, almost luminous green eyes of the man who had attacked him in Angelika Blüm’s apartment.