Blood Eagle

by Craig Russell

  ‘Sara? Is there something wrong? I hoped you’d be impressed …’

  MacSwain’s voice snapped Anna back to the task in hand. She turned to him and smiled weakly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that boats aren’t really my thing.’

  ‘What?’ MacSwain mimicked shocked surprise. ‘You’re from Hamburg, aren’t you? The sea’s in your blood!’ He climbed down the small metal ladder, carefully carrying the hamper in his free hand. He placed the hamper on the deck and held his hand out to help Anna down from the quay.

  ‘No … honestly, John … I have a thing about boats. I get sick. And I get scared …’

  He smiled broadly and the green eyes glittered in the dim light. ‘You’ll be fine. Come and try her for size. I won’t even start her up. If you don’t feel happy, then we’ll eat in town … I just thought it would be nice to watch the city lights from the water.’

  Anna made a decision. ‘Okay. But if I don’t feel happy about it, then we go somewhere else. Deal?’

  ‘Deal …

  Back in the Mercedes command van, Paul turned to Maria with a hard stare and said: ‘Phone Fabel.’

  Friday 20 June, 9.30 p.m. Speicherstadt, Hamburg.

  ‘I was a major in the Soviet interior-ministry forces. MVD Kondor. The Americans had been supplying the rebel forces with the most highly sophisticated weapons and the war in Afghanistan was fast becoming the Soviet Union’s Vietnam. It was a desperate time. We had always prosecuted the war aggressively, but more and more of our boys were coming back in body bags. Worse still, a lot of them were disappearing without trace. It was clear we were not winning the conflict and attitudes were hardening.’ The Slav pulled a cigarette packet with Cyrillic writing on it from his coat pocket and offered it first to Fabel and then to Mahmoot. Both shook their heads. He shrugged and pulled an untipped cigarette from the packet and placed it between his slightly fleshy lips. He took a heavy chromium-plated lighter from his pocket; Fabel noticed it carried some kind of crest, featuring an eagle. The strands of tobacco crackled as he lit the cigarette and took a long draw.

  ‘I am not proud of all that happened in those dark days, Herr Fabel. But war is war. War is, unfortunately, fuelled by retribution. In Afghanistan, the retribution became more and more extreme. On both sides.’

  The Slav exhaled the smoke in a forceful blow before resuming.

  ‘The sheer number of ground-to-air missiles the Americans had supplied made air support and supply practically impossible. Units became cut off. Often they were simply abandoned to fight their own way out or otherwise fall into the hands of crazed fanatics. One of these units was an MVD Kondor Field Police Spetznaz.’

  ‘Commanded by Vitrenko?’

  The Slav thrust the cigarette in Fabel’s direction, causing a small cloud of grey ash to drift slowly towards the floor. ‘Exactly …’ He paused. ‘I think that now I should tell you something about Colonel Vitrenko’s special abilities. Command is a gift. Commanding men in battle is like being their father. You must make them believe that their trust in you is total and unique, that only you can guide them into the light and safety; only you can protect them. And if you cannot protect them and it is their time to die, they must believe that you have chosen the only true and proper place for them to die … that survival and life in another place and time would be a betrayal. All of this means that the commander’s most important strategies are psychological, not military. Vasyl Vitrenko is a unique commander of men. As a child he was identified as having a special, powerful intellect. Unfortunately, he was also identified as having certain potentially problematic personality traits. He was born into a military family and these quirks in his make-up were considered to be best managed in a military career.’

  Another long draw on the cigarette.

  ‘He did excel as a soldier, and it was soon recognised that he had a very special ability as a leader. He could make people do things they wouldn’t consider themselves capable of … exceptional things. What the authorities were less comfortable with was his almost cult-like status. He propagated a philosophy of the “eternal soldier” … those under his command saw themselves as the latest in a long line of warriors that stretched back two thousand years.’ The Slav leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A curl of smoke cupped his small baby chin and traced its way up his cheek, causing him to narrow the green eyes against its sting. ‘Your killer. He has a noble mission, no? He sees himself as a Viking warrior returning his people to the true Nordic faith?’

  Fabel felt his chest tighten as he heard an almost perfect repetition of the description Dorn had given him. ‘Yes … but how …’

  The Slav cut him short. ‘And you are, therefore, looking for a German or Scandinavian?’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘You disappoint me, Herr Fabel. You studied medieval history did you not?’

  Fabel nodded curtly. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Just that I would have expected you to think more broadly … both geographically and historically.’

  The point hit home like a heavy blow to Fabel’s chest.

  ‘Shit …’ Fabel’s eyes darted around as he processed information retrieved from some deep storage. ‘Kievan Rus …’

  ‘That’s right, Herr Fabel. The Kievan Rus. The founders of Kiev and Novgorod and who gave their name to Russia. But they weren’t Slavs.’

  Fabel felt the same thrill of epiphany that he had felt when he had sat in Dorn’s office. Here it was. The final link. The connection between the Ukrainian element and the rest of the puzzle. ‘No …’ Fabel said. ‘No, they weren’t. They were Swedes. Swedish Vikings.’

  ‘Exactly. They sailed up the Volga and set up their trading posts and cities at strategic points along the river. Warriors. And it is from this origin that Vitrenko drew inspiration for his quasi-religious philosophy of soldiering. He instilled in his subordinates a belief that they were the inheritors of a warrior code that stretched back to the Viking origins of the Kievan Rus. He made them believe that what they were fighting for did not matter in the least: it was the fighting in itself, the comradeship under arms and the testing of individual and collective courage that mattered … nothing else. They could be Soviet troops, mercenaries, even fight for the West … Vitrenko invested them with the belief that only the act of war itself was the single inalienable and indissoluble truth. And, I believe, he dressed up this philosophy in the semi-mythical codes of the Viking. The result was something in his men that went beyond all definition of loyalty … a total dedication and devotion. He was – he is – quite capable of talking people into committing the most atrocious acts. Even for them to sacrifice their own lives without a thought.’ The Slav gazed at the floor before absent-mindedly flicking some ash onto it. Then he looked up into Fabel’s eyes with as candid and uncompromising a gaze as Fabel could ever remember encountering. ‘I feel my words are inadequate to describe the raw, total power Vitrenko can exert on others … or the horror of the acts of which he is capable.’ It was as if the Slav had run out of fuel; as if the last reserves of energy that were stored in the heavy, squat shoulders were depleted.

  ‘I can understand why all of this leads you to suspect Vitrenko of these killings, but you said you knew he is the killer. How do you know?’

  The Slav rose and walked over to one of the wide, shallow windows. Fabel could tell that, although he looked out into the dark void of the warehouse, he was seeing something and somewhere else. Sometime else.

  ‘Like I said, Vitrenko’s unit was isolated in rebel territory. And without air support. To say they were cut off would be to use the language of conventional war, and this was anything but a conventional war. To get back to friendly territory, they had to make their way through a rebel-controlled valley. It took them ten days to get from one end to the other, making short, fast runs at night from one cover to the next. Each night men would die … and, worse, some were left wounded and were picked up by the rebels. And during each day in that valley, pinned down and
unable to move from their cover, the survivors would hear the screams of their captured comrades as the mujahidin tortured them. It was enough to break the spirit of the most dedicated and loyal soldier. But something happened in that valley, between Vitrenko and his men: something unbreakable was forged between them.’

  He turned from the window and lifted the cigarette to his lips and snapped open his lighter.

  ‘Out of a hundred-plus-strong force, only about twenty men made it to the valley’s end. Of those, a handful were walking wounded. These were sent back to safe ground, but instead of returning to Soviet territory, Vitrenko and the rest of his men travelled only a short distance from the valley before turning back under cover of darkness. The mujahidin, of course, were not expecting them to return. Vitrenko and his men played the rebels at their own game, taking to the mountains and stalking any small group of fighters they encountered. They would kill all prisoners taken in any engagement except one. This prisoner would be tortured mercilessly for any intelligence he could give and then crucified, left to scream for hours until he died. At first the rebels would try to rescue the victim, but Vitrenko had snipers hidden to pick them off. After the casualties they experienced through these attempted rescues, the mujahidin learned to live with the screams. Vitrenko and his men became like bandits, outlaws, beyond the control of any military management. They also became heroes to the ordinary Soviet soldier in Afghanistan. It was only a matter of time before the GRU – the Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye, our main field-intelligence service – started to become frustrated: they knew that Vitrenko and his men were gathering important intelligence that was not being passed back. Then the stories became more gruesome. Reports of mass murder of anyone in the rebel-held areas; of robbing and raping.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought that that would have offended Soviet sensibilities at the time,’ said Fabel.

  The Ukrainian examined Fabel’s expression for signs of sarcasm. There was none.

  ‘No. You’re right. But by this stage in the war we were suffering from Vietnam syndrome: we were fighting an unequal battle where our superior numbers, resources and technology should have assured us an easy victory, but we were being solidly beaten and we desperately wanted a way out with the minimum of disgrace. That meant that by eighty-seven, eighty-eight, the Soviet authorities were becoming slightly more sensitive to world opinion. And Vitrenko’s actions were becoming more and more …’ he struggled for the word – ‘unpleasant. So the GRU sent me in with two Spetznaz detachments to track down and re-establish control of Vitrenko and his unit.’

  ‘And did you?’

  The Ukrainian leaned against the wall and lit the cigarette. Then he signalled to the blonde-haired girl, who handed him a buff-coloured envelope.

  ‘Yes. Eventually. And Vitrenko and his men were commended for exceptional courage behind enemy lines.’ He tossed the envelope at Fabel, who made a fumbling catch. ‘But the things I encountered on the way … I tell you Fabel, I have seen some terrible things in my life, as you can imagine, but it was as if I were on the trail of the Devil himself …’

  Friday 20 June, 9.40 p.m. Niederhafen, Hamburg.

  The two surveillance men could not get close enough to the boat to see what was happening. Paul ordered the two Mobiles Einsatz Kommando officers, clad in their dark body armour, coveralls and helmets, to move in closer. One managed to get into a position advanced enough to get the bead of his Heckler and Koch on MacSwain’s torso as he sat in the rear of the boat, handing a glass of Sekt wine to Anna Wolff.

  In the command van, Maria received a return phone call from the Wasserschutzpolizei: they had a launch on its way and it would be positioned with a clear view of the exit of the Niederhafen onto the Elbe’s main water-traffic lanes. If MacSwain moved out into the river, they could pick him up and follow at a discreet distance. The Wasserschutzpolizei’s only concern was that MacSwain’s boat was clearly a fast vessel that could give their launch a run for its money. Maria had already placed a request for a helicopter to stand by. None of these precautions cleared the frown from Paul Lindemann’s brow. What had added to his concern was that Maria had not been able to raise Fabel on his cell phone, getting his voice mail instead: why had Fabel switched off his phone when he had promised he could be contacted all night?

  The late evening air had developed a chilled edge and Anna gave another involuntary shiver as MacSwain handed her the glass of sparkling Sekt.

  ‘Just a moment …’ MacSwain slid open the two small doors that were sculpted to follow the smooth curve of the facing panel. They opened onto the steps that led to a small but brightly lit cabin area. While MacSwain had his back to her, Anna sniffed at the wine and took a tentative sip. She smelled and tasted nothing but the crispness of German champagne; but she knew that Rohypnol or GHB was almost impossible to detect in any beverage. She took a fuller mouthful and repeated her silent mantra in her head: I don’t feel too well.

  MacSwain reappeared with a dark-blue woollen cardigan which he draped across her shoulders.

  ‘We can go below if you’re too cold,’ he said. Anna shook her head. MacSwain smiled and handed her a plate of pâté, bread and herring salad. ‘Relax for a minute,’ he said, ‘there’s something I want you to see. I know you’re not a good sailor, Sara, so I promise to take it slow.’ He looked at Anna as if asking permission. Anna, like MacSwain, had not seen the MEK men move into position, but she guessed – she hoped – that they would be there by now, somewhere in the shadows. What she had to gamble on now was whether or not Paul had arranged cover for her should MacSwain take the boat out.

  She resisted the temptation to search the pontoons for her support and kept her eyes resolutely focused on MacSwain.

  ‘Okay …’ she said and nodded; for her invisible audience, she added, ‘I think that’ll be fine.’

  Paul Lindemann instructed the MEK not to intervene. Maria warned the Wasserschutzpolizei launch, which was now in direct radio contact with the team, that MacSwain was on the move.

  MacSwain untethered the boat fore and aft and started the engine. Its deep, throaty rumble disturbed Anna, whose instincts told her that a lot of power and a great deal of speed lay in that rumble. MacSwain, as good as his word, took the boat out from its mooring slowly and gently. Anna noticed the relaxed, almost careless ease with which he manoeuvred the craft. She looked back at the receding mooring and just made out the merest hint of a shadow, moving low and fast towards the land end of the pontoons.

  The Elbe stretched out before them, obsidian black and unfathomable, fringed on the far shore by the lights of the shipyard. MacSwain turned the boat so it was parallel to the shore and cut the engine. He hit a button on the console and Anna heard the rapid rattle of a heavy chain as the anchor slipped deep into the dark river. With the engine dead, Anna could hear the sounds of the water around them: she felt as if she were on the back of some vast, living thing whose breath and skin sleeked against the hull of the boat as its endless body rippled past beneath them. MacSwain killed the lights.

  ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’ he said, a gesture with his champagne flute sweeping along the distant shore.

  In any other situation Anna would have been captivated by it: Hamburg glittered in the night and the Elbe held up a mirror to her beauty, animating the city’s sparkling reflection.

  ‘Beautiful …’ said Anna. ‘Really. I’m glad you brought me out here …’

  ‘I love this city,’ said MacSwain. ‘This is where I belong. This is where I will always want to be.’

  ‘But you’re British, didn’t you say? Don’t you miss …’ Anna tried to think of something British to miss – ‘the rain?’ she said with a laugh.

  MacSwain laughed too. ‘Trust me, Hamburg supplies more than enough rain to quell any homesickness for a damp climate. But no, there’s nothing I miss about Britain. Any Britishness I need Hamburg supplies … sometimes it really is like living in London’s most easterly suburb. There is no other city in the world
like Hamburg. I wouldn’t leave it for the world.’

  Anna shrugged. ‘Me … I can take it or leave it.’

  MacSwain’s face became animated. ‘I can’t understand that. You only have one life. The time we have is too precious to waste. Why would you want to spend it in a place you feel indifferent about?’

  ‘Inertia, I guess. It takes less effort to stay put. I suppose I can’t be bothered building up the energy to achieve escape velocity.’

  ‘Well I’m glad you haven’t, Sara. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’ He sat down next to her. ‘I would love to show you your own city … with the eyes of an outsider. I’m sure I could change the way you feel about it. And anyway, it would give me a chance to get to know you better …’

  He drew closer. Anna could smell the most subtle hint of an expensive cologne. She looked into the sparkling green eyes and scanned the perfectly sculpted features. Anna found herself doubting very seriously that he could have anything to do with the murders they were investigating or even the doping of girls for ritualised sex. MacSwain was classically handsome; through his clothes it was clear that his body was perfectly proportioned and muscular; he was urbane, intelligent and confident. Everything about MacSwain should have pushed Anna’s buttons. Yet, when he drew his face close to Anna’s and closed his mouth around hers, she had to fight the nausea that churned in her chest.

  The fifteen-metre long, Barthel-built WS25 was the Hamburg harbour police’s newest launch, but not its fastest. Kommissar Franz Kassel had ordered all the lights to be dimmed in contravention of the very harbour regulations he enforced daily. Kassel lifted his binoculars and scanned MacSwain’s powerboat as it slipped from the quays. He muttered something to himself as he recognised the boat as a Chris Craft 308 or 328 Express Cruiser. Ideal for cruising. Also fast. Much faster, if its owner decided to run for it, than the WS25’s 22 kilometres per hour. But not faster than radio waves or radar. If the cruiser made a break for it, Kassel could summon up support from any of the WSP Kommissariats along the river from there to Cuxhaven. All the same, he knew there was a female police officer aboard that cruiser. And, from what Oberkommissarin Klee had told him on the radio, if there was a call for help, the speed of response could be the difference between life and death. Kassel was a wraith of a man: unfeasibly thin and tall, with reddish hair and freckles that seemed to have merged after twenty years’ exposure to brackish harbour air, sun and spray. He let the binoculars hang around his neck and took the WSP peaked cap from his head, running bony fingers through his thinning thatch of dry sandy hair.