‘But – let me guess – Flemming is known on the bush telegraph as the go-to guy for getting your nearest and dearest out of the clutches of a cult?’
‘That’s about it. But there are rumours of Flemming and his helpers being rather forceful in extracting cult members. The word is that you don’t get in his way. Tough guy. Other than that, everything else he said about his business is true. They really do provide security advice and personnel for importers and shipping lines.’
‘Thanks, Anna.’
‘What now?’ asked Werner after Fabel had ended his call.
‘Let’s go and pay Herr Flemming a call …’
* * *
People had an idea, a stereotype, of what a model-train enthusiast should look like. Frank Lesing was aware of that and often laughed at the reactions he got when he told people about his hobby.
Frank was thirty-two, tall, with a handsome face and thick dark hair. His looks, he knew, had been an advantage in building up his business. In business, people liked to deal with the good-looking. It was superficial, but it was true. His looks and his easygoing personality had made him popular at school and university and had eased his speedy progress through the international bank that employed him. It had all been so easy for Frank; so easy that sometimes it just did not seem real. As a senior member of the team, he was generally expected to make his lunches working ones: eating a sandwich while tied up in meetings or taking clients out to lunch. But whenever he did have a lunchtime to himself, this was where he would come: to the model-railway museum in the city’s Speicherstadt. What had started off as a large model-railway display now stretched over nearly twelve thousand metres of track. The largest model railway in the world. But it had become much more than that: there were motorways, roads and streets with moving traffic; offices, churches, theatres; two hundred thousand models of people doing every possible human activity, and a perfect duplication of central Hamburg. Container ships, trains, buses, cars, fire engines – perfect scale models, regulated by computers in the central control room – moved around the miniaturised landscape, creating the illusion of looking down from a great height on a real, living city.
It had been quiet for a lunchtime and Frank did not have to wait long to get in: the exhibition controlled the numbers passing through at any one time. He stood for a full five minutes looking down on a section of the Elbe while a container ship sailed through real water before reaching the crane-forested docks. It was then that Frank became aware of the young man standing at his side. There was something about the man that concerned Frank. He was dressed in dark clothes that looked old and grubby and Frank could smell the rancid odour of stale sweat coming from him. His hair was matted and he had the look of someone who had slept rough. But it was not that aspect of the man’s appearance that troubled Frank, it was his eyes. There was a look of excited desperation in those eyes. The young man stared at the massive model of the Köhlbrandbrücke, the bridge that spanned the river where the South Elbe became the North Elbe again. It was one of Hamburg’s most striking landmarks and even the model of it was impressive: six metres long and one and a half metres high.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Frank tentatively. He knew it was a bad idea – the guy was probably a junkie – but Frank had always found the imperative to help someone in need irresistible.
‘I thought they didn’t let you on it,’ said the young man, without taking his wild eyes from the model of the Köhlbrandbrücke.
‘What?’
‘The bridge. I thought it was only for cars. There are people walking on it. Cycling.’
‘Oh, that …’ Frank smiled. ‘It’s supposed to be the cycle race. They open it for that once a year. And the people on foot are supposed to be environmentalists protesting.’
The young man moved a little further along, to change the angle of his view. Frank noticed that he limped a little as he did so. He frowned as he examined the replica structure.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Frank.
‘Is it real?’
‘Is what real? I think I should get you some help.’ Frank looked around for an attendant.
‘Is it real?’ the man asked again, his voice dull.
‘What? The bridge? Of course the bridge is real. Everything here is a copy of the real thing.’
‘A copy? Everything here is a copy?’ The young man looked up suddenly and Frank saw, for the first time, the full turmoil in the eyes. A storm of anger and fear and confusion. Frank now felt very uneasy. He walked away from the young man, moving as casually as he could, while desperately trying to locate an official.
‘IS IT REAL?’ the young man screamed at Frank’s back. Everyone else in the museum stopped and turned to see who was shouting. When Frank turned around, he found himself facing the barrel of an automatic. It shook in the young man’s outstretched hands. Frank could see that he was crying now, thick rivulets of tears streaking his cheeks. ‘I … want … you … to … tell … me … IS IT REAL?’
‘Is what real?’ asked Frank, through his panic. He saw a member of staff over the young man’s shoulder, speaking into a walkie-talkie. ‘Do you mean the bridge? Do you mean everything here?’
‘Is it real?’ he repeated, calmer this time but taking deliberate aim along the gun’s barrel.
‘Of course it’s not real!’ Frank was shouting now. ‘It’s just a model. It’s just make-believe.’
The young man’s eyes widened and Frank waited for the sound of the gun. Time had slowed down, each second adrenalin-stretched, and he found himself wondering if he would hear the gun, or whether he would be dead before his brain could register the sound.
‘It’s not real?’ asked the young man, sobbing.
‘No. Of course it’s not.’
Frank flinched as the young man surged forward at him, shoving him to one side and pushing his way through the screams of the crowd and out through the exit.
Suddenly Frank felt his legs give way under him and steadied himself on the handrail. He found himself looking at the Köhlbrandbrücke at the level of the roadway and a hand-painted environmental protester stared back at him defiantly.
* * *
Quite appropriately, the offices of Seamark International were in the HafenCity. It was, on the face of it, a modest outfit. The offices were new and, like the rest of the HafenCity, were all about the new century and its promises. They were not, however, particularly big: just a reception and three offices.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Flemming when Fabel and Werner arrived. ‘You better take a seat.’
‘So which is the biggest part of your operation?’ asked Fabel after the receptionist had brought in a tray with coffees. ‘The maritime security or the cult-member deprogramming?’
Flemming smiled. ‘I take it you’ve found out about my hobby?’
‘Rescuing and deprogramming cult members? Yes, I have. An interesting sideline.’
‘I don’t do it for money. If my expenses are covered that’s all I care about. And in some cases not even that. I hate cults. I hate what they do to people.’
‘And is the Pharos Project your particular focus of interest, Herr Flemming?’
‘Of late, probably. We live in strange times, Herr Fabel. Most of the religious and spiritual certainties have fallen by the wayside. Christianity, Marxism, Nationalism … Everything is changing, becoming more technological, globalised, faster. People feel overwhelmed and they’re looking to more and more abstract concepts for some kind of guidance. The Pharos Project is very clever with its pitch, particularly to the vulnerable. My personal belief is that it is the most dangerous cult on the planet.’
‘So Herr Kebir believes Meliha has been recruited and brainwashed?’
‘No, I’m afraid we’re all pretty sure that Meliha has been murdered. She wasn’t an acolyte, she was an infiltrator. But I won’t stop searching for her until we are sure one way or the other. There is always the chance that they have kept her alive somewhere.�
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‘Berthold Müller-Voigt was her lover. He was convinced she’d uncovered a secret that would have done massive damage to the Pharos Project. Do you think she was onto something big?’
‘I don’t know,’ Flemming shrugged. ‘It could be. I only came into this after the fact, as it were. But I think it’s entirely possible that she found out something about either the Korn-Pharos Corporation or the Pharos Project. She was totally dedicated to exposing false environmental prophets, from what I’ve been told.’
‘But you’ve had experience of dealing with people who have been involved with the Project?’ asked Werner.
‘We’ve liberated four former members so far. Technically, we’ve broken the law each time but after the rescued member has been “deprogrammed” they have been grateful rather than wanting to press charges. You asked me why I’m so secretive about what we do. I think you are beginning to get an idea of how ruthless Pharos can be. They don’t like losing members; not just because they resent the loss of a revenue stream, but because ex-members are likely to talk about what goes on in the cult.’
‘And the ones you’ve liberated – have they talked?’
‘Yes, but the cult is structured in such a way that each member has a very restricted view of the whole organisation. But, by piecing things together, we’ve built up an idea of some of the more secret aspects of the Project.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as unregulated experiments in Brain Computer Interface – a branch of neuroscience that just happens to fit in with Dominik Korn’s weird ideas. It’s all about micro-thin sensors implanted in the brains of people with disabilities to connect them to external technology – blind subjects being able to see again through an external artificial eye, amputees having full sensory control over robotic prostheses, that kind of thing. There are even complex versions already developed to help people with specific kinds of paralysis. I’m sure you can see why Dominik Korn, given his condition, has a vested personal interest in funding development of this area.’
Fabel found himself thinking of Johann Reisch, a man desperate for exactly that type of technology. But it had been too late for him.
‘So are you really suggesting that the Pharos Project is carrying out illegal surgery on members in pursuit of a better class of electric wheelchair for Korn?’ he asked.
‘You have to remember that many of the cult’s members are only too willing to take part. “Enhancement” is seen as a step on the path to realising singularity.’
‘God …’ said Fabel. ‘These people are really taken in by this stuff?’
‘No matter how sophisticated their technology or how much cash they’ve got in the pot, the Pharos Project is just another destructive loony cult like any other. And that means the same old tricks. They restrict the calorie intake and the amount of sleep of their members to dull their mental responses. Sometimes even sedate them slightly. It all makes new subjects more amenable to indoctrination. The problem we have is that when we “liberate” one of them, it is, to all intents and purposes, abduction. We hold them against their will in a secret location and use the same kind of brainwashing techniques as the cults we’ve freed them from, except in reverse. Then we introduce them back to their families. That’s usually the end of it, except some cults make an effort to track down ex-members. In the case of the Pharos Project, they use Consolidators – officers of the Consolidation and Compliance Office.’
‘And that’s who you think pushed my car into the Elbe?’
‘I’m certain of it. There are even rumours that some Consolidators have been “augmented” – taken that extra step on the path to becoming consolidated. Special implants to boost hearing, improve sight by giving them infrared vision, that type of crap. Personally I think it’s all cult hype. Even the Pharos Project doesn’t have that kind of technology at its disposal. Yet.’
‘Well,’ said Fabel. ‘I have to say your intelligence gathering is excellent. I mean, you seem to be extremely well informed …’
‘We have to be. We’re up against sophisticated enemies.’
‘Mmm …’ said Fabel thoughtfully. ‘Do you happen to know someone called Fabian Menke? He works for the BfV.’
‘No. Can’t say I do,’ said Flemming, and there was nothing in his expression for Fabel to read. ‘Should I?’
‘No. It’s just that I thought your paths might have crossed.’
They had just left Flemming’s office when Anna Wolff called Fabel on his cellphone.
‘Jan, I think we’ve found Freese.’
‘That was quick.’
‘To be honest, he’s made it pretty easy for us. There’s a guy walking across the Köhlbrandbrücke bridge. He’s taken potshots at passing motorists. It sounds like the same guy who was reported to have waved a gun around at the model-railway museum in the Speicherstadt. From the description, it sounds like Freese.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Köhlbrandbrücke was a sweeping arc of road bridge suspended from two 135-metre-high stanchions that gave the impression of inverted giant tuning forks. By the time Fabel got there with Werner, the uniformed branch had sealed off the bridge to traffic. He could see that about seven hundred metres beyond the police barricade a Thyssen TM 170 armoured car of the Polizei Hamburg’s MEK Mobile Deployment Commando was parked at an angle across the carriageway. A team of MEK officers, clad in black helmets and body armour, used the TM 170 for cover while training their weapons on the figure who stood on the parapet, looking down at the river. Fabel estimated that the armed man was roughly at the centre of the bridge, which meant there was a fifty-metre drop beneath him to the water.
‘I need to get up there,’ Fabel said to the uniformed Senior Commissar at the barrier, pointing to the armoured car. ‘With a bullhorn.’
Once Fabel and Werner were kitted out with body armour and helmets, two MEK officers led their crouching half-run to the TM 170, shielding them from the armed man on the bridge with Kevlar shields.
‘That’s all we need … tourists,’ said the senior MEK officer when the two murder detectives reached the TM 170.
‘How’s it going, Bastian?’ Fabel asked. ‘Shoot anyone I know recently?’
Bastian Schwager nodded towards the figure on the bridge. ‘What’s the Murder Commission’s interest in this bozo?’
‘We think he topped the guy fished out of the water yesterday. He’s some kind of eco-terrorist. But he’s also got some pretty major mental health issues. He’s potentially suicidal.’
‘If he waves that handgun in our direction once more, Jan, I’m going to have to save him the trouble.’
‘Listen, Bastian, this guy is a key witness,’ said Fabel. ‘I really need to talk to him. Can we get closer?’
‘And give him an easier target? I don’t think so. From what you’ve said, mental illness or no, he represents a threat to more than himself.’ Schwager sighed and pointed to the bullhorn. ‘Okay, use that and tell him we’re moving the armoured car closer so that you can hear what he has to say.’
‘Niels …’ There was a feedback whine and Fabel held the bullhorn a little further from his mouth. ‘Niels … this is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg. I want to talk to you. I want to hear what you have to say, but I can’t from over here. I’m too far away. We’re going to move the armoured vehicle closer to you. No one is going to shoot you or try to grab you. I just want to talk. If you are agreeable, please raise your right hand.’
Niels shouted back something indistinguishable.
‘I can’t hear you, Niels. Raise your arm if it’s okay to move closer.’
The figure on the bridge remained motionless, the gun hanging loosely at his side, his gaze cast down towards the water fifty metres below.
‘Niels?’
The figure on the bridge parapet still did not move for what seemed an age. Then it half-heartedly raised its arm.
Bastian Schwager barked orders at those of his men within earshot, then into
the radio. The TM 170 growled and rolled slowly forward, straightening up and moving slowly, the MEK team and Fabel and the other officers shielded by its flank. When it stopped, the sharpshooters took aim again at Niels, now only twenty metres distant.
‘Niels …’ Fabel called across to him once the armoured car’s engine had been cut. ‘I need you to come down from there. I want to talk to you about what has happened.’
Niels did not answer for a moment, his back still to Fabel and his gaze still downwards onto the river below.
‘Do you want to know something funny?’ Niels said at last. ‘I used to be afraid of the water. And of heights. That’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘Niels …’ Fabel kept his voice calm and even. ‘You need to put the gun down. You’re placing yourself in danger by having that thing in your hand. I want you to put it down.’
‘This?’ Niels raised the automatic and looked at it as if he had never seen a gun before. Fabel sensed the MEK team preparing to fire and held up a restraining hand. ‘I thought I’d already thrown it away. And that I’d thought I’d already thrown it away when I threw it away the last time. I don’t know if this is a gun. Maybe the first one was … Anyway, I don’t need it any more.’ Niels opened his hand and let the gun tumble from his grasp. It clanked against the parapet and disappeared over the edge.
‘It did that the last time, too,’ he said.
Now that Niels represented a danger to no one other than himself, Fabel and the other officers moved around from behind the cover of the TM 170. Bastian Schwager ordered all but one of his sharpshooters to lower their weapons.
‘Okay, Niels, that was good,’ said Fabel. ‘Now I need you to step down from the parapet before you fall.’
‘No. I’m not going to do that. I’m going to stay here. You can see so much more from up high. I mean in every way. Don’t you think it’s funny? You know, what I said about how I used to be afraid of water and heights. Isn’t it funny that I’m up here, so high up, and above water? But I’m not afraid. How high up do you think I am?’
A Fear of Dark Water Page 29