by Craig Russel
‘What do you see?’ Beate glanced again at the wall clock. If he had seen into a previous life, then it had better be a short one or he would be paying for an extra hour.
‘Two lives. Three lives, counting this one. It is all so clear to me and I see each one as if I were remembering yesterday.’
‘Three lives, you say?’
‘Three lives, but one life. A continuum. Death was not the end: it was merely a brief interruption. A pause.’
That, thought Beate, I have got to remember. ‘A continuum with death as a brief interruption.’ Brilliant. I can use that. ‘Go on,’ she urged her young client. ‘Tell me about your first life. Is that when you stood outside this large building?’
‘No… no, that was the second time. That was the time before.’
‘Tell me about your first life. Where are you? Who are you?’ Beate struggled to keep the impatience from her voice.
‘It’s not important. My first life was simply preparation… I was being readied.’
‘When was this?’
‘A millennium ago. Longer. I was sacrificed and laid in the bog. Under the muddy water. Then they laid hazel and birch branches over me and weighted them with stones. It was so cold. So dark. Ten hundred years in the dark and cold. Then I was reborn.’
‘As whom were you reborn?’
‘Someone…’ The client’s frown deepened. ‘Someone… you knew.’
‘ I knew you?’ Beate looked down on her client and studied the face. His eyes remained closed. For some reason his claim had disturbed her. It was all nonsense, of course, but she thought back again to their first session. To begin with she had thought she recognised him, that she knew him from somewhere. But then she realised that he merely reminded her of someone else, someone whom, at that time, she could not quite identify.
‘I am there now. The building. I can see it clearly…’ The young man ignored her question. He opened his eyes and looked up towards the ceiling, but his gaze was fixed on somewhere, sometime else. ‘It’s a railway station. I can see that now. I am standing at a railway station. It is a small station but the building behind me is large and old. In front of me, beyond the opposite platform, the land is empty and flat. There is a wide river…’
He fell silent for a moment and an expression of intense concentration spread across his features. Then he shook his head.
‘Sorry…’ He looked at her directly for the first time since the session began. He smiled apologetically. ‘It’s gone.’
‘You said you knew me in this previous life.’
Her client spun his legs around and sat up on the edge of the therapy bench. ‘I dunno… it was just a feeling I got. I can’t explain it or anything.’
Beate considered his words for a moment. Then she looked at her watch. The hour was up.
‘Well, maybe we can pick up where we left off with our next session.’ She checked her diary and confirmed the date and time. Her client rose and put on his jacket. ‘I think the session has done you good this week,’ she said. ‘You look more relaxed than you have since you first started to come here.’
‘I am more relaxed.’ He smiled as he walked to the door. ‘I feel as if I’m approaching a very special, very peaceful state of mind. The Japanese have a name for it…’
‘Oh?’ Beate held open the door for him. Her noon appointment would be there at any moment.
‘Yes,’ he said as he left. ‘They call it zanshin.’
12.40 p.m.: Winterhuder Fahrhaus, Hamburg
The cafe at the Winterhude ferry point was reasonably close to the Police Presidium. Fabel often used it as somewhere he could gather his team to discuss a case less formally: a change of scene, away from the Murder Commission. When Markus Ullrich had called Fabel that morning, Fabel had suggested that they should meet at the Fahrhaus cafe.
Fabel arrived early and ordered a coffee from the waiter who knew him as a regular customer but had no idea that he was a murder detective. Fabel liked the fact that most people would never think of him as a policeman, and he never volunteered the information freely. It was as if he had two identities. Two separate lives occupying two separate Hamburgs: the city he lived in and loved, and the city he policed. He often wondered if, even after all this time, he belonged in the profession. He was good at his job, he knew that, but each new case, each new cruelty inflicted on one human being by another, chipped away at him. Not for the first time, Fabel was lost in thought about what might have been, who he might have been, had he not taken the decision to join the Polizei Hamburg. And all the time he was aware of Roland Bartz’s business card in his wallet: a ticket back to a normal life.
He snapped out of his reverie when he spotted the squat form of Ullrich coming down the steps to the cafe. The BKA man was dressed in a dark business suit with a dark shirt and tie and carried a small executive attache case. He could have been coming to sell Fabel insurance. Fabel thought back to his meeting with Professor van Halen, the business-suited geneticist: it seemed as though the whole world was becoming ‘corporate’.
‘Thanks for doing this,’ he said as he shook Ullrich’s hand. ‘I just thought there was an off chance that you might have something on file about either or both of the murder victims, given their backgrounds.’
The two men sat down and further conversation was suspended while the waiter came over and took their orders.
‘I’ve some interesting stuff for you, Herr Fabel.’ Ullrich held the attache case across his lap and patted it, as if hinting at treasures hidden within. Then, very deliberately, he set the case down on the floor beside him in a clear ‘for later’ gesture. ‘We have quite a bit to discuss, but before we do I just wanted to clear the air about the situation with Maria Klee… I hope you didn’t think that I was being too hard on her. But she did compromise a major operation.’
‘I would have much preferred it if you had discussed the matter with me first, instead of going directly to Criminal Director van Heiden.’
Ullrich shrugged. ‘I didn’t really have the opportunity to deal with it that way. The operation’s commanders – especially, I have to say, those from the Polizei Hamburg’s LKA Six – were incensed that Frau Klee was trampling all over their case. It has been a highly sensitive operation.’
‘But for God’s sake, Ullrich, you know how intimately my team were involved with the Vitrenko investigation.’
‘That was a previous case. I’m sorry, Fabel, but life moves on. We are dealing with the threat Vitrenko presents now. And it’s much bigger than the Polizei Hamburg can handle alone. We had officers from the BKA, from LKA Six, from the Federal Border Police, from the Cologne Police organised-crime squad… a hell of a lot of man-hours went into the operation. I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you about it personally, but there was a lot of politics involved too. I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t deliberately going over your head…’
‘Fair enough,’ said Fabel.
‘Anyway…’ Ullrich lifted his briefcase. ‘I did what you asked and did a bit of checking into your two murder victims.’
‘And?’
‘And, although the connections are vague, there are too many coincidences – in my opinion, anyway – to suggest that your so-called Hamburg Hairdresser is making random selections. As you suspected, there were Hamburg LKA and Federal BKA intelligence files on Hans-Joachim Hauser. He was very active all the way through to the nineteen eighties. I thought it would be of interest to you. Just as background. I had a copy made of the file…’ Ullrich reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick file which he laid on the white-painted surface of the metal cafe table. There was nothing on the buff-coloured cover to hint at what lay within. Fabel was about to pick up the file when Ullrich laid his hand flat on it. ‘Please don’t mislay it. Even if it is a copy, it would be most embarrassing. There’s not a lot in there that would surprise you, Herr Fabel. But this is where it gets interesting…’ He laid a second file on top of the first. ‘Your second victim also had a BKA file b
ack then.’
Fabel leaned forward. ‘Griebel was under surveillance?’
‘I thought that would intrigue you.’ Ullrich smiled. ‘On the surface there’s no direct connection that I can see between Hauser and Griebel, other than, as you said, that they were at the Universitat Hamburg at roughly the same time and they were both politically active, if to different degrees. But the thing that’s most interesting is that both men later fell under general suspicion of being figures in the so-called RAF-Umfeld.’
‘Griebel too?’ Fabel was familiar with the term: ‘RAF-Umfeld’ referred to the vague general network of supporters who had provided assistance, often financial or logistical, for the Red Army Faction/Baader-Meinhof gang and other terrorist organisations.
‘Griebel too,’ confirmed Ullrich. ‘As you know, all through the nineteen seventies and nineteen eighties, anarchist terror groups in Germany were sustained by these networks. To begin with there was the “Schili” or the “chic left” who were mainly middle-class liberals who funded the activities of the anarchists. The Schili were mainly left-wing lawyers, journalists, university lecturers and the like who coughed up money to support the “direct-action” activities of the anarchists… until that “direct action” moved on from “walk-ins” on posh restaurants, daubing slogans on government buildings and posing naked for the press, to kidnap, murder and bombings. The activists became terrorists and it all became too much for the trendy left. It really sorted the wheat from the chaff, and the terrorist groups ended up with a hard core of helpers who were deployed in roles where they did not actually break the law.’
‘I know,’ said Fabel. ‘The so-called “legals”.’
‘Exactly. But as well as the “legals” there was a nationwide network of sleepers. These people could be called on to break the law to finance or support the activities of the main terror group, maybe even to carry out a high-profile assassination… but, on the surface, they led normal lives and did not draw attention to themselves. The terrorist groups often picked people who had never been connected officially with the protest movement or with any type of political activity.’ Ullrich gave the files a nudge towards Fabel. ‘In there, you’ll see that Hans-Joachim Hauser was suspected of being a “legal”: he was openly in support of the “cause”, but did not break the law. Herr Dr Griebel, on the other hand, was considered a possible sleeping agent…’
‘And they were suspected of being tied in with the Red Army Faction?’
‘That’s the thing. As you know, there was a fair amount of cross-fertilisation between groups – the Socialist Patients’ Collective, the Revolutionary Cells, Rote Zora and the Baader-Meinhof gang – and there was also a fair amount of freelance activity, for want of a better word. And I know that you yourself encountered one of these splinter groups early in your police career.’
Fabel nodded curtly. Ullrich was clearly referring to the 1983 Commerzbank shootings carried out by Hendrik Svensson’s Radical Action Group – in the course of which Franz Webern had been killed and Fabel had been wounded and forced to take a life to save his own. Fabel did not like the idea that the BKA man probably had, sometime, run a check on him. But there again, he told himself, that was the business Markus Ullrich was in.
‘You will remember,’ continued Ullrich, ‘after the Stammheim prison suicides of Meinhof, Baader, Ensslin and Raspe in nineteen seventy-six and nineteen seventy-seven, German domestic terrorism lost its focus and became very fragmented – which actually made our job more difficult. It also resulted in a steeply increased level and intensity of violence. The truth is that Hauser and Griebel were both low-priority subjects… and there was never any suggestion of a connection between them. They did share common acquaintances – but, there again, so would anyone involved even marginally with that scene. There is something else about Griebel.’
‘Oh?’
‘I noticed that his file was recently updated. He was looked at again only a couple of years ago, in fact. I get the feeling it had to do with his field of research. Why his particular speciality was of interest I couldn’t tell you, but our counter-terrorism people felt the need to run another check on him. But again, low-priority stuff. Anyway… happy reading.’
‘I really do appreciate you doing this for me,’ Fabel said as their lunches arrived.
‘You’re welcome. All I would ask is that if the political backgrounds of your murder victims turn out to be a positive lead, please do let me know. It may be that there is a dimension to this case that may interest us. And Herr Fabel…’ Ullrich looked uncertain, as if weighing up whether to say what he had to say or not.
‘Yes?’
‘Be careful. As you’ll see from the files, some of the figures who were subject to our scrutiny in the past have become important people today. All you need to do is look at Gerhard Schroder’s government cabinet. A Foreign Minister who has admitted to street violence and an Interior Minister who was a defence attorney for the Baader-Meinhof gang.’ Ullrich was referring to Joschka Fischer who had been ‘outed’ when Bettina Rohl, the daughter of Ulrike Meinhof, had released to the press photographs of Fischer assaulting a police officer, and to Otto Schily, who had represented the terrorists early in his legal career. ‘And there are others with big ambitions much closer to home…’
‘Like Muller-Voigt?’
‘Exactly. If you find yourself going down this line of inquiry, watch your back.’
Fabel gave a grim laugh. ‘I’m not worried about political flak,’ he said. ‘I’m well used to that by now.’
‘Political flak isn’t all you have to worry about…’ Ullrich said. ‘I can’t believe that the so-called sleepers who were put in place back then believe in any of that crap now, but they have been living their normal lives for two decades. I’m sure some of them are quite prepared to go to any lengths to protect themselves. Like I said: be careful.’
7.30 p.m.: Poseldorf, Hamburg
Fabel spent the afternoon reading the BKA files. Everything was as Ullrich had described it: Hauser and Griebel had inhabited the same landscape, had followed similar paths, had known the same people, but there was no evidence to suggest that those paths had ever crossed. Still, logic suggested that it was not impossible that at least they knew of each other. And just because no contact had been established by the security services it did not mean that they had in fact never met.
Susanne was working late at the Institute for Legal Medicine, so Fabel returned home alone. His lunch with Ullrich meant that he still had no appetite to speak of, so he took a sandwich and a bottle of Jever through to the living room and set them on the coffee table next to his laptop and the files. He sat for a moment sipping his beer and looking through his picture windows out over the Alsterpark and the wide expanse of Alster, whose water glittered gently in the early evening light. It was a scene that should have put him at peace, but something he could not quite identify nagged at him. Fabel was an orderly man: he needed balance in his universe; logic in the mechanics of his life. And, as with most orderly men, this necessity came from his fear of the chaos that often raged within him. It had scared him to see the same paranoia displayed at its most extreme in Kristina Dreyer. The tenuous connections and the broad coincidences that surrounded the two murder victims offended his need for order. When he looked at them from a distance, he could perceive a network of interconnecting threads, but when he drew close it all fell apart like a spider’s web in the wind.
Fabel heard the sound of the door of his flat being opened and Susanne’s voice announcing her arrival. She came in and in a gesture of exaggerated exhaustion flopped down into the sofa next to Fabel, dumping her keys, bag and cellphone next to her. She kissed Fabel.
‘Tough day?’ he asked.
Susanne nodded wearily. ‘You too?’
‘More confusing than anything. Let me get you a glass of wine…’ When Fabel came back from the kitchen he went on to explain about his meeting with Ullrich and the information in the files. ‘Do you think
I’m barking up the wrong tree with this? The personal histories of the victims, I mean?’
‘Frankly… yes.’ Susanne’s voice was tinged with tired irritation. Fabel was breaking their unspoken rule against talking about work during their free time together. ‘You’re overcomplicating this. Think it through. Look at the disfigurement of the bodies. The killer’s small rituals, including pinning up the scalps as a display. It’s the work of a psychopath. You see a significance in the background of the victims, but they share a similar background because they’re roughly the same age. It could be as simple as your killer having a psychotic hostility to middle-aged men. And the mutilation of the bodies has psychosis written all over it. Think about politically motivated murder… nine times out of ten we’re talking about assassination: a bomb planted in a street, a bullet through the head.’
Fabel sipped his beer. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said and rose from his chair. ‘Anyway, I’ll go and fix you something to eat.’
7.40 p.m.: Schanzenviertel, Hamburg
Stefan Schreiner loved the Schanzenviertel. It was, for him, the most energetic, most varied, most vibrant part of Hamburg. His apartment was here. As was his beat.
Schreiner had been a Commissar in the uniformed branch of the Polizei Hamburg for seven years and he had been patrolling the Schanzenviertel for the last four of those years. Schreiner prided himself on being in tune with the Schanzenviertel: he was known by shopkeepers, by residents, even by those who peddled the occasional bit of dope, as a laid-back and easygoing street cop. But it was also known that, while he was willing to turn the odd blind eye where it did no harm, Stefan Schreiner was an honest, dedicated and efficient police officer.
The same could not be said of the officer with whom he had been teamed for the back shift: Peter Reinhard had the blue shoulder pips of a Polizeimeister, and was therefore Schreiner’s subordinate. Schreiner reckoned that Polizeimeister was as far as Reinhard would ever get in the Polizei Hamburg. He watched his junior officer walk back to the car from the snack stand, a plastic-lidded paper coffee cup in each hand. Reinhard was a huge man who spent a disproportionate amount of time lifting weights in the gym and there was more than an element of swagger in the way he moved. It wasn’t a good idea to swagger in the Schanzenviertel if you were a cop, thought Schreiner. He had spent so much time building bridges here and Reinhard was not the kind of partner he liked to be seen with.