The Valkyrie Song jf-5

by Craig Russell

  ‘All I have, Chief Commissar, is a bundle of unconnected facts. And I suspect that’s all Jens had, but he somehow saw a bigger picture. I am willing to share everything I know, but I expect a little quid pro quo… I was assured of your full cooperation by Herr van Heiden. I would appreciate it if that cooperation extended to keeping me fully informed of your progress. I suspect that this case extends across our common border. Maybe beyond. And if my… if our suspicions are right, then we are talking about the assassination in Hamburg of a senior Danish police officer. No small matter.’

  Fabel looked at Vestergaard for a moment. She had freshened up her make-up when she had gone up to her room. A different shade. It had changed her look subtly. Maybe having perfectly regular features allowed you to alter your look more easily than other people. Despite her beauty, Fabel imagined that Karin Vestergaard could even make herself look plain and uninteresting.

  ‘I take it you’re staying in Hamburg for some time?’

  ‘I’ve left my booking open.’

  ‘Maybe we should think about a different hotel — this was the murder scene, if Jespersen’s death was murder.’

  ‘Then it might help to be close to it.’ Vestergaard’s expression still gave nothing away of the emotions that might be behind it.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Fabel. ‘But I’m going to assign an officer to you. Just to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ said Vestergaard. ‘I told you that Jens Jespersen had once been my superior, rather than the other way around. Well, that was when we were both in the Politiets Aktionsstyrke. Trust me, Mr Fabel, I’m more than capable of looking after myself.’

  ‘So was Jespersen,’ said Fabel.

  9

  It was comforting to be back. In Norway. In Oslo. In this light. Strange but comforting.

  The clouds had dispersed from the sky and the ever-optimistic Oslo cafe owners had placed aluminium tables and chairs, and the occasional strategically placed patio heater, outside on the streets.

  Birta Henningsen sat at a pavement cafe, drinking her coffee and watching, from behind her sunglasses, the ice-blue Oslotrikken tramcars passing up and down the street under a matching ice-blue sky lightly streaked with wisps of white cloud. The February sun that shone on Oslo did so brightly if without any real warmth. But that suited Birta perfectly: she belonged in this climate, in this light, this clean, cool air; in this environment. Birta had, of course, spent time in the Mediterranean and other beautiful parts of the world, mainly through her work, but there she had always felt conspicuous: foreign. And Birta did not like to feel conspicuous.

  It was here, in the North, that she felt at home.

  Birta had eaten a light meal and now the coffee restored some of her energy. It had been a long drive from Stockholm — seven hours — and the day before she had driven all the way from Copenhagen, crossing the Oresund Bridge. She would drive back to Stockholm afterwards. She found her thoughts drifting to the meeting arranged for later in the day. It was an important one. One of the most important of her career. She had prepared well for it: she found that she performed better, was less nervous, if she had concluded all her research and preparation well in advance and simply relaxed immediately before.

  There was a mother with two children three tables away. Birta watched them. The mother would have been roughly the same age, shared Birta’s colouring and was dressed in typical Oslo chic. Expensive but restrained. And warm. But, unlike Birta, there was something not entirely contained about the young mother: a vague sense of chaos. Birta recognised it as the consequence of motherhood; that a substantial fraction of the woman’s life was no longer hers to control and Birta wondered what that must feel like.

  She turned back to watch the trams and the passers-by. She had never had children. She had never divided herself. And she never would. She had chosen career and herself above all else. And now she sat under the pale Norwegian sky, watching the trams pass and glancing over at the woman and her two children and felt a vague ache in her chest.

  This was futile. Sentimental wandering. She was annoyed with her own self-indulgence since she’d arrived. Like the trip to Holmenkollen.

  Birta had not planned to visit Holmenkollen, but she had felt the need as soon as she had approached Oslo. She had driven overnight and had approached the city along the Mosseveien highway that ran along the shore, as the day had broken painfully beautiful in deep red and purple-blue silk over the Oslofjord. She had parked in a municipal car park on the outskirts of the city and had taken the T-Bane train to Holmenkollen and mingled with the handful of off-season tourists at the ski centre. Like the tourists, she had looked out over the city from the top of the ski jump. But it had been the circuit around the centre, the one used for the biathlon, that she had come to see. One more time. It had been a pointless exercise and so unlike her. And now she sat in the centre of Oslo surrendering to pangs of jealousy as she watched a woman fuss over her children.

  This was not what she was here for. She was in Oslo on business, not to sightsee or for indulgent self-reflection. She paid in cash for her coffee and left without another glance at the woman and her children.

  The sun was already low and the long Nordic winter night would come soon. It would be dark. Time for her meeting.

  10

  ‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘It’s a deal. We share information. But I have to say that for the moment it’s going to be very much a one-way trade. You’re the one with the background info. All I’ve got at the moment is something that looks like a death from natural causes.’

  ‘Like I told you,’ said Vestergaard, ‘Jens Jespersen was my commanding officer when we were both in the Politiets Aktionsstyrke. I learned a hell of a lot from him during that time. I don’t think I’d be where I am today if it hadn’t been for him.’

  Fabel watched Vestergaard closely for signs of thaw in the ice maiden. If they were there, they were too small for him to detect. She spoke of Jespersen with respect, even a hint of affection, but there was no warmth in her voice.

  ‘There was a major drugs bust, six years ago. We set up an elaborate sting — or more correctly Jens set up an elaborate sting and we landed Goran Vuja i c. You know, the Bosnian Serb warlord turned drug smuggler.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Fabel. ‘It’s funny how people like Vuja i c start off with some kind of ethnic or political agenda and then embrace the criminal free market with enthusiasm. He was a bad bastard from all accounts. He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’ll get to that, but yes, he died four years ago. Vuja i c was as slimy as he was a vicious piece of work. He had been a member of a Bosnian Serb police unit and was directly involved in some of the atrocities that went on during the Bosnian War. He was never tried at the Hague. Not enough evidence. But the bastard was there at the massacres and the rape camps. Anyway, Jens Jespersen set up a sting and we took Vuja i c down. A few months before we had managed to trip up a Danish businessman called Peter Knudsen who had been dabbling in drug exporting. Jens did a deal with him and Knudsen collaborated with us in setting up Vuja i c. We used Knudsen’s yacht and Jens played the part of Knudsen. We staged three meetings on the yacht and one in Copenhagen. Vuja i c went along with it all. The last meeting on the yacht was where the money changed hands, electronically. It was a very expensive op for us to put on but it seemed very successful.’

  ‘So how come Vuja i c went free?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘Unfortunately, Jens hadn’t dotted all the i’s or crossed all the t’s and Vuja i c ’s legal team started to argue entrapment. It wouldn’t have got him off, but his legal team managed to get him bailed between hearings. His passport was impounded, though, and he was restricted from travelling outside Denmark. It was all a bit of a mess and, to be frank, it wasn’t just that my career overtook Jens’s, it was the fact that his came to a standstill. He was blamed for leaving open a potential loophole through which Goran Vuja i c could walk free. Anyway, it was when Vuja i c was on bail pending tria
l that someone decided to relieve the state of the burden of court proceedings. We found him in Tivoli Gardens just sitting in the rain on a bench. Someone had used a small, thin file or knife to stab him in the heart. It was a truly professional job: there was hardly any blood and it took us ages to find the entry wound beneath his sternum.’

  ‘I guess you make a lot of enemies in his line of business.’

  ‘And some strange partners,’ said Vestergaard. She paused while a waiter came in and took their cups away. ‘You see, that was the start of Jens’s obsession with the Valkyrie.’

  ‘The Valkyrie?’

  Vestergaard held up her hand as if to slow Fabel down. ‘We had set up this luxury yacht for the sting. Fitted it out with bugs and hidden cameras to record the whole operation. One of the things we got on tape was Vuja i c talking about the third partner in the deal. A sleeping partner who had financed the whole drug deal and was looking for the lion’s share of the profit. It was this anonymous third partner we had really wanted to uncover.’

  ‘So you think it was this partner that had Vuja i c killed?’

  ‘Almost definitely. Vuja i c was nothing if he wasn’t a negotiator. All through his questioning he had kept shtum about the identity of the moneyman. He knew that if his defence of entrapment didn’t work, he could do a deal by giving up the name of his backer. But anyway, if we go back to the conversation we recorded on the boat… Vuja i c had mentioned that the moneyman had a contract killer who was the best in the business. Vuja i c claimed that this contract killer had cleaned up the competition for him at the behest of this sleeping partner. He also claimed this killer went by the name of the Valkyrie, that she was a woman. And he claimed that if the circumstances called for it, this killer was an expert at making the deaths look like accidents or natural causes. Oh, and by the way, the crooked businessman we used to set Vuja i c up also died prematurely.’

  ‘So that’s why you want our pathologist to check closely for puncture marks or anything unusual…’

  ‘Exactly. But Vuja i c had more to say about the Valkyrie. And this is where it gets really interesting for you: he claimed that she was based here. In Hamburg.’

  Fabel leaned back in the leather sofa and gazed out across the empty lounge and through the vast plate-glass windows to the Alsterfleet beyond. ‘You believe this?’

  ‘Jens did. But, like I said, he didn’t share information the way he should have. And from what I’ve seen of your report, his laptop and notebooks have disappeared as well.’

  ‘I thought he was travelling surprisingly light. And we were pretty sure his cellphone was wiped. But we didn’t know for sure that stuff had been taken. I’ll get someone to start questioning the staff.’

  Vestergaard shook her head. ‘No point. His stuff wasn’t filched by immigrant cleaners. Whoever murdered Jens took them.’

  ‘If he was murdered. But, from what you say, if his death is foul play then everything would seem to point to this Valkyrie,’ said Fabel. He found his thoughts wandering: as head of the Hamburg Murder Commission, it was no small thing for Fabel to be told that an internationally active contract killer was based in his city.

  ‘It would be a natural assumption. Of course, you do know that this Valkyrie may not even exist. And if he or she does, then it’s by no means certain that he or she is based in Hamburg. It could simply be that communication is channelled through here somehow.’

  ‘Jespersen wasn’t killed by a communication channel,’ said Fabel. ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘I checked what I could of Jens’s paperwork in Copenhagen. Also his Internet history, et cetera. He had piles — and I mean piles — of research material on the former East German police and security apparatus, he had detailed lists of former officers of the Volkspolizei, as I think you called it, and, of course, masses of stuff on the Stasi.’

  ‘And you think that this is connected somehow with this supposed Hamburg hit woman?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s no connection. But Jens was very focused on this investigation. Officially he was looking for Vuja i c ’s killer, but his attitude towards the case was bordering on the obsessive. Anyway, there were a few names — of former Stasi people, I mean — which he seemed to take a very special interest in. One above all others, a Major Georg Drescher, seemed to be the main focus of his attentions. Interestingly, from what I can see, Drescher simply vanished into thin air as soon as the Wall came down. Drescher worked for the HVA department of the Stasi. The espionage wing. My guess is that as soon as Drescher sensed the wind changing direction in eighty-nine, he used his Stasi resources to set up under a new identity. Maybe even here in West Germany. But why Jens was so interested in Drescher, I don’t know for sure. Having read through the notes, I reckon that Drescher would appear to have been a major figure in the recruitment and training of agents for deployment in the West.’

  ‘So you think this “Valkyrie” is an ex-Stasi agent?’

  ‘It would make sense.’

  Fabel frowned. He did the arithmetic and somehow the idea of a now middle-aged woman carrying out such efficient assassinations didn’t add up. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll see what the autopsy reveals and then explore all possibilities. Anything else?’

  ‘A few other names. Notes on Vuja i c ’s contacts, that kind of thing. A couple of strange things as well… you’ve heard of Gennady Frolov?’

  ‘The Russian oligarch?’

  ‘That’s the one. Personal wealth valued at twelve and a half billion. Jens had made a whole lot of notes about him. Just general stuff and not a dossier.’

  ‘Vuja i c ’s moneyman?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Vestergaard. ‘I did a bit of digging and compared with most of the other oligarchs Frolov is Snow White. But it is all a bit odd. As well as Frolov, Jens had tons of information and corporate literature on Vantage North, the ship designers and builders in Flensburg. They designed and built Frolov’s luxury yacht, the Snow Queen.’

  ‘And you’re sure that Frolov couldn’t be the moneyman behind Vuja i c?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense. The supply of narcotics to Scandinavia and Northern Germany is a multimillion-dollar business — but that’s still peanuts to the likes of Frolov. The risk of conviction would vastly outweigh any benefit.’

  Fabel leaned back for a moment and rubbed his chin as he thought. ‘Who is Olaf?’

  ‘Olaf?’

  ‘In Jespersen’s notebook — he wrote the name Olaf. Do you know who that could be?’

  Vestergaard frowned. ‘I know a hell of a lot of Olafs, and so did Jens. But I can’t think of anyone in particular.’

  ‘Was there anything else in Jespersen’s notes that could be useful?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Karin Vestergaard reached into her attache case and pulled out a file. ‘But maybe you’ll see some relevance in something I’ve missed. I’ve got a copy of everything in here.’

  Fabel reached out to take the file from Vestergaard but she held it firm for a moment. ‘I’ve shared all I have, Mr Fabel. I take it you intend to live up to your part of the bargain?’

  ‘I told you I would give you my fullest cooperation.’ The irritation was evident in Fabel’s tone. ‘I will keep you informed of everything as it happens.’

  ‘Then I’m sure we’ll get along fine,’ said Vestergaard, with a smile devoid of warmth, and let go of the file.

  Chapter Three

  1

  After Birta picked up the hire car from the municipal car park and drove out of Oslo, she tossed the ticket out of the window as she cleared the city limits. When she returned the car there would be no evidence that she had ever been in Oslo or even in Norway. She had programmed several false destinations around Stockholm into the car’s satnav system, the sum of which would account for the kilometres accrued on the odometer. Throughout her trip she had observed every speed limit, every traffic regulation. And because she hadn’t stopped over in a hotel and had paid for all fuel with cash, ther
e was no evidence that she had crossed the border.

  Birta switched on the music system and Wolfgang Haffner filled the car. The German jazz and the Norwegian winter landscape fitted together perfectly and she eased back into her seat. But she found she couldn’t stop thinking back to the cafe and the woman with her children.

  Birta’s client’s place was to the north of Drobak, set deep into the forest on the shore of a small lake. She knew he worked from home and this had been the ideal location for a meeting. She had even identified the ideal window in his schedule.

  She parked in a car park in Drobak: she had established in her reconnaissance that it was unmetered and not overlooked by CCTV cameras. She changed in the back of the car, pulling on three layers of thick woollen socks, partly to keep out the cold but mainly to allow the heavy oversized men’s boots she then put on to fit her: carrying out a meeting in snow was a blessing and a curse at the same time. She would leave the tracks she wanted, where she wanted. But she’d have to take care not to leave unintentional signs of her passing.

  Birta slipped into her dark parka and tucked her blonde hair under the black woollen beanie hat, making sure every strand was secure and out of sight. She put on her rucksack and slung the rifle case by its strap over one shoulder, then made her way on foot from the car park and out through the back of the town, keeping out of sight of the houses.

  It took her half an hour to reach where the forest opened up around the lake. At the north end the lights of a house reflected on the water. Three rooms were illuminated, but she knew he would be alone. His wife and children were visiting family in Frederikstad and wouldn’t be back until lunchtime tomorrow. He was staying at home to pack and prepare for his trip to China in two days’ time.