‘Come one Arkady, who can get access to the Czech play dough that easy? ‘
The Russian blinked nervously looking directly into Peters’ face.
‘Guess who?’
‘Jesus, Arkady, you are joking.’
‘I only wish I was. They say back in the Motherland that Yanaev is the only one who knows where the entire explosive is buried around Berlin. If anyone is selling Semtex it has to be his outfit.’
Peters stared out over the city beneath them, the western aspect with its showcase capitalist architecture, its wide boulevards and expansive green spaces. He wondered what Gavrilov had once thought when he gazed across the old frontier, towards the forbidden zone beyond. And then he thought about the man the Russian had brought to him and what was driving him towards his quarry now.
‘You think he’s running our man Streich?’ Peters asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Gavrilov said shaking his head.
‘Yanaev is not a risk taker. He keeps the trade as far away as possible from his front door. I can’t see him getting close to someone who would bring so much trouble to those electronic gates down in Kopenick. He’s enjoying your discomfort over “Christopher” and probably guesses our man’s booby trap toys are set off with his firecrackers but he is no gambler. Yanaev keeps his distance from everyone.’
In that instant Peters realised he trusted Gavrilov more than most of the Kottbusser Strasse murder squad. Arkady’s instincts were usually on the money, Peters reminded himself. Yanaev was probably getting some perverse kick out of his Semtex being used by Streich but the chances of them ever meeting were remote.
‘You can keep this copy. Happy hunting. It’s probably better if we don’t see each other for a little while,’ Gavrilov said tapping the paper before he disappeared into the lift leaving Peters alone to stare out of the glass bulge of the Tower overlooking the western cityscape beyond.
When the Russian was gone Peters went to the restaurant area of the Tower which turned on a gentle revolution taking the diners inside on a slow east-west journey. He ordered coffee and croissants and laid the photocopy out on the table in front of him, using the condiments to hold down the crumpled paper until it was completely flat.
For some inexplicable reason Peters ran his right forefinger along the outline of the soldier’s face in front of him trying to imagine what 23 years had done to these sculpted, harsh but handsome features. He would take it back to Kottbusser Strasse for the techies to play with. Peters had heard that they could ‘project’ the face of a man in his twenties and come up with an image of the same person n his fifties using the latest computer technology. They would even be able to match this fragment from ‘Christopher’s’ past life to the sketch provided to the murder squad by the late unlamented Oskar Beer.
What the computers and the techies couldn’t answer was what exactly had trip switched inside this man’s head. Sure, he had been used to seeing violence in the sweat, the dirt, the humidity and squalor of Africa’s civil wars. He had been trained to fight and kill even at close quarters. But Peters still wondered what had driven this one-time hero of a state that no longer existed, one that would never be reborn, to return to the business of death and terror, to hunt and kill as the entire basis of his existence.
What the computers would confirm he already knew. Peters implicitly trusted Gavrilov and the sources he drew upon. The Russian’s connections rippled across the eastern half of the continent, all the way to the Urals, down to all those old military general’s enjoying their retirement on the Black Sea, to the Berlin veterans now back in Moscow running businesses similar to Gavrilov’s, to the Afghansti’s who had managed to slip safely back into the Motherland through the Salang Highway after Gorby pulled the plug; this good Russian was at the centre an organism of impeccable contacts and long standing exchanges, of old favours rewarded and new alliances forged.
Hans-Joachim Streich! He hated the certainty of it all almost as much he feared the killer’s ever increasing proximity. Carrying around the name in his head felt like he had his thumb compressed on the open pin of a hand-grenade.
After descending from the TV tower Peters walked westwards across to the spot to where the statues of Marx and Engels still stood. A group of his fellow countrymen, obviously in Berlin for a stag week judging by their prematurely inebriated state, were having their photographs taken with the ‘old men.’ One had wrapped a Leeds United scarf around Marx’s neck. Peters avoided them and continued his search for the nearest functioning phone booth.
Thirty Eight
To avoid arousing the suspicions of the Mothers Against Paedophiles’ encampment and the media vigil outside Kottbusser Strasse they each slipped out of the station alone to make their way to ‘Anna’s.’ Angi, Bauer, Riedel and finally Stannheim filed their way into the pub towards one of the luridly lit snugs out of sight and earshot of the two early morning drinkers at the bar. On Peters’ instruction the owner laid out a tray of Wursts and slices of baguette on the tables.
When they were all in place, each a beer in hand, Peters began by holding up the photo-fit mined from Oskar Beer’s memory.
‘Hans-Joachim Streich! Meet our chief suspect.’
Stannheim was chewing unenthusiastically on a piece of sausage and spat some of it into the ashtray.
‘Why all the cloak and dagger stuff Martin? Don’t you trust the rest of our colleagues back in the station?’ the Boss asked only for the benefit of the others and not Peters.
‘Hans-Joachim Streich!’ Peters continued, ‘or should I say Major Hans-Joachim Streich retired. A highly decorated soldier in the National People’s Army, served with East German Special Forces, trained the Angolan MPLA, worked with the Soviets in Afghanistan and, worst of all, was, no is, a true believer.’
The ‘kitchen cabinet’ sat frozen in their seats, their beers untouched, their eyes fixed on the razor sharp features sketched out by the Berlin Polizei’s best artists. Peters refused to answer Stannheim’s question and immediately launched into delegation.
‘Bauer! Go east and seek out your old contacts over there. There has to be someone who remembers him, somebody who might even know where he is now residing.’
Bauer tried to say something but Peters ignored him too.
‘Herr Riedel. I want you to search for every Hans-Joachim Streich in the phone book. Take the number and the address. And, oh yes, print out a Google Earth map of each and every one of their areas. I want to see what’s around the houses in case we have to knock down a few doors. After that get onto the banks, ask if any Hans-Joachim Streich’s have been using Visa cards to book on line, buy mobile phones or rent a quiet, little lock up somewhere.’
Again Bauer moved to interrupt and this time Stannheim gestured to allow the former Vopo to speak.
‘I have been knocking on the doors of dozens of rental offices, places that lease warehouses, garages, workshops that kind of thing.’ Bauer paused for breath; the hiatus allowing Peters to say ‘Go on.’
There was sweat again trickling down Bauer’s forehead, Peters guessed judging by the way his hands shook, that his Inspector had had another heavy night.
‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m down to my last six, all of them in eastern Berlin. Permission to try them first before looking up any old contacts.’
Bauer’s intervention set off an alarm in Peters’ head. He wanted to keep the name out of the media that was the reason why he had convened their conference in the bar instead of the station. And he was also determined to stop Fest intruding.
‘Riedel, make sure that when you talk to the banks about Streich you are investigating a major fraudster. That will make them sit up and take notice. Make no connection to “Christopher.” And that goes for everyone else outside this circle you talk to, whether in the bar, on the phone, using email.’
When Riedel and Bauer left, Peters turned to Angi who hadn’t drank a drop of the Pils bought for her.
‘Take this to the techies and get
them to make a comparison with the Beer sketch. Let’s see if they can match them up.’
‘And after sir?’
‘After, how about dinner?’ Peters said half as a joke, half in hope mindful that the night was stretching ahead of him in Heer Strasse, alone.
‘I’m sorry sir, but I promised my father I would eat with him tonight over in Pankow.’
‘That’s alright Angi,’ Peters said, his cheeks reddening slightly, barely concealing his disappointment.
‘Just get me that match so we can be absolutely sure. Then hit the archives, scan for anything about our friend.’
She turned and walked towards the pub’s main door, her heels scraping slightly on the hard tiles underneath her feet. Stannheim had downed not his own beer but those of Angi’s and Riedel, only Bauer had bothered drinking his, a cure no doubt, thought Peters.
‘We seem to have forgotten about Albert Briegel,’ Stannheim said suddenly.
‘Briegel shoots to national fame like a “Big Brother” contestant, is subject to a public vote and then nothing.’
‘He’s probably dead sir,’ Peters said.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Stannheim countered. ‘He’s saving Briegel up for his grand finale. If you’re right about him, “Christopher”, I mean Streich, then Briegel’s the star of his final show. He’s keeping him for something special.’
‘And your point is?’
‘My point is Martin that he’s still using a secret place somewhere, still keeping Briegel alive, and so, is still vulnerable. We might just stumble across him yet.’
Peters wondered why his commanding officer was still upbeat about their chances. Stannheim appeared to divine what he was thinking.
‘Trust me Martin. He’s planning something spectacular for Briegel.’
‘Like what?’ Peters asked demonstrating impatience.
‘Like a live beheading on the Internet, I don’t know. Whatever it is he’s keeping Briegel holed up somewhere for the big night.’
Stannheim picked up a fully intact Wurst and pointed in the direction of the owner who was helping himself to his third Korn of the morning.
‘He’s probably bought them from the Imbiss at the S-Bahn station. Bastard has charged double the money that the stall flogs them for,’ he gnawed on the sausage and then added, ‘You going back to the station?’
‘No sir, I’ve a contact to look up. The headless horsemen. We can’t neglect that case either.’
‘No, that’s a good idea Martin. Let our friends watching over us think you’re only concerned with what happened to our two Basque chums. I’m staying by the way, trying to avoid Herr Schabowski and his press office,’ Stannheim raised his glass to dismiss Peters.
Lothar Blucher was carving a slice of Wiener Schnitzel soaked in a rich white wine sauce with his knife, shoving a pile of pork and speared red cabbage into his mouth, pausing only to swill back a mouthful of smoky, brown Franconian beer, pretending to ignore the man that had sat down in front of him.
He had chosen Maximillion’s, a Bavarian restaurant on Friedrichstrasse with a 12ft statue of a paunchy Munchen libertine in Liederhosen at the entrance, for their next meeting. Blucher’s preference was for pig and stodge over the delicate dishes of the Far East that were becoming increasingly popular in Berlin.
‘Don’t mind me Lothar,’ Peters whispered as he sat down, called one of the waiters over and asked for whatever Blucher was drinking.
‘You rang my Lord!’ Peters affected the tones of a snooty English butler.
There was the protest snort before the complaint. Blucher was dressed in a dark three-piece pin striped suit and with his copy of the Financial Times affected the pose of a respectable businessman out to lunch.
‘You are late and I have already started. Once more we see the death of the English gentleman.’
The waiter came back with a tall glass filled with foamy brown beer and asked if Peters wanted to eat, which he declined.
‘You not eating? You’ll get sick,’ Blucher said with his mouth still full of food, a piece of dumpling flying across the table and hitting Peters’ sports jacket.
‘If you could see what I see you’d lose your appetite quite rapidly Lothar. Now tell me why I have been summoned.’
Blucher drained his glass, put down his cutlery and leaned forward with his arms folded.
‘My chess partner’s been over to see me. He says it’s for the last time. I’m too toxic according to him.’
‘Surely not Lothar,’ Peters said sniggering.
‘Don’t make light of this shit,’ Blucher said, his mood darkening, ‘And so it seems are you. Toxic. A contaminant. Lethal to be beside. That’s why I’m getting out of Berlin for a while.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Peters inquired.
‘What I’m talking about is that they know you were down in that knocking shop recently chatting with one of the older Natasha’s.’
Peters suddenly felt nauseous thinking about Irina and her dreams of retirement on the Costa del Sol.
‘What I’m talking about is that you were seen in a bar with her asking questions about her fellow countrymen. I hear she’s gone back to the Motherland.’
‘She just wanted a little place in Spain by the sea,’ Peters interrupted gravely. ‘Jesus Christ.....I have killed her.’
‘Then you are well and truly toxic my dear English boy. Far too dangerous to be seen around with at all. I’m really glad to be getting out of here now that you tell me that.’ Lothar Blucher demonstrated only concern for himself.
‘This guy Yanaev isn’t like those other Mafioski, Tavarich. He doesn’t wrap himself in bling or have a show-off trophy wife on his shoulder everywhere he goes.’
‘No chance then of him taking over West Ham then, Peters interjected.
‘I’m afraid not. Yanaev’s only addiction I’m told is art. He collects paintings. Apparently he has a vast collection hanging on his walls down in that mini-fortress he owns in Koepenick,’ Blucher said continuing to shovel carefully chopped morsels of pork, dumplings and cabbage into his face.
‘Oh yes, art and of course exerting power over people. He likes lording it over people. Awards those who are loyal, turns on those who he thinks betray him. Hence your headless horsemen. Hence your hooker friend who has gone on the missing list.’
‘You sound as if you admire him Lothar.’
Peters’ informer polished off his beer and licked the froth from his upper lip while Blucher continued.
‘What I admire is his sense of self-preservation. People like Avi Yanaev are to be respected for that at least....and feared. Besides why become fixated on Yanaev? Why worry about a couple of terrorists who lost their heads challenging the Ruski mafia?’
‘Because I don’t like people like Yanaev, people who think they can decide who can live and who can die, people who always imagine they don’t have to answer to anyone. People like Yanaev – I like to bring them down from their clouds.’
Blucher was shaking his head and grimacing.
‘You follow your own crusade Captain. I’ve done quite enough as it is.’
‘So you’re saying you can’t help anymore.’
‘Don’t sound so disappointed. It’s not forever. It’s never forever for your oldest friend in Berlin.’
Peters thought about Irina’s fate and how he had first imagined her with her throat slashed, her blood turning her pool in Andalusia crimson. Instead now she would suffer an even worse fate, back in some frozen backward best forgotten corner of Mother Russia. Peters remembered the reports he used read back in Military Intelligence HQ at Spandau, of Russians agents the British had recruited and that the KGB had eventually unmasked, of their sudden disappearance from the east side of the wall, of their handlers’ quiet desperation as the lines to them went dead, of their inevitable fate, of the single bullet to the back of the head, a release after the torturous hours of sleep deprivation and rough interrogation. At least in the end they had been granted a fina
l instant exit from their torment - no such ‘luxury’ surely awaited poor Irina.
‘Stop sulking Martin,’ Blucher said interrupting Peters’ imagined horrors who instantly retaliated.
‘Where’s Anika by the way?’
‘Gone!’ Blucher answered with genuine indifference.
‘Gone? You don’t seem so heartbroken Lothar.’
Blucher held up two fingers and gestured to the waiter for another round of beers.
‘Anika got these ideas beneath his station. Started to DEMAND I pay for the op. What use is he without the equipment down there? If I ever see that Filipino waiter again I shall shake him by the hand with mine stuffed full of Euros. Anika’s living with him now and good luck to them both.’
‘You’re such a sentimentalist Lothar. And by the way you’ll have no Euros in your hands unless you start being useful to the Berlin Polizei.’
Blucher took out small, ringed notebook, flipped it open and started writing on the pad. He tore off single piece of paper and handed it over to Peters.
‘29(A) Immanuelkirche Strasse,’ Peters read out loud.
‘Who exactly is at home here Lothar?’
‘Some Russians. Film distributors to be precise.’
Peters folded the note and popped it into his breast pocket.
‘Thanks for that Lothar. I mean that. For once in your life you did the right thing without expectation of payment. The world will never be the same.,’ Peters said patting the top of his jacket, standing up and putting on his overcoat. The informer sent back another snort maybe as much in embarassment as contempt.
The Swinging Detective Page 25