Blood Ties

by Alexander Hartung

  The door slammed shut. Startled, Kara flapped her wings madly and flew on to a shelf.

  ‘I think he might be in a bit of a bad mood,’ said Balthasar with a grin.

  ‘Well, I hope for that woman’s sake he calms down a bit on the ride over there,’ said Jon. ‘It’ll be a pretty unpleasant conversation if he doesn’t.’

  It was Sunday lunchtime and the rows of terraced houses felt like a ghost town. There were no children playing or parents washing their cars in the driveways. It was as if everybody had gone inside to eat lunch at exactly the same time. The only person to be seen was an old woman tottering along the pavement with her dachshund, her eyes squeezed almost shut as if she could barely see one step ahead of her.

  Nik arrived at Daniela Haas’s house and rang the doorbell three times. No answer. He knocked on the door but there was still nothing. In the end, he decided to go through the open gate to the side of the garage and into the small garden. But Daniela Haas was nowhere to be seen. The blinds on the patio doors were pulled down, preventing him from seeing inside. He considered breaking a glass pane but decided not to as it would attract too much attention. And anyway, he wasn’t going to find any clues inside that would be of help. He needed to speak to her personally.

  He took his mobile out of his pocket and called the children’s home where he’d first met her. A woman’s voice spoke after the third ring.

  ‘Hello, Frau Eichert,’ said Nik. ‘It’s Inspector Pohl here.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Herr Pohl,’ said the woman. ‘Any news on Simon?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Nik. ‘But I do have a question for Frau Haas and she’s not at home. Is she maybe working today?’

  ‘No, Daniela asked to use up some of her annual holiday yesterday. Said something about a family crisis.’

  ‘How long will she be gone for?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Do you have a mobile number for her you can give me?’

  ‘Just her landline,’ replied Eichert.

  ‘No, then don’t worry. This is urgent,’ said Nik sighing. ‘Please can you call me if Frau Haas comes back to work earlier than expected?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nik hung up and called Jon.

  ‘Does Daniela Haas have a car?’ asked Nik. He was walking back through the side gate to the street.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Jon. Nik heard him searching the web frantically in the background. ‘Nope,’ said Jon finally. ‘Not getting a registration under her name or address.’

  ‘Well, she’s disappeared and I’ve got no idea how I’m supposed to find her.’

  ‘I’m assuming she’s not going to be a pro at going underground. She’s bound to make a mistake.’

  ‘We don’t have time to wait for her to make a mistake,’ said Nik. ‘Why are we always one fucking step behind? We manage to make some kind of connection and then . . . someone gets shot or kidnapped . . . or a completely new suspect turns up out of nowhere!’

  ‘So what d’you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest we forget about Daniela Haas and concentrate on the man Buchwald wanted to shoot: Olaf van Berk.’

  ‘Well, we can’t connect him to the kids and we’ve got no idea why Buchwald would want to shoot him. The only thing that seems in any way suspicious is the fact he’s out of the country so often. He’s got a private jet which he’s always using to fly abroad.’

  ‘Any particular destinations he flies to most often?’

  ‘It’s hard to find out. I can only follow the routes between Munich and the subsequent airport. From there, he could be flying on to anywhere in the world without being tracked.’

  ‘OK. Well, where was he last?’

  ‘His last destination was Milan but that was a week ago,’ said Jon. ‘Came back Friday night.’

  ‘And Buchwald tried to shoot him the next day. That’s no coincidence,’ said Nik. ‘We need to speak to someone who can tell us more about van Berk.’

  ‘OK. But please not this Paddy guy.’

  ‘No, he’s only useful for the drug stuff,’ Nik explained. ‘We need someone who’s deep in the Munich underworld.’

  ‘Your girlfriend, Jablonski?’

  ‘She’ll be too busy hunting the guy who gave her up,’ said Nik. ‘I need someone even the CID would kill for, just to get their hands on his knowledge.’

  ‘That person exists?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll need records from the CID server to get hold of him.’

  ‘My back door into the system is still working.’

  Nik got into his car, switching the call to speakerphone. ‘I also need access to the Munich registration office and to a few security cameras in the city.’

  ‘Also manageable.’

  ‘The person we’re looking for is a phantom but with the right documents and your hacking talents, we might get a bit closer to him than we did when I worked for the police.’ Nik started the engine.

  ‘Ahh . . . I love it when an ex-CID agent entices me into committing crimes,’ said Jon, almost giggling.

  With that, Nik started to explain the whole story behind their next source.

  Chapter 12

  The espresso bar was innocuous. Outside the front door were a number of dark grey wicker chairs and cheap chrome tables, most of which were in the shade being provided by two large sun umbrellas. The interior had been painted light brown and was furnished with dark bar stools, high tables and a kitsch ceiling lamp that didn’t match anything; two mirrors on the side walls made the place feel slightly bigger. The focal point of the room was a large espresso machine, in front of which was a display fridge filled with cupcakes, paninis and focaccia.

  The bar was almost empty and the owner was clearing away glasses into a wall cabinet. Nik noticed one customer who was fiddling with an espresso cup while deeply engrossed in an article in the Gazzetta dello Sport.

  Nik went over to the counter, ordered a coffee and sat down at a free table. From there, he scoped the room, stood up, did a 360-degree turn and sat down at another table. He made a show of looking from the floor to the ceiling and then at his watch, before sliding over to the next stool, banging his briefcase on the table in the process. The man reading the newspaper pounded his fist on the table and forced a smile at Nik. ‘Are you looking for something?’

  Nik turned around swiftly and looked at the man as if noticing him for the first time. He had short black hair, a thin moustache and long sideburns. The sleeves of his grey shirt were rolled up and a heavy silver watch sparkled on his wrist.

  ‘I’m actually looking for someone, not something,’ replied Nik, sitting down opposite the man. ‘Maybe you can help.’

  ‘If it’ll stop you from flailing around the place like a headless chicken . . . then gladly.’

  Nik smiled and offered him his hand. ‘My name’s Nik,’ he said in a friendly tone.

  ‘Luca,’ answered the man, taking Nik’s hand.

  ‘The person I’m looking for is actually a legend in Munich’s criminal underworld,’ said Nik. ‘He goes by just “The Collector”.’

  ‘And what is it he collects?’ asked Luca. ‘Stamps?’

  ‘Information,’ replied Nik.

  The bar owner brought Nik’s coffee over to the table. ‘I need to hunt down a man who’s involved in a particularly nasty case,’ Nik continued. ‘And that’s exactly where The Collector comes into play.’

  ‘You should watch less Sunday night crime drama,’ said Luca, turning his gaze back to his paper. ‘But good luck with the search.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not luck I need. I just found him.’ Nik smiled and took a sip of coffee.

  Luca winced, irritated by the clumsy customer. ‘Does it look like I’m here collecting information?’

  ‘What else would you be doing here?’

  ‘Drinking the best espresso in town,’ replied Luca, tapping his cup.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘By far. Did you know . . . there are three vital conditions f
or a good espresso,’ Luca started to explain. ‘First there’s the macchina.’ He pointed to the coffee machine. ‘Anything other than a traditional portafilter is an offence. Second, it has to be the right coffee mixture. You could talk about that point alone for hours. And finally, the production has to be carried out perfectly. That means freshly ground coffee and ninety-degree chalk-free water, in a pre-warmed cup.’ He folded his hands over his chest. ‘Even in Munich, that’s not an easy thing to come by but my friend behind the counter over there sticks to all the rules.’

  ‘Fascinating stuff,’ said Nik. ‘But it’s not the information I’m looking for. You see, I need . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes . . . information about a man who’s involved in a nasty case,’ said Luca dismissively, looking back at the newspaper.

  ‘I used to work for the Munich CID and while I was there, we tried to identify The Collector for four years. We never did, but we did manage to narrow it down to three people.’

  ‘And let me guess: I’m one of the three?’

  Nik pulled an envelope out of his briefcase and placed some photos on the table. ‘Luca Marino, you run a successful company that imports Italian gastronomic products and you also provide catering for small parties.’ The pictures showed Luca standing with numerous people, some of whom, Nik assumed, were his friends, while others looked more like business acquaintances. Luca glanced at the photos.

  ‘And what are these supposed to prove? That I get along well with my clients?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure most of the people in these photos are respectable law-abiding citizens, but there are a handful of men who are rumoured to have links with the Mafia.’

  ‘That’s pure speculation,’ said Luca. ‘If those accusations were true, the men would be sitting in jail and not having fun at parties, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Oh, but these men are just as clever as you. They know who they can trust and would never involve themselves with the likes of a former CID officer.’ Nik packed the photos away. ‘And that was exactly the CID’s problem. We had nothing in our power to catch The Collector, and nothing we could use to persuade him to work with us.’

  ‘So why are you looking for him then?’

  ‘Because I don’t need to follow the rules anymore. I can play dirty without having to worry about criminal proceedings or being fired.’ Nik smiled contentedly and took another sip of coffee, his gaze anchored to the man’s eyes. ‘I can tag along behind each of the three suspects and pop up at the most inconvenient of times – at receptions or meetings with clients. It would only be a matter of time before The Collector loses his reputation . . . because nobody wants a former CID officer sniffing around, especially one with my reputation.’ Nik placed his cup back down on the table.

  Luca closed the newspaper and pushed it to the side. ‘But if The Collector is indeed working in such dangerous circles, it’s more than just his reputation that would be in danger.’

  Nik shrugged his shoulders. ‘I couldn’t care less. I’m an arsehole.’

  ‘You’re right, Herr Pohl. You are.’

  Nik leaned back, watching the man closely. His eyes seemed to flicker. They had become sharper, more vigilant; nothing like the eyes Nik had seen reading the paper as he had arrived at the cafe. ‘I can’t quite put into words how satisfying it is when a gut feeling turns out to be right,’ said Nik. ‘You see, my ex-colleagues concentrated their efforts on a fence from the Borstei, but I put my bets on the most inconspicuous man in the group: you.’

  ‘That’s very touching. But if you know the men in the photos, then you’ll also know how powerful I am.’

  ‘You really think that’s going to worry me?’ said Nik.

  ‘Your first years at the CID were impressive,’ Luca continued. ‘But then your sister Mira died, and there was that case of the missing Rachel Preuss. You know, the one where you beat up the prosecutor?’ Luca shook his head disingenuously. ‘It’s a miracle they even let you back in.’

  ‘Must have been down to my irresistible charm.’

  ‘I actually thought you’d be back on Rachel’s case again, now that you’re a private snooper.’

  ‘Who says I’m not?’

  ‘I know back then you got a well-known Thai detective involved, which is strange ’cause I thought you were the kind of guy who did everything himself.’

  ‘Nah, you see my Thai’s a bit rusty. And over the years I’ve learned that if you want well-hidden information, you need to ask local people with local expertise.’

  ‘People experienced in bribing the authorities, you mean?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘And to achieve what exactly?’

  ‘Proof that Rachel Preuss isn’t in Thailand. That she never entered the country, and that she didn’t leave her husband for a Thai lover.’

  ‘Still believing the conspiracy theory then?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with belief.’ Nik caught the owner’s attention and ordered a croissant. ‘Can I get you something else?’

  Luca shook his head.

  ‘You sure? We’ve only just started.’ Nik took another folder out of his bag and opened it to reveal a photo of Olaf van Berk.

  Luca glanced at the photo for a split second, then looked out of the window, as if ensuring they were alone. He turned the photo over. ‘That’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be sitting here if he was Santa Claus, would I?’

  ‘Listen, I’ll tell you something about van Berk and after that, you can decide if it might not be better to try to get what you want by some other means.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘But you’ll owe me a favour.’

  ‘OK. And what would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know at the moment. But, when I come back to you one day, you’ll help me out with whatever it is I need.’

  ‘A heavy demand, considering your situation.’

  ‘My life’s on the line here just as much as yours, and if van Berk ever gets hold of you, there’s no doubt you’ll spew out everything, including the bits about me. Then he’ll want revenge and I can tell you now, that will not be pleasant.’ Luca offered Nik his hand.

  Nik swallowed and accepted. ‘OK. But only if the information you give me actually gets me somewhere.’

  The Collector leaned back in his chair. ‘How much do you know about money laundering?’

  ‘Only what I learned during my training,’ Nik began. ‘That illegally acquired money is brought into the legal business cycle via concealed transactions and without law enforcement noticing. The expression goes back to Al Capone, who put the money he made from gambling and prostitution into launderettes.’

  ‘Well, a lot has changed since Al Capone,’ explained Luca. ‘And van Berk is someone who really understands the business.’

  ‘He launders money?’

  Luca nodded. ‘From the big boys. People who’d be really unhappy if his service was no longer available to them.’ He was fiddling with his empty espresso cup. ‘You see, that’s the most dangerous thing about van Berk: if he feels threatened, he calls up a business partner and gets them to sort it out without getting a single finger dirty.’

  ‘Well, looking at his villa, it appears business is going well.’

  ‘The Treasury believes around one hundred billion is washed every year in Germany. The methods the launderers use are limitless but van Berk specialises in a few.’ Luca bent forward on to his elbows to be closer to Nik. ‘The first method is almost as old as Capone’s launderettes: money-laundering in restaurants. So, back in the day, somebody would take on some old, decrepit restaurant and declare ten times as much turnover as they had actually made. So then, even after paying taxes, there’s enough illegally acquired money left over that it was all worth it. But at some point, the authorities started monitoring the cost of goods. So the industry moved over to counterfeiting, where they use cheap products but forge the bills for expensive ones. And if the restaurant has a cateri
ng service on the side, one that delivers food to large events, the profits are impressive. It’s impossible to know if your tomato soup has been made with quality organic tomatoes or the mushy leftovers from Dutch greenhouses.’

  ‘Sounds old-fashioned.’

  ‘Maybe. But it was van Berk’s first mainstay . . . even back before the internet was around,’ explained Luca. ‘And he plays that game better than anyone. But it’s not the only method he uses. You see, the more money-laundering methods used, the more difficult it is to track them. His second mainstay is smurfing.’

  ‘Like the Smurfs?’

  ‘The phrase actually does come from them, yes,’ said Luca. ‘With smurfing, lots of bank accounts are opened up and money is regularly paid into them. The amount paid in is always under fifty thousand euros – any more, and people are obliged to declare it. The job requires a lot of employees and very good accounting so as not to lose an overview.’

  ‘And what does that have to do with the Smurfs?’

  ‘Lots of tiny blue people make up one large group. On their own, the result would be negligible, but when you add them all together . . . they generate an impressive sum. Lots and lots of payments, which are under the declarable threshold.’

  ‘So what happens after the money’s been paid in? Do the bad boys come along with a suitcase and clear the account?’

  ‘It’s not quite as easy as that. After depositing the money, we come to the concealment stage.’ Luca pushed his empty espresso cup into the middle of the table. ‘The money is sitting legally in a bank account but under a middleman’s name. If that middleman was to transfer the money into the account of a Mafia boss, the authorities would catch wind and everything would’ve been for nothing. So, in the concealment phase, the money becomes anonymous by being transferred into another account abroad. And this stage happens as frequently as possible, and in as complicated a manner as possible.’ He put his hand on top of the cup and pushed it to the side.

  ‘And then someone uses the money in the foreign account to go shopping.’

  ‘Exactly. A house on the Côte d’Azur, a private jet or a nice yacht,’ said Luca, shrugging. ‘And that’s the third and final stage: the integration period. Money that was illegally acquired is washed and integrated into the legal cycle.’