Blood Ties

by Alexander Hartung

  ‘I’ve never faked any IDs from them before,’ said Jon.

  ‘It’s the regional administrative office that’s responsible for food safety in Munich,’ said Nik. ‘Can’t be that hard to get to them.’

  ‘And when are we going?’ asked Balthasar.

  ‘This evening.’

  ‘You think you’re going to be able to ruin one of van Berk’s money-laundering sources by pretending to be a food-safety inspector?’

  Nik laid the packet of crisps down to the side. ‘I do. And I know exactly how we’re going to do it.’

  Nik looked through the restaurant window. All the tables were occupied and two waiting staff were carrying large trays with drinks through the bar.

  ‘Very posh,’ said Balthasar, appreciating the interior. The place had been painted bright white, the floor was filled with chrome-rimmed tables and there was modern art hanging on the walls. The pathologist was wearing a blonde wig, frameless glasses and a fake moustache. He was also wearing a white doctor’s coat and light blue jeans. ‘What kind of restaurant is it?’

  ‘A fusion steak house. Combines Middle Eastern and Asian cooking.’

  ‘Sounds delicious. Don’t we want to eat something before we begin with the assessment?’

  ‘No. We need to hit fast and hard. And with the biggest audience possible.’

  ‘And he launders money in here?’ asked Balthasar. ‘I was expecting some shitty little Italian place with a 1980s interior.’

  ‘Apparently, not all clichés are true.’ Nik pointed to a man of around forty with long, glossy black hair that fell over his shoulders. He was wearing a light beige suit and a thin tie with a silver pin. ‘That’s Roman Zehnke. The owner.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like your classic Mafia member.’

  ‘And on paper he isn’t,’ added Nik. ‘Clean record.’

  ‘And we’re definitely at the right address?’

  ‘According to my source, the money is laundered through the catering. The Argentinian steaks are actually cheap cuts from China and the expensive whiskies are relabelled bottles of crap. But to the outside, all the sums add.’

  ‘And nobody notices?’

  ‘It’s really hard to prove,’ said Nik. ‘It’s not enough just to have a few suspicions.’

  ‘And by closing it down, you hope to meet van Berk?’

  ‘I’ve already taken one of his main players out of the game,’ replied Nik. ‘The restaurant isn’t his biggest earner in the laundering business, but it’s a well-loved meeting spot for van Berk’s clients. If the restaurant gets closed down, they’ll find out about it.’

  ‘So how are you going to get it closed?’

  ‘I dabbled with my thermometer set. And . . . in my left pocket I’ve got some mouldy tropical fruit, while in the right, I’ve got some dead cockroaches.’

  Balthasar stood back, disgusted. ‘That should do it. But how does it get us closer to van Berk?’

  ‘I’ll write him an email.’

  ‘An email? Saying what? “I’m Nik and I’m going to destroy you if you don’t speak to me”?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘OK . . . An interesting plan.’

  ‘The launderer and the restaurant are just the start,’ explained Nik. ‘I’ll keep going until van Berk buckles.’

  ‘Or gets you shot.’

  ‘I’m not leaving enough clues behind for that and the email won’t be traceable. Van Berk’s gonna have to meet up with me at least once and I won’t be alone when we do.’

  Balthasar looked into the restaurant again. ‘So how d’you want to play out this food-inspector role?’ he asked. ‘Serious and professional? Strict and unrelenting?’

  ‘All the inspectors I’ve ever met were very polite. They were precise and thorough, but they always tried to disturb business as little as possible. They’d never do an inspection when it’s a full house like it is here tonight.’ Nik pointed at the restaurant. ‘But if we stuck to that, the owner would never fluster. We need to stir the place up, create a bit of chaos. But we need to do so without doing anything obviously illegal.’

  ‘Oh, you mean like using fake food-inspector IDs?’

  ‘We can forget about that for now, OK?’

  ‘Well . . . creating a bit of chaos won’t be a problem.’ And with that, Balthasar pushed his fake glasses up the bridge of his nose, opened the door to the restaurant, went up the steps and tripped on a carpet. He stumbled forward, trying to hold himself up on a champagne cooler that was filled with ice. The cooler tipped, ice poured out on to a couple at a two-seater table, while the bottle spun around on the floor like a spinning top, spraying rounds of champagne over the other guests. The guests jumped up hectically, throwing their red wine and gin and tonics everywhere. Attempting to stand up, Balthasar slipped on an ice cube and tried to steady himself on a cutlery tray. Cutlery cascaded on to the floor deafeningly.

  Nik had to grit his teeth to stop himself from laughing. With a concerted effort, he managed to maintain his serious expression and took a large step over the ice cubes. He walked over to the owner, who was standing paralysed and staring in disbelief at the commotion.

  ‘Munich City Council, sir. Food inspection.’ Nik showed him the fake ID. ‘Do you have some time for us?’

  ‘An inspection?’ asked the man. ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. Our last inspection at a bistro took longer than expected,’ said Nik apologetically. ‘But I can assure you we won’t take up much of your time.’

  ‘Is that your colleague?’ asked the man, horrified.

  ‘Gosh, I know. Please don’t pay much attention to him,’ said Nik with a quick glance at Balthasar, who was still lying on the floor. ‘He’s in training.’

  Olaf van Berk was sitting behind a large oak desk with his arms crossed. He wore a white shirt underneath a dark jacket and was sucking on a cough sweet. He was watching a large television screen on the opposite side of the office. It was showing CCTV footage of the restaurant. In the background, a fat, blonde man was lying on the floor, surrounded by exceedingly upset customers. Another man was walking over to the owner, ignoring the chaos. He showed the owner his ID. The footage was paused, and the picture zoomed in on the man’s face.

  ‘That’s Nik Pohl,’ said a tall man with a crew cut. Van Berk found the man’s fat lips and crooked teeth repulsive but Hans Groppe had been Masannek’s right-hand man and after his death, he’d been promoted to security manager. He might not be as clever or shrewd as his predecessor but until he found a new man for the position, van Berk would have to make do with Groppe.

  ‘Pohl was at the CID for a number of years and left in early 2017,’ Groppe continued. ‘Rumour has it he’s now a private investigator but he’s never registered any company or got any kind of licence. We went to his house but he wasn’t there. His neighbours haven’t seen him in weeks so he must be hiding out somewhere else.’

  ‘And who’s the other man?’

  ‘We weren’t able to identify him.’

  Van Berk tapped his index finger on the table. ‘What’s Pohl trying to achieve here?’ he asked, looking at the monitor.

  Groppe fiddled with the remote control in his hand. ‘We . . . don’t know,’ he replied hesitantly.

  ‘You don’t know?’ repeated van Berk. ‘This Pohl character comes into my restaurant with a blatantly fake ID, scares my customers, gets the place closed, and you don’t know why!’ He slammed his fist down on the table. ‘And then there’s this . . .’ He held up a printout of an email and showed it to Groppe. ‘Two hours after his performance, he sends me an email, overtly threatening to ruin me, telling me about how he managed to get my buyer thrown in jail.’ Van Berk ripped up the piece of paper and threw it on the floor. ‘I’ve lost more money in the last few days than I have in the last ten years!’ he continued. ‘I’ve been able to keep that from my business partners so far, but they’re going to start asking questions very soon. So I want to know where the hell Pohl got the informat
ion. And I want to know immediately!’

  ‘We do have one idea,’ said Groppe.

  ‘Oh, an idea?’ Van Berk mimicked the words. ‘So, what’s your idea then?’

  ‘We were able to narrow down the possible informants,’ said the man. ‘We’re convinced one of them is working with Nik Pohl. My men are currently interrogating the man in question.’

  ‘Then you’ll need to hurry up because I intend on taking Pohl up on his invitation –tomorrow evening!’

  ‘For security reasons, sir, I would advise you to turn down the invitation. Only when—’

  ‘No!’ interrupted van Berk. ‘Always know your enemy! A meeting’s exactly what I need.’

  ‘But while we still don’t know whether Pohl has accomplices it would be very risky—’

  ‘It’s non-negotiable,’ said van Berk, holding his index finger near the man’s face. ‘Find that source and bring him to me. Then we’ll deal with Pohl.’

  Nik parked his car two streets away from the arranged meeting place, got out and started meandering along the pavement. Jon had carried out a check on the cafe and no links to van Berk had turned up. He’d also given Nik a building plan that clearly indicated three different emergency exits. Jon had been far more tense than normal and had repeatedly voiced his concern about the meeting, but in the end, he had realised there was no other option.

  As a precaution, he’d hired the best bodyguard money could buy. A six-foot-six giant with wide shoulders and muscles that made even Nik nervous. Despite the brutish exterior, the man seemed focused and appeared to know exactly what he was doing – he didn’t seem to be some dumb thug who would draw his weapon at the first sign of difficulty. Jon had clearly briefed him well, as he wasn’t asking any questions and knew the way to the meeting point.

  ‘Is van Berk already there?’ asked Nik into the microphone under his lapel.

  ‘Been there for ten minutes,’ answered Jon. Nik had a small receiver in his ear.

  ‘Any uninvited guests nearby?’

  ‘Nobody’s turned up on the camera footage. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a raiding party sitting somewhere waiting to pounce.’

  ‘You should have more faith,’ said Nik. ‘Everything’s going according to plan.’

  ‘It’s too smooth for my liking,’ said Jon. ‘We write van Berk an email telling him you’re responsible for the whole mess and force him to talk to you. A couple of hours later, we get an answer with a meeting location and time . . . for the following evening! No threats, no warnings. It was like organising a game of cards at a friend’s house. He didn’t even ask why you wanted to meet him.’

  ‘You’re underestimating the predicament he’s in,’ Nik responded. ‘I got one of his money launderers locked up on suspicion of terrorism and robbed him of a second source of income by getting his restaurant closed down – he won’t be too happy when he sees this morning’s newspaper article about the dead cockroaches. And in the end, it’s not just the restaurant clientele he’s going to lose, he’ll also lose all his catering jobs. And by now all his business partners will have noticed the chaos, so he has to meet with me to try to avoid any further losses.’

  ‘And what if he shoots you in the head?’

  ‘He won’t. That’s not van Berk’s style. He’s not some ghetto gangster with too much adrenaline,’ said Nik. ‘He has no idea if I’m just a lackey or the guy behind everything. And as long as he doesn’t know why I’m doing all this or what I want from him, he’ll be the perfect host. And anyway’ – Nik looked at his bodyguard – ‘you organised someone to look out for my safety.’

  ‘Stéphane’s the best man I could get at such short notice,’ explained Jon. ‘He worked in the French Foreign Legion for ten years and collected an impressive number of medals. He practises more forms of martial arts than I even knew existed.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your efforts, Jon. It’s touching,’ said Nik. ‘Anyway, what’s our bug up to?’

  ‘I’ve got it here,’ said Balthasar, wheezing. ‘I’m lying underneath van Berk’s car trying not to burn myself on the exhaust. I sincerely hope my efforts will be worth it. I look like a street sweeper who’s been dancing in warm tar.’

  ‘Time to turn the radios off,’ said Nik. ‘I’m going into the cafe.’ Stéphane went one step ahead of Nik and opened the door. He went inside first, looked around in all directions and gave a nod.

  The cafe was painted light grey, with white tables and Caspar David Friedrich paintings hanging on the walls. The display fridge near the cash register was stacked full of various cakes and tarts and the air smelled of freshly ground coffee. An old man with well-groomed grey hair and lightly tanned skin sat at one of the tables, his hands clasped in front of him. He had a flat and exceptionally large nose, which, thanks to his long face, wasn’t too distracting. He was wearing a black tailored suit with fine grey pinstripes, a white shirt and a tie the colour of red wine. Behind him stood a tall man with dark brown hair and a figure which was almost the double of Stéphane’s. He was wearing a dark grey suit.

  Taking his time, Nik made his way over to the table. As he got nearer, he realised the older man’s slightly brown skin tone was the result of a thin layer of make-up. Van Berk watched Nik’s every step until he had sat down in front of him. He then pushed his small espresso cup to the side and began to talk. ‘So, you’re the one who’s been causing me so much hassle,’ he said in a self-assured voice. His tone was calm, free of anger.

  ‘My name’s Nik.’

  ‘I know who you are, Herr Pohl,’ replied van Berk. ‘Hopefully you’re well aware that you’ve made some powerful enemies with your latest moves . . . because it wasn’t my money you gave up to the police.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ answered Nik. ‘But I doubt the real owners have found out about what happened. That would make you look pretty stupid. Not only would you have to admit to losing their illegally acquired money, you’d also be obliged to explain that your top launderer is being held on suspicion of terrorism. It’s a stroke of bad luck for you that investigations into terrorism are much more intense than those into money laundering.’

  Van Berk smiled.

  ‘I don’t want to waste our time,’ Nik continued. ‘I realise you were abroad recently but I’m sure you heard about the kidnappings of Greta Grohnert and Hannes Lepper?’

  ‘It’s possible to read the newspapers abroad, Herr Pohl.’

  ‘So, what do you have to do with the abductions?’

  ‘You know my field of activity,’ replied van Berk. ‘Abduction isn’t my thing.’

  ‘Tell me what Ismail Buchwald and Vincent Masannek have to do with the case?’

  ‘And how am I supposed to know that? Shortly after I returned home, Buchwald tried to kill me. And Masannek was murdered while I was out of the country.’

  ‘Why did Buchwald try to kill you?’

  ‘Enemies are easily acquired in my line of work and every one of mine has enough money to set a henchman on my back.’

  ‘But this particular henchman used to work for you.’

  ‘Which makes for a very clever strategy, doesn’t it?’ said van Berk. ‘The more a hitman knows about his target, the higher their chances of being successful.’

  ‘Why did you employ Buchwald?’

  ‘He was a competent man.’

  ‘And why did you fire him?’

  ‘Because he was no longer of any use to me.’

  ‘Could you maybe be a bit more detailed?’

  ‘At the start of last year, I only just managed to evade an attack,’ explained van Berk. ‘There was a shooting and Buchwald was severely injured. So while he was in hospital, I had to employ other people.’

  ‘And why didn’t you hire him again after he’d recovered?’

  ‘Because he blamed Masannek and myself for his injuries and the subsequent deformities.’

  ‘Which is true to some extent, isn’t it?’ remarked Nik.

  ‘Buchwald was my bodyguard. It was
his job to protect me. And he knew the risks.’ Van Berk’s anger was rising. He clenched his fist in the air and was about to pound it against the table when he was consumed by a coughing fit. It was a dry, wheezing cough. Van Berk took a sip of coffee and exhaled loudly, bringing himself under control again. ‘In my position, I need to be able to rely on my security guards.’ He picked out a cough sweet from the bag and put it in his mouth. ‘Trust is of the utmost importance.’

  ‘And that’s why he wanted to shoot you?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘You can’t think of any other possible reason?’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘Like the kidnapping of children?’

  ‘If I understand the papers correctly, it’s Ismail Buchwald who’s the main suspect.’

  ‘Which just leaves the question of who he was working for.’

  Van Berk sighed. ‘Why would I incite Buchwald into abducting children? My other business ventures are significantly more lucrative.’

  ‘Look, I’m here because of the kidnappings.’

  ‘In which case this meeting is a waste of time, isn’t it? I was abroad at the time of the kidnappings. And . . . if I wanted to abduct someone, I would have found someone far more capable than Buchwald.’

  ‘Like Vincent Masannek?’

  ‘Perhaps. Until not that long ago, I would have considered him the best in the business. But . . . looking at the way he died, there was apparently someone even better.’

  ‘We’re going in circles,’ said Nik. ‘If I don’t get the information I’m looking for, I’ll keep going with our little game. Your money laundering won’t be the last thing I put out of business.’

  ‘Oh, yes it will,’ said van Berk. ‘Do you honestly think I wouldn’t find out who gave you the information?’ He reached for his espresso cup and drained the contents, eyes fixed on Nik’s. ‘There are very few people in Munich who know about my business. It took a lot of effort to put all the pieces together, but in the end, only one person was left.’ Van Berk smiled – a chilling, satisfied smile. ‘The only thing The Collector will be collecting from now on are the maggots crawling through his head.’ He spoke quietly. ‘And . . . all the people he had any knowledge of have now been replaced. Which means you have nothing you can use against me.’ Van Berk picked up a leather glove from the chair and put it on. ‘I kept you a little souvenir from The Collector. I’m sure if you ask your hacker friend nicely, he’ll be able to get into the federal police fingerprint database and prove I’m telling the truth.’ He pulled a small wooden box out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of Nik. ‘And if you stick your nose in my business one more time, there will be even less left over of the hacker or your pal, Balthasar.’