A fear of dark water

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Susanne was still at the Institute for Legal Medicine when Fabel phoned her from his car as he headed out, once more, towards the Altes Land and Stade. This time he avoided the town and headed out along a ribbon of road that ran parallel to the coast but was shielded from it by the ripple of dyke that ran along close to the water’s edge to Fabel’s right. To his left the land was divided up into long narrow fields, pale green, dark green or muted gold; each contained by the type of Knick turf wall Muller-Voigt had talked about. It really did have the look of a patchwork quilt, but one that had been ironed impeccably flat except for the ripple of the waterside dyke at its hem.

It took Fabel another hour or so to reach the Pharos. He actually pulled over to the side of the road and got out to admire it from a distance. The light was beginning to fade and the cloud cover dulled things even more, but even with that Fabel could see that Muller-Voigt had been right: the Pharos was a truly remarkable piece of architecture. There was a lighthouse, about four or five storeys high, against the flank of the new building. The lighthouse was the traditional North Sea German type: not slender but solid, squat and square-edged with a large lantern gallery criss-crossed with iron. It had clearly undergone a major renovation and looked bright, almost as if it had just been built rather than having stood there, resolutely planted in its landscape, for more than a century and a half.

But it was the main building attached to the original lighthouse that really impressed Fabel. It was made up of three sections; modules, almost. The section against whose side the lighthouse was set was a long two-storey block. Clearly the intention had been not to obscure the view of the original lighthouse from either direction. This section extended fifty metres or so towards the water’s edge; then a five-storey block, with the profile of a massive parallelogram — a rhombohedron, Fabel suddenly remembered from school mathematics — took the Pharos to the water and jutted out over it. This section was outlined by a heavy reinforced-concrete beamed frame, but the flanks of the building were all glass. The third section was really an extension of the top floor of the building and projected out over the Elbe, supported by two rows of piles driven into the river bed. From the roof of the suspended level a pale blue needle of laser light, now visible in the twilight, pierced the clouds above. The light of the Pharos.

This, thought Fabel, was more than a building. It was a statement; a dramatic statement of power and wealth. For a supposedly environmental group, it seemed to Fabel to be an aggressive statement of human dominance over Nature. And a statement not without a tone of menace.

He drove further along the narrow coastal road until he reached the end of the drive that led up to the Pharos. It was even more breathtaking close up. The lower-level module was clad in natural materials: pale wood, glass and large blocks of stone. He turned off the road and up the drive. After a short distance, Fabel came to a closed gate. There was a small blockhouse on the other side of the fence and Fabel had to give his horn a blast before anyone came out. It did not surprise Fabel to see that the young man with short cropped blond hair who emerged from the blockhouse was wearing a grey suit, white shirt and dark grey tie. He stood behind the heavy-gauge wire, regarding Fabel impassively but without making any move to open the gate.

Fabel got out of his car. He estimated that the fence that extended on either side was three metres high and heavy-duty enough to keep out any but the most determined intruder.

‘I would like to talk to Herr Wiegand.’ Fabel held up his police ID. The man at the gate remained silent and impassive. ‘Now…’ said Fabel with more emphasis.

‘No one is admitted without an appointment.’ The gatekeeper’s voice was as flat and dull as Fabel had expected. ‘We do not allow anyone access to the Pharos unless it has been arranged in advance.’

‘I don’t need an appointment. I’m the police.’ Fabel noticed that the gateman had a Bluetooth earpiece lodged in his ear.

‘Then you either need an appointment or a warrant.’

‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Fabel wearily. ‘I am here by personal invitation of Herr Wiegand. Your Director General.’

The gatekeeper continued to stare at Fabel; whatever was going through his mind certainly was not breaking the surface.

After what seemed an age, the young man broke his silence. ‘Wait here.’

He walked a few metres away and stood with his back to Fabel, who guessed the guard was communicating with the main building. After a while he came back out and opened the gate.

‘Leave your car here,’ he said. ‘We don’t allow vehicular traffic beyond this point.’

Fabel shrugged, used his remote to lock his car and stepped into the compound. The gateman led the way up to the main entrance to the Pharos where another unsmiling escort was waiting, again wearing an earpiece. Fabel examined the building from up close. It loomed. It was no accident that the Pharos Project used the symbolism and vocabulary of the world of international corporate commerce: this building was all about out-scaling everything human. Just like any multinational business’s headquarters, the Pharos had been built to embody and glorify the corporate and diminish the individual. It was the same trick that medieval cathedral architects had used, where the scale was supposed to represent God, but really was all about the power of the Church, the great multinational corporation of the Middle Ages.

Fabel was taken into a large atrium in which the lighting had been kept low. The reason, Fabel guessed, was the atrium’s centrepiece. A circle of beams, changing hue, shone upwards, illuminating what Fabel perceived as some kind of giant jellyfish, diaphanous and beautiful, with a deep red core and a skirt of transparent tentacles, suspended in mid-air. It was very well done: a holographic projection that rendered the jellyfish in three dimensions and made it pulse and change colour. But Fabel was surprised at his own reaction to the projection: for a split second it had looked so impossibly real, but Fabel had instantly, instinctively known it was an artifice.

It was as remarkable a building from the inside. As he was led through halls and corridors, and taken up to the top floor in an elevator, Fabel never lost sight of the landscape around him. No matter where he was, there was always a view through glass, even in the lift. He noticed that everyone wore the same kind of grey suit, although a minority, his escort included, were dressed in a slightly darker shade. They made their way past a host of glass-walled rooms that looked to Fabel like any other offices. Despite his escort deliberately keeping the pace up, Fabel took in as much as he could. Every room had dozens of desks with computer consoles, but of a design that Fabel had never seen before: monitors that were impossibly thin; people typing on keyboards that must have had such a low profile that Fabel could not see them. Then, as he passed a smaller office with a workstation closer to the glass wall, he realised why. The fingers of the grey-suited woman sitting at it ranged over a virtual keyboard: light projected onto the tabletop.

Fabel remembered reading about how toxic the heavy metals used in electronic hardware was to the environment. For an environmental pressure group, thought Fabel, the Pharos Project loved their gadgets. The other thing that struck him as he walked through the Pharos was how much it looked like a working office, and how the men and women he saw circulating through it did not look like cult members or mystical acolytes but more like the employees of some international bank.

Peter Wiegand was waiting for Fabel in his office; although Fabel struggled to attach the word ‘office’ to a space as vast as this. Wiegand conducted his business from the last room on the projecting top floor. The office stretched the full width of the building and was longer than it was wide. All three external walls were glass and offered views in every direction. This was where the Elbe began to open out to meet the sea and water was the element that dominated the view. Fabel noticed there was even a large rectangle of glass set into the floor, through which he could see the water rippling dark below. He made a point of stepping around the panel.

‘Please, Herr Fabel,’ said Wiegand, stepping out from behind a desk that made van Heiden’s look inadequate. ‘Don’t concern yourself. That reinforced glass is stronger than concrete; it’s entirely safe to walk on.’ He shook Fabel’s hand and led him to a chair, asking him to sit.

‘That’s a very interesting…’ Fabel struggled for the best description. ‘… piece you have in your reception. The hologram, I mean. It’s very beautiful, but an odd choice of subject. Is it because of Dominik Korn’s sub-sea history that you’ve chosen a jellyfish?’

‘I didn’t chose it. It was Dominik Korn’s inspiration. It symbolises almost everything the Pharos Project is about.’

‘Oh?’

‘The medium is the message, Herr Fabel. Dominik chose a hologram as a medium to reflect the holographic nature of the universe, that it is made up of bits of information. And, of course, that is Dominik’s great philosophy: that almost anything can be transformed into information and transferred. Stored.’

‘I wasn’t aware the universe was holographic.’ Fabel failed to keep the sneer from his tone.

‘Then you’re not acquainted with the latest discoveries in quantum physics. I’m not spouting New Age mysticism, if that’s what you think. I’m talking about the latest developments in string theory.’

‘And that’s your unique selling point, isn’t it? Digital immortality?’

Wiegand did not let his smile falter. ‘Let me ask you something: do you believe in immortality?’

‘No. Everything dies. It’s a simple law of nature, of the universe. I know that you believe we can all live for ever in a computer mainframe, but that’s not life. It’s not even existence, because it wouldn’t be real and it wouldn’t be you. You would not experience it yourself. Immortality is impossible. Everything dies.’

‘Again, Herr Fabel, you’ve only succeeded in revealing your ignorance. Immortality does exist. It exists right here and now in your real world. The holographic image in the atrium is of Turritopsis Nutricula. It is beautiful, but the projection in the atrium is several thousand times the size of the real creature: in reality, they are only four or five millimetres in size. But do you know why Mister Korn chose Turritopsis Nutricula as a symbol?’

Fabel shrugged. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to enlighten me.’

‘It is, truly, really immortal. It is the only living creature on the planet that is immortal.’

‘How can that be?’ said Fabel, intrigued despite himself.

‘All jellyfish are born, mature and mate. Normally, immediately after mating, the jellyfish dies. The Immortal Jellyfish, as Turritopsis Nutricula is also known, doesn’t. It goes through a process called transdifferentiation, where it literally transforms the structure of its cells. And what it transforms those cells into is its juvenile state. It bypasses senescence and cheats death by becoming a polyp again. Then it matures, mates, transdifferentiates, becomes a polyp again. And it can do this for ever. So immortality does exist, Herr Fabel. And the hologram in the atrium represents the combination of digitisation and immortality. It also has an environmental message: Turritopsis Nutricula was once found only in the Caribbean, but it has been transported all around the world in the ballast tanks of ships. Our activities have caused a population explosion of this creature. A population explosion of a creature that breeds and multiplies but never dies.’

‘You know something, Herr Wiegand? I know that you’re the second most powerful figure in this organisation, and I’m sure the bulk of your members buy this cyberlife-eternal crap, mainly because they’re brainwashed into it. But you? Somehow I doubt very much that you believe a word of it. I think that this is all a way of controlling people and generating wealth. What else you get up to is what particularly interests me. You’re hiding something.’

Wiegand smiled his billionaire’s smile, affable but slightly condescending. ‘You’ll have seen we use glass extensively throughout our buildings,’ he said. ‘We do this for two reasons: firstly, it reduces our dependence on artificial light and heating. All of our windows use energy-capture glass and the roof is basically one giant solar panel. Secondly, it communicates to our members and to visitors such as yourself that the Pharos Project is, literally, transparent. We have nothing to hide, Herr Fabel. Nothing.’

‘Maybe that’s the view from here looking out,’ said Fabel. ‘But I’m not so sure big windows do much for those on the outside who see you as secretive and manipulative; who see you exploiting your members and intimidating anyone else who might dare to criticise you.’

‘I’m glad you took me up on my invitation, Herr Chief Commissar.’ Wiegand ignored Fabel’s comment. ‘Perhaps you will find it an enlightening experience and you’ll see that there’s nothing malevolent or cultish about the Pharos Project. Although I would have preferred it if you had phoned first, as I requested. I tend to be a very busy man and between my duties as vice-president of the Korn-Pharos Corporation, visits to the Americas Pharos in Maine, and involvement with various environmental programmes around the world, I am seldom here.’

‘But you’ve spent most of your time here over the last few months, Herr Wiegand. You must have something of particular concern here at the moment.’

‘Particular concern? No, I wouldn’t say that. Oh… you mean the GlobalConcern Hamburg Summit? Of course that’s taking up a lot of time.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I wondered if it perhaps had something more to do with Meliha Yazar.’

‘Who? Oh yes, you mentioned her before. Someone poor Berthold was supposed to be involved with. No, I’m afraid I don’t understand your question. I don’t know of any Meliha Yazar.’

‘Let me refresh your memory. She was the woman who breached your security here and made a startling discovery about the Pharos Project. So startling that it would be extremely harmful to you. Perhaps even personally.’

Wiegand leaned back in his chair and watched Fabel, smiling. It was not the usual affable salesman’s smile that Fabel had so far experienced at every encounter with the billionaire. This was something much darker. Malevolent. ‘I have to admit, Herr Fabel, you chose a good spot for a fishing expedition.’ He vaguely indicated the river beyond the windows.

‘You do admit that you are almost paranoid about security? I mean, the Hamburg State has prisons with more relaxed gatemen than the guy you’ve got doing meet-and-greet. It suggests that there is something you don’t want the outside world to know. Every person you recruit into the Project isn’t just brainwashed, they’re checked out in advance. But somehow Meliha Yazar got round your security. She got to the heart of your big secret, didn’t she?’

‘I’ve already made it perfectly clear that I have no idea who you’re talking about. And there’s no “big secret” here. Naturally, we have to be mindful of security. There are a great many people and organisations who have a severe prejudice against us. It has to be said that the BfV is one of those organisations. Listen, you can accuse us of being crooks and freaks and a malicious cult, but the fact remains that the world is heading for a cataclysm. The Pharos Project is subject to all kinds of rumour and suspicion and investigation, but no one subjects companies that continue to seek out new oil reserves to bleed, to pollute and poison others while enriching themselves, to the same kind of scrutiny. I don’t see the BfV devoting the same time and manpower to investigating multinationals who allow hectare after hectare of rainforest to be slashed and burned to provide grazing for cattle so that some fat teenager in Minnesota can stuff himself with a cheaper burger.’

‘Is that why you work with the Guardians of Gaia?’ asked Fabel. ‘Or is it more that they work for the Pharos Project? It strikes me that you have set yourself up almost as a state. And all states have a military wing. An army. Is that the deal with the Guardians?’

Another smile; even colder than the last. ‘Herr Fabel, I shouldn’t have to point out to you what is happening in the world today. The fiercely held political beliefs of the past are no longer relevant. The forces that control our lives are no longer political; they are corporate. Nation states really don’t hold sway as they used to. It is the multinational companies, the corporate states that shape the lives of every man, woman and child on the planet. The Pharos Project is the brainchild of Dominik Korn who is, first and foremost, a far-sighted, genius businessman. We have taken the same shape as our enemies, the global corporations. Our fighting is done in boardrooms and committees, not on any other type of battlefield. Dominik Korn is also a pacifist, as am I and everyone else involved in the Project. So no, if the Guardians of Gaia are involved in violent acts — no matter how much we understand the provocation — we condemn those acts. We have no place for violence. Everything we represent is about stopping violence, the violence being done to our ecosystem.’

‘Then, if all that is true, you will have no objection to doing me a small favour. Could you ask the gentleman who conducted me here to step back in for a moment?’

Wiegand sighed, as if indulging a child. ‘As you wish…’ He hit a button and said a few words in English. The young man who had conducted Fabel from the main entrance to Wiegand’s office came in.

‘I take it you have a storeroom full of these suits?’ asked Fabel. ‘I mean, you clearly issue them to your members…’

‘We do, yes. We take care of all of our members’ material needs.’

‘Then you could replace this gentleman’s jacket if I were to ask him for it?’

‘What on earth do you want his jacket for? I can supply an unused one from our stores.’

‘Indulge me, Herr Wiegand. I want to make sure that the jacket I take is of the kind that this gentleman wears.’ He turned to the man by the door. ‘I am right in assuming that you work for the Consolidation and Compliance Office?’

The Consolidator did not answer but looked to Wiegand for guidance.

‘Please give the Chief Commissar your jacket. What do you need it for, Herr Fabel?’

‘I’d like to compare the material of the jacket to a fibre we found at the Muller-Voigt crime scene.’

‘Ah, I see.’ He held up a hand to halt the Consolidator who had removed his jacket and was about to hand it to Fabel. ‘Then, if there is a suggestion of some kind of accusation, you should perhaps obtain a warrant.’

‘Do I need a warrant? Are you telling me that you won’t cooperate?’

Wiegand said nothing for a moment, then nodded to the Consolidator, who handed Fabel the jacket.

‘So I take it from this that you suspect someone from the Pharos Project of being involved in the murder of Berthold Muller-Voigt?’ asked Wiegand when the Consolidator had left. ‘Obviously, that is a laughable assertion, but if that is the case then you should have told me earlier. I can assure you that the Project will cooperate wholeheartedly with the police in any investigation. I have to say that it is impossible for any of our members to be involved in something like that. We have counsellors and mentors within our community who would identify anyone with violent or antisocial tendencies.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that any form of individual action would be encouraged. I get the impression that the Project sees itself as operating as an egregore. A groupmind.’

‘Now why would the Pharos Project have a collective will to cause Berthold Muller-Voigt harm?’ Wiegand remained cool. If Fabel was getting to him, he was not about to let it show.

‘Perhaps it was suspected that Meliha Yazar had told him what she had found out about the Project. Maybe it’s something so big that anyone who could possibly be aware of it is in danger.’

‘This is pure fantasy. And, I have to say, typical of the kind of fabrications that the authorities here in Germany seem to feel free to level against us. But I promise you, Herr Fabel, that if you repeat such accusations outside this room you had better be able to back them up in a court of law.’

‘That, Herr Wiegand, is exactly my intention.’

Wiegand stood up to indicate that the discussion was at an end. Fabel remained seated.

‘There is another matter I would like to discuss.’ Fabel carefully folded the jacket he had been given on his lap, running his fingers over the material. He could tell that it was made from the kind of fabric that Astrid Bremer had described: there was no yield to it and it had a nylon-like feel. ‘As you are no doubt aware, we have a case running at the moment concerning the murder of four young women targeted by someone they met through the internet.’

‘The Network Killer case. Yes, I’m aware of it.’

‘Well, a few nights ago, I was approached by a woman who was dressed in a style not unlike this…’ Fabel indicated the jacket on his lap. ‘She gave me a false identity. In fact, she gave me the identity of the next Network Killer victim — before we found the body. What makes it especially interesting is that when we did find the body, there was evidence that it had been kept in cold storage for some time.’

‘And…?’

‘Nothing… other than it suggests to me that the body was kept on ice long enough for me to be approached with the victim’s name, and also to confuse us about the time of death. As if it was important for us to believe that the woman died some time later than she actually did.’

‘And this means what to me?’ asked Wiegand wearily.

‘I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, and I think I understand its significance. And I think it tells me what it was Meliha Yazar found out.’

‘Which is?’

‘I think we’ll save that for another time.’ Fabel stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Herr Wiegand. I look forward to our next chat.’ He looked around at the office, the glass walls, the dimmed view of the water around them. ‘Next time we can meet in my office, I think.’

It was fully dark as Fabel drove back along the narrow road towards Stade. It was deserted of cars and he could see there were no headlights in his rear-view mirror. Anyway, he thought, Wiegand knew exactly where he had been and the road he would take back to town. So there was no need for him to pick up a tail until he had reached the main road network.

Jan Fabel was a man who liked to do the right thing in every situation; to follow the rules. It sat heavy and hard with him that he had just done something he would never have allowed one of his junior officers to do: he had deliberately exposed himself to danger. Fabel had known that there was no way that he would ever build a solid case against an organisation as sophisticated, resourceful and skilled as the Pharos Project. He needed to flush them out. Flush Wiegand out. Wiegand had said that Fabel had been on a fishing trip and he had been right; except Fabel was the bait. Fabel had hinted that he possessed the same knowledge that Meliha Yazar had, and had been abducted and more than likely murdered over. Muller-Voigt had had his skull pulped in the belief that he might have had the information. And now they would believe that Fabel had that knowledge. And, as someone who could do infinitely more damage than either Yazar or Muller-Voigt, they would no doubt come after him.

The truth was, he was beginning to believe that he did know what it was that Meliha had found out. How he could ever prove it was another matter.

He was just approaching Stade when his cellphone rang.

‘Chief Commissar Fabel?’ It was a male voice. Deep — too deep and faintly robotic; punctuated with deep, rasping breaths. Fabel realised that it was being electronically altered.

‘Who is this?’

‘Call me the Klabautermann, that seems appropriate.’

‘You’re joking, right?’ Fabel laughed. ‘You want me to call you the Klabautermann? I’m guessing you read too many comics. Or what is it they call them these days? Oh yes, graphic novels. Now listen, you know you are speaking to a police officer, so I suggest you stop wasting my time…’

‘Now wait a minute…’ The menace of the electronically altered voice dissipated as the person behind it grew flustered. ‘You’ve got to listen to me…’

‘Lose the Darth Vader crap and we can talk.’

There was a pause. Then something clicked on the line.

‘Who is this?’ asked Fabel.

‘I can’t tell you.’ Now the voice was natural. Male, but high-pitched. Still punctuated with snorting breaths. Someone overweight, Fabel guessed.

‘Then I can’t talk to you.’

‘They’ll kill me,’ the voice said and something in the tone told Fabel he believed it.

‘Who will?’

‘The same people who killed Meliha Yazar. I know all about Meliha Yazar, I know about Muller-Voigt. I know about Daniel Fottinger.’

Fabel pulled over to the side of the road, putting on his hazard-warning lights. Snatching his cellphone from its cradle, he took the call off-speaker.

‘What do you know?’

‘I can’t tell you yet. They’re probably listening right now. Making me take the voice changer off will make it easier for them to find me, but they would have deprocessed it eventually. They can do anything with technology. Remember that, Fabel. Don’t use technology.’

‘Where is Meliha Yazar?’ Fabel’s voice was determined. ‘What happened to her?’

‘You already know that. It’s why it happened that you should worry about. I’ve got something they’re looking for. Something that Meliha left for me to find and I’ll die because I found it. Now they will find me, Fabel. They’ll find me and kill me. They’ll kill you too and anyone else they think knows.’

‘Knows? Knows what? Listen, if you really believe your life is in danger, then tell me where you are. We will protect you.’

There was a snort at the other end of the connection. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’ He paused. ‘I’ll be in touch later. I have to find a way of contacting you without them intercepting it. Do you understand?’

Fabel frowned, then, after a moment said: ‘Yes. I understand.’

The phone went dead.