A fear of dark water

Chapter Thirty-One

Fabel knew that it would be panic that would kill him. He forced the thought to the front of his mind. He had been winded by the first impact and his lungs were still depleted of oxygen; a primal instinct screamed within him to open his mouth and breathe: to suck in the filthy river water; to fill his lungs with something, anything.

The natural buoyancy of his body was pushing him up against the fabric roof of the car as it sank and he knew he was being dragged deeper into the Elbe. The wharf had originally been intended as a shipping berth, meaning the water was deep enough to accommodate a large ship’s draught. Deep and dark.

Now Fabel could see nothing. This was the car he had owned for ten years but suddenly its interior was totally alien to him. A strange and toxic environment. One window, he knew, was open and offered a quick exit. The other was intact. A simple choice: one direction or the other. He pushed himself toward what he thought was the right side of the car. No steering wheel. He found the edge of the passenger window and pushed himself through. He was out of the car. And rising. His lungs screamed and a searing pain he had never felt before sliced through his chest. He could now see the surface above him but it did not seem to get any nearer. The light above started to dim, the water around him growing darker again. He felt renewed panic when he realised he was going to black out. He was going to lose consciousness and he would never regain it. His arms and legs became leaden and he knew he was sinking again.

All fear left him and he let his held breath go in an explosion of bubbles.

Something closed over his mouth and pinched his nose shut. A hand. There was someone in the water with him. Another arm looped under his armpit and around his chest. Fabel instinctively fought against the hand bruisingly clamped over his nose and mouth: the logic that it was preventing him breathing in the filthy dock water lost in primal panic.

He knew they must be rising, but the water became even darker. Black. He no longer felt his limbs, the chill of the water, the hammering in his chest.

Fabel found himself sitting again in his father’s study in Norddeich. It was dark and the study was illuminated by only one desk light. Somewhere outside the window, on the other side of the dyke, there was the sound of a storm. As Fabel listened to the wind and the rain he noticed that Paul Lindemann was sitting opposite him, the bullet wound in the centre of his forehead crusted with a circle of long-dried black-red blood.

‘Does it hurt?’ Fabel asked.

‘Not any more.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It happened. It was my time.’

‘It’s my time now. Is this real?’

‘It’s not your time,’ said Paul and smiled. ‘I don’t know if this is real. Do you remember that case you investigated, the one where the murderer thought he was made up, that everything, including himself, was all part of a fairy tale?’

‘I remember him.’

‘Maybe he was right after all. Maybe there is no such thing as reality.’ Paul paused. ‘Did you see the books?’

‘What books?’

‘The books she kept beside her bed.’

‘Yes, I saw them.’

‘Are they with you now? Do you have them in the water?’

‘I’m not in the water. I’m here.’

‘You’re in the water, Jan. Do you have the books with you?’

‘No. Anna took them. In a bag.’

‘Remember the books.’ Paul frowned, creasing the punctured skin around the bullet wound. ‘Don’t forget about the books.’

Fabel wanted to answer Paul but found himself becoming sleepy. The room went dark and the sound of the storm faded.

Something seared through him; penetrated every millimetre of his being. There was a great roar, like the crashing of waves but too fast, one after the other. The pain surged with each roar and Fabel realised it was his own breathing. There was something still clamped over his nose and mouth and he grabbed at it. A hand caught him by the wrist.

‘Take it easy.’ A female voice mixed authority and reassurance. ‘It’s just an oxygen mask.’

He tried to get up but more hands gently restrained him.

‘It’s Anna, Chef. You’re going to be okay. You’re in an ambulance. We’re taking you to the hospital.’

Fabel’s vision cleared and he saw Anna and a female paramedic leaning over him. Full consciousness returned like an electric shock.

‘Did you get them?’ He tried to sit upright but again was restrained. Pain throbbed nauseatingly in his head. ‘They pushed me into the water. They tried to kill me.’ He saw there was someone else in the ambulance. A figure sitting on the bench seat next to Anna; hair wet-black and plastered to his brow, a blanket wrapped around hunched shoulders.

‘This is Herr Flemming, Jan,’ said Anna. ‘It was Herr Flemming who pulled you out of the water. He saw your car go in and he jumped in to save you.’

Fabel remembered the hand over his nose and mouth, the arm looped around him, pulling him upwards.

‘You saved my life?’

Flemming shrugged underneath the blanket. ‘Right place, right time.’

‘It was more than that. You risked your life to come in for me.’

‘Jan…’ Fabel thought he sensed something tentative in Anna’s tone. ‘Herr Flemming works for Seamark International.’

‘But I thought…’

‘You were right, Herr Fabel,’ said Flemming. ‘We were following you. But we’re on the same side, so to speak. But rest now. They’re taking me to the hospital, too. We can talk later.’

‘Was it you who phoned me last night? Are you Klabautermann?’

Flemming laughed. ‘Maybe I was the Klabautermann today, but no, I didn’t phone you.’

Fabel lay back on the gurney. The oxygen eased his breathing. He closed his eyes and tried to fight back the nausea that washed over him in great, welling waves. The ambulance started to move, jolting over some obstacle as it got under way. Fabel tore off the oxygen mask and twisted sideways, vomiting over the edge of the gurney. The paramedic held him while he finished retching, before asking him if he felt better and easing him back into a lying position. As he lay there, feeling the pressure of the paramedic’s fingertips on his wrist as she checked his pulse, Fabel felt a dull surprise as his eyelids closed. He was going to sleep.

Susanne arrived at the hospital in St Georg about half an hour after Fabel had been admitted. She looked shaken and Fabel found himself worrying more about her than himself as she sat at his bedside. She stayed there while he was reexamined on the hour. The frown on her face refused to dissipate, no matter how often he reassured her that he was all right, or the doctors told her that there was nothing to be concerned about.

‘I didn’t take in much water,’ he said. ‘That guy Flemming made sure of that. He got me out really quickly, Susanne. I’m fine, honest.’ He placed his hand on her cheek and smiled. She placed her hand over his.

‘They tried to kill you, Jan,’ she said incredulously. ‘These maniacs actually believe they can get away with trying to kill a senior Hamburg police officer.’

‘Truth is, as far as I can see, they are getting away with it. We have nothing to tie the vehicle that rammed into me with the Pharos Project or the Guardians of Gaia. Or anyone else for that matter. They could claim it was a random road-rage attack. I don’t know. But we’ll get them, don’t worry Susanne. We will get them.’

Anna Wolff came in. She clearly saw Susanne clasping Fabel’s hand and looked awkward for a moment.

‘It’s all right, Anna,’ said Susanne. Fabel thought he detected a little frost in her smile. She stood up, leaned over and kissed him proprietarily on the forehead. ‘I’ll go and get a coffee. I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Sorry, Chef,’ said Anna. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

‘It’s fine, Anna. What’s up?’

‘Flemming has been given the all-clear to go, but he’s hanging around because he thought you’d want to talk to him. If you’re up to it, that is.’

‘Damned right I want to talk to him. Did he tell you why he was following me?’

‘You’re better getting all the details from him, but I gather that Seamark International works for a company called Demeril Importing. It’s a Turkish carpet and textile importer, down in the Speicherstadt. Seamark work for a lot of companies like that, providing security for imported and exported goods, even with men on ships safeguarding the cargo. They even have their own investigative branch, apparently. Mainly because the cargo and shipping they look after passes through so many jurisdictions and shades of legislation.’

‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

‘The owner of Demeril is a Herr Mustafa Kebir. His brother is a well-known Turkish archaeologist and environmental campaigner, Burhan Kebir, who happens to be very concerned about the whereabouts of his daughter…’

‘Meliha?’

‘Meliha Kebir — our Meliha Yazar — is an environmental campaigner and “underground” investigative journalist. The reason we could find no record of her is that she doesn’t write as either Meliha Kebir or Meliha Yazar. All her work appears on the internet on activist and environmental sites under the tag Mermaid. She’s already done several exposes on various companies who have shafted the environment. In two cases the internet shit-storm she’s created has spilled over into the mainstream media to such an extent that charges have been brought against the companies she’s named.’

Fabel eased himself up in the bed. His head still hurt like hell and he winced at the effort. ‘Exactly the kind of person the Pharos Project wouldn’t want anywhere near.’

‘I’ve been in touch with the mental health sanatorium in Bavaria where Fottinger was placed by his parents. I managed to get a federal warrant for their records on him and guess what?’

‘They’ve had some kind of computer glitch and the records have been mysteriously erased?’

Anna looked disappointed that she had not had a chance to drop her bombshell. ‘Lucky guess?’

‘Educated one. Anything else?’

‘Yes — Nicola Bruggemann is here to see you.’

‘How are you getting on with her?’

‘Fine. She’s a good cop, like you said.’

‘That it?’

Anna shrugged. ‘Oh no, there was one more thing. Fabian Menke called to cancel. He said he’d arranged to meet you but something had come up and could you reschedule for same time, same place tomorrow?’

Fabel frowned. ‘That’s who I was going to meet when I got shunted into the river.’

‘Will you be up to seeing him tomorrow?’

‘All I’ve had is a needle in my ass for tetanus. I’m fine. A little shaken, that’s all.’

‘They want to keep you in overnight, just for observation.’

‘They can observe me remotely. Will you get my clothes for me while I talk to Nicola? Susanne brought in a fresh change of clothes for me. And you better get them here before Susanne comes back. She’ll want me to stay in.’

‘How’s it going, Jan?’ Bruggemann asked in her low contralto as she sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you have a moment for a chat? I mean, you don’t have anything planned, do you? A swim or…’

‘Very funny, Nicola. Have you been taking sarcasm lessons from Anna Wolff?’

‘There are a few things young Anna could teach me, Jan. That’s not one of them.’

Anna came back in and handed Fabel his clothes. ‘You’d better be quick,’ she said. ‘I think they’ve told the chief nurse and she’s steaming this way. I’ll leave you to it.’

As Anna left, Fabel made a face at Bruggemann who turned her back to him as he stood up and dressed. He found his head still hurt and he was a little unsteady on his feet.

‘All of this crap about me being in charge of the Network Killer case because you’ve been compromised…’ said Bruggemann. ‘I’ve had a word with Criminal Director van Heiden and he agrees that the attempt on your life makes it all a crock of shit.’

‘“Crock of shit”?’ Fabel grinned. ‘I take it you didn’t actually use that phrase to Horst van Heiden? It’s okay, by the way, I’m decent.’

She turned to face him. ‘As a matter of fact, I did. You know, for a police officer with a service as long as his, and who’s bound to have seen his fair share, he certainly does shock easy. Anyway, he agrees that whoever tried to compromise you has clearly decided to take a more direct approach, so he’s agreed that you should head up the enquiry again.’

‘You want out?’ asked Fabel.

‘Not necessarily. I’m quite into the case and would like to stick with it. Under your supervision, that is. If you’re comfortable with that. I mean, that’s really what’s been happening anyway. Unofficially.’

‘How has the team been with you?’

‘Great. You’ve put together some squad there, Jan. Werner’s been a star, Dirk, Henk, Thomas and the others have been really good. Anna can be a little… feisty.’ Bruggemann grinned as she said the word.

‘Nicola, is this a job application?’

‘Could be, Jan. I know you’re a senior down since Maria Klee…’ She faltered. Everybody had learned to tiptoe around the subject of what had happened to Maria. ‘It’s just that you and I have always worked well together and I think it would be a good challenge for me. And I do know you could do with the support. Unless you don’t think I’m up to it…’

‘Don’t be silly, Nicola, you know how highly I think of you. It’s just that you have your own unit. You sure you want to be second fiddle again?’

‘Your team has a Republic-wide reputation, Jan. No one is going to see it as a backward step for me. And there’s a limit to how long you can work in the Child Crime Unit before it starts to really get to you.’

Fabel nodded; he could imagine. The Child Crime Unit was on the same floor as the Murder Commission and Fabel passed it often. There was a room set aside, incongruously bright and colourful against the rest of the Presidium’s tonal decor, as a playroom, with toys, children’s books and games. The intention was to put the children brought there at their ease; a place where it was safe to be a child. Every time he passed it, Fabel thought of the price each child must have paid before they could play in that room.

‘The other thing is that I have experience with dealing with that geek Kroeger. I sense you and he don’t hit it off too well. I’ve worked with him closely through the Child Crime Unit. He’s been invaluable at times and we get on. If I stick with the Network Killer case, I could maybe provide a more constructive liaison with the Cybercrime Unit.’

‘Oh, yes… I need you for your people skills.’ Fabel smiled. ‘Okay, Nicola, let me talk it over with the Criminal Director. I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t want your experience and skills on board, but Herr van Heiden is going to want to find a replacement for you.’

‘My deputy is ready to take over, but of course there will have to be a replacement for her.’

‘So apart from pitching your CV, I take it there was something else?’

‘Yes. While you were taking a constitutional dip in the Elbe, I was reading through the autopsy report on Julia Helling, the Network Killer’s most recent victim. I don’t get this thing with the killer keeping her in cold storage. Like you said, it just doesn’t fit. Why would he try to confuse us about time of death?’

‘He wasn’t. It wasn’t the killer who put her in cold storage. Listen, Nicola, I think I’ve got it all straight in my head. But I can’t prove a thing. I’ll get the team together and go through what I think is going on. But first I need to talk to Flemming, the guy who pulled me out of the river.’

Susanne came back into the room and said hello to Nicola. They had known each other for some time, Susanne providing psych assessments on both victims and suspects for the Child Crime Unit. But her greeting was muted by the frown that darkened her expression when she saw that Fabel was dressed. He held up his hands in apology and they argued for a minute or two over the rights and wrongs of him discharging himself. Eventually Susanne gave up.

‘I suppose we’d better take my car,’ she said, her tone still conveying her displeasure.

‘My car…’ Fabel suddenly looked taken aback, as if he had only just realised that his BMW convertible was lying at the bottom of the Elbe.

‘Make sure you drive, Susanne. Unless you stopped off at home to pick up your swimming cozzie…’ When neither Fabel nor Susanne laughed, Bruggemann moved on. ‘They’ve got a crane down there at the moment,’ said Bruggemann. ‘Lars Kreysig has taken personal charge of getting your car out, but it’s going to be a write-off.’

‘I loved that car,’ said Fabel melancholically.

‘Well, you shouldn’t have tried to drive on water,’ said Bruggemann. ‘I know everybody at the Presidium thinks you can walk on it, but…’

Fabel smiled sarcastically at Bruggemann, then turned to Susanne. ‘I think, given what’s happened, we’d better arrange an escort back. I want the apartment checked out, too. I’ll be with you in a minute, Susanne. I just need to talk to the guy who saved my neck.’

Flemming was waiting for Fabel in the reception area. He was dressed in dark blue overalls and sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

‘I begged these from the hospital,’ he explained, plucking at the blue overalls. He grinned. ‘I’ll send you a dry-cleaning bill for my suit.’

‘You can send me the bill for a new one. I thought I was a goner for sure. I don’t know how I can begin to thank you for what you did.’

‘Armani would be a start.’ Flemming’s grin widened. He was a big man with huge shoulders but otherwise slim. Fabel reckoned that he was someone who was more than a hobby-fitness fan. He estimated Flemming’s age to be somewhere in his mid-forties. Beneath the dark, curling hair a scar traced its way to the corner of his eyebrow.

‘What’s your background?’ he asked Flemming. ‘I mean, before Seamark International?’

‘Polizei Kiel Harbour Police for ten years. Before that Kampfschwimmer Kompanie.’

Fabel raised an eyebrow. ‘Then it was my lucky day.’ The Kampfschwimmer Kompanie was the special-forces unit of the German Navy. Commando frogmen. ‘How long?’

‘Twelve years. So taking a dip to pull you out of the water was nothing. To join the Kompanie you have to be able to swim at least thirty metres underwater without scuba and be able to stay underwater for at least sixty seconds without breathing. So today really was no big deal.’

‘Trust me,’ said Fabel. ‘It was a big deal to me. Can I get you another coffee?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

Pleasantries over, Fabel’s tone became more businesslike. ‘What exactly have you been doing tailing me for the last couple of weeks?’

‘You spotted me that long ago?’ Flemming gave a small laugh. ‘I must be slipping.’

‘Well?’

‘Mustafa Kebir is more than a client, he’s a friend. He knows about my background, so when his niece went missing he came to me. Obviously the first thing I did was tell him to go to the police, but he said that Meliha would resent that. She’s very anti-establishment.’

‘You do know that impersonating a police officer is a serious offence?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herr Fabel.’ Flemming’s expression remained open and frank. He was good, thought Fabel.

‘Someone had the brass balls to walk into Butenfeld, flash a Polizei Schleswig-Holstein badge and ask to see the torso that had been washed up at the Fischmarkt after the storm. I put it down to the Pharos Project, but now…’

Flemming shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.

‘Isn’t it a huge coincidence that “Commissar Honer” showed a Kiel division ID? You know, where you served… Listen, Flemming,’ Fabel turned in his chair to face the big man square on. ‘After what you did for me today, I don’t want to make any trouble for you. But I could get someone up here from the morgue to see if they can spot anyone who looks a little like the Schleswig-Holstein detective who turned up to view the torso…’

‘Okay. It was me. I wanted to see if it was Meliha.’

‘And?’

‘You saw that torso. The only way to get a positive ID is to check against familial DNA, which I’ll leave to you, now that you know where to find a family member.’

‘But your instinct?’

‘I don’t have one. When I saw the torso it had been degassed — you know, to stop it exploding — but it was still quite bulked up. It could be Meliha. But it could be anyone. As you can imagine, I’ve seen a lot of floaters over the years and they’re always very difficult to age and size up. Your Fischmarkt torso had certainly been in the water for a long time. And the longer the immersion, the more difficult it is to age them accurately. For all my subterfuge, it really didn’t do me any good.’

‘Okay. I’ll arrange for a DNA comparison with Herr Kebir. In the meantime, you keep your nose clean and out of official police business.’

Flemming sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Okay. But if there’s anything I can do — and I mean anything — then I want you to let me know.’

‘I appreciate it,’ said Fabel. ‘You can start by going through everything you know about Meliha Kebir…’

The next day, Fabel was in the Presidium early. He had woken up with a start and had known that something bad had happened the day before but, for a few seconds, had forgotten what it was. He had sat upright in bed, a cold sweat on his brow, until it fell into place.

Susanne had always worried about the stress Fabel’s job placed him under. There had been a time when, driven by the bad dreams that he experienced almost nightly, he had himself considered giving up the Polizei Hamburg. But the look on Susanne’s face that morning had been far beyond anything that he had seen before; more like fear than worry. Someone had made a pretty good stab at killing him.

She clung to him as they said goodbye in the morning. She was working out of the Institute for Legal Medicine and, in a reversal of the normal routine, she had dropped him off at the Presidium first. And she had been punctual, which worried Fabel most of all.

When he entered the Murder Commission Fabel was confronted with grim determination. The full team was there, including the officers who were not slated for duty. It was clear that Nicola Bruggemann had called them all in and had given them an informal briefing on what had happened; several of them came up to Fabel, asked if he was okay and expressed their support, each with appropriate gravity. Fabel noticed that there was a Kevlar bulletproof waistcoat sitting upright on the desk behind Nicola Bruggemann.

‘We’ve talked it through, Chef,’ said Bruggemann, her face set hard, using the informal title to identify Fabel as her commanding officer, ‘and we feel you need some extra protection. Werner…?’ She stood to one side to let Fabel have a view of the body armour. Werner grabbed the vest and pulled it to one side, like a stage magician whipping the cover from a cage of freshly disappeared pigeons. The room exploded into laughter: on the desk, until now hidden by the bulletproof vest, was a pair of bright yellow inflatable water wings, each complete with the neck, head, and bright red bill of a duckling.

Laughing, Fabel slipped off his jacket and slid the water wings onto his shirt-sleeved arms. He became aware of a sudden sobriety in the room and turned to see Criminal Director van Heiden standing framed in the door.

‘Fabel… a word.’

Fabel self-consciously slipped the water wings off, ignoring the smirks of his team, and guided van Heiden into his office.

It was a brief meeting, and Fabel realised it was van Heiden’s way of making his support for his junior officer clear. The Criminal Director confirmed what Bruggemann had told Fabel in the hospital: that he was now fully back in charge of all investigations and that he was to take whatever measures necessary and could request whatever resources he needed. It was clear that van Heiden was still out of his depth, even more so than before, but someone had tried to kill one of his own and that had fired up every policeman’s instinct that van Heiden possessed.

‘I just don’t understand what is going on,’ said van Heiden, genuinely perplexed.

‘I do,’ said Fabel. ‘That’s why I was pushed into the river. I can’t prove any of it yet. And I doubt that we will ever be able to prove all of it, or any of it. But there’s clearly a danger that someone is going to make another attempt on my life because of it, so I’m going to tell you.’

It took Fabel ten minutes to explain. Van Heiden sat silent, taking it all in but never looking any less perplexed.

‘I’ll get it written up,’ said Fabel. ‘But if you don’t mind I won’t email it. I’ll have it hand-delivered to your office. I don’t know how much our email system is compromised.’

‘So you believe all this?’ asked van Heiden.

‘Yes, but like I say, I can’t prove it. I’ve called Herr Menke to discuss it with him. We need all the help we can get with this one.’

For some reason, Fabian Menke had responded to Fabel’s call by asking that they should meet, neither at the Presidium nor the BfV’s office. Instead, he suggested a venue on the south side of the river, down by the docks. Fabel took a pool car and parked behind Menke’s BMW 3 series. A very corporate car, thought Fabel and wondered if the security agent sold insurance policies in his own time. When he got out of his car, Fabel realised he was on another quayside, parked next to the water’s edge. The sudden frisson he felt surprised him and he realised he was afraid of the water.

‘Are you okay?’ Menke asked as the two men shook hands.

‘I’m fine. Just a bit shaken up after my last trip to the waterfront.’

‘Oh God, yes,’ said Menke. ‘I should have thought. A pretty insensitive venue. Sorry. Do you want to go somewhere else?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

Menke led the way along the quayside. From here Fabel could see the arc of Hamburg on the far shore, from the Kohlbrandbrucke bridge to the Speicherstadt and HafenCity. This side of the Elbe, the south shore, was the working heart of the city. Huge cranes behind them arranged freight containers in piled-high rows, like children’s building blocks.

‘Before we start,’ said Menke, ‘do you have a cellphone with you?’

‘Of course. But it’s switched off and I left it in the car.’

‘I see,’ said Menke. ‘You clearly recognise what we’re dealing with here.’

‘We’re dealing with an idea,’ said Fabel. ‘Not a reality. I know that these people have massive technological resources and skills at their disposal, but I still think they’re not as omniscient as their PR makes out.’

‘No?’ said Menke. ‘I work in the business of watching others, Fabel. And I have technology at my disposal that you couldn’t begin to imagine. I can sit outside someone’s home and see what they’re seeing on their computer monitor. I’m not talking about hacking into their WiFi or anything like that. They don’t have to be connected to a hub or a network at all. We even have keystroke analysis where we can tell what’s being typed into a computer without breaking into the hard drive… all done purely externally. Or take where we’re standing now… there are at least five national intelligence agencies who have access to satellite technology so sophisticated that they could have a good stab at deciphering what we’re saying to each other right now. You’ve read the material I sent you on the Pharos Project?’ he asked when they reached the pier’s end.

‘I have, yes. And the more I’ve read, the more I’m convinced the Pharos Project is connected to the death of Berthold Muller-Voigt and the disappearance of Meliha Yazar. I am also pretty certain they are directly or indirectly behind the murder of Daniel Fottinger, and I think I know why. I wanted to talk to you because I think you can help me put the pieces together with the Fottinger case.’

‘I’ll do anything I can, Herr Fabel.’

Fabel gave an appreciative nod. ‘We fished a body out of the river and I believe he’s the motorcycle rider involved in the attack on Fottinger. He’s the guy I sent you a note about: Harald Jaburg.’

‘I know,’ said Menke. ‘You’re right that Fottinger’s death was arranged indirectly.’ He paused, looking out over the water for a moment before turning back to Fabel. ‘Do you know anything about quantum physics — superposition, unified string theory, holographic principle, that kind of thing?’

‘In a word, no.’

‘Quantum theory is throwing up ideas that would make your head hurt. And every cult, street-corner messiah, New Age guru and nut-job is giving these theories a spin to try to give their loopy philosophies some kind of credibility. And they’re using them to snare the more vulnerable in our society.’ Menke took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Fabel, who shook his head. ‘Harald Jaburg is indeed a person of interest for the Bureau. As soon as the name went into the system I was alerted. He’s red-flagged: a known member of the Guardians of Gaia, an extreme environmental group.’

‘One of the extreme environmental groups you didn’t want to go into details about with Muller-Voigt?’ asked Fabel.

‘Exactly. This job has made me paranoid. The Guardians of Gaia believe in direct action against any individual, group or organisation they believe is endangering the environment. So far it’s been more protests and minor vandalism.’

‘Setting cars on fire?’ asked Fabel.

‘Among other things. Our intelligence is that they’re becoming more and more militant.’

‘There’s nothing more militant than four bullets in the head,’ said Fabel.

Menke shook his head emphatically. ‘No, that doesn’t seem right. As far as we’re aware, they haven’t yet injured anyone they see as the enemy, far less carried out internal executions. This is a weird one, all right. You mentioned in your message that Jaburg had a distinctive tattoo. The green gamma on the chest is their symbol for Gaia.’

‘The Greek goddess of the Earth?’

‘In name, yes. But their interpretation is more in the sense of the Gaia Hypothesis, formulated way back in the seventies. Back then it was considered weird and New Age-y, but now mainstream science is buying into it. It’s the belief that the Earth’s biosphere, of which we are part, is actually a single, integrated, living system. An organism in its own right.’

‘Sounds harmless enough,’ said Fabel.

‘Yes, well, the Guardians of Gaia has a distinctly paramilitary structure. They believe that “Gaia” is dying and that mankind is the infection that’s killing her. So I’m sure you understand our interest in the group. They see themselves as soldiers. Soldiers engaged in a war against the forces of globalisation and industrialisation. And in some ways against mankind itself.’

Fabel thought back to the pale, skinny corpse of a young man lying on a mortuary trolley. ‘I think someone may have just fired the first shot.’

‘Harald Jaburg was the most minor of minor players in the Guardians. A gofer. And definitely not an assassin type.’

‘A getaway rider?’

‘Entirely possible. Our intel tells us that Jaburg worked on several occasions with one Niels Freese, an entirely different kettle of fish. I know even more about Herr Freese than I do about Jaburg.’

‘In what way different?’

‘Freese is the one with the skewed perception of the world. He’s unpredictable, violent. History of severe mental disorders.’

‘Unlikely to have planned and executed the Schanzenviertel attack, then?’

‘I’m not saying that. Not by a long chalk. Freese is disabled, officially. Brain damage at birth, but that doesn’t seem to have blunted his intelligence. And he can function normally in many ways, but he does have all kinds of other problems, mainly neurological, and some that have made him outright delusional on occasion. But he’s smart enough, all right. He is, however, highly susceptible to manipulation, to suggestion. His mental state means he could be convinced of almost anything, if it’s articulated right and gels with his odd perception of the world.’

‘What is his problem?’ asked Fabel. ‘I mean specifically?’

‘It’s tragic, really. He really does experience reality differently from the rest of us: he suffers from almost constant promnesia, a highly disconcerting condition which is like having permanent deja vu. And he has frequent episodes of what the quacks call reduplicative paramnesia. When he’s in that state, the poor bastard thinks someone’s abducted him from the real world and built a perfect but counterfeit copy around him.’

‘I’ll ask my partner about it. She’s a quack, by the way.’

‘Is she?’ Menke looked only remotely embarrassed. ‘Ah, well, no doubt she can tell you more about the condition than I can. In any case, his condition has made Freese someone who can be influenced by feeding his paranoid beliefs. Not controlled, but influenced. The nature of his condition makes him easy meat for all kinds of mumbo-jumbo about quantum realities and environmental singularities.’

‘The kind of thing the Guardians of Gaia spout?’

‘And the Pharos Project.’

‘There’s a connection?’

‘Not that we can prove,’ said Menke. He paused as the two men watched a freighter, stacked impossibly high with containers, drift silently by. ‘But there has been a suggestion that the Guardians of Gaia are actually just a directly controlled arm of the Pharos Project.’

‘But surely their philosophies are totally different.’

Menke handed Fabel a sheet of paper with a handwritten note on it.

‘This is the last known address we have for Niels Freese. The second name is one that no one knows outside the BfV… except now you know. That is the name of the man we now believe to be the Hamburg commander of the Guardians of Gaia. If Freese carried out the attack that killed Fottinger — and it’s a big “if” — then that is the name of the man who ordered it.’

‘Jens Markull…’ Fabel read the name out loud. ‘Why the big secret about his name?’

‘He is… he was one of ours. You implied we must have infiltrators, undercover people working for us. Well, we do. He was one of them.’

‘He’s a BfV officer?’

‘No. Markull is simply someone whose principles were for sale. But it looks like something’s happened to make him shut up shop. We were getting really good intelligence from him, then it dried up. The last thing we heard was that he had met with some people from the Pharos Project. Then suddenly he’s promoted to Commander of the Hamburg division of the Guardians of Gaia and doesn’t seem to want to talk to us any more.’

Fabel put the note into his pocket and the two men started walking back to their cars.

‘There’s one thing I’d like to ask you about Niels Freese,’ said Fabel.

‘Go ahead.’

‘These neurological problems he has. Do they include a limp?’

Menke stopped and turned to Fabel, a look of surprise on his face. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact he does have a limp. The result of mild palsy caused by the oxygen deprivation at birth.’