JF01 - Blood Eagle (31 page)

‘What is it?’

‘Vitrenko. Vasyl Vitrenko. I think he may even be known as Colonel Vitrenko.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s the Devil, Jan.’

Wednesday 18 June, 3.00 p.m. Hamburger Hafen, Hamburg
.

Summer had arrived in Hamburg and the temperature had soared. Paul, Werner and Fabel had their jackets off and Maria sat on a low wall next to the elbow-high tables with her elegantly trousered legs crossed and her interlocked fingers hooked around her knees, the sun’s sheen on the pale blue silk of her blouse. They had locked their holsters and sidearms in the boot of Fabel’s BMW convertible and, had it not been for Werner’s heavy features and Anna’s neo-punk chic, they could have been a group of corporate lawyers slumming it at a Schnell-Imbiss down at the docks.

After the ever jolly Dirk had served them each with a chilled beer, Fabel choosing his accustomed Jever, they gathered around two tables away from the couple of dock workers who were the only other customers.

‘Our friend Volker is keeping a lot from us, despite his promise to be open,’ said Fabel. ‘I am getting more information from my unofficial source than I am from the machinery of federal intelligence.’ Everybody knew that Fabel had his own, protected informants, as did they all, and knew not to ask who the source of the new information was. ‘I have to say that I am unsure as to what direct relevance this has to our investigation, but it is a dangerous element that is at least on the edges of our inquiry. There’s a good chance that these people are the ones who killed Klugmann. And it’s almost certain that they assassinated Ulugbay to move in on his Colombian drugs connection.’

No one spoke. Fabel took a sip of his Jever, knocking back a couple of codeine with it.

‘The “Top Team” as Volker calls them is made up of ex-Spetznaz officers. These are not your usual thugs. According to my informant, they are all Chechnya and Afghanistan veterans, headed by a Colonel Vasyl Vitrenko. This guy has a terrible reputation and the mention of his name is enough to scare the shit out of the other Ukrainian outfits. No one is sure if Vitrenko is even really here, but they do know that the Top Team is comprised of officers who served under him. I have no idea what this guy has done, but his reputation for atrocities means no one dares take the risk of believing that he isn’t, in fact, here.’

‘Could this Vitrenko be the one behind the Blood Eagle murders?’ Maria asked.

‘I doubt it. Son of Sven sees himself as some kind of Germanic crusader. Vitrenko is a foreigner. But I do believe that he, or the group that is using his reputation as a terror tool, was the real target of the Klugmann-Kramer operation. The security and anti-detection measures that were put in place suggest they were dealing with a highly organised and professional opponent. If things were different we could bring in Organized Crime Division to run interference for us, but Volker claims this outfit have contacts within the Polizei Hamburg. That’s why I’m keeping this information between the five of us.’

‘Christ, Jan,’ Werner shook his head. ‘You don’t seriously believe that crap?’

‘I’m not prepared to take any risks. According to Volker, these people have some kind of special police background in the Ukraine. And, let’s face it, there are elements within the force here who can’t decide if they’re soldiers or policemen. I can’t even ask Volker for help. He was open enough about the Top Team, but he insisted that the top guy was faceless and nameless. If my contact can put a name to him then I’m damned sure the BND can. And anyway, the file Volker gave me has been edited to minimise the importance of the Top Team. I want us to do a special sweep to establish anyone within the Polizei Hamburg who has had official, semi-official or unofficial contact with the Ukrainian security services. Maria, can you and Werner do that between you? I know you’re both laden with stuff so don’t make it a priority, but make sure it gets done. And for God’s sake be discreet.’

Maria nodded.

Werner said, ‘Discreet is my middle name,’ and all five laughed out loud.

Wednesday 18
June, 7.00 p.m. Blankenese, Hamburg
.

Blankenese lies to the west of Hamburg, on the northern bank of the Elbe. The land banks steeply in stepped terraces from the river and is studded with verdant nuggets of broad-leaved woodland. The area is associated with a mix of quaint fishermen’s cottages with large and elegant nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century villas. While the cottages cluster together cosily, the villas avoid any ostentation and maintain their north-German decorum behind modesty screens of trees and vast gardens. Contemporary architecture has made a limited incursion into Blankenese, but in the most selective and tasteful way. For all of these reasons it has become arguably the most desirable suburb of the city. The fishermen and the craftsmen who invested Blankenese with its character and quaintness have long since been displaced by enterpreneurs, media types and the management classes of Hamburg’s multinational corporations.

Werner had called Erika Kessler at her office in the NDR Radio studios in Rothenbaumchaussee, but she had asked specifically if the interview could be held that evening at her home in Blankenese. Although steam-hammers continued to pound at Fabel’s temples, he told Werner that he wanted to come along. Fabel needed to build an image of Angelika Blüm in his head. He had to understand the impulses that had driven her and where they had taken her. The editors and agents who regularly commissioned work from Blüm had all said the same thing: she never disclosed the nature of her investigation until her article was ready for publication. That left Erika Kessler, who had known Angelika Blüm since university and was the closest thing to a friend she had.

Erika Kessler was a producer at NDR and her husband was a partner in a production company that made television commercials. The three-level contemporary home they shared reflected their combined income and the trendy credibility of their occupations. Kessler’s husband, a small, neat, balding man in Armani slacks, a cashmere V-necked shirt and sandals that flapped noisily on the terracotta floor tiles of the atrium as he walked, led them onto a wooden decking balcony that projected out over a steep garden.

Fabel knew as soon as the view from the balcony opened out to him that it must have added half a million to the value of the house. He was aware that Werner, someone not usually sensitive to the aesthetic, was also silently absorbing the panorama. The Kessler residence was set on one of the terraces that stepped back and up from the Blankenese Strandweg. From the deck, Fabel and Werner had an uninterrupted view right across the Elbe: from the broad sands that outlined the river, over the wooded sickle of Ness-sand island nature reserve which splits the Elbe into two channels, and across to the Altes Land on the southern shore of the river. The Elbe was flecked with the white triangles of a dozen sailboats. Only a hulking, long container ship provided a reminder that the river’s primary function was not pleasure but commerce.

In the last week or so, Fabel had seen a lot of impressive real estate – Yilmaz’s mansion, MacSwain’s hip loft and Angelika Blüm’s 1920’s Modernist apartment – but none had pricked his envy. This home did: with its relaxed but elegant style, its location and its amazing view that rivalled his own apartment’s cityscape. But when he shaped a vision of himself in this home, it was with his ex-wife Renate and their daughter, Gabi. The thought was the bitter aftertaste to his envy and he found himself feeling resentful of the Kesslers. He turned his back on the view.

When Erika Kessler stepped out onto the balcony she revealed a glacial near-beauty that was let down by a jaw of nearly masculine strength. There was ice in the pale blue eyes and her head was angled in a way that suggested arrogance. The severity of her expression was mitigated by the fine ash-blonde hair that she wore loose and which framed her face in soft ringlets. She was dressed in a white cotton scoop-necked top and wide-legged white linen trousers. She gestured towards a set of solid-looking hardwood loungers and sat down. Werner and Fabel took two chairs opposite her. They had flashed their oval shields to Herr Kessler on arrival: Erika Kessler now asked if she could see their identification and studied both cards carefully, looking from photograph to face and back again in each case.

‘You wanted to ask me about Angelika?’ she asked eventually, handing back their IDs.

‘Yes,’ said Fabel. ‘I know you must be very upset about Frau Blüm’s death … and the manner of it … and I assure you we don’t want to cause you further distress, but we do need to know as much as possible about Frau Blüm in order to find her killer.’

‘I’ll tell you what I can. Angelika was not someone who …’ Frau Kessler took a moment to search for the right word. ‘… who
shared
. She really did not give of herself much.’

‘But you were close friends?’ Werner asked.

‘We were friends. I knew Angelika at university. We got on well. She was bright and attracted men and those were critical credentials at the time.’

‘What was she like?’ asked Fabel.

‘When we were at university or after?’

‘Both.’

‘Well, Angelika was never what I would call carefree. She was always serious about her studies and she was very politically aware. We went on holiday together a couple of times. We worked in vineyards in Spain one summer. I remember on the way back we visited the Basque region and ended up in Guernica – you know, the place that Picasso painted the picture about. I remember we were at a memorial there to the people killed in 1937 by the Legion Kondor whom Hitler had ordered to bomb the city as a favour to Franco. This old woman heard us speaking German and started to berate us about what
we
had done to her town. I told her straight that it had nothing to do with me, that I was born a full decade after the war, but Angelika got really upset. I’d go so far as to say that it was a significant event in her political awareness.’

‘You say she was political. Presumably left-leaning?’

‘Definitely left. But not Marxist or anything like that. She was a liberal at heart. And environmentally conscious. She was involved with Die Grünen at one point. After re-unification, when the Green Party went into alliance with various opposition groups from East Germany and formed Bündnis90/Die Grünen, I believe she even flirted with the idea of standing for election to the Bundestag.’

‘Why didn’t she stand?’

Frau Kessler swept a stray golden ringlet and tucked it behind her ear. She looked out across the river. ‘Angelika was an excellent journalist, and she knew it. She chose to remain an excellent journalist rather than become a mediocre politician. She felt she could do more for social justice and environmental protection through her writing.’

‘When was the last time you saw Frau Blüm?’ asked Werner.

‘I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago. The fourth, I think.’

‘How was she? Did she mention anything unusual?’

‘No. No, I don’t think so. She was quite upbeat, really. She planned to intercept the arrival of that Nazi asshole Wolfgang Eitel later that afternoon.’

‘The father of Norbert Eitel, the publisher?’

‘And ex-SS officer and leader of the so-called Bund Deutschland-für-Deutsche.’

‘What was Frau Blüm’s interest in him?’

She crossed her long legs with a whisper of linen. ‘She wasn’t specific. As you’ve probably already gathered, Angelika kept the details of her investigations secret until she was ready to go to press or transmission. She was trying to get me interested in doing a radio documentary with her. All she would tell me at this stage was that she had some dirt on Eitel that would ruin his credibility with his supporters. She did say that it involved property speculation.’

‘Was there any suggestion of her investigation placing her in danger?’

Frau Kessler’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t think it occurred to her. It didn’t occur to me, either. You don’t suspect Eitel’s lot, do you?’

‘Not specifically. Was there anything else she was working on?’

‘I know she was doing something on BATT
101
. But I don’t think that it was a major project.’

Fabel frowned. Before and during the Second World War, Police Reserve Battalion 101 had been drawn from ordinary, mainly middle-aged and working-class men from Hamburg, considered one of the least Nazified cities in Germany. In 1942, these ordinary men of Police Reserve Battalion 101 massacred nearly 2,000 Jews in Otwock, Poland. By the war’s end, BATT
101
had exterminated more than 80,000 Jews and other ‘undesirables’. Fabel remembered the owl-eyed old woman, Frau Steiner, who lived beneath the apartment where Tina Kramer had been murdered. He remembered the old black-and-white photographs of a man wearing the uniform of a Police Reserve Battalion.

‘BATT
101
? It’s hardly current affairs.’

Erika Kessler shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she had another angle on it. She said something about comparisons with Soviet police actions in Afghanistan and Chechnya.’

‘What about relationships?’ asked Fabel. ‘Was Frau Blüm involved with anyone?’

There was a pulse beat of a hesitation. ‘No … I don’t think there was anyone special recently. She was involved with another journalist for a while. Paul Thorsten.’ Fabel noted the name. ‘But they broke up about a year ago. I don’t think there’s been a significant relationship since then.’