JF01 - Blood Eagle (47 page)

‘If you tell me it’s the truth, Herr Volker,’ said Fabel.

Volker put all the photographs and papers back in the file and pushed it across the table. ‘The unedited, unexpurgated version. Make sure you don’t lose it.’

An e-mail had arrived from the FBI, addressed to Werner, when Fabel and Maria returned to the Mordkommission. Maria printed it out and brought it through to Fabel’s office.

‘Listen to this …’ She sat down across the desk from Fabel. ‘John Sturchak – the Eitels’ American business associate?’

Fabel nodded.

Maria scanned through the document as she briefed Fabel. ‘The FBI are
very
interested in any information we might have on John Sturchak or deals he’s involved in. Apparently, Sturchak is the son of Roman Sturchak, who was an officer in the SS Galicia Division at the same time as Wolfgang Eitel. Sturchak was one of the Ukrainians who fought their way back to Austria to surrender to the Americans at the end of the war. If the Red Army had got him he would have been shot. Roman was allowed to emigrate to the US and set up an importing business there. It would appear that this latest enterprise may not be the first collaboration between the Eitel and Sturchak families. The Sturchak business is based in New York and, according to the FBI, Roman Sturchak was suspected of having organised-crime links, but has never been indicted for any offence. John Sturchak took over the Sturchak business empire when his father died in 1992. When the Wall came down there was a flood of Ukrainian immigrants, legal and illegal, to the US. According to this information, John Sturchak is suspected of helping some in without the burden of a valid passport or visa. The
Amis
now have a real problem with the Odessa Mafia, which is based at Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, New York.’ Maria looked up from the document. ‘I’ve heard about them before – mostly Ukrainian and Russian. They make the Italian Mafia look tame by comparison.’ Maria returned to scanning the document. ‘John Sturchak is suspected of close involvement with Russian and Ukrainian organised-crime groups.’

Fabel smiled broadly. ‘So that’s the connection Wolfgang Eitel, upholder of law and order, cannot allow to be exposed. That he does business with the Ukrainian Mafia.’

Maria continued to read through the document. ‘Shit. Listen to this. One of the reasons the FBI has been unable to pin anything on Sturchak is the way the Odessa Mafia operates. It’s totally different from the Italian Mafia. It’s organised into cells headed up by a
Pakhan
or boss. Each cell is made up of four groups who operate separately. No one has direct contact with the
Pakhan
who instead controls them through a so-called “brigadier”. Added to that, they have a habit of recruiting teams of “freelancers” who may not even be of Russian or Ukrainian origin and who do one job, get paid, and have no idea who it was they were really working for. So the chance of the FBI ever working their way up to Sturchak is practically zero.’

‘And that’s why they’re so keen to hear if we have any kind of direct link to criminal activity here?’

‘Exactly. But there’s more. Apparently the Russian and Ukrainian Mafias don’t do much narcotics business. They’re into financial and high-tech scams. But their main activity is illegal financial transfers, setting up phoney import-export businesses to launder the proceeds of their organised criminal activity in Russia and Ukraine to and from the US, usually via European banks or investing it in property deals.’

‘Like the ones here in Hamburg.’ Fabel allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction. The pieces were coming together in one small corner of the puzzle. It might only be the Eitels, but at least there was a chance that someone was going to be nailed for their part in all of this mayhem. He stood up suddenly and decisively, snapping up the account-tracking sheet and the key that went with it. ‘Let’s go talk to our colleagues in Financial and Corporate.’

Saturday 21 June, 1.30 p.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg
.

Markmann looked the part: more accountant than policeman. He was a small, neat man whose otherwise immaculate blue suit seemed to seek more substantial shoulders on which to hang. He shook Fabel’s hand with an overstated firmness.

‘I’ve had a look through the account details you supplied, Herr Fabel,’ Markmann spoke with a faint lisp. ‘They certainly raise enough questions to allow us to secure a warrant for seizure of files from each of the principal companies and individuals involved. However, I don’t think we can hold either Eitel for much longer without at least beginning to discuss a specific charge. They’re beginning to pile on the pressure – or rather, their team of expensive lawyers are beginning to justify their hourly rate. Unless you’ve got something …’

Fabel smiled. ‘Only suspicion … and bluff. Let’s at least see if I can ruffle their feathers a bit. We’ll take Eitel senior first.’

The scene was what one would expect in an interview room. Four men, two on either side of the interview table. One man was standing, his arms locked and leaning on the table, looking down at his opposite number who, in turn, was defiantly trying to look uncowed by the baiting of the other. But there was something wrong with this picture. It was the police team who sat in the shadow of Wolfgang Eitel. Fabel could see that throughout the interview, the psychological balance had been slowly, skilfully and decisively tipped in Eitel’s favour. Fabel realised he had to give the scales a swift kick.

‘Sit down!’ Fabel said as he entered the room.

Eitel straightened himself up to his full and considerable height and regarded Fabel down his aquiline nose.

‘Never mind the aristocratic posturing, Eitel.’ Fabel’s voice was laced with contempt. ‘We all know you’re the son of a Bavarian peasant farmer. Turning your nose up at people is easy when you’ve spent half your childhood knee-deep in pig shit. Now sit down!’

Fabel was surprised to see that Eitel’s counsel was Waalkes, the Eitel Group head of legal affairs, whose area of expertise was presumably more commercial than criminal. The lawyer was incandescent and shot to his feet.

‘You can’t … you simply cannot …’ His words tripped over each other in a rush of outrage. ‘This is intolerable. I will not have you talk to my client in that manner. It’s abusive …’

Eitel smiled knowingly and indicated to Waalkes to sit down, which he did. It was like watching a shepherd silently control his dog. ‘It’s all right, Wilfried. I think Herr Fabel is deliberately trying to upset us.’ With that, Eitel retook his seat. Markmann nodded for the two interrogating officers to leave, and he and Fabel took their places.

‘A change of team, I see,’ said Eitel. ‘I now warrant a more senior level of interrogator.’

‘Which, Herr Fabel,’ said Waalkes, ‘would suggest that you are becoming increasingly desperate to find some grounds to continue harassing my client.’ Another hand gesture from Eitel silenced Waalkes once more.

‘I do not intimidate easily,’ said Eitel, again tilting his head back and making the most of his superior height, even when seated. ‘At the end of the war they all tried their little techniques. The Americans were crude and obvious: they also made much use of insult and threat. The British were altogether more subtle and professional: unfailingly polite but unremitting and relentless. They made you feel respected, even admired, while they tried to get you to give them enough to hang you. As you can see, Fabel, neither succeeded.’

Fabel did not appear to have heard anything Eitel had said. He picked up the phone and dialled Maria’s extension number. When she answered, he asked for the FBI and other files to be brought down to the interview room. He then sat in silence. Waalkes opened his mouth to protest.

‘Shut up,’ said Fabel, quietly and without anger.

‘That’s it.’ Waalkes said and stood up again. ‘We’re leaving.’

‘Sit down!’ Eitel barked. ‘Don’t you see that Herr Fabel is trying to provoke some kind of incident?’

By the time Maria arrived with the files, the atmosphere in the quiet interview room was electric.

‘Maria,’ said Fabel cheerfully, ‘why don’t you sit in on this too?’

Maria pulled a chair over from the wall by the door and placed it at the end of the interview table. It was an invasion of neutral territory that made Waalkes tut and edge his chair sideways slightly, towards Eitel. Fabel could see that Waalkes’ relinquishment of a centimetre of territory infuriated his client.

‘Can we begin now?’ said Waalkes. ‘Or do you want to invite the rest of your department?’

Fabel ignored him. He took the file from Maria, opened it, and spoke without looking up. ‘Herr Eitel … you deal with what our American friends call the Odessa Mafia, don’t you?’

Waalkes moved to speak. Another hand movement from Eitel.

‘I have no contacts whatsoever with any type of Mafia, Herr Fabel.’ His voice was quiet and calm, but heavy with menace. ‘And I suggest that you be a little more careful in your accusations.’

‘You deal with John Sturchak?’

‘I do indeed, as I did with his father, and I am proud to do so.’

Fabel looked up from the file. ‘But Sturchak is some kind of godfather … a sort of chief …’ He made a show of struggling for the word.

‘
Pakhan
,’ Maria said, her eyes not moving from Eitel.

‘Yes … some sort of top
Pakhan
. Isn’t that so? Someone who deals in fraud, cloning cell phones, prostitution and drugs …’

Eitel’s eyes hardened and there were now icicles in his voice. ‘That is a slur. That is an unjustified, uncorroborated, unsubstantiated and slanderous slur on a respected businessman.’

Fabel smiled. He was now where he wanted to be: under Eitel’s skin. ‘Oh come on now. John Sturchak is just another Ruskie crook, just like his father.’

Fire flushed up through Eitel’s cheeks, all the way to the temples. ‘Roman Sturchak was a brave soldier and a military genius. And, might I add, a true Ukrainian patriot. I will not listen to someone …’ Eitel sneered: the kind of face someone has when holding something noxious and malodorous from their body – ‘someone like
you
malign his memory.’

Fabel shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could muster. ‘Oh come off it. Roman Sturchak was a mercenary for the Nazis. He killed his own countrymen at the behest of a bunch of gangsters in Berlin.’

It was as if Eitel were clinging onto a rope, furiously trying to rein in his rising fury. ‘Roman Sturchak fought for his country. All he cared about was liberating the Ukraine from Stalin and his henchmen. He was a freedom fighter and a better man than you could ever dream of being.’

‘Really? How do you measure that quality? By the number of his own countrymen he murdered? Or by the amount of dirty money he accumulated in the States through theft and corruption? No, you’re right … I don’t think I would ever aspire to be a Roman Sturchak.’

Eitel started to rise from his seat. It was at this point that Waalkes started to earn his money. ‘Herr Fabel, you are doing nothing here but antagonising my client. I will not put up with this crude baiting one second more. Unless you have any specific questions that relate to any financial impropriety, this interview is at an end.’

‘I believe your client is laundering money for the Russian and Ukrainian Mafia, probably through phoney companies set up with John Sturchak.’ As Fabel spoke, he felt Markmann tense beside him. Fabel knew he was showing his hand. And it was not a winning hand. ‘But there are other, even more serious offences we need to discuss.’

‘Such as?’ Eitel had regained his composure. Fabel could see that he was realising just how much of a game of bluff this all was.

‘We will return to that soon. In the meantime I’m going to leave you in Herr Markmann’s capable hands.’ Fabel rose and Maria followed suit. ‘I will be back shortly, and you will remain here until I do.’

On the way out Fabel nodded to the two Financial and Corporate Crime detectives who rejoined Markmann in the interview room.

‘We’re clutching at straws,
Chef
,’ said Maria.

‘You’re right,’ Fabel said grimly. ‘Let’s try Eitel number two.’

This time, when Fabel stepped into the interview room, he did so without speaking, taking a place leaning against the rear wall. Maria stood next to him. The intention was to signal that he was an observer and not a participant in the interview, but also to disquieten Norbert Eitel. After all, why would a murder-squad officer be interested in a fraud inquiry?

Another lawyer and another expensive suit sat next to Norbert Eitel. The two Corporate Crime Kommissars were going through a copy of the transaction sheet. After about ten minutes, Fabel moved over to one of the officers and whispered in his ear. The policeman nodded and they swapped positions with Fabel and Maria.

‘Thanks guys …’ said Fabel. ‘This won’t take long.’

Norbert made an expression of patient indulgence as Fabel once again asked about the connection with the Sturchaks. This time, however, Fabel failed to ignite anything other than an irritated impatience in Norbert.

‘This is getting nowhere,’ said Norbert’s counsel. And Fabel couldn’t help but agree. He had absolutely nothing on either father or son that could lever out information about Vitrenko. Fabel got to his feet and nodded to the two fraud officers that they could resume their questioning. It was at that point that Norbert Eitel smelled victory. He dropped his disinterested tone and stood up, his face contorted with a mixture of hatred and contempt. He jabbed Fabel in the chest with the index finger of his left hand.