A Most Wanted Man (13 page)
Mosque attendance:
Subject reportedly came under the influence of the Sunni imam at the Abu Bakr Mosque in the Viereckstrasse. After the imam’s deportation to Syria, and closure of mosque in December 2006, no known further adherence to radical Islamic beliefs.
“They go under,” Mohr explained, as Bachmann set aside the report and made to take up the next one.
“Under what?” Bachmann replied, genuinely mystified.
“Like the communists used to. They get the indoctrination at a cadre meeting, they become fanatics. Then they go under, and pretend they’re not fanatic anymore. They are
sleepers,
” he said, as if he had invented the term all alone. “That sports club—we have it from a top reliable informant who has infiltrated himself as a member and supplies us with first-class material, no exaggerations—that sports club where this Oktay is so admired, in my informant’s opinion, it is a
cover organization.
They box and wrestle and train and get fit and talk about girls. And maybe they don’t compromise themselves with fanatical statements when they are in large groups because they always know we will be listening. But in secret—in twos and threes—over coffee together and at the Oktays’ house—they are Islamists. Militants. And now and then—we have this from the same excellent informant—this or that member of the group—a
selected
one—slips away. And where has he gone? To Afghanistan! To Pakistan! To the madrassas. To the training camps! And when he comes back—he’s trained. Trained, but a
sleeper.
Read the rest, Frau Frey. Don’t judge prematurely until you’ve read the rest, please. We must remain objective. We must not be prejudiced.”
“I thought we agreed this was my case, Arni,” Bachmann said.
“It is, Günther! We did! It’s your case! That’s why you’re here, my friend!
Your case
doesn’t mean we have to blind ourselves and put our hands over our ears. We watch, we listen—but we don’t disturb your case, okay? We run parallel to you. We don’t cross your lines, you don’t cross ours. We pool what we know. This Melik Oktay will soon be going to Turkey for a
wedding
—theoretically. With the mother too, naturally. And of course we checked. Such a wedding will take place. His sister’s. No question. But
after
the wedding—or before—where will he vanish to? Maybe only for a few days, but he goes. And the mother, what does she do? Find more boys that she can bring together, maybe. All right. I agree. It’s circumstantial. It’s hypothetical. But we are paid to think hypothetically. So we do. Hypothetically and objectively. No prejudices.”
REPORT NUMBER THREE
Operation
FELIX
. Report of the Hamburg Street Surveillance Team of the Office for the Protection of the Constitution.
Bachmann had passed through his anger threshold and entered a state of operational calm. Whether he liked it or not, this was information. It had been obtained in defiance of their agreement, and sprung on him too late for him to do anything about it. Well, in his time he’d done that to a few people himself. There was substance here, and he wanted it.
Possible retrospective sighting date: seventeen days ago:
A man answering
FELIX
’s description was observed loitering outside Hamburg’s largest mosque. Security video images unclear. Subject inspecting worshipers entering and leaving mosque. Subject elects middle-aged couple as they walk towards their car, follows them at ten-meter distance. When asked in Farsi what he wants, subject turns and flees. Couple has since identified
FELIX
from wanted photograph.
Agent’s note:
Wrong mosque? Mosque is Shiite. Is
FELIX
Sunni?
Desk officer’s note:
Sources report similar figure lurking outside two other mosques, both Sunni, later in day. Sources unable to identify
FELIX
positively.
“Who the hell’s the boy looking for?” Bachmann muttered aloud, to Erna Frey, who by now was a good couple of pages ahead of him. No answer.
REPORT NUMBER THREE (CONTINUED)
:
Melik Oktay
is temporarily employed in his cousin’s wholesale greengrocery business. He also works part-time at the candle factory of his uncle. Discreet inquiries under a pretext reveal that for the last two weeks his attendance has been unsatisfactory on the following grounds:
He is ill with a cold.
He needs to train for an upcoming boxing event.
He has an unexpected houseguest whom he must honor.
His mother is in depression.
Leyla Oktay
is reported by neighbors to have displayed excitable behavior over the same period, telling them that Allah has made her a precious gift but refusing to explain what it is. She shops extravagantly but does not allow anyone to enter her house on the grounds that she is nursing a sick relative. Though politically naive, she is described as “deep,” “secretive” and, by one neighbor, as “radical, manipulative and harboring concealed resentments against the West.”
“But now look here what happened,” Mohr urged Bachmann.
Bachmann was still trying to adjust to the situation. Mohr, without so much as a by-your-leave from him, had put a full-scale watch on the Oktays’ house.
Mohr had invited the Hamburg police public relations department to make a so-called goodwill visit on the off chance of getting a sight of the mysterious houseguest. Mohr was an offense against every known tenet of intelligence good housekeeping, but Mohr also had loot from his rampage.
OPERATION FELIX
Report Number Four,
relating to the night of Friday, 18 April.
“At approximately 20.40 hours the subject Melik Oktay left his house at no. 26 Heidering…At 21.10 subject returned, followed at a distance of fifteen meters by a small, fair-headed woman aged approx. twenty-five carrying a large rucksack, contents unknown.”
Of course they bloody well were, thought Bachmann…
“Accompanying her was a large-built man aged between fifty-five and sixty-five, dark-haired, could be ethnic German, could be Turkish or Arab of light skin. While Melik unlocked the front door of his house, the fair-headed woman put on a headscarf in the Muslim manner. Accompanied by the older man, she crossed the street. Both were then admitted to the house by Leyla, mother of Melik, wearing a smart dress.”
“Any pictures?” Bachmann snapped.
“The team weren’t
prepared,
Günther! Why should they be? It was a
windfall
! Two tired women, their second shift, pedestrians, nine o’clock, it’s dark. Nobody told them this was their big night.”
“So no pictures.”
Bachmann read on:
“At five minutes past midnight large-built man emerged alone from no. 26 and proceeded down the street and out of sight.”
“Anyone house him?” Bachmann demanded, glancing ahead at the next page.
“This fellow was a trained operator, Günther, the best!” Mohr explained excitedly. “Used the little alleys, doubled back on his tracks, how do you follow a man like that through empty streets at one in the morning? We had six cars on drive-by. We could have had twenty. He gave us all the slip!” he ended proudly. “Also we did not wish to flush him, you understand. When a man is trained and surveillance-conscious, one must be circumspect. Tactful.”
REPORT NUMBER FOUR (CONTINUED)
:
“02.30. Animated vocal exchange occurring inside no. 26. Leyla Oktay’s voice the most penetrating. Precise words could not be distinguished by our operatives. Languages spoken were Turkish, German and one other, believed Slavonic. Unknown female voice intervening at intervals, possibly translating.”
“They actually
heard
this?” Bachmann asked still reading.
“A fresh team in a van,” Mohr said with satisfaction. “I ordered them in personally. No time to apply directional mikes, but they heard it all.”
“At 4
A.M.
, unknown young female previously described emerged from house wearing headscarf and carrying rucksack. Accompanied by man not previously seen by our agents, description as follows: nearly two meters tall, skullcap and long dark overcoat, early twenties, long-striding, agitated in manner, light-colored bag over shoulder. Front door closed after them by Melik Oktay. Couple disappeared, walking at high speed down small streets.”
“So you lost them,” Bachmann said.
“Only temporarily, Günther! Just for an hour, maybe. But we quickly pieced it together. They did some fast walking, a bit of metro, a taxi, walked again. Typical countersurveillance methods. Like the big fellow before them.”
“What about their phones?”
“Your next page, Günther. All laid out for you. Cell phones on the left, landlines on the right. Melik Oktay to Annabel Richter. Annabel Richter to Melik Oktay. Nine calls in all. Annabel Richter to Thomas Brue. Thomas Brue to Annabel Richter. Three calls in one day. The Friday. At this stage we can only give calls made, no conversations. Maybe retrospectively we can recover some of the conversations. Tomorrow, if Dr. Keller permits, we shall put in a bid with signals intelligence. Everything must proceed legally, that goes without saying. But what was in those bags, tell me? What was in those bags, Frau Frey? What had those two suspect individuals collected from the Oktay safe house, and where were they taking it in the middle of the night, and for what purpose?”
“Richter?” Bachmann asked, glancing up from his reading.
“A lawyer and Russian speaker, Günther. Excellent family. Works for Sanctuary North, a Hamburg foundation. Some of them a bit leftish, but never mind. Do-gooders. Assistance for asylum seekers and illegal immigrants, getting residence for them, helping them with their applications.
Et cetera.
”
It was the
et cetera
that gave the dismissive edge.
“And Brue?”
“Banker. British. Hamburg-based.”
“What sort of banker?”
“Private. For the best people only. Fleet owners. Big tonnage.”
“Anyone got any idea what he was doing there?”
“A total mystery, Günther. Soon maybe we shall be asking him. With Dr. Keller’s approval, naturally. This bank had some problems in
Vienna,
” he added. “A bit of a
dark
character, by the sound of him. Are you ready?”
“For what?”
Holding up an impresario’s index finger for silence, Mohr delved in a briefcase and retrieved a brown envelope. From the envelope he drew a couple of pages of electronic type. Bachmann stole a look at Keller: not a flicker. Erna Frey had closed her folder and was sitting back, tense with anger, glowering at the floor.
“From Russia with Love,”
Mohr announced in creaking English, setting out the pages before him. “Fresh from our translation section this morning. You permit me, Frau Frey?”
“I permit you, Herr Mohr.”
He began reading.
“‘In 2003, an investigation was launched by organs of Russian state security into unprovoked armed attacks by militant bandits on law-enforcement officers in the region of Nalchik, capital of the Russian republic of Kabardino-Balkaria,’” Mohr intoned, in a voice pregnant with significance. He looked up, making sure he had their attention.
“‘The ringleader of the criminal group, which consisted entirely of dissident
jihadists
from neighboring Chechnya, was identified as one Dombitov, director of a local mosque known for propagating
extreme radical views.
Stored in the memory of this Dombitov’s cell phone were the name and telephone number of’”—pause—“‘subject
Felix
’”—huge emphasis—“‘together with the names and numbers of other
criminal members
of the gang. Under interrogation, Dombitov confessed that all names in his cell phone belonged to a militant Salafi group committed to violent acts with the aid of’”—significant pause—“‘explosive devices, homemade, low quality, but highly effective.’”
Erna Frey’s head lifted slightly. “They were tortured,” she explained, in a deliberately matter-of-fact tone. “We spoke to Amnesty. We do not ignore open sources, Herr Mohr. According to Amnesty’s eyewitnesses, they beat them and put electrodes on them. First they tortured Dombitov, then they tortured everybody he’d named, which was everybody who’d attended his mosque. There wasn’t an ounce of real evidence against any of them.”
Mohr was visibly annoyed. “You have read this, Frau Frey?”
“Yes, Herr Mohr.”
“You have cut across my authority and gone directly to my translators, Frau Frey?”
“Our researcher downloaded the Russian police report last night, Herr Mohr.”
“You speak Russian?”
“Yes. Herr Bachmann speaks it also.”
Mohr had recovered himself. “Then you know the record of this Felix.”
The irritable voice of Dr. Keller interposed itself: “Read it, please. Read it now you’ve started.”
As Mohr resumed, Bachmann reached out his foot and put it softly on Erna Frey’s. But she took her own foot away, and he knew there was no restraining her.
“‘The inflammatory opinions and terrorist activities of Felix were confirmed by his accomplices, who described him as
a bad shepherd,
’” Mohr read doggedly. “‘The criminal Felix was accordingly placed in a pretrial detention center for fourteen months while he faced two charges of attacking the local road police station, and a further charge of inciting his fellow Muslims to commit terrorist acts. He confessed his guilt on all charges.’”
“He was forced to,” Erna Frey said, her voice thickening.
“You are suggesting that this is
all
fabrication, Frau Frey?” Mohr demanded. “You are unaware that we have excellent working relations with Russia in the fields of crime and terror?”
Receiving no answer, Mohr continued.
“‘In 2005, equipped with false papers in the name of Nogerov, the criminal Felix was arrested by officers of state security regarding the sabotage of a gas pipeline in the region of Bugulma in the Russian republic of Tatarstan. Swift action by the local organs identified the presence of a group of antisocial dissidents living in squalid conditions in an isolated barn close to the scene of the outrage.’”
