JF04 - The Carnival Master (14 page)

Fabel drove without the radio or the CD-player on, frowning through the rain at the grey ribbon of the A28. He needed the thinking time. He had decided to spend the journey imagining two futures for himself: the one that Bartz had offered, where Fabel’s expensive tastes could more easily be met and where he would be free from a world of horror and violence; but the other offer, made by van Heiden and the BKA, was a lot more attractive than he liked to admit. It was flattering, no matter how much he tried to deny it, to be considered the leading expert in his professional field. Fabel tried hard to view
each future objectively. As he did so, he fought to keep something else from his mind: the Cologne file. A distraction he didn’t need. But it kept creeping back into his thoughts.

Fabel got a shock when he realised that he had no recollection of the last half-hour of driving, as if he had been on some kind of autopilot while his mind had wandered over his future, his relationship with Susanne, and a faceless killer in a city he hardly knew. Suddenly he realised that Norden had taken a monochrome form around him. He continued along Norddeicher Strasse towards the North Sea and his mother’s home.

Maria Klee walked by the restaurant again. She had done so a dozen times over the last two days, wearing something different each time. She had even donned scruffy jeans and a sweatshirt, tucking her blonde hair into the knitted cap that she had bought at Karstadt. She had learned her lesson. If this restaurant was under any kind of federal surveillance, then the frequency of her passing by it would not be noticed.

The owners of the Biarritz were not Ukrainians, but the restaurant had been one on a twenty-page list of German businesses included in the BKA file that were suspected of using Ukrainians trafficked by Vitrenko’s outfit. Maria felt at a disadvantage. In Hamburg – Hanover, even – she knew the lie of the land. But here she was hunting across an unknown landscape. She felt exposed. She was after dangerous quarry and she could just as easily find herself becoming the hunted and not the hunter.
She had found a way to get to the back door of the Biarritz: a circuitous route of lanes and alleys. She knew that the Ukrainian boy did the most menial tasks and that in a restaurant kitchen there is always trash to be taken out and sorted. She watched the rear of the restaurant from an alley lined with waste and recycling bins. The back of the Biarritz was windowless on the ground floor and the fire door was heavy and sheeted with metal. This security meant that the management had clearly felt that a CCTV system was unnecessary; and that allowed Maria to approach him without the encounter being recorded or even witnessed. If she wanted the Ukrainian to talk, he would have to feel safe. That was if she could get him to talk.

It was cold. Maria had wrapped up well. She had grown to hate the cold, something that had never bothered her before
that
night. As she had lain in the long grass, with Fabel’s face close to hers, she had felt a chill like no other she had ever experienced. She had fought to stay awake and her breathing had been short and shallow. Fabel’s breath had been warm on her cold cheek and Maria had realised that Death is cold. Since then, she had made sure that she never felt cold.

The restaurant’s rear door opened and a skinny man in his early twenties appeared. He was wearing a white T-shirt, along with a stained apron that hung from his waist to his shins. He cast a glance over his shoulder back into the kitchen before lighting a cigarette and leaning against the wall. He looked tired and gaunt and smoked the cigarette with the appreciation of someone snatching a precious and rare private moment. He stood up when he saw Maria approach. He turned to go back into the kitchen.

‘Wait!’ Maria called. She held up her oval bronze Criminal Police disc. ‘Police …’ She was relying on the young Ukrainian not challenging her and asking to see her police identification card, which would, of course, reveal that she was several hundred kilometres outside her jurisdiction. The young man looked startled. Afraid. ‘It’s okay,’ Maria said, with a tired smile. ‘I’m not interested in your status here. I just need to ask a few questions.’

The Ukrainian nodded tersely. Maria took her large black notebook from her coat pocket.

‘You are … ?’ Maria made a show of searching for his name in the notebook, as if she had it recorded somewhere, which she hadn’t.

‘Slavko Dmytruk …’ said the young Ukrainian, seeming eager to cooperate. He still stole a peek back into the kitchen to make sure no one could see them. He stepped out a little from the doorway and pulled the fire door almost closed. He fumbled in his pocket for his ID card and handed it to Maria. It proved he was illegal: the ID card was not German, his photograph was captioned in Cyrillic writing and the yellow trident on a blue field identified the card as Ukrainian.

‘I have not done anything wrong,’ said Slavko; his German was almost impenetrably accented. ‘I want stay in Germany. I good worker.’

‘I didn’t say that you had done anything wrong. I just want to ask you a few questions,’ said Maria.

‘About what?’

‘About how you got here.’

Slavko’s unease shifted into genuine fear. ‘I don’t know what you talk about.’

‘How you got here from Ukraine,’ said Maria in as soothing a tone as she could manage. She could
see that Slavko was becoming more and more agitated. She found herself wishing she had Fabel’s knack of putting people at ease. ‘There’s no need to be alarmed, Slavko. No one will know that it was you I got the information from. I promise. But, if you don’t cooperate, then I will be forced to inform immigration.’ Maria spoke slowly and in simple German, giving him time to take in what she had said. ‘Do you understand, Slavko? I need to know who arranged your transport here, got you the job, somewhere to live …’

‘I don’t know … very dangerous man. Very dangerous people.’ The young Ukrainian glanced back towards the crack in the door.

‘Most of them are, Slavko. But I need to know who got you this job.’

‘I work hard.’ Slavko looked close to tears. ‘I work so hard. I want send money back to family in Ukraine. But I can’t. I work all day and most of night and I have to give half to the man who brought me here. Then he take half of what left for where I sleep. It not fair. Not fair at all.’

Maria noticed Slavko trembling. She began to feel sorry for him. She also began to regret fooling him into believing that she had some official clout. She knew that she was exposing him to danger from which she couldn’t protect him. Or herself.

‘Slavko, all I need is a list of names.
A
name. You know this isn’t right. This isn’t work, this is slavery. These people will have you working for nothing for ever. And you’re one of the lucky ones. Think of the women and children who have been sold into God knows what.’

Slavko gazed at her intently. He seemed to weigh up his options.

‘I was brought here by container lorry. From Lvyv to Hamburg. Then they took us in middle of the night in van. We were dropped at different places in Cologne. I was brought here, to restaurant. It was middle of night and I was told wait here, at the back, until the morning and someone came to open up. Then I have to work for fifteen hours and after they take me to the apartment. Eight of us. Two bedrooms. We take turns sleeping.’

Maria nodded. So there was still a Hamburg connection. Vitrenko’s empire hadn’t withdrawn from the city, just from visibility.

‘Who arranged it all?’

‘There is man back in Lvyv … all I know him as is Pytor. I don’t know names of any of other people who collected us from the container in Hamburg. Except man who drive minibus … we see him every week. His name Viktor. But at the first stop we made here in Cologne, a big black Mercedes was waiting. Man got out and gave orders to minibus driver. He was tough-looking man. Like a soldier.’

Maria scrabbled in her bag for one of the scaled-down copies of Vitrenko’s photograph.

‘This man … could this man be the soldier?’

Slavko shook his head. ‘No, soldier-type much younger. Thirty. Thirty-five, maybe.’

‘Ukrainian?’

‘Yes. I hear him speaking. Not what he say, but I hear it was Ukrainian.’

At that moment a tall, slim African came out with a pail of scraps, which he put into one of the bins. On his way back in he looked suspiciously at Maria.

‘Boss is looking for you,’ the African said to Slavko.

‘I come right now …’ Slavko was clearly concerned at having been seen talking to Maria. ‘I have to go.’

‘Then I’ll have to come back,’ she said.

‘I told you everything. I don’t know no more.’

‘I can’t believe that. Who takes the money from you for your accommodation?’

Slavko looked confused.

‘Your apartment,’ said Maria. She really did feel sorry for him. But she needed a lead. ‘The man who brought you here in the minibus. Viktor. You said he takes your money.’

‘Oh … him.’ Again Slavko looked anxious. ‘If you talk to him, then they know it me who talk.’

‘I’m not interested in him. It’s his bosses I’m after. He won’t even know I’m onto him.’

‘All I know is his name Viktor. I don’t know last name.’

‘When do you see him? How often?’

‘Friday is when we get paid. Most of us work until late Friday nights and sleep on Saturday because we work again Saturday nights. Viktor comes to collect money Saturday and Sunday. Around lunchtime. Some people working Saturday lunchtime so he makes second call Sunday.’ Slavko shook his head despondently. ‘He leave us nothing. Says we have to pay back all expenses in getting us here. Viktor bad man. Everybody frightened of Viktor.’

‘Do you think Viktor is an ex-soldier, like the other man?’

‘He don’t look like soldier to me. Gangster. One day one of the men in the apartment say it not right Viktor take everything. Viktor hit him with heavy piece of wood. Beat him bad. Next day the man gone. Viktor say he send him back to Ukraine and keep his money.’ The memory of the event seemed
to disturb Slavko further; he stole another glance back at the door the African had left wider open. ‘I go now. I don’t know nothing else.’

‘The address …’ Maria ordered. ‘Give me the address of your apartment.’ Seeing Slavko’s alarm she held her hands up in a placatory gesture. ‘Don’t worry, no one will know anything. I’m not going to visit your apartment or send other police or the immigration people. I just want to see what Viktor looks like. That’s all. You’ve got to trust me, Slavko.’

Again Slavko hesitated, then gave Maria an address in the Chorweiler part of the city. She tried to remember where it was from the maps of Cologne she had sought to memorise.

Slavko went back into the kitchen. Two other Slavic types looked up from their work and eyed Maria suspiciously through the open door. As she walked away, Maria could still see the fear in Slavko’s eyes; his timidity and his hungry gaunt look. Most of all she thought about how she had given him assurances; how she had told him to trust her. Just like she had told Nadja, the young prostitute in Hamburg, to trust her. Just before Nadja disappeared.

Buslenko had arranged for the team to assemble at the hunting lodge on the Monday afternoon. He himself had arrived in Korostyshev two days early. Buslenko had been born in Korostyshev and, since it was a hundred and ten kilometres west of the capital, it was far enough away from Kiev for him to feel reasonably satisfied that he could carry out a secure pre-mission briefing. The city lay under a blanket of thick crisp snow as if the buildings were dust-sheeted furniture waiting for summer visitors. The sane inhabitants of the city were indoors or traversed Chervona Plosha with definite purpose: dark bustling smudges over the Plaza’s white expanse. But Buslenko did manage to find a
pirog
vendor who had been enterprising or mad enough to set up his paraffin-heated stall for the occasional passer-by.
Pirog
was bread baked with meat inside, and Korostyshev
pirog
was famous throughout Ukraine.

Buslenko wandered down between the naked chestnut trees to the War Memorial. Behind the obelisk stood a row of sculpted granite commemorative stones, each carved with the face of the officer
whom it honoured. He had come here as a child and his father had explained that these were the men who had died saving Ukraine from the Germans. Fourteen thousand had lost their lives defending the city. The young Taras Buslenko had been hypnotised by the remarkably detailed faces, by the concept of being a defender of Ukraine, just like Cossack Mamay. He had been much older when his father had gone on to explain that many more had also died in Korostyshev in nineteen-nineteen, unsuccessfully defending Ukraine against the Bolsheviks. There were no memorials for them.

Buslenko sat on a bench and contemplated his
pirog
for a moment before taking a deep bite into childhood memories. He dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief.

‘You’re late,’ he said, as if talking to the graven likeness of the long-dead Red Army lieutenant facing him.

‘Impressive …’ The voice came from behind Buslenko.

‘Not really.’ Buslenko took another bite. The meat inside was hot and warmed him all the way down. ‘I could hear you coming across the snow from twenty metres away. You stick with your job pushing paper round and snooping on adulterous politicians and I’ll stick with mine.’

‘Killing people?’

‘Defending Ukraine,’ said Buslenko, his mouth full. He nodded to the memorial sculptures. ‘Like them. What did you get, Sasha?’

Sasha Andruzky, a thin young man in a heavy woollen coat and with a fur hat pulled over his ears, sat down next to Buslenko and hugged himself against the cold.

‘Not much. I think it’s genuine. From what you told me there will be absolutely no official sanction for what you’ve been asked to do. But unofficially I think that taking out Vitrenko is a government obsession.’

‘Malarek?’

‘As far as I can see, our friend the Deputy Interior Minister is clean. If he has another agenda, then it’s pretty well hidden. But, of course, that’s exactly what you’d expect if he were involved with Vitrenko. But I don’t follow your logic … Why would Malarek send you on a black mission to assassinate Vitrenko if he’s on Vitrenko’s payroll? It doesn’t make sense.’