JF03 - Eternal (39 page)

‘I remember my instinct telling me to get to water. I reckoned that if I got to the Alster or the Elbe – the Alster was nearer – then I would have a better chance of survival.’

Dorfmann looked lost in thought for a moment.

‘I wonder if that’s what Karl was trying to do. You said on the phone that you found him down by the harbour. Maybe he had the idea to get down to the Elbe. By the time I got to the Alster it was already full of people. Dead or dying. More human candles. They had thrown themselves in to try to put the flames out, but they’d been splashed with phosphorus and were still burning as they floated on the water.’

Fabel placed the Nazi identity card and the photograph of the mummified body on the coffee table. Heinz Dorfmann put on his reading glasses again. ‘That’s Karl …’ He frowned when he examined the photograph of the body. ‘This is what he looks like now?’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘It’s amazing. Obviously he is all thin … dried out. But I would have recognised Karl straight away.’

‘Do you know what happened to his sister Margot? Do you have any idea where she lives – if, indeed, she’s still alive? I’m trying to locate any next of kin.’

‘Not that much, I’m afraid. She married an older man after the war was over. His name was Pohle. Gerhard Pohle.’

Fabel walked back to his car. It had been raining while he had been in Herr Dorfmann’s apartment and the rain after such a warm day had lent the evening air a freshly washed scent. Fabel looked down at the pavement as he walked, at the damp-darkened asphalt, and he thought back to the description that Herr Dorfmann had given of that hot, dry night when Hamburg had become a burning hell on earth. He could not imagine it. His Hamburg.

He reached his car, unlocked it with the key-fob remote, climbed in and closed the door. He rested his hands on the steering wheel for a moment. History. He had studied it; he had wanted to teach it. The irony was that in investigating these cases, he was becoming smothered by it.

He put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing.

‘
Shit!
’ Fabel said in English. Fabel was a man of broad wisdom: his knowledge extended over a variety of subjects and he always enjoyed learning something new, stretching the boundaries of his understanding of the world. But that knowledge did not and never had extended to car mechanics. He bad-temperedly fumbled in his pocket to find his cellphone. He had just retrieved it when it preempted him by ringing. He snapped it open.

‘Hello …’ He failed to keep the irritation from his voice.

‘Hello, Herr Fabel …’

Fabel knew it was the killer. The caller had again used some kind of electronic filter that altered his or her voice. It came across the connection as unnaturally deep and slow, distorted, artificial. Inhuman. ‘I am so glad you did not remove your key from the ignition; otherwise we would not be having this conversation.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fabel’s mouth suddenly went dry. He knew what the caller meant. A bomb. He leaned forward and searched the car’s floor at his feet; checked under the steering column for wires. ‘Who is this?’

‘We can talk about that in a minute, Herr Fabel. But, for now, I need you to know that I have planted an unnecessarily large explosive device in your car. If you open the door for a second time, the device will detonate; if you remove the key from the ignition, the device will detonate; or if you take your weight off the driver’s seat … well, I think you get the picture. I’m afraid the consequence of any of these actions would be a disproportionately large explosion. It would result not just in your demise, Herr Fabel, but in the deaths of several residents of
Hammerbrook, as well as widespread damage to property throughout the area. Oh, I should also tell you that I can, at any time of my choosing, also detonate the device remotely.’

‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘You’ve got my attention.’ He could feel his heart pound in his chest. He looked out through his windshield at a pleasant summer’s evening, at the rain-washed street and the red that the low sun had splashed on the west-facing walls of the buildings. At people going about their business. Fabel felt so alone in the centre of his own universe, the only one aware that death and destruction were only a breath away. Suddenly, the images that Herr Dorfmann had conjured in Fabel’s mind earlier returned with a renewed clarity. A young couple with a toddler in a pushchair strolled past Fabel’s BMW, walking with no apparent purpose other than to enjoy the summer evening. Fabel wanted to wind down his window and scream at them to run and take cover but, for all he knew, the windows too were booby-trapped. He watched them take what seemed like an eternity to pass the car.

‘I’m sure I do have your attention, Herr Fabel.’ The electronically distorted voice had been stripped of any subtlety of intonation. ‘And I expect to have the attention of a great many other Polizei Hamburg officers, including the bomb squad, for a few hours to come. You see, it suits me better to leave you alive, because it will take an age for your people to extricate you from this situation. Added to which is the time your forensics people will have to spend on site. But don’t be in any doubt that if you try anything inadvisable, I will detonate the device. The effect will still be the same.’

Fabel’s mind raced. For all he knew, the person
on the phone could be watching him from a safe distance. He scanned both sides of the street and checked the rear-view mirror, doing his best to keep his backside firmly planted on the seat.

‘So all of a sudden you’re an explosives expert?’ Fabel’s voice was thick with contempt. ‘You expect me to believe that you have the capability to plant a bomb in my car, in a public street, while I was away from it for forty-five minutes? I thought taking scalps was the name of your game,
Winnetou
.’

‘Very amusing.’ The low, distorted voice laughed and it sounded like something from a nightmare. ‘
Winnetou
… But don’t pretend you don’t understand my cultural references, Herr Fabel. I am no Red Indian, no character out of a Karl May novel. You know that the tradition I revive is very ancient and very European in its origin. And, in any case, please feel free to test my skills as a bomb designer … or hoaxer. All you have to do is step out of your car. If I’m lying, nothing will happen. On the other hand … As for the device … it has been attached to your vehicle for some time. I have merely activated it remotely. Oh, by the way, did you like the little gift I left you in your apartment?’

‘You sick bastard …’ Fabel hissed into the phone. ‘I’m going to get you. I swear to you that I will find you, no matter how long it takes.’

‘You know, Herr Fabel, you are remarkably aggressive for a man who is currently sitting on a large quantity of high explosives. If I were to hit the right button, you would be incapable of
getting
anyone. Ever. So why don’t you simply shut up and listen to what I have to say?’

Fabel said nothing. He felt a film of sweat between his ear and his cellphone. His heart still pounded
and he felt sick. He believed the inhuman voice in his ear. He believed in the bomb beneath him.

‘Good,’ said the voice. ‘Now we can talk. First of all, you may be wondering why I have gone to such lengths to place you in peril. And, for that matter, why I have not detonated the bomb before now. Well, it’s simple. As I said, extricating you from this particular predicament will take time. And while it is all going on I shall be taking another scalp. It’s an interesting predicament for you, Herr Fabel. You will have to decide how many resources are devoted to rescuing you and how many to stopping me ending another life.’

‘We have more resources than you can tie up,’ said Fabel in a flat, dead voice.

‘That’s as may be, but I have to tell you that you are sitting on only one of a pair of bombs. The other is at a location which I shall not disclose at the moment. But I have printed a note with the address and all the details.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s the thing. I have attached the address to the explosive in the bomb in your car. So, even if the bomb squad find a way of disabling the pressure switch under your seat or in the door, they cannot carry out a controlled explosion. If they do, they destroy the only clue to the location of the second bomb. And the second bomb
will
be detonated, trust me, Herr Fabel.’

‘When? What time is the second bomb set to go off?’

‘I said nothing about it being on a timer, Herr Fabel.’

‘So now you’re a terrorist? What is this all about?’

‘You are not a stupid man, Herr Fabel. This has
always been about
terrorism
, as you call it. It’s also about betrayal. Which brings me to my main point. I want you to resign from this case. Take a holiday. A break. I have given you an excuse. The stress of this current ordeal. You see, Herr Fabel, I am now going to volunteer more information about this case than you have been able to gather yourself. The people I am killing deserve to die. They are murderers themselves. And when I have finished I shall never kill again. There are not many left, Fabel. Only another two. After they are dead, I shall disappear and never kill again. And, as I said, all of my victims are guilty. In fact, you yourself would consider them guilty of crimes against the state.’

‘Hauser? Griebel? Scheibe? Are you telling me they were terrorists?’

‘You heard what I said.’ The electronically deadened voice spoke without passion. ‘But mark this well, Herr Fabel, it is your decision. You can choose to withdraw from the case and allow me to finish what I have started, or I will add other victims to my list. Very specific victims. No one need know about this aspect of our conversation. You can choose to walk away and live your life, and to allow others to live theirs. At the end of the day, the people I have to execute are nothing to you. But others, Fabel … Other people who do not deserve to die may die, depending on the choice you make. I am going to hang up now. I suggest you contact your colleagues in the bomb squad without delay. But, before I go, I’m going to send you a few photographs on your cellphone. By the way … such beautiful hair. A wonderful shade of auburn. Almost red.’

The line went dead. The phone trilled and the screen told Fabel that he had received a message
with images. He opened the message and his gut gave a sudden, intense lurch.

‘You bastard …’ Fabel felt tears sting his eyes as he scrolled through the images.

He looked through them again. Photographs of a girl with long auburn hair. Photographs of her on her way home from school; of her with her friends; of her shopping in the stores on Neuer Wall with her father.

The entire street had been turned into a stage set. Fabel sat squinting against the dazzle of the arc lights, mounted on high stands, that had been set up around his car. The area had been completely evacuated and Fabel found himself worrying about what they had said to Herr Dorfmann as they ushered him from his home: anything but that there was a bomb in his street.

The first person to talk to Fabel was the commander from the LKA7 bomb squad, who approached the car alone. The commander spoke in an even tone, but loudly so that Fabel could hear him through the glass of the still-closed side window, and asked him to remember absolutely everything the caller had told him about the device, as well as anything he had said that might give them a clue as to where the second bomb was hidden. Fabel’s mouth was dry and he had felt sick, but he tried to stay composed and focused as he went through every detail.

The bomb-squad commander listened, nodded, took notes and all the time spoke in a steady voice of practised calm, which only served to make Fabel
more anxious about his situation. Nor did the appearance of the bomb-squad boss do much to put Fabel’s mind at ease: he had appeared beside Fabel’s car wearing a wide apron of thick Kevlar, divided into articulated segments, over his black overalls, his head encased in a heavy helmet and his face shielded by a thick perspex visor. The specialist eased himself down and lay on his side beside the car, extending a telescopic black pole with a mirror at its end and slowly and carefully sliding it beneath the car.

After a moment, he re-emerged at Fabel’s window, grunting with the effort of straightening himself. ‘Okay …’ He smiled grimly. ‘I’m afraid it’s no hoax – or not as far as I can see. Unless it’s a very convincing-looking dummy, we would appear to have a very substantial amount of high explosive strapped to the underside of your car. We will get you out of this, Herr Chief Commissar. I can promise you that. But you’re going to have to sit tight for a while.’

Fabel smiled weakly, leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He felt impotent and helpless. Fabel knew that he was almost obsessive about being in control and minimising the random element. But now he was in a situation over which he had absolutely no control. He tried not to think about the explosives beneath him, about the fact that his life lay as much in the hands of the specialists who would defuse the bomb as it would if they were surgeons and he lay on an operating table. All he could do was sit there, without moving, and wait to be liberated.

At least it bought him time to think.

He knew that his team would be somewhere on
the perimeter of the evacuated area, waiting. When he had phoned in to the Presidium, he had spoken first to the bomb squad and then had asked for the Murder Commission. But the bomb squad had told Fabel not to make any more calls on his cellphone and to switch it off as soon as he hung up. Fabel could have left some kind of message, but he had decided not to. He still didn’t know what he was going to tell his colleagues. Seeing the photographs of Gabi had spooked him badly.

This guy had obviously been tailing Fabel. Stalking him. That would explain, perhaps, how he had found out about Leonard Schüler: the arrogant son of a bitch must have somehow been tracking every move that the Murder Commission team made. Maybe he had even followed Schüler home from the Presidium. No. That did not fit. How could he have known about Schüler? The young thief had been brought in by a uniform unit. Schüler had only ever been seen by the murder team while inside the Presidium building. An idea started to form in Fabel’s brain: Leonard Schüler had not been fully honest about what he saw; about all he knew about the killer. Why had Schüler held back? Had he been involved in the killings after all? Had he been in this together with the voice on the phone? Maybe Fabel’s radar had been faulty on this one.