Craig Russell - The Valkyrie Song

‘For Christ’s sake, Jan — we slept together for six months.’

‘This case — it’s… complicated,’ Fabel said awkwardly. ‘There are three women involved: Margarethe Paulus, Liane Kayser, Anke Wollner. All of them were brought up in the old GDR and they were trained as assassins. And all of them were given new identities. Margarethe Paulus is deranged and was the woman behind Drescher’s torture and murder, Liane Kayser has dropped off the radar and is presumably living a normal life under an assumed name and Anke Wollner, we believe, became the Valkyrie. And planted the bomb last night as a warning to Frolov.’

‘I do not bloody believe this!’ Martina’s face flushed red and her eyes glinted hard. ‘So which one do you think I am, Jan? Do you think I went outside and shattered my own eardrum by detonating the bomb at close range? Or do you have me down as the reincarnation of the killer who’s disappeared from sight?’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I just wanted you to tell me what happened last night. If you saw anything unusual. You are a witness, for God’s sake. I have to question you.’

‘We were just about to leave,’ said Martina in a steely tone. ‘When we arrived, I directed Frolov and his entourage away from the windows — I’d phoned the restaurant in advance and told them to reserve a table towards the back. Frolov and his business acquaintances were on to their coffees and brandies. I told Lorenz to stay with Ivan, Frolov’s own security guy, and I went outside for a smoke. The Merc was parked just a little further down the street and I was telling the busboy we would need it out front when he got the message from the maitre d’. Then boom… no more Merc and no more eardrum. I didn’t have my hands in my pockets, by the way, Jan. You can ask the busboy. Just in case you were wondering if I had a remote detonator stashed.’

‘Did you see anyone other than the busboy outside?’ Fabel ignored Martina’s gibe.

‘No. No one within sight to set the bomb off other than the busboy. Oh yes… and, of course, me.’

‘Martina, this isn’t helping. Frankly I don’t give a shit if our protecting a potential murder victim doesn’t fit in with your business plan. All I want to do is to put together some kind of picture of this hit woman. I’m asking you to think like a police officer again. Was there anything you saw or heard that might have been connected with the detonation?’

Martina sighed. ‘No. Not really. Except I don’t think it was the radio transmission between the maitre d’ and the busboy that set the bomb off. Everything else was too professional for the detonator not to be selectively shielded.’

Fabel raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘I did a course,’ explained Martina. ‘But the other thing is that the blast was at the same time as the radio went off, but not exactly. Not simultaneous. So that fits with the bomb being a warning.’

‘That’s where we are with it,’ said Fabel.

‘But it still doesn’t jell with me…’ Martina’s earlier anger seemed to have dissipated. ‘It was all done very professionally, and with great precision, and that fits with this killer. But that’s what she is: a killer. Sending out warnings doesn’t fit.’

‘Mmm… you could be right,’ said Fabel. ‘But like you say, everything else fits.’

‘Maybe she’s extending her service offer.’ Martina smirked. ‘Moving with the times to match the needs of the market.’

‘Could be…’ said Fabel. ‘But if she is, then that’s where we’ll nail her. If she doesn’t stick to what she knows best.’

Fabel was interrupted by Anna Wolff, who came into the office without knocking. She had a copy of Muliebritas in her hand. She tossed it onto Fabel’s desk.

‘Here’s the new edition,’ she said, slamming her hand flat on the magazine. ‘Our ad’s in it.’

‘Yes, Anna — I know,’ said Fabel as if talking to an importunate child.

‘But ours isn’t the only one,’ said Anna. ‘Someone else is trying to communicate with the Valkyrie…’

You surround yourself with things, she thought. With stuff. You surround yourself with things to fill the gaps. At one time it had all seemed so important. To have nice things. Like the coffee table she had had specially imported from Japan. Or the Danish Hans Jorgen Wegner-designed Ox chair that had cost her over six thousand euros. She sat on the sofa and stared at the magazine.

Maybe it was Uncle Georg who had got to her. He had been so… melancholic when they last had met. It had disturbed her. They had all called Georg Drescher ‘Uncle’. With hindsight, like everything else they had done to Anke, Liane and Margarethe, it had been so very carefully calculated. Not quite a father figure. Definitely not a lover. An uncle. An older male to whom they could turn and on whom they could always rely. Their trainers had tapped into adolescent female psychology to position Drescher perfectly in their minds. Socialism didn’t matter. The GDR didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that they would never, ever let their Uncle Georg down.

Then, when the world had shifted on its political axis, socialism disappeared, the GDR was no more. Even Margarethe and Liane, by that time, were no longer there: Margarethe was now so disturbed that she was useless as a potential agent. The only thing they had achieved, Uncle Georg had confided in Anke later, was to turn a seriously disturbed girl into a dangerously disturbed killing machine. And Liane

… well, Liane had been too perfect. Liane had exactly what they had been looking for: a singular ruthlessness and complete disregard for others. But that had also included Uncle Georg, the Stasi, the state. Liane had learned every lesson to perfection and had been deployed in the West before they had realised their mistake. Liane would use the skills they had taught her exclusively to achieve her own ends.

That left only her. Anke. Not that she had called herself that in years. She had been Uncle Georg’s favourite. After the Wall had come down, Drescher had set up his own little enterprise, sending Anke out to kill people she didn’t know on behalf of people she didn’t know. Not for ideology, not for state security, but for cold, hard cash.

And that had suited her fine. Anke had known that Margarethe had been smarter and Liane had been prettier, but Anke had had the sense to recognise a successful partnership. And the partnership with Uncle Georg had worked out just fine. But now there were hints of sentimentality creeping in with the old man. And there was no room in this business for sentimentality.

Uncle Georg had kept the old, Cold War methods of staying in touch. Using the magazine for rendezvous messages. There were five dead-letter drops that he used throughout Hamburg. He had told Anke that he was an old dog who had learned his last trick so long ago. But Anke knew the truth: Uncle Georg used these methods to keep Anke at arm’s length; the snake charmer’s fear of being bitten.

But it was an unjustified fear. Uncle Georg was as close to family as Anke had ever known. Or would ever know. That was not to say that she had never considered the possibility of killing him, to protect her identity should he through age or for whatever other reason lose his professionalism. But she knew that when the time came for them to part ways, she would let him live out his retirement in peace. Probably.

She put the magazine down. This made no sense at all.

Two messages. One from Uncle Georg. And the other. The other message was as wrong as it was possible to be. The wrong place and the wrong time. Muliebritas was the signal Uncle Georg used to alert her that he needed to see her; that he had another meeting for her to fulfil.