Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

‘It’s morally justifiable…’ she said.

‘That’s not the issue. If we’re caught, you’ll go to prison. I just want to make that clear. If you want to walk away from this, then you can do so now. But go back to Hamburg… I don’t want you getting in our way here.’

‘I know the stakes,’ said Maria. ‘I’ll do anything to nail that bastard. He finished me as a police officer so I don’t see why I should act like one when it comes to bringing him down.’

‘Okay…’ Buslenko rolled out a street map of Cologne. It was no ordinary driver’s city guide and Maria guessed it was the kind of map that every intelligence agency in the world would have of cities in every other country. There were a number of small red squares glued to the map. ‘These are the centres – or at least the ones we know about – from which the Vitrenko outfit operates. We have good intelligence on these, but we know these aren’t the key locations. We know nothing about those. And we can be pretty sure that Vitrenko has changed his appearance significantly. He could be right under our noses and we wouldn’t know it. But we do have intelligence on this piece of shit…’ Buslenko laid a photograph on the table. ‘This is Valeri Molokov, the Russian. In fact, in many ways Molokov is a Russian version of Vitrenko. The main difference is that Molokov is not quite as smart, not quite as deadly. And where Vitrenko sees himself as something other, something better, than a common criminal and still thinks he’s running a military operation, Molokov, despite having a police Spetsnaz background, is quite comfortable with his role as a common or garden mafia boss.’

‘Molokov was a police officer?’ asked Maria.

‘Again, not in the way you think of it. Molokov served with OMON, the Russian Special Purpose Police Squad, but was kicked out, ostensibly for corruption. With so many special-forces police on the take in Moscow, that takes some doing. Molokov did three years in Matrosskaya Tishina prison in Moscow for offences linked to people smuggling. Another difference from Vitrenko, who’s never been arrested, far less faced trial and imprisonment. The truth is that Molokov built his reputation as a contract killer. He’s now officially wanted for a whole range of crimes. Molokov hates Vitrenko but can’t do anything about the situation. He and Vitrenko were on a collision course and Molokov knew he’d come out worst. So Vitrenko was able to force Molokov into partnership with him, with Molokov very much the junior partner.’

‘Why hasn’t Molokov been extradited from Germany?’ asked Maria.

‘Molokov and Vitrenko are both living here under assumed names. The difference between them is that Vitrenko is better at it – living in someone else’s skin, as it were. But the German police still don’t know what identity Molokov’s using or where to find him. And that’s where we’re ahead of the game.’

‘Oh?’

‘We have a location for him. More by accident than by design. Our main interest in Molokov is that he’s the highest-ranking member of the Vitrenko organisation who we can observe. Unlike you chasing around after small fry like Kushnier, Molokov could really give us a fix on Vitrenko.’

‘It sounds like there’s no love lost between them.’

‘There isn’t, particularly on Molokov’s side. Vitrenko has the power to keep him in check, but Molokov is a deadly son of a bitch. But there is a specific stress-point in the Vitrenko-Molokov marriage. Your Federal Crime Bureau here in Germany has a source of information within the organisation. Our intelligence suggests that Vitrenko believes the leak is from Molokov’s side. I took part in a failed operation to nail Vitrenko back on Ukrainian soil. One of Molokov’s top men, a thug called Kotkin, ended up dead, as did a member of our team who was supposedly on the Vitrenko payroll.’

Olga Sarapenko cut in. ‘What we need to know is if you are with us in this. Will you help us nail Vitrenko?’

Maria sipped her water. She noticed her hand trembling as she did so. Her wrists still ached from the rope they’d been bound with.

‘What if we were to do this legally? Locate him and get the BKA to arrest him?’

‘You know that’s not an option, Maria,’ said Buslenko. ‘That would give him a chance to slip through our fingers. You for one should know how easy that is. Anyway, that is not our objective. We are here to put an end to Vitrenko. Literally.’

Maria looked at the Ukrainian. He held her gaze, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. This man claimed to be a policeman, knew that she was a police officer, yet was asking her to cooperate in a murder. There again, that had been the conclusion she had envisaged for herself. But how did she know that he was genuine? He could be anybody. He could be one of Vitrenko’s killers. But if that were the case, wouldn’t she be dead by now?.

‘Like I told you,’ she said. ‘I want to be there when Vitrenko is brought down. I’m in.’

Ansgar, so unused to the ballet of courtship, fumbled clumsily for the right words. Ekatherina, like a city guide helping out a tourist who had found himself on the wrong side of town, had had to help him with his halting and mumbled proposal that she should come with him to the Karneval procession in a few weeks’ time. Ekatherina made it easier for him by suggesting that they go out for an evening first; to a Ukrainian restaurant she knew.

Ansgar was no fool. He was, after all, at least fifteen years older than her and by no description a catch. And he knew that marriage to a German national would assure her permanent residency in the Federal Republic. However, he also believed that Ekatherina really did like him. But did she really know about his true nature? His secret desires?

The Rhine divides Cologne in more than the geographical sense. Since the very first settlements the river had represented first an ethnic and then a social and cultural border. The inhabitants of the left bank, of which Ansgar was one, had always thought of their side of the river as the true Cologne, as opposed to ‘over there’. The Ukrainian restaurant that Ekatherina had suggested was ‘over there’, in the Vingst area of the city. The food was authentically Ukrainian. Ansgar also guessed that a large proportion of the clientele, and probably the management, was authentically Ukrainian mafia. He noticed several huddles of large men in black Armani, the regulation uniform of Eastern European gangsterdom.

The menu was in both Cyrillic and German but Ansgar allowed himself to be led in his choice by Ekatherina. As far as Ansgar could see, the Ukrainians had as many styles of Borsch as Eskimos had words for snow. Added to this was pechyva, pampushky, halushky, varenyky, bitky meatballs and a whole range of desserts. Ekatherina recommended that they should start with goose-breast zakuska followed by a starter portion of hetman borsch, then pork ribs stewed in beet kvas with halushky dumplings.

‘You can’t get more Ukrainian than that,’ she enthused and Ansgar could see that she was genuinely proud to introduce him to her culture and cuisine. When the waiter came over to take their drinks order, Ekatherina engaged in a lively exchange in Ukrainian with him. The waiter smiled and nodded.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘This is something you’ve got to try…’

The waiter returned with a chilled champagne-style bottle. He popped the cork and Ekatherina again took the lead and tasted it, nodding enthusiastically. After the waiter had filled his glass, Ansgar took a sip. His mouth filled with a fragrant effervescence.

‘This is beautiful,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Really beautiful.’

‘It’s Krimart,’ she said, gratified. ‘It’s from the Artyomovsk winery in the Donetsk region. It was founded by a German, you know. A Prussian. It was what Stalin and all the communist bosses liked to drink.’