Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

Fabel surveyed the hotel lounge. There was a huddle of business types at the far side of the bar. A group of six, all in their twenties, talked and laughed with loud, youthful energy. A couple two sofas away were too engrossed with each other to notice even if the hotel had caught fire.

‘We’re okay,’ said Fabel. ‘If it gets busier we can go up.’

Wagner snapped back the binding on the dossier.

‘This is heavy, heavy stuff. We are dealing with the forces of evolution here. Vitrenko has changed. Adapted. He is without doubt the major figure in East-to-West people smuggling. Added to that, he controls much of the illegal prostitution racket in Germany. But he has focused on a specialism. A niche operation, you could say.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are a lot of people out there who have, well, let’s say special requirements. Vitrenko’s prostitution businesses are there to fulfil that need. I don’t think I need to draw a picture for you… we’re talking about very unpleasant stuff indeed. And most of the prostitutes are not voluntary. He sells people like meat, Jan. Everything we’ve got so far is summarised in there. I have to tell you that there are a lot of people who are not very happy that you have this information.’

‘Others know? Do they know why I want it?’

‘No… if I had mentioned Frau Klee’s involvement I dare say there would be a warrant out for her arrest. I told them that I was trying to involve you in this investigation in order to persuade you to reconsider setting up a proposed Federal Murder Commission.’

‘So you haven’t told them about my decision either?’

‘No… time enough for that.’

Fabel read through some of the file. It was filled with horror. Scores of murders initiated by Vitrenko across Central Asia and Europe, ranging from simple assassinations to killings of spectacular cruelty, intended to warn others of the price of crossing him. There was a detailed account of Vitrenko’s activities in Hamburg, including the attack on Maria Klee. There were details of the mass murder that Maria’s notes had referred to: thirty illegal migrants burned to death in a container lorry on Ukraine-Poland border. Fabel read about how a Georgian crime boss had refused Vitrenko’s offer of partnership, saying that his only partners would be his three sons when they were older. Vitrenko had sent the Georgian three packages, all arriving on Father’s Day, each containing a head. There was an account of how a beautiful Ukrainian girl forced into working as a high-class call-girl had tried to break free from Vitrenko’s grasp by contacting the Berlin police. She had been found tied to a chair, facing a full-length mirror. She had died from asphyxiation: her airways inflamed as a result of the sulphuric acid that had been thrown into her face. It was unlikely that she would have been able to see much of her own reflection. But she would have seen enough, thought Fabel, to satisfy Vitrenko. There was the assassination of a Ukrainian-Jewish crime boss in Israel that had Vitrenko written all over it. Fabel shook his head in admiration of Maria as he read. She had mentioned all of these in her notes. Without the resources of the BKA Federal Crime Bureau, she had been able to read Vitrenko’s hand in far-flung and seemingly unconnected incidents.

‘You won’t be surprised by any of this, I suppose…’ said Wagner. The file had included an account of how Vitrenko had murdered his own father; and the fact that Fabel had been a witness to it.

‘We’ve got to get Maria out of Cologne,’ Fabel said without looking up from the file. ‘If Vitrenko gets wind of the fact that she’s got a personal crusade going against him, he will make a point of amusing himself with her death.’

‘I agree, Jan, but the first priority has to be nailing Vitrenko. Maria Klee has got herself into this situation by her own actions.’

‘For which she is not entirely responsible…’ Fabel turned over another page and was faced with photographs of even more victims. He looked up and checked that none of the hotel guests was near enough to see the horror in his hands. ‘What’s this?’

‘Ah…’ said Wagner. ‘What you’re looking at are the remains of an elite task force made up of Ukrainian Spetsnaz specialists. Operation Achilles. The official story from the Ukrainian government was that they were going to approach us about liaison and try to nail Vitrenko in Ukraine. Our guess is that this was a last desperate attempt to take Vitrenko out of the picture by illegal assassination inside the Federal Republic.’

‘Is this in Germany?’ Fabel looked at the forest in the background of the photographs.

‘No. It’s outside a place called Korostyshev, to the west of Kiev. They were assembled there for a pre-mission briefing. At a hunting lodge. Get it?’

Fabel looked at the photographs again. ‘Very ironic. And very Vitrenko. No survivors.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Wagner with a knowing smile. ‘Like you said, it was all very Vitrenko. The bodies you see there were more than likely taken out by the other members of the team. All of whom have disappeared from sight. It took the Ukrainians a few days to put it all together, but they reckon they know who the infiltration-team leader was. There had been an attempt to grab Vitrenko a few days before on one of his rare trips to Kiev. The Ukrainian government had an inside man on the job, a Sokil Spetsnaz commander called Peotr Samolyuk who was playing triple agent. He pinpointed where and when Vitrenko would appear. But Vitrenko’s mole betrayed Samolyuk and he ended up castrated. And when this task force was assembled, the chief mole and two other infiltrators were in place. It looks like a couple of the team nearly made it to Korostyshev and safety before they were killed and dragged back to the lodge and… well, you can see.’

Fabel examined a picture of a man in his thirties who, like the others, had been stripped, gutted and hung outside the hunting lodge on the frame used for hanging the deer and boar killed by hunters. There was something painted in red, it looked like blood, on the wall behind the gutted corpse. It was written in Cyrillic.

‘What does that say?’ Fabel tilted the photograph towards Wagner.

‘Hmm… I wondered about that too. Very esoteric. “Satan has craft to be in two places at once.” Obviously Vitrenko being whimsical. I’m guessing it had some significance for the poor schmuck they ended up gutting.’

‘Who was he?’

‘He was in charge of Operation Achilles. A good man by all accounts,’ said Wagner. ‘Vitrenko’s chief mole in the operation is thought to have been a female Kiev militia officer called Olga Sarapenko. She probably had orders to give this guy really special treatment before he died. He’d been after Vitrenko for years.’

‘What was his name?’ asked Fabel.

‘Buslenko.’ Wagner sipped his drink. ‘Taras Buslenko.’

Maria stood framed in the doorway. She swung her aim into the part of the room she had not been able to see from outside, expecting to find Vitrenko there. It was empty. She swung back. There were the two goons standing, Molokov and Buslenko seated. No Vitrenko. She had given up her life for nothing. Everyone in the room had turned to face her. She felt the guns kick in her hands. Two bullets hit Molokov in the throat and his right eye popped as a round passed through it and into his brain. He was still dropping when Maria swung her guns onto the first heavy. Some bullets smacked into the wall of the workshop but three caught him in the chest. She sensed the second man move but didn’t have time to react.

Buslenko threw himself from his seat and Maria was surprised to see that he hadn’t been bound. He slammed into the ex-Spetsnaz who looked shocked at Buslenko’s sudden attack. He recovered sufficiently to swing a boot at Buslenko, who feinted and rammed his own boot hard into the other man’s groin. He followed up with a slash with the flat of his hand across the man’s throat. There was the sound of something snapping and the heavy sank to his knees and started to claw at his neck, his face turning blue. Buslenko grabbed the man’s lower jaw and forehead and wrenched his head sharply to one side. A louder snap. The heavy’s eyes glazed immediately and Buslenko pushed him away and he crashed onto the grimy floor. Buslenko looked at Maria and nodded grimly. She spun round to deal with the guards rushing in from outside. No one appeared at the doorway. She stood, both automatics held at full stretch from her body, her hands now shaking violently.