Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

But they’ve broken my mind, she thought to herself calmly. She knew there was something different about the way she thought; the way she felt. She lay and thought of Maria Klee as if she were someone she knew rather than someone she was. Maybe Maria Klee was dead, but whoever or whatever was left was determined to survive. She knew, lying bruised and broken in an empty cold store, that her only strategy for survival was to separate herself from her own flesh: to focus her mind and use whatever internal resources she had left on thinking her way out of this situation.

Maria dragged herself to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her body and moving across to the cold store heavy door. She pressed the side of her head against the cold steel, but it was too thick to conduct any sounds from the room beyond. She made a circuit of the meat locker, seeking out anything that might be useful as a weapon. There was nothing. And even if she had found something, she doubted that an improvised weapon would have given her any kind of chance against The Nose and his handgun. She returned to the mattress and sat contemplating her situation. They were feeding her. That meant that, for some reason, Vitrenko was keeping her alive, but perhaps only for a matter of days. She gingerly touched the raised ridge on her head to remind herself that there seemed to be little other consideration for her welfare. She was in a hostage situation. She could not have been kept in more appropriate surroundings: she was just a lump of meat being preserved until she could be put to some profitable use.

The next meal was brought in by Olga Sarapenko. The one after that by The Nose. Perhaps they spelled each other, taking shifts. If she was going to make an attempt to escape, it would be that bitch Sarapenko she would go for. Maria knew that she could never succeed against the Nose. And even fully fit she didn’t know if she would have been a match for Olga Sarapenko. But one thing that her years in the Murder Commission had taught her was that anyone could kill anyone else. It wasn’t about strength. It was about murderous intent. About knowing no boundaries.

Maria knew that even if Vitrenko intended to use her as a bargaining chip, there was still no way he would let her survive. And when she became surplus to his needs he would kill her in a manner that would fit his perverted sense of natural justice. It would be messy, it would be slow, and it would be painful. She brought her thoughts back to her immediate situation. She would escape Vitrenko and the fate he had planned for her, either by getting herself free or by dying in the attempt. She would escape either in flesh or in spirit.

Her plan began to take form.

There was a chance that either The Nose or Olga Sarapenko was alone in the building. The charade of a surveillance operation had been for her benefit. No… that wasn’t right. There had been another point to the exercise: Vitrenko had suspected betrayal and had put Molokov under electronic surveillance. Molokov had been marked for death long before Maria had entered the picture. Vitrenko had said that Buslenko’s mission had been genuine but had been betrayed. Perhaps Olga Sarapenko really had been part of the operation.

She had seen no other guard. When Sarapenko or The Nose had brought food there had been no sounds of activity outside when the door had been opened. The worst case might be that The Nose would be out there when Sarapenko came in. Maria played and replayed scenarios in her head, running through all the possible ways she could take Sarapenko down. But they would be ready for almost every scenario. Sarapenko or The Nose would anticipate her hiding beside the door, pretending to be ill or dead, or her launching a sudden attack. She had to think of the extraordinary, the unexpected. It would have to be when Olga Sarapenko came in with the meal. Maria was bitterly aware of the irony that food had been the one thing she had avoided and now its delivery offered her the only chance of survival. She thought about all the times she had made herself vomit to void her body of food. How she had perfected the technique. It was then that the idea started to take shape.

She reckoned she would have about four or five hours until the next meal. Time that she had to spend wisely.

Fabel blinked at the light that cut slices across the room from between the blinds. His head hurt and his mouth felt thick and furry. He eased himself up onto his elbows. He was alone in a wide, low bed. There was the smell of coffee in the air, but a richer, darker aroma than he was used to. He stared at the poster on the wall opposite him. It was of a landscape that looked as if it belonged to another planet: slender rock towers capped with darker conical stone. A setting or rising sun had painted the towers red-gold and windows had been carved into some, giving the impression that elves or some alien race lived in them.

‘Cappadocia,’ said Tansu as she came in from the kitchen. She was wearing a silk robe which clung to her curves. ‘The Fairy Chimneys. You ever been to Turkey?’ She sat on the edge of the bed and handed him a coffee.

‘Thanks,’ said Fabel. ‘No… I’ve never been. Listen, Tansu…’

She smiled and held her fingers to his lips. ‘Drink your coffee. You’ll feel better. Hangover?’

‘A little… I’m not used to drinking so much.’

‘That’s the thing about Karneval – you can let go a little.’ She stood up decisively. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Help yourself to breakfast.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Fabel. ‘I’d better get on my way soon. I thought I’d buy something for my daughter. A souvenir from Cologne.’

‘You married?’ said Tansu in a way that suggested it didn’t matter to her one way or the other.

‘Divorced.’

‘You’ll be lucky to find a store open. There might be a couple on Hohestrasse.’

The daylight was cold and bright and turned the throbbing in Fabel’s head up a notch or two. When he got back to the hotel, he found the reception staff were all wearing bright red wigs and false noses. He allowed himself the curmudgeonly thought that these people never knew when to stop. He wanted to be home. Back in Hamburg. He wanted to talk to Susanne and put everything behind him. Including Tansu. But first he had to find Maria and bring her home too.

He showered and changed into a fresh cashmere roll-neck and cord trousers. His sports jacket smelled of cigarette smoke and he hung it up outside his wardrobe to air, pulling his coat on before going out again. He tried phoning Susanne at her office but, when he got her voicemail, he decided not to leave a message. He rang Scholz on his mobile: Scholz told Fabel they should meet at the Presidium and have lunch in the canteen. Taxis would be difficult so Scholz would send a patrol car to pick Fabel up.

When Fabel arrived at the Presidium he was guided by security to the car pool, where a vast wheeled structure was in the process of being decorated. Scholz was involved in a heated debate with a tall lean uniformed officer. At least, the debate was heated on Scholz’s side: the uniformed officer leaned against the float and nodded wearily.

‘Bloody Karneval,’ muttered Scholz as he greeted Fabel. ‘Enjoy yourself last night?’

Fabel studied Scholz’s expression for any hint of sarcasm. There was none and Fabel couldn’t help feeling grateful that Scholz had disappeared earlier and had not known what had transpired between Fabel and Tansu.

‘Great. I think we all deserved to celebrate a bit. Are you ready to reinterview Andrea Sandow?’

‘Let’s grab some lunch first.’

As they walked towards the lift, Fabel turned back to look at the float. ‘It looks like some medieval war machine. You could hide an army under that. Maybe you should have made your theme “The Trojan Horse”.’