Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

Maria’s heart began to pound as soon as she heard the heavy clunking bar mechanism of the cold store door. It all depended on whether it was The Nose or Sarapenko who came in with the meal. Not that it could be called a meal: they had kept her on the minimum calorie intake to dull her mind and weaken her resistance. The near-starvation diet combined with the irregular switching on and off of the light was intended to disorientate her. The door slid open. She didn’t look to see which of them it was. The decision to act or not act, to kill or not kill, would have to wait until the very last moment. She knew the routine: the tray would be left outside on the floor and whoever had brought the meal would stand back from the doorway, sweeping an automatic round the room before training the gun on Maria.

Maria remained on her knees, clutching the hollow of her belly, gasping for breath.

‘I’m sick…’ she said, still not looking up. It was the only way to go: she knew that Vitrenko would have given them strict orders to keep her alive until whatever use he had for her had been fulfilled. She heard the sound of boots approaching.

‘I have medicine…’ gasped Maria. ‘In my coat… please help me.’ She didn’t want the door to close; for her guard to contact Vitrenko for instructions. She was presenting a problem and a solution at the same time. She was counting on her stuff still being there. The tablets in her coat were the anti-anxiety pills that Dr Minks had given her. The boots didn’t move: feigning sickness was an obvious ploy. Maria had predicted this doubt of the guard’s and she clamped her hand to her mouth as if about to vomit. Unseen, she slipped her ring finger into her mouth and throat. The hair-trigger reaction. There was little left in her stomach from the meagre meal of God knew how many hours before, but enough splashed onto the cold store floor to suggest that she was genuinely ill. Maria slumped onto her side, her eyes closed. She heard the footsteps approach again and a boot jabbed her in the ribs. Maria had so detached herself from her body that she didn’t even flinch at the kick. A pause while the guard calculated the risk: just how much of a threat could Maria pose, even if she were conscious? Then the sound of a weapon being reholstered. She felt fingers jab into her neck to check her pulse.

It was then that Maria opened her eyes. Wide. She stared directly into Olga Sarapenko’s face. Maria saw the alarm in Sarapenko’s eyes as she realised that she was looking at something that was no longer human.

Fabel’s hotel room had the expected brightly coloured abstract print hanging on the wall. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at it as if it would yield the knowledge or the strength to help him work out what to do next. His head ached. It was Vitrenko’s sheer arrogance that astounded him: grabbing a senior police officer on a busy street and demanding that he betray everything he believed in.

As Fabel stared at the painting, he thought of The Nightwatch hanging in his mother’s parlour; about how he had forgotten what he had seen in the painting as a small boy. The protection of others from harm.

Fabel knew what he had to do but dreaded doing it. It went against every instinct he had. He picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Hello, Ullrich, Fabel here. About the Vitrenko Dossier…’

Maria had realised, in those cold, dark, isolated hours, that she needed a sharp cutting edge to succeed in any attack. She had planned to sharpen the spoon, but that had been taken away along with, for a while, all hope. Then she had realised that, of course, she did have a sharp-edged weapon. It was just that using it had taken her to a place that was beyond human.

The grey-white walls were splashed with arcs of arterial blood. Sarapenko now reached out to Maria, desperate to touch another human being as she died. The spurts from her neck weakened: the outstretched hand dropped onto the grubby floor. Shakily, Maria dragged herself to her feet and wiped the blood from her mouth and face with the back of her sleeve. She took the automatic from its holster on Sarapenko’s body, trying not to look at the face stripped of its beauty. The face that she had ravaged. But Maria felt no horror. Again, it was as if she were unreal; simply watching herself. She staggered out into the main part of the unit, swinging Sarapenko’s automatic wildly around. There was no one. No Nose. Maria saw where the row of surveillance monitors still sat: now blank dark eyes. She ripped drawers from their runners, tore open cabinets until she found three more clips for the automatic, plus the two guns they had taken from her. There was a wastebasket in the corner and she frantically tossed its contents out onto the floor. She found a half-eaten roll, sodden with discarded coffee, with a shred of meat left inside. She stuffed it into her mouth and swallowed it half chewed, its stale flavour mingling with the lingering taste of Sarapenko’s blood in her mouth.

The Nose came in through the main door at the end of the unit, carrying a large box. The instant he saw Maria he dropped the box and reached into his leather jacket. Maria walked deliberately and unhurriedly towards him. She heard several gunshots and felt Sarapenko’s gun kick in her outstretched grasp. The Nose sank to his knees, hit in his chest and left flank. His hand cleared his jacket and Maria fired twice more into his body. His gun clattered to the floor. Maria kicked the automatic out of his reach. He looked up at her, his breath coming in short gasps. Maria knew that he was seriously wounded and would die if he didn’t get hospital treatment immediately. She guessed he knew that as well. He tried to stand up but Maria shoved him back onto the floor with her boot.

‘Where’s the swap supposed to take place?’ she asked.

‘What swap?’ he said between laboured breaths.

Maria lowered her aim and fired again. He screamed as his right kneecap shattered, his jeans turning black-red as the blood soaked into them.

‘I’m supposed to be swapped for something,’ said Maria, still calm. ‘My guess is the Vitrenko Dossier. Where’s the meet and who with?’

‘Fuck you…’

‘No,’ Maria said wearily. ‘Fuck you.’ She leaned forward and aimed the muzzle at his forehead.

‘Near the cathedral,’ said The Nose. ‘On the corner of Komodienstrasse and Tunisstrasse. With Fabel.’

‘Jan Fabel?’

‘He’s supposed to hand over a copy of the dossier in exchange for you.’

‘When?’

‘Rose Monday. When the procession is passing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Maria. ‘You’ll die if you don’t get help. Do you have a cellphone?’

‘In my pocket.’

Maria shoved the gun’s muzzle into his cheek while she dug into his leather jacket with the other hand, retrieved the phone and put it into her own pocket. Then, with all her remaining strength and ignoring his screams of agony, she dragged The Nose by the collar of his jacket across the floor and into the storeroom. She dumped him next to the body of Olga Sarapenko and left him there.

‘Like I said…’ Maria regarded the Ukrainian coldly as she slid the cold-store door shut. ‘Fuck you.’

Fabel stood on the corner of Komodienstrasse and Tunisstrasse, the spires of Cologne Cathedral looming behind him, and watched as float after float drifted by. Crowds of organised chaos. Fabel looked up Tunisstrasse and recognised Scholz’s Cologne Police float approaching. He stood watching the procession but not seeing it. Instead, he ran through every possible outcome. He even wondered if he would die here: if Maria was already dead and if Vitrenko would finish him off as soon as he got his hands on the dossier. Fabel gripped the plastic carrier bag tight.