Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

‘The Vitrenko Dossier has cost lives to compile, Herr Fabel. Much of the intelligence has come from Ukrainian undercover operations as well as from our own resources. We believe Vitrenko is aware of the dossier and would give anything to get his hands on it.’

‘Why? It would only confirm what he can probably guess we know,’ Fabel asked in spite of himself.

‘Vitrenko is obsessive about loyalty. There are two versions of the Vitrenko Dossier. The master dossier and the working dossier. The main reason is that there is a limit to the intelligence we can share with our Ukrainian colleagues, which I know frustrates them. But the simple fact is that there is still a considerable amount of corruption within the Ukrainian security apparatus, added to which even the Ukrainians don’t know how many of Vitrenko’s people have infiltrated their own ranks. That’s why the working dossier is the one that all members of the task force work with. It gives all the most important intelligence but doesn’t identify the sources, which the master dossier does. But even if Vitrenko got his hands on just the working dossier, there would be enough clues in there for him to identify our sources within his organisation.’

‘But surely there aren’t any? Vitrenko’s men are fanatically loyal to him.’

‘That’s very true. But when he merged his operation with that of Valeri Molokov, he compromised his security. Molokov has less noble ideas about his chosen profession. Like Vitrenko he is ex-security services, in his case Russian rather than Ukrainian, but he is a good old-fashioned gangster, plain and simple. There is no grand philosophy uniting his men. Just greed and violence.’ Wagner paused, as if waiting for a reaction from Fabel.

‘Well, as I said – Vasyl Vitrenko, his operation, his associates… it’s all someone else’s problem now,’ said Fabel.

Van Heiden and Wagner exchanged resigned looks.

‘Would you at least think it over?’ asked van Heiden. ‘I am prepared to hold your position open for a further three months. Senior Commissar Meyer has agreed to head the department in the interim. After that, I will have to replace you.’

‘You can replace me now, Herr van Heiden. My mind is made up.’

‘Listen,’ said Wagner. ‘I accept what you’re saying, but in the meantime I wonder if you would look at this for me.’ He handed Fabel a thick file. ‘Just for your opinion. I understand that you won’t want to be involved directly, but if you could look at it I’d be obliged. Just for ideas.’

‘What is it?’ Fabel took the file and eyed it suspiciously.

‘It’s from the Polizei Nordrhein-Westfalen… There’s a Criminal Commissar Scholz working out of the Police Presidium in Cologne. He asked me if you would consider going down there to help with this case, but I understand now that that is out of the question.’

Fabel gave a cynical laugh. ‘I see… a little bit of bait to see if you can reel me in.’

‘I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t be disappointed if this case intrigued you enough to consider visiting Cologne and lending a hand. But I respect your decision. Nevertheless, I know that Herr Scholz would appreciate any comments or advice, Principal Chief Commissar Fabel.’

‘Okay…’ Fabel stood up, tucking the file under his arm. ‘I’ll take a look. But, as I said, that’s all I can promise.’

Van Heiden walked Fabel to the door. They shook hands.

‘We’re going to miss you,’ van Heiden said. ‘I have to tell you that I don’t see you as a computer salesman.’

Fabel smiled. ‘Educational software, Herr Criminal Director. For universities around the world.’

‘Whatever it is, you’re not cut out for it. You’re a policeman, Jan. Whether you accept it or not.’

17-19 January

Taras Buslenko sat in a steam bath in the Lukyanovka district of Kiev. There was only one other bather in the huge, porcelain-tiled steam room: a fat business-type whose paunch hung over his towel. Buslenko looked down at his own body and wondered if he too would end up fat and out of shape. An aged body was something he could never imagine for himself. His physique was hard and sculpted. A weapon. He ran his fingers over his scars. The most recent was the one on his shoulder, puckered with stitches and curved around the ball of muscle as if someone had tried to slice open an apple. The most noticeable was the bullet wound, enlarged by removal surgery, to the left of his stomach. He gave a half-laugh. It was no wonder he could not imagine his body older: the chances of him living that long were remote.

The steam bath was vaulted and Turkish in style. The walls and the floor were finished in ornate tiles and the bath itself had a distinctly Ottoman feel to it. The only things that reminded Buslenko that he was in Ukraine were the large porcelain panels, each identical, that punctuated the patterned tiles. The panels showed a man sitting cross-legged, Turkish fashion, under a tree, his weapons hanging from its branches. The man smoked a pipe and played a bandura. It was a representation of Cossack Mamay, Ukraine’s national hero. Mamay was the legendary – probably mythical – protector of the Ukrainian people. The ultimate patriot.

The fat businessman on the far side gave a weary sigh, rose stiffly and left. After a few minutes three other men entered: a heavy-set middle-aged man and two younger men, both with the same hard, lean, muscled look as Buslenko. The two bodyguards sat near the door on the other side of the steam room. The older man sat down next to Buslenko.

‘You missed him,’ Oleksandr Malarek said, not turning to face Buslenko.

‘If he was there at all, Deputy Interior Minister.’

‘He was there. You know that.’

‘Yes. I know that. Someone was on the take. One of ours. Someone broke my cover and allowed Vitrenko to organise an escape route.’

‘Yes. Someone did,’ Deputy Minister Malarek said without looking at Buslenko. ‘It was Major Samolyuk.’

‘The head of the assault team?’ Peotr Samolyuk had been a Sokil unit commander with fifteen years’ service. Buslenko had always considered him a solid man. ‘Shit. Have you interrogated him? He could be the best lead we’ve got.’

‘Not a lead. A dead end. A very dead end. We found him this morning. He had been tortured and castrated before death. They stuffed his genitals in his mouth.’

‘He was going to talk? But he’d have gone to prison.’

‘We’ll never know. But if he had really been one of Vitrenko’s men they wouldn’t have done that to him. There is no betrayal in Vitrenko’s organisation. They don’t see themselves as criminals, but as a military unit with total loyalty to him. My guess is that Samolyuk took a massive bribe. Maybe he got greedy and asked for more to stay quiet.’

‘Unlikely.’ Buslenko still spoke to Malarek’s profile. A bead of sweat gathered and hung on the tip of the older man’s long nose. ‘No one would be stupid enough to try to menace Vitrenko.’

‘He’s in Germany,’ Malarek said, ignoring Buslenko. The excruciating death of Samolyuk was clearly of no further interest to him.

‘Vitrenko?’

‘Our sources tell us that he is operating from Cologne.’

‘I didn’t think we had sources on Vitrenko,’ said Buslenko.

‘We didn’t. We still don’t, not directly. We have informants who work for Molokov and that’s as close as we can get.’ Malarek wiped the sweat from his fleshy face with the palm of his hand. ‘Vitrenko is selling our people like so much meat, Major Buslenko. He is a traitor of the worst kind. He debases Ukraine by debasing our people. His main centres are Hamburg and Cologne. But he travels back to Ukraine regularly. Part of the intelligence we have gathered is that Vitrenko has had extensive plastic surgery. The photographs we have on file are now useless, according to our sources.’