JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (19 page)

‘So that’s why you want our pathologist to check closely for puncture marks or anything unusual …’

‘Exactly. But Vuja
i
ć
had more to say about the Valkyrie. And this is where it gets really interesting for you: he claimed that she was based here. In Hamburg.’

Fabel leaned back in the leather sofa and gazed out across the empty lounge and through the vast plate-glass windows to the Alsterfleet beyond. ‘You believe this?’

‘Jens did. But, like I said, he didn’t share information the way he should have. And from what I’ve seen of your report, his laptop and notebooks have disappeared as well.’

‘I thought he was travelling surprisingly light. And we were pretty sure his cellphone was wiped. But we didn’t know for sure that stuff had been taken. I’ll get someone to start questioning the staff.’

Vestergaard shook her head. ‘No point. His stuff wasn’t filched by immigrant cleaners. Whoever murdered Jens took them.’

‘If he
was
murdered. But, from what you say, if his death is foul play then everything would seem to point to this Valkyrie,’ said Fabel. He found his thoughts wandering: as head of the Hamburg Murder Commission, it was no small thing for Fabel to be told that an internationally active contract killer was based in his city.

‘It would be a natural assumption. Of course, you do know that this Valkyrie may not even exist. And if he or she does, then it’s by no means certain that he or she is based in Hamburg. It could simply be that communication is channelled through here somehow.’

‘Jespersen wasn’t killed by a communication channel,’ said Fabel. ‘What else have you got?’

‘I checked what I could of Jens’s paperwork in Copenhagen. Also his Internet history, et cetera. He had piles – and I mean piles – of research material on the former East German police and security apparatus, he had detailed lists of former officers of the Volkspolizei, as I think you called it, and, of course, masses of stuff on the Stasi.’

‘And you think that this is connected somehow with this supposed Hamburg hit woman?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s no connection. But Jens was very focused on this investigation. Officially he was looking for Vuja
i
ć
’s killer, but his attitude towards the case was bordering on the obsessive. Anyway, there were a few names – of former Stasi people, I mean – which he seemed to take a very special interest in. One above all others, a Major Georg Drescher, seemed to be the main focus of his attentions. Interestingly, from what I can see, Drescher simply vanished into thin air as soon as the Wall came down. Drescher worked for the HVA department of the Stasi. The espionage wing. My guess is that as soon as Drescher sensed the wind changing direction in eighty-nine, he used his Stasi resources to set up under a new identity. Maybe even here in West Germany. But why Jens was so interested in Drescher, I don’t know for sure. Having read through the notes, I reckon that Drescher would appear to have been a major figure in the recruitment and training of agents for deployment in the West.’

‘So you think this “Valkyrie” is an ex-Stasi agent?’

‘It would make sense.’

Fabel frowned. He did the arithmetic and somehow the idea of a now middle-aged woman carrying out such efficient assassinations didn’t add up. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll see what the autopsy reveals and then explore all possibilities. Anything else?’

‘A few other names. Notes on Vuja
i
ć
’s contacts, that kind of thing. A couple of strange things as well … you’ve heard of Gennady Frolov?’

‘The Russian oligarch?’

‘That’s the one. Personal wealth valued at twelve and a half billion. Jens had made a whole lot of notes about him. Just general stuff and not a dossier.’

‘Vuja
i
ć
’s moneyman?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Vestergaard. ‘I did a bit of digging and compared with most of the other oligarchs Frolov is Snow White. But it is all a bit odd. As well as Frolov, Jens had tons of information and corporate literature on Vantage North, the ship designers and builders in Flensburg. They designed and built Frolov’s luxury yacht, the
Snow Queen
.’

‘And you’re sure that Frolov couldn’t be the moneyman behind Vuja
i
ć
?’

‘It doesn’t make sense. The supply of narcotics to Scandinavia and Northern Germany is a multimillion-dollar business – but that’s still peanuts to the likes of Frolov. The risk of conviction would vastly outweigh any benefit.’

Fabel leaned back for a moment and rubbed his chin as he thought. ‘Who is Olaf?’

‘Olaf?’

‘In Jespersen’s notebook – he wrote the name Olaf. Do you know who that could be?’

Vestergaard frowned. ‘I know a hell of a lot of Olafs, and so did Jens. But I can’t think of anyone in particular.’

‘Was there anything else in Jespersen’s notes that could be useful?’

‘No. Not really.’ Karin Vestergaard reached into her attaché case and pulled out a file. ‘But maybe you’ll see some relevance in something I’ve missed. I’ve got a copy of everything in here.’

Fabel reached out to take the file from Vestergaard but she held it firm for a moment. ‘I’ve shared all I have, Mr Fabel. I take it you intend to live up to your part of the bargain?’

‘I told you I would give you my fullest cooperation.’
The irritation was evident in Fabel’s tone. ‘I will keep you informed of everything as it happens.’

‘Then I’m sure we’ll get along fine,’ said Vestergaard, with a smile devoid of warmth, and let go of the file.

After Birta picked up the hire car from the municipal car park and drove out of Oslo, she tossed the ticket out of the window as she cleared the city limits. When she returned the car there would be no evidence that she had ever been in Oslo or even in Norway. She had programmed several false destinations around Stockholm into the car’s satnav system, the sum of which would account for the kilometres accrued on the odometer. Throughout her trip she had observed every speed limit, every traffic regulation. And because she hadn’t stopped over in a hotel and had paid for all fuel with cash, there was no evidence that she had crossed the border.

Birta switched on the music system and Wolfgang Haffner filled the car. The German jazz and the Norwegian winter landscape fitted together perfectly and she eased back into her seat. But she found she couldn’t stop thinking back to the café and the woman with her children.

Birta’s client’s place was to the north of Drøbak, set deep into the forest on the shore of a small lake. She knew he worked from home and this had been the ideal location for a meeting. She had even identified the ideal window in his schedule.

She parked in a car park in Drøbak: she had established in her reconnaissance that it was unmetered and not overlooked by CCTV cameras. She changed in the back of the
car, pulling on three layers of thick woollen socks, partly to keep out the cold but mainly to allow the heavy oversized men’s boots she then put on to fit her: carrying out a meeting in snow was a blessing and a curse at the same time. She would leave the tracks she wanted, where she wanted. But she’d have to take care not to leave unintentional signs of her passing.

Birta slipped into her dark parka and tucked her blonde hair under the black woollen beanie hat, making sure every strand was secure and out of sight. She put on her rucksack and slung the rifle case by its strap over one shoulder, then made her way on foot from the car park and out through the back of the town, keeping out of sight of the houses.

It took her half an hour to reach where the forest opened up around the lake. At the north end the lights of a house reflected on the water. Three rooms were illuminated, but she knew he would be alone. His wife and children were visiting family in Frederikstad and wouldn’t be back until lunchtime tomorrow. He was staying at home to pack and prepare for his trip to China in two days’ time.

Birta made her way through the trees and around to where the long drive swept round to the front of the house. The drive had been cleared, the snow pushed into metre-high banks on either side. Birta edged along backwards, sweeping her footprints away as she moved, until she found a thinner stretch of piled snow. She jumped over it and onto the drive. From here on there would be no tracks to find. Before moving closer to the house, she unslung the rifle from her shoulder, unrolled the canvas sheet and laid out the parts for assembly.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ A male voice came from behind her.

Everything happened in one movement: she stood, turned, unfastened the sheath, and arced the knife up and into his chest, under his sternum. She thrust it with calculated extra
force to penetrate the man’s heavy parka and the layers beneath. The man didn’t react: he would not have seen the knife, its non-reflective black polycarbide surface and the speed of her strike making it invisible in the dark. Still in the same continuous movement, Birta twisted the knife. The man’s eyes and mouth gaped at her as if in outrage or confusion, then he sank to his knees. Birta stood to one side and let him tilt forward and crash onto his face. She turned him over and established two facts within a second: he was dead; he was not her client. The dead man was in his late forties. It was difficult to tell through the layers of clothes, but he looked heavy-set. She opened up his parka and felt the warmth of a body that would no longer generate its own temperature. She checked him for a weapon. None. Not a bodyguard or cop. He had been carrying a large snow shovel and Birta guessed he must have been some kind of handyman. Why hadn’t he come up in her reconnaissance? She cursed to herself and wiped the blade of her knife clean on the shoulder of his coat, at the same time scanning the length of the driveway and the forest on its fringes. She resheathed the knife, unzipped her parka and unholstered her silenced automatic. No sign of anyone else.