over the last twenty years.
A woman with a dog walked past, followed by three teenage boys on skateboards thundering along the rock-salted footpath, their breath fuming in the cold air. Then peace again.
‘Hello, Uncle Georg.’ A young woman in her thirties, expensively dressed and tastefully made-up, sat down beside him and kissed him on the cheek. She laid her handbag and a copy of Muliebritas magazine across her lap and placed a carrier bag on the bench beside her.
‘You know, it wasn’t all bad,’ he said as if she had been beside him all the while. ‘Back home. Back then, I mean.’
‘No, Uncle Georg, I suppose it wasn’t.’
‘I mean, I did believe in what we stood for. What we did. There were things that were better then. People cared for each other more. We had a sense of community. Of society. Whatever dreadful things we had to do, we did them for the greater good of the people, of the world.’
She rested a gloved hand on his arm. ‘I know you did. What’s wrong, uncle?’
‘And sometimes… well, sometimes I look at the way we live now and think we maybe had it more right than everybody says we did. It wasn’t what we believed in that forced us to do these things. It was a war. A cold war, maybe, but it was still a war.’ He stopped and smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Just an old man ranting.’
‘Are you sure that’s all that’s wrong?’
‘I thought…’ He frowned, his gaze out across the Elbe river. ‘It’s nothing. It was just I got the feeling that I was being watched or followed. Instinct. More like paranoia.’
‘Are you sure there wasn’t more to it? Maybe you were being followed,’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘No one’s that good. I used all the old tricks and checks. Like I said, paranoia.’
‘I got you a present,’ she said and handed him the carrier bag.
He looked into it and smiled. ‘ Rondo Melange…’
She smiled too. ‘They started making it again. Like you say, not everything from back then was bad.’
‘But I suppose they make it for a profit now. Everything that was done then for the good of the people is now done for a profit. Like us. Like the way we’ve turned what we do into a business. All for money now.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I’m an entrepreneur.’
‘To be honest, Uncle Georg, most of my life has been since, not before. Almost all of my meetings have taken place since the Wall came down. And we’ve done well out of them, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, my child.’ He turned to her and smiled sadly. ‘But the things I taught you and your sisters. All those terrible things.’
‘It’s our business, uncle. It’s what we do. What we are.’
He nodded. ‘Did you see the media coverage of the St Pauli killing?’
‘Yes… they’re talking about it being the Angel again.’
‘What about the forthcoming meetings — is everything going to plan?’
‘Yes, uncle. Everything is going well.’
‘Will the Hamburg one look like an accident?’
‘Suicide. The meeting will be as the brief required.’
‘What about the big one? You clear on everything?’
‘Not a problem. It will actually be easier. No need to disguise it. I’m going to use the Sako TRG-21.’
‘Is it okay over that distance?’
‘Perfect. And anyway, I’m comfortable with it. And that new suppressor works well. It doesn’t just muffle, it distorts any report and sends scanners looking in the wrong direction for the shooter. But in a remote location like that, it won’t be an issue anyway. If the intel is correct, he’ll be alone.’
‘You’ll have to get out quick. Back across the border, I mean.’
‘I always do, Uncle Georg.’
‘That suppressor is the last new bit of kit I can get you. It increases our exposure risk every time I acquire new equipment. Our client sourced it for me and I don’t like getting them involved. I’ve got no control over the supply chain and we could be lumbered with traceable gear.’
‘I understand. Do you have the details for the other meetings?’
He handed her a data stick. ‘I can’t get used to this technology. I feel like I’m living in the future and I don’t belong in it. All that information, stored on something so insignificant. If we’d had these back then we’d have been able to destroy all our files before the rabble got their hands on them.’ He sighed. ‘You never ask. Why do you never ask?’
‘Ask what?’
‘Why they have to die. Are you never curious?’
‘You taught us not to be. It’s none of my concern. My job is to complete the meeting. Sure, sometimes when I’m preparing… watching them… it’s like seeing into their lives and I sometimes wonder why this person has to be ended. But not much. I just do my job.’ She ran her hand through his grey hair. ‘You worry too much, Uncle Georg. Remember how you taught us to take every moment of pleasure we could? To enjoy the time in between meetings?’
‘Yes. I do remember. Do you enjoy your life?’
‘I enjoy everything this life gives me. I’ve got you to thank for that.’
‘But the killing…’
She smiled, but looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot.
‘We all die. I learned that from you. We all die alone and many of us die in pain and fear. Terrifying diseases. Horrific injuries. Lingering deaths. All my meetings are ended quickly and the target has little idea what’s happening to them. Sometimes no idea: not even an instant of fear or pain. And, for all you or I know, I could be saving them from great future agony and anguish. That’s the way you trained me. I don’t feel bad about what I do; you told me not to feel bad about it.’
‘Even though we’re doing it for money now?’
‘The fact that we’re doing this for ourselves instead of for the state isn’t our fault. They changed the world around us. We are what we are, you and I. Just like everybody else who was cut adrift when the Wall came down. Try not to worry so much.’ She placed the data stick in her handbag and kissed him on the cheek again. ‘Goodbye, Uncle Georg.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ he said, halting her as she rose from the seat. ‘We may have to arrange another meeting. Not for a client.’
‘Oh?’ she said. ‘We’ve never done a non-paying job before.’
‘This is a self-protection thing. Someone is beginning to ask too many questions in the right places. A policeman. And he’s maybe getting a little too close to home. We may need to deal with it. Discreetly.’
‘When?’
‘I’ll let you know. It may come to nothing. Goodbye, my child.’
‘Goodbye, Uncle Georg.’
After she left, he remained on the bench, fists rammed into his coat pockets, his collar turned up against the cold, and tried to recapture that moment of peace. But he couldn’t.
4
Fabel drove into the Police Presidium in Hamburg-Alsterdorf at ten-thirty a.m. He had only managed to get five hours’ sleep and felt leaden and dull. He spent the rest of the morning preparing for the team briefing. His weariness suddenly intensified when he was intercepted in the lift by Criminal Director Horst van Heiden.
‘A word, Jan…’ Van Heiden pressed the button for the fifth storey, the top-brass floor, signalling that the word was formal.
Fabel followed van Heiden into his office and sat down. When van Heiden sat down on the executive leather chair behind his desk, he straightened his tie and adjusted a notebook and pen on his desk. When the order of his bureaucratic universe was once more restored, he began.
‘I just wanted to catch up with a couple of things. Are you okay for this conference on violence against
