of being crooks and freaks and a malicious cult, but the fact remains that the world is heading for a cataclysm. The Pharos Project is subject to all kinds of rumour and suspicion and investigation, but no one subjects companies that continue to seek out new oil reserves to bleed, to pollute and poison others while enriching themselves, to the same kind of scrutiny. I don’t see the BfV devoting the same time and manpower to investigating multinationals who allow hectare after hectare of rainforest to be slashed and burned to provide grazing for cattle so that some fat teenager in Minnesota can stuff himself with a cheaper burger.’
‘Is that why you work with the Guardians of Gaia?’ asked Fabel. ‘Or is it more that they work for the Pharos Project? It strikes me that you have set yourself up almost as a state. And all states have a military wing. An army. Is that the deal with the Guardians?’
Another smile; even colder than the last. ‘Herr Fabel, I shouldn’t have to point out to you what is happening in the world today. The fiercely held political beliefs of the past are no longer relevant. The forces that control our lives are no longer political; they are corporate. Nation states really don’t hold sway as they used to. It is the multinational companies, the corporate states that shape the lives of every man, woman and child on the planet. The Pharos Project is the brainchild of Dominik Korn who is, first and foremost, a far-sighted, genius businessman. We have taken the same shape as our enemies, the global corporations. Our fighting is done in boardrooms and committees, not on any other type of battlefield. Dominik Korn is also a pacifist, as am I and everyone else involved in the Project. So no, if the Guardians of Gaia are involved in violent acts — no matter how much we understand the provocation — we condemn those acts. We have no place for violence. Everything we represent is about stopping violence, the violence being done to our ecosystem.’
‘Then, if all that is true, you will have no objection to doing me a small favour. Could you ask the gentleman who conducted me here to step back in for a moment?’
Wiegand sighed, as if indulging a child. ‘As you wish…’ He hit a button and said a few words in English. The young man who had conducted Fabel from the main entrance to Wiegand’s office came in.
‘I take it you have a storeroom full of these suits?’ asked Fabel. ‘I mean, you clearly issue them to your members…’
‘We do, yes. We take care of all of our members’ material needs.’
‘Then you could replace this gentleman’s jacket if I were to ask him for it?’
‘What on earth do you want his jacket for? I can supply an unused one from our stores.’
‘Indulge me, Herr Wiegand. I want to make sure that the jacket I take is of the kind that this gentleman wears.’ He turned to the man by the door. ‘I am right in assuming that you work for the Consolidation and Compliance Office?’
The Consolidator did not answer but looked to Wiegand for guidance.
‘Please give the Chief Commissar your jacket. What do you need it for, Herr Fabel?’
‘I’d like to compare the material of the jacket to a fibre we found at the Muller-Voigt crime scene.’
‘Ah, I see.’ He held up a hand to halt the Consolidator who had removed his jacket and was about to hand it to Fabel. ‘Then, if there is a suggestion of some kind of accusation, you should perhaps obtain a warrant.’
‘Do I need a warrant? Are you telling me that you won’t cooperate?’
Wiegand said nothing for a moment, then nodded to the Consolidator, who handed Fabel the jacket.
‘So I take it from this that you suspect someone from the Pharos Project of being involved in the murder of Berthold Muller-Voigt?’ asked Wiegand when the Consolidator had left. ‘Obviously, that is a laughable assertion, but if that is the case then you should have told me earlier. I can assure you that the Project will cooperate wholeheartedly with the police in any investigation. I have to say that it is impossible for any of our members to be involved in something like that. We have counsellors and mentors within our community who would identify anyone with violent or antisocial tendencies.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that any form of individual action would be encouraged. I get the impression that the Project sees itself as operating as an egregore. A groupmind.’
‘Now why would the Pharos Project have a collective will to cause Berthold Muller-Voigt harm?’ Wiegand remained cool. If Fabel was getting to him, he was not about to let it show.
‘Perhaps it was suspected that Meliha Yazar had told him what she had found out about the Project. Maybe it’s something so big that anyone who could possibly be aware of it is in danger.’
‘This is pure fantasy. And, I have to say, typical of the kind of fabrications that the authorities here in Germany seem to feel free to level against us. But I promise you, Herr Fabel, that if you repeat such accusations outside this room you had better be able to back them up in a court of law.’
‘That, Herr Wiegand, is exactly my intention.’
Wiegand stood up to indicate that the discussion was at an end. Fabel remained seated.
‘There is another matter I would like to discuss.’ Fabel carefully folded the jacket he had been given on his lap, running his fingers over the material. He could tell that it was made from the kind of fabric that Astrid Bremer had described: there was no yield to it and it had a nylon-like feel. ‘As you are no doubt aware, we have a case running at the moment concerning the murder of four young women targeted by someone they met through the internet.’
‘The Network Killer case. Yes, I’m aware of it.’
‘Well, a few nights ago, I was approached by a woman who was dressed in a style not unlike this…’ Fabel indicated the jacket on his lap. ‘She gave me a false identity. In fact, she gave me the identity of the next Network Killer victim — before we found the body. What makes it especially interesting is that when we did find the body, there was evidence that it had been kept in cold storage for some time.’
‘And…?’
‘Nothing… other than it suggests to me that the body was kept on ice long enough for me to be approached with the victim’s name, and also to confuse us about the time of death. As if it was important for us to believe that the woman died some time later than she actually did.’
‘And this means what to me?’ asked Wiegand wearily.
‘I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, and I think I understand its significance. And I think it tells me what it was Meliha Yazar found out.’
‘Which is?’
‘I think we’ll save that for another time.’ Fabel stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Herr Wiegand. I look forward to our next chat.’ He looked around at the office, the glass walls, the dimmed view of the water around them. ‘Next time we can meet in my office, I think.’
It was fully dark as Fabel drove back along the narrow road towards Stade. It was deserted of cars and he could see there were no headlights in his rear-view mirror. Anyway, he thought, Wiegand knew exactly where he had been and the road he would take back to town. So there was no need for him to pick up a tail until he had reached the main road network.
Jan Fabel was a man who liked to do the right thing in every situation; to follow the rules. It sat heavy and hard with him that he had just done something he would never have allowed one of his junior officers to do: he had deliberately exposed himself to danger. Fabel had known that there was no way that he would ever build a solid case against an organisation as sophisticated, resourceful and skilled as the Pharos Project. He needed to flush them out. Flush Wiegand out. Wiegand had said that Fabel had been on a fishing trip and he had been right; except Fabel was the bait. Fabel had hinted that he possessed the same knowledge that Meliha Yazar had, and had been abducted and more than likely murdered over. Muller-Voigt had had his skull pulped in the belief that he might have had the information. And now they would believe that Fabel had that knowledge. And, as someone who could do infinitely more damage than either Yazar or Muller-Voigt, they would no doubt come after him.
The truth was, he was beginning to believe that he did know what it was that Meliha had found out. How he could ever prove it was another matter.
He was just approaching Stade when his cellphone rang.
‘Chief Commissar Fabel?’ It was a male voice. Deep — too deep and faintly robotic; punctuated with deep, rasping breaths. Fabel realised that it was being electronically altered.
‘Who is this?’
‘Call me the Klabautermann, that seems appropriate.’
‘You’re joking, right?’ Fabel laughed. ‘You want me to call you the Klabautermann? I’m guessing you read too many comics. Or what is it they call them these days? Oh yes, graphic novels. Now listen, you know you are speaking to a police officer, so I suggest you stop wasting my time…’
