‘I’m really sorry. I have to go …’

‘Is it to do with Son of Sven?’

‘No … I think a friend might be in trouble.’

‘You want me to come along?’

‘No.’ Fabel smiled and handed her the keys to his apartment. ‘But keep the bed warm for me.’

‘Is this dangerous? Shouldn’t you get help?’

Fabel stroked Susanne’s cheek. ‘It’s okay. Like I say, just something a friend needs help with. I need to pick up my car. Let’s see if we can get a taxi …’

Friday 20 June, 9.00 p.m. St Pauli, Hamburg.

Anna had, at first, been polite and apologetic; but by the time the fifth guy in rapid succession had tried to pick her up, her responses had distilled to the sharp and bitter. When she heard yet another bar-room Romeo say ‘Hi!’ she spun round with her teeth bared.

MacSwain backed away with his hands raised.

‘I’m sorry …’ said Anna, sheepishly. ‘I thought it was someone else … well, anyone else, I suppose …’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘Don’t be. The competition’s lousy.’ Anna eyed him up and down. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.’

‘I got held up at work. Sorry.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m John MacSwain …’ and then in English: ‘it’s nice to meet you …’

‘Sara Klemmer …’ said Anna, using the name of a former schoolfriend. ‘Are you English?’

‘Almost,’ replied MacSwain. ‘You hungry?’

Anna shrugged non-committally.

‘Let’s get out of here …’

From the command post within the parked van, Paul Lindemann alerted the officers inside the club. ‘Get ready … we’re on the move.’ He turned to the MEK officer dressed in electrician’s overalls. ‘We go when the two lead cars are in position.’

Friday 20 June, 9.00 p.m. Speicherstadt, Hamburg.

Speicherstadt means ‘warehouse city’. The Speicherstadt is one of the most striking cityscapes in Europe. The Gothic architecture of the vast, seven-storey, red brick warehouses, capped with verdigris-covered copper turrets, thrusts out of the harbour with an overwhelming confidence. The monumental warehouses are interlaced with tight narrow streets and canals, and galleries span from one building to another, often at fourth-storey level.

Speicherstadt is also the biggest bonded warehouse on the planet: millions of tons of coffee, tea, tobacco and spices are stored in ten square miles, along with more modern commodities like computers, pharmaceuticals and furnishings. In recent years, there had been an influx of antique dealers who had set up next to the offices of maritime and trading businesses, and some of the coffee companies had opened up cafés for the public. But this was still very much an active part of Hamburg’s life as one of the world’s most important port cities.

Fabel parked in Deichstrasse, outside the customs-controlled Speicherstadt itself. He unholstered his Walther P99, checked the magazine and snapped it back with the heel of his hand before reholstering. He left his car and walked, the spires of the St Katharinenkirche and the St-Nikolai-Kirche piercing the sky behind him, across the Kornhausbrücke that spanned the narrow Zollkanal. As he crossed the bridge he looked along the canal, hemmed in by the red brick cliff face of the looming warehouses. The sun was lower now and infused the rich red brickwork with a deeper red. Something more than unease fluttered in Fabel’s chest. He walked past the customs point and found his way to St Annenufer. A couple of turns took him into the narrow cobbled street Mahmoot had mentioned on the phone.