It was darker in the Speicherstadt than in the city beyond. The sun now sat lower in the sky and it could not squeeze past the hulking Victorian cathedrals of commerce. There were no offices or coffee bars at ground level in this street; the windows of the warehouses lay dark and blank. Fabel was aware of his footsteps echoing in the empty street. He almost passed the number Mahmoot had given him. A small sign indicated that the warehouse was occupied by Klimenko International. There was a large arched double doorway and no window at street level. Fabel turned the iron-ring handle and pushed: it was unlocked. He stepped through into a vast, open warehouse space, punctuated by the rows of brick and iron pillars that bore the weight of the floors above. The floor-to-ceiling height would have been almost nine metres and Fabel estimated there would be more than 400 square metres of floor area. The entire space was empty, except for a modular office cabin that sat elevated at the far end of the warehouse. It was dark. Only one of the many suspended striplights was switched on; at the far end of the warehouse the windows, more like glazed archways, were thick with grime and reduced the summer evening outside to a dim, orange bloom. The door swung shut behind Fabel, giving him a start and echoing in the vastness of the warehouse. If there was anyone here, Fabel had successfully announced his arrival.

He drew his Walther and snapped back the carriage. He scanned the warehouse, checking the pillars for any hint of movement, although they were quite narrow and a man would have difficulty in concealing himself behind them. If there was anyone here, they were in the Portakabin or behind it. Fabel moved across to his right, hugging the wall to limit his exposure and, bracing his right hand with his left, extended his gun, keeping it in eye line. He inched up the wall until he was parallel to the office cabin. He took a swift decisive sidestep, braced to fire, so he could see behind the cabin. There was no one there. He relaxed the tension in his arms slightly and moved swiftly across to the cabin. Fabel rested his back against the wall. The brickwork upon which the cabin was elevated came to Fabel’s waist, so he reckoned that his head was just above floor level. He turned into the wall but could hear nothing. Fabel carefully made his way around to the steps and slowly climbed them, keeping his automatic trained on the door. There was still no sound from inside. He had just placed his hand on the door handle when he felt it: the cold, hard disc of a gun muzzle pressed hard against the nape of his neck.

‘Please, Herr Fabel. No trouble …’ The voice was a woman’s and she spoke in thickly accented German. ‘Remove your index finger from the trigger and hold your weapon above your head.’ Fabel complied and felt his Walther being snatched away from him in a fast, fluid action. He stared at the flaking green paint of the office cabin’s door and wondered if it would be the last image his brain would register. His mind raced, desperately trying to recall the strategies for negotiation in a situation like this that he had learned in training seminars. Then the door to the cabin opened. Before him stood a short, stocky man in his late sixties. Fabel recognised the Slavic architecture of his face. But most of all he recognised the piercing, almost luminous green eyes of the man who had attacked him in Angelika Blüm’s apartment.