Another long draw on the cigarette.

‘He did excel as a soldier, and it was soon recognised that he had a very special ability as a leader. He could make people do things they wouldn’t consider themselves capable of … exceptional things. What the authorities were less comfortable with was his almost cult-like status. He propagated a philosophy of the “eternal soldier” … those under his command saw themselves as the latest in a long line of warriors that stretched back two thousand years.’ The Slav leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A curl of smoke cupped his small baby chin and traced its way up his cheek, causing him to narrow the green eyes against its sting. ‘Your killer. He has a noble mission, no? He sees himself as a Viking warrior returning his people to the true Nordic faith?’

Fabel felt his chest tighten as he heard an almost perfect repetition of the description Dorn had given him. ‘Yes … but how …’

The Slav cut him short. ‘And you are, therefore, looking for a German or Scandinavian?’

‘Well, yes …’

‘You disappoint me, Herr Fabel. You studied medieval history did you not?’

Fabel nodded curtly. ‘What’s your point?’

‘Just that I would have expected you to think more broadly … both geographically and historically.’

The point hit home like a heavy blow to Fabel’s chest.

‘Shit …’ Fabel’s eyes darted around as he processed information retrieved from some deep storage. ‘Kievan Rus …’

‘That’s right, Herr Fabel. The Kievan Rus. The founders of Kiev and Novgorod and who gave their name to Russia. But they weren’t Slavs.’

Fabel felt the same thrill of epiphany that he had felt when he had sat in Dorn’s office. Here it was. The final link. The connection between the Ukrainian element and the rest of the puzzle. ‘No …’ Fabel said. ‘No, they weren’t. They were Swedes. Swedish Vikings.’

‘Exactly. They sailed up the Volga and set up their trading posts and cities at strategic points along the river. Warriors. And it is from this origin that Vitrenko drew inspiration for his quasi-religious philosophy of soldiering. He instilled in his subordinates a belief that they were the inheritors of a warrior code that stretched back to the Viking origins of the Kievan Rus. He made them believe that what they were fighting for did not matter in the least: it was the fighting in itself, the comradeship under arms and the testing of individual and collective courage that mattered … nothing else. They could be Soviet troops, mercenaries, even fight for the West … Vitrenko invested them with the belief that only the act of war itself was the single inalienable and indissoluble truth. And, I believe, he dressed up this philosophy in the semi-mythical codes of the Viking. The result was something in his men that went beyond all definition of loyalty … a total dedication and devotion. He was – he is – quite capable of talking people into committing the most atrocious acts. Even for them to sacrifice their own lives without a thought.’ The Slav gazed at the floor before absent-mindedly flicking some ash onto it. Then he looked up into Fabel’s eyes with as candid and uncompromising a gaze as Fabel could ever remember encountering. ‘I feel my words are inadequate to describe the raw, total power Vitrenko can exert on others … or the horror of the acts of which he is capable.’ It was as if the Slav had run out of fuel; as if the last reserves of energy that were stored in the heavy, squat shoulders were depleted.