Fabel gave a bitter laugh. ‘And so they have moved to Hamburg, where the pickings are better. I suppose these are the people our Organised Crime Division call the “Top Team” …’

The Ukrainian shrugged. ‘Whatever you call them, Vitrenko’s unit has been systematically seizing control of the major underworld activities in your city. You see, to them, your precious Hamburg is no different from Afghanistan or Chechnya or any other theatre of operation. It is simply another landscape. Their loyalty to each other and to their leader, their commitment to achieving their mission objective … nothing else matters to them.’

‘But Vitrenko is mad,’ protested Fabel, aware of the weakness of his own words.

‘That is neither here nor there. I, too, believe that he is insane. A psychopath. But his madness has become his greatest asset. He is so stripped of inhibition and, well, moral constraint, that he can use it to terrorise those he would subjugate and mesmerise those he would use as his instruments.’

‘Ivan the Terrible …’ Fabel muttered.

‘What?’

‘Just something someone said to me recently,’ Fabel said. ‘Why are you telling me all of this?’

Something seemed to dull the green eyes. Fabel could almost have defined it as sadness. The blonde girl once again interpreted the Ukrainian’s silent command and handed him a file from the same desk. He flipped open the file and slipped out another photograph and handed it to Fabel. It was a military-service portrait of a man in his forties. The Ukrainian laughed quietly at Fabel’s confusion as he looked from the photograph to the Ukrainian and back again. The face in the photograph had exactly the same architecture and the same green eyes as the old man, but the jaw was wider and stronger and the broad forehead was framed by thick butter-blond hair. For a moment, Fabel wondered if it was a photograph of the Ukrainian when he was younger; but despite the confusing similarities, there were too many fundamental, structural differences in the face. In the space of a couple of seconds, Fabel covered more ground than he had in the whole investigation to date. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the old man with a discernible sympathy.

‘Your name is Vitrenko?’

The Ukrainian nodded.

Fabel looked at the face in the photograph again. ‘Brother?’

The Ukrainian shook his head slowly as if it were made of lead. ‘Son. I am Vasyl Vitrenko’s father.’

Friday 20 June, 10.00 p.m. Niederhafen, Hamburg.

The sliding panel door of the command-post Mercedes Van had been opened, now that there was no risk of being spotted by MacSwain. The MEK surveillance men stood outside smoking. Inside, the air was clearer but the atmosphere remained electric. Everyone was listening to the conversation taking place on a darkened boat, somewhere out on the black water. Anna’s voice sounded relaxed and confident. Paul Lindemann spread his hands on his knees, rubbing their heels along the material of his trousers and drawing a long slow breath before snapping himself upright in a gesture of decisiveness.