‘I tried to pinpoint the exact moment that Hansi started to get jumpy,’ said Werner. ‘Then I remembered these two,’ he pointed at the files, ‘coming in and sitting down not far from where we were. It was then that Kraus started to act like he had an electric wire up his ass. He even asked me who the big guy with the muscles was. I told him.’

‘You asked me if I’m sure about this. Well, I’m sure these are our guys all right.’ Fabel nodded his head in the direction of the open files, with the two faces staring blankly out from the windows of their photographs at their accusers. ‘They are in exactly the right position to sell extremely valuable intelligence … they’re high-enough ranking and they’re in the right department.’ He fixed Van Heiden with a candid stare. ‘Am I sure we can prove it? No. Whether we can get enough evidence to convict them is an entirely different proposition.’

There was another small silence as they all looked down at the photographs of Kriminalhauptkommissar Manfred Buchholz and Kriminalkommissar Lothar Kolski of LKA7.

Saturday 21 June, 8.00 p.m. Speicherstadt, Hamburg.

Fabel parked, as before, on Deichstrasse before crossing over to the Speicherstadt on foot. Again the vast hulks of the warehouses loomed against the darkening sky, the red brickwork seeming to smoulder like dull embers in the failing light. He retraced his steps to the former Klimenko warehouse and swung the heavy door open. It had been dark enough on his last visit; this time, there were no lights on. The vast belly of the warehouse had swallowed the evening whole, with any hint of light from the distant windows or the open door sucked into oblivion. Fabel cursed himself for not having brought a flashlight. He knew there were neon striplights scattered throughout the warehouse, hanging down like trapeze bars from the high ceiling; he guessed that there must be a switch near the door, but he had no idea where.

‘Major Vitrenko!’ His voice resounded against the walls before being swallowed up by the darkness. He muttered a curse before calling out ‘Vitrenko!’ once more. Despite his irritation, Fabel could not help seeing the irony in calling out that particular name. It was almost an analogy of his investigation, chasing a monstrous spectre in the dark. There was no reply. Fabel peered into the warehouse, narrowing his eyelids and craning his head forward, as if the action would filter out some of the darkness. He thought he could see a dim oblong glow set deep into the gloom. From memory, Fabel reckoned that the pale light would fit with one of the Portakabin’s narrow windows. He called out once more. Silence. This wasn’t right. He checked the luminous dial of his watch. It was after eight and he knew that a man as habituated to military regulation and precision as the Ukrainian must have been would not be late. Fabel reached under his jacket and slipped his Walther from its holster. He cursed his lack of foresight: he had not considered there would be any danger in meeting the Ukrainian again. No one knew Fabel was here. He was alone. He reached out and slapped and slid the palm of his left hand on the wall next to the door, but his exploring hand refused to find the switch.