Fabel ate on the way back to his hotel. He sat in a corner booth on the ground floor café-bar of an old brewery close to the cathedral, drinking the traditional Cologne beer which, like the unique dialect of the city, was called Kölsch. Kölsch was always served in the small, narrow, tube-like glasses called Stange and Fabel noticed that as soon as he drained one another was brought without him ordering it. Then he remembered it was a Cologne custom that, unless you placed your drink mat on top of the glass, you would be continually supplied with fresh Kölsch. The way he felt at that moment, Fabel found the arrangement more than satisfactory. He thought about how good it would be to sit in the cosy brewery café and get quietly drunk. But of course he wouldn’t. Fabel had never in his life been truly, falling-down drunk. To do so would mean losing control, allowing himself to become subject to the random, the chaotic. A waiter in a long apron appeared and said something completely unintelligible. Fabel stared at him uncomprehendingly then laughed, again remembering Cologne traditions. In a place like this the waiters were called Köbes and spoke in thick Kölsch, usually peppered with colourful phrases. The waiter grinned and repeated his question in High German and Fabel placed his order.

Cologne was so different to Hamburg. Was it possible, Fabel wondered, to change your surroundings and change yourself to suit? If he had been born here, instead of in the North, would he be a different person? The waiter arrived with his meal and a fresh glass of beer and Fabel tried to put it all from his mind. For now.

6.

It had been four hours but Maria had turned down Olga’s offer to take over watching the monitors. It was getting dark and the villa was reduced to a dark geometry broken up by the brightness of the windows. Suddenly two lights came on above the front door, illuminating one of the guards.

‘Tell Buslenko they’re on the move …’ Maria barked at Olga.

The door swung open and Vitrenko’s bodyguard emerged. The Lexus door opened for someone still inside the villa and out of sight. Then a tall dark figure was framed in the bright doorway. Again a shudder of recognition. He might have changed his face, but at this distance some primeval instinct identified a form burned into Maria’s memory. He stopped, his silhouetted head angled. Maria felt ice in her veins: it was as if Vitrenko were looking through the camera, directly at her.

He stepped forward and into the Lexus, out of view.

Maria followed the car as it drifted silently down the drive and out of the gate. ‘They’re turning right.’

The Lexus was gone. Vitrenko was gone.