Fabel’s mind raced. For all he knew, the person on the phone could be watching him from a safe distance. He scanned both sides of the street and checked the rear-view mirror, doing his best to keep his backside firmly planted on the seat.
‘So all of a sudden you’re an explosives expert?’ Fabel’s voice was thick with contempt. ‘You expect me to believe that you have the capability to plant a bomb in my car, in a public street, while I was away from it for forty-five minutes? I thought taking scalps was the name of your game, Winnetou.’
‘Very amusing.’ The low, distorted voice laughed and it sounded like something from a nightmare. ‘ Winnetou… But don’t pretend you don’t understand my cultural references, Herr Fabel. I am no Red Indian, no character out of a Karl May novel. You know that the tradition I revive is very ancient and very European in its origin. And, in any case, please feel free to test my skills as a bomb designer… or hoaxer. All you have to do is step out of your car. If I’m lying, nothing will happen. On the other hand… As for the device
… it has been attached to your vehicle for some time. I have merely activated it remotely. Oh, by the way, did you like the little gift I left you in your apartment?’
‘You sick bastard…’ Fabel hissed into the phone. ‘I’m going to get you. I swear to you that I will find you, no matter how long it takes.’
‘You know, Herr Fabel, you are remarkably aggressive for a man who is currently sitting on a large quantity of high explosives. If I were to hit the right button, you would be incapable of getting anyone. Ever. So why don’t you simply shut up and listen to what I have to say?’
Fabel said nothing. He felt a film of sweat between his ear and his cellphone. His heart still pounded and he felt sick. He believed the inhuman voice in his ear. He believed in the bomb beneath him.
‘Good,’ said the voice. ‘Now we can talk. First of all, you may be wondering why I have gone to such lengths to place you in peril. And, for that matter, why I have not detonated the bomb before now. Well, it’s simple. As I said, extricating you from this particular predicament will take time. And while it is all going on I shall be taking another scalp. It’s an interesting predicament for you, Herr Fabel. You will have to decide how many resources are devoted to rescuing you and how many to stopping me ending another life.’
‘We have more resources than you can tie up,’ said Fabel in a flat, dead voice.
‘That’s as may be, but I have to tell you that you are sitting on only one of a pair of bombs. The other is at a location which I shall not disclose at the moment. But I have printed a note with the address and all the details.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s the thing. I have attached the address to the explosive in the bomb in your car. So, even if the bomb squad find a way of disabling the pressure switch under your seat or in the door, they cannot carry out a controlled explosion. If they do, they destroy the only clue to the location of the second bomb. And the second bomb will be detonated, trust me, Herr Fabel.’
‘When? What time is the second bomb set to go off?’
‘I said nothing about it being on a timer, Herr Fabel.’
‘So now you’re a terrorist? What is this all about?’
‘You are not a stupid man, Herr Fabel. This has always been about terrorism, as you call it. It’s also about betrayal. Which brings me to my main point. I want you to resign from this case. Take a holiday. A break. I have given you an excuse. The stress of this current ordeal. You see, Herr Fabel, I am now going to volunteer more information about this case than you have been able to gather yourself. The people I am killing deserve to die. They are murderers themselves. And when I have finished I shall never kill again. There are not many left, Fabel. Only another two. After they are dead, I shall disappear and never kill again. And, as I said, all of my victims are guilty. In fact, you yourself would consider them guilty of crimes against the state.’
‘Hauser? Griebel? Scheibe? Are you telling me they were terrorists?’
‘You heard what I said.’ The electronically deadened voice spoke without passion. ‘But mark this well, Herr Fabel, it is your decision. You can choose to withdraw from the case and allow me to finish what I have started, or I will add other victims to my list. Very specific victims. No one need know about this aspect of our conversation. You can choose to walk away and live your life, and to allow others to live theirs. At the end of the day, the people I have to execute are nothing to you. But others, Fabel… Other people who do not deserve to die may die, depending on the choice you make. I am going to hang up now. I suggest you contact your colleagues in the bomb squad without delay. But, before I go, I’m going to send you a few photographs on your cellphone. By the way… such beautiful hair. A wonderful shade of auburn. Almost red.’
The line went dead. The phone trilled and the screen told Fabel that he had received a message with images. He opened the message and his gut gave a sudden, intense lurch.
‘You bastard…’ Fabel felt tears sting his eyes as he scrolled through the images.
He looked through them again. Photographs of a girl with long auburn hair. Photographs of her on her way home from school; of her with her friends; of her shopping in the stores on Neuer Wall with her father.
9.15 p.m.: Hammerbrook, Hamburg
The entire street had been turned into a stage set. Fabel sat squinting against the dazzle of the arc lights, mounted on high stands, that had been set up around his car. The area had been completely evacuated and Fabel found himself worrying about what they had said to Herr Dorfmann as they ushered him from his home: anything but that there was a bomb in his street.
The first person to talk to Fabel was the commander from the LKA7 bomb squad, who approached the car alone. The commander spoke in an even tone, but loudly so that Fabel could hear him through the glass of the still-closed side window, and asked him to remember absolutely everything the caller had told him about the device, as well as anything he had said that might give them a clue as to where the second bomb was hidden. Fabel’s mouth was dry and he had felt sick, but he tried to stay composed and focused as he went through every detail.
The bomb-squad commander listened, nodded, took notes and all the time spoke in a steady voice of practised calm, which only served to make Fabel more anxious about his situation. Nor did the appearance of the bomb-squad boss do much to put Fabel’s mind at ease: he had appeared beside Fabel’s car wearing a wide apron of thick Kevlar, divided into articulated segments, over his black overalls, his head encased in a heavy helmet and his face shielded by a thick perspex visor. The specialist eased himself down and lay on his side beside the car, extending a telescopic black pole with a mirror at its end and slowly and carefully sliding it beneath the car.
After a moment, he re-emerged at Fabel’s window, grunting with the effort of straightening himself. ‘Okay…’ He smiled grimly. ‘I’m afraid it’s no hoax – or not as far as I can see. Unless it’s a very convincing-looking dummy, we would appear to have a very substantial amount of high explosive strapped to the underside of your car. We will get you out of this, Herr Chief Commissar. I can promise you that. But you’re going to have to sit tight for a while.’
Fabel smiled weakly, leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He felt impotent and helpless. Fabel knew that he was almost obsessive about being in control and minimising the random element. But now he was in a situation over which he had absolutely no control. He tried not to think about the explosives beneath him, about the fact that his life lay as much in the hands of the specialists who would defuse the bomb as it would if they were surgeons and he lay on an operating table. All he could do was sit there, without moving, and wait to be liberated.