Fabel worked late. He went through all the arrangements with the team methodically, then went through them again twice more before letting his officers go. He sat in his office until eight p.m. He again went through the transcriptions of the interviews that he, other officers and Susanne had had with Margarethe Paulus. The overwhelming feeling he got from reading them wasn’t horror or anger or revulsion, just a profound sadness.
The Valkyrie Project had been the child of another time, another mindset. Another Germany. In its cold, calculated ruthlessness, the Valkyrie Project had been conceived without any thought for the girls who were selected. Their lives, their dreams and their hopes were to be totally disregarded. They were instruments of the state and nothing more. In many ways, the Valkyrie Project had been typical of every action carried out over forty years by the Stasi.
All the girls’ dreams had been stifled. There was something in that. Flicking through the interview transcripts, Fabel found what he was looking for: a scrap of conversation, in between the hard questioning.
Principal Chief Commissar Fabeclass="underline" Why did they pick you and the other girls?
Margarethe Paulus: We all had something they wanted. Or a mix of things. We were all sporty, we all did well at school, we were all loyal to the Party. Can I have some water?
Interview break while water is brought for interviewee.
Principal Chief Commissar Fabeclass="underline" You said all the girls were sporty. What was your sport?
Margarethe Paulus: Everything. Especially athletics. But not good enough for serious competition. It was different for Anke, though.
Principal Chief Commissar Fabeclass="underline" Anke Wollner? Why was that?
Margarethe Paulus: Anke and Liane both had special talents. Liane was great at languages, for example. And debating. But Anke’s talent could have got her into the Olympics. She was a world-class junior skier. And an excellent shot, of course. Her speciality was the Nordic biathlon. But that was all stopped when she was inducted into the project.
Fabel snatched up his desk phone. When the hotel reception answered he asked to be put through to Karin Vestergaard’s room.
‘Karin? It’s Jan. Listen, I’m on to something. Of the other two Valkyries, Anke Wollner is our most likely candidate to be the one that Drescher set up as his pension plan, right?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Margarethe Paulus said in an interview that Anke had a promising career as a world-class athlete cut short by her induction into the Valkyrie Project.’
‘What of it?’
‘The Stasi could make all of her records disappear… wipe all trace of the name Anke Wollner off the face of the earth, just as they did with the other two girls. But not if she is on record outside the GDR. If, at any point, she went with a team into another country, even if it was another Warsaw Pact state, then she’ll be on record. Maybe even a photograph…’
‘It’s a long, long shot, Jan,’ replied Vestergaard. ‘Her name might have been on record somewhere at some time, but it’s no use to us. Why do I get the feeling that that’s not the only reason you’re calling me?’
‘The Jorgen Halvorsen murder. It took place in Drobak, near Oslo?’
‘Yes…’
‘The other thing that Margarethe told me was that Anke’s speciality was winter sport. Cross-country skiing, Nordic biathlon, Nordic combined, that kind of thing.’
‘I still don’t get-’
‘Imagine if you were a world-class junior winter sportswoman, growing up in the GDR late seventies, early eighties. What would be the biggest event — the one to make the biggest impact on your consciousness?’
‘The eighty-four Winter Olympics in Sarajevo or…’
‘Exactly, or the eighty-two Nordic Skiing World Championships in Norway. And the venue was the Holmenkollen Ski Centre in Oslo. Like I said, this is just another bit of wild speculation, but what if the Valkyrie is Anke? Maybe she got a little nostalgic, wanted to see the place she dreamed as a kid that she might compete in one day. Or simply had to kill a little time before she got down to killing Halvorsen?’
‘I’ll get on to the Norwegian National Police,’ said Vestergaard. ‘Holmenkollen is a visitor centre and museum now — maybe they’ve got CCTV.’
‘That’s what I thought. Thanks, Karin. Like I said, it’s a long shot, but if it gives us a face…’
Fabel called Susanne on her cellphone. She was already on the Munich train and they chatted for a while. He told her he was going to pick up something to eat on the way home and get an early night. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.
Fabel ate at a cafe-restaurant in Altona Altstadt before going home. He felt like taking a shower but decided to leave it until the morning: he was tired and wanted to get to sleep and was worried that a shower would revive him too much and keep him awake. It was about ten-fifteen when he fell into a deep, deep slumber.
He had no idea how long he had been out. The boundary between sleep and wakefulness was blurred. He had become vaguely aware of Susanne warm and next to him. He felt her breasts against his back, then her mouth and tongue on his neck; her hand on his flank, his thigh, his belly. Her hand was now around him: caressing, stroking, bringing him to life. His wakefulness and his arousal stirred together.
Then his confusion.
Susanne was away. He had spoken to her on the phone. He felt her tongue in his ear. No, not her tongue. Not Susanne’s. He was now, suddenly, fully awake. He tried to spin around to see who was in the bed with him when something drew tight across his throat. He couldn’t breathe and his head felt suddenly light. He reached up and was rewarded with a further tightening of the garrotte around his neck.
‘Lie still,’ she whispered into his ear. As a lover would. ‘Lie still or you’ll die.’ The pressure around his throat eased, yet she still held him in her other hand, stroking. ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ she whispered. A low, breathless whisper. ‘But I will if you don’t do as I tell you. Do you understand?’
Fabel tried to speak, but the garrotte had stifled his voice. He nodded his head.
‘Do you know who I am?’
He nodded again. He felt the light-headedness ease with the loosening of the ligature. His mind raced and he thought about struggling, fighting for his life. But he knew that she would strangle him as soon as he moved.
‘I am a Valkyrie.’ Her voice was soft and warm in his ear. Still her hand worked on him. ‘But I am not the one you are looking for. Do you understand that?’
Fabel was confused. He moved his hand up to his throat. She gave the garrotte another twist. Fabel felt the throb of his pulse in his neck below the ligature, but not above it. Just pins and needles. The dark world of his bedroom becoming darker. Red-black darker.
‘I said: do you understand that?’
He nodded.
‘I was — am — Liane Kayser. I am not Anke Wollner. Anke is the one you want, not me. I did not work for Georg Drescher. Since the Wall came down I have lived my own life. I have done my own thing. I am not a professional killer. Or, at least, I am not a professional killer any more. And anything I might have been involved with is not your concern. But I want you to understand that I still have all of the skills they taught me. I could finish you right now — you do understand that, don’t you, Jan?’
Fabel nodded again.
‘I’m going to ease the garrotte so you can talk. If you do anything stupid I will tighten it again, but this time all the way. It has an inertia slide on it. That means I can tighten it fully and walk away: the ligature will be fastened tight and you won’t be able to do anything to stop yourself strangling to death. Even I won’t be able to release it if I tighten it fully. Do you understand?’
Once more, Fabel nodded. Feeling the ligature ease again, he gasped for breath. She was still touching him below. Stroking him.