Kessler ran down to his office, two steps at a time. Grohmann was waiting. ‘Listen,’ said Kessler, ‘there’s been some gigantic heist, so the Maslyukov case will have to wait.’
‘But Gerasimov is coming.’
‘Do me a favour. Deal with him.’
Grohmann frowned. ‘I can’t do that. This is a police matter, not a question of national security.’
‘He went to see a Generaloberst from the Stasi. That puts it on your plate.’
Grohmann hesitated. ‘I shall have to take advice.’ He turned to go but, just as he did so, Dorn ushered Gerasimov into Kessler’s office.
Gerasimov had a look of great self-importance, like a magician about to produce a white rabbit from under his hat. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said.
Kessler looked past Gerasimov to Dorn. ‘Are you ready to move?’
Dorn looked surprised. ‘When you are.’
Kessler turned back to Gerasimov. ‘I’m afraid something has come up. My boss has taken me off the case. Temporarily, I hope. Herr Grohmann will explain …’
Grohmann gave an exasperated splutter. ‘This is impossible!’
‘But I have the names,’ said Gerasimov. ‘The names and passport numbers of Ivan the Terrible.’
‘Good, good,’ said Kessler. ‘Give them to Herr Grohmann.’ And, after shaking the Russian by the hand, he pushed past him and out through the door.
Dorn switched on the siren as he weaved through the traffic round the Innsbruckerplatz, up the Stadtring and then the Schumacherdamm to Tegel. They were at the Omni Zartfracht warehouse only fifteen minutes after leaving police headquarters. Four patrol cars were already there, their lights still flashing. The large doors to the warehouse were closed. Two uniformed policemen stood guard. Inside, in an anteroom, three others waited, their bulky leather jackets cramming the small space.
‘Outside,’ said Kessler.
He went through to the inner office to find a uniformed sergeant and three men. Kessler knew the sergeant. ‘Who are these?’ he asked.
‘The art people,’ said the sergeant.
‘Günter Westarp,’ said the first, an older, bedraggled figure, from his appearance clearly an Ossie.
‘Julius Breitenbach,’ said a younger man. He looked not only pale, but likely to vomit at any moment.
‘Dr Kemmelkampf, from the Ministry of Culture,’ said a third, a tall, thin-faced figure, like a schoolteacher, the eldest of the three.
‘Who was first on the scene?’ asked Kessler.
The young man raised his hand. ‘I came here with Herr Westarp from the New National Gallery. We were expecting the works of art … we telephoned …’
‘How did you get in?’
‘The gate was closed but not locked.’
‘The office.’
‘The same.’
‘There was no one here?’
‘No.’
‘How did you discover that the paintings had gone?’
‘We looked,’ said Günter Westarp. ‘We had been here many times before. You see, they had to be sorted and arranged so that they could be moved out quickly when the moment came …’
‘Quickly, yes,’ said Kessler with some sarcasm. He turned to Dr Kemmelkampf. ‘Have you been in touch with the company?’
‘Yes, that is to say, they have only a small office here in Berlin.’
‘And?’
‘Apparently, it is closed. We are trying now to make contact with the head office in Zürich.’
‘Looks like a long firm,’ said Dorn.
‘Please?’ asked Dr Kemmelkampf.
‘A phantom company,’ said Kessler.
‘Impossible,’ said Dr Kemmelkampf.
‘You chose the company?’
‘Yes. That is, the ministry …’
‘You knew the company?’
‘This warehouse was newly constructed, purpose-built. We were most fortunate in that … The large number of works of art … There was nowhere else suitable …’
‘Was the company known to you?’
‘Known? Well, not personally, because that was not the responsibility of my department.’
‘Who chose it?’
‘Who? I am not sure. I would have to look at my papers. But certainly, the ministry endorsed it. We all thought … it seemed so convenient. Everything was so rushed, you understand …’
Kessler looked around the office. It was unusually tidy: nothing seemed out of place. He turned to the sergeant. ‘Has anything been touched?’
‘Nothing. Except the letter.’
‘What letter.’
Günter Westarp stepped forward. ‘There was a letter, on the desk, addressed to me.’
‘You opened it?’
‘Yes. I thought …’
‘What did it say?’
‘It was a business letter, saying that we would be told how we could recover the paintings.’
‘Signed?’
‘Raskolnikov.’
‘Code name,’ said Dorn, ‘so when we get the ransom demand, we’ll know it’s for real.’
‘Do you know anyone called Raskolnikov?’ Kessler asked Günter Westarp.
Westarp shook his head. ‘No.’
‘It’s the name of the hero in a novel by Dostoyevsky,’ said Julius Breitenbach.
‘Which novel?’ asked Kessler.
‘Crime and Punishment.’
‘So our thief has a sense of humour,’ said Kessler, reading the letter typed on a plain sheet of white paper.
Dear Dr Westarp. In respect to the paintings we have removed from the warehouse, kindly await instructions as to how they might be returned.
The name ‘R. R. Raskolnikov’ had also been typed, not written. He turned to Dorn. ‘Check it for prints.’
‘Some hope.’
Kessler again looked round the office. Dorn was right. He could tell at a glance that it had been wiped clean. He opened a filing cabinet. The waybills were neatly placed in their files. They were unlikely to give any clues as to where the works of art had gone. Their best hope was for some tip-off from the underworld, but the complexity and the audacity of this heist – the planning and the money that must have been required to set it up – made it unlikely that it was the work of ordinary thieves.
‘Chief …’ Dorn called Kessler from across the room. Kessler went to join him. ‘Something odd here. Two lamps with no flex …’ He pointed to where they lay on the floor.
‘Why odd?’
‘Well, when everything else is so orderly …’
Kessler turned back to the civil servant. ‘Dr Kemmelkampf. I would be grateful if you would return to your ministry and assemble all those who had anything to do with this exhibition.’
‘Certainly, except …’
‘What?’
‘The minister is in Bonn. I dare say he will return when he hears. It was a project in which he took a personal interest.’
‘Then we shall have to wait until he comes back, but in the meantime, I should like to talk to anyone else involved.’ He turned to Günter Westarp and Julius Breitenbach. ‘I would like you to do the same. Return to your office in the New National Gallery.’
‘It is at the New German Foundation on the Schöneberger Ufer.’
‘Go to the Schöneberger Ufer, then. Assemble your staff, the entire staff. Everyone who has had anything to do with the Excursus exhibition. I shall be along later in the morning to question them.’
‘There is one problem,’ said Günter Westarp.
‘Yes?’
‘The Russian member of our staff, Dr Serotkin, is absent. He is in Moscow. And we have been unable to locate another, Dr McDermott.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A woman. An American. She was expected at the New National Gallery but did not turn up. We telephoned her flat but there was no reply.’
Kessler turned to Dorn. ‘Call headquarters. Ask them to try and locate this Dr McDermott. And tell them that the fingerprint boys can move in. Not t
hat I expect they’ll find much. Whoever is behind this certainly knew what they were doing.’
On his own territory in the Prussian Ministry of Culture, Dr Kemmelkampf had regained his incisive, bureaucratic manner. He showed Kessler and Dorn into his office before going into the conference room where four other officials were waiting. ‘We have informed the minister,’ he said. ‘He has cancelled all his appointments in Bonn and is returning at once to Berlin. He suggests that the matter should be kept out of the news for as long as possible. The Federal ministry feels the same. If the lenders become aware that their works have disappeared, it will do incalculable damage to our cultural relations with other nations. Excursus had the personal endorsement of the Federal Chancellor. It was to have been opened by President von Weizsäcker himself. Everything has to be done to ensure that the paintings are recovered before it becomes known that they have been stolen.’
‘I don’t control the press,’ said Kessler. ‘And we were not asked to ensure the security of the paintings.’
‘Of course.’
‘The thieves have a twelve-hour start. The works could be anywhere in Germany. They may even have left Germany. Checks are being made on the frontiers but, as you know, controls over EC borders are now loose.’
‘I understand.’
‘The most likely way of recovering the paintings is by finding out who stole them, either from a tip-off or by investigation. Our job is the investigation. Technical experts are examining the warehouse but, to be honest, I don’t expect them to find many clues. In my experience, cases that involve fraudulent companies have one thing in common: someone on the inside who puts the business their way. So our best bet is to follow the trail back from the owners of OZF.’
Kemmelkampf looked uncomfortable. ‘My colleague, Dr Giesenfels, has tried to contact their head office in Zürich, but apparently …’ His voice tailed off. ‘He had better speak to you himself. Come …’
The three men passed through to a conference room where three other civil servants sat at a table, as if waiting for the start of a departmental meeting.
Prompted by his chief, Dr Giesenfels, a small, bald, bespectacled man, delivered his report in a high-pitched voice. ‘We have had considerable correspondence with Omni Zartfracht,’ he began, peering into a folder open on the table in front of him. ‘The invoices were always sent by the Berlin office and were paid into an account at the Berliner Bank. We also had correspondence with their head office in Zürich, and many calls. But this morning, there was no reply from the Zürich number. I talked to the management of the building, and I was told that no one had come to the office this morning.’
Kessler shook his head, an outward sign of his incredulity. ‘If I may say so, gentlemen, it seems incredible to me that you should entrust paintings of such value to an unknown company.’
‘Unknown?’ said Kemmelkampf. ‘It was new but it was not unknown.’
‘Whose idea was it,’ asked Kessler, ‘that OZF should be employed to store the works of art?’
‘Yes, well …’ Dr Giesenfels looked down at his file. ‘You must understand, Herr Inspector, that because of political considerations, the exhibition had to be organized in a very short period of time. Normally, an exhibition of this size would take three, four, even five years from start to finish. Excursus had to be arranged in less than one. The galleries had already made arrangements for the summer. We had to cancel three exhibitions, and curtail six others. This left a minimum amount of time for the hanging of the exhibitions, and of course storing so many paintings was also a problem, so it was suggested that they be assembled at an outside location …’
‘Suggested by whom?’
‘I am not sure. By Dr Westarp, I believe.’
‘And who chose OZF?’
‘Again, I cannot be sure. But a preliminary examination of the minutes of the Excursus committee indicate that the recommendation of OZF came from Dr McDermott.’
As they drove from the offices of the Prussian Ministry of Culture to the Schöneberger Ufer, Kessler and Dorn heard from headquarters that the Swiss police had been to the OZF headquarters in Zürich. It was a single room with a telephone and was now empty. They were looking at the register of companies and at OZF’s bank accounts and would report back as soon as they had any useful information.
‘They’ll find nothing,’ said Dorn. ‘False names, false documents, numbered bank accounts.’
At the Excursus office, the exhibition organizers were waiting in the conference room for the arrival of the police. It was quite clear to Kessler that some of them were in a state of shock. The two secretaries had been weeping and, at the sight of the detectives, both burst into tears once again. The young man, Breitenbach, still looked nauseous, Westarp like a dog that has been whipped and fears it is about to be whipped again. An older woman, introduced as Frau Dr Koch, had her face set rigid in an expression of self-righteous indignation, as if the world had finally reached the sad state she had so often predicted.
At Kessler’s suggestion – their sobs and sniffs were distracting – the two secretaries were sent back to their desks. The four who remained then sat down with the two detectives – Kessler taking the chair at the head of the table.
‘Is this the entire staff of the Excursus exhibition?’ Kessler asked Westarp.
‘Yes. Apart from the Minister, Dr Serotkin and Dr McDermott.’
‘Still no word from Dr McDermott?’
‘No.’
‘The Minister is on his way back from Bonn?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Serotkin is in Moscow?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Four days ago.’
‘Why did he leave?’
‘For personal reasons,’ said Westarp.
‘Do you know what these were?’ asked Kessler.
‘His father had suffered a stroke.’
‘And when is he due to return?’
‘It is hoped for the opening on the sixth of July.’
‘I should like you to tell us, from the beginning, of your contacts with the freight and storage company, Omni Zartfracht,’ said Kessler.
‘Of course,’ said Westarp. ‘You see, we were faced with a difficult situation because of pre-existing schedules in the different museums …’
‘That I know. But why OZF?’
‘They offered us just the facilities we wanted – an air-conditioned, climatically controlled warehouse near Tegel, custom-made to handle works of art.’
‘Who suggested OZF?’
‘I can’t remember. I imagine it was the ministry.’
‘Dr Kemmelkampf has told us that it was first mentioned here.’
Westarp looked confused. ‘Here?’
‘At a meeting of the organizing committee, by Dr McDermott.’
‘That is possible,’ said Günter Westarp. ‘I cannot remember who first made the suggestion.’
‘You will appreciate,’ said Kessler dryly, ‘that it is a matter of some importance.’
‘Yes, of course. But it was some months ago.’
‘For your information, it now seems that Omni Zartfracht was a bogus company set up simply for the theft of the paintings.’
The four around the table were silent. Then Frau Dr Koch suddenly blurted out: ‘It’s too valuable.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Kessler.
‘Art. It is now too valuable. Too expensive. People no longer think of it in terms of the spirit, only in terms of cash.’
‘But they cannot sell the paintings,’ said Julius Breitenbach. ‘They are too well known.’
‘It is more likely that they will demand a ransom,’ said Kessler.
‘And if the ransom is not paid?’
‘Destroy the paintings.’
‘I cannot believe that,’ said Julius Breitenbach. ‘In that warehouse were all the best Kandinskys, the best Chagalls, the best Maleviches, El Lissitzkys, Gabos, Pevsners – all that exists in the world of mo
dern Russian art in the twentieth century. It would not be a criminal but a madman who would bring himself to do that.’
Gertie, one of the secretaries, came into the room to say there there was a call for Inspector Kessler from police headquarters. Kessler nodded to Dorn to take it.
‘Which of you here,’ asked Kessler, ‘had contacts with the staff of OZF?’
‘The ministry dealt with the contractual side,’ said Günter Westarp. ‘I talked from time to time with the director of the Berlin office. We all went down to the warehouse from time to time to examine the works of art before we signed for them.’
‘Who did you deal with?’
‘The warehouse director, Herr Taub.’
‘And the younger one, Mishi,’ said Julius Breitenbach.
‘They were very tight on security,’ said Westarp. ‘Do you remember the first time? They wouldn’t let us in.’
‘Were they Germans?’ asked Kessler.
‘Yes.’
‘East or West?’
‘Ossies.’
‘Accents?’
‘Saxon, I would say.’
‘Leipzig?’
Breitenbach shrugged. ‘Somewhere down there.’
Kessler turned to Westarp. ‘What would you say?’
‘About what?’
‘The accents?’
Westarp looked confused. ‘They were, yes, Saxon perhaps. From Halle, perhaps, or Leipzig. But they were not all the same.’
‘How many were there?’
‘It varied. Half a dozen or so.’
‘Would you recognize them again?’
‘Taub, certainly.’
‘And Mishi,’ said Julius Breitenbach. ‘I had quite a few chats with him.’
‘Can you think of anything unusual about them?’
Günter Westarp shook his head. ‘No.’
‘They were very good at their job,’ said Frau Dr Koch. ‘Very efficient.’
‘Disciplined,’ said Julius Breitenbach. ‘Taub gave an order and it was done.’
‘They really did not seem like criminals,’ said Frau Dr Koch. ‘Those that I saw were so young, and so earnest.’
‘I agree,’ said Westarp.
Dorn came back into the conference room and handed a note to Kessler. Kessler glanced at it, then looked up. ‘I am afraid appearances can be deceptive. A call to the Chancellery in Bonn from Raskolnikov has said that all the paintings will be destroyed at midnight tonight unless a ransom is paid of one hundred million dollars.’