The grenade was made in Bulgaria. It was wrapped in a towel and stowed at the bottom of his grey rucksack. He had never thrown a grenade before, but he had seen it done hundreds of times on his Xbox at home. Sali had told him that once he pulled out the pin and threw it, it would explode within 3.2 to 4.2 seconds. And that it would kill or cripple everyone within a 15-metre radius. “I will kill the Zionist today. I will be famous. My life will change forever.” He caught himself talking and looked around. No one had noticed.
Rudolf Gutman scanned the vast congress hall, took a sip of water and launched into the climax of his speech.
“I love my fatherland. As a boy, I remember hiking with my father high up above the Moselle. We stopped and looked down the narrow valley with its winding river glistening in the evening sun. I saw the ancient castle on the horizon. And I remember thinking then that I will always belong here, like the earth that feeds those vines.”
The hall was silent.
“Germany knows the appalling cost of war, the inestimable value of peace and freedom. It is ingrained in us. My own father fled before the Holocaust. He was outraged and devastated by the evil that beset Germany. But he showed faith and courage by returning after the war. I grew up here, in safety and prosperity. And I feel a duty to help everyone in this country, regardless of their colour or creed, to have the same opportunities to build the lives they want for themselves and their loved ones.”
Applause rippled through the hall.
“Comrades, unifying the two Germanys was a gigantic task, and we are well on the way to completing it. But there are two further unifications we must master, and they are no less challenging.
“The first is to unite our divided society. I want our immigrant communities to feel at home here, and to be given the chance to help shape our common future. Only then will we be able to fully unleash the tremendous potential our country harbours! Let us be clear, comrades. I want to create a new, more cosmopolitan Germany, a country in which people are no longer labelled foreigners just because they look different. A country where Mehmet gets the same education as Max, where Gülçin’s job application form isn’t thrown in the bin because of her name. Yes, comrades, let’s not deny that happens! I want a country where neo-Nazis are afraid to walk the streets, not the people they humiliate and terrorize with their racist violence!
“The second unification, comrades, is Europe. Today, Europe is at risk once again of breaking apart, and it is Germany’s duty to prevent that happening. We are on the point of betraying the legacy of our fathers and mothers, who toiled to break down the barriers that divided this blood-soaked continent for so many centuries. We Germans have a unique, indispensable contribution to make to the stability of Europe and I promise you, comrades, I PROMISE YOU” – he banged his fist on the lectern – “I will ensure we make that contribution. We shall put Europe back on a path to prosperity, social equality and to a common political and economic future. It is in our own national interest!
“And comrades, when our task is complete, they will point to us and they will say Germany helped save Europe. Germany kept Europe together in its darkest hour since the war! And no one,” – Gutman wagged his finger – “no one will be able to claim with any justification that we’re trying to dominate this continent. No one will have any reason to suspect our motives when we say yes, we’re proud of who we are, proud of what we’ve done for this great continent! Comrades. Come with me, and we shall prosper, we shall stride tall, unencumbered by the past, united with our friends, and ready to overcome whatever challenges the future may hold! Come with me!”
A few seconds of awed silence, then a rolling thunder shook the hall as 7,000 delegates of the Social Democratic Party broke into applause. They rose to their feet, cheered, hooted and began chanting “Rudi! Rudi!” Dozens of reporters gave up any pretence at neutrality and joined in. Some of the older party workers wiped away tears. The ovation turned into a determined rhythmic clap as if they were demanding an encore. Members of the SPD executive board seated on the podium behind Gutman discreetly checked their watches. One minute, two, three, four, six, nine. Twelve minutes of applause! German parties often gave their leaders long ovations to show unity and strength. But twelve minutes was unprecedented. The country was witnessing a grandiose campaign launch.
“I’ve got them,” Gutman thought as he held up his hands. With six weeks to the election, he had hit his stride.
Carver stood on the press gallery above the auditorium and went over his notes. Nuremberg hadn’t seen such rapturous applause at a party rally for, oh, 75 years. It would make a good line for the paper. A pair of delicate hands grasped the banister next to him. “Impressive man. I hope he wins,” said a woman in an Eastern European accent.
He looked round. “Good speech,” he agreed. She smiled. She had an open face and brown, engaging eyes. Her dark hair was cut short with a tousled fringe.
“Who are you covering this for?” he asked.
“I am freelance correspondent for the Polish newspapers. Ludmilla Janowski.”
“Frank Carver. London Chronicle.”
“Oh, the Chronicle! Pleased to meet you. Or should I say ‘How do you do?’”
“Both are fine,” said Carver. “But ‘how do you do’ is better.” Her mobile phone rang. She smiled again. “Excuse me.” He watched her walk off. Her tight black trousers accentuated her long legs.
“Do you like what you see?” Bettina, the Reuters correspondent, had taken a break from pounding her laptop.
“What do you mean?”
“You are a dark horse, Frank. Only been here a few weeks and already checking out the talent.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bettina. What’s your take on the speech?”
“He gave me goose bumps. And he’s good looking. He’ll walk it. Unless he gets shot. Have you heard his office is being inundated with anti-Semitic hate mail?”
A security guard gave Carver a cursory patdown before letting him into Gutman’s backstage office an hour later.
“Herr Carver, you’ve got 15 minutes,” said Gutman’s spokesman, Heinrich Becker.
“But I was told 30 minutes!”
“Sorry but Herr Gutman is extremely busy,” Becker said. “You’re not the only journalist he’s speaking to this afternoon. And he’s got to get back to Berlin tonight.”
“That’s OK Heinrich, maybe we can stretch it out. Guten Tag, Herr Carver.” Gutman, in shirtsleeves and with his tie loosened, breezed into the room. He gave Carver a firm handshake and turned to the tall blond woman behind him. “Thank you Gisela. Herr Carver, you should interview Frau Hornbauer, my events manager for the campaign. She’s the best-organized person I’ve ever met.” Hornbauer nodded, picked up a folder and left the room.
Gutman was shorter than Carver had expected. He had thick, dark hair and brown eyes. He was a keen footballer, an added bonus for a German politician.
“Your speech was well received, Herr Gutman,” said Carver. “Are you satisfied with the 12-minute ovation or had you expected a few minutes more?”
“Was it really 12 minutes?” Gutman grinned and shrugged as they sat down. “How come you speak such good German?”
“I spent three years in Germany in the early 1990s, covering the unification,” Carver replied. “I’ve only just returned for a new posting here. What does your candidacy mean for Germany?”
“You mean my being Jewish?”
Carver nodded.
“I think it’s one of many signs that Germany is becoming a normal country again. But I don’t want to overstate the importance of my background. What counts is my commitment to Social Democracy, to making this country a fairer, more prosperous place.”
“How do you feel about the hate mail you’re getting, and the fact that Jewish institutions in this country have to be guarded around the clock? That Jewish cemeteries are frequently desecrated? That people urinate on the Holocaust memorial in Berlin
?”
Gutman thought for a moment and shifted in his seat. “I feel as bad about acts of anti-Semitism as I do about Doner Kebab shops having their windows smashed, or Ethiopian immigrants being beaten up because they are black. Combating racism and fostering integration is one of my central campaign pledges.”
Kemal’s phone beeped. The message read “Allah is Great.” It was the signal to take the safety clip off the grenade and be at the congress centre in 30 minutes. He walked into a cafe, ordered a coffee and made for the lavatory. There was only one cubicle. He sat on the toilet seat and opened the backpack. He gingerly lifted out the towel and unfolded it. He stared at the pineapple-shaped lump of iron on his lap. The letters GHD-2 and RDX were stamped on the grooved surface. He pulled off a length of toilet paper to dry his clammy hands. He held the grenade as Peter had taught him. In his right hand, with his thumb over the lever. It weighed almost half a kilo. Peter had fitted a metal clip to the lever to provide additional safety during the train ride from Munich. It had to be removed before the pin could be pulled. Kemal was about to prise off the clip when the door to the toilet opened. In a panic, he fumbled the grenade. It fell to the tiled floor with a heavy thud that sent it spinning towards the gap under the cubicle door. With a loud gasp, Kemal hurled himself down and grabbed the bomb just before it rolled out. The tips of two shoes were inches from his face. There was knock on the cubicle. “Hallo? Everything OK?”
Kemal swallowed. “Yes thanks. Just slipped.” He cradled the grenade to his chest and felt his heart pounding. The shoes stepped back. The guy was waiting for his turn. Kemal struggled to his feet and flushed the toilet. As the cistern filled with a loud gush, he took a deep breath, flicked off the safety clip and buried the bomb in the right hand pocket of his leather jacket. He packed the towel in his bag and fixed an apologetic smile on his face before opening the door and brushing past the man, who gave him a suspicious look. He left the lavatory, gulped down his waiting coffee without sitting down, threw some coins on the table and hurried out.
Carver typed the story out in the press room, emailed it off and leant back. After 15 minutes his mobile buzzed. It was Martin Plough, the deputy foreign editor. “Nice story, Frank. But we just don’t have room for it today. We’re turning it into a NIB.” That meant News in Brief. It was worse than being spiked. 700 words cut down to a little 40 word box at the bottom of the page.
“You’re joking.”
“Afraid not.”
“But I spent ages setting this up! I’ve come all the way to Nuremberg for it! It’s the official launch of Gutman’s campaign, it’s an exclusive interview with the guy …”
“Sorry Frank, nothing I can do. Really. We haven’t got the space. A full-page ad has come in. Save the quotes for another time. And Frank … you’ve seen the email, right?”
“What email?”
“Ben Beedham’s been made foreign editor and he wants you to come to London on Friday for a meeting.”
“What? What about?”
“Don’t know.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“The glass is always half empty with you, isn’t it, Frank?”
A story like this would have been on the front page a few years ago. It was different now. All they really wanted was showbiz news. Carver slammed his laptop shut and packed up.
Kemal could see the glass front of the Nuremberg Congress Centre. His mobile phone beeped. “Allah is with you.” The sign to be at the main entrance in five minutes. A crowd of 50 people waited by a police fence just outside the entrance. Three black cars were lined up, waiting for Gutman and his entourage. Kemal walked up to the fence. The cars were 15 metres away. Within easy range. There were a lot of police about. He remembered what Sali said. “Stay calm, throw it, crouch down, bang, don’t look back, walk to the street. A black van will be waiting to pick you up.” He was ready to die for Allah, but he wanted to fight for him first. He was going to go to Pakistan and train to be a legendary fighter. His goal was within reach. His hands were buried in his pockets. He was gripping the metal so hard that his fingers ached. He was holding the grenade as instructed. Thumb over the lever, and the ring of the pin placed so that when he extracted the grenade from his jacket, his left hand could easily reach over to pull the pin and prime the bomb. Once he hurled it, the lever would be released, triggering the three-second fuse. A middle-aged woman next to him said something to him. He nodded and tried to smile.
Carver walked out of the building and headed left, away from the crowd. A police officer glanced at the press accreditation around his neck and let him through the cordon. He scoured the street for a taxi. There was time for a beer somewhere before the train back.
Gutman and his aides filed out. Cheers and applause rose from behind the police fence. He flashed a grin and waved at the crowd. Kemal tugged his hand out of his pocket with a hoarse roar of “Alahu Akbar!” People turned around. Gutman stopped and looked over. Kemal bent down to pull the pin. It wouldn’t budge. A bodyguard launched himself at Gutman and tore him to the ground. Kemal’s ears rang with the beating of his heart. The woman next to him let out a scream. He started to feel dizzy. He tugged again and stared at his left hand. The pin was on his forefinger. “Allah be praised.”
An ear-splitting bang ripped through the air. Carver ducked and saw bodyguards draw pistols. People were running away from the cars in all directions. Gutman was bundled into the second car. The first BMW raced past, its tyres screeching as it hit the street and turned hard right. Gutman’s car followed close behind. Carver could make out Gutman sitting up but couldn’t see whether he had been hit. The car had to make an emergency brake to avoid a motorbike. Then it sped off, wheels spinning. Carver sprinted back towards the lobby. People were on the ground bleeding. The blast had shattered all the glass around the entrance. Three agents were kneeling down by a body of man whose head was a mass of blood and brains. Carver recoiled. The sight reminded him of Baghdad. People were lying about, dazed and bleeding from pin-sized puncture wounds left by grenade fragments that had buried themselves deep into their bodies, wreaking unseen havoc with organs, muscles, arteries and bones. A woman next to the corpse was unconscious, the front of her white blouse drenched with blood. “What happened?” Carver asked one pale-looking man. “That guy,” he trembled, pointing at the body. “That guy, he was about to throw something at Gutman. He shouted Allah and then this bomb went off in his hand, I think it was a hand grenade. It went wrong. Thank God. Fucking bastard Muslim.”
The woman looked very badly injured. A policeman pushed Carver away. There was a commotion behind them. A gaggle of reporters trying to get out of the building had piled into the revolving door and got stuck. Carver rang the desk. “There’s been an attack on Gutman’s life. By what looks like an Islamist. He shouted Allah is Great. Looks like he was about to throw a hand grenade at Gutman but it went off early. I witnessed it. The attacker is dead on the ground in front of me. Does that make a story?”
“Shit. How’s Gutman?”
“I don’t know. He was driven away at high speed. It’s pandemonium here.”
Ambulances and more police cars arrived. Police threw up a cordon of red-and-white tape around the lobby. After 10 minutes, Becker, his face white as a sheet, emerged from the exit and walked towards the scrum of reporters waiting for news. “Give me some room, please!” Becker yelled, looking scared and flustered. This guy needed to man up if wanted to be a government spokesman. He cleared his throat. “A small explosive device detonated as the candidate was leaving the building. Rudolf Gutman is unhurt! I have no other information at present! Please contact the police if you have further questions!” He turned and pushed his way back into the building, ignoring the flurry of questions.
Carver sat on a low wall by the street. He noticed a small hole in the top of his bag. A fragment from the grenade had torn through the case and shattered his digital recorder. The laptop was working though. He started typing. Two dead so far including the attacker,
at least a dozen injured.
Sven Wuttke watched the ambulances wail off and walked up to the police cordon. “Did the terrorist die?” he asked a reporter. The man nodded. “He almost blew his own head off.” Wuttke returned to his car and started the engine. He smiled. The Commander would be pleased. And young Kemal, up there in Allah heaven looking for virgins, was probably wondering what went wrong with that grenade.
Two hours after the attack, police raided the Munich apartment where Kemal Alic, 17, had lived with his parents, Bosnian Muslim immigrants. They seized his PC and took away boxes of his belongings. “He was a quiet boy who kept out of trouble,” an uncle told reporters. “He was training to be a car mechanic. He must have been brainwashed. We’re not a religious family. We are devastated.”
That evening, an unknown group calling itself the Revengers of Allah claimed responsibility, saying it had dispatched “the martyr” to rid Germany of the “Zionist.”
“We will complete this holy task,” the group warned in a statement emailed to news organizations. “And the German people will suffer the wrath of Allah if they elect him.”
Hermann von Tietjen, the first party leader to respond, posted a statement on the FNP’s website calling for greater police powers to monitor “the army of potential homegrown terrorists lurking in our immigrant communities.”
“Our country must not and will not be held hostage by the threat of Islamic terrorism,” said Tietjen. “Thank God Herr Gutman survived the attack. My heart goes out to the injured and to the family of the SPD delegate, a mother of two, so brutally and tragically killed in Nuremberg.”
Chapter Six
Berlin, Wednesday, August 1
Heinrich Becker drove into the bowels of the public car park, reached the lowest level, shut off the engine and waited. It was after 11 p.m. and the place was deserted. The minutes crept by. The booming slam of a car door on another floor made him jump. Out of nowhere, his rear door opened and a man got in. Becker swung round. “Face the front,” the man commanded. He had the hood of his jacket pulled up. It was impossible to see his face in the gloom.
The Jewish Candidate Page 3