The Jewish Candidate

by David Crossland

  “No one’s talking about doing the honours themselves?”

  “What, you mean kill him?” said Schwartz.

  They stared at him.

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “I have a proposal for you,” said Carver. “5,000 euros in cash if you give us inside info on the scene ahead of the election. You would remain utterly anonymous in our articles, of course.”

  Carver ignored Renner’s amazed look. “I want to know more about what your comrades think about Gutman. What links the neo-Nazis have with Tietjen, if any. I’ll pay you €2,500 in a week and €2,500 after the election. You won’t be quitting for a while, will you? Not until Escape has arranged everything, right?”

  Schwartz shook his head. “What if I don’t find anything out?”

  “I’ll take that risk,” Carver replied. “But I think you’ll be able to.”

  Schwartz considered for a moment. “It’s your money. I can keep my ears open. No guarantees.” He got to his feet. “I’m off. Wait till I’m gone.” He shook Carver’s hand but ignored Renner. They watched him lumber out of the room.

  “5,000 euros? How are you going to get that approved?” Renner demanded.

  “Don’t know. But the guy’s clued up. He gave us great stuff today. Enough for a great inside story. I want to keep him as a source. I reckon I’m going to need a good scoop. Something’s afoot at my paper.”

  A rat scuttled along the far wall. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Renner.

  They walked towards the exit in the last vestiges of daylight. They had almost reached the back door when a crashing thud reverberated down the staircase, followed by a tinkling of glass.

  “What the fuck?” Renner hissed.

  “Come on, it’s too dark to go investigating,” said Carver, pulling the door open. The rain had stopped. They looked up at the building. “Could have been an animal knocking something over,” Carver said.

  “Oh sure. Some squirrels trying to nick a typewriter you reckon?” said Renner. “We had company in there.” A dog barked in the distance.

  They found the gap in the fence and got back to the car.

  “Do you think he was followed?” said Renner.

  “Possible,” Carver replied, starting the engine and checking the rear-view mirror. “Or maybe someone’s watching us.”

  “And this doesn’t worry you,” Renner asked.

  “Not especially,” Carver replied. “If we’re being followed, it proves we’ve got a story.”

  They drove off, scanning the road behind them as they headed out of town. There was not a vehicle in sight.

  “He gave us a valuable tip-off on this Wewelsburg,” said Carver. “Guess what?”

  “Don’t tell me, I know,” Renner nodded. “We’re going to gatecrash the party.”

  The next morning, Carver called the FNP’s press office. “Guten Tag, Frank Carver, London Chronicle.”

  The party’s spokesman, Klaus Streelitz, was friendy and polite. “Herr Carver! What can I do for you?”

  “I have a source claiming that Herr Tietjen has links with the neo-Nazi scene, with Kameradschaften. I was wondering if I can get a comment on that.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “What rubbish,” Streelitz snapped.

  “Is that your comment?”

  “I’ll call you back in a minute.”

  Five minutes later, Streelitz rang back. “Herr Carver.” His voice was cold and tense. “Herr Tietjen denies in the strongest possible terms ever having had any links whatsoever with neo-Nazis or right-wing extremists in Germany or elsewhere. He abhors Nazism. Any suggestion to the contrary is outrageous and libellous. The FNP will take legal action against anyone making such claims, in Germany or abroad, do you understand Herr Carver? Or abroad.”

  “So that’s your comment?”

  “Guten Tag, Herr Carver.” Streelitz put the phone down. Carver smiled. That had rattled their cage a bit.

  Chapter Eight

  London, August 3

  Carver’s cab pulled up outside the majestic Victorian head office of the London Chronicle. The new proprietor, Russian oligarch Oleg Kutuzov, bought the newspaper two years ago to give his stable of tabloids and TV stations a sheen of respectability. Some said he was mainly attracted by the illustrious Fleet Street address, because he spent an inordinate amount of time there, striding around the newsroom with a gaggle of fawning editors in tow.

  As Carver walked through the grand pillared entrance, he remembered how proud he used to feel to be a Chronicle hack. The paper was powerful and authoritative, and its aura rubbed off on all who worked for it. They were outside the hierarchy of society. They could converse on equal terms with anyone – government leaders, captains of industry, football stars. People didn’t mess with the Chronicle. But it was different now. The acquisition rescued the 180-year-old paper from financial collapse, but at a price. Kutuzov was intent on dumbing it down to boost circulation.

  The lift doors opened on the third floor. The place had undergone a complete redesign since Carver was there last. It looked like a Goldman Sachs trading room. The desks were much closer together and arranged in a complex system of circular hubs. Each desk had two computer monitors. Giant TV screens, all tuned to Kutuzov’s Horizon news channel, were suspended from the walls.

  Someone slapped him on the back. “Hey, Frank!” It was Jonathan Wright, the Chronicle’s chief crime reporter. “You’re looking fit!”

  “Four years in Islamabad. Shortage of good beer,” said Carver, patting his stomach. “Making up for it in Berlin though.”

  “Do you like the redesign?”

  Carver hesitated.

  “Yeah, it’s shit isn’t it. Can’t hear myself think in here. I often go down to Starbucks to write. It’s quieter there. And …” he leant closer and lowered his voice, “… there are too many fuckwits in here these days. What are you here for?”

  “Wish I knew,” said Carver. “I’ve been summoned for a ‘chat.’”

  “Oh. Summoned. Chat. You’re fucked.”

  A young, stern-faced woman in a smart business suit walked over. “Frank Carver? Ben’s ready to see you now.”

  He didn’t recognize anyone as he was led through the newsroom to a spacious, glass-fronted conference room looking out onto Fleet Street. Beedham wasn’t there yet. Ten minutes passed. Finally he appeared, holding a foamy latte in one hand and his BlackBerry in the other. “Here’s our grizzled war veteran! How are you Frank? Call me Ben.” Carver stood up and shook his soft, moist hand. Beedham had curly ginger hair and the breezy confidence instilled by a public school education and the knowledge that he was a protégé of Oleg Kutuzov, who made him a company director when he was just 28. He was 32 now, and had asked Kutuzov to let him do a stint on the Chronicle to broaden his CV. So his mentor appointed him as foreign editor, even though Beedham’s journalistic experience was confined to six months of stock market reporting straight after university.

  Martin Plough, Beedham’s deputy, joined them and closed the door.

  Beedham was about to speak when his phone beeped. He spent a minute answering an email. Then he looked up, pushed his glasses up his stubby nose and clasped his pink hands together. “How’s it going, Frank?” he beamed. “How’s Deutschland? How’s the Fourth Reich?”

  Carver nodded. “Fine thanks. This election is going to be a big deal.”

  Beedham’s face looked blank for a split second.

  “Yes what’s your take on that?” Plough said. “Sounds like a turning point for the country. A Jewish candidate. Just as Germany’s starting to flex its muscles.”

  “Europe’s under the jackboot again, eh?” said Beedham. “Yes well, Frank, let’s cut to the chase, I’m afraid I’ve got another meeting before lunch. I’ve been thinking of a realignment of our foreign coverage. A redistribution of resources. As you know, we’ve been investing heavily in the website and in interfacing with social media” – he linked his fingers in an i
nterfacing gesture – “and have hired some good people for the new showbiz beat. So Oleg and I feel we need to make editorial cutbacks elsewhere. We can’t afford to maintain a network of correspondents across Western Europe …”

  “It’s a pretty small network,” Carver said. “We only have three reporters left there. Paris, Brussels and me.”

  “As I was saying, Frank, we can’t afford to maintain a network of highly-paid correspondents in Europe. So our plan is to concentrate our experience at the hub here in London and let freelancers and, er, younger reporters feed raw material from the European capitals. We can guide them from here, rewrite their copy. Maintain quality, save costs.”

  Carver looked at him. “So what are you planning?”

  “In a nutshell, we’d like to move you back to London.”

  “But I’ve only just moved to Berlin!”

  “We’re thinking of a position as a senior sub-editor here.”

  “Sub-editor?”

  “With a fire-fighting role.”

  “You mean I still get to risk my neck in war zones? Thanks!”

  “Please don’t misunderstand us! We hugely appreciate what you’ve done for the Chronicle, Frank.”

  “Sub-editor? Are you’re trying to get rid of me?”

  “Good gracious, no, Frank!” There was a pause. “But … if you were to decide to pursue other interests, we would be prepared to offer you a generous package.”

  “Don’t go engraving the carriage clock just yet,” said Carver, glowering at Beedham under his deep brow. The room fell silent. He looked out of the window. The prospect of spending the rest of his days vegetating as a sub-editor in London was unbearable. A life of rush hours crammed into the Tube, of rewriting half-baked copy sent in by the pimply stringer who had replaced him. Counting the hours until the lunch break when he could eat his Marks and Spencers sandwich on a bird shit-spattered bench on the patch of grass around the corner, envying the pigeons their freedom. An ageing, washed-up journalist sliding down the last inch of the razor blade of his professional life. He could see the pitying looks on the faces of younger colleagues.

  But if he took redundancy, it would be the end of his career. He wouldn’t find a proper job at another paper. At 47, he was too old. And freelancing? No expense account, no name, no respect. To make any money at it, he would have to become a plagiarist, chained to a desk, constantly cutting corners in his reporting to save money and time.

  It was time to play the joker.

  “The Jewish candidate.”

  “What about him?” asked Beedham.

  “I have inside information that there’s a Nazi plot to kill him.”

  “What? How come you haven’t written about it?”

  “The attack in Nuremberg may have been an Islamist, but there is something bigger going on. Nazis are out to get him too, and the leader of the main far-right party may be involved. Do I have your guarantee that at this stage, what I tell you now will not leave this room?”

  Beedham and Plough nodded.

  “I have information that the head of the FNP party, his name’s Tietjen, wants to assassinate Gutman before the election. My source says Tietjen is hiring or has already hired an assassin.”

  “Oh, come ON!” Beedham laughed.

  “I’m serious,” Carver countered. “I have a German contact who is well into the neo-Nazi scene. I’ve started to research it. Do you want to leave a story like that up to a stringer?”

  Carver turned to Plough. “This Jewish candidate’s good, believe me. Charismatic, eloquent, popular. He’s promising a new course for the nation. To rescue Europe, restore Germany’s sense of self. And we have a far-right party with a strong leader who’s going to get a lot of votes next month. And he wants to kill Gutman!”

  Beedham and Plough looked doubtful.

  “Look, I need time to research this! I’m onto something very big here, but if you won’t let me keep my job, forget it. I’ll risk everything, I’ll go hell for leather to clinch this story, but I want your guarantee that if I get it, I can stay in Berlin until my posting’s over. That’s three years.”

  Beedham folded his arms behind his head and swivelled on his chair. A roll of flab strained against his blue cotton shirt.

  Carver bit his lip. His future was in this man’s hands.

  “OK,” said Beedham. “When’s the election?”

  “In a five weeks. September 9.”

  “You’ve got until then. If you bring in that scoop, I’ll revise my reorganisation and keep you on in Berlin.” He stood up. “But I want a global megascoop on this Gutland assassination, Frank. I want this to be the Chronicle’s story. I want us to own it!”

  “Gutman, Ben. Gutman.”

  “Whatever.” Beedham left the office, slamming the glass door behind him.

  “I’m not sure that was the start of a beautiful friendship,” Carver remarked.

  “Looks like you’ve won a stay of execution, though,” said Plough.

  Carver arrived back in Berlin just before midnight. He took the lift to the top floor of his apartment block. The door slid shut. He pressed the light switch on the landing, but it didn’t come on. He probed his way along the corridor towards his front door. Something crunched under his shoes. He fumbled for his keys and opened the door. It was double-locked. He was sure he only single-locked it on his way out. There was a faint smell of leather in his flat. He walked into his office. Everything looked untouched. He was about to leave the room when he saw the photo of Rebecca and him lying on the floor. The glass of the frame was smashed. He picked it up. Someone had trodden on it. The broken fragments had scratched her face. He extracted the print. It was his only copy.

  Chapter Nine

  Berlin, Saturday, August 4

  David Khosa gazed out of the train window as it rolled through the northern suburbs of Berlin towards the Baltic Coast. After almost a year of hard studying at the Technical University, he was looking forward to his first weekend out of the city since he arrived from Cape Town.

  Only three more months left to complete his postgraduate course in electrical engineering and he would be able to return home to pick a well-paid job and marry his fiancée Mbhali, the most beautiful woman in southern Africa. That description always irritated her because it implied there may be an even more beautiful woman in northern, western or eastern Africa, or on another continent. Thinking of her always made him smile. He looked around and saw a young blonde woman sitting across the aisle staring at him. He nodded and said “Guten Tag.” She frowned and turned away with a hint of disgust on her pretty face. As if she had caught a whiff of dog shit.

  Three more months. When he first came to Berlin he had been so excited, despite the separation from his love. Berlin was such a positive symbol for the world. No more divisions. The fall of the Wall coincided with the end of Apartheid. Everything about it fascinated him, from the Red Army soldiers’ rude graffiti on the interior of the Reichstag parliament building to the brilliantly refurbished grand museums, the grand old boulevards, the hidden remnants of the Wall, the Holocaust memorial.

  But it only took a few weeks for the fascination to pass. Why did people here look so miserable? What did they have to be sad about? They were rich, everything worked, their lives were incredibly easy. The cool reception he got from many ordinary Berliners as soon as he left campus reminded him of the bad days back home. The way some people on the street and in shops looked at him made him feel uncomfortable. That indignant look as if he had done something wrong, or was about to. The first time he went to a public library, he noticed that one of the staff followed him down the aisle and watched him from a few metres away. As if he was going to slip a book into his bag. Or make a bonfire of Goethe’s works and dance around it chanting.

  He had worked hard to polish his German and knew it well enough to realise that strangers were addressing him with the informal “Du” rather than the formal “Sie” they reserved for fellow Germans. It was a little thing but it irked
him, and he wondered if the whole of Europe was like this.

  Even before he left Cape Town he had been warned about attacks on foreigners in eastern Germany. But he was 28 and knew how to look after himself. And he was determined to make the most of his time here. He shut his eyes and thought of the sandy beaches back home. His tutor Bernd had told him he must visit the Baltic island of Rügen before he returned to Cape Town. “Great beaches. You’ll feel at home, David.” He was looking forward to renting a “beach basket”, a covered wicker bench unique to German beaches, and watching the sunset.

  The train was a cherry picker. It stopped at deserted, run-down little towns. At Eberswalde, three skinheads got on the train, cackling loudly and carrying a crate of beer. As they moved down the aisle, one of them spotted David, pointed and shouted “Look, a Negro! From Hottentottenland!”

  The three skinheads sat down next to the blonde girl and watched David. Two of them looked like twins. They had expressionless blue eyes. Doc Martens boots, military-style trousers and bomber jackets. Their eyebrows were almost white. The third man was obese, with a flabby gut spilling over his jeans. He wore a black T-shirt with some Gothic writing. He stank of sweat.

  As David looked around, he noticed that the relaxed chatter from the handful of other passengers in the carriage had stopped and given way to an expectant, nervous silence. The fat youth leaned over and gawped at him. “Eh you,” he snarled in English. “You fucking Neger. You go home to Hottentottenland!” The two others started making ape noises and sniggering. They clinked their bottles. David looked at him, shook his head and turned away. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  The man raised his voice, feigning offence. “Hey, fucking Affe I talking you! You hear me? I talking you! This is Germany. We want no Nigger here. This is a clean country. Hey Neger, Nigger, I talking you!”

  He was shouting now. David could smell the beer on his breath. He knew he should move to another carriage but the rage welling in his gut wouldn’t let him. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. No one in the carriage spoke out.