The Jewish Candidate

by David Crossland

  Carver was winded and his back was hurting. “Got to get to the car,” he whispered. Renner was limping. They looked round. The torches were getting closer. “I can’t go on, my ankle’s fucked,” said Renner.

  “This way,” said Carver. They left the path and headed for the stream. They crouched down behind its low bank, some ten metres from the path. After a couple of minutes they heard low voices on the path almost level with them. Carver’s chest tightened. The voices passed. The stream gurgled along peacefully.

  Renner nudged him. “Do you think they’ve given up?”

  Carver shook his head.

  A twig snapped. Carver inched his head over the bank. Two figures were standing a few metres away with their backs to the stream. They stood motionless. Carver put his hand on Renner’s shoulder and squeezed it tight. Eternal seconds passed. One of the men walked up to a tree, unzipped his fly and let out a torrent of piss. Carver lowered his head. They heard the soft rustle of footsteps on leaves. The men were heading back towards the path.

  They waited another half an hour, occasionally peering over the edge of the bank. No sign of torches.

  “Don’t they have to come back this way?” Carver hissed.

  “No idea. Maybe the path leads round and back up through town.”

  “OK, let’s find a way back.” Renner could only hobble so it took an hour to struggle up through the dense woods. Finally they spotted a road and a sign saying Wewelsburg: 5 KM.

  It took them over an hour to reach the village. The streets were deserted and there was no sound coming from the castle. They reached the BMW and got in, closing the doors quietly. Carver was about to put his key in the ignition when they were both blinded by a flash in front of them. He started the engine and pushed the central door lock. An elbow thudded against his window. Renner shouted out. “There’s loads of them! Fucking drive!” Carver’s vision hadn’t returned but he loosened the handbrake and rolled the car forward. A figure jumped out of the way and kicked the door. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and revved down the hill. Seconds later they were out of the village. They raced along the country road.

  “They photographed us,” said Carver, checking the rear view mirror. No one was following them.

  “I know. But we’ve got them too,” said Renner. “Let’s look at the digicam.” A red dawn was breaking. Shrouds of white mist lay in the meadows. “Yes! Fucking yesssss! You’ve got him! Crystal clear. Obersturmbannführer Tietjen doing the Hitler salute! Unmistakeable! He’s finished!”

  Carver slapped the steering wheel. “Result. Wonder what they got up to in that dungeon.”

  They reached the brow of a wooded hill overlooking a green, broad valley. The sun pierced the horizon, bathing the dew-covered green fields in a deep orange sheen. Carver pulled over and switched the engine off. He studied the digicam footage and smiled. Renner thumped his arm. “Nice one.”

  “Close run thing,” said Carver, checking the rear view mirror.

  “Wish I’d brought a second pair of pants,” said Renner. “That damned beast!”

  “You did a lovely somersault over that pig. Athletic.”

  They savoured the landscape for a minute.

  “Mind you, lucky she wasn’t in heat,” Carver added. Renner looked at him. The corners of his mouth started twitching. They burst out laughing.

  “I’ll tell my grandkids about that one day!” Renner said, wiping his face.

  Carver started the engine. “Man, have we got a story.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Berlin, Saturday, August 18

  “This isn’t Germany in 1936. It is Germany today. Last night, the Free National Party, the FNP, held a torch-lit rally to mark the anniversary of the death of Rudolf Hess, Adolf Hitler’s deputy, in Spandau prison on August 17, 1987. The celebration, complete with a sinister ceremony held in a castle vault built for Hitler’s SS, was led by the founder and leader of the FNP, Hermann von Tietjen, shown giving the Hitler salute in the video still.

  The Chronicle secretly filmed the Nazi festivities in Wewelsburg Castle, which was converted into a place of worship for Hitler’s murderous SS organisation in the 1930s. It now contains a museum on the SS.

  The castle’s management said it was outraged and would be suing Mr Tietjen and his fellow perpetrators for damages. The police said they were conducting an investigation into trespassing and behaviour ‘hostile to the German constitution.’

  The publication of the video footage will come as a huge embarrassment to the populist FNP and is a potentially devastating blow to Tietjen, who has been riding high in opinion polls ahead of a general election next month.

  Tietjen has been winning support with calls for curbs on immigration and greater police powers to tackle radical Islamists following a grenade attack on the Social Democrat candidate for the chancellorship, Rudolf Gutman, who is Jewish, last month and the firebombing of a Jewish bakery in Berlin on August 5. A group calling itself the Revengers of Allah has claimed responsibility for the attacks in which four people have died including a young Islamist who blew himself up.

  The charismatic Tietjen, who has always strictly denied any ties with neo-Nazis, has been trying to emulate the success of populist, anti-Islamic parties elsewhere in Europe in recent years.

  Recent opinion polls showed the FNP at 16 percent, with many middle class voters in particular agreeing with Tietjen’s tough stance on Muslim immigration. He was being billed as a possible junior coalition partner in a right-wing coalition.

  The disturbing images clearly show Tietjen in a black shirt, similar in style to an SS uniform, in the centre of a military-style formation of around 50 men, many of them with shaven heads and wearing army fatigues.

  The footage betrays him as a Nazi and is likely to trigger calls for the party to be banned.

  The FNP could not immediately be reached for comment.”

  Carver banged out the story in 45 minutes on his terrace and sent it to London, along with the high-definition video from his digicam. He leant back in his chair and stared up at the blue morning sky. Renner walked out, beaming. “I’ve sold the story to Blick. Three thousand euros for the exclusive story. Kerchingggg! This was worth getting trampled for. Tietjen looks like a complete tosser. This is going to blow him out of the water.”

  Martin Plough called. “This is dynamite, Frank. What an incredible video! Nice one. Front page tomorrow and the website will run it now. We need 1,000 words from you today on the far-right in Germany, and weave in stuff about Gutman and the election.”

  The video became a YouTube hit within hours of appearing on the Chronicle and Blick websites. The story was picked up by newspapers and broadcasters around the world. The FNP at first denied that the man in the video was Hermann von Tietjen. But the image was too clear to keep that lie up. So the party spokesman changed his tune and said it had been a private gathering, and that Tietjen had not been making the Hitler salute – he had just been raising his arm to greet his comrades.

  “Tietjen has disgraced himself and his misguided party, and besmirched Germany’s good name in the world,” said Rudolf Gutman in a statement. “He has exposed himself as a neo-Nazi and parliament must now consider filing a legal motion to ban the FNP as unconstitutional.”

  Even Chancellor Angela Müller, who usually pretended right-wing extremism didn’t exist in Germany, said the images were “unacceptable.”

  Berlin, FNP headquarters

  Tietjen entered the back door of the 19th century villa in the eastern suburb of Berlin to avoid the gaggle of journalists waiting outside. He leapt up the stairs to his office. His political advisor, Achim Beckmann, was waiting for him, looking worried.

  Tietjen strode past him with a brief nod, sat behind his outsize desk flanked by two German national flags hanging on brass polls and switched on the television.

  He flicked up and down the channels. “They’re saying I’m finished,” he said. “What are we at in the polls?”

  “Sixteen
percent, Commander. Latest Forsa poll out today.”

  Tietjen folded his hands and rested his chin on the tips of his forefingers. “Let’s see. Worst-case scenario, we drop ten points because of this. We’d still be above the five percent threshold. We’d still get into the Reichstag.”

  “Absolutely, Commander,” Beckmann said. “And the drop may be less than 10 points. You’ll mobilize the hard core. Go more radical in your speeches.”

  Tietjen slapped the desk. “We’re going to find out who leaked Wewelsburg and punish him. And those intruders.”

  “And the Jew, Commander? Still on?”

  Tietjen got to his feet, walked round his desk and stood in front of Beckmann. He spotted fear in the eyes of his aide. Beckmann relaxed a little as his Commander broke into a thin smile. Suddenly Tietjen slapped him in the face. Beckmann staggered back.

  “Why would you even ASK that?” Tietjen snarled. He lurched forward, grabbed Beckmann by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him hard against the wall. Beckmann crumpled to the floor. Tietjen bent down and shouted in his ear. “Why would you even ask that?” Beckmann felt Tietjen’s spittle on the side of his face and tried to turn to the wall, shielding his face with his hands.

  “Look at me,” Tietjen said. “Look at me! I said look at me! I said look at me!” He tore one of Beckmann’s hands away and slapped his face again. “I said looooooook at me! I demand that you obey my orders! Look at me!” Tietjen pulled Beckmann head back by his hair.

  “Commander … please.” Tietjen saw the crotch of Beckmann’s trousers darken. The humiliation was complete. His blue eyes were wide open, fixing Beckmann with a manic stare. “Are you with us?”

  Beckmann nodded. His eyes were welling up with tears.

  “Of course, Commander. I was … I was only asking for orders.”

  The two men didn’t move. The aide realized to his horror that Tietjen was deciding whether he was trustworthy or not, and that his life hinged on the verdict. Any trace of defiance in his demeanour, anything other than abject servility, could spell his death sentence. Suddenly Tietjen lent forward to within an inch of Beckmann’s ear. “Nothing changes. Operation Edelweiss will continue. I shall order the launch of the second phase tonight.” Tietjen’s jaw tightened and a look of unbridled hatred flashed across his face. “More than ever now. I’m going to spill that fucking Jew pig’s brains on the ground. His days are numbered. He will never rule our fatherland.” Beckmann looked up at his boss and nodded. Tietjen ruffled Beckmann’s hair and left the room.

  Carver’s phone buzzed. It was Ben Beedham. “Oleg is delighted with this Titton story and the play it’s getting,” he said.

  “Who?”

  He could hear Beedham sigh. “Oleg Kutuzov. Your proprietor.”

  “So does that mean my job is safe?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Although we’ve earned ourselves brownie points. How’s it going with the assassination? Any leads?”

  “Still working on that,” Carver replied.

  “Anything you need, let me know.” Beedham rang off.

  Carver shook his head. “We’ve earned ourselves brownie points.” Beedham was trying to claim some of the credit for himself. The evening news showed Tietjen being led into a police station in Berlin for questioning, flanked by his lawyer and two plain clothes police officers. Thanks to Carver’s film, the FNP leader faced a charge of unconstitutional behaviour because he had given the Hitler salute. Commentators said it was one the most spectacular falls from grace of any politician in German post-war history. Tietjen’s career was finished just as it was starting to flourish. He could have been a kingmaker in a right-wing coalition. Pundits had been talking about him becoming deputy chancellor with a plum cabinet post.

  “Where does this leave our plot?” Carver said. “Do you think he’ll still go through with it?”

  “Based on all we know and what we’ve seen of this guy, I’d say hell yes,” Renner remarked. “What’s he got to lose now?”

  “But he’d never get away with it! He’ll be under scrutiny now. The police are going to start watching the FNP, bugging their phones, bribing informants.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t care,” said Renner. “Maybe he doesn’t even want to get away with it. Maybe he just wants to do it.”

  Carver was staring at the TV. “Look, he’s holding something in his hand. A book.”

  As he reached the top of the steps to the police station, Tietjen turned and gazed straight into the news cameras, his eyes impassive in a storm of flashguns, the book now clearly visible in his hand. Carver stood up and walked closer to the screen. “It’s got Edelweiss in the title,” he said, squinting. “Odd. If you were about to be interrogated by the police, would you take a book with you? Something to read in case you got bored?”

  “Probably not,” said Renner.

  “Neither would I,” said Carver. “That’s some kind of a signal.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rhine Valley, Sunday, August 19

  The visitor checked into the “Hotel Zur Traube” overlooking the Rhine in the small town of St. Goarshausen. “You are lucky to have got a room,” said the receptionist, an elderly lady. “There’s a wine festival across the river in St. Goar today.”

  “Ah, I love wine,” the guest replied in near-perfect German. “I’m going to enjoy this stay.” St. Goarshausen and its slightly bigger sister, St. Goar, are pretty but owe their status as tourist resorts largely to their proximity to the fabled Loreley, the 120-metre high rock that towers above the narrowest and most treacherous stretch of the river. Strong currents and boulders just beneath the surface cause frequent shipping accidents there. According to folklore, Loreley was a beautiful siren who sat singing on top of the rock and distracted sailors on passing ships, sending them crashing into the rocks and sinking to a watery grave.

  The window of the tiny third-floor room opened onto the Rhine. The river was about 250 metres wide here. A ferry linked St. Goarshausen and St. Goar. The nearest bridge over the river was more than 50 kilometres away.

  The St. Goar wine festival was in full swing by the time Gutman’s campaign bus rolled into town. The half-timbered houses were decked out in flags bearing the town’s coat of arms, a cheerful red lion on a yellow background, and crowds thronged the wine-tasting stalls in the narrow streets.

  A band was playing Dixie music on a stage in the market square in front of long lines of tables. Hundreds of locals and tourists were getting merry on Riesling in the autumn sun.

  Gutman was about to crown the St. Goar Wine Queen. “Let’s forget about the Nuremberg attack for an afternoon,” he said, slipping his jacket over his polo shirt. “Do we have a photo of the young lady?”

  Becker handed him a picture of soon-to-be Queen Corinna III, a chubby blond teenager with acne. “She’s just completing her apprenticeship at a hairdressing salon here,” said Becker, well-prepared as ever.

  “Mmhmm,” said Gutman,walking down the bus. “What a lovely girl. Quite the Loreley. What do you think, Bruno?” He handed the photo to Heise behind him.

  “Don’t think I’d run aground,” Heise grunted.

  “Now, now, Bruno, be nice!” Gutman studied the photo again. “So you think shipping would be unaffected if Corinna were sitting on the rock? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Smooth sailing I reckon,” the gravel-voiced, florid ex-journalist replied with a grin. “No accidents.”

  Becker interrupted their laughter. “Guys, please! If anyone hears you talking like that you can kiss the campaign goodbye.”

  “Yes, yes Heinrich.” Gutman ushered him down the aisle. “Just having a bit of fun.”

  “And please, Rudi,” Becker said, turning before they got off the bus to meet the mayor. “No talk about being a Moselle boy. They won’t like it. This is the Rhine. So you love Rhine wine.”

  “Oh come on, come on” said Gutman, climbing down the steps.

  The mayor of St. Goar, Werner Latz, was a fellow Social D
emocrat, and the longest serving mayor in Germany, as he reminded everyone he met. He had no intention of retiring even though he had just turned 69. He would go on as long as the burgers of St. Goar wanted him. “Until I drop dead,” he would say. “They’ll have to carry me out of the town hall feet first.” The pallbearers would face a tough task, because Herr Latz was a large man and proud of his belly. His double chin oozed out on under his neatly trimmed beard and he had collar-length grey hair, cut on top to a thick carpet of bristles. The former hippie liked to ride his Harley Davidson up and down the Rhine at weekends, and was so popular that no one had bothered to challenge him in local elections since 1992.

  “RUDI! Here’s our chancellor!!!” Latz greeted Gutman with a warm handshake and powerful slaps on the back. Flashguns went off all around them. Becker and Heise, standing in the background, exchanged smiles. This was useful coverage. Local boy coming home. Well, almost home.

  The flags along the Rhine rippled gently. There was a very mild, intermittent breeze. It should pose no problem at this range. The table was placed in the centre of the hotel room, a metre back from the window. It was covered by a white sheet, under which stood a German-made DSR-1 sniper rifle, mounted on a bipod. The telescopic sight and the silencer, both painted white, were jutting out of the sheet through pre-cut holes. The gun was trained onto the stage on St. Goar’s tiny church square across the river. The magazine with four .338 Lapua Magnum cartridges was in place. The maximum effective range was over 1,500 meters. The target would be about 310 meters away. The guest sat under the sheet, made the final adjustments, and waited.

  Colourful bunting covered Heerstrasse all the way up to St. Goar’s church square, and the narrow street was heaving with revellers and self-proclaimed wine connoisseurs. Crowds milled past barrel-shaped wine stalls offering the local Rieslings. Gutman’s security team wasn’t happy. He was darting right and left, shaking hands, joking about how he envied them being able to spend the whole day boozing, at one point listening intently to a pensioner who was complaining about how long it took to get an appointment with her GP. They had almost reached the square when Gutman veered towards a stall to engage in some impromptu wine tasting. Heise, struggling to keep up, was relieved that big Latz was with Rudi. The man was stout enough to stop a few bullets.