The Jewish Candidate

by David Crossland

  “I know a bit about wine, you know, being a Moselle boy myself,” Gutman told the winemaker, within earshot of reporters. He opted for Loreley Riesling Kabinett 2009, a superb vintage, he was assured. He held the glass up, swirled the golden liquid around, and stuck his nose deep into the glass. He inhaled and closed his eyes. At last, he took a sip. Playing to the audience, he made loud sucking noises and gargled the wine before swallowing it. “This one is …” he paused, held the glass out for a refill, and repeated the whole procedure, with a more intense look of concentration on his face. For a second, he looked lost in thought. “This one is …” The tension mounted. Becker, standing nearby, held his head in his hands, waiting for the faux-pas. Even Latz was starting to look nervous. “Absolutely excellent!” Gutman beamed with genuine enthusiasm and shook the vintner’s hand. “Congratulations, really. A taste of honey with a hint of fruits of the forest, blackberries, I’d say. But what depth! Your taste buds embark on a magnificent journey! Seriously, I can hear the Loreley singing. Respect. This gives the best Bernkastel Rieslings a run for their money, I can tell you!”

  He took out his wallet. “One case of six please.” Flashguns went off as he handed over two €20 notes, took the crate of wine and dumped it into Becker’s hands with a mischievous grin. “Would you mind putting this on the bus, Heinrich? And mind, I’ve counted the bottles.”

  The crowd around him laughed. Gutman marched up the street. “Mustn’t keep the wine queen waiting!”

  Heise walked behind the pack, smiling to himself. This lad was a born campaigner.

  The location was good. The escape would be easy and quick. It would take the police ample time to realize where the shot had come from. The only potential problem was the ferry. Its bridge was high and when it was moored at St. Goar’s quay, it obscured part of the stage. It had no fixed departure times, leaving when it had enough passengers and vehicles on board, and it spent half its time on the St. Goarshausen bank. The ferry was unfortunate. But luck was always a factor.

  The sky was cloudless, but there was plenty of shade, and the autumn sun wasn’t too hot. The band was good, and started playing requests including the perennial favourite, “Living next door to Alice.” The lead singer was in his element, even reading out the First Division football scores as they came in. The cobbled streets and the market square were a picture, decked out in vines and flags fluttering in the sun. The Bratwursts, meatballs, Pretzels, cheese and apple cake were in plentiful supply. And above all, the wine was flowing. By four o’clock, the townsfolk of St. Goar and their visitors were pleasantly tipsy, but still sober enough to be aware that they were going to remember this day with a smile for a very long time to come. And because most of them were middle-aged or elderly, they knew that days like this didn’t come round that often. So they settled in to celebrate with a vengeance. It was a collective realization. A blissful, intense happiness had descended on St. Goar. Strangers started smiling at each other, laughing, getting into conversations, dancing in the streets. Plans to leave were dismissed. Rooms were being hurriedly booked in the nearest hotels. Everyone was ordering another half-litre of Riesling and a bottle of water, please.

  Gutman bounded onto the stage where Corinna, wearing a traditionally cut purple dress over a white blouse with frilly sleeves, was sitting on a wicker throne that was decorated with vines. Latz gave her a bear hug and took the microphone. In the distance, the bell of the ferry sounded. It was about to depart for St. Goarshausen on the far bank. “Dear friends, this beautiful young lady is my niece, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with her nomination!”

  The crowd erupted into laughter.

  “No, seriously people, I knew nothing about it!”

  More laughter.

  “Ok, Ok. I pulled strings. But so would you if you were Germany’s longest serving Bürgermeister!”

  There were groans from the audience.

  “Come on people! Who had the cycle path along the Rhine widened last year?”

  “Werner!” the crowd roared back.

  “That’s right! And who lobbied so hard for cash for our castle that the government’s finally going to repair it?”

  “Werner!”

  “Right again! And who arranged for a new five-a-side football pitch and playground to be built this summer?”

  “Werner!”

  “Exactly! So less groaning back there, Günther. I heard you!”

  There was loud cackling from Günther’s table.

  Latz turned to Gutman and held out his arm. “Now, people, our wine festival has been graced by the presence of none other than our next chancellor, Rudi Gutman! He’s from the Moselle, but we won’t hold that against him, and he prefers our wines, don’t you Rudi? Yes, people, his silence speaks volumes! Now our Honorary St. Goar Guard will start the coronation.”

  A marching band of carnival soldiers in red and white uniforms and gaudy grenadier mitres trooped on stage playing the Song of the Loreley. They positioned themselves on either side of Gutman, Latz, and soon-to-be Queen Corinna III.

  Gutman’s head was in plain view again. The reticle was on his nose. The finger squeezed the trigger and loosed a round. The recoil was sharp but limited. In an instant the bolt was pulled back and pushed forward, ejecting the spent cartridge and chambering a new round.

  The crowd was cheering and clapping. Gutman leant down to Corinna. “What’s your favourite song?” He suddenly heard a loud snap just above his head and looked round. The thick green curtain behind the stage billowed. No one else had noticed anything. “The Faithful Hussar, please,” she said. He nodded. “Great choice, I’ll see if they’ll play that. Beautiful song.”

  Gutman stepped forward to the microphone. The finger returned to the trigger. The aim was on his chest now. There was an increasing sound of diesel engines somewhere to the right.

  “Dear burgers of St. Goar, dear wine lovers. As you know, I am campaigning for the Social Democrats to become the next chancellor. But …

  The finger pulled the trigger. The recoil was almost simultaneous with a spark about 100 metres away. The bullet had ricocheted off a metal container that had started to obscure Gutman. The sniper gave a low curse. A massive barge with three layers of containers was inching upstream, battling against the current. It masked the square from view and would take minutes to pass.

  “… but I have decided to spare you a speech. I can sense from all the smiling faces that there is a very special atmosphere in this jewel of a town today. And I must say, I know now that the people of St. Goar can throw a FANTASTIC party.”

  The revellers whooped and cheered.

  “This is not a day for politics and campaigning, my friends,” said Gutman. “No. I’m not going to talk about how the SPD is going to make this a fairer country to live in for ordinary citizens. Oh no. I’m not going to talk about how we’re going to improve our children’s education by making fat cats pay more tax. No. I’m not going to stand here and drum up votes today.”

  The audience laughed.

  “This is a day for Riesling and sunshine and royalty, and it would be heresy to spoil it with mundane politics. We have a lovely new Loreley to disrupt shipping in these parts! Step forward please!” He beckoned to Corinna, who stood up nervously and joined Gutman. Latz handed him the gold-leafed crown engraved with vines and a silver sceptre bearing St. Goar’s coat of arms.

  “I hereby name you Queen Corinna III and may your reign be blessed!”

  The diesel engines of the barge chugged furiously. Just a few more inches and the firing line would be free again. “And as her first official act, Queen Corinna has requested one of my very favourite songs, The Faithful Hussar! Please, gentlemen!” Gutman turned and nodded to the marching band. The back of his head filled the scope. The finger tightened on the trigger. In that instant there was a knock on the door. The visitor didn’t answer. A key rattled in the lock and the door opened. The receptionist walked in. “Hello? I forgot to put out the soap …” She saw the sheet
and stared in astonishment, then fear, at the guest emerging from it and the big gun on the table. She turned but was pulled back into the room. A leather-gloved hand held her mouth. She heard a curse in what sounded like Russian and felt a cold blade cut deep into the side of her neck. She felt her chest tighten with terror as the blade sliced through her throat. There was a terrible feeling of wet, heat and cold. A sudden sharp pain gripped her left arm and chest. Her vision went black. She sank to the floor and slumped forward. The dying woman gave out a loud, rasping gurgle as the blood seeped onto the worn, brown carpet.

  It took just 45 seconds to pack up the rifle and stow it in the backpack. Another 30 to wash the blood off the glove. There was no one at reception. The Jew had been very lucky. But there would be other opportunities.

  By two a.m. on Sunday morning, St. Goar was quiet. The figure of a man, outlined by blue, flashing lights reflecting on the surface of the Rhine, stood on the deserted river promenade, watching the line of police cars parked outside a hotel on the opposite bank. He turned and walked across the church square of St. Goar to the back of the stage where Rudolf Gutman had crowned the wine queen hours earlier. The beam of his torch fell on a small tear in the cloth backdrop, then moved to the white wall of St. Goar’s medieval church, just five metres behind it. He scoured the wall until he found the bullet hole, about two metres above the ground. The man walked to the side of the square, picked up a cafe chair and carried it to the wall. He shone his torch into the hole and saw the metal of the bullet lodged about 10 centimetres inside. It was too deep to extricate. He cursed, returned the chair, and walked back to his car.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Berlin, Monday, August 20

  Carver’s local, “Boxers,” belonged to a retired welterweight who invested his winnings wisely, and its walls were covered with champions’ belts and photos of swollen-faced fighters punching the air. The two barmaids, retired prostitutes, had an “I’ve seen it all” look in their eyes. Gisela had a peroxide blonde mane and bronzed skin parched by Marlboro Lights and twice-weekly sessions in the solarium. Raven-haired Moni, a weight class higher, always brought in her ageing Yorkshire terrier Lucky, who had a collar in the form of a red leather boxer’s belt, adorned with colourful stones. He could sleep through anything: Boney M. tracks blaring out, clouds of cigarette smoke, deafening boxing match commentaries on the TV and drunken arguments about football. Like Moni, he’d seen it all. But he always perked up at around 10, when she dangled a Frankfurter in front of his snout for supper.

  Moni began pouring a beer as soon as she saw Carver. A glass of Engelhardt took five minutes to pour properly. Carver ordered another as soon as she placed it in front of him. The door opened. A woman walked in and sat at the other end of the bar. She looked familiar. Their eyes met and she smiled.

  “Mr Carver!”

  He took his beer and walked over.

  “Do you remember me? The SPD conference? Ludmilla. Ludmilla Janowski.”

  “Of course.”

  She gave him a disarming smile, revealing slight crow’s feet. He guessed she was a few years younger than him, in her late thirties maybe.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” said Carver.

  “Vodka, please.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled.

  “Do you live around here?” he asked.

  “I have an apartment round corner, off Savigny Square.”

  The drinks came. “I read your story,” she said. “From castle. Very impressive. That man, Tietjen. He looks so stupid now!”

  She stubbed out her cigarette. The smoke cleared. Carver caught a whiff of her perfume. It smelled expensive.

  She noticed him looking at her hands and held them up. “No ring, see? I’m not married.”

  “I assure you, I wasn’t looking!”

  A smile played across her lips. “Are you?” she asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “Married.”

  He shook his head.

  She raised an eyebrow at Moni. “Another beer and vodka, please.”

  “You Polish girls can drink!”

  She wore the same red blouse as in Nuremberg, but had it a little more open. As she bent to rummage for another pack of cigarettes in her handbag, he admired the bold curve of her cleavage disappearing into a red lace bra.

  “I am glad you are causing so much trouble for neo-Nazis, Frank,” she said. “I want Gutman to win. Very much. To see those Nazis in castle, it’s terrible. I think you did very good thing.”

  She held up her glass. “Nastrovje.”

  Moni had dimmed the lights a little and changed the CD. It was slower music now. She looked up from washing her glasses and grinned at Carver.

  Ludmilla caught the look and nudged his arm. “Is this where you come to conquer women?”

  Carver grinned. “Believe me, this is no pick-up joint. You’re the first woman I’ve seen walk in that door.”

  She had her elbow on the bar and rested her cheek in her hand. She gave him a lingering, appraising gaze. He battled the urge to let his eyes roam her face, her delicate neck, her bosom, her slender hands. Beautiful women were ten a penny. What turned this one into a killer was that warm, approachable smile, and the humour in her eyes.

  She downed her vodka. Her phone beeped. She read the message and frowned. “Shit. I sent story. They want rewrite. Now!” She sighed. “Stupid. You know how much I get for it? 120 euros. It took me all day. 1,000 words.” She asked for the bill.

  Carver insisted on paying the tab and helped her into her beige trench coat. They walked out. She was tall, only a few centimetres shorter than him.

  “Editors don’t realise how hard this work can be,” she said. “Germany is so bureaucratic. It very difficult even to get accreditation here for press conferences and the campaign.”

  Carver nodded. “They’ve tightened up security after the attack on Gutman.”

  They shook hands. He cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Frank?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, if you like,” said Carver. “Maybe help you get temporary membership of the foreign press association. That should make it easier to cover the campaign.”

  “Thank you so much. That would be brilliant! And … let’s do this again?” She gave him her number.

  As he walked down the street, he turned to catch a last glimpse of her before she reached an underpass. A train screeched overhead. She looked round, waved and disappeared into the blackness.

  Carver reached his apartment block a few minutes later. He took the lift down to the underground garage to retrieve some notes from his car. The papers were in the glove compartment. He pocketed them, slammed the car door and pressed the key as he walked off. The BMW locked with two discreet bleeps.

  On his way to the lift he glanced up the ramp leading up to the street. A hooded figure stood at the top, behind the shutter. He had both hands in the pockets of his jacket and stood motionless, staring down at him. Carver stopped. They looked at each other for several seconds. The man was about 20 meters away, dressed casually in jeans and trainers, and his face was obscured by the jacket hood. “Can I help you?” Carver called out. The man didn’t answer and kept staring. Then he turned and walked away. Carver shrugged and made for the lift.

  The light outside his flat was still broken. The lift door slid shut behind him, plunging the corridor into darkness. He probed his way to the front door and cursed as he scraped his key around to find the lock. Something made him stop and listen. He straightened up. His heart started pounding. A warm breath touched the back of his neck. It sent a violent shiver down his spine. He swung round and made out the shape of a man, inches away. He raised his arms but it was too late. A fist slammed into the pit of his stomach. He bent double and sank to his knees, battling for air. A gloved hand grabbed his hair and tore his head up. The cold tip of a knife blade inched across his cheek towards his left eye. He felt it slicing his skin and drawing blood. “Stop,” he croaked. “What …” Two sets of hands seized his arms a
nd hauled him to his feet. He tried to lash out, but someone restrained him from behind. The arms holding him tensed. He was about to be punched again. He braced himself and breathed in deep to shout for help but before he was able to, a blow struck his solar plexus. The man behind him let go and he crumpled to the floor in agony. Still fighting for air, he shielded his head with his arms. A boot kicked him in his right kidney. He cried out in pain. Footsteps thumped down the stairs. He lay for several minutes, his cheek pressed into the bristly carpet, until he could breathe normally again. He suddenly felt sick, got on his knees, scratched around for his keys and unlocked the door. He raced to the toilet and vomited, clinging to the bowl until the retching had stopped. The water was stained red. He checked the mirror. His face was going to need stitches. He double-locked his door, put the chain on and wedged a chair under the handle.

  Renner answered his mobile after 15 rings. Loud music and voices boomed in the background. Carver gathered his breath and shouted. “Don’t go home! Go to a hotel! I’ve been attacked at my front door.”

  The noise receded.

  “What? Are you all right? Fuck!”

  “Watch your back! Don’t go home, Renner. Stay away. They’ll be waiting for you. They cut my face. Two guys.”

  “What? Fucking bastards. Tietjen’s guys? Call the police, Frank.”

  “I’m going to do better than that.”

  Chapter Sixteen