Berlin, Wednesday, August 22
The district of Hohenschönhausen used to be a Forbidden City, a place so secret that it was marked as a blank space on East Berlin maps. It was home to the most notorious prison of the Ministry for State Security, Stasi for short. Thousands of political prisoners were incarcerated without trial in Hohenschönhausen jail, for trying to defect or speaking their mind. Even being overheard in the works canteen whispering a rude joke about the Politburo could get them arrested. The district also housed Stasi workshops, where dexterous engineers fitted miniature cameras into watering cans, suit buttons and bras to help the agency keep tabs on the population, and to give it an edge in the espionage war with the West. Technicians even experimented with “scent samples” taken from prisoners and stored in glass jars – to sniff them out if they ever got released and reoffended.
Carver came here a number of times 20 years ago for a series of stories about the criminal legacy of the regime. He got out of the taxi and walked along the towering concrete wall of the prison, past floodlights and empty watchtowers with tinted windows. The place looked as forbidding as ever, despite the tourist coaches parked outside. At the end of the street, dozens of schoolchildren were heading to the main gate for a tour of the jail, now a museum and a memorial to the injustice of the German Democratic Republic.
Something else was new. The residential houses lining the street opposite the jail were lovingly renovated. Their whitewashed facades, retiled red roofs and neat gardens clashed with the grey ugliness of the prison complex. Former Stasi officers lived in them, close to their old place of work. They were old and retired now, and held regular reunions to persuade each other that their cause was just, that they were sold out. They reminisced about the days when they were the feared, respected, privileged elite, the “Shield and Sword of the Party,” as the Stasi described itself. Occasionally, they felt compelled to venture out into the new world to wage libel disputes with former victims who had named and shamed them in books or in the media. Or simply to hurl abuse in the street at the Hohenschönhausen tour guides – most of them ex-prisoners – who showed visitors around the prison. Some former Stasi officers still mingled with the schoolchildren and tourists and shouted “It’s all lies!” when the guides described how they were stripped naked and given body cavity searches, how they were warned “No one knows you’re here, we could just make you disappear forever.” Or how they were woken up by screaming guards in the night whenever they turned on their side – a gross breach of prison rules.
Carver had misgivings about trying to enlist a pensioner for a dangerous job. But Werner Wischnewski was no ordinary pensioner. He was of an altogether higher calibre than the jailers and interrogators. He served with distinction in the Stasi’s notoriously efficient foreign intelligence service that succeeded in placing a mole in the office of West German Chancellor Willy Brandt and won the grudging respect of the CIA, MI6 and all the other Western agencies during the Cold War.
Wischnewski returned to East Berlin to train new agents in the late 1980s. When the Wall fell, he was in his early forties. Washed up, in his prime. Years of unemployment followed. His skills were too specialized to qualify him for jobs in the police service or civil administration, where thousands of his comrades found work in the 1990s. Besides, Wischnewski was a true believer, and didn’t hesitate to make that plain to anyone who asked him about his past. In 1992, Carver spent a couple of days interviewing him, and was struck by how this intelligent, educated man remained unshakeably committed to the communist system and its methods of repression. The Wall? A necessary measure to prevent war and protect the integrity of the communist state, argued Wischnewski with utter conviction. Hohenschönhausen prison? The “victims” weren’t tortured and were just whining on about their supposed suffering to get attention and state money. Besides, Wischnewski pointed out, they were criminals.
Carver pushed open the garden gate and stopped for a second to admire an immaculately tended rose bush. Wischnewski opened the door before he reached the bell, and greeted him with a curt smile. He was lean and slightly taller than Carver, and had a narrow, ascetic, inscrutable face. His hair was thinner and had greyed since the last time they met. The wrinkles and the rimless glasses gave him a professorial air. But his handshake was strong, and his grey eyes had the same alertness. Apart from the obvious signs of ageing, the biggest change was the deep frown marks between his eyes. It took its toll, all the frustration of having been transformed by history from a loyal public servant into an outcast, a misguided, evil relic of a chapter most Germans were now as keen to forget as the Nazi era.
Wischnewski looked at the cut on Carver’s face but said nothing. Carver followed him into the living room which, as far as he could tell, hadn’t changed at all since he had first interviewed him here over dreadful East German coffee. Everything was brown or beige –the carpet, the armchair and settee, which had no doubt been exclusive and fashionable back in the 1980s. A copy of Neues Deutschland (New Germany), the former newspaper of the East German communist party which was still published, lay on the coffee table. The medals were still there, in a glass cabinet in the corner. On a set of shelves attached to the bare white wall, framed photos of him toasting successes with colleagues or receiving awards – one from GDR leader Erich Honecker – crowded out two smallish pictures of him and his late wife.
Carver had little doubt that Wischnewski’s grey Stasi uniform was hanging in his bedroom wardrobe in a protective plastic covering. As he sat down, he pictured him wearing it, with his medals pinned to his chest, sitting in his armchair, staring out of the window at tourists walking along the flaking walls of the prison.
“I was surprised to receive your call. I remember you of course, Herr Carver,” Wischnewski said in accented but grammatically perfect English, pouring out a cup of coffee. Carver had been vague on the phone, saying he would like to discuss a matter that he preferred to talk about face-to-face. Wischnewski readily agreed to meet. He had plenty of time on his hands these days. “I haven’t spoken to a journalist in years,” he said. “Everyone just wants to talk to the so-called victims these days.”
Carver leant forward. “Herr Wischnewski, I’m not here to write a story. I’ll get straight to the point. I am here to ask for your help.”
His host raised his eyebrows.
“A few weeks ago I started researching the neo-Nazi scene. Since then, attempts have been made to intimidate me. My apartment has been broken into, and the night before last, two men attacked me in my corridor as I was trying to get into my flat. I didn’t see them, it was dark.”
“Have you called the police?”
Carver shook his head. “I want to identify the people behind this before I go to the police.”
Wischnewski sipped his coffee and watched Carver. “What story are you writing about the far-right?”
“I exposed the head of the FNP giving the Hitler salute.”
Wischnewski gave a quiet laugh. “Of course. I read about that. That was you? I’m not surprised they’re angry.”
Carver hated asking people favours, and this was an odd one. He suddenly regretted having come.
“How can I help you?” Wischnewski asked. He sounded interested, at least.
“I was wondering … if you have time … could you check out if I’m being followed? Find out who could be behind this?”
Wischnewski tutted. “But I am retired, Herr Carver! Why don’t you hire a private detective?”
“This problem struck me as a little too difficult and frankly, dangerous, for an ordinary detective,” Carver replied.
Wischnewski’s thin lips twitched at the compliment.
“And you thought, fight fire with fire, Herr Carver?”
“Something like that.”
“And you would want …” Wischnewski said.
“Anything that would help me identify who is doing this. I mean, could you spend a few days following me or watching my apartment. Get a photo of anyone tr
acking me that I could take to the police or publish. I would be happy to pay a substantial fee.”
Wischnewski shook his head. “I have an adequate pension. I don’t need money. We can discuss expenses another time.” He thought for a moment. “I will try to help you. Neo-Nazis are a scourge. We kept them in check in our day. Do you think you were followed here?”
“I’m afraid I really don’t know,” said Carver. “So far, I think they’ve been focusing on my apartment.”
“We’ll see,” said Wischnewski. “I will contact you if I find something. But I can’t guarantee anything. Are you writing more stories about the far right? If not, they may leave off you now.”
“I’ve only just started on them, believe me,” said Carver. “There will be more stories.”
As he thanked Wischnewski, Carver realised that his host was relishing the assignment. He had been right to come. He sensed it all those years ago when he first interviewed the man. Wischnewski wasn’t just a loyal servant of the regime. He was driven by an intense thrill for the game.
Sanssouci Hotel, Berlin
The man walked across the marble lobby and smiled at the receptionist. “Good afternoon, I have reserved a single room for tonight.”
“Your name, please?” the receptionist asked.
“Boris Krasky.”
“Certainly, Mr Krasky, we have reserved you a standard single non-smoking room, 203.”
As he signed the form, she noticed the Rolex and the well-cut business suit. He wheeled his suitcase to the lift and got out at the second floor. He strode down the corridor and slid the key card in the door.
Once inside, he placed his suitcase on the bed and began inspecting the room. The panel covering the side of the bathtub was firmly clipped in. He might damage it if he tried to prise it off. The cistern of the toilet was behind the tiles, and there was a chance it could be opened and checked by maintenance staff. He walked around the bedroom. The air conditioning vent was the best bet. There was a thin one just below the ceiling. He put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, carried a chair to the wall and climbed on it. The cover of the vent was fixed with two screws which came out easily. He reached inside and felt around. Satisfied, he returned to the bed, opened his suitcase and took out a 9mm “Baby” Glock semi-automatic pistol. He pushed a magazine of 10 rounds home into the grip and placed it in a black cloth draw-string bag, together with a metal silencer that was longer and heavier than the weapon, a pouch of tools and a small metal spray canister. He climbed back on the chair and placed the bag into the vent, pushing it so far down the pipe that only the string remained reachable. He screwed the cover back on and rearranged the chair. It was time to go exploring.
Chapter Seventeen
Sastrow, Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, north-eastern Germany, Thursday, August 23
“Have you got used to the smell yet?” Sven Wuttke grinned.
“No,” said Bein. “Or the noise. That constant fucking squealing. How do you take it?”
“You get used to it. Pack the nails in tight. You trust those timers?”
Bein nodded. “They’re good.”
Five small black rucksacks were lined up on a long workbench. They were in a shed behind the low barn where Wuttke kept his pigs.
“What went wrong in St. Goar?” Bein asked.
“Nothing went wrong. The bastard got lucky, that’s all. Are you fucking finished now? I’ve got to deliver these.”
Bein nodded. They carried the rucksacks to Wuttke’s car.
Berlin, Adlershof TV Studio, Thursday, August 23
The TV debate between Chancellor Angela Müller and Rudolf Gutman was billed as the most important single event of the campaign. Over 20 million Germans tuned in to the clash, which took place at the former main studio of East German state television in the Berlin district of Adlershof, and pollsters, pundits and spin-doctors from both sides were on hand to deliver their verdict within minutes of the end.
The country’s four most prominent newscasters moderated the show, and it was left to the most senior of them, 67-year-old veteran anchorman Ulrich Reichardt of the public ARD network, to ask the most sensitive question, the make-or-break question, the question the nation was burning to hear Gutman answer. “Herr Gutman,” Reichardt rasped in the deep, schoolmasterly tone that was his trademark, “Our viewers would like to know as much as possible about the man who might become their chancellor. What does it mean to you to be Jewish, and is it possible for you to be committed in equal measure to the German nation and to your own heritage?”
Gutman was prepared for this one. It was a no-win question. All he could do was neutralize its impact by giving a convincing answer. Müller scrutinized him with her shrewd little eyes. “I am obviously deeply proud of my Jewish heritage,” he began. “When you ask what it means to me, I think of my family, our traditions, our history that stretches back thousands of years, our achievements. We have persevered and thrived despite centuries of persecution and the Holocaust. I am not a religious man, but my family observes the best of the festivals, along with the best Christian ones. So my son is a very lucky boy. He must think life is one long party!” There was a ripple of polite laughter from the studio audience. Even Müller managed a thin smile.
“But, you know, it is possible to be proud to be Jewish and proud to be German,” Gutman went on. “I know that to be true because it applies to me. My father felt that way too. His yearning for his homeland was so powerful that he returned here after the war, can you imagine, after the unfathomable terror of the Holocaust, because he felt that this was still the only place he belonged. And so I was born in this country, like my father, and his father, and his father, and his father before that. So when I say this is my fatherland, believe me, I mean it!”
Gutman paused, scanned the audience and looked down as if he was mustering the courage to speak his next words.
“This is my Promised Land,” he said, before nodding and repeating the sentence more confidently, as if he was suddenly comfortable saying it. “This is my Promised Land. And I want to help make it a land of promise for everyone who lives here, regardless of their background. I believe this could become a German century in the best possible sense, if we take the right decisions now.”
“But, Herr Gutman,” Reichardt said, “don’t you also feel bound by a sense of responsibility for the state of Israel?”
“No more than any other German,” Gutman replied.
Neither contender landed any knockout blows, but the general consensus everywhere apart from Müller’s conservative Christian Democratic Union party was that Gutman looked fresher and more honest.
Gutman’s Residence, Bonn, Friday, August 24
Gutman and his wife, Birgit, studied the newspapers over breakfast the next day. Three of the papers had run with the headline “This is My Promised Land.”
“Seems Heise was right about that line,” he said, taking a swig of coffee. “I thought it sounded like God divided the North Sea for me to get here.”
Birgit laughed. “He’s got a brain on him, your Heise. The main thing is you managed to answer the Jewishness question without hurting your campaign. And you did so well on all the other points that you’ve won it. This will widen your lead. And after Tietjen committed Nazi hara-kiri in his SS uniform, your chances are even better.” Birgit, a former journalist, was Gutman’s second wife, and a gentile. His first wife Ruth, who was Jewish, had died in a car accident five years before, when their son Peter was three. Gutman frowned. “You know, I’m getting tired of having to profess my undying love for my country. None of the other candidates has to do it. In fact, if they sounded as patriotic as I do, they’d be labelled as Nazis.”
“C’est la vie, Rudi,” said Birgit.
The doorbell rang just before lunch. It was Simon Hertz, president of the Central Council of Jews in Germany. He insisted on a meeting with “our candidate.” For the last two years, ever since it became clear that Gutman would win the Social Democrat nomination
, the spritely 74-year-old had befriended him with unabashed determination. He regularly paid the family visits and handed young Peter a silver-plated children’s Torah Scroll on the boy’s birthday. “I’ll test you on it next time!” Hertz had said, wagging his finger, which was why Peter always vanished when Hertz appeared on the doorstep.
The whole family friend thing irked Gutman, who felt he had little in common with this retired, ultra-conservative merchant banker other than the label Jewish. Birgit saw him as an electoral liability, which made her loathe him. But he represented Germany’s more than 100,000 Jews, and any rift between the two men would look odd.
Hertz, portly and a head shorter than Gutman, came bustling into the living room with his arms outstretched for the obligatory hug. “Rudi! What a performance last night. May I call you Herr Bundeskanzler?”
They had dropped the formal “Sie” address and moved onto a first-name basis six months ago, at Hertz’s insistence, the week after Gutman won the SPD’s nomination.
“Let’s not tempt fate, Simon,” said Gutman. “In fact, we’re a bit worried we may be peaking too early. How can I help you?”
They last met two weeks ago, when Gutman once again refused Hertz’s plea for a public commitment to boost government funding for synagogue construction and the upkeep of Jewish cemeteries. Hertz simply could not understand that Gutman would wreck his campaign if he started promising to spend taxpayers’ money on straightening Jewish gravestones. Gutman’s multiculturalism platform was risky enough.
They sat down. “By the way, your statement on the Ethiopian who died was excellent, just the right tone,” said Hertz. “South African,” you mean, said Birgit. “Yes, yes, the black man. I do feel however that you could also have mentioned the regular attacks on Jewish institutions, don’t you think, Rudi?”
“The attack on David Khosa wasn’t about Jews, Simon,” Gutman said, trying to hide his impatience. “It was pure racism. This was a brutal, craven beating, not some drunks spraying swastikas on gravestones. I can’t turn everything into a Jewish issue, you know.”
The Jewish Candidate Page 10