The Jewish Candidate

by David Crossland

  It was after four o’clock when they left the police station. They walked across Augustus Bridge towards the old centre. The great baroque buildings, the cathedral, the palace, the giant dome of the Church of Our Lady, the Semper Opera looked pristine in the afternoon sun. Hundreds of tourists were milling about. “I need food,” said Renner.

  Carver looked up. The famous statues lining the edge of the cathedral roof were peering down at them. “You think they’re trying to warn us?”

  Renner followed Carver’s gaze. “Sure they are. They’re saying we’re fucked.”

  They climbed a grand flight of steps to Brühl’s Terrace, another elegant, reconstructed Dresden showpiece, which runs 500 metres along the bank of the Elbe and is dubbed “The Balcony of Europe” by locals. They sat outside a cafe and ordered cake and coffee.

  They ate in silence, oblivious to the architectural splendour all around, the sun sparkling in the dark blue Elbe and the elegant white pleasure boats moored along the bank below.

  Renner’s hand shook as he lifted his cup. “I’ve never seen a body, let alone one in that state. Poor guy. I hadn’t realized what a risk he was taking. I keep seeing it. And the smell. The fucking smell, man!” He took out a cigarette. His hand trembled so much that he couldn’t hold the lighter steady. “Jesus, Fuck!”

  “Give it here,” Carver said, holding the lighter for him. “It’ll get better. Matter of time. Write down what happened. It’ll help you deal with it.”

  “Write that down? Are you fucking kidding? Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Do it. Seriously, it works,” said Carver. A few years back, he had seen an Iraqi family cut to pieces by machine gun fire from U.S. Marines at a checkpoint in Baghdad. Their car hadn’t stopped in time. He remembered a girl of five or six lying on the tarmac with her jaw shot away. The image violated his dreams for months. A colleague advised him to describe in writing the horror in all its detail – everything he’d seen, and everything he thought when he saw it. For some reason, that helped put a lid on the memory.

  Renner inhaled the calming nicotine. “I guess you’ve seen some shit in your time, right?” He savoured the cigarette for a few minutes. “So what’s our next move?”

  Carver was studying the photo of Schwartz’s note on the screen of his phone. “We’ve got to speed things up,” he said. “We’ve got three names we didn’t know about, including what looks like a partial name, Bec.”

  “Could be Becker, Becher, Beckmann,” said Renner.

  “Those guys are in the know about the plot. They’ve got to be senior either in the FNP or in the neo-Nazi scene. We go through that list, find out who the guys are, confront the bastards, write a story, as soon as possible,” said Carver. “And start looking over our shoulders all the time.”

  They ordered two Schnitzels. A paddlesteamer tooted as it set off for a trip down the river. It caught the sun and blinded them for a split second.

  “I can’t stand Dresden,” said Renner. “It feels unreal. And fucked up. It’s like an open-air museum. And the people. They’re still shell-shocked from the Allied bombing. They’ve got this self-righteous ‘we’re the victims’ attitude. You know, in East Germany, the most zealous Stasi officers and rabid border guards, the real whackjobs, were recruited from around here. They called this area the ‘Valley of the Clueless’ because it was one of the few parts of the GDR where you couldn’t receive West German television and radio. This lot got all their information from the state channels. Something tells me that our Chief Inspector hankers after those days. What is it?”

  Carver handed him the camera. “RA Equals GAI. Take a look at the GAI.”

  Renner enlarged the photo on the screen.

  “Look at the I.”

  “What about it?”

  “There’s a mark, a dot to the right of it. Like he put the pencil there. It’s the last thing he wrote on the note. It might be incomplete. They’re banging on the door, he’s writing it knowing he’ll also need a couple of seconds to hide it. He doesn’t finish what he’s writing. He didn’t finish Bec either. He’s panicking.”

  “So? He’s panicking,” said Renner.

  “So, that I might not be an I, it could be the beginning of a K! GAK, not GAI! I mean, what other acronym would he be referring to? The names he gives are in handwriting, not in block letters. When he uses block letters, he’s referring to acronyms. We think we know what Gutman AK means. So let’s assume GAK means Gutman Aktions Komitee as well. He was trying to finish the K. But he didn’t have time.”

  “So RA Equals GAK,“ said Renner.

  “Exactly,” said Carver.

  Renner gave him a blank look.

  “Revengers of Allah Equals Gutman Aktions Komitee. It’s possible, don’t you think?”

  Renner’s jaw dropped.

  “Their symbol’s RA isn’t it?” said Carver. “With a sword in between? It would make sense! Who stands to profit most from this anti-Muslim shit going on?”

  They returned to Berlin to the welcome sight of the building’s janitor overseeing two locksmiths hard at work replacing Carver’s door with a heavier, steel-reinforced one equipped with a crossbar and high-security lock.” Going to cost the Chronicle a fortune, I’m happy to say,” Carver remarked.

  They fired up the PC. Sven Wuttke was easy to find. He was the head of the Kameradschaft Mecklenburg, a neo-Nazi group in the northeast, near the Baltic coast. Carver checked the Chronicle’s news database and found a dozen stories about Wuttke. He had set up the Jugendsturm, a youth association which organized summer camps for children and teenagers, no doubt teaching them about the glories of the Third Reich and the virtues of the Germanic race.

  They hadn’t managed to find Stefan Kunz after their Nice trip, and they couldn’t immediately find any trace of a Roland Bein. Bec wasn’t much to go on, but the most promising match was Achim Beckmann, Tietjen’s political advisor at the FNP.

  “Let’s start with Wuttke,” said Carver. He googled his name. “He runs a pig farm in Sastrow. Back of beyond, by the looks of it. Little village near the Polish border.”

  “No point ringing,” said Renner. “We’ve got to pay him a visit.”

  “Absolutely,” Carver agreed. “Sniff around his pigs. Piss him off.”

  He swivelled his chair towards Renner, raised his beer and took a deep gulp. They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the computer screen. “That’ll be fun,” said Carver. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Wolfgang, but sometimes I wish I hadn’t met you. Life would be a lot easier.”

  Renner tutted. “When have you worked on a better story?”

  “Never.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  North of Berlin, Sunday, September 2

  They set off for Sastrow at nine in the morning, heading northeast along the A11 motorway, but soon had to turn off onto country roads. It was grey and started to rain. The landscape was monotonous and flat, with rapeseed fields and wind turbines as far as the eye could see. The towns were small, empty and run-down.

  Carver’s phone buzzed. It was Ludmilla. He ignored it.

  “Who’s that?” asked Renner.

  “No one.”

  They reached Sastrow by one o’clock. Carver saw the village sign and slammed on the brakes. “I don’t believe this.”

  They pulled over and got out. A boulder on a patch of grass by the roadside had a large bronze plaque attached to it: “Sastrow – Free. National. Social.” Next to it was a wooden signpost with four direction markers painted in black Gothic writing: Berlin 290 km, Berchtesgaden 920 km, Braunau am Inn 870 km. Königsberg 320 km.

  Braunau was Hitler’s birthplace. Berchtesgaden was near his mountain retreat, the Berghof. Königsberg was the old Prussian name of the Russian city of Kaliningrad, the capital of what used to be East Prussia, in the good old days.

  “How come this shit isn’t forbidden?” said Renner. “How dare they?” Carver took a photo. Across the road, a middle-aged man in blue overalls and gr
een rubber boots was leaning against a wooden fence glowering at them. “Guten Tag!” Carver called over with a wave. The man said nothing and trudged off. They walked up the cobblestoned main street of Sastrow, which was lined by dull, narrow old houses. Many of the facades were cracked and grimy with grey net curtains in the windows. One house had a large wooden gate with a burnished brass sign: “Deutsch und Heimattreu” – German and Faithful to the Homeland. There wasn’t a soul around. A shop sign read “Langemarck” in Gothic writing. The window display was a jumble of military fatigues, Second World War uniforms, helmets, medals, vintage gas masks, imitation pistols and knives. There was even a poster of Rudolf Hess. A pale young man with a crew cut stood behind the glass door, staring at them. They made way for a fat girl in her teens pushing a pram down the narrow pavement. She wore a green bomber jacket and had her blonde hair cropped short on top with a mullet. She gave them a hostile glare. They watched her waddle down the street in her stone-washed jeans. Renner gave a salacious grunt. “I’m moving up here.”

  “Back in a second,” said Carver, disappearing into the shop. He came out a couple of minutes later.

  “What did you get? Don’t tell me you got a Luger.”

  “Something like that.”

  A little further up the street, a newsagent was well stocked with copies of Der Landser, a magazine featuring the adventures of heroic Wehrmacht soldiers. They reached the outskirts of the village and walked past some modern buildings hidden behind high walls and fences. “Beware of the Dog” and “Keep Out” signs were everywhere. Most of the gardens had tall flagpoles from which the black, red and white Reichsflag hung limply in the drizzle. The grass verges were littered with beer bottles and car tyres. A Rottweiler snarled at them from behind a fence.

  They spotted the sign “Schweinehof Wuttke” 50 metres ahead of them. “He knows how to impress his clients, doesn’t he?” Carver said when they reached it. Two rusting cars and an old fridge littered a concrete yard in front of a low-roofed barn. They could hear plaintive squeals and grunts inside. “I wonder whether Sven’s nice to his pigs?”

  Renner grinned. “Sure, especially at night. When he’s lonely. There’s his house.” Next door to the barn stood a neat, red brick bungalow surrounded by a black iron gate tipped with spikes.

  “So what’s our line of questioning?” asked Carver.

  “Let’s ask the bastard how he’s getting on with the Gutman plot and the bombing campaign,” said Renner.

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  The bell by the gate said “Wuttke” in Gothic writing. Carver pressed it. A dog started barking. The curtain twitched. A minute later, the front door opened and a large man in his mid-30s walked down the garden path to the gate. He looked at them through the bars. His eyes were gashes in his fleshy face.

  “Guten Tag, Herr Wuttke?”

  “What do you want?” Wuttke’s hair was shaved to thin stubble. He had broad shoulders and a beer gut under his jet black shirt. He was over six feet tall. “We’re journalists. Frank Carver, London Chronicle, and Wolfgang Renner.”

  Wuttke spat on the ground and snarled, “Fuck off back to Berlin.” He turned and walked towards the house.

  “We have a few brief questions, Herr Wuttke!” Carver called. “It won’t take long!”

  Renner pushed past Carver and rattled at the gate. “Hey!”

  Wuttke stopped and looked round.

  “Just a quick comment about the Gutman Aktions Komitee, Herr Wuttke!” Renner called out. “We have witness testimony that you are on it and plotting to kill Herr Rudolf Gutman! And that you are behind the Revengers of Allah!”

  Wuttke lumbered back towards them with his head cocked. “What did you say?”

  “That you’re involved in a plot to kill Gutman because he is Jewish, that you have hired an assassin using an inheritance from Siegfried Stahl, that you are part of a fake Islamist terrorist group calling itself the Revengers of Allah and that you’re about to get in serious trouble with the police,” said Carver. “Care to comment?”

  Wuttke broke into a broad, mocking grin. “How are you, Herr Carver?”

  “I’m fine, Herr Wuttke,” Carver answered. “The noose is tightening. We’re trying to contact Herr Kunz, who fetched the jewels. €3.2 million worth! They seem to have gone missing. Do you know their whereabouts?”

  “This gate won’t protect you, Herr Sturmbannführer,” said Renner. “You may think you’re living the Fourth Reich dream in your little village here, but your crimes are going to catch up with you.” In a flash, Wuttke reached through the bars and grabbed Renner’s jacket at the throat. He pulled hard, smashing Renner’s face into the gate. Then he spat into his eyes.

  “How dare you, you motherfucking little Jew cunt.” His face was deep pink.

  Carver launched himself at Wuttke’s arm and wrenched it away. Renner came free and staggered back, choking. Wuttke grabbed at Carver with his other arm but couldn’t reach him. Carver’s neck tingled with a rage that was slipping beyond his control. He kept pushing Wuttke’s arm until he heard a roar of pain. The pig farmer’s face was pressed so hard against the bars that his face was oozing between them.

  Carver wanted to hear the arm snap. He wanted the satisfaction of making this man suffer. He was sick of running. He wanted payback for Wischnewski, for Schwartz, for being threatened, punched and cut, for the terror on the roof, for the broken photo of Rebecca, for having to smell these guys, to see their ugly mugs, their ridiculous tattoos and symbols. He wanted to vent his anger at being confronted with a Germany he had no idea existed.

  They heard shouts. Two men were walking down the street towards them. “Frank, time to leave,” Renner called out, slapping his shoulder. Carver let go of Wuttke, who fell back, holding his arm. They turned and strode back into the village as fast as they could without running. There were three men following them at a distance of 20 metres. Wuttke yelled something. Someone roared: “Halt! You pieces of shit!”

  They broke into a run. Windows and front doors opened and they could hear dogs baying and hurling themselves at gates. A bottle crashed on the cobblestones just behind Carver. They passed the military memorabilia shop. The young man opened the door and shouted something at them. The fat girl with the pram was walking back up the street. She laughed at the sight of them running. A bottle hit Carver on the back. Renner cried out. A stone had struck him in the back of the head. He put his hand on the wound. There was blood. “Are you OK?” Carver called. Renner nodded. He was looking pale. There were five men in the street behind them. In front, two skinheads ran out of a house and came marching towards them. One was wielding an iron bar. Another had something metallic in his hand. Knuckledusters. “Shit,” Renner breathed. They slowed down. A woman’s voice above them shrieked something and a bucketful of dirty water drenched Renner. Laughter and yells echoed all around them. Carver looked up. The window slammed shut. He noticed a plastic garden gnome grinning down from the sill.

  “Stay behind me,” he said in a calm voice, fumbling in his jacket pocket. He tossed Renner his car key. “I’ll try to keep these bastards busy. You run like hell and get to the car.” They walked towards the men. One of them was slapping his iron rod into his palm. Carver raised his right arm in the Hitler salute and shouted “Heil Hitler!” at the top of his voice. It startled the men for a split second. He lunged forward, tore his left arm out of his pocket and squeezed the nozzle of the can as hard as he could. A thin jet of pepper spray struck the rod man’s face. He shrieked and fell back. The bar clattered onto the street. Carver turned on the second man, who was looking down at his mate in shock. He only managed to drench his shoulder at first but corrected his aim and hit him straight in the eyes. He kept pressing on the can as the man fell to the ground, groaning and holding his face. A furious roar erupted behind them, followed by a hail of stones and bottles. They sprinted down the street, shielding their heads with their arms. They saw the car. Another 100 metres to go. A skinhead appeared from the ri
ght and tackled Renner to the ground. Two others fell on him like wolves, kicking him as he lay on his stomach. Carver’s throat swelled with fury at the sight of these merciless, cowardly, feral thugs. He hurled himself at the closest man and brought him to the ground. He clenched his fist and managed to land the first punch, knocking the man’s head against the cobbles. The two others turned from Renner. “Go. Go!” Carver yelled. He felt a heavy thud in his kidney, turned, grabbed the foot that had kicked him, and twisted it round. He looked up to see an iron bar swinging towards him. He pulled his head away in time but his shoulder caught the blow. He knew he must get to his feet. He was in a world of hatred and rage. Causing pain was all that mattered. All the sounds were muffled. He could hear nothing apart from his own sharp intakes of breath. Everything slowed down. He had tunnel vision but everything in that tunnel was in extreme focus. A fist slammed into Carver’s cheek. He swung round and hit a jaw with the base of his palm, then bent down and rammed his shoulder into a stomach. A hand tore at Carver’s hair. He pushed himself back against the man and they both tumbled to the ground. Carver turned and bit into the man’s cheek. Warm blood swilled round his gums. The taste of iron. He rolled away. A boot swung into his stomach. Carver grabbed the foot and rolled to the left. He could see the blurry outlines of black figures everywhere around him. He got on one knee but was kicked down again. He felt a dull pain in his back. He saw the top of a smashed beer bottle on the ground. Its edge was jagged. He grabbed it and rammed it into a thigh with all his might. He pulled the bottle out of the wound and threw it at a head in front of him. People grabbed his arms. He felt his strength draining away and heard his voice, muffled, roaring with rage. A figure was lying on the ground in front of him. He stamped on it as hard as he could. Someone punched him in the face. His vision started to go black. A car engine in the distance revved into a furious whine that grew deafening. Suddenly the savage cocoon around him broke apart with a terrific jolt. He heard screams of pain. Then Renner, yelling “Carver! Get the fuck in!” He hurled himself at the door but was only half way in when Renner began reversing up the street. He hung on to the edge of the seat with his legs outside until the car slammed into something with a crunch. The back of his head smashed into the glove compartment and he slid into the footwell. Stones hit the car. “Come on, man!” Renner shouted. Carver pulled in his legs and slammed the door shut. Renner floored the accelerator. The car didn’t move. The wheels were spinning on wet grass. Two men had almost reached them. One was aiming a pistol. Suddenly the wheels got traction and the car lurched forward. Carver looked round and saw the baying mob of men and women receding in the distance. The signpost marking Hitler’s favourite destinations was snapped in two. “Braunau am Inn 870 km” was pointing into the ground.