“Did he detonate it?” asked Horst Schmidthuber, Müller’s chief of staff, a thrusting career politician who was seen as a possible future chancellor.
“No, it was remotely detonated,” said Thiele. “By a mobile phone.”
“From where?” demanded Schmidthuber.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Isn’t it odd for a suicide bomber’s device to be remote detonated?” asked Müller.
“Not that uncommon, if the situation warrants it, if the bomber is of a nervous disposition or it would be difficult for him to detonate it himself,” said the BKA chief.
“So he wasn’t acting on his own in this attack?”
“Most definitely not,” Thiele said.
“And we’re sure this was the Revengers of Allah? Like the church bombings?”
Thiele said nothing.
“We believe so,” said Thomas Bauer, the head of domestic intelligence. “They have said they did it, like the church attacks, like the firebombing of the Jewish bakery in Berlin, like the Nuremberg attack on Gutman. We hadn’t heard of this group until the Nuremberg attack on Herr Gutman. Frankly, it has been almost impossible to find information about them.”
“Our sources in Afghanistan and Pakistan have never heard of them,” said the BND chief, Uwe Pleitgen.
Thiele cleared his throat. “Erm, we shouldn’t dismiss out of hand the possibility that the Bonn bombing wasn’t Islamists,” he ventured.
“Well, who else?” said Schmidthuber.
“We have picked up some extremely vitriolic comments about Herr Gutman in far-right Internet forums …” said Thiele.
There was a murmur of disagreement in the room. Schmidthuber laughed. “Neo-Nazis? Surely they don’t have the skills for this sort of thing.”
“We don’t know enough,” Müller declared. “But I agree this has all the hallmarks of an Islamist attack. I need to discuss with Gutman whether the election should be postponed. Would it be responsible to ask our citizens to risk going out to vote in this climate?”
“This is an unprecedented situation for our republic,” said Bauer. “Whether to postpone the election is of course a political decision. But if we go ahead with it, we will have to mount the biggest security operation this country has ever seen. We may even need the army.” There was a hushed silence. Müller’s face went pale.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bonn, Wednesday, September 5, 11.30 a.m.
The Waldkrankenhaus hospital in the wooded hills above Bonn was turned into a fortress. Federal police armed with Heckler & Koch submachine guns patrolled the grounds and corridors, and armoured vehicles lined the streets around the complex. The entire third floor where Gutman, his wife and Heise were being treated had been closed off and designated a high-security zone.
Gutman had a bad cut in the palm of his left hand and the left side of his face was bruised from a falling iron pole. The sturdy lectern behind him had saved his life. He had a nagging ringing in one ear which the doctors had told him would subside over time. His hands had stopped shaking and the dizziness had gone.
“Germany hasn’t had anything like this since the Baader Meinhof gang. Those poor people. Poor Becker.” Gutman looked at Heise, who was gingerly putting a bandaged hand through the arm of his suit jacket. He had cuts on his cheek and forehead but had been lucky. Becker stood next to him and took the full force of the blast.
“This is worse than then,” said Heise. “Baader-Meinhof never got this close to a top politician.”
“We can’t postpone the election,” Gutman said. “That would be a capitulation.” His mobile rang. “This will be her.”
“Herr Gutman, Frau Müller here. How are you and how is your wife?”
“I am fine thank you, Frau Chancellor. My wife’s leg was broken and she underwent surgery last night, but she will recover fully, the doctors say.”
“I’m so glad. This is an appalling outrage. I would like to express my deepest sympathy. I suggest we hold a formal state ceremony to mourn the dead and to express our determination not to be cowed by this crime.”
“I agree,” Gutman said. “Do the security authorities have any leads?”
“It does seem this was the work of Islamic extremists. Our people believe the bomb was detonated by a Jordanian journalist named Mohammed Chhadat. It’s very surprising. He has been accredited as a freelancer here since the 1970s. Our press office knew him well and just can’t understand his involvement.”
“No suggestion this may have been neo-Nazis?”
“None so far. Our neo-Nazis don’t have the facilities for this kind of attack, I’m told.”
“Are you sure about this, Frau Chancellor?”
There was a brief silence. “This is what I am told.”
“Because you know as well as I do that the outcome of the election could depend on who is behind these attacks,” said Gutman. “I will speak plainly. If it’s Islamists, it will hurt me because it will show I provoked a wave of Islamist terror in Germany. But if it’s neo-Nazis, it will damage you. Because you have been ignoring far-right extremists ever since you got into office.”
“Come come, Herr Gutman,” Müller bristled. “I’m not going to descend into party politics at a time like …”
“With respect, Frau Chancellor. Be very careful in your public statements …”
“I don’t require instructions from you or anyone else about what public statements I make!” said Müller.
“Let me finish please, this needs to be said, Frau Chancellor. Be very careful about prematurely blaming Islamists for this in the days left until the election. There is much at stake. The investigation is still in its early stages, and if you turn out to be wrong, it would undermine not only you but the credibility of the government. It would weaken our democratic system.”
“This is a time for unity, Herr Gutman. Not argument.”
“I am in favour of proceeding with the election as scheduled, Frau Chancellor. What is your view?”
“We must consider this carefully,” said Müller. “There is the need for public safety and respect for the dead on the one hand, and the need to make a clear statement to the terrorists on the other. And then there is the consideration whether an event such as this could, how shall I say, skew the outcome of the election if we don’t give voters a little more time for reflection.”
You never get a straight ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ out of the woman, thought Gutman.
“What matters most is that we make clear that bombs cannot interrupt the democratic process,” he said. “I think we have a duty to hold the election as planned. We can schedule the state ceremony for the following Sunday. As to whether the attack will skew the outcome, who knows? The attack happened, it is a tragic part of our reality, so if it does affect voters in some way, I hardly think we can refer to that as skewing.”
There was a long silence on the other end. Clunk, clunk. Gutman rolled his eyes. She’s thinking. I bet I’m on loudspeaker with a room full of CDU top brass, half of them nodding and the other half shaking their heads.
“Thank you for your input,” said Müller. “Let us talk again in an hour and not talk to the press until then. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Well said, Rudi,” Heise remarked. “If it did turn out that Nazis were behind this, many people would be shamed into voting for you. But it’s not looking that way, is it?”
Gutman shook his head.
“Anyway, if you want to press on with the election, there’s not much she can do about it,” said Heise. “You’ve got to face the cameras soon and show everyone you’re OK. I have no idea how this will play. You’ll get a lot of sympathy votes for sure, but you know the Germans. They cherish stability above all things. And you now represent the opposite. Vote Gutman and get suicide bombs on the subway.”
“I can’t change that,” said Gutman. “We’ve got to go ahead with the election. It will send a disastrous signal if we don’t.”
He had to g
et back to see Birgit. Peter was with her. The boy watched the speech on TV at home with a minder and saw the screen go blank. The sad, frightened look on the boy’s face when they met in hospital brought Gutman close to tears. He had made his family a target.
Chapter Thirty
Berlin
At four p.m. the announcement came that the election would go ahead as scheduled. Chancellor Müller appeared before the press at the Federal Chancellery. “The German people are resolute. We will not allow terrorists to change our way of life or interrupt our democratic process. All the political parties agree that the federal election must go ahead on Sunday. This in no way diminishes our mourning and our deepest sympathies for the families of the victims of this appalling, cowardly attack. I appeal for calm and condemn the completely unwarranted assaults on the institutions of our Muslim fellow citizens.”
The parties agreed that all campaigning would end immediately, out of respect for the dead, allowing the public a final three days of reflection “free of party political debate” before the vote, said Müller. She turned and walked away without taking questions.
Gutman too gave a brief statement to the reporters camped outside the hospital. “We must not allow ourselves to be intimidated by terrorists. We must show them and the whole world our unshakeable commitment to democracy. Especially in the face of such a barbaric assault on our values.”
The Chronicle’s foreign desk demanded that Carver keep filing updates on the Bonn bombing as part of the website’s rolling coverage. He was tired. Renner walked in with two coffees. “Did you hear the latest? They’re saying it was a suicide bombing by an Arab journalist. He had over half a kilo of plastic explosive in his bag. There’s going to be a huge scandal about how he smuggled the bomb in.”
“Did they give a name?”
“A Jordanian. Mohammed Chhadat.”
“Chhadat?”
“You know him?”
“That’s completely fucking ridiculous! He’s totally harmless, he’s as German as Sauerkraut! No way! He’s been here for decades! Not in a million years! I know the guy! I’M more Islamic than him!”
“Yes, well they’re saying he was a sleeper.”
“Sleeper my foot. There’s sleepers and sleepers and being that asleep is impossible, I tell you. Have you ever heard of a dirty old man who’s a suicide bomber? Why end your life on a promise of 70 virgins if you get your rocks off here on earth?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Berlin, Thursday, September 6
Ludmilla lay on his bed. She had a long plaster down the left side of her face. He put a mug of tea on the bedside table. “Does it hurt?”
“A bit. The main thing is no stitches. Are you worried I won’t be pretty?”
He looked down at her. She smiled, leant up and pulled off her T-shirt. He swallowed at the sight of her breasts swinging free. She lay back down, arched her back and squeezed her nipples.
He laughed. “Are you kidding? What about the cut?”
“Just be gentle,” she said, holding out her hand and stroking his crotch. “Come.”
He hesitated. She was making him hard. He lay down next to her and felt the warmth of her flesh. He drove into her, wincing with pleasure and pain.
Renner called. “I’ve found something interesting. Coming over.” He arrived an hour later and was startled to see Ludmilla. They sat in Carver’s kitchen, drinking coffee in an awkward silence. Ludmilla put her cup down. “OK boys, what’s going on? Why did you get in big fight with Nazis? I want to help!”
Carver gave Renner a questioning look. He shrugged and nodded. “OK, Ludmilla,” said Carver. “We’re going to let you in on a secret. But you must swear you will keep quiet about it. And not write about it. At least not yet.”
“Of course, I swear,” she said, holding her hand on her heart.
“We’ve been investigating what we’re increasingly certain is a neo-Nazi plot to kill Gutman,” said Carver. “And we both doubt that the bomb attack in Bonn and the church bombings were carried out by Islamists.”
She stared at them. “KILL him? Are you sure?”
“A source gave me a tip-off that Tietjen planned to hire an assassin to kill Gutman,” Renner explained. “We have found out that an inheritance totalling over three million euros in precious stones was handed to a member of the FNP, but the donation has not been registered here. We know that the man who fetched the stones is a member of a committee formed to organise the assassination of Gutman. We believe Tietjen met a businessman in Berchtesgaden in July with contacts in Russian security circles. We suspect that this businessman put them in touch with a hitman. We suspect that this hitman planted a bomb on Chhadat to make it look like Islamic terrorism. We have information that Tietjen is behind the Revengers of Allah.”
“WHAT? Have you got proof?”
“Not enough,” said Carver. “A neo-Nazi source we had was murdered in his flat in Dresden last Saturday. He gave the names of members of the so-called Gutman Action Committee. We confronted one of them in Sastrow. That’s where we had a spot of bother.”
Ludmilla went pale. “My God, you are risking your lives!”
“We saw someone suspicious coming out of the Dresden apartment block where our source was killed,” said Carver. “We told the police. He was of medium height, stocky, hard face. Mid-to-late forties.”
“Slavic-looking, hard-arse,” Renner added. “No offence.”
“Did you see anyone fitting that description in Bonn?” asked Carver.
Ludmilla thought. “There was Ukrainian journalist Chhadat was talking to a lot. Vladimir something. He looked tough. But he’s blond. And police interviewed him too.”
“Vladimir who?” asked Carver.
“Don’t know. But he works for Ukrainian paper.”
“I’ll check with the foreign press association.” Carver phoned the secretary. Vladimir Burick worked for Ukrainian National Radio and arrived in Berlin in early August to cover the election, she told Carver. He rang the number of the station in Kiev. After 10 rings, a woman answered in perfect English and confirmed Burick was their correspondent. But she said they had no photo of him. And there was no image of him on the Internet.
“What’s this interesting thing you found?” Carver asked Renner.
“I was googling Tietjen this morning. I’ll show you.” He fired up Carver’s laptop, called up a school reunion website and plugged in Tietjen’s name and the high school he had attended in Dresden from 1987 until 1994. A number of classroom photos popped up.
“Look at this.”
There was a photo of a scrawny-looking Tietjen in his swimming trunks, sitting on a beach with four other teenagers.
“So what?” said Carver.
“Read the caption.”
S. Hintze, H. Tietjen, R. Schmidt, S. Dannenberg, G. Hornbauer. Rügen school trip 1992.”
Carver whistled. “Interesting. Gisela Hornbauer. She’s on Gutman’s campaign team. Event manager.”
“So a senior member of Gutman’s campaign team went to school with the guy who’s trying to kill him,” said Renner. “Quite a coincidence.”
“Might be nothing,” said Carver. “But if they’re still together, she could be feeding him inside stuff on the campaign. Where does she live?”
“Frankfurt,” said Renner. “That’s where her company is based. It’s worth checking out. I can go down there. Today. Now. ”
“What about Berchtesgaden?” asked Carver.
“Frankfurt will be quick. Then Berchtesgaden.”
“Why Berchtesgaden?” Ludmilla asked.
“To find out who Tietjen met there,” Renner said.
“What about taking all this to police?”
“All in good time,” said Carver. “They’re in Islamic terror mode. We need something more concrete before we go to them. I’m going to track down this Vladimir. Renner, can you get to Frankfurt today?”
Finally, the Revengers of Allah had a face. A photo showing a grinning Moh
ammed Chhadat holding up a glass of champagne at a Berlin shindig was plastered on news broadcasts around the world. This was the Muslim extremist behind Germany’s worst terrorist atrocity since the war. A number of prominent Social Democrats rebelled against Gutman’s moderate line and demanded the expulsion of all known radical Islamists. They were panicking about losing their seats in the national lurch to the right.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Frankfurt, 3 p.m.
Renner got in a taxi at Frankfurt airport. The cab dropped him outside the stylish apartment block by the river Main. Hornbauer had the top floor penthouse. He entered the polished red granite lobby and tried to look authoritative as he marched up to the desk of the doorman. “Guten Tag, Kommissar Reichardt, BKA,” Renner said, flashing a fake BKA identity card he kept for these occasions. It hadn’t failed him yet.
“Do you have a Gisela Hornbauer living here?”
The doorman gave a deferential nod and put his cheese roll down.
“Do you know this man? Has he visited Frau Hornbauer recently?”
The man wiped his hands on his jacket and studied the photo of Tietjen. “Is he a criminal?”
“Have you seen him with Frau Hornbauer recently?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why? What’s he done?”
“A place like this has security tapes, doesn’t it? I need to see them immediately.”
The man got to his feet with a worried look. “Yes, Herr Kommissar. We have cameras in the car park and the lobby and a concealed one in the lift.”
They sat down in the office and scrolled through the camera footage. “We get so many people coming and going, I don’t remember all their faces,” the doorman said. “The footage is stored for 100 hours and then gets deleted. Coffee?” Renner nodded.
They sat down and fast-forwarded through the digital video. Frankfurt banker yuppies raced across the lobby and whizzed in and out of the lift like in a 1920s silent movie. Expensive, snappy suits. You needed a healthy fat cat bonus to live here. Just as Renner’s eyes were starting to glaze over, he jolted. “Stop.” The image showed a tall, blond woman get into the lift. Could be her, but her face wasn’t visible. “Can you forward it slowly, frame by frame?”
The Jewish Candidate Page 20