The Jewish Candidate

by David Crossland

  The screen showed the woman turn in the lift and lean against the back of the cabin. A fair-haired man leapt in. Renner couldn’t make him out. But it could be Tietjen. The man kissed her and grabbed her breasts. The doorman uttered a quiet “Uh-oh!”

  This was it. All he needed was the faces. Raise your eyes, my darlings, show us your ecstasy! Renner broke out in a sweat. Screen after screen showed the man fondling her, biting her neck. He had his hand between her legs now. She was sinking down on it. He put his mouth to her ear and said something. They both laughed. Renner’s neck was tightening. Come on! Look up at Uncle Wolfi before you reach your floor!

  Suddenly the woman raised her face to ceiling. She looked deliriously happy. The doorman turned round. “That’s not Frau Hornbauer, Herr Kommissar. That’s Frau Dieckmann. Flat 29.”

  “Scheissdreck!” Renner couldn’t contain himself. He smashed his fist on the desk.

  They looked through the rest of the tape. Hornbauer appeared twice, on her own. There was no one recognizable as Tietjen, at least not over the last three days.

  “Is Frau Hornbauer in now?”

  “No.”

  “I need to get into her apartment.”

  The doorman looked worried. “Do you have a warrant? I could lose my job. I would have to ring up my boss.”

  “This is a terrorism investigation linked to the bomb attacks,” Renner seethed. “There is no time to lose. Lives are at stake.”

  Berlin, 4 p.m.

  Stefan Schulte was satisfied. €140,000 starting salary and 10 percent of the profits. Chief software developer for Berlin APP Solutions GmbH. As he strode across Alexanderplatz square, he smiled at the prospect of handing Krumnagel his resignation letter. He had one more task before he headed back to Berlin. He found a public payphone and dialled a mobile number.

  “Herr Carver! You don’t know me. I have information about the attacks that may interest you. Can we meet? In two hours. Outside the central train station. South entrance. Six o’clock.”

  Frankfurt

  The doorman led Renner to the lift. He rang the doorbell to be sure she was out, and then unlocked it.

  Renner let out a whistle. “Frau Hornbauer has money.”

  “Terrorist money?” the doorman asked.

  Renner turned. “Please remain in the corridor.”

  He closed the door, took off his shoes to avoid staining the plush white carpet, and started searching the flat. The view of the skyscrapers was peerless. He crossed the open-plan living and dining area and reached the study. Wrapping his forefinger in a paper handkerchief, he fired up her PC. It was password protected. He turned it off again and opened her desk drawer. Please Lord, give me a postcard. “Wish you were here. Thanks for all the help with Gutman. Love Hermann von Tietjen.” Or a diary. “Made passionate love to H. von Tietjen last night and handed him the Gutman campaign itinerary. I love him so much and hope he kills the Jew.” Renner allowed himself a grin. But there was nothing. He made for the bedroom and opened the bedside table drawer. At the bottom was a flesh-coloured vibrator. He raised an eyebrow at the size of it. Next, he inspected the walk-in wardrobe. Designer clothes and, oddly, an assortment of dirndls. There was a wicker basket down in the corner. He pulled it out, opened the lid and turned up his nose at the intense smell of leather and rubber. He laughed out loud. A black leather gimp mask stared up at him, with a dildo attached to the mouth. There was a red dress made of rubber, nipple clamps, a red butt plug, and a whip. Renner was disturbed by his desire to sniff everything, and managed to resist the urge. He thought about taking something that could be checked for Tietjen’s DNA, but then he remembered that he wasn’t in the police force, that he was trespassing, and that he would in effect be destroying evidence by removing it from here. Besides, judging by how sterile the rest of her flat was, Hornbauer was certain to keep a clean S&M kit chest. He closed the basket, hoping he had remembered to put everything back in order, and went looking for photo albums.

  His phone went. It was Carver.

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet. I’m in her flat. Haven’t found anything. Apart from Tietjen’s gimp mask.”

  “You’re kidding. How the hell did you get in there?”

  “Tell you later, Got to get out of here.”

  He was getting nervous now. Time was running out. He found some photo albums on a shelf in her bedroom. Snaps of her as a pimply teenager on a beach with her parents. Then photos of her in the 1990s, smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Coliseum, an easterner enjoying her new-found freedom to travel. None of her with a man. He checked the bathroom for a men’s toiletry bag. Nothing. The kitchen looked like a showroom kitchen that had never been used. The five big Sauerkraut tins in the cupboard looked as incongruous in this glitzy apartment as the Dirndls.

  Fuck this. Renner could feel Tietjen’s presence everywhere in this flat. He could smell it. From the cleanliness, the kinkiness, the strange mix of the trendy and the folksy, he sensed that Hermann von Tietjen and Gisela Hornbauer were a match made in heaven. But there was no proof.

  Time to get out. He put his shoes back on and opened the door. The doorman was waiting. “Anything?”he said.

  Renner ignored the question. In the lift, he said. “The BKA thanks you for your cooperation. This visit never happened, you understand? Don’t mention this interview to anyone. Not even your boss. The terrorism investigation is ongoing. Mentioning it would put the security of people living here at risk, and would be bad for your career. Is that understood?”

  The man nodded. “Of course, Herr Kommissar.”

  As Renner walked out of the building, he wondered if the real estate company would be terminating Frau Hornbauer’s rental contract in the near future. Or raising the rent, more likely. He walked along the river feeling drained and disappointed. The trip hadn’t brought them any closer. He was starting to lose heart. Even if they tracked down the mysterious Stefan Kunz, and found the old Nazi in Berchtesgaden with the Russian contacts, what would happen? What was the point of staring into their eyes and knowing that they were lying? These guys weren’t going just to break down and confess to a couple of reporters. They would slam the door in their faces, or deny, deny, deny, or just set the dogs on them. It would be like Sastrow, or worse.

  He rang Carver. “Nothing. I know she’s banging him, I can literally smell it, but no proof.”

  “Nice one getting in the flat though. How the hell did you manage that?”

  “BKA pass works wonders.”

  Carver laughed. “What’s with the gimp mask?”

  “She’s into S&M big time. Whips, chains, rubber. The biggest dildo I’ve ever seen, made my eyes water.”

  “I’m meeting a guy at six,” said Carver. “He rang up saying he had information on the attacks and wanted to talk. Wouldn’t give his name. Might give us something.”

  “Sounds dodgy. Could be a trap, Frank.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s in a public place. In front of the station. I’ll watch out. But I’ve got some bad news. The foreign editor is flying out to ‘help cover the election’. This story’s been deemed too big for me. Beedham wants to muscle in, slap his byline on it. He’s arriving later, says he wants to meet me tonight. Can you come along?”

  Berlin Central Train Station, 6 p.m.

  Carver arrived five minutes early. Commuters were streaming across the broad forecourt into the towering modern station, Berlin’s main rail hub. On the dot of six a young man in a business suit and trench coat walked up to him. “Herr Carver. I don’t have much time.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I work for German home intelligence in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern.”

  “Right. Do you have any ID?”

  Schulte pulled out his wallet and showed him his identity guard. Carver studied it.

  “What can I do for you, Herr Schulte?”

  “I read your stories in the Chronicle. Seems you’re the only journalist not writing about Islamists
these days. Listen …” Schulte stopped and looked over Carver’s shoulder. Carver turned round but could only see crowds of people.

  “Let’s walk,” Schulte said. “We do routine checks on the movements of leading neo-Nazis. They include a man named Sven Wuttke.”

  “I know him,” said Carver.

  “What?”

  “I think he’s involved in a plot to kill Gutman.”

  Schulte stopped. “The phone tracking records show Wuttke was at the scene of four attacks. The Nuremberg grenade, the Berlin firebombing, the church bombing in Münster, and Bonn.”

  “What’s being done about it? Is he going to be arrested?”

  “As far as I can tell, this information is being ignored. I told my boss twice. He dismissed it. I filed a complaint to head office. My boss got wind of it and hauled me over the coals. So I’m quitting.”

  “But why are they ignoring it?”

  Schulte reached into his briefcase and handed Carver a brown envelope. “Maybe you can do something with this. You mustn’t quote me, Herr Carver. Swear you won’t quote me.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Only say source. Don’t mention Mecklenburg. Don’t mention intelligence.”

  “Of course. What’s in here?” Carver peered into the envelope and felt a thin sheaf of papers.

  “Printouts of emails showing where Wuttke has been since the last week of July. Routine phone tracking. It’s all there. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait! Herr Schulte!” Carver touched his arm. “What do you think is happening? I mean … do you have any other information? We have a source saying the Revengers are a front for neo-Nazis.”

  “What do I think? I think you’re right. I think neo-Nazis are trying to kill Gutman and pin the blame on Islamists. I think they’re behind this whole chaos. No one’s been able to find out anything about these Revengers of Allah. They’re a phantom. A fax machine. But it doesn’t matter what I think, Herr Carver. The whole security operation, it’s like a juggernaut, and no one can change its direction. No one else believes the neo-Nazis can mount something like this! But they can. Give them cash and leadership and there’s a hell of a lot they can do.”

  “We think Tietjen’s behind it,” said Carver. “We think he got the cash from an old Nazi in Nice. We think he’s hired someone to do it.”

  Schulte stared at him. “Tietjen? Well, publish it, go to the police, raise hell! I’ve done my …” A man barged into him, knocking him off balance. Carver rushed forward to steady him. Schulte swung round. “Hey!” They saw the back of a motorbike jacket and a stubbly blond head disappear into the crowd. Schulte rubbed his shoulder. He suddenly looked worried. “Tietjen?”

  Carver nodded. “Are you OK?”

  Schulte looked at Carver, mumbled “Good luck,” and walked towards the station.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Berlin, 9.30 p.m.

  Carver and Renner marched down the thick blue carpet towards Ben Beedham’s suite in the Adlon. The foreign editor of the Chronicle insisted on staying in Berlin’s top hotel. The turn-of-the century palace of luxury was destroyed in the war and rebuilt after unification, and counted Marlene Dietrich and Charlie Chaplin among its illustrious guests. “Frank!” Beedham greeted him like a long-lost friend. “How are you? What a show!” Carver remembered that soft, moist handshake. It was worse than squeezing a warm cut of pork. He had an urge to wash his hands.

  The suite faced the Brandenburg Gate, illuminated and being photographed by dozens of tourists.

  Beedham, dissatisfied with just being foreign editor, had decided to speed up his progress to the editor-in-chief’s chair by covering the election and claiming ownership of the biggest European story of recent years.

  “And who have we here?” Beedham’s nose twitched in disapproval at the sight of Renner’s leather jacket. “This is Wolfgang Renner, a prominent German journalist,” said Carver. “Wolfgang gave me the tip-off about the neo-Nazi plot, and we’ve been working together ever since. We did the Wewelsburg story together. Listen, we’ve just received new information. From an intelligence source. We’ve got enough to go with a story that Nazis are behind all these attacks. Not Islamists!”

  Beedham pursed his lips. “But they’ve said it was that Arab journalist. That Muslim group confessed to it, surely.”

  “They’re a front for Nazis,” said Carver. “I know Chhadat, There’s no way he’s a suicide bomber. Listen Ben, I’ve just met an …”

  “Well, yes, that’s the reaction so often, isn’t it?” said Beedham. “They’re always lovely chaps in ordinary life.”

  “Ben, listen! We’ve found a lot of evidence of a Nazi plot,” said Carver. “We’ve got the start of the money trail, we know the guy who picked up the money is part of a ‘Gutman Action Committee’ formed by Tietjen to kill Gutman. Our source wound up dead with his penis in his mouth, a man I assigned to watch my back has been murdered, we’ve been attacked and threatened by neo-Nazis, we’ve established a possible link between Tietjen and someone senior on Gutman’s campaign team, and now …”

  Beedham held up his pink paw. “Can I stop you there, Frank? I’ve heard about your travails and I’m deeply sorry about it. I hope you’re cooperating fully with the police, by the way. But we’ve got a job to do, and not very much time.”

  “Ben!” Carver pulled out the email printout. “An intelligence source just handed me these! A top neo-Nazi was at the scene of four of the attacks! When they happened! Within metres of them! He said no one’s listening to him! We’ve got to report this!”

  Beedham shook his head. “Too dodgy. If his own bosses aren’t listening to him, there may be a reason for it. Anyway, the focus now has got to be straight news. What you have is all very dramatic, but it proves nothing, and doesn’t exactly stack up against the weight of evidence …”

  “What weight of evidence?”

  Beedham frowned. “If I may finish, Frank.”

  “I’m afraid not, Ben. You can’t come in here dismissing weeks of hard, dangerous work without knowing all the facts about what’s going on here!”

  “Cool it Frank,” Renner put his hand on his arm. “Let’s all keep cool.”

  Carver was seething at this fat parasite in his handmade shoes and beige cords and stupid tweed jacket with wanky brown leather elbow patches who was standing in this expenses-paid honeymoon suite nixing their story because it didn’t serve his personal career ambitions.

  Beedham’s face was red with anger. “Now you listen here, Frank! There’s no way we’re going to run a libellous story like that without more proof! I’ve come here to coordinate and steer coverage. To be honest, your coverage of the German election story in the last few weeks hasn’t been up to scratch! It’s lacked depth. And breadth!”

  He put on a smile. “Come on old boy. Instead of arguing like this, we should all be writing. Big picture stuff. What the implications are. Who’s going to win? Who this Chhadat is. Germany’s Islamic scene. We’ve got carte blanche for loads of column inches on the front page and most of the foreign pages. Let’s get to work and make the most of it, hm? What do you say?”

  Carver glowered at Beedham, who looked intimidated for a second by the hostility in his eyes. “Why have you gone cold on this? We had a deal. I deliver the scoop, I get to keep my job.”

  “’Fraid I just don’t see the scoop, Frank,” said Beedham. “Just don’t see it.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Renner, shaking his head. “You’re missing the biggest story since unification.”

  “Thank you for your input, I’m sure,” Beedham snapped. “Here’s what’s going to happen, gents. We’ll put the Nazi angle on hold until you’ve researched it properly. We’ll catch up with straight coverage for now. I’ll be working from here. And Frank … I would like you to help set up a meeting between Oleg and Chancellor Müller, assuming she gets re-elected.”

  “Who’s Oleg when he’s at home?”

  “Oleg Kutuzov! The man who pays your wages! Our
owner!”

  “Why’s he want to meet Müller?”

  “They have some important business to discuss.”

  “Like hell I will,” Carver said. “You’re on your own.” As he slammed the door Carver heard Beedham shout: “How dare you!” Followed by the more plaintive cry, “But I don’t speak German!” Carver turned and shouted: “Fly in a translator!”

  They walked out of the Adlon onto the square in front of the Brandenburg Gate. Carver looked up at Beedham’s room. “Prick. The Chronicle’s coverage of this election is going to be a treat.”

  “He’ll do fine, he’ll just rip off the news agencies,” said Renner. “Let me get you a beer. You need one after that.”

  They walked down Unter Den Linden, one of Berlin’s most famous boulevards, named after the lime trees that line it, and headed towards the restored Prussian heart of the city. Grand neoclassical buildings and statues lined the street. “Imagine having covered Berlin during the Third Reich,” said Renner. “Imagine ringing your desk and saying: ‘I’ve got a statement from the War Ministry. Something about Operation Barbarossa. 3.5 million men invading the Soviet Union. Fancy a couple hundred words?’ You wouldn’t have had trouble getting that in the paper would you?”

  “They wouldn’t have believed me,” Carver replied.

  They reached Hackescher Markt, an upmarket nightspot teeming with twentysomething tourists, and walked down Oranienburger Strasse, past prostitutes with strikingly slim waists and thigh-length latex boots. A statuesque blond stepped onto the pavement in front of Renner and peered down at him with a challenging look. Carver had to stifle a laugh at the height difference. “Up for a bit of fun?” she demanded.