“Hold on. You think someone might be waiting for you?” said Deniz. “Wait.” He disappeared inside the restaurant. They heard him shout “Erhan!”
“That’s his son,” said Renner. “Great guys. Best doner in Berlin.” Carver scanned the street. It was getting busier. Deniz and Erhan came out armed with 15-inch carving knives. “If you’ve got neo-Nazis in your apartment, we’ll get them out for you!”
Renner swallowed and slapped Deniz on the shoulder. Carver shook their hands. “We appreciate this,” he said. “But I must warn you. We were followed last night by two men, and one of them fired a gun at us. Going in there could be very dangerous.”
The men just shrugged. “Nazi pigs. We’ll handle them,” said Erhan, a bull-necked six-footer who looked as if he spent all his free time at the gym. “We’ll skewer them. On the menu tonight: Nazi Doner.” He gave a broad grin, but there was a glint in his eyes.
“OK,” said Renner. “Let’s do it.”
They tiptoed up the steps. The door to Renner’s apartment was ajar. He pushed it open. “Fucking bastards,” Renner muttered. The place had been turned on its head. His laptop was gone. So was the frame with Göring’s underpants. Deniz and his son searched the rest of the flat. “Anything on the laptop?”
Renner shook his head. “Cost me a thousand euros. Got no insurance.” He sighed. “Fuck.”
“The Chronicle will get you a new laptop, mate. It’s the underpants I’d be cut up about.”
“No one here,” said Deniz.
Renner gathered clothes and a bag. “Let’s go.”
They thanked Deniz and Erhan for their kindness and courage, and got a taxi to Carver’s flat. “You won’t find guys like that to help where I live,” said Carver as they sped through Kreuzberg. “I’ve just got little old ladies with Dachshunds around my place.”
Carver’s door was shut but unlocked. “I double-locked it.” He turned to Renner. “D’you think they’re waiting for us?”
“They must assume we’ve gone to the police,” Renner whispered. “Let’s give it a go.”
They stepped in and stood in the hall, listening. There was no sound apart from the hum of traffic outside. They set about checking every room. The office was ransacked. Carver’s PC and digicam were gone. “We’re fucked,” said Renner. Carver shook his head. “Nope.” He unzipped his jacket pocket and took out his digital recorder, two memory cards and a folded envelope. “Look. I’ve got it all here. The recording of young Miss Isabelle, the photo of Schwartz’s list, Schulte’s email printout, all the notes I’ve made. None of it was on my PC. They’ll find nothing on my hard drive apart from hundreds of old stories. And a Chicken Tikka recipe.”
The doorbell buzzed. They both jumped. Carver crept to the door and peered through the spyhole. It was Ludmilla.
They sat in Carver’s living room. Ludmilla had tears in her eyes. “I’ve had enough of this. You must call police! You have taken enough risks with this story. I don’t want you to be killed.” She blew her nose. “My God. When I came here I thought Nazis were history. But here in Berlin, being chased through the streets! You can’t stay here, Frank. You must stay with me.”
“No way. I’m not putting you in danger. I’ll move into a hotel for a few nights.” He turned to Renner. “You’d better go to Berchtesgaden on your own. I’ll go to the police and will keep trying to locate this Vladimir Burick.”
Ludmilla looked at Renner. “Don’t you think it’s too dangerous to go down there?”
“If I can find the old bastard that Tietjen met, the guy who gave him the contacts, and get something out of him, that might prove there’s a conspiracy,” Renner said. “That on top of Wuttke being near the attacks, Kunz fetching the diamonds, the murders of Schwartz and Mr Stasiman, the way we’ve been threatened and almost killed, the statement from my FNP mate about a plot – we’d have the story in the bag. But whether people would listen is another question.”
“They’d have to, it would be compelling,” Carver said. “Even the Chronicle couldn’t ignore it. The police would have to investigate. And once they do, it will all come tumbling down.”
“OK,” said Renner. “I’ve tracked down the names of two old guys near Berchtesgaden who fit the profile. Company owners, war record, possible dealings with Russia, eastern Europe. Maybe I’ll find more when I’m down there.”
Ludmilla stood up and walked into the kitchen. “I’m just worried. You’ve had such narrow escapes. I’ll make tea.”
“Filter coffee for me, please, Ludmilla,” said Renner. “Extra strong.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
For an instant, Renner looked forlorn.
“What’s the matter, Wolfgang? Are you thinking of some fat skinhead walking around in Göring’s Y-fronts?”
“Be careful, Frank. Get out of here.”
Renner gulped down the coffee and stood up. “I’d better get going. No time to lose.” He held out his hand.
Carver shook it, a little surprised at the sudden formality. “We’ve been through a lot together,” said Renner.
Carver smiled. “I’ll say. We’ll tell our grandkids about this.”
“Maybe.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Berlin, Friday, September 7, 12.30 p.m.
The local police referred Carver to the Regional Criminal Police Office, which in turn passed him onto the Federal Criminal Police Office, the BKA. “We are stretched to capacity,” an officer at the BKA’s head office in Wiesbaden said. “Are you certain this was an attempt on your life? You say you had been drinking?”
Carver mentioned the deaths of Wischnewski and Schwartz and the investigation into an FNP plot against Gutman. When he said he had reason to believe that Tietjen was behind the Revengers of Allah, the officer gave a short laugh. “Just one moment.” After a couple of minutes, he came back on said: “I will take down your name and number and we shall call you back, Herr Carver. But don’t expect a call until Monday. You will understand that all our resources are tied up providing security for the election.”
“But …”
“Auf Wiederhören, Herr Carver.” The officer put the phone down.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Berchtesgaden, Saturday, September 8, One Day Before the Election
It was a crisp, sunny morning. Berchtesgaden was looking its chocolate-box best. Apart from some wisps of clouds draped around the peaks of the Watzmann like scarves in the wind, the sky was an immaculate blue. This place was unreal. People actually walked round in traditional Bavarian Trachten costume. They looked just like the happy Bavarians in the wall paintings adorning the buildings. Renner had rarely felt so out of place. It was all so folksy. Like being in another country, 100 years ago. Ahead of him, a young woman in a long-skirted dirndl and woollen jacket marched her little son – short lederhosen breeches, red-and-white check shirt – down the street. She held his hand and walked so fast that the poor little mite kept losing his footing. They stopped and walked into a butcher’s shop. A little bell on the door rang as it opened, and Renner stopped to study the window display. Its centrepiece was the head of a wild boar surrounded by countless types of sausage. Feeling a little queasy at the sight of all the meat, he walked on.
He found a barber’s shop. An ageing Fräulein took pleasure in shearing his unruly mane down to a snappy short back and sides with a neat parting, gossiping with her colleague in the local dialect which Renner found impossible to understand. He walked out feeling naked and self-conscious.
Next came a clothes shop, where he bought a collarless woollen jacket. He smiled at the thought of the Chronicle’s accounts department scratching their heads at the receipt. The friendly old shopkeeper offered him a discount on Lederhosen and a feathered green felt hat, but Renner declined. That would take things too far beyond the call of duty.
He returned to his hire car. There were three possibles now. He spent the last few weeks trawling through the companies register of the Chamber of Commerce for
Munich and Upper Bavaria to check out local corporate bosses and founders. A search of the local newspaper records in the town library that morning turned up a third elderly entrepreneur who remained fervently loyal to the cause. The old SS trooper had made local headlines by protesting against the exhumation of Rudolf Hess from his grave in the Bavarian town of Wunsiedel two years before. It had become a pilgrimage site for neo-Nazis, thousands of whom would gather at the tomb each year on the anniversary of his death. Authorities decided to put a stop to the rallies by removing the body one night and burying it at sea. The descendants of Hitler’s deputy had given their permission.
The first one lived in the village of Ramsau, a short drive from Berchtesgaden. Waffen Huber, which made luxury shotguns, was set up by Alfons Huber in 1954. Renner couldn’t find many details about Huber or his business, but bells started ringing when he found a reference in a newspaper cutting to Herr Huber’s membership of the Upper Bavarian SS veterans’ association. Renner had no idea if Huber sold any of his guns to Russia, but it was worth checking.
He studied himself in the rear-view mirror and laughed out loud at his transformation into a straight-laced Bavarian. He spent a few minutes practising a Bavarian accent but gave up. It just made him sound like a northerner poking fun at the Alpine dialect. He would have to settle for suppressing his nasal Hamburg brogue as much as possible. He called the company switchboard and asked to speak to Herr Alfons Huber. “Junior or Senior?” inquired a woman in a heavy Bavarian accent. “Senior, bitte.”
A gravelly voice came on. “Huber.”
“Guten Tag, Herr Huber. My name is Herr Hirsch. I’m writing a series of articles about successful local companies for the Berchtesgadener Kurier and wanted to ask if I could interview you.”
“You’ll have to talk to my son. I’m retired.”
“I would prefer to speak to you as the founder of the company. How you started it from scratch, turned it into the flourishing business it is today,” said Renner, trying to sound breathlessly enthusiastic. “I’m looking for the Economic Miracle angle, and what modern German businesses can learn from the entrepreneurs of the post-war era.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Burkhard Hirsch.”
There was a pause.
“Come round this afternoon at three. To my home.”
“That is very kind, thank you Herr Huber!”
The road to Ramsau led through a fairytale valley of woods and fields dotted with cows. Renner wished he’d hired a convertible. He parked the car by a gushing stream near a whitewashed, onion-domed church. He bought an irresistible-looking buttered Brezel in a bakery and asked for directions to the Huber residence. As he walked across a wooden bridge over the river, an elderly couple asked him to take a picture of them with the church and the Alps in the background. He had half an hour to spare and sat on a wooden bench by the water. The Alpine beauty all around was overpowering. He suddenly felt exhausted. His back still ached from the kicking in Sastrow. He sat still for a few minutes, allowing himself to be hypnotized by the rushing stream and the sun glinting on the water. His eyes went out of focus. The blurriness relaxed him. His energy was draining away, along with his hope of discovering anything of use on this trip. He sighed. Exposing Tietjen as a rabid Nazi – that was the best story he had ever written. Uncovering a funding scandal that could wreck the FNP – an added bonus. But nailing the Gutman plot – it started to look like a bridge too far.
He broke off some of his Brezel and threw it to a waiting sparrow. The piece was far too big, but the bird took off with it before the competition arrived.
They had done well. Fucking well. But how much of a difference had they really made? The events of the last few days made the FNP pretty redundant. The whole nation, the whole of Europe, had moved to the right. There was so much Islamophobia, such an anti-immigrant frenzy, that every mainstream politician apart from Gutman was starting to sound rabid. The Bonn bombing had blown the lid off racist attitudes that were never far from the surface, in Germany and across the continent. In the last few days it had become politically acceptable to say things like “Muslim immigrants pose the biggest threat to our liberal Western culture,” “Germany is dumbing down because of the rapidly growing underclass of under-educated Muslims,” or “We Germans are being bred out of house and home.” Mainstream politicians were saying that stuff, and no one batted an eyelid. The racists were scuttling out of the woodwork. Because of a bombing that was most likely committed by, or commissioned by, neo-Nazis. Tietjen’s job was being done for him, by upstanding politicians from other parties, and by commentators from the respectable conservative newspapers.
Renner leant forward. “You clever, evil man,” he murmured. “You’re the Pied Piper. You’re the puppet master. And no one knows.” He was getting a headache. He had woken up with a burning in his throat that morning, and it still nagged him. He was sick of running. If he didn’t strike gold here, he was going to call it quits. Gutman’s protection was at 100 percent. They warned the police about the far-right, but no one was listening. So fuck it. He was sick of putting his life on the line. He got up and stretched. A sudden dizziness made him stumble, but it passed.
He walked up a steep street and reached Huber’s residence, a large, chalet-style villa. Boxes of geraniums, so garishly red that they hurt his eyes, hung from the window sills. The neat garden in front had a platoon of happy plastic gnomes hard at work. One that looked custom-made for Mr Huber was pointing a shotgun at a plastic deer. “This looks promising,” Renner thought. There was a disconcerting photo of two Rottweilers on the low wrought-iron gate beneath the message “We Live Here.”
He rang the bell and heard hoarse barks in the house. As he waited, Renner pictured them being lured into a cage with chunks of bloody meat. After a minute, a pretty young woman wearing a sober brown dirndl opened the door and buzzed the front gate open. She led him up a staircase and into an oak-panelled study overlooking meadows and mountains.
Herr Huber was over six feet tall and, though 86, had a lean, leathery robustness that came from decades of mountain walking. Or from those precious genes. His fine white hair had been blond in his heyday of jackboots and Tiger tanks. His handshake was bone-crushing. Renner immediately disliked him. This man looked so distinguished, so prosperous. He had flourished and enjoyed life, and was no doubt a respected member of the community. Renner had no idea what Huber had got up to during the war. But being in the SS was enough to label him a murderer, in his book.
“What a wonderful house you have here, and in such a pretty setting, Herr Huber!” Renner glanced out of the window at the Alpine paradise, and felt a twinge of despair. There was no justice on earth, and no God in heaven. Huber beckoned Renner to sit on a chair in front of his monumental desk. The chair was lower than Huber’s. It made Renner feel like a lowly farm labourer facing the lord of the manor.
“I have just spoken to the editor of the Berchtesgadener Kurier, who is a friend of mine,” Huber rasped in a deep, gurgling voice. “He says he’s never heard of you. So what are you doing here, Herr Burkhard Hirsch?” He gave Renner a thin smile that said: “I’ve caught you out, you’re in trouble now, and I’ve got two Rottweilers.”
Renner didn’t blink. “Well, I’m glad you’re giving me the opportunity to get straight to business. I’m from the FNP and have been sent by Herr Hermann von Tietjen to talk to you.”
Huber narrowed his eyes. “Von Tietjen? Who’s he?”
“The leader of the FNP. And the head of GAK.”
Huber was getting impatient. “GAK? GAK? What the hell is GAK?”
“The Gutman Aktions Komitee. The Russian contact isn’t working.” Renner scrutinized every wrinkle in Huber’s face for a hint that he was just being cautious and feigning ignorance. But his confusion seemed genuine. This wasn’t the guy. The next task was to get out in one piece.
Huber rose to his feet. He looked furious. “You’d better leave. I have no idea what you’re talkin
g about! Who are you?” He stretched out his hand. “Show me your papers. I want to see your papers or I shall call the police.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk. Renner could hear barking.
Renner stood up. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Herr Huber. I have been misinformed. Maybe I should be talking to your son.”
“My son has no links with your party,” Huber snapped. “I said show me some identification!”
Renner strode to the door, opened it and turned round. “We’re not in a concentration camp now, you SS shithead!”
He rushed out as Huber roared “Heidi!” He leapt down the stairs praying that the front door wouldn’t be locked. “Hasso! Benno!” Renner swung round the banister post and sprinted for the exit. A vicious snarling broke out behind him. He tore open the door. A violent tug on his leg held him back. Renner clutched the door frame and looked round to see a mutt sinking its fangs into the heel of his shoe. He managed to extricate his foot from the shoe and pulled as hard as he could on the door handle, wedging the dog between the door and the wall. It was one of the ugliest creatures he had ever seen, a baying mass of teeth, frothy saliva and black gums. 50 kilos of purebred hatred. He held onto the door handle and kicked the mutt’s face as hard as he could with his shoed foot, three times. It let out a satisfying whine. He saw Heidi’s gentle hands trying to tear the door open and had little doubt that Herr Huber was loading one of his handmade, beautifully engraved shotguns. He gave the dog one more kick and ran for the front fence: It wouldn’t open but was low enough for him to lift his leg over. He ran down the street, hobbling on his socked foot, half-waiting for the gunshot. There were shouts and barking behind him but he didn’t turn around.
He reached the scenic wooden bridge and ran across it, almost knocking over an elderly tourist. That made him slow down. Herr Huber was bound to turn this into a police matter, and he didn’t want to attract any attention. If someone remembered his number plate, he’d be in trouble. He drove out of Ramsau and headed back to Berchtesgaden. The priority now was to get new shoes and headache tablets. Halfway there, he pulled onto the grass verge, opened his door and vomited. His heart was thumping. He sat still for a few minutes, struggling to catch his breath. Something was wrong. The Schnitzel he ate last night tasted fine. Weakness and nausea washed over him.
The Jewish Candidate Page 23