Frankfurt
Gisela Hornbauer stood in her living room and sniffed the air. She noticed something was wrong as soon as she opened the front door. Someone had been in here. A man. A smoker. She kicked off her shoes and ran around the apartment. She tore open the cupboards and drawers. Everything looked untouched. Finally, her hands trembling, she pulled out the wicker basket and opened it. She cried out. The mask was further to the right than she had left it. The thought of an intruder seeing and rifling through her love equipment was unbearable. She dialled nine for the porter’s desk. “Someone has been in my apartment,” she screamed. Who has been in my apartment?”
Bonn
Gutman went for a stroll with his son in the grounds of the Waldkrankenhaus hospital. Birgit was on the mend. The doctors said she would be able to walk normally again. Peter had his football with him. “Can we have a kickabout, Dad?”
Gutman looked around. How would paparazzi photos of the SPD candidate playing football with his son four days after a deadly bomb blast play in the media? That’s what Heise and Birgit would be thinking. He didn’t care. They took off their jackets and made a goal. Gutman was goalie. He stopped letting in the ball on purpose years ago, because Peter was talented and could shoot accurately. The boy placed the ball with great care and took so many steps back that he bumped into a chair on the lawn. “Peter, how hard are you planning to shoot? Give me a chance!”
Peter ran at the ball and kicked it with all his might, low and to the right. Gutman had lunged for the wrong corner and watched it whizz past him, just inside the jacket. He felt a sharp pain in his back. “Ouch! You win. That’s enough. I’m still in pain.”
They walked on. Armed police were everywhere. An armoured vehicle drove crept along the street just beyond the trees.
“Why did those people want to kill you, Dad? Is it because you’re Jewish?”
“I suppose so, Peter,” said Gutman. “There are lots of silly, evil people around. It’s a fact of life. But there are far more good people than evil ones.”
“Can’t you just come home and not be leader of Germany?”
“I want to make this country better,” Gutman answered. “I want to help people. This is my job. I can’t give up just because there are some bad people around. If I did, I would be surrendering. And we Gutmans, we don’t surrender, do we?”
Peter looked up at his father. “But I don’t want you to die like Mummy.”
Gutman put his arm round Peter’s shoulder. “I won’t die, Peter. I promise. But if I give up, the bad people will have beaten me. They’ll have won. We can’t let that happen. We’ve got to fight the baddies. Like in the cowboy films.”
They found a bench and sat down. Clouds were gathering over the Seven Hills. “Am I German or am I a Jew?” asked Peter.
Gutman unwrapped a piece of chocolate, broke it in half and handed a piece to his son.
“You are both. You are German and Jewish, Peter. You can be proud of both. You like where you live, don’t you?”
Peter nodded.
“You like your school and your friends?”
“Mmhm.”
“Do you want Germany to win the World Cup?”
Vigorous nods.
“You sound like a German boy to me. Do you like getting chocolate coins at Hanukkah and lighting the menorah?”
“Yes.”
“Well then you’re a Jewish boy too.”
“But I also like Christmas.”
“Well,” Gutman smiled, ruffling Peter’s hair. “Who doesn’t?”
It started to drizzle, but they stayed on the bench, munching their chocolate. As a boy, Gutman felt the way Peter did now. Am I German or am I a Jew? Not much progress in four decades. If I can help to make that question redundant for Peter’s children, I will have made this country a better place.
Berchtesgaden
The nausea subsided. Renner took deep breaths and checked his notepad. He was desperate to finish this and get out of Heidiland as quickly as possible. Option Number two was Küchen Glück, which made luxury fitted kitchens. Maybe the rich Russkis liked Glück’s trademark rustic, Bavarian style. Alois Glück founded the company in 1947 as a furniture factory before specializing in kitchens in the 1960s. Renner decided to choose a different name and newspaper, just to be safe.
He dialled the company’s switchboard. It was based in the city of Bad Reichenhall, but the Glück family lived on Obersalzberg mountain near Berchtesgaden. He managed to charm the female operator into putting him through to the residence.
An elderly woman answered. “Grüss Gott, hier Glück.”
Renner cleared his throat. “Grüss Gott, Rudi Staudhammer, from Bavaria Express newspaper. May I speak to Herr Glück? I’m writing a profile on successful Bavarian companies.”
There was a silence, then a shout of “Aaaloisss! Telefooon!” Old Herr Glück shuffled to the phone. He sounded like a friendly old gentlemen, and wasn’t going to pass up the offer of free publicity. He invited Renner over for tea.
Renner looked in the car mirror. His face had a yellowish tint, but he felt a bit better. The missing shoe was a pain. He drove back to Berchtesgaden and parked as close as he could to the main shopping street. He walked 100 yards without anyone apparently noticing and had almost reached a shoe shop when he saw a little boy pointing at him. “Look Mummy, that man’s only got one shoe!” The nipper tugging at his mother’s arm. The woman gave him a suspicious look. Other passersby also started staring at him. The burgers of Berchtesgaden didn’t like things to be out of the ordinary. They didn’t like one-shoe people. He smiled and shrugged, and walked into the shop. He paid in cash, ignoring the surprised look the assistant gave him.
The road up to the Obersalzberg was a series of hairpin bends, and he got stuck behind a tour bus headed for the site of Hitler’s Berghof. Glück’s villa was on the quiet side of the mountain, but had the same panoramic vista with which the Führer wowed his guests. The kitchen business had made old Alois very rich. A Rolls Royce Phantom was parked in the drive. The mansion stood on what must have been a hectare of land. It was built in traditional Bavarian style, all whitewashed facades framed with wood. A balcony ran around the entire first floor. The door opened as he pulled up, and an old couple walked out and waved. Herr and Frau Glück. Fuck. Renner hated the friendly ones. It made him feel guiltier. “Grüss Gott, Herr Staudhammer!” Glück was a stocky man, about Renner’s height, and his white handlebar moustache and long suede Lederhosen testified to a vain streak. His buxom wife, Traudl, was in her fifties, about 30 years younger than him, and had thrown on her most festive dirndl for the occasion. “Haven’t you brought a photographer?” she asked. “I’m afraid not,” said Renner. They both looked so disappointed that he hurriedly added: “Our photographer was called away today, so we will have to arrange a photo shoot in the coming days if that’s all right.” They brightened up and led him through the house and onto a terrace facing the back garden. Coffee and exquisite cakes had been arranged for Herr Staudhammer from Bavaria Express, and Traudl sat in on the interview.
Renner’s mind was racing. The sight of the creamy cakes made him feel sick again. There was an uncomfortable silence as the three of them sat around the table. Everything he saw fed his nausea. The intense green of the lawn, the cows grazing in the meadows beyond, the mountain range, strangely close in the clear air. He breathed in and cleared his aching throat. “What a wonderful home you have.”
“Thank you!” Traudl beamed. “It was hard earned.” Her loud, tinny voice irritated him. Hard-earned by old Alois, you mean, he thought. You probably just came on the scene when he decided to swap his wife for a younger model. Fuck this. He didn’t have time to keep up this charade. “Herr Glück,” he said. “Forgive me, but I have come here under false pretences. I wanted to make sure that you would see me.”
They both looked confused. “Herr Glück, I am from the FNP and have been sent by Herr Hermann von Tietjen.”
Alois gawped at him. “T
he FNP? But they’re Nazis! You’re from the FNP?”
Traudl grabbed her husband’s hand. “What’s going on? Shall I call the police, Schatzi?”
Glück shook his head. “No, no, darling, I can handle this. What’s this about?”
Renner looked at Traudl and attempted a reassuring smile. “I think it would be better if you let me talk to your husband alone, just briefly. Really, there is nothing at all to worry about. I think this might just be a misunderstanding.”
Glück beckoned Traudl to run along. She stood up and walked into the house, grumbling in Bavarian and shooting them an anxious look. “You don’t know what this is about?” asked Renner, scrutinizing the old man’s face. Glück shook his head. Renner lowered his voice. “I have been sent by the Gutman Aktions Komitee.”
“The what?”
This was a waste of time.
“Are you a neo-Nazi?” demanded Glück.
Renner said nothing.
With surprising speed for an old man, Glück bent forward and flung the dregs of his coffee into Renner’s face. “How dare you come into my house!” he roared.
Here we go. Renner wiped the liquid out of his eyes and stood up, waiting for the sound of attack dogs.
“I spent two years in Dachau!” Glück fumed, standing up now, spitting with rage and so crimson that Renner thought he was on the brink of cardiac arrest.
“I’m sorry, Herr Glück, my mistake!” Renner held up his hands.
“I was a Social Democrat! I demonstrated against the Nazis and they put me in Dachau. I nearly died in there! And then they put me in a penal battalion and I nearly died in that! And you bastards are still around! Get out of my house!”
Traudl came running in with a tall, young man in blue overalls armed with a hammer.
Renner backed away. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” The workman strode up to him and pushed him towards the garden. Renner turned and headed for the gate as the three of them glowered at him from the terrace. “I’ll call the police!” Traudl shrieked. He hurried along the outside of the fence to the front of the house, got in his car and drove off at speed.
This was turning into the day from hell. Getting bowled over by a pig in Wewelsburg and hounded out of Sastrow by a horde of skinheads was nothing compared to this. There was one last name to check, but he was tempted just to leave it and get the train back to Berlin. One more night here and he was sure to get tarred and feathered by the peasants of the Berchtesgaden Alps. But there was no doubt that the third name was promising.
Hauser-Werke was five miles down the road from Berchtesgaden. It manufactured high-performance pumps for the oil and gas industry, and was set up in 1952 by Wolfgang Hauser, an SS veteran who survived the Russian front and inherited a load of money from his father, a wealthy farmer. The business flourished, and Hauser, now 87, retired long ago. He lived on his own outside Berchtesgaden. Renner wasn’t up for any more home visits. But this wouldn’t be one. He had found a newspaper article dated two weeks ago saying Hauser had suffered a heart attack and was in intensive care in a hospital in Bad Reichenhall, about 20 kilometres away.
It was worth a try. Bad Reichenhall was on the way to Munich. Why not drop in on Obersturmführer Hauser.
As he drove west, the blinding late afternoon sun made his headache worse. Renner wondered whether he was fit to make the two-hour journey back to Munich in his hire car. He didn’t fancy getting a plane back to Berlin. He hated flying at the best of times. But being wedged in a plane seat feeling like this would be a nightmare.
He stopped off at a supermarket and reached the hospital at half past five. Sitting in the car, he downed a bottle of Coke, lowered the window and inhaled the mountain air. The sickness passed again. He walked into the lobby with a bunch of flowers and a plastic bag filled with chocolate and an expensive bottle of the local Schnapps.
The female receptionist was one of the healthiest-looking people he had ever laid eyes on. Young, blonde, athletic, with unblemished skin that radiated a youth spent drinking wholesome milk and skipping across meadows. Why did hospitals employ people like that? The sight of them just made the patients feel worse. Renner adopted what he thought was his most charming grin. “I am a friend of Herr Hauser. Do you know if he has any visitors? I should like to pay my respects and I have a few things for him.”
“But no alcohol!” she warned.
“Of course not, no!” Renner pretended to look shocked. That had come out sounding quite Bavarian. He was on a roll.
“He has no visitors at the moment. Room 203. He is no longer in intensive care. Please enter your name here.”
Renner wrote down “Hans Gustlhuber”. Reassuringly Bavarian. Or maybe too Bavarian? Never mind.
Hauser had his own room overlooking a park behind the hospital. He was asleep. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and he had a drip attached to his wrist. A machine was monitoring his heart rate. Renner tapped Hauser’s arm. The old man’s eyes flickered open and focused on him. “Who are you?” he croaked. Renner tried to sound as obsequious as possible. “Herr Hauser, how are you? I’m glad to hear you’re on the road to recovery. I have brought you a few things.” Renner took a bottle of Schnapps out of the bag. “For when you are better.”
“The left side of Hauser’s mouth curled up. “Hide it.” Renner put it in the bedside table drawer.
“Herr Hauser, I have a private message from Herr von Tietjen of the FNP.”
Hauser’s eyes opened. “Who are you?”
“Hans Gustlhuber, the deputy FNP general secretary for Upper Bavaria.” Renner was praying his accent would not betray him.
“What you want?”
“Herr Obersturmführer, we may need another contact in Russia. We are not sure about the current arrangement. We would like to deal with the Gutman question as soon as possible and … well, how shall I put it … we have lost confidence in the current personnel. Can you help us again?”
Hauser shut his eyes. The machine was beeping a little faster. The old bastard’s heart rate was rising. Don’t die on me, you fucker. Just live a few more minutes. “Oxygen,” he whispered. Renner could hear footsteps in the corridor. He spotted the oxygen mask and gave it to Hauser, who took several slow, deep breaths. This old Nazi’s days were numbered. The footsteps passed. Renner’s own heart rate was starting to cause him concern.
Hauser took off the mask and beckoned Renner closer. “I helped you once. I won’t help again. You lot are pathetic. How hard can it be to kill this Jew?”
“Quite so, Herr Hauser, you are right. But is there any other contact you can give us to arrange a back-up? Money is no object.”
“I gave you one contact. I’ve done enough to help you. Go, go.” Hauser lifted his blue-veined hand and weakly shooed him away. He winced with pain.
“Gute Besserung, Herr Obersturmführer.”
Hauser shut his eyes, muttered something and gave a weak cackle.
Renner leant over him. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
Hauser’s voice was little more than a whisper. “You won’t get anyone better.” There was a long pause. “That one’ll kill you and send you off with the funeral march. Lethal bitch.” Hauser drifted off. That was all Renner was going to get. He pulled away.
“What are you doing in here?” boomed a deep voice behind him. Renner jumped and swung round. A middle-aged couple was standing behind him.
The man towered over Renner. A Bavarian woollen jacket embroidered with deer was struggling to contain his voluminous beer gut.
Renner cleared his throat. “Gustlhuber. Grüss Gott. I was paying my respects to Herr Hauser. Your father?”
“Yes.” Hauser junior was eyeing him with unconcealed suspicion. His double chin bulged out from underneath a trimmed goatee. His wife had the same indignant stare. Thin lips, vast bosom, suede jacket. 1950s-style blonde hairdo. The kind that would never ever budge, even during vigorous sex. He swallowed. “Well, I’m glad to see he’s on the road to recovery.”
“And you are from?”
“Er, he and my late father were good friends.”
The answer didn’t satisfy young Hauser but his wife, bless her, came to the rescue. “Wolfi, we don’t have much time.”
“Yes, well my father shouldn’t be disturbed, he’s still very weak. Please clear any further visits with us.” The lad sounded accustomed to giving orders. Not surprising, after a lifetime hounding workers in Daddy’s factory.
Renner bowed his head in supplication. “I’m sorry. The receptionist said it would be all right.”
“I will talk to her.”
Renner was tempted to run to the car, but forced himself to walk. As he left the clinic, sickness overcame him, and he vomited into a bush outside the entrance. He reached the car, fell into the driver’s seat and bent his head over the steering wheel. He twisted the rear view mirror to look at himself and was shocked at the sight. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was yellow. What on earth was wrong with him? He thought about walking back into the hospital to get himself checked out, but decided not to. He retrieved the recorder from the breast pocket of his jacket and pressed stop. It was tempting to check it now, but it was better just to get away. He started the engine, drove out of Bad Reichenhall and sped down the winding road towards the motorway. If the recorder caught Hauser’s words, it would be the closest they were going to get to evidence of a Tietjen plot to assassinate Gutman. Renner fumbled for the recorder, pressed play and turned the volume up. It was clear enough, even the final whisper. “Yessss,” he exclaimed with a sigh of relief, slamming the wheel with his fist. This was a time to yodel for joy, but he felt too sick. One thing was puzzling. “Bitch,” Hauser said. What about the Slavic guy? Anyway, this was the breakthrough they needed. Proof at last. He fumbled with his phone to find Carver’s number. At that moment, a large stag galloped down a steep bank into the road ahead of him. He slammed on his brakes at the last second. The deer gazed at him for a second and cantered on into the forest. Renner shivered. “Stay calm, man. Don’t fuck this up.”
The Jewish Candidate Page 24