The Jewish Candidate

by David Crossland

  He drove on. His abdomen was wrenched by cramps that kept returning in long, almost overpowering waves. “This must be what childbirth feels like,” he muttered, wiping sweat off his forehead. After 100 kilometres, he had to stop at a service station. He shat his guts out in the toilet, hoping that would be the end of it. But it brought no relief to the nausea. He bought another bottle of Coke. The woman at the cash till gave him a concerned look. He rang Carver’s number but got no answer. “Man, where are you?” He reached Munich by nine that evening. Feeling too rotten and too tired to carry on, he checked into a hotel by the railway station and passed out on the bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Berlin, Sunday, September 9, Election Day

  A glorious morning broke across Germany. On any other election day, such weather would have heralded a high turnout – sunshine brings the voters out. But today, fears that Revengers of Allah squads might storm polling stations and blow themselves up with suicide belts, take hostages or go on the rampage with assault rifles were bound to keep hundreds of thousands, if not millions, from casting their ballots.

  Blick am Sonntag, a reliable thermometer of the public mood, screamed “Terror-Angst!” on its front page and interviewed the head of Germany’s police force, who warned voters to be extra vigilant because “we have concrete indications of attacks, and on a threat scale of 0 to 10, we’re at 10.”

  The German election was now a global story. CNN and the BBC decided to anchor their entire news output from in front of the Reichstag parliament building, which meant that their presenters, standing on platforms in front of its mighty pillared portal, found themselves reading off news about heavy flooding in Cumbria and a Philippine ferry disaster in between the blanket election coverage.

  The whole government district, from the chancellery to the Brandenburg Gate, was an open-air news studio serving the world’s top broadcasters. In front of the chancellery, the al-Jazeera crew jostled for space with Israel’s Channel 1, Iran Press TV and France 2. At the party headquarters of Müller’s CDU party, security staff had to intervene to stop a scuffle between news photographers. Three Reuters snappers rounded on a rival from Bloomberg who unplugged their photo editing equipment, accidentally or on purpose. One Israeli film crew was outraged after being told by police to move along when they tried to interview passersby outside the New Synagogue in Oranienburger Strasse, the mighty, gold-domed symbol of Jewish life in the German capital.

  TV channels around the globe interviewed an endless stream of political pundits. Would this nation be “bowed by Islamic terrorism”? Would it “finally step out of the shadows of its past this day”? Did the first Jewish candidate have any chance of winning? The last polls, conducted before the bomb blast, had him trailing Müller badly. Should the election be held at all when the nation was under attack from Islamic extremists? Would the Revengers of Allah try to disrupt voting with further attacks? What share would the FNP and its disgraced leader Hermann von Tietjen win? The last opinion poll had them at 14 percent, almost back where they were before two intrepid journalists caught him giving the Hitler salute in a Nazi castle. Many voters were ready to forgive Tietjen his Nazi peccadillos and to reward him for expressing their fury at the terrorism campaign, immigrants and the whole mess with the euro single currency. A massive protest vote was building against the mainstream parties, and Tietjen was riding the wave. He was winning the symbolic battle for the Stammtisch – the regulars’ table in pubs up and down the country, where punters put the world to rights over beer and Schnapps, and where the statement “I’m not a Nazi, but that Tietjen, he’s got a point” was getting vigorous nods of agreement.

  From the North Sea to the Alps, tens of thousands of police officers and soldiers were drafted in to protect the town halls, kindergartens, schools and sports halls that were converted into polling stations. A ban on deploying the Bundeswehr, the army, inside Germany was temporarily lifted in an emergency parliamentary vote on Friday, allowing troops to patrol public areas. Armoured vehicles were parked outside ministries, railway stations and major hotels. Streets in front of many synagogues and Jewish institutions were cordoned off with metal barriers. The Federation of Turks in Germany representing the three-million strong Turkish community caused outrage by advising Turkish Germans not to vote, for their own safety. “Islamophobia has reached such levels that German citizens of Turkish origin would best be advised to stay at home today,” it said in a statement.

  The country didn’t have enough X-ray scanners for all the polling stations, and there wouldn’t have been enough time to install them anyway. So authorities gave the order that no bags of any kind be brought in, and that everyone wanting to vote be subjected to rigorous pat-down body searches. That announcement in itself was likely to turn people away in their droves, said commentators.

  But many were determined to cast their ballot. By mid-morning, lines of people stretched for hundreds of metres outside polling stations across Germany. It was an impressive, and unusual, display of patience and queuing discipline, and was the only piece of news that morning that Carver found intriguing.

  In Wenzlau, where David Khosa was hounded to his death, a “Citizen’s Protection League” claimed to be helping police with security. It consisted of neo-Nazis who glared as menacingly as they could at any voter who looked left-wing or didn’t seem to have the right genes. In the industrial city of Duisburg, a fight broke out between dozens of German and Muslim youths, forcing one polling station to be closed.

  Munich 11 a.m.

  Renner woke up and saw 12 missed calls from Carver, and five text messages. “What’s happening?” “Where R U?” “Are you OK?” “Are you dead?” “Come on man, what’s going on?”

  Renner staggered to the bathroom but didn’t get there in time. He vomited on the floor. It was just liquid now. A crippling pain moved between his gut and his stomach. He had never felt this bad before, even after getting into a tequila drinking contest while doing his military service. Oddly, his tongue was stinging from several ulcers.

  He rang Carver. “Frank. I got it. Found the Nazi. Got the proof.”

  “What? Really?”

  Renner winced and held the phone away from his ear.

  “I’ve been worried!” Carver cried out. “Where are you? You sound strange. Are you drunk?”

  “I’m ill. Food poisoning or a stomach bug. Really, really bad. I feel very weak.” Renner retched and paused to gather himself. “Got it on tape, Frank. Loud and clear. We’ve got Tietjen. Got him.”

  “Yes! You beautiful son of a … Excellent … !”

  And Frank …”

  “What?”

  “It’s a woman.”

  “What?”

  Renner took in a sharp breath. “The killer. Hauser said so. He referred to the killer as a bitch.”

  There was a silence on the line. “The only woman we think could be involved is Hornbauer,” said Carver. “But … her? It doesn’t fit.”

  “Exactly. We’ll talk when I’m back. Getting the train back in an hour. Can’t fly like this.”

  “Shouldn’t you get yourself to a doctor?”

  “No, I’ll go in Berlin. I’d better get going.”

  “Renner.”

  “What?”

  “Well done. Bloody well done. Mr bloody Pulitzer. You’re sure about the woman, you say? Any more info?”

  “Got to go.” Renner was about to vomit again. His heart was pounding.

  Bonn, midday

  German elections rarely produced the long, nail-biting evenings that marked votes in Britain or the United States. The outcome was often clear within seconds of the polling stations closing at six p.m., when the main TV broadcasters would release pretty reliable exit polls, followed a little later by the first TV projections based on actual results. The candidate of the party with the biggest share of the vote had the strongest claim to be chancellor, providing he or she could find a workable coalition with a smaller party. Often, the candidates alrea
dy knew from unpublished polls by three or four p.m. whether they had won or lost.

  Heise got off the phone from SPD party headquarters. “We’ll have the first indications from polls shortly after one p.m.” They stood in Gutman’s living room, watching the television news. “This boils down to what’s stronger, support and sympathy for you or fear of terrorism,” said Heise. “I wonder if the turnout will go below 50 percent with all this. It would be a tragedy if you won and the others said it was just because most Germans were too scared to go out and vote.”

  “Müller will walk it,” Gutman said, his voice heavy with resignation. “What have I achieved, Bruno? My candidacy has triggered an outpouring of hatred, provoked terrorist attacks that have killed 26 people and broken my wife’s leg, and it’s probably helped to put neo-Nazis in the Reichstag.”

  Heise meant to speak but Gutman cut him short. “No, Bruno. I’ve brought harm to my country. I’ve awakened the very ghosts I’d meant to banish forever.”

  Heise put his hand on Gutman’s shoulder. “Don’t underestimate your people, Rudi. Did you see those queues?”

  Adlon Hotel, 12.30 p.m.

  Carver was in such a hurry that he jammed the Adlon’s rotating door, incarcerating a family of American tourists. He ran across the stone-vaulted lobby, narrowly avoiding a waitress and almost smashing into a fountain adorned with carved wooden elephants. A woman in her early 20s opened the door to Beedham’s suite. A young chap was sitting on the bed, typing on a laptop. Beedham was at the desk, staring at the flat-screen television. He turned to Carver and frowned. “I believe you’ve got the wrong room. Got all the help I need, as you can see.” Beedham had flown in a young Chronicle reporter and a Sloane girl with the standard issue Benetton pullover and shirt collar turned up, one of the army of rich kids who could afford to spruce up their CVs by doing unpaid work as interns.

  “Seriously, I’ve got no time for you Carver,” Beedham snapped. “The editor wants you to come to London tomorrow. He won’t have good news for you. You went AWOL, dropped me right in it. Firing squad, I’m afraid. But as I said, I’m busy. So I won’t keep you. All right?”

  Carver brushed past the Sloane. “Ben, shut up and listen. Renner’s managed to get an ex-SS guy to admit putting Tietjen in touch with an assassin. She’s a woman. Could be someone on Gutman’s campaign team. She’s probably behind the bombing. This isn’t Islamic terrorists. BEN!” Beedham was flicking through the TV channels, ignoring him. “We were attacked and shot at on Friday night after we saw you. Our flats have been broken into. I’ve been in touch with the police. Ben, listen to me, for Christ’s sake!”

  Beedham slapped his hand on the mahogany desk. “Enough! We’ve got no time for your conspiracy theories! Not now!” He had beads of sweat on his forehead. The man was out of his depth. Drowning in the news. “We’re up to our eyes in it here. We’ve got to deliver voxpop, analysis, rolling coverage for the website. Apparently some people are saying Gutman might make it after all! And you went and deserted your post! Just let us get on with it and leave us in peace! Lucy, could you get me a Diet Coke? Thanks love. Thank God we’ve got Dmitry here.”

  Carver looked at the reporter.

  “Meet your replacement, Frank. Dmitry Kutuzov.”

  “No relation by any chance?”

  “Oleg’s son. A very talented young journalist.”

  “I bet,” said Carver. “You were going to replace me with him all along, weren’t you? I never stood a chance, scoop or no scoop.”

  Beedham said nothing.

  “How old are you, Dmitry?” asked Carver.

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Well, congratulations on the job! You can move into the flat next week, mate. I never got round to unpacking.”

  “Come on, Frank,” said Beedham. “I mean, this supposed assassin of yours has quite a repertoire. He, or rather she, cuts off men’s todgers, blows up market squares, shoots at you. I mean whatever next? Garotte? Or maybe she’ll walk around in a dirndl with poison darts in her breasts? Hug her victims to death, hm?” He laughed. “You should write a novel, Frank. Because you’re locked in a world of fiction. I’m afraid I don’t trust your pal. He’s a dodgy hack out to get our money. But we’re wasting time here. Now … if you please …” Beedham pointed to the door with his thumb and raised his eyebrows.

  Carver clenched his fists and swallowed. Beedham leant back, looking scared for a second.

  “You’re going to be out of a job too, Ben,” he said. “Mark my words. You’re going to be the laughing stock of Fleet Street. Your career’s only got a few days left.” He marched out of the room and called the foreign desk on his way to the lift. Plough didn’t even let him speak. “Your name is mud around here, Frank. You know you’re about to be fired? Beedham says you deserted him and went off the reservation.”

  “We’ve cracked the story and he nixed it, Martin. We’ve got evidence. It’s neo-Nazis, behind all of this! It’s a massive scoop! Nazis are out to get Gutman. We’ve finally got testimony to prove it!”

  Plough cut him off. “Sorry Frank, talk to the editor. This is above my pay grade. I’m up to my neck trying to rewrite the crap Beedham’s been sending. Got to go.” He rang off.

  Bonn, Waldkrankenhaus hospital, 3 p.m.

  Birgit insisted on having her hospital room transformed into an impromptu campaign headquarters. The explosion had snapped her right femur. Two screws had been fitted in an operation and she felt a gnawing ache despite the painkillers. But she was determined to stay involved. The door swung opened with such force that it banged against the radiator with a loud clang. Heise was standing in the room, holding a piece of paper. “Sorry,” he said, closing the door with a look of exaggerated sheepishness. Then he laughed out loud. “34-33. I don’t believe it!” The latest exit poll showed Gutman’s SPD was one point ahead of Müller’s conservatives. Birgit screeched. Gutman squeezed her hand. “And the others?”

  “Greens at 16, FNP 11, Liberals at 5. If it stays like this we’ve got a Red-Green government! If it stays like this, you’re chancellor! Seems we Germans aren’t so easily scared after all!” Gutman had never seen the old northerner so emotional. “The country wants you, Rudi. They’re ready and waiting for Chancellor Rudolf Gutman.”

  Tears rolled down Birgit’s cheeks.

  It was time to leave for Berlin. “It could all still be skewed,” Gutman pointed out. “The low turnout could be playing tricks.”

  Berlin, 6.00 p.m.

  Carver waited at Berlin’s Ostbahnhof station. His right eyelid kept twitching and ever since their near-death experience in Berlin two nights ago, his heart felt like it was missing beats, forcing him to inhale suddenly, like an old man about to pop his clogs. This was worse than Baghdad. It was the same physical danger, except that this time no one wanted to publish his story, and he didn’t have the luxury of riding around town in a convoy of armoured vehicles with gum-chewing platoons from the Big Red One. And this time, the story really had to get out. Back then in Iraq, his copious coverage of the strains on Allied forces of having to deal with roadside bombs hadn’t added much to the sum total of human knowledge.

  The InterCity Express pulled in. Carver looked around and moved a step back from the edge of the platform. Renner was nowhere to be seen. Carver walked along the gleaming white train, peering inside the carriages. He almost reached the end when he spotted a ticket inspector leaning over someone. The man sitting down had his back to the window but Carver recognized the old leather jacket. He leapt on board.

  “Renner!”

  The inspector turned round. He looked worried. “Do you know him? He’s in a bad way. I’ve called an ambulance.”

  Carver recoiled at the sight of his friend. Renner’s eyes were closed and his face, yellow and shiny with sweat, was crumpled with pain. He had vomited down his front.

  Carver shook him gently. “Wolfgang. Wolfgang! The doctor’s coming.”

  Renner half-opened his eyes.

  “Frank,”
he groaned. “My pocket.”

  Carver found the recorder. Renner’s chest heaved. “I’ve had enough. My back hurts. Kidneys fucked or something. Oh God. I feel like shit, man.” Carver sat down next to him.

  “We’re going to get you to a hospital and they’ll sort you out. Looks like you’ve had the Schnitzel from hell.”

  Renner was wincing with every short, gasping breath. “It’s more than that. I … feel … I feel … like my system’s shutting down.” He wasn’t getting enough air. He looked down for a few seconds, gathering the strength to speak. Then he fixed Carver with his bloodshot eyes and spoke in a whisper. “Frank. The tape. He said …” He paused, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Funeral march. It must mean something. Don’t know what. It’s a clue. Don’t know what. Strange.”

  Frank frowned and nodded. “Of course, Wolfgang. We’ll get them. You’ll see. You and me. Don’t worry.”

  Renner rested his head against the window and looked at Carver. “You’re on your own, Frank.” He closed his eyes. “Who’s won?”

  “Gutman’s won,” said Carver. “He made it. Germany voted him in. Clear majority. It’s incredible.”

  Renner managed a feeble smile. “Good. This isn’t a bad country, Frank. The … the Nazis … are few.”

  Carver nodded. “Damned good country.”

  “Keep him alive, man.”

  Renner suddenly opened his eyes wide, leant forward and clutched his left arm. Two ambulance men lumbered down the corridor. Carver stood aside while they examined him. One murmured “Cardiac arrest.”