She thought for a while. “Post it on the Internet. Set up a Twitter account, write the headline, add a link to a blog in which you post the story.”
“How the hell do I do that?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a dinosaur. You can’t afford to be in your profession.”
“My profession?” Carver gave a sharp laugh. “You call this lark a profession?”
He brewed up a strong coffee while Bettina set up Twitter and blog accounts in his name. They thought of a headline for Twitter. Bettina added a hash tag next to Gutman to denote it as a keyword and make it pop up in as many searches as possible. “Gutman will be one of the most searched words in the next few days,” she explained.
“#Gutman: Evidence Uncovered That Gutman Was Poisoned by Hitwoman Hired by Far-Right Leader Tietjen”
Carver smiled. It was wonderfully libellous. Like a punch in the face. He pasted his article into the blog template. The story was too big for one headline, so he gave it three.
German Neo-Nazis Hired Assassin to Target Gutman
Bonn Bomb Blast was Work of Russian Assassin, Not Islamic Militants
Revengers of Allah are Neo-Nazis Posing as Islamists
By Wolfgang Renner and Frank Carver
Berlin//Rudolf Gutman, the Social Democratic politician who emerged as Germany’s first Jewish chancellor in Sunday’s election, has fallen victim to an assassination attempt by a hitwoman posing as a Polish journalist, Ludmilla Janowski. She was hired by a group led by Hermann von Tietjen, the leader of the Free National Party, FNP.
He interspersed the story with sub headlines such as “Former SS Officer Admits Helping to Recruit Assassin,” “Bomb Planted on Unwitting Arab Journalist,” “Reporter Poisoned in Line of Duty,” “Intelligence Source Implicates Top Neo-Nazi.”
This Internet publishing had its advantages. Unlimited space. None of the usual constraints. No sudden inclusion of a newspaper advert to wipe off crucial column inches. No clueless sub-editor to rewrite his copy out of boredom and frustration at not being out in the field himself. No cowardly editor to pull the story because of possible legal ramifications. No proprietor to decide that the story would damage his business interests.
Bettina downloaded the audio file of the interview with Hauser from Renner’s digital recorder and scanned in the email showing that Wuttke was in the vicinity during four of the terrorist attacks. She uploaded the files as attachments to the story. One more click, and it was on the Web. Bettina translated the story into German. They emailed it to all the newspapers they could think of, from the Süddeutsche Zeitung to the New York Times, from Le Monde to Neue Zürcher Zeitung, from The National of Abu Dhabi to the South China Morning Post.
They also sent it to the BKA, the German interior ministry, the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution, the chancellery, and all the political parties, including the FNP. “Let’s see how quickly that gets noticed,” Bettina remarked. “It could go viral. Or it could fizzle out.”
Carver nodded. Busy editors might dismiss the story as a crank conspiracy theory and press the delete button. And the German authorities? How keen would they be to investigate a claim that they had been so thoroughly, monstrously, embarrassingly duped?
At 5.46 a.m., Doktor von Schenck, the head of the Charité, walked out of the main entrance of the hospital to read out a brief statement to the hundreds of journalists waiting outside. His grey, solemn face, wincing in the barrage of camera flashes, appeared live on news channels around the world.
He cleared his throat. “I regret to inform you that Herr Rudolf Gutman died just after four o’clock this morning.”
A collective gasp erupted from the phalanx of reporters, camera crews and photographers in front of him. There were angry shouts of “No!”
Von Schenck looked at them sternly. “Herr Gutman suffered severe heart problems and respiratory failure, despite the best efforts of our team to stabilize him. A press conference will be held at 11 o’clock today. Please direct all further enquiries to the police.”
“Was it murder?” one journalist yelled out of the crowed. Von Schenck pondered his answer for a few seconds and said: “I can tell you that Herr Gutman did not die of natural causes. There will of course be a post mortem. The police are going to have to investigate the circumstances surrounding his death.” He ignored the explosion of questions that followed and disappeared into the lobby.
At 6.15 a.m., reports started coming through that the Revengers of Allah had claimed responsibility for the killing of Gutman. An email sent to Al-Jazeera said the group was delighted that its “campaign to eliminate the Zionist had succeeded.”
It was getting light outside. Bettina switched off the television and all the lights and lit a cigarette. They sat in the blue gloom. “I’ve got to go to work now,” she said. “Do a voxpop from a synagogue. And a spot analysis on what happens next for Germany.”
Carver stood up. “What next, indeed? For a moment, it really looked like the dawn of a new era, and all that.”
“A false dawn,” said Bettina.
“We shall see. After all, Germany chose him. Who would have thought that 24 hours ago?” Carver picked up his jacket. “Thank you, Bettina.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see my friend.”
Charité Hospital, Monday, September 10
Carver wasn’t let in to visit Renner until the evening. He was still in intensive care. “Two minutes,” the doctor told him. “He’s had kidney and lung failure and has been slipping in and out of consciousness. He’s very weak.”
“Will he make it?”
“We’re doing all we can.”
Carver squeezed past the machinery around Renner’s bed. His eyes were closed and his cheeks were yellow and sunken. He had tubes in his mouth and stomach, a drip in his arm and wires on his chest.
Carver leant over him.
“Wolfgang. Can you hear me? Wolfgang?”
Renner’s eyelids flickered.
“They say you’re going to be OK, mate. You’re safe here. You’ve got two lads stationed out there. With Heckler and Kochs.”
The oxygen machine hissed.
“It was Ludmilla, Wolfgang. She’s dead.”
Renner’s heart monitor beeped more rapidly.
“I’m … I’m sorry,” said Carver. “I was blind.”
Renner opened his grey eyes. He gave Carver a questioning look.
Carver hesitated, then shook his head. “She got him. She got Gutman. He didn’t make it.”
Renner closed his eyes. A tear trailed down his cheek.
Carver swallowed. “It wasn’t in vain. Our story’s out. They’re going to get the bastards.”
He stood in silence for a while, staring at Renner.
“It wasn’t in vain, Wolfgang.”
The doctor entered the room and pointed at his watch.
As Carver turned to leave, Renner opened his eyes and raised his forearm, holding out his hand. Carver grasped it and smiled. His grip was strong.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Near Berchtesgaden, Wednesday, September 12, 7 a.m.
Carver locked the hire car and inhaled the mountain air. A rich scent of pine lay on the cold breeze blowing down from the Jenner. As he crossed the car park and headed towards the main street of Schönau, he paid no attention to the discreet sound of tyres behind him. The village hadn’t woken up yet, and there was no sign of life as he walked past shuttered souvenir shops and Schnitzel restaurants. A thick morning mist drifted across Lake Königssee. The deep green surface looked unreal in its stillness. He skirted the shore and took a path uphill into the forest, climbing slowly because his ankle still ached. Fog swirled around the fir trees crowding the steep slopes on either side. Their tall black trunks bore down in him.
Furious, stunned, appalled and humiliated, Germany was acknowledging that it had been unwittingly held to ransom by neo-Nazi terrorists, and was blind to the threat posed by an embittered new fa
r-right generation that had grown in forgotten, depressed and depopulated communities of the former communist east.
The police had finally announced they were “investigating indications” that far-right militants were behind the killing of Gutman, the Bonn bomb explosion and all the other attacks. The security authorities were inundated with media enquiries after Carver’s story hit the Internet and the mailboxes of newspaper editors around the world. He had spent the last three days being interviewed by agents from the BKA, the interior ministry and the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution. Post mortems conducted on Gutman had revealed traces of Fluoroacetate, one of the most toxic substances known. A mortified SPD worker recalled stopping a Polish journalist trying to attach a microphone to the lectern. Police were pretty certain by now that she had managed to pour some drops of Fluoroacetate into the empty glass placed for Gutman next to the bottle of mineral water.
Carver underwent forensic tests and was quickly ruled out as a suspect in the killings of Wuttke and Janowski. He was warned he may face prosecution for failing to immediately report their murders to the police. But his lawyer was unfazed by that prospect, telling Carver that his growing fame as one of the duo who uncovered the plot would protect him.
All over the world, people were asking “What’s wrong with Deutschland? Have they started killing Jews again?” A nationwide crackdown was underway against right-wing extremists. The FNP had all its assets frozen, police arrested the surviving GAK members and were raiding the homes of every senior neo-Nazi in the country. All far-right demonstrations were banned with immediate effect and a legal bid was being prepared to outlaw the FNP.
Tietjen’s dead, blood-spattered face was plastered on all the front pages under headlines like “A New Hitler,” “The Man Who Disgraced Us,” “Our Worst Criminal Since Hitler,” “The Nazi Mastermind Who Killed Our Chancellor.” Mugshots of Wuttke and the arrested GAK members appeared under the headline: “Hitler’s Grandchildren.”
Even though Hornbauer had killed him, she was being styled as the reincarnation of Eva Braun, the only difference being that she had not joined her master in Valhalla.
There were calls for a radical reform of all the security services, accused of committing the most fatal, embarrassing intelligence gaffe in the history of the Federal Republic. Heads had already rolled in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, where the interior minister resigned, after sacking his director of anti-Nazi operations, Heinz Krumnagel.
In the space of just 24 hours, the nation lurched from frenzied fear of Islamist terror into an Angst-ridden orgy of soul-searching. How could it have allowed itself to be led astray by a crazed psychopath bent on reviving the ghosts of its terrible past?
German politics was in turmoil. The SPD had a parliamentary majority but couldn’t make up its mind who should be chancellor – no one could come close to filling Gutman’s shoes. In the meantime, Müller remained in charge in a caretaker role, her duties confined to attending memorial services, taking condolence calls from world leaders and reassuring them that Germany wasn’t going crazy again.
Carver had given scores of media interviews since Monday, and made clear in all of them that Renner cracked the story. The newspapers ran a grainy photo of his wrinkled, smiling face, holding up a beer in some bar. He was a celebrity; the hero of German journalism. Several reporters had tried in vain to interview him in hospital on Tuesday. There were calls for him to be awarded the Federal Cross of Merit, and there was little doubt that he would get it. Carver imagined his friend’s response. “What the hell do I need that for? Just get me Göring’s pants back.”
Carver was out of breath from the climb, but he was nearly there. His phone vibrated. A woman’s voice said: “Please hold for Mr Kutuzov.” His heart sank. His ex-proprietor. “Mr Carver.” The voice was deep and authoritative. “I’ve fired Beedham. You’re reinstated. I will arrange for a 30 percent pay hike. Now we need you to get straight to work on a front page story about how you unravelled this Nazi plot for the Chronicle.”
Carver was stunned for a moment by the man’s arrogance, by the lack of a Sorry or a Please, by the absence of any expression of concern for Renner.
“Steady on,” he replied. “Is that really all you’ve got to say? Renner almost died for this story, your paper obstructed our investigation and then refused to publish it when we delivered proof. And you have the audacity to think you can fix it by barking orders down the phone at me? Anyway, I thought young Dmitry’s replaced me!”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Oleg Kutuzov hadn’t been spoken to like that for a very long time.
“Don’t blame me for this error, Mr Carver. I wasn’t involved!”
Carver sighed. “You know what?”
“What?”
“Fuck off, Oleg. Dosvedanya.” He ended the call and switched off the phone. The Chronicle was no longer his paper. Hadn’t been for a long time. His heart pounding, he reached his destination – the Malerwinkel, or “Painters’ Corner,” a viewpoint high above the lake. He remembered her words. “We must always come back here. This will be our spot.” On a clear day it offered one of Germany’s greatest views – the good old Königssee and the Berchtesgaden Alps beyond. He sat down on the bench where he and Rebecca savoured the beauty of this pristine wilderness on the first day of their honeymoon. This was home.
Far below, the mist was clearing and patches of the lake became visible, glistening in the sun. He saw the white wake of a boat heading out towards the red-domed St. Bartholomew’s Church on the distant shore. Carver suddenly felt overcome by fatigue. His hands were trembling.
He looked up at the green canopy of fir trees, closed his eyes and sank into a daze. Suddenly he felt the planks of the bench bend slightly. He opened his eyes and took a sharp breath. A man was sitting next to him. Watching him. Hard face, stocky build.
Carver recognized him. “Get on with it then,” he spat. “Where’s the gun?”
The man held up both hands and smiled. “No gun, see? You’re in no danger.”
“Who are you?”
“You could say we’re on the same side,” the man answered. He had a Russian accent. He produced a pack of cigarettes and offered Carver one. Carver shook his head. He lit one and took a deep drag.
“Nice spot. You have come to relax? To think?”
“Just tell me what you want.”
The man exhaled a cloud of smoke and studied Carver. “You came here with Rebecca, didn’t you?”
Carver was stunned for an instant. “I said cut the crap,” he snapped.
“I wanted to help protect Gutman,” the man said. “That was my job. I failed in my mission.” He wagged a stubby finger at Carver. “This is off the record. We didn’t meet.”
“OK, we didn’t meet. What’s your story?”
“I think you may have something that was taken from my people a long time ago.”
Carver’s jaw dropped. “Your people? What, are you Jewish? Mossad? Sent to protect your own, was that the idea?”
The agent said nothing and looked out at the lake.
“What do you know?” Carver demanded. “Did you know it was Ludmilla?”
The man shook his head. “Not until it was too late. I didn’t see it. I thought it was Jihadists. We all did. The whole world did. But then I read your story. From Nice. About the inheritance. It seemed a lot of money to just go missing. It made me think. I took a closer look at Tietjen. And at you.”
“Did you tap my phone?”
“I realized you and your colleague were on to something. I didn’t suspect Janowski because she was with you. She fooled us both. It is tragic.”
“Did you shoot her?” asked Carver. “Was that you?”
The man looked at him. It was difficult to read his eyes.
“Well at least tell me who she was! Do you know?”
“She wasn’t on our radar. We now think she used to be a pianist for Minsk Symphony Orchestra. It seems she was in the Belarus KGB.
Then went into the private sector, in Moscow.” He shrugged. “She liked money. She was a pro. A very, very good one. Very good.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground and trod on it.
“Did she kill Schwartz? Wischnewski?”
The agent shook his head. “I think those were inside jobs. Nazi thugs. Wuttke, others. I think the police has arrested them. No, Janowski was hired just for Gutman. Killing people is so easy in this country. The Germans have lived in peace for too long. Too complacent. You know, she came close to killing him a few weeks ago, at a wine festival on the Rhine? By the Loreley. It was not reported. The Germans refused our help. They made things difficult for us. But they needed it.”
“And she wasn’t Jewish? She told me her grandparents were killed in Sobibor.”
The agent gave him a pitying look. “I think that was part of her legend, don’t you?”
Carver scrutinized him. His skin was bronzed by the sun. He could be a descendant of Russian Jews who emigrated to Israel.
“Why should I believe you?” he said.
The agent smiled. “Well, with all the killing that’s been going on, do you think we would be sitting here chatting if I were a Nazi killer?”
“So were you a bodyguard for Gutman, or what?”
“No, the Germans wouldn’t allow that. They didn’t want any involvement. My job was security assessment. I had no cooperation, no help from the German government, just from one member on Gutman’s team.”
“Who?”
“The spokesman. He died.”
“Becker? Didn’t know he had it in him.” Carver thought for a while, shrugged, reached into his bag and took out the sack. “Here you go. The Germans don’t deserve them. Taken off Holocaust victims, weren’t they?”
The agent gave a sigh of relief. “At least something good has come out of all this.” He unknotted the bag, dipped his hand in and opened his palm. The diamonds, rubies and emeralds sparkled in the sunshine. “All that happiness, all those stories,” he murmured, gazing at the stones. “Engagements. Weddings. Gifts of love. Lives cut short, so mercilessly. This will be returned. In the form of payments. To the families.”
The Jewish Candidate Page 28