by Craig Russel
‘I understand. And I really am sorry. You are totally convinced that Muller-Voigt was involved?’
‘Yes. The group that carried out the attack was not the Red Army Faction. It was one of the many splinter gangs that cropped up at that time. The one thing that differentiated them from the rest was their more poetic choice of name. Everyone else was obsessed by initials – by the way, did you know that one of the reasons why the Red Army Faction chose that name was because it shared the initials RAF with the Royal Air Force? A sick joke, you see. The Royal Air Force bombed Nazism out of Germany. The new RAF saw it as their role to bomb and murder fascism and capitalism out of the West German state. And of course you had direct contact with the RAG gang set up by Svensson. But this bunch had a much more esoteric turn of mind. They called themselves “The Risen”. Their leader was Franz Muhlhaus, also known as Red Franz.’
Fabel felt a jolt of recognition. The other Red Franz. The object of a very special terror. Red Franz Muhlhaus and his group had been seen as on the extreme fringe of the extreme Left. Fabel thought back to the image he had seen in Severts’s office of the original Red Franz, the mummified bog body that had slept for centuries in the cold, dark peat bog near Neu Versen.
‘Muhlhaus and his group were difficult to classify,’ Ingrid Fischmann continued. ‘They were even viewed with mistrust by the other groups on the extreme anarchistic Left. One could argue that they were in fact not on the Left at all. They were a manifestation of environmental radicalism which very often went hand in hand with leftist groups. But Red Franz and his Risen were not considered to be making a serious contribution to the movement.’
‘Why?’
Ingrid Fischmann pursed her lips. ‘Many reasons. They didn’t have a clearly Marxist agenda. Of course, there were other groups who were not clearly Marxist who were more clearly allied or aligned with Baader-Meinhof, like the West Berlin-based Second of June Movement, which was more anarchist in philosophy. The Risen was not expressly associated with Baader-Meinhof and their focus was environmental. There were, at that time, two areas of common ground for Marxists, anarchists and eco-militants… the anti-nuclear protests of the nineteen sixties onwards. And, of course, Vietnam.’
‘But there still was some doubt about how much common ground was shared with The Risen?’ asked Fabel.
‘Exactly. Like the other groups, they targeted industrialists. But not specifically because they were capitalists – more because of the perceived damage their businesses did to the environment. Same targets, different rationale… in a way, The Risen did not travel the same path as the RAF and other leftist groups, more a coincidentally parallel path. A good example is the kidnap and subsequent murder by Baader-Meinhof-RAF of Hanns-Martin Schleyer in October of nineteen seventy-seven and that of Thorsten Wiedler by The Risen in early November. Both part of the so-called German Autumn of nineteen seventy-seven. The difference is that Schleyer was picked out as a target because first, he had been a former Nazi and an SS Hauptsturmbannfuhrer in Czechoslovakia during the war and second, he was a wealthy industrialist, board member of Daimler-Benz and leader of the West German employers’ federation, with strong political connections with the ruling CDU party. And, of course, the background to Schleyer’s six-week-long kidnap and eventual murder was the whole Mogadishu hijack and the suicides of Raspe, Baader and Ensslin in Stammheim prison.
‘On the other hand, while Thorsten Wiedler was also a successful industrialist, he was not in the same league as Schleyer. He came from a Social Democrat, working-class background, had been too young to see military service during the war and had no particular political leanings or significance. The reason he was targeted by The Risen was, apparently, that his factories were major polluters. Of course there was a lot of rhetoric about so-called “solidarity” with the RAF during the German Autumn, and Wiedler also represented, in a more modest way, West German capitalism. But his abduction was seen as counter-productive to the “revolution” and served to isolate The Risen even further. I think that was why there was never any full statement issued by the group about Wiedler’s fate. It became an embarrassment to them. The body was never found and the Wiedler family were denied the right to bury and mourn him. But added to all of this was the very “hippie” twist that Red Franz and The Risen gave to their politics. There was a lot of what we would consider New Age claptrap involved.’
‘What kind of claptrap?’ asked Fabel.
‘Well, The Risen is one of the more difficult groups to research, because they were relatively isolated, but one of their group, Benni Hildesheim, became disaffected and defected to the RAF. When Hildesheim was arrested in the nineteen eighties he claimed The Risen had been too wacky for him. He said that they took their name from the belief that Gaia, the spirit of the Earth, would protect itself by generating a band of warriors, of true believers, to defend her when she was in danger. These warriors would rise again and again, across time, whenever needed. Hence, The Risen. Red Franz Muhlhaus used to claim, apparently, that they were drawn together as a group because they had all lived and fought together before, at other times in history when the Earth needed them for protection. It was not something that fitted with the uncompromisingly rational and inflexible Marxist ideology of Baader-Meinhof.’
‘And where do Muller-Voigt and Hans-Joachim Hauser fit in with Red Franz Muhlhaus?’ asked Fabel.
‘Hauser? I don’t know. Hauser was a self-promoter and a hanger-on to others. I don’t know of any direct link to The Risen or Muhlhaus other than that he was a vocal supporter of Red Franz’s earlier “interventions” – disrupting Hamburg Senate sessions, sit-ins at corporate or industrial premises, that kind of thing. But after things started to heat up and banks began to be robbed, bombs planted and people killed, Hauser, like so many others on the trendy Left, suddenly became less vocal in his support. That doesn’t mean to say that he did not become directly involved. In fact, his comparative silence could be easily be taken as him keeping a low profile. As for Muller-Voigt, he and Red Franz got together in the late nineteen seventies. After Muhlhaus was put on the wanted list for the murder of the boss of a Hanover pharmaceutical company, and then, of course, for the Thorsten Wiedler affair, I suspect that Muller-Voigt was operating as a “legal” for The Risen.’
‘But you think his involvement went deeper?’
‘I’ll tell you something very personal, Herr Fabel. My father made a tape. He asked for a cassette recorder while he was still in hospital. He had been a very energetic and fit man and faced with a future in a wheelchair he became deeply depressed. But he became angry, too. He was determined to do anything he could to help find Herr Wiedler and catch his abductors. A long time after my father died, when I was at an age when I was deciding what I should study at university, I listened to the tape. My father described the events of that day in great detail. It was as if he wanted the truth to be known. It was after I listened to that tape that I decided to become a journalist. To tell the truth.’
‘And what did he say?’
Ingrid Fischmann looked undecided for a moment. Then she said, ‘I tell you what, I’ll send you a copy of it. And I’ll dig out some photographs and general information and mail them to you. But, in short, my father said he estimated that there were six terrorists involved. He only got a good look at the face of one of them in particular. The others were wearing ski masks. He was able to give a very detailed description to the police and they produced an artist’s impression of the terrorist. Not that it did any good. As you know, no one was caught for the Wiedler kidnap. Except if you count Red Franz Muhlhaus’s demise as justice.’
‘And how do you know for sure that Bertholdt Muller-Voigt was involved?’ asked Fabel.
‘You remember Benni Hildesheim, whom I mentioned earlier? The defector from The Risen to the Baader-Meinhof group? Well, I interviewed him after his release from prison and he claimed that there were a number of individuals who are influential today who had been either directly involved in the acti
ons of The Risen or who had supplied logistical and strategic support. Safe houses, weapons and explosives, that kind of thing. Hildesheim told me that there were six people involved in the Wiedler kidnapping, which fits with my father’s account. He claimed to know the identity of all six, as well as the identities of everyone in the support network.’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
Ingrid Fischmann gave a small laugh laden with cynicism. ‘Hildesheim displayed a remarkably capitalist streak for a former Marxist terrorist. He wanted money for the information. Of course, he did not know that I was the daughter of one of the group’s victims, but I did tell him he could go to hell. I wanted the truth about who shot my father. But not at any price. Hildesheim seemed convinced that some tabloid would meet his price. He insisted that some of the names would shake the Establishment to its foundations, that kind of crap. You have to remember that this was about the time when Bettina Rohl, Ulrike Meinhof’s daughter, sent a sixty-page letter to the State Prosecutor demanding that Foreign Minister Joschka Fischer be charged and brought to trial for the attempted murder of a policeman in the nineteen eighties. It is not inconceivable that there are others in the government and other high office who have the odd skeleton in the cupboard.’
‘But Hildesheim didn’t get his deal?’ asked Fabel.
‘No. He died before any deal was concluded.’
‘How did he die? Was there anything suspicious about it?’
‘No. No grand conspiracy. Merely a middle-aged man who smoked too much and exercised too little. Heart attack. But he did give me something on account. He told me that he knew for an absolute fact who the driver was that day – and that they had gone on to become a prominent public figure. But getting a firm statement and proof to back it up was part of the deal he struck. Unfortunately he didn’t live to share it with me.’
‘Hildesheim never mentioned Hauser?’
Fischmann shook her head.
‘Nor Gunter Griebel?’
‘’Fraid not… I don’t think I’ve even come across the name in my research.’
They talked for another fifteen minutes. Ingrid Fischmann outlined the history of the militant movement in Germany and its transition from protest to direct action to terrorism. They discussed the aims of the various groups, the support they got from the former communist East Germany, the networks of supporters and sympathisers who made it possible for so many terrorists to evade capture for so long. They also discussed the fact that out there, unknown to others, perhaps even unknown to their closest friends and families, there were people hiding a violent past behind a normal life. Eventually, they had said all there was to be said and Fabel stood up.
‘Thanks for taking so much time to talk to me,’ said Fabel. He shook hands with Fischmann. ‘It really has been most useful.’
‘I’m glad. I will send you that information when I can find it. It might be a day or two,’ she said, smiling. ‘Wait a minute and I’ll come down with you. I have to get into town.’
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I have a few stops to make on the way.’ She perched a pair of glasses on the tip of her nose and searched through her large shoulder bag, eventually pulling out a small black notebook. ‘Sorry… I have this new security alarm. I have to put the code in when I leave and I’m damned if I can ever remember it.’
They paused at the door while Fischmann slowly typed the code into the alarm control panel, checking each number in the black notebook.
Out on the street, Fabel said goodbye to Ingrid Fischmann and watched her receding back as she headed down the street. A young German woman who spent her life investigating the generation before her. A seeker after Truth. Fabel remembered young Frank Grueber’s reason for becoming a forensic specialist: Truth is the debt we owe to the dead.
It could, thought Fabel, almost be Germany’s national motto.
7.30 p.m.: Speicherstadt, Hamburg
Fabel had got back to the Presidium before five. He had hastily called together a meeting in the Murder Commission and had briefed his team on what he had found out over the course of the day. It was beginning to look like these killings were not random serial murders but that the motive lay in the political histories of the victims.
Anna and Henk had gone over what they had found out, or not found out, at The Firehouse. It looked less and less likely that the killings were linked to Hauser’s sexuality, and Anna had the feeling that the older guy whom Hauser had met at The Firehouse perhaps had more to do with his political past than with his sexual preferences.
‘Maybe it was Paul Scheibe,’ Werner suggested.
‘Then we’ll find out tonight,’ Fabel said. ‘I want you – Anna, Henk, Werner and Maria – to come with me to this launch event. I want us to have a good look around the guests, and I need to have a long chat with Scheibe.’
Fabel had gone home and had eaten, showered and changed before meeting up with the team down at the Speicherstadt. Anna and Henk had arrived first and had spoken to Scheibe’s team.
‘The shit’s hitting the fan,’ Anna told Fabel. ‘It looks like we’ve got a no-show. No one has seen Scheibe. And this is his big night. His staff are getting very agitated because Scheibe has been very insistent that he should be the only one to reveal the concept model. Apparently he has been finishing it off himself and although the Senate have seen the concept, this is the big unveiling for everyone else… he’s supposed to have added a few touches that no one knows about until tonight.’
‘So what are Scheibe’s team going to do?’
‘At the moment they’re going up the wall. They’ve got all Hamburg’s great and good assembled in there, and no star to launch the show.’
‘Has he done this kind of thing before?’
‘Not with something as important as this… But Paulsen has been increasingly worried about him recently. It’s like Scheibe’s been stressed out about something, which apparently is rare for him. Drinking, yes, arrogance and inflated self-belief, yes… but Scheibe is definitely not someone who is prone to stress.’
‘Which would suggest that something new has been added to the mix recently,’ said Werner.
‘Or something old…’ said Fabel. ‘Okay – let’s go mingle.’
Fabel led his team into the hall, showing their oval Kriminalpolizei shields to the disgruntled door staff. The hall was filled with well-heeled, well-groomed people who gathered in small scattered groups, chatting and laughing while uniformed waiting staff kept their Pinot Grigio topped up.
Fabel, Maria and Werner headed over to the far side of the hall; Fabel told Anna and Henk to stay by the door and keep an eye out for any sign of Scheibe arriving. As he made his way through the crowd, Fabel noticed Muller-Voigt holding court with a particularly large cluster. Fabel caught the Environment Senator’s eye and nodded, but Muller-Voigt merely frowned as if confused by Fabel’s presence.
The house lights dimmed, and Fabel watched as there was a flurry of activity over by the illuminated platform, where a white canopy concealed Paul Scheibe’s vision of the future from the expectant and increasingly agitated audience. Paulsen, Scheibe’s deputy, was in animated discussion with two other members of the architect’s team.
After a pause, Paulsen awkwardly took centre stage at the podium in front of the display. For a moment he looked apprehensively at the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for your patience. Unfortunately, Herr Scheibe has been unexpectedly and unavoidably detained by a family emergency. Obviously, he is doing his best to get here as soon as he possibly can. However, the power and innovation of Paul Scheibe’s work speaks for itself. Herr Scheibe’s vision for the future of HafenCity and for the state of Hamburg itself is a bold and striking concept that reflects the ambition of our great city.’
Paulsen paused. He looked across to the side of the hall, where a woman whom Fabel took to be another member of the Scheibe team had just entered. The woman gave an almost im
perceptible shake of her head and Paulsen turned back to the audience with a weak and resigned smile.
‘Okay… I think that… em… it would be best if we were simply to proceed with the presentation… Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure, on behalf of the Architekturburo Scheibe, to unveil Herr Scheibe’s creatively unique and daring new aesthetic for the HafenCity’s Uberseequartier. I give you KulturZentrumEins…’
Paulsen stood to one side and the pristine white canvas canopy began to rise. The audience began to applaud, but with muted enthusiasm, as the vast architectural model was revealed.
The applause died.
As the canvas covering disappeared up and out of the spotlight, a silence fell across the hall. A silence that seemed to freeze the moment. Fabel knew what he was seeing, yet his brain refused to process the information. The rest of the audience were similarly trapped in that fossilised moment as they too sought to grasp the impossibility of what they were looking at.
The spotlights, one red, one blue and the main white light, had been carefully sited to pick out every edge, every angle of the vast white architectural model: to dramatise, to emphasise. But the creativity they illuminated with such stark drama and emphasis was not Paul Scheibe’s.
The screaming began.
It spread from person to person like a white-hot flame. Shrill and penetrating. Through it, Fabel could hear Anna Wolff cursing. Several people, particularly those nearest the display, vomited.
The landscape in miniature lay under the lights. But the centrepiece, KulturZentrumEins, was itself not visible. Paul Scheibe’s naked body had crushed it beneath its weight. It was as if some vast, hideous god had been cast out from the heavens and had smashed into the Earth in the HafenCity. Scheibe sat, semi-recumbent, among the shattered elements of his vision. His naked flesh gleamed blue-white in the spotlights and his blood glistened bright red on the model. Whoever had placed the corpse here had used part of the display to prop it up, and Scheibe gazed out at his audience.