by Rachel Lee
Glancing at her watch, she discovered she still had time to get to the courthouse before Lawton was scheduled to appear before the judge. At a café, she stopped to order coffee and a roll before she continued her stroll east to Littenstraße and the Amtsgericht Mitte, the courthouse for the Mitte district of Berlin.
It would be nice, she thought as she sipped the familiar German coffee, if she could expect to see both Margarite and Lawton emerge from that building, but she suspected only Margarite would appear. Lawton’s position was too difficult to allow for easy resolution.
She frowned down into her cup and tried to ignore the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. It frustrated her beyond description to be unable to help Lawton, and it seriously concerned her that Jefe had asked Margarite to stand in as Lawton’s lawyer. A German lawyer had since been called in, but Margarite could still muddle things if she was not careful.
For reasons Renate had never been able to pin down, she had never liked Margarite. Nor did she like the way those feelings were magnified by Margarite’s involvement in this mess with Lawton. Or maybe they were magnified by Lawton’s involvement with Margarite.
She understood full well that she couldn’t afford to have personal feelings in this business, beyond collegial friendship, but Lawton had somehow struck a chord in her that was different. She was not in love with him. That would be both impossible and dangerous. Still, she felt a special bond with him.
And something about Margarite irritated her to death. The two of them tried to pass it off as a joking tension between a German and a Frenchwoman, but at some level it was more than that.
Sighing, her appetite totally destroyed, she left her half-finished coffee and untouched roll on the table, and paid the check. Moments later she was walking toward Littenstraße with the easy stride of someone who loved to spend her vacations hiking in the mountains. Two kilometers. If she wanted to, she could run that distance without getting out of breath.
She eased past the demonstrators, noting that police were keeping the groups well separated, then increased her pace again. Everyone had a point, she thought as their chants and cries followed her down the street. They were all right, and all wrong, in their own ways. Only one thing was certain. The violence must end.
Margarite introduced Lawton to Horst Wieberneit just before the hearing. Horst was a tall, lean man with graying temples and bright, youthful eyes. “Herr Wieberneit will be representing you. He and I have discussed a small plan, which may work.”
“A plan for what?”
Margarite looked at Wieberneit, who nodded to her. She turned again to Lawton. “Under the law, you were arrested without a warrant, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Under the same law, anyone can make such an arrest if he witnesses a crime occur. Herr Wieberneit will argue that you were attempting to make an arrest of a person you believed responsible for throwing the petrol bomb. What happened thereafter was purely accidental.”
Wieberneit nodded, then spoke in gently accented English. “The judge will, I am certain, take the argument under consideration before he issues a warrant. However, he will not dismiss the case today, and you will probably not receive bail. For you see, you have no domicile here. You are clearly American. You will be considered a flight risk because of that and the nature of the crime of which you are suspected.”
“So you think the judge will issue the warrant?”
“Yes, and he will remand you to custody. But once we make this claim in your defense, the prosecution must then investigate it and must disprove it before you can be convicted. And German jails are better than yours, so you will be comfortable.”
“Oh, really?” Lawton tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice and wasn’t sure he succeeded.
“Most certainly. Until you are convicted, you are not a prisoner. You are simply a suspect awaiting trial. You are entitled to have a cell to yourself and to make it comfortable, within reason. You may wear your own clothes.”
“I was wondering when I was going to get the orange jumpsuit,” Lawton said.
“That will not happen unless you are convicted,” the attorney said. “And given your reasonable belief that you were attempting to arrest a criminal, I believe we should not worry too much about that just now.”
But Lawton did worry. He’d killed a cop. In any country, in any language, in any justice system, that was not a charge one simply walked away from.
Rome, Italy
Ahmed Ahsami watched the telecasts of the riots all over Europe, accompanied by heartrending film of Muslim families being moved to “safe” districts. Europeans hailed the move as a solution to the violence, insisting they did not have enough police to protect Muslims who were scattered everywhere. An interesting rationale, especially given that most of the Muslims in Europe already clung together in closely knit communities, most often because they felt so unwelcome in society at large.
Was he the only one who could see the dangers here? As directed by his superior, who was already on the phone, he started a conference call to Monsignore Veltroni. He did not tell Veltroni that Sheik al-Hazeer was also on the line. “Must I take action?” he asked.
For a few beats the Monsignore didn’t answer. “That depends on what you’re talking about and what kind of action you intend. Violence only begets violence, my friend. You know that as well as anyone. At the moment, there is far too much violence.”
“I am not speaking of violence. I can see there is enough of that. I also see the beginnings of concentration camps. I see Western commentators suggesting that Islamist extremists were behind the death of the German chancellor, when Mr. Vögel was perhaps the last, best friend we had in Europe. European broadcasts show only Islamic youths rioting. Yet on Al Jazeera I see the Muslim neighborhoods under attack.”
Veltroni sighed, a heavy sound that crossed many miles of phone line and satellite. “Allow me to say that you are wrong about one thing, my friend.”
“And what is that?” Ahsami snapped.
“Chancellor Vögel was not the last, best friend you had. There are others. Many others.”
“Please introduce me to them,” Ahsami said. “I see crowds cheering the warehousing of Muslims in ghettos. I do not see friends.”
“And yet you called me,” Veltroni said.
“Your church stood by while one Holocaust happened,” Ahsami said. “Why would you not do the same again?”
“Do not believe every wild accusation you read,” Veltroni replied. “Even if the Church did not do everything it could to protect the Jews in the last century, there were many priests and church leaders who did. And we have all learned the lessons of inaction. Even now, many of our parishes are opening food lockers and stores of clothing and furnishings to help Muslims who are being forced to move. And have no doubt that there are many of us who wish to speak to the Holy Father about this. Remember that he is a German who saw the Holocaust happen at his doorstep. I myself am going to Germany to learn more about the situation.”
“You cannot ask me to sit and do nothing while my brethren are herded into filthy slums,” Ahsami said.
“Then perhaps it is time for you to come out of the shadows, my friend,” Veltroni said. “Let the world know who and what Saif Alsharaawi is. If you wish to speak with a voice of peace for all Muslims, you cannot continue to do so in whispers.”
“I wish it were that simple, Monsignore.”
“There is much that you are not telling me.”
The tenor of Veltroni’s voice left an unspoken question but also made clear that he did not expect an answer. Nor could Ahmed afford to give him one. No, he would have to work first on his own people. Veltroni was right. Sooner or later, Saif Alsharaawi must speak not in whispers but with a clear and certain voice.
“Yes,” Ahmed said. “Please accept the thanks of all Islam for what your churches are doing on our behalf. And I beseech you to exhort your leaders to do all that they can. People who feel they have nothing to lose be
come most dangerous. We do not want that to happen.”
“Of course,” Veltroni said. “These are difficult times, my friend. For all of us. The Lord be with you.”
“In Sh’ Allah,” Ahmed replied. Then he cut the connection to Veltroni, leaving himself alone on the line with the sheik.
“You handled that well,” Sheik Youssef al-Hazeer said. “Perhaps it will hurry them along. Now, tell me the status of our preparations.”
“We have teams standing by in Vienna, Rome, Marseilles and Barcelona,” Ahmed said. “They are prepared to respond to any attacks in the Muslim neighborhoods. But you know I believe that such a response would do more harm than good. We will do nothing but prove to those who hate us that we are a fifth column in their midst.”
“We cannot stand by while our European brethren are oppressed,” al-Hazeer said. “If Saif Alsharaawi will not come forward in their aid, then what is our purpose?”
“As you say,” Ahmed said.
In truth, he had doubts abut the sheik’s true agenda. Saif Alsharaawi had been founded as an instrument of peace, a means by which to both resist Western oppression and also curb the excesses of fanatics who twisted Islam into an excuse for hatred and murder. Now, it seemed, al-Hazeer was trying to encourage those very factions.
“We will have to rely on the Roman Church for help,” Ahmed said. “They are our best allies right now.”
The sheik made a negative sound. “In the end, my friend, we cannot depend on the fidelity of infidels. We must stand ready to defend ourselves, wherever they may strike.”
Ahmed rose from his chair. “A’Salaam Aleikum.”
“Aleikum salaam.”
Ahmed hung up the phone, wondering if Sheik al-Hazeer really meant to wish Allah’s peace upon his Islamic brothers. The phrase of greeting and parting was more than mere ritual. It was a prayer, a fervent wish that Allah would bring all Muslims together in a world of peace and light.
For all that Westerners, and far too many Muslims, misread the words of the Prophet—peace be upon him—true Islam was a discipline of the self, a bending of one’s own will to the will of Allah, a willingness to sacrifice one’s earthly whims, and even life itself, in order to be a fitting servant to the One True God. The Qur’an stated that if a man killed another, except as punishment for murder, it was as if he had killed all of mankind. And if a man saved a single life, it was as if he had saved all of mankind. To surrender one’s own life to save that of another was to guarantee for oneself an eternity in the arms of Allah.
After the Black Christmas bombings, Ahmed had recruited Sheik al-Hazeer. At the time Ahmed had been worried about the betrayal he had experienced from outside financiers and wanted Arab money he could count on. Al-Hazeer had readily signed on, providing any necessary sums of money, and had seemed to agree with Ahmed’s goals.
Too much of what Ahmed had attempted to accomplish had been undone by others. His carefully laid plans for a bold declaration of strength and peace had been turned into the horror of Black Christmas. And his every attempt to rescue that situation by bringing the betrayers to justice had been usurped by others, denying Saif the clear, unambiguous victory it needed to step forward and claim its place on the world stage.
Now, as the money man, al-Hazeer was running Saif. Worse, al-Hazeer was a Wahhabist Sunni. And while he was not as extreme as some in that sect, he had lately made it clear that in his mind, the Shi’a ascendancy in the Middle East, and not the treatment of Muslims in Europe, was the greatest danger Islam faced. For decades, Middle Eastern Sunnis had kept the Shi’a in check with a firm and even brutal hand. It was only to be expected that, as the Shi’a had asserted political power in Iran and now Iraq, they would look for revenge on their former oppressors. That cycle of violence—too often ignored by Western media who lumped all Muslims into one pot—now threatened to flare up into a regional conflict in which Sunni and Shi’a battled for dominance.
If al-Hazeer saw this conflict as the primary threat, and if his Wahhabist beliefs conditioned him to see a more forceful crackdown on the Shi’a as the only solution, then he was working an agenda that left little room for Ahmed to maneuver in Europe. Or anywhere, for that matter.
But Ahmed didn’t see any easy options. Saif remained invisible largely because al-Hazeer provided much of its funding out of his own very deep pockets. Without that funding, Ahmed knew, Saif would have to go to a more public well. Twenty years ago, his organization could have raised money in local mosques across Europe and the U.S. without attracting attention. Nowadays, if a father in Cairo sent a wedding gift of a few hundred dollars to his son in Los Angeles, both the U.S. and Egyptian intelligence services would know it, and the transaction would be pored over down to the last detail.
No, there was no way to depose al-Hazeer in the Saif hierarchy. As Ahmed watched the unfolding ugliness on his TV, he knew he would have to outmaneuver al-Hazeer, to retain his support without allowing him to pervert Saif’s holy mission.
Of course, if he could think of this, al-Hazeer could think of it also. At this same moment, al-Hazeer was most certainly calculating how he might outmaneuver Ahmed.
And that made the game all the more dangerous.
15
Berlin, Germany
“Y ou’re sure it was this table?” Renate asked, watching the traffic on Oranienburger Straße.
“I am certain,” Margarite said. “He was sitting in the same chair you are sitting in right now.”
It had been a week to the hour since Lawton’s arrest, and Renate and Margarite had come to the Galeriecafé Silberstein, trying to assess Lawton’s story. From the Vorgarten, Lawton would have had a clear view of the demonstration in front of the Centrum Judiciaum, apart from pedestrians and, of course, the street traffic. While there was no tram line along Oranienburger Straße, there was bus service, and the traffic was steady, if not heavy.
“We cannot be certain that Lawton saw the right man,” Margarite said. “A bus or van or panel truck could have blocked his view at the key moment. Even if it did not, he had to pick out a single actor in a crowd.”
“I can see the problems.” Renate’s voice was thick with impatience, especially since Margarite, in typical fashion, was criticizing Lawton’s observational abilities as if he were just some man on the street instead of a trained law officer. “In the end, it doesn’t matter if you believe Lawton saw what he claims. We are not neutral parties here. We must develop evidence that he acted with good reason, even if we think he may have been mistaken.”
“Yes, of course,” Margarite said a bit testily. “I am not ignorant of our aims, Renate.”
“Es tut mir leid,” Renate said, hoping she sounded as if she meant it. I’m sorry. “It’s just that….”
“You are worried for Lawton,” Margarite said. “As am I. But for you it is…different.”
“What are you saying?”
Margarite shrugged. “You fancy him. It is not surprising. He is a handsome man.”
Renate shook her head in disgust. She hardly needed Margarite to tell her what she already knew. She wasn’t sure if she was more angry at Margarite for saying it—or at herself for being so transparent.
“Yes, Lawton is a good man,” Renate said. “I brought him into Office 119, and I feel a certain responsibility there. But I have no designs on him. Such a relationship could never work in our organization.”
“Pfft,” Margarite uttered with a wave of her hand. “You are a woman. He is a man. The two of you obviously connect at many levels. What cannot work?”
Renate rose and dropped a ten-Euro bill on the table. “I don’t need this, Margarite. We must focus on the case.”
“And what, exactly, is the case?” Margarite asked, following her. “Lawton and I came here to find out what happened to Chancellor Vögel. We still don’t know. Now Lawton’s in jail. Do we focus on Vögel? Or on Lawton?”
They walked along the street, and Renate lit a cigarette. She’d quit smoking years ago, while sh
e was recovering from the auto accident that had killed her best friend. That accident had also led to her being reported as dead and her new life at Office 119. She felt no urge to smoke when she was in Rome, but whenever she was back in Germany, the old cravings arose again. She knew she would never spend more than a few days at a time in her homeland, so she did not resist. Margarite also lit up, and they walked together in silence for a moment.
“You trust Lawton, don’t you?” Renate asked.
“I am French,” Margarite answered with a shrug, as if that explained every mystery of the universe.
“It’s not going to work, is it?” Renate said, drawing on her cigarette.
Margarite’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“The European Union,” Renate said. “The UN. Even Office 119 and its assumption that stateless, ‘dead’ people will have no allegiance besides the agency. You answer personal questions with ‘I am French,’ and here in Germany I know that, for at least a few days, I am back home. They were accidents of birth. You were born in France and I in Germany. But everything that happened afterward—all of the cultural indoctrination—that was no accident. And we could no more change that than we can transform ourselves into eagles or fish.”
“That is true,” Margarite said. “But consider how far we have come. Seventy years ago, our conversation would have been colored by the certainty that our nations would soon be at war again. Now we share a common currency and an open border, a common declaration of human rights and a hope for the future.”
Renate nodded. “Perhaps. And yet the French voted against the EU constitution.”
“Not really,” Margarite said. “We voted against our government. You read the newspapers, Renate. You know what our unemployment rate is, especially for our young people. Many of our brightest have simply given up. They feel hopeless, and the French government hasn’t helped. The government supported the EU constitution, so we voted against it, just to tell them we were angry with them.”