Streich looked insulted by Peters’ incitement to terrorism.
‘That’s what student anarchists would do, don’t take me for one of them. They tried that in the seventies and it only led to reactionary forces being strengthened. Besides even bankers and business tycoons have families and loved ones too. Eventually even the worst bosses who you would shoot would gain some sympathy from the public. As for those I targeted, well there was and is no quarter, no sympathy.’
‘I really don’t see how killing a few perverts and posting their deaths on the Internet is going to shake Capitalism’s monopolistic foundations,’ Peters jibed.
Streich looked frustrated at being unable to convey his logic.
‘Because Captain Peters these beings understood the laws of supply and demand. They scoured the world, the so-called free world, with dollars and Euros in their pockets, coveting anybody they saw. In their case the most vulnerable. In your rotten system anything can be bought, anything! They understood that...clearly. And that is why I chose them as my targets.’
‘And what is the bloody point of all this then?’
He ignored Peters’ question and fired off one of his own.
‘Tell me Captain how come your German is near flawless except of course for that Swabian tinge on your tongue.’
‘I’m half German,’ Peters replied curtly.
‘Which half?’
‘On my father’s side. He was a refugee from Hitler who fled to England in ‘38.’
‘But you are not Jewish?’
‘No, he was a Sudeten.’
Streich now seemed puzzled by Peters’ personal history and so the Englishman continued, convincing himself that the more he engaged with the killer the better the chances of his eventual surrender.
‘He was one of the few who didn’t want to be liberated by the Fuhrer and his chums. He was a Social Democrat who knew the choice was either exile or a KZ. Luckily for me he chose England. He worked for the BBC during the war, writing up broadcasts in German encouraging Wehramacht units to give up on a lost cause.’ Peters gave a short pause. ‘And how about your father?’
There was a grunt of contempt from Streich and then a smirk.
‘I see we are back with the pop psychology again. I’m not doing this because my father abused me or disappeared or something of that ilk. I was the son of a railway worker who used to be a Red before the Nazis took power. He survived the war and opted to stay in the DDR and resume his real politics. I had a very happy childhood in our republic and I don’t remember any weird uncles with wandering hands around me back then either. As I said before Captain Peters my struggle is purely political.’
Peters noted with alarm the growing impatience in Streich’s voice, the ever darkening tone, the hissed hint of menace.
‘Is? Shouldn’t that be was? Isn’t this what our encounter here underneath Nikolai’s feet is all about? To bring this all to a close?’ Peters felt the frenetic rhythm of his blood hammering in his ears. Was he pushing Streich too far? Was he riding his luck, relying too much on his own confidence? He looked in alarm again at the Glock pointed towards his mid riff.
‘There are many phases to this struggle Captain. You served in Northern Ireland. You must have heard the phrase “armed propaganda” before?’ Streich asked.
Peters nodded recalling that anaemic euphemism used to mask the blood splattered campaigns and counter-campaigns of sabotage and assassination of the Troubles.
‘Then you will realise that this has been nothing more than an advertising campaign. A rather negative one it has to be said. To highlight the rotten core of a system where anything and everybody can be bought and sold. Even children.’
‘Nothing more? Is that all Hermann Bauer’s life was worth then? An act of advertising?’ Peters suddenly heard his angry outburst now echoing around the chamber.
‘Calm down Captain Peters. Don’t ruin your greatest triumph by losing your temper. I have to be certain I can trust you. If I can’t I don’t know where we go after that. I repeat that I never meant to hurt anyone beyond my targets. I will apologise before the world for that.’
‘Briegel is dead,’ Peters said.
‘I have to confess I have mixed feelings about that. The world won’t miss the likes of Briegel but still his demise wasn’t the one I had planned for him.’
‘What was Tavarich? Go on, I’m intrigued.’
‘If your team has done their work they would have found my sword by now. I had it locked away in my HQ down in Ostkreuz.’
‘You were going to behead him, like the second one?’
‘With an important difference, Captain. Briegel’s execution should have been in real time, live, as it happened. I was looking forward to that one. I would have enjoyed that.’
‘Why the delay? After all you were so meticulous,’ Peters asked attempting to suppress his repulsion.
‘Because other swords were approaching. I was on my way there when I learned you were closing in. I had to make other arrangements quickly, to ensure that whatever was to happen to me, my message would be transmitted. Nothing should stop that Captain. Not even you.’
Streich paused for a few seconds and then twirled the trigger guard of his Glock around, spinning the weapon in a rapid revolution until his palm cupped the gun barrel while the automatic’s butt faced Peters.
‘It’s time to come in from the cold and explain a few things Captain.’
A more generous smile this time broke out over Streich’s face as he looked up towards the roof of the chamber.
‘I still can’t believe how easily we surrendered back in ‘89,’ he sighed.
‘If only we had been tougher. That’s what I have learned. That’s what guided me on my way across the river as Christopher, Captain. The necessity to carry it out through. The clarity needed to transmit the message,’ Streich started to laugh.
‘And to think that an English Imperialist will help guide me through to the next phase. Still, I’m glad it’s you....’
In that instant two jets of blood spurted out of Streich’s forehead, from a dead centre point just above where his eyebrows were. His body pitched back against the icon-mural and a lurid delta of runny red matter splattered against the tiles and then slid in a blasphemous trajectory down the image of a Russian mother, her head bowed in honour to the fallen. The squealing ricochet of the bullet when it exited from Streich’s skull created a deafening cacophony in the altar room and Peters felt a sharp pain in his ears that felt like the impact of rapidly changing air pressure on a flight’s descent.
When he took his hands off his ears there was still a reverberating, hissing noise in them which reminded him of feedback, but, more potently, of the bomb in Ostkreuz.
The floor beneath him appeared to be dissolving as the room began to spin. Peters backed his body into the wall to shore himself up against the impression that the ground was turning spongy and viscous. In his attempt to steady himself and avoid passing out Peters failed to see the other living person now in the memorial. Only when he had regained a grip on his consciousness did Peters realise that he had been joined inside by Fest.
The BND agent also at first seemed to be oblivious to Peters’ presence walking past him as if he was invisible. Fest then crouched down beside where Streich lay, his gun shoved back into his long woollen coat out of which he plucked a cigarette box, flicked it open, nimbly took out a gold slender Ronson lighter and a Marlboro Light and lit up, the smoke rising from its tip curling up and joining the smoke from the entry wound on the serial killer’s head.
Fest was transfixed on the linear movement of the two smoke trails intertwining and rising up in a single noxious blue column towards the ceiling which supported the statue outside. Fest rose up from his position and took the gun back out of his coat pocket.
Now another pistol was being pointed at Peters, this time in the direction of his head. It was as if Fest sensed that Peters was thinking about rushing towards him. At first he couldn’t make ou
t what the spook was mouthing but then Peters started to hear his own breathing, the feedback receding, the silent commands becoming audible.
‘You have just killed my prisoner,’ Peters heard himself saying.
‘No, you have just murdered my prisoner.’
He searched Fest’s face and noticed that nothing had flinched, his slightly slanted eyes still stared blankly at him, not a single nerve muscle rippled, his whole bearing was frozen. Fest’s diaphragm didn’t even appear to be moving to draw breath.
The agent dropped his cigarette and rubbed it out using one of his heavy brown brogues on the floor before picking up with a gloved hand, taking out a plastic money bag from his coat and placing the fag end inside it.
‘Streich was pointing his gun at an officer of the Berlin Polizei and I had to act,’ Fest said in a tone of theatrical rehearsal.
‘It was an instantaneous decision. I had no choice. We have already lost one esteemed colleague of the Berlin Polizei. I felt that it was my duty to save the life of another,’ Fest said for the benefit of any future tribunal and not Peters.
‘You have just murdered my prisoner,’ Peters repeated provocatively.
Fest refused to rise to the bait and just smiled, all the time his Glock still pointing at Peters’ forehead.
‘You are under a lot of stress Captain Peters. You have seen two men die in front of your eyes in the last 24 hours. This was not murder. It was an act of defence. Your defence.’
He realised that Fest had indeed been in rehearsals, he had prepared every line after the execution perhaps even have anticipated that Peters might be wearing a wire or using a mobile’s recording device.
‘This isn’t exactly the time or place to be debating over what happened here,’ Fest said maintaining his ice cold grip on the situation.
‘You need to speak to your superiors later but for now - ‘ he broke off and turned slightly, his left ear cocked towards the entrance behind him as the wailing sound of sirens started to pierce the still of the morning.
‘Oh listen. Here comes the cavalry. Time for me to go.’
He inched back until he was at the steps which was when Peters cried out.
‘Fest! This isn’t over. You can’t get away with executing suspects. You’ve become exactly like him.’
The face suddenly de-frosted as Fest sniggered and shook his head.
‘Who the hell is Fest? The only Fest I know, Captain Peters, is our distinguished historian of the Third Reich. And now I really must be off before the Keystone Cops from Kottbusser Strasse get here. So I’m afraid to say that it is very much over.’
He turned swiftly and charged back down the steps into the memorial garden leaving Peters, his legs now wobbling, his hands shaking, his body choking with an enveloping nausea, standing over the cadaver of the most popular murderer in German history.
Forty Six
When he was sure the BND agent was gone Peters crouched down over Streich’s body and began to pat his coat until he found a thick chocolate bar shape bulge inside the serial killer’s top pocket. Peters gingerly pulled back the zip and using his thumb and forefinger delicately pulled out the mobile. He noticed that it had been switched off and decided to keep it that way until he was as far away as possible from Treptower Park.
Back outside two black blurs of iron and armour brushed past Peters as he stumbled into the light. When he reached the penultimate step he turned around and called back to the firearms unit now entering the altar: ‘Don’t waste your breaths. The only thing moving in there is his blood on the wall.’
Facing Peters was an even thinner, slightly crestfallen, sunken Mannfred Stannheim. Peters noticed that the boss had his hands clasped in front of his crotch; he looked like a soccer player defending a free kick protecting his loins. He waited until he was close enough to sniff the familiar stale odour of cigarette smoke around Stannheim.
‘Just fancy meeting you here, Mannfred. Did you wait until your master left the scene?’
Stannheim pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders and attempted to stiffen up.
‘By the way where did Fest go? Or whatever he is actually called,’ Peters continued. ‘Did you know that that wasn’t his real name?’
The old man shot Peters a grave look before taking a cigarette box from of his trench coat, flicking it open and pulling one out. He waited until he torched up before finally speaking.
‘I assume our friend up there is dead.’
‘You assume right sir. Fest executed him but I assume you probably knew that too. When did you make the call by the way? Was it this morning when I called you?’
‘There was never going to be a trial, Martin. Never.’
‘So Fest, or whoever he is, and his masters opted to kill him. They’re just as bad as Streich was. Judge, jury, executioner...’ Peters stopped himself, recalling his last tour of duty in Northern Ireland and the fate of Appolonia Winston.
‘Listen Martin. These people were never going to give Streich his day in court. He was preparing to put an entire system on trial. So I repeat they were never going to let that happen.’
‘And you set me up to draw him out. You made that call,’ Peters hissed.
Stannheim shivered slightly and moved back a few paces before putting his hand out until it was touching Peters’ chest who immediately flicked his boss’ fingers off his body.
‘Now get out of my way.’
‘Where are you going?’ Stannheim asked with panic in his voice.
‘Straight over to Heike and the Springer building. I’m going to give her the scoop of her career.’
‘No you are not.’
Peters shook his head in disbelief.
‘You just try and stop me Mannfred.’
Stannheim keeled forward and gripped Peters by the shoulders.
‘They know everything about you Martin. Everything! The swingers club, the old dear who owns the pub up in Hallensee with the mini-dungeon in her house,’ Stannheim tried to go but was cut dead.
‘As I’ve told you before I don’t give a fuck what they know or what they want to do with it. If they publish it in Bild or BZ, I couldn’t care less. It doesn’t bother me Mannfred what they say or do, not any more. That’s my private life, the life beyond the walls of Kottbusser Strasse and I don’t break any laws.’ Peters interrupted his boss and stormed off back down the central avenue of the Treptower war memorial. Stannheim turned and ran to head Peters off.
‘Listen to me Martin. Listen to me. It’s not just about you, not any more. They know everything and that includes not just your Turkish lady friend, the married one, the old kinky dear who owns the pub, and worst of all your girlfriend the ghost.’
Peters froze and felt the blood draining from his upper body.
‘What are you taking about Mannfrend?’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence or yours. You’ve been knocking off a female Turkish taxi driver for nearly two years behind her husband’s back. Fest, or as you so rightly point out, whoever the hell he really is, even knew the number of the cab firm she works for and that her hubby spends most of his spare time doubled-over on the mosque floor. But what ‘s much more important to me is the reputation of the squad and yes my favourite officer - the one who shot and killed a woman in Ireland. Fest’s knows all about your tour of duty over there. I am not the only one who can call in Cold War favours. Fest must have spoken to some of your old chums in MI6.Just imagine the headlines in BZ about your history.’ Peters realised that Stannheim had regained his authority, reclaiming his power with this single sordid piece of knowledge, which he held in common with Fest.
‘What’s the score here, sir? What are you threatening me with?’
Stannheim looked genuinely disappointed at the questions.
‘I’m not threatening you at all Martin. This is not about me. Whoever Fest is and whoever he works for is who you should really fear. He could unleash real damage on us all.’
‘I’ve just seen what he’s capable of,�
� Peters tone too had softened slightly.
‘Well then, you’ll understand that he’s prepared to drop you and everyone you know in it including your lovers and more importantly your colleagues.’
‘So I just sit and shut up about the fact that a government agent executed my prisoner in front of me?’
‘In a word, yes.’ Stannheim answered apologetically.
‘After all whoever Fest is working for will bite back that you did exactly the same thing all those years ago in Belfast.’
‘Oh, I’ll think about it Mannfred but not for your sake. Not anymore! Meantime you just think about this. If I go along with this charade you put any idea you might have had of throwing in the towel and buying that little apartment in Majorca or Ibiza out of your mind. You’re staying in that glass cell of yours back at HQ. At least there we can keep an eye on each other until they come for the both of us, ‘Peters said.
‘They?’ Stannheim asked.
‘You don’t seriously think this scandal can be covered up forever Mannfred? I’m just letting you buy time – again for the both of us! Just you wait and see, they’ll come for us. Eventually we’ll hang together for this one.’
As he prepared to turn on his heels and head out of the memorial garden, Peters suddenly noticed that someone was absent from the units now fanning out on either side of the statue and the lines of white coated forensic officers charging up the steps towards the altar above the giant crushed concrete swastika.
The Swinging Detective Page 31