The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  The difference was that these crates held illegally distilled rotgut rather than brand product. No doubt it was for the American market, where it would be shipped with the aid of the Concordia Ringverein.

  At least, that’s what he hoped. If not, they could be made to look very foolish.

  A gangway slid out from the ship, and the men formed a chain from the first truck. It wasn’t long before they were loading at breakneck pace, like a bucket brigade – only with crates. He reached for the telephone and waited for Böhm to pick up. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Warehouse 2, westside, the MS Erika. Five trucks, all told about a dozen men. None armed so far as I can see, but possible some are carrying – above all, those on board.’

  A few seconds later a large sliding door opened and the customs inspector stepped onto the loading ramp, behind him Wilhelm Böhm, megaphone in hand. Lamkau’s men didn’t notice until the uniform cops took up position on the ramp, carbines at the ready. ‘Your attention, please,’ Böhm’s voice echoed. ‘This is the police!’

  A lone crate crashed to the floor.

  ‘That’s right,’ Böhm continued. ‘Drop the crates, and place your hands in the air. You’re surrounded and under arrest. As of this moment these goods are the property of the Berlin Chief Customs Office.’

  A driver climbed into his van and stepped on the gas. The engine roared as the vehicle raced across the quay, perilously close to the harbour edge. Two men jumped aside to avoid being knocked down. The driver was headed for Westhafenstrasse, but the eastern gate was locked, guarded by armed uniform cops. The van screeched into a turn, but no one gave chase. Heedless flight only confirmed that an illegal operation had been blown. Encountering more armed officers, the driver gave up and exited the truck with hands in the air. Gräf stowed his field glasses and began the descent.

  Arriving below, he heard diesel engines and saw the police vehicles stationed behind the admin building move in. The smugglers had their hands in the air, and made no move to resist arrest.

  The cops who weren’t busy with handcuffs began loading the crates, not just from the Lamkau vans, but also from the quay and cargo ship. Böhm already had a crate open, and fished out a bottle. He took a sniff, made a disgusted face, and passed the bottle to Gräf.

  It looked like the Luisenbrand served all over Berlin, but smelled more like methylated spirit than high-end Korn. They’d need to undertake a chemical analysis for the courts, but there was no doubt about it. This was rotgut of the cheapest order. Could they really be palming it off as a German speciality to the Yanks? Gräf wondered how much money was to be made smuggling alcohol into the US given the current dollar exchange rate. Evidently enough to justify doing so on a large scale.

  He looked at the men. On board were a few villains whose mugs no doubt already graced the rogues’ gallery, but the men from the delivery vans were just normal Lamkau firm employees. He thought he recognised one or two from the company offices at Tempelhof.

  The men took their places on the vehicle platform next to their smuggled goods, and suddenly there was a loud crash of metal. Gräf looked round to see a Lamkau van door fly open and a cop hitting the ground. A white overall flitted through the night like a ghost. Goddamn it!

  They must have overlooked someone hidden in the front van, and he had slammed the heavy rear door against the unsuspecting cop’s head. Now he fled across the quay, overalls flapping.

  ‘Halt!’ Böhm cried into the megaphone. ‘Stay where you are! Or we’ll be forced to shoot!’

  The man turned and, in the pale neon light, Gräf thought he recognised Dietrich Assmann, the East Prussian heading up the Lamkau operation to support the grieving widow. But the man kept running, and Gräf could no longer be sure.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ the megaphone sounded again. ‘Or we’ll shoot.’

  A warning shot was fired in line with police protocol. When most crooks would have given up, this one just ran faster.

  A second shot ripped through the night, and Gräf was afraid the operation would claim its first fatality when the white overalls appeared to take off, and seemed, for a moment, to be flying, before dropping like a lead weight and disappearing behind the wall of the landing stage. He chased after a couple of cops as they ran towards the harbour edge, and shone his torch on the water below, still foaming from the body’s impact.

  ‘There!’ The torch beam caught something white rising slowly to the surface, the overalls borne upwards by air bubbles. The fugitive had disappeared.

  65

  It was late, the office dark and deserted. Gräf had gone out to the Westhafen with Böhm, and Erika Voss had finished for the day. Charly switched on the light and hung her coat on the stand. Surveillance work wasn’t popular, which was why it was usually left to the cadets. She had been shadowing Gustav Wengler since early morning. For most of the time he had been with relations from Danzig, who had stayed on after the funeral. Now they were back in their hotel. It didn’t look as if he would make for the harbour anytime soon, but they would stay on him all the same.

  Lange had relieved her about an hour ago, and while he sat in the green Opel outside the Eden Hotel, awaiting their target’s next move, she headed back to police headquarters. She didn’t know where else she could go.

  Despite taking mental leave of the flat in Spenerstrasse, she hadn’t found the courage to tell Greta about the changes in her life and, even after spending the last few nights, she still felt like a stranger in Charlottenburg. The flat was too big, especially when she was alone. Perhaps if she’d been able to keep Kirie . . .but the surveillance operation had meant handing canine duties back to Erika Voss. She fetched the Vaterland case from the shelf.

  Herbert Lamkau. Three crimes converged in the person of the deceased spirits merchant: murder, blackmail and bootlegging. How were they linked?

  By now, blackmail was beyond doubt. Riedel and Unger sat in custody awaiting trial, each blaming the other, which only made things easier. Skimming Nebe’s interrogation transcripts, she couldn’t help but smile. The way he had duped the pair was a thing of beauty. A throwaway remark had led Unger to believe Riedel had dropped him in it, which resulted in the head chef doing the dirty on his partner. The back-and-forth had continued between interview rooms, culminating in two written confessions waiting to be signed.

  By accusing Lamkau of selling cheap rotgut, Unger and Riedel had unwittingly touched a nerve. The Lamkau firm was indeed pedalling moonshine, the proceeds of which were painstakingly recorded in the notebook Gräf had recovered from Siegbert Wengler’s flat. It had taken some time for police to decipher the columns of numbers, but it had been worth it. Though still unsure how and when Wengler might have stolen the notebook, they were no longer in any doubt that he had.

  Even so, Wengler hadn’t been able to protect Lamkau from his blackmailers. That task had fallen to others. Charly had recognised one of the men she’d seen in Linkstrasse in the rogues’ gallery: Rudolf Haas, aka Lovely Rudi, the right hand man of Concordia chief Paul Marczewski, also known as Polish-Paule. Though still unidentified, there was every reason to assume Haas’s accomplice was, likewise, a fully paid-up member of the Concordia Ringverein. Charly wondered if the pair hadn’t been involved in Lamkau’s death, or whether it was a vendetta, as Gereon suspected, pursued by a man whose mother had fallen foul of the company’s rotgut. What Gereon didn’t know, because no one could possibly have told him, was that Lamkau was still at it eight years on. Which meant there could be countless additional victims, and therefore, countless additional people with grounds for revenge.

  Gereon. Goddamn it! She was thinking about him again. She looked out of the window, but dusk had already turned to darkness, and all she could see was her yawning reflection. She was tired. If only she knew where he was, the swine!

  She was starting to worry. Had something happened to him? No, the Treuburg authorities would have been in touch – or that colleague from Königsberg he’d mentioned on the telephone.

  She d
ecided to try his hotel again, no matter how ridiculous it might feel. At least in Carmerstrasse she could use the telephone without colleagues listening. To say nothing of Greta. Her friend would have killed herself laughing if she’d known Charly was worried about a man. The truth was she wasn’t sure if it was worry; it could just be anger at the bastard’s stubborn refusal to get in touch.

  66

  Strange smells. Animal sweat and herbs. Camomile and vinegar. Light behind the darkness. A gleam behind the eyes.

  Dream scraps. Memories.

  The moon.

  Charly’s smile.

  Slipping out of reach.

  Eyes open. Stinging light.

  A wooden spoon. Steaming fluid. Disgusting smell. Animal sweat. Herbs. Camomile and vinegar.

  Drink, drink!

  A gnarled voice.

  Turn away. Close eyes.

  Charly’s smile.

  A jolt towards the light.

  Infernal grin, black beast, teeth bared; red, panting tongue. Above, a blonde beard.

  No strength, no fight.

  Drink!

  Gnarled voice. Behind the beard.

  The spoon again. Disgusting taste, bitter and oily and hot. Involuntary swallow. Camomile and vinegar and honey and herbs.

  A sudden shiver. Enveloping warmth. Great fatigue.

  Fatigue that excludes all else.

  Falling back.

  Eyelids.

  Heavy.

  Closed.

  Darkness, sleep, death.

  Peace, at last.

  Peace, leave me in peace.

  Dark, deadly sleep.

  Charly’s smile.

  Peace.

  At last.

  67

  Dietrich Assmann sat at the table in Interview Room B and shrugged his shoulders. Just as he had done umpteen times already. Böhm might have kept score.

  The Lamkau firm meant to offload a large shipment last night at the Westhafen.

  Shrug.

  The MS Erika, port of destination Hamburg.

  Shrug.

  The consignment wasn’t accounted for in the freight documents.

  Shrug.

  The crates contained illegally distilled schnapps, in original Luisenbrand bottles.

  Shrug.

  Some twelve thousand bottles, the majority already on board, the rest stowed in five delivery vans, property of the Lamkau firm, Berlin-Tempelhof, parked at the Westhafen northern quay. Seized in their entirety by the Chief Customs Office, Berlin.

  Shrug.

  According to the freight documents, the consignment contained three hundred tons of rapeseed oil, to be offloaded onto the high-sea freighter MS Tsingtao at Hamburg. Its destination: Hoboken, New Jersey.

  Shrug.

  Böhm stood, arms folded, listening, as Chief Customs Inspector Bruno Kressin continued his fruitless questioning. With every shrug of Assmann’s shoulders, he felt his blood pressure rise. Staying patient during a lengthy interrogation had never been one of his strengths, which was why he had given Kressin, under whose jurisdiction the Lamkau firm’s illegal activities fell, the floor.

  For a full quarter of an hour he gritted his teeth and listened. For a full quarter of an hour he displayed the patience of a saint – but no more. ‘Don’t just sit there playing the innocent!’ he yelled without warning, and Dietrich Assmann instinctively recoiled. Böhm beat his fist against the table. ‘They were Lamkau trucks, Herr Assmann.’

  For once Assmann offered more than a shrug. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t send ’em.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. How many times? Do you think asking the same questions as your colleague will get you a different answer? Change the goddamn record. I can’t tell you a thing.’

  ‘Can’t, or don’t want to?’ Böhm fixed Assmann with his bulldog-gaze. ‘We’ll question you for as long as it takes to get a sensible answer. Why would almost the entire fleet of Lamkau firm vehicles head out to the Westhafen if the managing director hadn’t given the instruction?’

  ‘Acting managing director.’

  ‘And why should your employees, Lamkau firm drivers and warehousers, meet with men who are part of the Concordia Ringverein to load moonshine onto a cargo boat?’

  ‘What do I know? Perhaps they did so on the instruction of their former managing director. Or, it was someone acting under their own steam who roped the others in.’

  ‘You had nothing to do with it, then?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time.’

  ‘Then why were you there?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You were at the Westhafen last night.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘So tell me where you were around half past nine . . .’

  ‘I was eating my dinner.’

  ‘Cut the crap. You were at the Westhafen! A CID officer recognised you.’

  ‘This officer of yours, got issues with his eyes, has he?’

  ‘Word is you’re quite the swimmer. Where did you dispose of your wet things? When my colleagues met you at half past twelve in your hotel, you were in evening dress.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re driving at.’

  ‘I just hope you didn’t catch cold in the harbour basin.’

  ‘What are you talking about? That your officer too? I think you’d better send him to an optician.’

  ‘In the eyes of the court, police testimony carries serious weight, Herr Assmann.’

  ‘I wasn’t at the Westhafen, goddamn it, I was in the Rheingold!’

  ‘And I’ve no doubt you can prove it. So what did you eat, in the Rheingold?’

  ‘Venison loin.’

  Böhm made a note. ‘We’ll check the menu.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘But that won’t be enough to prove you were there.’

  ‘How about the bill? Would that suffice?’

  ‘Better than nothing. Do you have it there?’

  ‘I didn’t pay.’

  ‘Then who was kind enough to pick up the tab?’

  ‘My boss.’ Assmann grinned. ‘Gustav Wengler. Director of the Luisenhöhe distillery.’

  Böhm rose to his feet. ‘Kressin, carry on without me for now.’

  Charly could tell the man didn’t take her seriously. He seemed to think she was a secretary or second stenographer, even though Hilda Steffens was the only one with a pad in her hand. She had clearly introduced herself and stated her function, but Gustav Wengler was stumped by the very idea of a female CID officer. Or perhaps he had a problem with women in general.

  Apparently he thought the uniform cop by the door of Interview Room A was more important than the woman sitting across from him. ‘How long do you propose to keep me here?’ Wengler asked the man. ‘I have appointments to attend.’

  The cop gazed sternly, impassive as a castle guard.

  ‘Appointments can be postponed, Herr Wengler,’ Charly replied. ‘You received our summons four days ago, leaving you more than enough time to rearrange your diary.’

  Wengler looked at her in indignation and confusion. ‘I was summoned to an interview. And what happens? I’m here in good time, and the Herr Inspector is nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘That’s because there is no Herr Inspector. I’ll be the one asking the questions.’ She smiled politely, savouring the look on Wengler’s face. ‘I’m sure it’s in your interests to have the matter of your brother’s death resolved.’

  ‘I’m just surprised your colleagues didn’t ask these questions when I was here last Friday.’

  ‘An investigation like this yields new information all the time.’

  ‘New information? How exciting.’

  Hilda Steffens sat at the ready, and Charly began. ‘Dietrich Assmann is the operations manager of the Luisenhöhe distillery in Treuburg?’

  ‘You call that new information?’

  ‘Why did you send your operations manager to Berlin? Herr Assmann has been here more than a week.’
<
br />   ‘Edith Lamkau requested my help.’

  ‘So you send your most vital employee?’

  ‘My best employee. The Lamkau firm plays a decisive role in distributing our product through Central Germany. It’s in my own interests for business in Berlin to get back on its feet.’

  ‘How well do you know Herr Assmann?’

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘One I’d like you to answer. Is it a purely business relationship, or are you also personally acquainted?’

  ‘The former.’

  ‘How well did you know your brother?’

  ‘You do ask strange questions.’

  ‘Just concentrate on answering them.’

  ‘Eight hundred kilometres makes it hard to stay in touch. I wasn’t aware of his last address, if that’s what you’re alluding to, nor the danger he was in.’

  ‘And Herbert Lamkau?’

  ‘What the hell do you want from me? Tell me what you’re driving at.’

  ‘Let me see. Tainted schnapps containing dangerously high levels of methanol, marketed in Luisenbrand bottles . . .’

  ‘Isn’t it about time you stopped digging up these old stories?’

  ‘The question is: what you know about them? Now, as well as back then.’

  ‘I’ve explained all this to your esteemed colleague in Treuburg. Doesn’t he pass information like this on?’

  Sadly, not always, Charly thought. ‘Herr Wengler,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid these stories aren’t quite as old as you think. Yesterday evening, working with the Chief Customs Office, the Berlin Police seized a large consignment of lethal rotgut stowed in Mathée Luisenbrand original bottles.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ Wengler’s surprise appeared genuine, but what did genuine mean with a man like this?

  ‘The goods were to be loaded onto a cargo boat at the Westhafen by Lamkau employees, whose vans were stationed alongside the quay.’