Brandenburg (35 page)

“You want to tell me over the line?”

“I think it’s best we meet. How about a beer?”

•   •   •

The main bar in the Schweizerhof was almost empty. Detective Jakob Fischer was in his sixties, but his walk was still brisk, his blue eyes bright. He shook hands with Volkmann and slumped into one of the big armchairs opposite.

They ordered club sandwiches and beer as they chatted about old times, and when Fischer finished his sandwich, he wiped his mouth and said, “What’s this case about, Joe?”

Volkmann told him the bare facts and Fischer said, “Okay, let me tell you what I’ve got. Background first, just to fill you in. Herbert Rauscher was born in Leipzig. Sixty-eight years old at his last birthday. Moved to Berlin twenty years ago. Single, never married, respectable but a bit of a playboy with an eye for the ladies. Ran a small publishing firm that published tourist guides. Never in any trouble with the law.”

The detective paused. “Then six months ago, someone murdered him. It happened late at night, about eleven. Two shots to the head. A close hit, according to the detective I spoke to.”

“What did forensics say?”

“A silenced nine-mil weapon was used. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Where was he killed?”

“At his apartment near the Pergamon Museum. His girlfriend came home and found him. The file says she was checked out but came up clean.”

“Where’s the girlfriend now? Any idea?”

“I’m trying to find out. Her name’s Monika Worch. That’s all I know.”

“I’d like to talk with her if you find her. Did your guys turn up anything else?”

The detective shook his head. “They tried the usual angles. People
in the same business as Rauscher, but that led nowhere. But Rauscher may have known his killer, because there was no sign of anyone breaking into his apartment and it happened in the front room. A janitor on duty in the building said he heard nothing and saw nothing. Same with the neighbors.”

“Was Rauscher political?”

Fischer frowned and shook his head. “Not that our people know of. He seemed more interested in making money than in politics. Why, do you think Rauscher’s death was political?”

“I don’t know, Jakob. Is Rauscher’s apartment still unoccupied?”

“I believe so.”

“Can I take a look?”

Fischer smiled. “I guessed you’d want to. My car’s outside. Finish your beer, and then I’ll drive you over. We’ll see if my ID can get us in.”

•   •   •

The apartment was in one of the luxury modern blocks the Soviets once built for their personnel in East Berlin decades ago. It was still well kept, with a neat garden at the entrance.

Jakob Fischer ignored the intercom system and banged authoritatively on the glass doors like a true policeman. When the night porter appeared, Fischer flashed his ID and told the man he wanted to see Herbert Rauscher’s apartment. The man was intimidated by the authority of Fischer’s voice and badge, and scurried off to find the keys.

When he came back with them, Fischer told him that he and his companion would go up to the apartment by themselves. The creaking elevator took them to the penthouse on the eighth floor.

A sign pasted on the door by the Berlin police forbade anyone to enter the apartment, and a third lock had been fitted on the door. It took Fischer almost ten minutes to open the third lock with a filed key he kept on a metal ring.

When they stepped inside, Volkmann was surprised by the lavishness of the apartment. There was a panoramic view of the granite
Pergamon Museum, and in the distance they saw the illuminated top of the Brandenburg Gate.

The apartment was expensively furnished with black leather furniture. There was a Sony TV and DVD player in a corner and an expensive Bang & Olufsen sound system by the window.

Volkmann saw the ruby-red bloodstain near the coffee table. A big, dark patch, and it looked as if someone had once spilled red wine there. The police hadn’t left the rooms in disarray, and he had a good look around the apartment.

The bedroom closets were full of expensive suits and monogrammed silk shirts. He guessed Rauscher’s girlfriend had cleared out all her belongings. Nothing hinted that Rauscher had any involvement in politics, and the only books were glossy coffee-table types.

“Nothing much here that helps, is there?”

Jakob Fischer shook his head, then checked his watch. “I guess not, Joe. It’s getting late. How about I drive you back to your hotel? I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve got a bead on Rauscher’s girlfriend.”

30

BERLIN. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15

He took a taxi to Walter Massow’s office in Kreuzberg the next morning.

It was in a drab, prewar building right in the middle of a block of neglected tenements that teemed with Turkish and Asian immigrants. The entrance was daubed with painted slogans that someone had painted over again, and the windows on the first two floors were boarded up.

A young man was seated behind a desk on the ground floor. He cautiously checked Volkmann’s identity card, then he pressed a button under his desk, and a door sprang open that led upstairs.

Four flights up, a young secretary went to fetch Massow. He was in his late fifties. Big, powerfully built, wearing glasses, and his gentle manner and soft voice belied his physique.

“I’m Walter Massow.”

He shook Volkmann’s hand firmly and led the way into a cluttered office with a row of filing cabinets set against the peeling walls. The window overlooked a small park, several blocks of run-down apartments opposite.

The secretary brought them coffee, and when she had left, Massow selected a toothpick from a small cup on the desk and played it around in his mouth as he looked across.

“May I ask what this is about, Herr Volkmann?”

Volkmann kept it to a minimum. He told Massow he was investigating the murder of a right-wing extremist named Dieter Winter and that his inquiries had revealed a connection with a threat to Massow’s life.

Massow didn’t seem worried as he sat back farther in his chair, and it creaked under his weight.

“May I ask why a British DSE officer is investigating this case? Surely it would be an internal matter for our police.”

“The weapon that killed Winter was used in the shooting of a British-born businessman in Hamburg.”

“I see.”

“Have you ever heard of Dieter Winter before, Herr Massow?”

The big man shook his head firmly. “No, I haven’t.”

“Do you have any idea why Winter might have wanted you killed?”

Massow smiled as he chewed on the toothpick. “You say he was a right-wing extremist?”

“That’s right.”

“If I had a cent for every death threat or hate letter I received
from people like that, by now I’d be on the rich list, living the good life and smoking Havanas.” Massow suddenly stood up. “Let me show you something.”

The politician crossed to a filing cabinet and removed a file. He flicked through a thick sheaf of papers and crossed back to his desk, where he spread the papers out.

“Letters,” explained Massow. “Rather unpleasant letters. These are copies—the police have the originals—not that it means much. They never find these people.”

Massow selected one and handed it across. The single-sheet copy page had been constructed from cutout newspaper-headline type. Across the top of the page a single line said:
JEW LOVER. WE’RE WATCHING YOU
.

Volkmann looked at it, and Massow handed across another. A single page but handwritten, the letters big and bold and threatening:
IMMIGRANTS OUT! MASSOW, YOU’RE DEAD!

Massow said, “Those are some of the milder threats. There are others much worse.” He smiled. “It comes with the territory, as they say.”

Massow sat back again and gestured to the window. “This area I represent, Herr Volkmann, the people here are mainly of immigrant stock. Turks. Poles. Slavs. Asians. Greeks. People from the African countries. I do my best for them. But there are those, as there are in every country, who think people like my constituents should be sent back to wherever they or their parents came from. No matter that they have perhaps been born here and are as good citizens as the next.”

Massow shook his head. “It happens in every country you care to mention. France. Germany. England. The United States. And no doubt, if the extremists and racists had the chance, they would send people like me back with them.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Now and then the thugs who call themselves Germans throw a pipe bomb through our windows or paint graffiti on our building. I’m not saying such things don’t worry us, but we’ve become used to it.”

Volkmann gestured to the letters. “Who are the people who send you these?”

“People like your friend Winter, I imagine. Extremists. Neo-Nazis. Immigrant haters. People haters. Lunatics.” Massow shrugged, smiled. “I hope I haven’t left anyone out.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called Wolfgang Lubsch?”

Massow frowned. “The terrorist?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him.”

“How well do you know him?”

Massow smiled guardedly. “Herr Volkmann, the man is a wanted terrorist. Years ago when he was a student, I met him briefly at an immigrant rally. He’s not a friend, if that’s what you’re implying. And on that subject, I’ll say no more.”

“And the death threat I spoke about?”

“What about it?”

“Do you have any idea who might have been behind it?”

“No, I don’t. Except the kind of lunatic fringe I just talked about. Like I said, I receive so many threats.” Massow smiled. “In fact, if they stopped, I might get worried that the racists and bigots have come to like me. And that would really frighten me.”

“Why would these people want you dead?”

“Because to the extremists and racists, I’m a thorn in their side.”

Massow stood up, took a step closer to the window. In the bright winter sunshine, his clothes appeared shabby, his big, kindly face creased with worry lines.

“Do you have any idea how immigrants are treated in this country, Volkmann? There are five million people of immigrant stock in Germany. In France, in Italy, there’s a similar problem, but my real concern is Germany. Many of them came here in the years after the war, when there was a labor shortage. They came as laborers and did the dirty work most Germans refused. They settled here and had families and made a life for themselves. Now they are almost seven percent of the population, a figure greater than the Jews before
the last war. But unlike the majority of Jews of that time, many are caught in a poverty trap.

“The laws demand that every worker be treated equally, but the reality is different. Wages among immigrants are lower than average, and unemployment runs at twenty-five percent. So they live in ghettos and immigrant hostels. The problem, then, is real and troubling. But even more troubling is Germany’s response. When the racists and neo-Nazis provoked violence, it caused not only indignation, but demands for a limit to the number of foreigners entering this country. As if the victims were at fault and not those people persecuting them.”

Massow frowned. “Now, when there is racist terror, the politicians say they don’t have enough police. Yet when the terrorists rack this country, the police manage to guard almost every important businessman and executive in the land.”

Massow looked out at the bright sunlight, then back at Volkmann. “When you leave this office, take a walk through the streets. Look at the living conditions. Look at the faces of the people living in this neighborhood. Really look. They are frightened people. Frightened of the shaved-headed toughs who attack their homes. Frightened of the future. What you see outside is a tinderbox waiting to be ignited. Because someday these people are going to raise their voices and organize themselves and fight back. And then this whole country will be set ablaze.”

Massow shook his head ruefully. “Sometimes I wonder if things have really changed in this country.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before the last war, the rally call of the Nazis was
Judenfrei:
free of Jews. These days, it’s
Ausländerfrei:
free of foreigners. Today there are hardly any Jews left in Germany. But there are immigrants who might become the nation’s next scapegoats. And the same undercurrents are there. Because these people are not Aryans with blond hair and blue eyes, they are not considered Germans.” Massow sat forward. “Let me give you an example. One ultraright party used a
simple anti-immigrant slogan during the last elections here. ‘The Boat Is Full,’ they said. And for that, they gained six more seats in Parliament.”

Massow sat down again and said, “Forgive me, this isn’t what you came to talk about. You asked about this man Winter, and I ended up giving you a lecture on what’s wrong with this country.”

“You’re certain you never heard of Dieter Winter?”

“Never.”

•   •   •

He walked back through the streets to the U-Bahn station.

The suburb was a busy maze of narrow streets, and as he walked, he did what Massow had suggested. Berlin’s Kreuzberg had been a working-class area since before the last war and the immigrant tenements he passed were derelict and shabby.