Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy
Page 4
“How’s it going?” I ask, pushing my last three units of coke in his direction.
“Oh, well,” he slowly replies. “Not that great.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Thor hasn’t shown up at the last parade.”
The music drones out his soft voice. “You need to speak up,” I tell him.
Tom leans over, until he almost touches my ear. “The filthy Arabs want to finish us up,” he hisses.
“Yeah, yeah, so I’ve heard.”
“Fucking fuckers.”
“And what’re you going to do about it?”
“Whaddaya think?”
“Get even?”
“Keep on dreaming. It’s twenty of them against one of us.”
“I know.”
“What do you think, we can do?” he accusingly adds. “We’re lucky if we don’t lose our street.”
“Yeah, I got it,” I try to calm him.
Canned applause ends the performance of the overweight dancer. She comes over to the bar and has the bartender pour her a plum brandy. I look at Tom, twirling my empty glass in my hand. I need to find out if he knows anything about the ace-of-clubs-crucifix murders. “You guys are not on a crusade, you know what I mean?” I ask, all the while carefully studying him from the corner of my eye.
Tom bristles. “Why do you say something like this?”
“Why do I say what?”
“The thing about the crusade.”
“No special reason,” I claim.
Tom bangs a tattoo on the bar with his storm lighter. “Must have something to do with the sun spots, that’s why everyone’s suddenly going nuts.”
When I smile at him, he doesn’t meet my eyes. He always avoids eye contact. Like we were animals and he was a subordinate male. “What, if the tables could be turned and the Arabs would be grabbed by the balls for a change?” I insist.
A pensive nod from Tom. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“These guys will finish them up, you think?”
“What guys?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“What do I know?”
“What they’re saying on the street.”
“About who? The roof-runner?”
I slam my hand down on the bar. “Then you do know what’s going on,” I blurt.
Tom points at the badges on his vest. “Being a Prospect doesn’t mean you’re blind,” he declares.
I bend closer to him. “Speak up! Who’s behind it? Who’re the Arabs scared of?”
Tom refills his whiskey glass. “It’s just talk.” A dismissive wave with his hand.
I put my arm around his shoulder, pulling his upper body closer to me. “Tell me,” I urge him.
“Abdul,” Tom starts, struggling to shake off my arm.
“So what?”
“Abdul who lives on Revaler, I sometimes have a chat with him. He’s told me something,” Tom explains.
“You’re chatting with an Arab?”
“Yes, why not? Not all of them are bastards.” Tom lowers his head until it almost touches the bar. “Abdul’s scared shitless,” he continues. “He’s told me he was just dragging his ass down Revaler early one morning, when he saw this... hell, I don’t know...”
“What did he see?” I don’t let go.
“A weird shadow.” Tom swallows. “What’s the right word? A dark figure, running across the rooftops.”
“Dark figure?” I wonder aloud, lifting my brows. “There’s plenty of those around here,” I add.
“No, no, not one of the usual motherfuckers,” Tom protests.
“Meaning what?”
“Okay... the way he moved... light on his feet. And the way he was dressed.”
I shake my head. “The way he was dressed? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Something seems to distract Tom, because he turns his head in the direction of the window as if having a kind of premonition. Next, the pane explodes. The staccato of at least two submachine guns. Projectiles ricochet around the room. The barman returns the fire straight away, blindly spraying the street with bullets. The two booze-heads take a dive behind the bar, followed by the pole dancer. Tom takes cover behind the pool table. Squashed cigarette butts at eye level, I remain on the floor in the middle of the cross-fire. I remember a drive-by shooting I witnessed while standing in the middle of a street. Fifteen years have since passed. I had better reflexes back then. And I had my Glock on me. Now, my guns are at home in the ticket booth. I can’t do anything but hurl pretzel sticks. Damn. Twenty or thirty seconds later the show’s over. I lift my head. Pieces of glass have gotten into my mouth and are stuck to my face. I pick myself up, spit them out and dust off my suit. Tom casts a nervous look at the bartender, who’s reloading his shotgun. Armed Members come thundering down from upstairs. I follow one of the heavily inked men outside. The guard at the entrance is down and covered in blood. The man has caught it in the chest two or three times. His breathing is labored. The old geezer is still on the stoop and grins as if everything was just fine and dandy. The woman Satanist is on the sidewalk, all bloodied up. She must have smacked her head against the pavers. I can’t see any gunshot wounds. I want to help her get up, but when she starts screaming like a banshee and tries to hit me, I leave her be. The attackers have vanished into thin air. They must have driven their car around the block and into the next side street. Tom and two other bikers carry their dying comrade into the clubhouse. “Who did that?” I ask him.
“T’wasn’t the roof-runner, right?” Tom replies, before the bullet-riddled door falls shut behind him.
I turn around. The street is quiet now. In the building across, there is someone at the window. When the woman realizes that I can see her behind the pane, she shrinks back. I look down Frankfurter Allee, where “Checkpoint Ring” is. The soldiers have retreated behind the wall of sandbags. They won’t move a finger to help. They don’t care what’s happening inside the Ghetto.
6
Gray and drab. Submerged into the dust of the city. The monk’s habit resembles a patchwork rug. A black wooden crucifix aimlessly dangles around the neck of the killer. He tiptoes across the rooftops, almost without causing a sound. Driven by revenge, even barbed wire can’t stop him. The man pulls back his hood, produces a pair of bolt cutters, and carefully severs one strand after the other, until the barrier of spiked wires is down. Twenty-four years are a long time—but the score has to be settled. The crime can’t go unpunished, no matter how long it takes. With his bare hands he pushes aside the barbed wire. The cuts in his skin only serve to remind him of the suffering of the murder victims. Drops of blood hit the ground, but he doesn’t care. He takes a leap onto the roof of the neighboring building, flexes his legs, and silently rolls over.
Gazing down on Strausberger Platz, the guard squashes his cigarette on the balustrade, not realizing that someone is approaching him from behind. The last thing he sees is the dried out basin of the waterspout fountain, before the garrote closes around his neck, cutting off his air-supply. The killer remains faceless up to his final moment and is nothing but a gust of hot breath, caressing his neck. Before the guard takes his last breath himself, he thinks of the prostitute he was planning to marry. The shadow releases the dead body from his strangling embrace and lets it sink to the ground. After he has relieved the guard of his silenced gun, he walks through the open access to the roof and climbs the stairs. The high-rise at Frankfurter Tor is made of glass, offering a 360°-view of the city. A man sits in front of the TV screen, only dressed in his underwear and stoned from three lines of coke. On his lap there is a bag of potato chips, which he stuffs into his mouth without tasting them. Slowly masticating but not enjoying the spicy flavor of paprika. The porn flick continues, and the chips make crunchy noises between his teeth. When he notices something from the corner of his eyes, he lifts his head. A dark figure is approaching at a hypnotically slow pace. Always moving and moving, as if drawn closer by an inner force.
The stranger nods. He takes out his cudgel and keeps on walking toward his victim. Twenty-four years, and nothing has been forgotten. Nothing has been forgiven.
7
Drones are circling in the sky above F’hain. Natasha sounds pretty nervous on the phone. A big city honcho has announced his visit. There are elections coming up and, as all of you are surely aware of, this prospect makes politicians suddenly become very energetic. A foray into the Ghetto is usually part of the program, under police protection, of course. Drones and sometimes even a police helicopter or two. Dozens of snipers on the rooftops. This way a seemingly cleared spot in the center of anarchy can be presented to the public to make the shuttled-in TV teams believe that there has been real progress in the fight against poverty and extremism. You all know how this bullshit works. In this case the itinerary doesn’t even include the Ghetto proper, but only the puffer zone around East Side Gallery, where Lemons and Germans interface. Rows and rows of outlet stores, with the “Halal Arena” nestling in their middle. The hall doesn’t only host Islamist bingo nights but also the Lemon’s most major wrestling event ever. Here, the Muslim Terminator—a three-hundred-pound behemoth—stomps the Christian Satan—a hundred-and-twenty-pound scrawny kid—into the ground every other day in an eternal loop. People just love it, even though the outcome is predictable. Maybe it’s because the Christian Satan has the unfortunate habit of bombarding the heroic defender of the half-moon with every creative insult known to man. No idea. As today’s opening act the Imam is scheduled to preach to his flock. Next to him in the ring, he has a special guest, no other than the politician who’s trying to get re-elected: Helmut von Schlotow, mayor of our venerable city by trade. I wouldn’t want to be seen dead in this place, if not for Natasha’s insistence that the fight might provide me with a once-in-a-lifetime chance to have a little chat with the Imam. She tells me there’s an agreement with Schlotow to allow me inside the Imam’s private lounge as part of the mayor’s delegation. My first reaction is to adamantly refuse. I’m still extremely hung over. Also, I don’t seem to be able to shake off dark premonitions of trouble, gathering on the horizon. Nightmares, as disturbing as a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. The Last Judgement, maybe. Gruesome punishment. Death and destruction. Natasha doesn’t give up until I declare myself beaten and trudge along to the arena.
The “Private Security Area” begins right behind Oberbaumbrücke. Sheriffs in black uniforms guard the entrance to the amusement zone. They are headquartered in a watchtower in front of East Side Gallery. Unlike the fence that surrounds this party area, these guys in black really present an obstacle. Everyone knows that they have no qualms to open fire on unauthorized intruders. Now and then the victims of these disciplinary steps can be seen floating in the River Spree. The bodies usually drift all the way down to Jannowitzbrücke, where they’re finally fished out of the water. Just in time, lest the view of bloated corpses might affect the Globals’ marriage proposals, often made during leisurely evening strolls along the riverbank.
“Why does he always wear sunglasses?” I ask Natasha, while the Imam basks in the adoration of his followers. Our seats are in the upmost box, far away from the general Lemon population. Although the word “box” evokes images of luxury, painfully absent from the shabby interior of the arena.
“There’s something wrong with his eyes,” she explains. “They say that he’s almost blind.”
“Blind? Really? He’s moving around pretty nimbly for a blind guy.”
We both study the tall man in his off-white caftan. He’s protected by at least one bodyguard like usual. Ali Bansuri, the most powerful man in the Ghetto. 62 years of age, eight wives, 43 children. One of his daughters serves as a representative in the Bundestag, the German Parliament. Two of his wives are still girls, fourteen and fifteen years old. Bansuri means flute. And he eagerly sticks his flute into every orifice he can find. His face looks friendly. Just imagine your generic grandfather. While Bansuri enjoys the adulations of his fan club, Natasha rolls her eyes. I know how much she resents him. Bansuri is a preacher but, most of all, he’s a businessman. After a short introduction, followed by some quotes and meaningless formal greetings, he asks the members of his flock for donations to his Islamic Relief Organization. Many mosques are in a deplorable state, he complains. People are avoiding the houses of prayer, all the while committing sins in the privacy of their homes. The spectators in the lower tiers start to booh. They’re exclusively male and black-haired, most of them sporting full beards. The veiled women crowd in the upper level. Their robes are black. What this arena sorely lacks is some color, I think. Next, the Imam lists the games of chance the faithful are allowed to engage in.
Bingo is halal—okay.
Laughing while playing bingo, though, is haram—not okay.
Roulette is haram.
Wheel of fortune is haram.
One-armed bandits are haram.
Card games are haram.
These Lemons really know how to make the place rock. The Imam has the crowd hanging on to his lips. Almost foaming at the mouth, he’s screaming into the mike, dictating the rules of life and agitating against the infidels. But his emotional eruption of outrage is nothing but cool calculation. A routine performance. A controlled display of fervor, as if he were an actor on stage. He continues to whip up the masses, until his bearded puppets are seething with hatred. Bansuri claims that it’s the infidels who keep Muslims in poverty. During his diatribe von Schlotow just stands there, shifting from one foot to the other. The Imam lets the rage of the audience wash over the ashen-faced politician for a while, before he deigns to relieve the poor guy of his misery. If relief is the right word. Because Bansuri then announces that the mayor is planning to convert to Islam. No idea if it’s true. Maybe it’s just a PR gag. There are too many fake converts around, to whom joining a religion is nothing more than signing the contract for a new job. You know how politicians tick. The honest Abes among them are usually left behind in the dust or ignored by the average citizen. Charisma is the cousin of vanity. Which is the stuff, blinkers are made of. Schlotow seems to play along. Many Lemons are registered voters. Gullible souls, just ripe for picking. And he seems to need all the votes he can get. He also doesn’t really run a risk. Because the speech in its full length is only broadcast in the Lemon neighborhoods. The Germans in the nicer parts of the city have their own media. Customized political campaigns, truth made to fit for every target-group. Just tell them what they want to hear. And most journalists know the name of the game. But maybe there are fifty righteous men left in this town, I remind myself of the truism one of the nuns used to quote when I needed to be disciplined.
Soon, Natasha and I are both bored to tears. After a while she opens the top button of her blouse. She likes my eyes to roam across her cleavage. “Last night, Ramsan Alchanov was killed at Frankfurter Tor,” she says, as if stating the obvious.
“Alchanov,” I repeat absently, because I’m busy admiring her tits. “A Chechen, right?” I ask, just to make sure.
“Yeah,” She replies. “Someone stuck an ace of clubs between his fingers,” she elaborates.
The mention of the poker card makes me sit up. “Have you been to the scene?”
Natasha shakes her head, no. “You know that the Chechens would never allow it.”
“Just asking,” I say.
“They sent a photo to the LKA.”
“A portrait of the late Ramsan?” I take a guess.
She nods again.
“It doesn’t mean a thing,” I point out. “Maybe the photo has been tampered with.”
“Maybe.”
I suddenly have a brainstorm. “There might be more than one killer. Or a copycat.”
“No, I d
on’t think so. I’m convinced that we’re dealing with one perp only.”
“We shouldn’t get too fixed on the poker card.”
“You know my view on this ace-of-clubs angle.”
“If it’s really the same guy, it raises one important question, I think.”
“Shoot.”
“What did the two victims have in common? For what possible reason should anyone kill the Arab manager of a whorehouse and a Chechen porn producer?”
Natasha buttons up her blouse. “That’s exactly what you’re going to find out.”
I shake my head, no. “I’m peddling drugs. You’re the investigator.”
“You have the right contacts inside the Ghetto.”
“They’re called customers.”
“That’s why you are my informer. Do you honestly believe that these guys would bare their souls to a LKA detective?”
I wave her off. “They won’t trust a snitch like me either.”
“But you’re very convincing.”
“Convincing?” I repeat.
“Right,” she replies with a downright lovely smile.
“And how exactly will I convince Bansuri to talk to me?”
“With the aid of two pounds of coke,” she dryly answers, holding out a plastic bag to me.
I shake my head, because I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You’re carting around this much dope in a cheap bag?”
“Why not?”
“Well, the packaging is a tad lacking in style, I should say.”
“Here, where Orient and Occident meet”—the Imam has meanwhile worked himself up into a lather—“the one and only true faith will win its final victory.” His words are followed by the theme music of the Muslim Terminator. The spectators jump off their seats and start clapping frenetically. The women in their segregated upper levels are screaming like banshees and wave signs, offering themselves for marriage to this humanoid monster. I lean back and close my eyes. The cheering turns into white noise, as I doze off.