Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy

by Karsten Krepinsky

  Cem waves me off. “No sweat, Pusher. No sweat. I don’t bear a grudge against you, brother.” When he smiles at me, I breathe a sigh of relief. There won’t be a little detour to a back alley, where a firing squad’s lying in wait.

  Cem drives me to Club Berghain, where Selim resides. The hall has been totally refurbished and they still play electronic music here, like they did over twenty years ago. Retro rules supreme, take my word for it. Cem leads me to the office behind the dance floor. Selim is at a desk in a room, filled with cigarette smoke. He angrily rubs his forehead. The ashtray is overflowing with butts and there is an open file folder in front of him. He must be doing his book keeping, if this is the right word to use in his line of business. Selim is only in his late twenties. Already at an early age he had to take over from his father, who’s been confined to a wheelchair since suffering a stroke. One alcoholic binge too many, rumor goes. Selim’s men are in awe him in spite of his baby face. Or maybe just because of it. A seemingly harmless non-threatening person who brutally knifes his opponents is bound to leave a much deeper impression than your typical stony-faced thug. Selim has long stepped out of the shadow of his overpowering and tyrannical father, who did his best to made him feel like a loser. He greets me with a smile. “Hey, look at the maggot we’ve got here,” he says. “The Pusher, what a surprise,” he adds.

  “Long time, no see,” I reply.

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Ask Cem,” I answer.

  Selim laughs.

  Cem gives me a shove from behind. “Show some respect, Pusher,” he admonishes me.

  Selim motions to Cem to keep quiet. “I like this kuffar. Really. You can’t trust him, but his coke is still the best.”

  I nod, walking up to the desk to open my briefcase. But Cem yanks it out of my hand. “You know the rules,” he hisses, lifting the lid himself. He takes out three pouches of coke and puts them on the desk.

  “You gotta leave me one pack,” I protest.

  Selim nods. “Put one back in the case,” he orders Cem.

  Cem complies, shuts the case, and returns it to me.

  “Why did you have me brought here?” I ask the Babo.

  “You know the answer, Pooosher,” Selim drawls.

  “Because of this... Templar guy?”

  “This fucking Christian pig,” Selim confirms.

  “How does it concern you?” I wonder aloud. “So far he’s left your people alone.”

  “Oh, he did, didn’t he?” the Babo rages. “And what, may I ask you, will the Imam have to say if the Templar continues to spare us?”

  “No idea. You tell me.”

  “What do you think? That we’re behind the whole thing, right?”

  “Now, aren’t you taking things a bit too far?”

  “Do you really believe so?”

  “I was in the ’Halal Arena’,” I reply. “The Imam was cursing the Christians and the Jews, not the Turks.”

  Selim slams his fist on the table. “Bullshit!” he yells. “You know very well that asshole Bansuri spouts lies as soon as he opens his mouth. Do you really think he believes that the Potatoes did it?”

  “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “Bullshit!”

  “And you really don’t have anything to do with it?” I enquire.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Some dead Arabs and a Chechen stiff as treat. Isn’t this the stuff your wet dreams are made of?”

  Selim shakes his head, smiling. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind some of Bansuri’s bastards being dead. And that Ramsan’s bought it doesn’t hurt either. The little rat was a real nuisance, ’cause he suspected me and Bakh...” Selim bites down on his lip. He casts an anxious glance at Cem, who relaxes in a chair, smokes a joint, and doesn’t seem to listen.

  “What did he suspect?” I probe.

  “None of your business, Pusher.” Selim evades my question. “It’s private.”

  The door opens to admit a woman, who’s muttering curses under her breath. When she sees me, she quickly pulls her scarf over her head. After this concession to dress code she starts laying it on with a vengeance. “You’re ignoring me!” she accuses the Babo, wildly waving her hands about. “You’re treating me like I’m nothing to you. And at night you... you never touch me.”

  “Piss off, Aisha. Dammit,” Selim hisses. “This is a business meeting.”

  “I will leave you!” Aisha threatens. “I will go away.”

  “Yeah?” the Babo replies. “You must have forgotten what happens to unfaithful wives.”

  Aisha breaks out in tears. “I’ll go live with the Potatoes. Outside the Ghetto.”

  “And what do you plan to use for money?” Selim sneers.

  “I’ll clean houses or wipe the wrinkly asses of old Potatoes, I don’t care. Everything’s better than having to be with you.”

  “Do you think it was my idea?” Selim hollers. “Do you honestly think I would have married a slut like you if I had a choice?”

  “You… you…,” Aisha sobs. Cem steps up to her from behind, puts his arm around her shoulder, and leads her out of the room.

  “It was my father’s wish! Go and complain to him!” Selim calls after her angrily.

  “I’ll leave you,” Aisha threatens again. Cem closes the door behind her.

  Selim’s shaking his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I’m glad to hear so.”

  “This won’t leave this room. Got it?” Selim warns me.

  “Who should I tell it to?” I reply, feigning boredom.

  “Promise?”

  “Why did you send for me?” I ignore his question.

  “First I need to know if this will stay between you and me,” he insists.

  “What’s supposed to stay between you and me?” I pretend not to know what he’s talking about.

  Selim smiles. “So we have an understanding.”

  “Now, spit it out. What did you want to tell me?”

  Selim jams the tip of a dart into the desktop as hard as he can. “If the Templar carries on with his plan, there’ll be a disaster,” he whispers.

  “What plan?”

  “I didn’t see a connection between the murders at first. There was no reason to. But today, at sunrise, someone left a photo on the doorstep of my club. Cem found it.”

  “What was on the photo?”

  “I now know who’ll be the next victim.”

  He has my full attention. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Allah have mercy with us, if we fail to stop the Templar.” Selim produces a photo from the top drawer of his desk and studies it. “The choice of situations in which people agree to have their picture taken will always remain a mystery to me,” he pensively adds. “They don’t seem to waste a thought on the possibility that they might later be held accountable. That’s how proud they are of what they did. Bunch of idiots!” He passes me the photo. I have to force myself to stay calm, because I don’t want Selim to know how excited I am. Therefore, I try just to take a casual glance at the picture, as if I had more important things on my mind. It’s not easy, I can tell you. Quite difficult, actually. I almost lose control over my features. No wonder, considering what’s on the photo. I hold my breath. A group of fighters’s mugging for the camera with some kind of desert as a backdrop. Wide grins on their faces, they’re waving their Kalashnikovs in the air and seem to be having a great time. In the sand at their feet I can make out a number of butchered people. Their clothes are bloody. Their heads have been severed from their bodies. Limbs twisted in unnatural angles, they present a picture of desolation. The men in the group seem to be overjoyed about the massacre they must have just committed.

  I recognize:

  Tarek Bansuri.

  Abdul Bansuri.

  Yussuf Bansuri.

  Ramsan Alchanov.

  The four victims of the roof-runner, or Templar as the Turks c
all him.

  Next to Ramsan Alchanov there’s a man wearing a balaclava. I can’t tell who it is. His hand holds a butcher knife, smeared with blood. And in the right-hand corner of the picture, proudly displaying the flag of the Islamic State, a sixth man is posing for the camera. My throat constricts. Even though the guy on the photo has aged a lot, I still see at first glance that it is Ali Bansuri. The venerable Imam himself, triumphantly striking a pose behind his beheaded victims, flanked by his brethren in faith. Without shades, but already sporting his long beard, he exudes middle-aged virility.

  10

  When I was a boy I went to collect Burgundy snails one day. It had just rained and they came crawling out from under the hedges, which made it easy to pluck them off the paved path. I delivered them to the woman who made a business of selling them. When I handed over my plastic bag full of snails, she gave me ten Euros—our currency until fifteen years ago, just in case you’ve forgotten. Anyway, it was a lot of money for a child in those days. The woman dumped the snails with their fellows waiting in crates in the yard, ready to be shipped off. For a long time I just stood, watching the snails, squashed shell against shell inside these wooden crates, trying to wiggle their slimy bodies through the slats. Hundreds of them, squeezing their heads through the gaps, while blindly searching around with their feelers. All they wanted was to escape from their wooden prisons. But it was hopeless, of course. Their calcium shells held them back, shelter and restraint in one.

  The sad picture of the writhing bodies stayed with me for many years. Snails might not be the smartest creatures under the sun, but I still felt sorry for them. Exactly because their resources are so limited as compared to ours. I’m sure they never wanted to end up in somebody’s cooking pot. I didn’t bring the woman any more snails. The next half-full bag I just emptied into a ditch.

  Like the snail, whose escape is prevented by its ornate calcium cell, something is also holding me down inside the Ghetto. It is a force that remains beyond my grasp. I’d have a chance to find happiness in the world out there. Maybe with Natasha even. But I can’t get the ’hood out of my system. As if the black soul of an utterly corrupted being had me in its clutches.

  I’m just sitting here without knowing how I’ve spent the last couple of hours. Maybe it would be a good idea to start taking my meds again. Could Natasha get me a refill, I wonder? Phone in hand, I’m totally at a loss. Have I called her already to tell her that the Imam is next on the roof-runner’s list? His motive is revenge, directed against the Caliphate’s soldiers. This much is clear by now. The roof-runner wants someone to pay for the murders, committed by the Islamic State. Have I told Natasha that the Ghetto will drown in a deluge of blood? Have I told her anything of importance at all? Told her what I feel? I’m talking and talking without really saying anything. My phone rings. I stare at the screen. It’s Khalid, the Imam’s son. He invites me over to his penthouse on Alexanderplatz. He needs me to bring enough coke, to get his party going again. I pick myself up. Leaving my guns behind, I surf the next subway to Schillingstrasse. When I get there, I bribe the sheriffs, leave the station, and let the doorman in the foyer of Condominium 1 phone Khalid. I’m cleared to step into the elevator and take it up to the top floor. Humongous bodyguards frisk me and allow me access to their charge. The smell inside the penthouse is ripe. The pungent odor of vomit is wafting over from one of the bathrooms. I’d rather not know what it looks like inside. Stuffy used up air assaults my nostrils, the curtains are drawn. On the sofas, a few unclad fancy hookers are sleeping it off.

  I push open the door leading to the outside and cross the roof garden belonging to the penthouse. Bikinis are floating in the Jacuzzi, empty champagne bottles adorn the tiles. Cigarettes have been squashed in the left-over drumsticks on the buffet. Khalid’s standing at the balustrade, looking out over P’Berg. He’s wearing a white sheet like a toga. When he notices me, he tilts his head to the side. “You’re late, Pusher,” he says, bored.

  “Party’s over, right?”

  “No, my friend. The party’s only getting started now.”

  I put the pouch containing two hundred units on a table. Khalid smiles. “New fuel… very nice.”

  “You know where your father is?” I ask.

  Khalid turns away from me, bends over the balustrade, and aims a glob of mucus into the abyss. “I can make my snot fly seven-hundred feet now,” he gloats.

  “If it doesn’t hit a window before,” I point out.

  “Right.” Khalid gives a pensive nod. “You don’t get to choose your family,” he adds.

  I come a step closer. “I wouldn’t know, I don’t have one.”

  “Maybe… maybe it’s better sometimes.”

  “No, it’s not. I swear.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Your father is in danger.”

  “So?” A derisive laugh from Khalid. “What’s new?”

  “It’s serious this time. Very serious.”

  Khalid nods. “So what?”

  “You’d better warn him.”

  “Warn him? Of what? Who would be dumb enough to try to kill him?”

  “And if the other guy happens to be a step ahead?”

  Khalid waves me off. “My father’s a survival artist,” he dismisses my concern. He walks over to the buffet, plucks a cigarette butt from a drumstick, and holds it to the flame of an oil lamp to light it.

  I follow him out, deeper into the roof garden. “How much do you know about your father’s past?” I ask him.

  Khalid sits on a bench under a palm tree. “What you want to know? How he used to work me over with a belt buckle, maybe?”

  “Has he fought with the Islamic State?”

  “Islamic State?” Khalid repeats. My mention of the terrorist organization seems to confuse him. “Do they still exist?”

  “No idea. What do I care? I’m talking about twenty years ago.”

  “Twenty years? That’s a long time. A hell of a long time.” Khalid drags on his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. “Al-Qaeda, ISIS, Boko Haram. My father had his dirty fingers in every pie.”

  “He still had his eyesight back then?”

  Khalid nods. “Eyes like an eagle, he prided himself. Yes. But Allah in his wisdom has struck the bastard with an illness. All he can see now is shadows. The shadows of his victims.”

  “What happened to his eyes?”

  “It began about ten years ago. Suddenly, his retina started to come off. He slowly, but surely, lost his eyesight during the following years.” Khalid tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and steps on it. “Allah must have heard my prayers.” He gives a sarcastic laugh.

  “Did he take part in the massacres?” I want to know.

  “What do you think?”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Of course he was involved. The guy wasn’t squeamish. Torture, executions, you name it. He used to boast that he even served as minister of education in ISIS for a couple of weeks.”

  “Your father’s in danger.”

  “Who the fuck cares?”

  “He’s your father, after all.”

  “Let’s call him the sperm donor.”

  “He might be next on the list.”

  “List?” Khalid frowns. “What list are you talking about?”

  “The list, the roof-runner’s currently working his way down.”

  “Roof-runner? You’re talking about the crusader who’s butchering Salafists?”

  “Exactly the one.”

  Khalid laughs dismissively. “You know what? I’m simply not interested. The killing won’t stop anyway. The Ghetto… everything seems so far away to me.” He points at the ventilation system of the high-rise behind him. “Somewhere beyond this mountain of iron the abyss begins. The scum’ll devour itself. Inshallah.”

  “If there’s a war it’ll spill over eventually,” I warn him.

  “Why should there be a war? One imam dies, the next one follows.”

&
nbsp; “There’s a crucifix involved.”

  Khalid’s face darkens. “Selim has already mentioned it.”

  “Selim?” I wonder aloud. “Are you in contact with the Babo?”

  Khalid nods, yes. “I invite him over to my parties now and then. He always brings his boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Is he gay or what?”

  “You really had no idea?”

  “No. How could I?”

  “I thought you’re so well informed, Pusher.”

  “Well, I guess I’m not.”

  Khalid runs a hand through his gelled hair. “Selim thinks that my father might blame him for the murders.”

  “I know.”

  Khalid smiles. “But Selim doesn’t really worry about himself or his own safety. The fag’s scared because of someone else. The idiot’s hell over heels in love.”

  “In love?”

  “You would never guess with a killer like him.”

  “What’s his boyfriend’s name?”

  “You’re really clueless?” Khalid can’t believe it.

  “Who is it? Do I know him?”

  “You’ve heard of Bekhan, I suppose,” Khalid declares with a wide grin.

  “What? Bekhan Bashir? The young Tsar?” I can hardly trust my ears.

  “Looks like it.”

  I wipe my hand across my mouth. “Impossible! The Babo and the Tsar a gay couple? You’re joking, right?”

  Khalid smiles. “A real whammy, right? But it’s the honest truth.”

  “It can’t be…,” I slowly mumble. “Could it be a motive?”

  “You used to be more in on it, Pusher,” Khalid chides me.

  My phone rings. “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I need to take this.” I retrace my steps through the roof garden and push open the sliding door.

  “What’s wrong with you, Pusher?” Khalid calls after me.

  I glance at the screen. It’s Quasim. Where does he have my number from? When I take the call, I can hear him whimper. He says I need to come home at once. Then, he hangs up. Something terrible must have happened.

  11

  At “Checkpoint Schilling” armored personnel carriers have taken position. Hundreds of soldiers are preparing for action. The national guard and the militias also have been put on alert. Police officers are discussing strategy with the storm troop commanders, coordinating last-minute details with the help of maps. Disciplinary action against the Ghetto seems to be on the agenda. From time to time the government launches tactical sorties to teach the Lemons a lesson on who’s boss in this city. A blunt weapon in the authorities’ fight against the clans, but effective when it comes to winning votes. And, as you already know, we have elections coming up. Might Schlotow still be bristling after the dressing-down he received from the Imam, I muse. Another explanation could be that a video of the event in the “Halal Arena” has been leaked to the outside. Never mind, I need to hurry up before all entrances to the Ghetto are sealed. My permit convinces the soldier at the stile that I’m legitimate. After a nervous glance in the direction of his assembled comrades he quickly waves me through.