Before It Breaks

by Dave Warner

  He’d always thought he had pretty good English but maybe there was something he was missing in this weird song. A girl files her nails as she watches the detectives dragging a lake. So has somebody been murdered? Was she part of it? Or is she just an observer, maybe even watching TV? There was a sense of unease in the song, of a truth obscured to the listener. For the briefest instant he allowed his mind to drift forward to what life might be like in a week when the operation was complete. He would lie on the bed that was far too big for the little boy and read stories about lost bears and princes and woodcutters, and his son would have no idea that his father was a modern-day woodcutter out in the forest slaying wolves. Since going under deep cover he’d barely seen his wife or boy. Two days per month, that was all that could be allowed.

  The song finished. He ejected the cassette. He preferred vinyl but you couldn’t fight technology. He climbed out. The Elbe’s breath lashed him. He huddled into his jacket, walked briskly down the lane past rotting garbage to the door and knocked. It swung open on an iron security grill. A huge man looked him up and down, checked he was alone and opened it without a word. There was no heating in here either but it was preferable to the car.

  As he headed down the narrow uneven passageway the tall, skinny Wallen was coming the other way, no doubt loaded up with his week’s supply. When he started this assignment he had despised Wallen and those like him. They had waited together for their ‘stuff’ barely exchanging a word, mutually mistrustful. Then one night some skinheads had jumped him near the Hauptbahnhof. He was taking a hammering until Wallen had appeared. The two of them had quickly turned the tide. Most of his assailants fled but they caught one, and punched and kicked the skinhead into a bleeding pulp. Afterwards they had beer and sausage and Wallen talked about his two small children with a father’s pride before heading to the lavatory to shoot up. From then on, he could only pity Wallen. They became friends despite everything, for no longer could he deny the man’s humanity.

  He stopped by a tall pile of videos, the cover showing a blonde with enhanced breasts spilling from a nurse’s uniform, her mouth wrapped around a thick black penis. He asked Wallen how he was doing.

  ‘Rolf has bronchitis and his mother is working tonight. I have to do my rounds and get back to him as soon as I can.’

  The dealer couldn’t complete his rounds till the early hours of the morning and the guilt played over Wallen’s face as clear as a slide show on a white wall.

  ‘You should go on a holiday for a week or two, somewhere sunny, sooner the better.’

  He hoped Wallen might take his advice though he knew it was unlikely. He was a user, how would he prise himself away from his supply? But he hoped he did. He didn’t want Wallen banged up and his kids suffering. He’d left Wallen’s name out of his reports but if he was caught in the raid there would be nothing he could do for him. Wallen gave him a thoughtful look.

  ‘I might do that. We should have a beer later.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Then he was gone. Gruen advanced to what they called the vault. Behind that door would be the Emperor, whose real name even now remained unknown. Tonight it was the crew-cut one, Klaus, on sentry duty. Gruen raised his arms for the search as a matter of course. Nobody got into the vault with a weapon.

  ‘You’re eating too much strudel,’ joked Klaus patting him down. Wallen had told him Klaus had been a mercenary in Africa in the 60s. Klaus had proudly talked about burying enemies alive up to their necks and then driving armoured carriers over them one by one until a prisoner talked and gave them the intelligence they needed. Just as Klaus was down at his ankles, Gruen looked up and saw resting on a high box, momentarily forgotten, the Emperor’s cigarette lighter. On impulse Gruen snatched the lighter. Satisfied he was clean, Klaus pressed a buzzer. There was a click as the inside lock was released and the thick steel door swung open.

  It didn’t matter how many times he’d done it, his sphincter tightened every time, but especially now. He was already cursing his impetuosity. This time next week the Emperor would be in custody, they would know his identity, getting his fingerprints off the lighter would be a waste of time. And he may not even have a record. There was no choice now though, he buried his fear, strode in and the door shut behind him, courtesy of the two interior guards. One bright electric bulb burned over his head. The heroin was packed in bags on a trestle table, already cut to the specific percentage the operation had gauged as optimum. It could have been icing sugar at the supermarket. The Emperor sat behind it as always and handed him his weekly stock.

  ‘Sometimes dealers think they’ll make a little extra, cut the product down a little further. That ever occur to you, Pieter?’

  He’d heard the stories of such dealers being sliced apart live by a chainsaw wielded by the seemingly mild man currently sitting in front of him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re one of my only distributors who is not a hopeless junkie. Never tempted?’

  ‘Never. I want to make my money and get out.’

  ‘You have ambition?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  The Emperor sighed. ‘In most occupations, ambition is good. But I always get a little worried about ambitious men working below me.’ The warning was clear. Don’t ever think about crossing me. The Emperor stuck a thin cigar between his lips and looked for his lighter. ‘Go. Make us a good profit.’

  Gruen headed for the door.

  ‘Wait.’

  The blood in Wallen’s veins froze solid. He turned and forced himself to look into the Emperor’s eyes.

  ‘You’ve been doing a good job. You keep this up, I can expand your territory.’

  He did not answer, probably his tongue would not have worked, instead he inclined his head respectfully and got out.

  He always felt relieved when he stepped back out into the bitter cold but never so much as tonight. The slicing freeze over your cheeks confirmed you were still alive. The job he was doing was grubby, feeding addicts the drugs that would destroy their lives; but he never had second thoughts. If he wasn’t giving them smack someone else would be. Sure he could arrest them instead, some might even be rehabilitated but wasn’t it much better to cut off the snake’s head and save all those as yet untainted bodies? When medical researchers were trying out a potential lifesaving drug, there had to be a control group, the ones who only got a placebo. His clients were the control group, sacrificed for the benefit of others.

  In the movie world, undercover cops could just present themselves as big heroin players, buyers with a heap of cash. That happened sometimes but with the Emperor and his crew, you had to live it. No going to the quartermaster with your smack and having it bought by the government to be destroyed. The Emperor was always checking up. Your clients could be real or traps. You took nothing for granted.

  The ignition took several times to catch but eventually it did. He drove off into a quiet street, carefully pulled the lighter from his pocket, sealed it in an evidence bag and placed it in his glove box. Tomorrow morning he would drop it in the locker at the swimming pool, the collection point.

  He drove to the back of the train station, found a park in a lane, did a quick run, selling to a few regular customers and walked through the cold air to a basement bar where he knew he’d find Wallen. Freiheit was once a small bar of dark furniture, low light, a man in a suit playing ‘Danke Schoen’ on a piano, catering to travelling businessmen and sailors. The piano had gone, along with the sailors and businessmen, the furniture was still dark, the light low but now it was a mecca for the New Wave, with their stovepipe trousers, leather jackets, spiked hair. The band tonight veered towards punk, the singer in a red vinyl nappy, the songs little more than shouting. Not surprisingly, the crowd was thinner than usual, some girls in short skirts, vinyl or tartan held together with big safety pins, ripped stockings, razor blade earrings, stood up the front making a lot of noise. Probably the band’s girlfriends, guessed Gruen. Wallen was leaning against the bar. He
used his finger to order a beer for Gruen and indicated they should move to the furthest reaches away from the stage. They relocated to a small table behind the staircase.

  ‘Not your taste?’

  ‘Too angry,’ said Wallen draining his pilsener. ‘Smackheads don’t get angry, you know that. We mellow out.’

  ‘Except when a new batch hits the streets.’

  Wallen was happy to contradict his statement of a moment before.

  ‘It’s like a stampede out there. Jesus, I could have sold half my stuff already but I like to look after the regulars. You?’

  ‘Same. There was a big bust, some Turkish outfit so there’s no competition: supply and demand.’

  ‘It’s all fucking economics. I studied that, you know?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I did six months at university but I dropped out. It wasn’t for me. You know what I really wanted to be?’

  ‘Musician?’

  ‘Can’t sing a note. Archaeologist, that’s what I wanted to do; pharaohs’ tombs surrounded by hot desert, away from this cold fucking place. You?’

  ‘I wanted to be a tennis player.’

  ‘All those good-looking women?’

  They laughed. Wallen sipped his beer and regarded him with the same thoughtful look he had earlier at the porn shop.

  ‘I got to ask you something, man. You a pig?’

  It was so direct it rattled Gruen. He could have lied. He should have. ‘Yes.’

  Wallen took a deep breath, pulled a cigarette from his jacket and lit it. He inhaled fast and deep and blew a stream of smoke to the side. His eyes were cobalt-blue beams boring out of him. ‘You’re really a fucking cop?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Now Wallen looked anxious. ‘You didn’t have to tell me.’

  ‘I know, but I don’t want to lie to you, we’re friends.’

  Wallen regarded him suspiciously like this might be a ploy to make him say or do something he would later regret. He shook his head. ‘We can’t be friends. You lied to me.’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘Then you should have kept lying. You know if they find out…’ He shook his head again, stressed.

  ‘Listen, that’s why I’m telling you. You have to get out. Everyone is going down. In my reports I gave you an alias. Nobody knows about you, you can go but it’s going to happen soon, any day, and whoever gets caught in the sweep is going to jail for a long time.’

  ‘I can’t go. Go where?’ The veins were bulging from his neck.

  ‘This time next week the Emperor and his operation will be finished. Sell the shit, take your family and leave.’

  Wallen looked trapped. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘This is my fucking living.’

  ‘We both know that can’t last. You’ll never make thirty, you keep this up.’

  Wallen stabbed his finger like a cobra. ‘What’s to stop me from going to them now, hey?’

  ‘Nothing, except I don’t think that’s who you are.’

  ‘Those things you told me, about your family? About your boy. Were they lies?’

  ‘No. That’s why I am telling you this. That’s real.’

  A battle seemed to be raging inside Wallen. ‘I walk out of here, you going to follow me?’

  ‘No. Wallen, one day, years from now, maybe I’ll be somewhere with my boy. Manfred might be sixteen, say. Maybe we’re in Luxor, looking at the pyramids and I look across and I see you and your kids, laughing. You’re showing them all the stuff about people who lived and died thousands of years before us and I know that whatever shitty things I had to do in my life, I did one good thing. You love your kids, I know you do. This is your chance to really show it. Do it, man, change your fucking life.’

  Gruen still wasn’t sure why he was acting like this, talking like this, breaking all his training, only that he should.

  Wallen stood up. He seemed about to say something but just shook his head and turned to leave.

  ‘Goodbye Wallen.’

  Wallen offered the hint of a smile. ‘Pyramids are in Giza.’

  And then he walked up the stairs.

  16

  For some reason there was no hammer today but Clement still woke at six a.m. Since childhood he had been possessed of the ability to bid himself wake at the appointed time, no alarm clock needed. He showered, the water tap-dancing on his skin as consciousness warmed. Before shaving he forced himself to truly regard his image in the mirror. For a very long time, maybe twenty years, it was as if he had been looking at the same face every day. Nothing changed. Then just before he left Perth, one day, there it was, a different face, older, void of any belief the next day might be better than the last. Like a lump that appears overnight on your body which you hope will work itself out, he morbidly studied that face hoping for a reversion. Most days he glossed over it. Today he felt obliged to take his medicine, to acknowledge the apex of his life had been reached and he was plunging in a billycart down the other side. How long before a different face looks back at me? he wondered. Another twenty years or is it a law of diminishing returns, and maybe it’s only ten years next time? He was ruminating on this as he searched the rack for a clean shirt, found one, and dressed. Finally the anonymous worker began clanking. It made Clement feel less of an island and he smiled, wondering why the man had begun late. Slept in? Car didn’t start? Gave the girlfriend one? Late start Saturday? Clement had no such luxury.

  Graeme Earle was at his desk by the time Clement reached the office. He had spoken to Bill Seratono who confirmed he had called Karskine around ten on Wednesday. They had chatted for about ten minutes.

  ‘You think he’d lie to us?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen him for years but I doubt it. The phone records will tell us.’

  Earle waved printed documents.

  ‘Ellie finished translating the letter from “Mathias”. ‘It’s not very long. Sounds like an old work colleague. The Reeperbahn is the redlight district apparently. She also translated the news printouts and newspaper article.’

  Clement entered his office to find that Lisa Keeble with trademark efficiency had left a report on Clement’s desk stating they had been over Schaffer’s car and found no cash anywhere. It was signed with the time of two forty-five a.m. He did not expect she’d be in before ten. He turned his attention to the letter.

  My old pal,

  How are you travelling out there in the land of crocodiles? It’s a while since I wrote, I know but Greta is being married to a Swiss fellow and it has been chaos. Can you believe it? I can’t. It seems like yesterday we were all together. Only the other night I was thinking of that time we had young Pieber nab the transvestite. I’ll never forget his face. Heinrich has had some health scares with his heart but I think it’s alright now, after a minor operation. And he was always the healthy one. But enough of that. Any young women taking your fancy there? Although I suppose young now is under fifty. I am still working two days a week, not that I really need the money but it keeps me occupied and I like being around my worker pals. Stacking supermarket shelves is a long way from the Reeperbahn. Anyway, please write to me, I enjoyed your last letter and was envious of your description of the hot nights there. It’s cold as hell here as usual. My blood and bones are getting thinner.

  Mathias.

  Not a lot to go on in that. He turned to the first news item which was from the online Rheinische Post. The date was September 2012. Ellie had scrawled translations on the headlines and then a summary.

  MAN KILLED BY ARROW. It is believed Klaus Edershen, sixty-five, a local of Dortmund, was walking his dog in Westfalen Park, Dortmund when he was shot through the neck and killed by an arrow fired by a person or persons unknown. The body was found by a father walking with his children in the popular park but there were no witnesses to the event. The police were unable to speculate on whether it was murder or a terrible accident but asked anybody with information to come forward. Herr Edershen, a retired soldier, lived alone. His neighbours described h
im as a quiet man who kept to himself. It was believed Edershen had spent some time in Asia in the nineteen eighties working as a security adviser for European firms.

  Ellie had also placed a yellow post-it on the bottom, crime unsolved as of November 2013. The first thing that occurred to Clement was Edershen may have been some former colleague of Schaffer’s. Perhaps after Schaffer had left the police they both worked security somewhere. All the same, he would see if the German police could give him any information. A bow and arrow and an axe were primitive weapons but tying them on that basis might be, well, a long bow. The second printout came from some sort of True Crime retrospective. This was number eight and titled THE DRUG CZAR WHO GOT AWAY. The gist of the story was that in the nineteen seventies the man pictured, Kurt Donen, ‘the Emperor’, ran Hamburg’s biggest drug syndicate. This was the only photo ever taken of the shadowy Donen who was responsible for numerous deaths including that of an undercover police officer. Donen had escaped a police dragnet and never been captured.

  Schaffer was working the drug squad then and Clement supposed he may have been on the case. Was it possible Schaffer had come across him here in Broome? He looked at the photo again. The man looked forty-five then which would make him around eighty now but it might just have been he was balding with a low forehead, he could have been thirty. Even so, if Schaffer recognised him surely he would tell somebody. He took the printout and found Mal Gross.

  ‘Add thirty-five years. This guy look familiar?’

  Clement couldn’t believe there would be anybody in the region with whom Gross hadn’t had a beer or barbecue. Gross studied it hard, shook his head.

  ‘Speaking of newspapers. The latest Post.’ He slapped it into Clement’s hand. Front page showed a photo of Jasper’s Creek with crime tape and an insert, a grainy blown-up photo of Dieter from goodness knew where. The headline read POLICE ZERO IN ON KILLER.

  ‘Not,’ was Clement’s immediate reaction.

  Gross made himself an instant coffee. ‘If it’s okay with you I’m going to pay the Dingos a visit. Put it right on the line they had better cooperate if they know this Maori-looking bloke.’