“How about we meet at the west door of the cathedral at six? It’s important they know I’ve got an appointment afterward. That somebody knows where I am.”
“I thought they loved you.”
“Just as long as they believe I’m in one of the first two categories.”
Kramer walks out into the main square, heavy with traffic and pedestrians. He’s always liked Munich, for it’s a city much like Vienna: slow, central European, Catholic. He passes by the Mariensäule, appreciates its baroque playfulness for the hundredth time. A city that worships Mary can’t be all bad. Ahead of him, over the soot-blackened buildings at the far end of the square, he sees the twin golden onion domes of the Frauenkirche and smiles despite himself. Never a devout anything, Kramer can appreciate the art and architecture of Christianity without being burdened by its attendant baggage.
The afternoon is chill and damp; he feels it bite at his nose and cheeks, and digs his hands into the felt-lined, hand-warmer pockets of his oilskin. Got to put the jacket liner in when I get back to Vienna, he thinks as he leaves the square by the northwest corner.
In ten minutes, he’s at the building where Germany United is housed. Perfect PR, he thinks, looking up at the fanciful late-nineteenth century creation with its turrets and sharp gables. A Mad-Ludwig pastiche in the heart of the city. From a window on the second floor, the red, black, and gold flag of the old German empire ruffles in the breeze, flanked on either side by long red and black banners from the Third Reich.
Pedestrians on the street look up as they pass, but seem unsurprised. Neo-Nazis are a way of life in the new Germany; part of the legitimate political scene, it seems. Kramer finds himself almost longing for the good old Cold War days when the Superpower rivalry kept such aberrations at bay. Or did it only focus our attention elsewhere, while the Right continued to build? After all, the Cold War was only a continuation of the Nazi war on Bolshevism, according to Neofascist ideologues.
Vogel’s headquarters have the second and third floors all to themselves. Kramer was directed on the phone to go to the third. The stairs are blocked off, and he is forced to use a rickety elevator whose grillwork door closes with effort. Red-plush bench seat and beveled glass windows in the elevator cabin.
Kramer soon sees why the stairs are blocked. On the third floor, he is greeted by two men in brown shirts, black pants, and boots, sporting Nazi armbands. They are one step up from the skinheads in Hamburg; look as though they may have graduated from those very ranks. Short hair, heavy brutal faces with eyes that look right through Kramer; Heckler and Koch 9 mm submachine guns at the ready. Behind them stands a third man, huge and uncomfortable-looking in pleated pants, a polo shirt, and a sports jacket. He’s the sort of no-neck who needs to be in a uniform of some sort—athletic or military—to look right. He does the frisking while the other two look on.
Security is up with the neo-Nazis ever since the shotgun slaying of the head of the National Front last year. Now every leader of every right-wing party has his own bodyguards; his own private militia, just like the good old days of the ’30s.
Once they determine that Kramer is clean, they nod him toward a massive desk in the middle of the long corridor. More stage scenery: the corridor is a miniature nave from a Gothic cathedral; red banners are draped from the high vaulted ceiling; photos line the walls. A Nazi Hall of Fame: Hitler, Goebbels, Goering, Hess, even one of Röhm, for whom Vogel, Kramer remembers now, had glowing words during their previous interview. Much more fond of the SA than the SS, in fact. A point he made several times, as if that proved his ideological credentials.
“After all, Herr Kramer … may I call you Sam? After all, Sam, one cannot dismiss the Nazi state simply for presumed excesses of one kind. You must remember the historical situation. Germany was the bulwark against godless Communism. Ours was a defensive war against Bolshevism. Hitler had no wish to fight the West. Didn’t Hitler create one of the first truly modern states, eradicating unemployment and instituting an annual ten percent growth rate in the economy? Find any state in today’s world to match that record.”
Chilling words when Kramer first heard them, but easily discounted, sitting in a private apartment with them decked out in their silly brown shirts, empty beer bottles littering a low coffee table. Playing at being Nazis.
But now the words take on power, backed by all this show. The movement obviously has money in back of it, Kramer figures, approaching the desk where a female secretary in white blouse and black skirt is seated. They obviously have police connections as well, he thinks, if they haven’t been raided for illegal possession of firearms or for displaying all these Nazi artifacts. Advocacy of a return to National Socialism is still a crime according to the German constitution, the Basic Law.
The secretary is not the one Kramer talked to this morning; this one’s voice is hard and dry. After getting his name, she uses the phone, announces him, gets orders, and then directs Kramer to a room at the far end of the hall. More guards are posted along the corridor leading to this door, their eyes never meeting Kramer’s. He suddenly feels very alone and very vulnerable. Red carpet, red banners, limestone walls black with age, massive oak doors at the end of the hall. A guard, this one a cartoon reproduction of a Hitler youth with flaxen hair and cornflower-blue eyes, raps on the door for him.
From inside: “Enter!”
The young guard opens the door, ushering Kramer in.
“Sam. It’s good to see you again.”
Vogel is standing near the door in what is apparently a reception room; both he and the room are a universe apart from the corridor outside.
“That’ll be all,” he says in German to the young guard. “I shall call if I need you.”
“Very well, Führer,” the kid says and closes the door reverently.
Vogel turns to Kramer, smiling, knowing the effect he’s creating. Decked out in a light-green, double-breasted designer suit that costs easily what Kramer makes in a month, wearing an air of proprietorship in the midst of the huge corner room with originals of David Hockney and Willem de Kooning on the walls. Chrome and leather furnishing, deeply woven carpeting with earth-tone geometric designs, a view out the turret window to the Marienplatz and the spires of the cathedral beyond.
Vogel follows Kramer’s eye, still smiling.
“We’ve come a long way. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Kramer turns his attention to Vogel, nods and sits in the leather armchair offered him. “Quite a little dukedom.”
“It looks as though you had an accident,” Vogel says. “I hope it was nothing serious.”
Kramer shrugs it away. “Slipped in the bathtub.”
“Yes. One does not realize how much greater is the death rate by domestic accident than by violence. Reading some newspapers, however, you would not know that. One would assume that every broken nose in Germany is due to our overzealous cadres.”
Kramer has the unpleasant feeling that Vogel knows about the incident in Hamburg the day before.
“But accidents in the bath are surely not what you have come to discuss, Sam. How can I help you? And by the way, thanks very much for the even-handed presentation in your article.”
“It’s called objective journalism.”
Vogel catches the defensive tone in Kramer’s voice, and raises his eyebrows. He sits in a low chair opposite Kramer, fastidiously straightening the crease in his slacks.
“I understand,” Vogel says, crossing his legs. “Believe me, I understand too well. You don’t much like me or anything I stand for. You’re a liberal, of course. Most of the press is. That is why I thank you for not playing advocacy journalism despite your own feelings. It was an honest account, fair to all sides.”
In other words, Kramer thinks, I was used somehow by Vogel.
“Planning a follow-up series?” Vogel asks. Like most of the world, he is conversant with me
dia lingo. “It might be the propitious moment, after our recent stunning victories in Schleswig. Eight of our members elected to the state legislature. Not bad for a party once called ‘fringe’ and ‘aberrational.’”
A trim thirty-eight-year-old, Vogel looks the part of an ad-exec rather than the leader of the strongest right-wing party in Germany. His presentation is upscale, as well. The threat has been delivered by the trappings in the corridor. In this inner sanctum, it’s all reason and modernity by comparison. The effect has been intentional; you’re meant to be drawn to Vogel in his business suit and Kennedy haircut, if only in reaction to the hysteria of the Nazi paraphernalia on the road to Oz outside the door.
Clever, Kramer thinks. It almost worked with me.
“There are a lot of good journalists covering the neo-Nazi scene nowadays,” Kramer says. “They’re taking you boys seriously.”
“They should. We are very serious people.”
“But I’ve come about a different matter. Renata Müller. Did you know her?”
Vogel does not blink; picks a bit of lint off his slacks.
“Of her, yes. The old Left is dying off. Her death is a metaphor, I should think. The old, useless liberals of the Federal Republic making way for the revitalizing strength of the Right.”
“Yes. Nice metaphor. She was a friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry.”
It’s unclear if he’s sorry she was a friend or that she died. Kramer knows it is a calculated misunderstanding.
“What has she to do with me?” Vogel says.
“I was hoping you could tell me that,” Kramer says. “Your car was reported parked outside Müller’s house near Bonn around the time of her death.”
“Sam, you disappoint me. I thought we were having an interview, not an inquisition. What story are you working on?”
“The murder of Renata Müller.”
Still no reaction from Vogel. Kramer stays quiet. A tick plays at Vogel’s left eye; he focuses harder on Kramer to stop it. Traffic noise sounds from outside; footsteps clack in the hall. Finally, “I read that it was a suicide. Have you become a private detective in middle age?”
Kramer ignores this, pressing on. “There are some loose ends to the case, you might say. Your visit is one of those.”
Vogel sits absolutely still for a moment, not saying a word. Kramer can hear his own heart pounding; he did not mean to push it this far, this fast. It’s a stupid move; he meant to go at it indirectly, to tease information out of Vogel under the guise of new articles. Perhaps get his opinion on various politicians, right and left, Reni being one of those.
But Vogel’s glowing words about Kramer’s article stung; he feels like a dupe. Simply covering the neo-Nazis gives legitimacy to them, makes them newsworthy. He feels part of the problem rather than part of the solution. So he struck out like a hurt animal.
“Sam,” Vogel finally says, “any other reporter I would have my friends outside escort downstairs to the street. Understand?”
Kramer suddenly realizes he has failed to play his ace, neglecting to let Vogel know someone is waiting for him.
I’ve broken every goddamn rule there is, he tells himself, a sudden chill of apprehension passing over him.
“I don’t know what you’re after, but I feel obliged to help you as much as possible. This one time. No more. You say my car was parked outside Renata Müller’s farmhouse. I will not even go into how you might have come across this information or why I, a private citizen, should be hounded for it, if it is true. Freedom of movement is, I thought, a fundamental right. I will only ask you what car and when.”
Kramer locks eyes with Vogel; they return stares for a moment and Kramer is the one to finally look away. He pulls out his notebook, turns to the relevant page and reads the date as well as the license number of the vehicle.
Vogel shakes his head, smiling once again. “But, Sam, whoever traced that license for you neglected to tell you one thing. That car was stolen from me two months ago. Ask the police.
“And the date? I’ll have to check, but I’m almost positive that I was attending an important party meeting that very night here in Munich.”
He rises, “Is that all?”
Kramer flips the notebook closed. “I guess so.” He stands and is taller than Vogel. They look at each other for a silent moment and then Kramer goes to the door.
“Sam,” Vogel says as Kramer begins to open the door, “stick to journalism. I don’t think there’s much of a future for you in investigation. And watch out for that bathtub. Looks like a nasty cut.”
Kramer says nothing, going back out into the corridor, past reception and to the elevator. He feels sweat down the back of his shirt as he presses the button for Erdgeschoss, ground floor. The assorted guards stare at him blankly as the elevator jerks into gear, taking him back to another world.
Once out on the street again, he takes a deep breath. If evil has a palpable form, it is inside that building.
So the car has been taken care of, he thinks. Handy that; a stolen car can beat all sorts of registry traces. Provides a neat little alibi.
Kramer walks down the street, taking more deep breaths, liking the feel of the cold air on his skin.
Vogel was there, Kramer knows. He wonders if Vogel caught his own slip, for Kramer had made no mention of what kind of house Reni lived in. Yet it was Vogel himself who mentioned it: You say my car was parked outside Renata Müller’s farmhouse.
Neither did he mention the time of day, but Vogel offered the night meeting in Munich as proof he wasn’t there.
Yes, Vogel was at Reni’s all right. So why not admit it? What’s to hide?
Kramer arrives at the cathedral well before six; no sign of an early Randall. He goes in, his head jerking upward to the incredibly high vaulted ceiling of the main nave, just as the architect intended him to. Simple lines in the nave; dazzling white, flanked by columns; stained-glass windows shedding warm light from the side aisles. Kramer takes a pew, sits amid the polyglot visitors, their guidebooks in hand. A few old girls are at the side altars praying, lighting candles, keeping tradition alive. But mostly it’s tourists and the curious.
The visit to Vogel has chilled him; he sits huddled in his jacket trying to figure out what the connection between Reni and Vogel was. Something that he might kill for?
A tap at his shoulder. Kramer looks up to see a pleasant-faced Japanese tourist nodding and smiling at him.
“Please. Picture.” He pokes his camera at Kramer, nods at a smiling Japanese woman standing ten feet away.
“Sure,” Kramer says, getting up and taking the camera. The man shuffles to join his wife, and Kramer fixes them in the viewfinder, the space between their faces bisected by the crosshairs of the viewfinder. They stand there so trusting, so open and smiling that for an instant Kramer forgets Vogel and his insane form of pseudo-politics; forgets even Reni. He depresses the shutter button and the camera makes a healthy, tight click. It’s an old metal-bodied camera, very little plastic. Sensible and practical, like its owners. Kramer takes an instant liking to both of them, and they bow at Kramer in thanks.
Just then, Randall strolls into the cathedral, peering myopically about. Kramer sees him, waves, and Randall joins him at the pew. Kramer has no opportunity to tell him of the visit to Vogel’s, for Randall has his own news.
“I’ve found him,” he says, his face pink with the cold. “The weirdest bloody coincidence.”
“Found who?”
But Randall ignores him, “I was just strolling around the little streets of Schwabing, digging the scene, you know. Like the old days there, with college kids aping hip garb. Bell bottoms have made a comeback. You know that?”
“Found who? Gerhard?”
“And there’s a shitload of galleries now. Munich’s a Soho with pretzels. Most of it’s crap, but there was some representa
tional stuff that had a feel to it, you know? Life. Passion. Somebody spent some spunk over its creation, not just cold-blooded construction.”
“It’s Gerhard, isn’t it? Where is he?”
But Randall ignores this. “One of the galleries had a whole series of nudes. I liked them, reminiscent of Lautrec, but then that’s not a bad comparison. Reminiscent of someone else, too.”
Not Gerhard, Kramer suddenly realizes. “Rick!”
Randall traces his hand over the cupid’s head carved into the side of the pew in front, not looking at Kramer. “So I go in and check these out. The proprietor’s a tough old bird in tweeds and brogues straight out of an English garden. In fact, she is English; been running the gallery for twenty years.”
“Randall.”
“I’m getting there. Turns out the paintings are a series about prostitutes. Just like Lautrec. Intentional. ‘Postmodern pastiche,’ she called it. I take a closer look at the paintings, at the lower right corner, and there it is. RF.”
“Rick Fujikawa,” Kramer says. “It’s got to be him. Did you find out where she got them?”
“He lives right here in Munich. Has for the past fifteen years.”
“You’re kidding.” But he notices a sudden gloom come over Randall.
“Only thing is, the old girl said something about an accident. He almost died.”
They look at each other quickly. No more accidents, Kramer thinks. We’ve had enough of them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rick’s flat is on Thiemestrasse, not far from the Englischer Garten. Kramer can see the leafless elms and horse chestnuts in the park down the street as they get out of the taxi; can smell the heavy mulch aroma of green space in the midst of city. He’s had time during the taxi ride to tell himself there are all kinds of accidents in the world; that Rick’s doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with their searches.
“Maybe we should call first,” Kramer says as they approach the door to the apartment house. The building is postwar, square; not much imagination to it, thrown up in a hurry to accommodate a population sick from years of battle and death. A brick facade with occasional terraces jutting out of the uniformly flat surface.
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