The Jewish Candidate Read online

  Chapter Two

  The door to the Goldener Bär swung open and hit the wall with a loud bang. An old man stood in the doorway clutching the walking stick that served as his battering ram. He surveyed the restaurant, empty now save for the Stammtisch drinkers, and limped towards the back of the restaurant. He was heavyset, well into his eighties, and had snow-white hair cropped closely so that it bristled like a brush. Two of the regulars recognized him and nodded, but he ignored them.

  A deep furrow across his florid cheek marked the passage of the shrapnel that had torn out his right eye. The glass replacement gave a sullen, empty glare. Tietjen had been waiting for over an hour. He and his men rose when Hauser entered the room. Tietjen gave a curt bow and clicked his heels with a leathery thwack. “Herr Obersturmführer Hauser, it is an honour!” The waitress knocked. “Beer und ein Schnapps,” Hauser commanded, without looking at her. The SS veteran sat down, fumbled for his meerschaum pipe and filled it in silence. He lit up and puffed out a thick cloud of smoke. The FNP leader twitched his nose and blinked, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. Three of the men stood up and filed out of the room, leaving only the FNP leader, his assistant and Hauser.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Herr Obersturmführer. It is important for our movement to stay in touch with its glorious roots. We have so much to learn from you!”

  Hauser downed a Schnapps. “Another one.” Tietjen’s aide left the room to get it.

  “I know nothing about politics,” he muttered. “What could you possibly learn from an old soldier like me?”

  “We are worried about what is happening to our nation,” Tietjen said. “The Turks living here are sperm cannons. If they go on breeding at this rate, the German nation will become extinct. And you have no doubt heard that a Jew is running for chancellor. A Jew, Herr Obersturmführer! Running our country! How does that make you feel?”

  Hauser took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This country went to hell a long time ago,” he shrugged.

  “We intend to stop it,” said Tietjen.

  “Oh really? How?”

  “With respect, Herr Obersturmführer, we have had some political success. We are in three state parliaments. The silent majority of the German people has had enough. I am giving them a voice. Our party will make it into the Reichstag in September. We will fight the system from within. Isn’t that how the Führer started?”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “Herr Obersturmführer, we envy you your glory. We admire you. You have bled for your country. It is up to us now.” Tietjen punched his chest with his fist. “We must fulfil our duty to this nation. And you can help us. You must help us because you swore an oath to protect your country, and I know you are a man of honour.” Tietjen spoke with the fluency and confidence of an educated man. Fine, clear, accent-free German. A deep, resonant voice. “You will agree with me that Gutman must be stopped. In the last few decades Germany has been ruled by weaklings, by an obese simpleton, a vain fornicator, a barren, indecisive Hausfrau. But having a Jew in the Chancellery is not tolerable. He has pledged to make this country multi-cultural and ‘tolerant’. But we have already gone much too far down that road! We need to act. We need to stop Gutman and we need your help to do it.”

  “Stop him how?” Hauser blurted. “You’ll never get enough votes. How the hell could I help you? I’m not even going to vote!”

  “Herr Obersturmführer, you have connections in Russia. You have done business there with your engineering company, you are familiar with the system there, with the milieu of security firms, agents, etcetera. We know you have contacts. We want you to help us find someone. We’re willing to pay a substantial sum of money.”

  “Find someone? Find who?”

  “Someone who can help us deal with the problem.”

  “What, you mean deal with Gutman?” Hauser gaped at Tietjen.

  “It’s better for all of us if we don’t divulge our plans. We just need your contacts. We have been assured we can rely on your utter discretion.”

  “You’ll never get away with it,” Hauser murmured.

  “The objective is what counts. Are you ready to help us, Herr Obersturmführer? To serve the cause one last time?”

  Hauser stared into his Schnapps. It was true he still knew people in Russia. People he’d hired to protect his Moscow staff in the wild 1990s. They were good. And they had contacts. What had he got to lose? He was 87. He had bequeathed his company to his son, who employed Turks and Poles now. He didn’t even like to visit the place anymore. Maria had died 10 years ago. All he had left was his memories. Memories that robbed him of sleep. Klaus engulfed in fire as he staggered off his burning Tiger at Kharkov. Walser convulsing as his guts spilled out of a hopeless wound. Running across a field to escape two Russian infantrymen at Kursk. He could still feel the cold steel of the bayonet tearing through his flesh and scraping down his femur. A comrade saved his life, emptying his MP40 into their backs only to die an hour later from a sniper’s bullet.

  Hauser cleared his throat, nodded, and rose to his feet slowly. “I’ll do what I can.”

  High above Berchtesgaden, a distant crown of lights appeared behind a passing cloud. The Eagle’s Nest. In the moonlight, the black outlines of the mighty Alps bore down on the sleeping town. The lights were still on in the Goldener Bär.

  Carver began walking back down the hill to his car. As he got closer to the restaurant, he noticed a black SUV parked in front that had not been there before. A woman cried out somewhere to his right. “Nein! Don’t touch me there. I don’t want that! Please!” There were muffled squeals. Carver followed the sound into a narrow lane flanked by tall hedges. It was unlit. He probed his way forward. A figure stood a few metres ahead of him. He shouted “Halt!” He stumbled and saw a white garment. An instant later, something cold thudded against the back of his head. He saw sparks and slumped to the ground. An intense pain erupted in his mouth. A black void engulfed him.

  Chapter Three

  Berlin, Wednesday, July 25

  Carver stared at Renner’s number and stared at the boxes cluttering the Chronicle’s apartment in Berlin. Most of them were still unpacked. His Kevlar vest was in there somewhere. He had moved to Germany a month ago after an uncomfortable four-year posting in Islamabad, with stints in Afghanistan and Libya. Those were dangerous assignments, but he had come away without a scratch. Four weeks in safe Germany and he was suffering from borderline concussion.

  Carver felt the throbbing bump on the back of his head. Maybe that little freelancer was onto something. He decided to call Escape, an organisation that catered for neo-Nazis who wanted to get out. Quitting was a dangerous step that could get people maimed or killed by their former comrades. A disgruntled Nazi might have something to say about ties between skinhead thugs and the squeaky-clean FNP. Escape helped people to relocate, change their identities and find new jobs in other cities. It also taught them how to detect if they were being followed. It was set up by a former police officer, Bernhard Wendt. Carver rang his mobile and asked if he knew anyone who would talk to him about neo-Nazi life. “Anonymously, of course. Discretion guaranteed,” Carver said. “I’d also be willing to pay the guy.”

  “How much?”

  “Say 500 euros for an interview. Cash in hand.”

  “I’ll ask around.”

  Wendt rang back in the evening. “I’ve found someone who’s ready to talk to you. He’s a member of the German Homeland Protection League. He got in touch with me a couple of months ago. He hasn’t quit yet. He says he can meet you on Thursday next week, the second of August.”

  “Excellent, thanks. Where?”

  Carver took down the address. It was a strange place to meet. “He must be scared.”

  “Yes,” said Wendt. “I told him any public place in a big city, or your office would be just as safe, but he insisted. I don’t know why. He sounded very interested in the €500, though. In cash, of course. �
�

  Chapter Four

  Ore Mountains, near the German-Czech border, July 25

  Hasselbach Hall, an 18th century manor abandoned decades ago, lurked in a forest clearing at the end of a cobblestone track, two miles from the main road. Its ochre facade was faded and flaking, and part of the roof was covered in plastic sheeting. But the walls were sound, and the house defied its fate with proud resilience, as if determined to uphold the memory of a noble family destroyed by war.

  It was almost midnight. The thud of rubber tyres on the uneven cobbles broke the silence. A black Mercedes pulled up alongside two other cars. Hermann von Tietjen and his political advisor, Achim Beckmann, stepped out and looked up at the building. Wild ivy, greyed by the moonlight, cloaked much of the façade and a stiff breeze shook its leaves. The rustling made the house seem alive. The door opened with a loud scrape. Sven Wuttke’s broad face appeared. The leader of the Kameradschaft Mecklenburg group let them in with a deferential nod.

  “This looks promising,” Tietjen remarked, handing Wuttke his briefcase and coat. He stared up a wide stone staircase lined with man-size oil paintings, impossible to discern in the flickering light from two flaming torches. “No electricity yet?”

  “I’m sorry, Commander. This place was a snip though. 60,000 euros for everything. The buyer’s a friend of ours, a dentist. The government was desperate to get rid of it. They think it’s going to be used for conferences on dental hygiene research.”

  Tietjen adjusted the sleeves of his black cotton shirt. “Well the hygiene part is right.”

  Wuttke led the way up the steps and across a wood-floored landing to the festival hall. Tietjen and Beckmann stopped at the threshold. “Good. Good. Looks like a church nave,” said Tietjen. Grey stone pillars lined the sides of the long, rectangular room. They supported a gallery with a carved wooden balustrade. The Gothic windows were boarded up and the vaulted ceiling, barely visible in the gloom, was blackened by decades of dust and cobwebs. White candles on a long oak table and on cast-iron holders attached to the pillars gave a sparse light. Their smoke, wafted to and fro by drafts, mingled with the smell of dampness.

  Two men strode across the flagstone floor to greet their leader. “Kunz, Bein,” said Tietjen, shaking their hands with a tight grip. “Commander, thank you for choosing us,” said Roland Bein, a muscular man with an angular face. He walked to the table and picked up two bottles of beer. “We’ve brought along a crate of this to toast our …”

  “Get rid of them,” Tietjen snapped. Bein, lowering his head, put the bottles back down on the table.

  “I said get rid of them! Are you deaf!” The scream ricocheted around the walls. Tietjen fixed Bein with an apoplectic stare. The men eyed Bein as if they were ready to tear him to pieces if the Commander gave so much as a nod. Bein hurried out of the room with the bottles. Tietjen put his hand in his trouser pocket, extracted a black silk handkerchief and gently dabbed spittle from his lips. The handkerchief was personalized with the letters H.T., stitched in grey thread. He folded it and put it back in his pocket.

  “Has this room been swept for bugs?”

  “Two hours ago, Commander,” Wuttke replied. “It’s clean.”

  They sat down at the table.

  “Let’s begin,” said Tietjen. “Meine Herren. The time for words is over. The time for deeds is about to begin. We have made significant progress since the inaugural meeting of the Gutman Action Committee. Our mission is clear. To cut out the Muslim tumour ravaging our fatherland, to maximise support for our movement in the election and to eliminate the Jew. We will now initiate Operation Edelweiss. In the first phase, it will consist of terrorist attacks for which Islamists will take the blame. We have created a phantom group called the Revengers of Allah. It will claim responsibility. With each atrocity, fear and hatred of our Muslim immigrants will grow. I will exploit the attacks politically. The first will take place next week in Nuremberg at the Social Democrat party conference. Wuttke will give an update on the planning.”

  “We have made contact with an 18-year-old Bosnian wog who lives in Munich,” Wuttke explained. “We trawled the Web for homegrown radicalised Islamists and this little shit fits the bill. Our friend Kunz here posed as a member of our Islamic terror group and has been in regular touch with him for months. The boy has finally agreed to stand outside the conference centre, shout ‘Allah is Great’ and hurl a grenade when Gutman comes out. He thinks we’ll help him get away and arrange for his passage to a training camp in Pakistan. The only problem for our little Mohammed is that the grenade will have been, shall we say, adjusted.” He grinned.

  “Good work Kunz,” Tietjen said. He addressed the table. “Gutman will survive and take political flak for being soft on niggers, and we’ll have ourselves a nice terrorism crisis just as the election campaign gets going. The attacks will continue until I decide the time has come to launch the second phase of Edelweiss – the elimination of Rudolf Gutman.”

  “Won’t the incidents lead to higher security precautions for the Jew?” said Kunz. “Might make it harder to get to him.”

  “The Jew will not survive the campaign,” Tietjen said. “You have my cast-iron guarantee. And Islamists will be blamed for his death. Edelweiss is expensive, though. Quality costs money. But we have the resources we need, thanks to the generosity of Siegfried Stahl – and the French authorities for declaring his death a suicide. His lawyer has executed his will, and we’ve inherited his assets. The sum is well over five million euros, three million of which is in precious stones. Water.”

  Bein jumped to his feet and came back with a sealed bottle. Tietjen inspected the label and handed it back without looking at him. “That’s carbonated. I take still water.” Bein shot a worried look at his comrades. Wuttke stood up and returned with uncarbonated water.

  They watched in silence as he drank. “From now on, the five of us are responsible for this historic mission,” said Tietjen. “Wuttke is in charge of operations and will run security.” Wuttke sat back and smiled. Kunz and Bein slapped him on the back.

  “Beckmann and I are in charge of the political campaign. There will be no phone, electronic or paper communication between our two units. Contact by the agreed signals only. Agreed?”

  They all nodded. Tietjen straightened. “Excellent, well, if we have no further business?”

  Wuttke raised his arm. “May I speak, Commander? I’ve been contacted by the Mecklenburg regional intelligence agency. An officer has recruited me as an informant.”

  Wuttke ignored the stunned looks. “The officer last week paid me €20,000 in cash for my services. I gave them some info on the Viking Youth, which I wanted to shut down anyway. Too soft.” He extracted a brown envelope from a small rucksack and held it upside down. Four wads of used bank notes fell on to the table. “There’s more where that came from,” he said.

  Tietjen gave him an impassive, lingering stare. Then the corners of his lips twitched and he broke into a grin, slapping the table with a loud “HA!” The others burst out laughing. He clapped his hands three times, looking at Wuttke, whose face glowed pink with pride. “Ja Ja,” Tietjen said, bringing the laughter to an abrupt halt. “We have much to fear from our security services. Much to fear.” He got to his feet.

  “Now is the time to drink, Kameraden!” The men stood to attention. He opened his briefcase and lifted out a dagger in a black scabbard with nickel ends. He pulled the knife from the sheath and held it in his fist, the tip pointing to the ceiling.

  The pristine steel blade glinted in the candlelight. The words “Meine Ehre Heißt Treue”, “My Honour is Loyalty,” the SS oath, were engraved down the centre of the blade in Gothic letters.

  “We are the elite,” Tietjen declared. “We are the spearhead of the movement to restore Germany to greatness.” He nodded at Wuttke, who left the room and returned with the bottles of beer and a heavy glass mug.

  Tietjen looked around the table as Wuttke filled the glass to the brim. “We will now swear a
n oath. From this night on we will be brothers. Roll up your left sleeves.” He unbuttoned his cuff, held the blade to his forearm just below the elbow pit and made a diagonal incision, five centimetres long, cutting across a protruding vein. Blood trickled from the wound onto the wooden table. Wuttke handed him the glass. The red drops spattered onto the thick white foam, then penetrated it to mingle with the amber liquid. Tietjen passed the knife to Beckmann. One by one, they sliced their arms and let the blood flow into the darkening beer.

  When the last man had opened his vein, Tietjen held up the glass. “We swear on our lives that we shall carry out this endeavour to restore our beloved German fatherland to greatness. We will succeed or die. We are brothers in blood now. To Germany and to the memory of the Führer! Sieg Heil!”

  “Sieg Heil!” the men roared in unison, jutting out their blood-streaked arms in the Nazi salute.

  Tietjen took a deep swig of the bloodied beer. Each man in turn drank from it, struggling not to gag at the strange, metallic taste, until the glass was empty.

  “We will leave separately,” Tietjen ordered, holding out his arm for Beckmann, his aide, to bandage it. He called over to Wuttke: “When will they start using this place?”

  “The builders arrive next week, Commander. Then the German National Heritage Society moves in. They plan to hold a conference next month.”

  “What subject?” asked Tietjen.

  “The Auschwitz myth.”

  Chapter Five

  Nuremberg, Tuesday, July 31

  Kemal Alic walked out of the train station into the blinding sunshine. His legs and arms tingled and sweat trickled down his back. He remembered what Sali told him. “Don’t look nervous. Don’t talk to yourself. Don’t get in any arguments. Don’t go anywhere near the congress centre until you get the message. And don’t let the bag out of your sight! This time tomorrow you’ll be on a plane, Insha’Allah.” The convert to Islam was like a brother to him, even though they only met two months ago.