Brandenburg (37 page)

“Well, Joe, what brings you to Berlin?” He looked across and smiled. “It must be at least a couple of years since we last met.”

“I’d like to pick your brains, Werner. And ask a favor.”

Bargel raised his eyebrows. “Is this something you’re working on that directly concerns my people?”

“It’s too early to say.”

“What kind of information are you looking for?”

“Have you been getting much trouble from the extremist groups recently?”

Werner Bargel sat back in his seat, placed his hands behind his neck. “Whenever you get a recession, you always get an upsurge in left- and right-wing activity—you know that, Joe. You get our reports?”

“Sure.”

“There’s a piece in this month’s report about a percentage rise.”

“Any new groups?”

“None that have caused us much grief. But the old ones have been pretty active of late. The usual stuff. Last month in Berlin another refugee center was evacuated after a three-day siege by right-wing gangs. Two black street vendors were stabbed in Leipzig a week later. A Turkish boy was tossed from a second-floor window in Essen and died from his injuries the same day. I could go on. But it’s all in the report I told you about.”

“Are your people worried?”

Bargel smiled thinly. “That kind of thing always worries us. We try to keep it under control. But there’s always going to be that fringe element in every country, isn’t there?” Bargel stared at him. “Is that the only reason for your visit?”

“A few weeks ago, a young man named Dieter Winter was shot to death in Berlin. You recall the case?”

Bargel thought for a moment. “The shooting was at the Zoo Station?”

“That’s the one. I’d like to know if you kept a file on Winter.”

“I can have it checked. Anything else?”

“I’m flying to Munich tomorrow. Winter had an address there. If it’s okay with your people I’d like to take a look at Winter’s place. Also, a guy named Lothar Kesser. Comes from somewhere in
Bavaria. Graduated from Munich University in computer science. If you’ve got a file on him and a photograph, I’d like to see them, too.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Was Winter involved with a right-wing group?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. The murder weapon was also used in the shooting of a British industrialist in Hamburg. That’s why Ferguson is interested.”

“What about this other guy, Kesser?”

“I’m only fishing at this stage. There may be no connection.”

“But you’ll keep me informed if anything comes up that we ought to look into, Joe?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll get you a copy of last month’s report. And a preview of the next.” Bargel stood up. “You’re staying in Berlin tonight?”

“At the Schweizerhof. I appreciate your help, Werner.”

“No problem. I can have my secretary book a table for us this evening at Le Bou Bou, if that’s okay with you.”

“Why not? We can have a chat about old times.”

•   •   •

The restaurant was almost empty but the service superb, as always.

Bargel brought along the reports and the files he promised but he didn’t discuss them, except to say that he had arranged for Volkmann to be met in Munich and taken to Winter’s last known address. They spent more than an hour talking about the old days in Berlin, and when they had finished their meal, Bargel walked with Volkmann back to the hotel.

“Do you ever see Ivan Molke now, Joe?”

Volkmann shook his head and said, “You know he took early retirement. Before he did, we used to talk now and again, but we’ve been out of touch for the last couple of years.”

Bargel nodded. “Right.” He caught Volkmann’s eye. “I hear he’s in Munich. Maybe you should call him up when you go south. I suspect he could be useful to you. I can give you his number.”

Volkmann brightened, liking the idea. “Sounds good. You could be right.”

“You and he were pretty close.”

“Sure. When I was only a rookie posted to Berlin years ago, Ivan often took me under his wing. I feel bad that we’ve gotten out of touch. But you know how it is.”

“Can I ask you a personal question, Joe?”

“Sure.”

“What did you and Ivan do with Felder?”

“I thought you knew.” When he saw Bargel shake his head, Volkmann said, “We took him out to the Grunewald.”

“I always wondered. That animal deserved what he got.” He looked at Volkmann and said, “He was a brutal killer. But then it was a lousy business in those days. We were up against the scum of the Stasi and KGB.”

Volkmann asked, “Where do your own police and armed forces stand when it comes to right-wing activity?”

Bargel shrugged. “They’re apolitical, or supposed to be. What they think personally, of course, is quite another matter. I guess some might sympathize with fascist groups. But there’s nothing we can do about that, so long as it doesn’t interfere with their work.” The intelligent eyes regarded Volkmann carefully. “Why do you ask, Joe?”

“The number of neo-Nazi attacks is increasing. But your people don’t seem to be having much success putting a stop to them.”

Bargel said, “It’s a difficult area. You’ve got the usual calls to put all these extremists away. But if you started doing that, you’d get the bleeding-heart liberals who oppose them, saying we’re becoming a police state again, putting people in concentration camps. And for us Germans, that’s a touchy subject.” Bargel shook his head. “There’s no easy solution.”

“Do the neo-Nazis have much support?”

“Some, but they wouldn’t appeal to the majority of Germans; that goes without saying.”

“What kind of numbers are we talking about?”

“In Germany? A conservative figure would be over a hundred thousand.”

“Hard-line neo-Nazis?”

“Pretty much hard-line. You could probably triple that figure with softer supporters.”

“That’s a lot of support, Werner.”

Bargel regarded him keenly. “What you’re really wondering is, could it happen again? Could a Nazi Party ever come to power again in Germany? Are you asking me that, Joe?”

“If I remember my history, the Nazis had fewer than five thousand supporters when Hitler led the Beer Hall Putsch in 1923. When he started his campaign to become chancellor of Germany, the party had fewer than a quarter of a million members.”

Bargel shook his head fiercely. “It couldn’t happen again, Joe. Surely you know that. Only those parties that conform to the Constitution are admitted to the political system. And then there’s the five percent barrier. That means any party polling less than five percent of the vote in an election can’t enter Parliament, which effectively excludes extremists. But besides all that, people are wiser; Germany would never tolerate another Nazi Party or anything like it.

“Sure, we have a problem with extremists. There’s a neo-Nazi riot in the streets of a German city, and the world’s press prints banner headlines that suggest the Fourth Reich is imminent. But in Germany, these groups have never had great support. And the people who do support them are cranks and misfits. The shaved-headed thugs who beat up immigrants and desecrate Jewish graves are not well organized. It’s a fringe element.”

Volkmann looked across. “But there are similarities, Werner. The street riots. Immigrants being attacked instead of Jews. The call to have foreigners expelled. All the social and economic problems you had in the past when the Nazis came to power.”

Bargel nodded. “Sure, you can draw parallels in any situation. But another Nazi Party in power? Joe, it’s not possible. You may say we allowed it in 1933. But Germany was different then. And besides,
every day we see reminders, on television, in the press, of the sins committed in our name, and the vast majority of this nation has no wish to repeat those sins.” Bargel shook his head vigorously. “That another Nazi Party would ever come to power in Germany? Joe, I could never see that happening. Besides, the problems with neo-Nazis is going to be resolved.”

“How?”

“You know of Konrad Weber?”

“The vice chancellor? Sure.”

“He’s also the interior minister, responsible for federal security. He’s a good man, Joe. Tough, conservative, responsible. Between you and me, I hear that Weber wants to bring in some tough changes in the law to put a brake on these extremists for good.”

“What’s he going to do?”

Bargel smiled. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you that. But my ears in the Interior Ministry tell me Weber’s going to crack the whip pretty hard and put a stop to it for good.”

They reached the hotel, and Bargel handed across the large envelope containing the files and reports. “You’ll destroy the file copies when you’re through with them?”

“For sure. Thanks, Werner.”

As Bargel turned to go, he touched Volkmann’s arm, and the sharp eyes looked at him. “And don’t forget, Joe, if anything comes up that concerns me, let me know.”

•   •   •

He read the reports in his hotel room at the Schweizerhof.

There was nothing much new in Winter’s file except that he had been brought up in a Catholic orphanage near Baden-Baden. Judging from his institutional background, Winter was a classic joiner: a loner who needed to identify with a cause.

Kesser’s file contained very little: a head-and-shoulders photograph of a handsome young man with thinning fair hair and high cheekbones. Graduating from Munich University the same year as Winter, he once worked as a programmer for a military research
establishment on a two-year contract before moving to a commercial bank in Nuremberg.

No mention of his ever having been a member of any right-wing party, and his address was given in Munich’s Schwabing district. Volkmann guessed the file had been deliberately kept brief because of Kesser’s involvement in military research and that the file was probably classified.

When he finished reading he poured himself a scotch from the minibar. He stood by the cold balcony, wondering what Erica was doing at that moment.

As darkness fell he could see the Brandenburg Gate, and the winged statue on the gilded Victory Column, lit up so clearly they could be seen for miles.

He remembered the news pictures that flashed across the world that night the Wall came down in 1989, and the happy crowds waving the German flag; the young men climbing on top of the Wall in a rush of fervent nationalism, the looks of joy and energy on their faces as they sang “Deutschland über Alles.”

As he closed the window, he took one last look at the illuminated Brandenburg Gate and the Reichstag building, then he locked the window and went to bed.

33

MUNICH. MONDAY, DECEMBER 19

Munich was bitterly cold, and it was almost 10:00 a.m. when the Landesamt man delegated to meet him at the airport pulled up outside Winter’s address. It was a modest apartment building, and Winter’s rooms were on the second floor.

When the man unlocked the door and stepped inside, he handed Volkmann the key. “I’ll wait for you outside. Take all the time you want. Can I drop you someplace afterward?”

“The Penta Hotel. Your people searched the apartment?”

The driver nodded as he went to go. “Sure. But it looked as though someone beat us to it. Most of the belongings appeared to have been taken. It looked like a professional job. The police didn’t find anything of interest, either.”

Volkmann wandered through the studio apartment. It smelled musty, and a colony of spiders dangled on silken threads from webs in the ceiling fixture. In the tiny kitchen, in a filthy cupboard under the sink, were three empty Bushmills whiskey bottles and a couple of unopened cans of Dutch beer.

Bookshelves ran along the bedroom wall. The mattress had been tossed and he guessed the police had searched the place thoroughly. Among the books he noticed a tattered copy of
Mein Kampf,
which was standard reading for German history students like Winter. The rest were paperback thrillers. No photographs on the shelves and no inscriptions in any of the books.

He spent half an hour looking through the apartment before closing the door and stepping down into the cold street to join the driver.

At the Penta, Volkmann checked in and telephoned Ivan Molke. He got no answer and he left a message. He showered, unpacked his overnight case, and called the local Hertz office to hire a car.

The address off the Leopoldstrasse in Schwabing turned out to be a fairly prosperous-looking block, and Volkmann found Kesser’s name on the intercom outside.

He found an office-supplies store in a mall around the corner and bought a plastic clipboard and large notepad. When he walked back to the apartment block, he wrote down the names of all the residents on the intercom on his pad and then pressed all the intercom buttons except Kesser’s. During the barrage of questions that followed, the door lock buzzed and sprang open. Someone expecting someone.

As he stepped inside, an elderly woman appeared and looked at him quizzically, her eyes going to the clipboard.

Volkmann smiled and said, “Block management. A problem with the plumbing.”

The woman nodded and went back into her apartment.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on Kesser’s door. When there was no reply the second time, he removed the locksmith’s set from his pocket and probed the lock. He stepped into Kesser’s apartment and closed the door after him.