Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

That was precisely what he hated about his father. Engelbert Rath had to be in control of everything, had to pull the strings wherever he went, take care of things you’d never asked him to, but Gereon hated himself even more for allowing his father to monopolise him like this. Something deep inside prevented him from putting up any kind of resistance.

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Gereon.’ Engelbert Rath rose to his feet. ‘If we hurry we can still get there on time.’

His father’s right hand pushed him towards the door and he obeyed, just like he always did.

As they stepped into the hallway, Kathi was standing in the kitchen door, tea towel in hand and smiling back at them, a monument to the German housewife. Gereon looked her briefly in the eye as he took his leave.

Her gaze told him everything he needed to know.

She knew something was up, and was refusing to accept it.

There was a build-up of traffic at Moritzplatz, with a battered truck blocking almost the entire lane and a policeman waving vehicles through one by one. It was a tight-lipped journey.

‘An American car?’ was all Engelbert Rath said as he slipped into the Buick’s passenger seat. There was disapproval etched on his face, and Gereon had said nothing more out of sheer annoyance.

It wasn’t until they were stuck at Moritzplatz that his father broke the silence. ‘We’d have been better off taking a taxi,’ he said.

‘It’d be sitting here just like us,’ Rath replied angrily.

The policeman waved the Buick through, past the accident and into Oranienstrasse. Before crossing Leipziger Strasse they had to pause briefly at a red light; otherwise they made good progress. Gereon was doing his best, but obviously his best wasn’t good enough.

‘Late,’ Engelbert Rath said, as he climbed out of the car at Wilhelmplatz. ‘We’re almost ten minutes late.’

Go to hell, Gereon thought, taking his time to lock up. His father was already striding towards the hotel entrance.

The Hotel Kaiserhof and its cuisine were popular with politicians and high-ranking civil servants from nearby Wilhelmstrasse. Engelbert Rath led his son purposefully towards the restaurant on the ground floor. In its oak-panelled surrounds, the babble of voices seemed more refined than it would elsewhere, the clinking of glasses more subdued. People seemed to be talking, eating and drinking with the handbrake on.

Engelbert Rath was a man who knew what he was about. They made their way determinedly towards a table, where a group of formally dressed men sat, looking as if they had been driven straight from a session at the Reichstag. It was immediately clear who was in charge. The man with his back to the wall had a face like an Indian chief with high cheekbones and an implacable gaze that took in both Raths straightaway. His expression remained unchanged as he mumbled something to his table companions and stood up.

‘Please excuse our being late, Konrad,’ Engelbert Rath began, ‘but the police service… even in Berlin… my son…!’

‘It’s fine, Engelbert, it’s fine!’ The Indian pronounced it ‘Engelbäät’. He had a Cologne accent. ‘My train isn’t leaving for two hours anyway,’ he said, those unknowable Indian eyes seeming almost friendly. ‘So? How is the young Rath? Settled into the imperial capital?’

Gereon shook his hand. ‘Thank you for asking, Mayor Adenauer.’

‘Let’s forget about the titles, shall we? Here I’m not the Mayor, or the President of the Prussian State Council. We’re meeting on a purely private basis. Three Cologners in Berlin.’

Gereon gave a deliberate smile.

‘Let’s go to the bar,’ Adenauer said. ‘I’ve a table booked.’

A bottle of Zeltinger Kirchenpfad awaited them next to the reserved sign. Their host had left nothing to chance, which was perhaps why Police Director Engelbert Rath got on so well with him, their status as fellow party members notwithstanding. The truth was that Rath’s father had always kept in with those whose acquaintance could benefit his career. Successfully too: he had been the youngest chief inspector in Cologne in his day, and was now police director.

‘We can speak freely here,’ Adenauer said, showing them to their places. The waiter filled the two wine glasses and he began.

‘Good that your son has found the time, Engelbäät,’ he said. ‘Have you told him what it’s about?’

‘It’s too delicate. I thought it would be best if you…’

‘Let’s have a toast first!’ Adenauer had a glass of water in front of him, and drank their health.

The Raths raised their glasses and drank. The wine was far too sweet for Gereon’s liking, but his father’s lips curved appreciatively. ‘A really nice drop, this, Konrad.’

‘I know what you like, Engelbäät!’ Their host placed his water in front of him and cleared his throat. ‘So, let’s get to the point… It’s an unpleasant business… most unpleasant…’

‘The police deal almost exclusively with unpleasant business,’ said Rath.

‘Please, young Rath! Let’s forget about the police. As I said, this is a private meeting.’

‘Let the mayor explain, Gereon!’

It hadn’t taken five minutes for his father to catapult him back to the bad old days. Gereon, the cheeky young fool who’d be better off keeping his mouth shut when the adults had important matters to discuss.

‘Your father, Herr Rath, is helping me in a particularly delicate matter, and I must say it’s rather handy that the Rath family is also represented here in Berlin…’ That’s how easy it was for the Cologne crowd to catch up with you, even in the middle of the imperial capital. ‘To cut a long story short, I am being blackmailed.’

‘Our lord mayor is receiving anonymous letters,’ Engelbert Rath whispered.

The Indian nodded. ‘Someone is threatening – how shall I put it? – to make certain information public that the public has no business knowing. And which could drag the good name of Adenauer through the mud.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘Information that could spell the end of my political existence if the Nazis get their hands on it, or the Communists.’

‘I’d need to know a little more than that. If you want me to help you, you’ll have to tell me what it’s about.’

‘Glanzstoff shares,’ Adenauer said.

‘Shares in American Glanzstoff, the rayon plant,’ Engelbert Rath explained.

‘I’ve got loads of them,’ Adenauer said. ‘Absolutely loads. Worth millions… At least, they were worth millions when I bought them two years ago. My entire fortune’s invested in them, and more besides. A loan from Deutsche Bank…’

‘I see,’ said Rath, ‘and the share price has been falling through the floor since October.’

‘It went through the floor some time ago. I’d never have thought it could slip so far, had always hoped things would pick up again. But these last few months… In short, my debts with the bank are now greater than the market value of my shares. Significantly greater…’

‘In other words, you’re ruined,’ Rath said, pleased to register the look of displeasure on his father’s face. ‘How do they mean to blackmail you when you’ve already hit rock bottom?’

‘I’ve got friends at the bank who are willing to help me. I just don’t want it to be shouted from the rooftops.’

‘And that’s precisely what these anonymous letters are threatening to do…’

‘My opponents have been waiting for an opportunity just like this, both the left and the right, and it’s been handed to them on a plate. What a time for it to happen!’

‘Why haven’t you passed the case on to the police?’

‘You know yourself that not all officers can be trusted. Something like this needs to be dealt with discreetly. By experienced police officers, but not by the police.’