Jakob Arjouni - Brother Kemal

‘No idea.’

There was a pause. I could hear Deborah squeezing oranges in the kitchen. Octavian’s agitated breathing came over the phone.

‘You realise this means we’ll have to let Abakay go free?’

‘He’s still a pimp and a drug dealer. It’s just that you don’t have me as a witness anymore.’

‘Oh, nonsense! Kayankaya, you really are such an idiot! How do I look now?’

‘Good luck, Octavian. That’s all I can say.’

‘Wait a minute! This will have consequences. People will make life hard for you, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you lose your licence.’

‘People? Or you?’

‘You can at least be sure I won’t lift a finger for you again!’

‘That’s a pity, when I was hoping for your support, my friend.’

‘Asshole!’

We hung up, and I called Sheikh Hakim.

‘I’ve withdrawn my statement.’

‘Excellent, Herr Kayankaya. The rest will be as we agreed.’

‘How’s the hostage?’

‘The hostage wants for nothing, don’t worry. You’ll be hearing from me. God be with you.’

For a change, I hoped so too.

At eleven I was supposed to be at the Book Fair with Rashid. According to his schedule, he was reading at eleven thirty with Ilona Lohs on the subject of losing your native land, under the heading ‘Sweet Homeland, Sore Hearts.’ According to the flyer for the reading, Ilona Lohs was born in the GDR, and her novel Moon Child , about eighteen-year-old Jenny Türmerin who wants to flee former East Germany, was based on autobiographical experiences. Malik Rashid — also according to the flyer — missed ‘the old, multi-cultural Morocco where Muslims, Christians and Jews lived side by side,’ and in his new novel Journey to the End of Days he described, ‘among other things, the consequences of increasing ethnic uniformity: the dumbing down and brutalisation of Moroccan society as a whole and the loss of imagination and dreams.’

I was nervous when I called Katja Lipschitz.

‘Good morning, Herr Kayankaya. Everything all right?’

In the background I heard what was now, even for me, the familiar roar of the Book Fair. All the sounds in the huge hall mingling into a single, metre-high, continuously rolling ocean wave.

‘I can’t call it that. Rashid has been abducted.’

‘What?!’

‘There obviously was something to those threatening letters and phone calls.’

‘Phone calls?’ She raised her voice. ‘There weren’t any phone calls! I was only saying so! And as for the letters … Oh, nonsense! For God’s sake! Are you sure he hasn’t simply gone off somewhere, met a woman, oh, I don’t know what …?!’

‘I’m sorry. The kidnappers called me.’

‘What are they asking?’

‘Nothing so far. But they told me the name of their group: The Ten Plagues.’

‘But … but that’s the exact title of Dr. Breitel’s speech!’

‘Well, maybe they read the Berliner Nachrichten , or Breitel found the name on the Internet in the course of his research.’

‘I can’t understand it, Herr Kayankaya! Not in my wildest dreams did I think that Malik would really … oh, poor man! I’m so sorry.’

‘You must keep calm now, Frau Lipschitz. Say that Rashid is sick, a bad sore throat or something like that. And whatever you do don’t call the police! I’ll do all I can to get him out of there as soon as possible.’

‘But I must tell our publisher. What will happen if they demand money? Or if they want us to pulp Rashid’s novel? Like the Rushdie case, do you remember?’

‘Wait before speaking to your publisher. I didn’t get the impression that the kidnappers were after money. They’re probably more interested in setting an example: see how we can scare you in the middle of your own country. A demonstration of power, if you see what I mean? Or to satisfy their vanity — with terrorists that’s usually the main motive. Maybe it can be settled with a simple press release giving the name of the group.’

‘I hope with all my heart that you’re right. But what am I to do now?’

‘As I said, announce that Rashid is sick and say no more. I’ll call you the moment I have any news.’

‘Do you know what? It’s those supposed men of God! I’ll pray for Rashid!’

‘That’s a good idea, Frau Lipschitz. You can’t do anything better. See you soon.’

Abakay was released from custody on Wednesday. On Thursday I had a phone call from someone who worked for Sheikh Hakim.

‘Do you know the café in the little tower up in the Grüneburg Park, opposite the Korean Garden?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can pick up your man there this evening at ten.’

At nine thirty I was going along the path to the tower, among trees and shrubs. There was no one about in the light drizzle in the Grüneburg Park at this time of day. Once I smelled cigarette smoke, probably from someone sleeping rough under the bushes somewhere.

The little tower was dark, and dim light came only from the narrow street about fifteen metres away. Where there were café tables and chairs on the gravel during the day, only a solitary garbage bin covered with advertising for Langnese ice cream now stood in the gloomy night. I had two pistols with me: my official one, registered and in a back holster, and an unofficial, unregistered one — at least, not registered in my name — that I had picked up a couple of years before while searching the apartment of a crack-dealing banker.

I leaned against the little tower for a while, watching the forecourt in front of it, the bushes round it, the street and the entrance to the Korean Garden. Nothing was moving, and after a while I went over to the garbage bin and put the loaded gun that wasn’t registered in my name down under it. Just in case, and supposing God wasn’t with me after all.

For a moment I had thought of asking Slibulsky to come with me to cover my back if necessary. But for one thing I didn’t want to hear Lara bitching about it, and for another I didn’t think Sheikh Hakim would cheat on the deal. After all, so far as I could judge, he was not a cleric but a professional gangster. There was really only one possibility that worried me: that of Abakay bent on revenge.

‘… Kemal, you motherfucker! Come on out, you tramp! You bloody little sod! Come and get your shitty poet … Hey there!’

I assumed it was the same white delivery van that had been standing outside the wine bar on Saturday evening. Barely two minutes ago, Abakay had driven it with verve over the pavement and into the gravel forecourt. Now he was striding up and down with large, angry, slightly unsteady footsteps, hectically smoking a cigarette held in his left hand and shouting into the night. His right hand was in the side pocket of his leather jacket, and he was taking no trouble to conceal the fact that he was holding a pistol; the shape of the barrel stood out clearly.

‘… Where are you, Kemal? Got no balls, you cowardly bastard? Don’t you want your crybaby writer back anymore?’

I waited to see if anyone else got out of the van, but apparently Abakay wanted to settle accounts with me on his own. Rashid, I assumed, was tied and gagged in the back of the van.

Presumably he’d snorted a good amount of cocaine to get him into this belligerent mood. In a football match you’d have described him as over-motivated.

Finally I came out from the shadow of the little tower. My own right hand was also on the pistol in my jacket pocket.

‘Hello, Abakay. Those elegant expressions … anyone could tell at once that we have a fine, socially committed mind here. How’s the photography going?’

He stopped short, then with his jaw wide open and a dismissive gesture of his hand, exclaimed, ‘There you are, you pisser!’