Jakob Arjouni - Brother Kemal

‘When does the Book Fair begin?’

‘Next Wednesday. Malik is arriving on Friday and staying until Monday.’

‘Is he staying at a hotel?’

‘The Harmonia in Niederrad.’

‘Not a very cheerful neighbourhood.’

‘We’re glad to get any hotel rooms at all. You may not know it, but Frankfurt is fully booked during the Fair.’

‘I’m only wondering what Rashid’s evenings look like. People don’t usually like going home to Niederrad early.’

‘He has engagements on all three evenings — dinner with the publisher, a reading and a panel discussion, and after those he’ll be exhausted and want to go to bed.’

‘Does he drink alcohol?’

‘He says not, for religious reasons, but to be honest … well, I’ve seen him at least once when his conduct made me think he was under the influence.’

‘Maybe he smokes weed?’

‘I … you’ll have to ask him that yourself. You see, I’ve tried to avoid personal subjects between us as much as possible because …’

‘Yes, I understand.’ I nodded to her. ‘Fine, Frau Lipschitz, I have enough information for now. I assume you’ll want to think it over. You can call me anytime.’ I took one of my business cards out of my shirt pocket and gave it to her. ‘My usual fee as a bodyguard is a hundred euros an hour plus taxes, but for round-the-clock standby duty, at least a thousand euros a day, plus taxes. If Rashid gets drunk or catches flu and spends all day in bed it will still cost you just under a thousand two hundred euros. However, I’m flexible about calculating working hours: for instance, if Rashid wants to go to the cinema or something like that, and I can go for a coffee in the meantime, I won’t sit outside the cinema and claim I was searching the street for Al-Qaeda for two hours on end.’

‘I’ll have to discuss it with the publisher.’

‘Do that. And if we come to an agreement, please let me know as soon as possible so that I can check out the hotel before Rashid arrives.’

She nodded. ‘And in that case I would also send you his daily schedules.’

‘Great. And the threatening letters.’

‘And the threatening letters.’

‘I’ll wait for your call.’

We rose from the armchairs and shook hands. Then I showed her to the door and out into the stairwell, and pressed the light switch. The energy-saving bulb shed its cool grey light.

‘So what is the title of Rashid’s novel?’

‘ Journey to the End of Days .’

‘Ah. Does something like that sell well?’

‘The advance orders were enormous. With a subject like that … and although the book is only just out, everyone’s already talking about it. That’s why we’re so anxious in case anything happens during the Fair.’

We nodded to each other once more, exchanging friendly smiles, and then Katja Lipschitz made her way downstairs. I thought of warning her about the low ceiling on the last landing, but then let it be. She must have enough experience with low ceilings to notice, and judging by her reaction to my remark about her imposing figure she would rather do without further references to her size.

Back in my office, I typed ‘Malik Rashid: Journey to the End of Days ’ into the Google search box. Among other links, I found the Maier Verlag website. The novel had appeared in Paris a year before, and the French critics quoted by the publishing house were of course over the moon about it. Even elsewhere on the Internet I found, almost exclusively, praise for the book. Apart from a comment in a blog from one Hammid, who hated it like poison. Or at least my tourist French was enough for me to get the drift of un roman de merde and sale pédé . But as far as I could tell there were no reactions at all from Morocco or any other Arab country. So the fact that, according to Katja Lipschitz, the novel had caused a great stir there was a pure publicity spin. That was fine by me. Easy money again.

I took the station clock off its hook, opened the safe behind it and put the pistol and the handcuffs in my pockets. They should at least make a bit of an impression on Abakay if necessary. Then I shouldered my bike and set off for Sachsenhausen.

The sun was shining on the terrace of the Café Klaudia, where people were sitting eating lunch or a late breakfast. Talk, laughter and the clink of crockery mingled to make an inviting cloud of sound. I padlocked my bike to a traffic sign and went to the front door of the building, which was next to the terrace. There was a smell of raw onions, and full glasses of cider shone golden and enticing on the tables. ‘The locals’ favourite drink is a laxative, Edgar would say.’ That had even annoyed me a little when Valerie de Chavannes shared it. What was the damn Dutchman thinking of?

The front door of the building was not locked. I found Abakay’s name on the list beside the doorbells, went into the hall and climbed the stairs to the third floor as quietly as I could. But it was an old building, and the wooden steps creaked. When I reached the second floor, I thought I heard another creak from above me.

I didn’t exactly know what I was planning to do. Listen at the door, ring the bell? ‘Good morning, Kayankaya here, city gasworks, you must have an old pipe in there somewhere that’s been supplied with gas by accident, may I take a quick look through the rooms?’ Or, ‘Hey, Abakay, old boy! Remember that night at the club the other day? You gave me your address, and here I am. It’s me, Ali!’ Or simply, ‘Hand over the girl or I’ll smash your face in!’ And suppose no one came to the door? Did I wait on the stairs or in Café Klaudia? Or stroll around and keep my eyes open for the pair of them?

I didn’t have to know for certain. I didn’t have to know at all. On the third floor the door to Abakay’s apartment was open. On the floor on the other side of it, a fat, half-naked white man was lying on his back. He wore jeans and white sports socks, and his paunch bulged over the waistband of his jeans like a large flatbread dough. His head had fallen to one side, his face was turned to me, saliva was running out of his mouth and his eyes had a blind, staring look.

I took my pistol out of my jacket pocket and got close enough to him to see what was wrong: a small stab wound to the heart with blood seeping from it. Next moment I heard a door close, and someone in the apartment called, ‘Okay, I’ve got the stuff, we’ll be ready soon.’ And after a short pause: ‘Herr Rönnthaler?’

Another pause, and then footsteps approached. I got behind the doorframe, took the safety catch off my pistol, and peered into the front hall of the apartment. Abakay — shoulder-length hair, black, gleaming ringlets, little moustache as narrow as a pencil stroke, a white shirt unbuttoned to the waist, black waistcoat from a suit, thick gold rings on his fingers — bent over the body.

‘Rönnthaler …?!’

I had no time to think about it. When Abakay raised his head and looked around I walked into the apartment, pistol pointed at him.

‘Damn it, what the …?’

‘Where’s the girl?’

‘What?’

‘Tell me where she is or you’re next.’

He put his hands up in a placatory gesture. ‘Hey, man, I’ve no idea what’s going on here!’

‘The girl!’ I was fingering the trigger.

‘Yes, yes, it’s all good! She’s in the room over there! Everything’s okay! Please don’t …’

I hit him hard over the head with the pistol, his knees gave way, and he sank to the floor beside the other man’s body. I spent a moment listening for sounds in the stairwell. I’d thought I heard a step creaking again, but all was quiet. I took Abakay by the arm, dragged him over to a radiator and handcuffed him to the pipe. After that I quietly closed the door and quickly walked through the apartment.