Karsten Krepinsky - Berlin 2039 - The Reign of Anarchy

“A school? Really? Bastards!”

“Thank God the guards were able to fend off these pigs. But then they started randomly firing at passers-by, before they finally blew themselves to kingdom come.”

“Who’s behind it?”

“We don’t know yet. We’re still busy scraping these guys off the street.”

“I haven’t heard anything about it. I swear.”

“Where are you?” she asks.

“Checkpoint Schilling,” I answer. “In front of the movie theater.”

“Stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”

Fifteen minutes later Natasha arrives in her armored off-roader and I climb in.

“Did you have a chance to talk to the Imam yet?” she wants to know.

“Why? Do you think he ordered the attack?”

“He’s not in the habit of making empty threats.”

I nod, but I keep silent. I don’t want her to know how great I feel. Last night’s good sex still in my head and this morning’s caffeine coursing through my veins. During the next hours the sun will travel across a perfectly blue sky. Considering the horrors that took place just a few miles from here, my happiness might seem quite inappropriate. I’m aware of it, after all I’m not a monster. I know that some people will never be able to again enjoy a wonderful day like this. And in many cases it’s simply so damn unfair.

It’s the first suicide attack we’ve had in years, I think. The situation was much tougher in the Twenties, volatile times, when the Lemons had the unfortunate habit to self-explode. Natasha seems to be convinced that the Imam’s plotting a revival of this questionable tradition. It’s an easy way to spread general fear and terror. Jihad’s not just the name of some dim-witted thug who’s taken a dislike to me, but also the time-honored battle cry of the Lemons .

Natasha studies me. “What are you doing here, by the way?”

“Getting fresh air,” I reply.

She smiles. “A posh hooker again?”

I don’t answer.

“Hauke, Hauke, you really need to grow up,” she actually dares chastising me, as if she was my keeper. “Don’t you ever feel like starting a family?”

“What about you?” I evade her question.

“When the time is right.”

I look at Natasha. She has blue shadows under her eyes and seems to be sad, and there is more behind it than just the terrorist attack. She’s carrying heavy baggage around with her, a dark presence, dimming the light of pride in her face. Since we’ve known each other she’s been keeping a secret from me.

“We need to find out who sent this Salafist in the whorehouse to meet his maker,” she says. “The Imam demands to know who pulled the strings.”

“I know,” I slowly say.

“What’s your plan, then?”

I promise her to think of something, but she’s not happy with my answer. I need something to offer to Natasha, or she’ll keep pestering me. Goddamn ace of clubs. Poker cards ought to be made illegal. “I could pay a visit to the old Tsar .” I’m groping for straws.

“The old Tsar ? Dimitri Bashir?” My suggestion seems to surprise her.

I nod, yes. “He knows the Ghetto like the back of his hand.”

“He’s doing time in Sperenberg prior to being deported.”

“I know. Could you drive me there?”

“Do you think it makes sense?”

“Why not? You’ll never know without trying.”

“Are you sure?”

“If there’s something going down in the Ghetto, he’ll know about it. He might be in jail, but he’s still well connected. Maybe he can tell us more about this business with the poker card.”

“Okay.” Natasha nods, yes, and starts the engine. “Let’s grab a bite on the way. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“As long as you let me gaze into your beautiful eyes,” I try to flirt.

Natasha gives a sardonic laugh. But I know that she feels flattered.

Sperenberg Penitentiary is located south of Berlin. Deep in the woods and cut off from the rest of the world, the Lemons cool their heels here, before military planes based at the nearby airport ship them back to their home countries. It’s a maximum-security prison: double sally ports, steel gates, and very high concrete walls. The guards manning the towers have their grenade launchers pointed at the drive. Getting out of this place is not an easy feat. Natasha stays behind in the waiting area. She wants to keep in the background, because she hates confrontations with the Godfathers. Therefore, I make my way into the visitors’ area by myself. Arms and legs shackled, Bashir is sitting behind a wall of glass. His complexion is as white as a sheet und his lips have a blueish tinge. Lung cancer in the final stage, I’ve been told. He doesn’t seem to have many visitors any more and smiles, when he sees me. I would have never guessed that Bashir’s face could register something like joy. He used to be a real hunk, but now his body is emaciated. A man whose fight will soon be over. A man at the end of his life.

“Hauke,” he greets me, rubbing the dry skin on his face. He coughs. Then, he gets all teary-eyed and sentimental. “Do you remember how we last met on Strausberger? Back then, when I got married.”

“To your third wife?”

“Yeah.”

“I delivered a hefty amount of dope that day.”

“So you did. My old lady must have popped half of it on her own.”

“How’s she doing these days?”

Bashir quickly performs a swiveling motion with his head, glancing at the guard standing next to him. “Beata.” He turns back to me, whispering through the holes in the pane that separates us. “I cut up the ugly bitch’s mug.” For a moment his wrinkled face brightens with sadistic glee. Then, Bashir tells me about his ungrateful son who prevents his grandchildren from seeing him. He complains about the lousy conditions in jail and about the fact that Vasily—he calls the Chancellor by his first name—the rat has refused to grant him pardon. Solitary confinement either shuts people up or makes them loquacious. Bashir belongs to the second group. He just wants to see his grandson one last time, he says between bouts of coughing. And then the man actually breaks out in tears right in front of me. I don’t feel sorry for him in the least. Because I’m thinking of all the people he has killed. The fifteen-year-old whose throat he cut in front of my very eyes, even though the kid was desperately pleading for his life. Bitter old man, now you get what you’ve asked for , I think. The little visitors’ area wouldn’t offer enough room to assemble all of the old Tsar’s victims. I can see their ghosts, silently looming behind him. Patiently, they wait for him to take his last breath. And then he’ll burn in hell.

“Maybe I can help you,” I lie, my face a picture of sympathy as if I gave a shit about him. Even though it’s nothing I’m proud of, I’d always do it again. “I can get you out of here,” I offer. I don’t hate myself for it.

Bashir’s face lights up. Hope has been kindled.

“I really want to help you,” I continue my dirty game.

“What do you want to know?”

“You play poker once in a while?” I ask.

The old Tsar frowns. “You crazy, man?”

“I was just thinking. What’s the name of the game, where the ace of clubs is the second highest card?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“About the new player in the Ghetto who operates under the symbol of the crucifix.”

“Crucifix?” Bashir seems to be confused. “You mean the kuffars from Nigeria? The pigs who finished off Boko Haram?” he shoots back. He then starts ranting about modern times in the Ghetto and how they still had a sense of honor in the old days. Rules. I let him carry on. The usual wisdom of the streets. “You know what these Soul Brothers are like,” he rages. “One moment they cheer, the next they’re yelping like lap dogs because their pretty little noses got broken. You wouldn’t expect it from guys who’re six feet tall and pumped up with anabolic steroids like a man bit by a snake.”