Karsten Krepinsky - Berlin 2039 - The Reign of Anarchy

The “Private Security Area” begins right behind Oberbaumbrücke. Sheriffs in black uniforms guard the entrance to the amusement zone. They are headquartered in a watchtower in front of East Side Gallery. Unlike the fence that surrounds this party area, these guys in black really present an obstacle. Everyone knows that they have no qualms to open fire on unauthorized intruders. Now and then the victims of these disciplinary steps can be seen floating in the River Spree. The bodies usually drift all the way down to Jannowitzbrücke, where they’re finally fished out of the water. Just in time, lest the view of bloated corpses might affect the Globals’ marriage proposals, often made during leisurely evening strolls along the riverbank.

“Why does he always wear sunglasses?” I ask Natasha, while the Imam basks in the adoration of his followers. Our seats are in the upmost box, far away from the general Lemon population. Although the word “box” evokes images of luxury, painfully absent from the shabby interior of the arena.

“There’s something wrong with his eyes,” she explains. “They say that he’s almost blind.”

“Blind? Really? He’s moving around pretty nimbly for a blind guy.”

We both study the tall man in his off-white caftan. He’s protected by at least one bodyguard like usual. Ali Bansuri, the most powerful man in the Ghetto. 62 years of age, eight wives, 43 children. One of his daughters serves as a representative in the Bundestag, the German Parliament. Two of his wives are still girls, fourteen and fifteen years old. Bansuri means flute. And he eagerly sticks his flute into every orifice he can find. His face looks friendly. Just imagine your generic grandfather. While Bansuri enjoys the adulations of his fan club, Natasha rolls her eyes. I know how much she resents him. Bansuri is a preacher but, most of all, he’s a businessman. After a short introduction, followed by some quotes and meaningless formal greetings, he asks the members of his flock for donations to his Islamic Relief Organization . Many mosques are in a deplorable state, he complains. People are avoiding the houses of prayer, all the while committing sins in the privacy of their homes. The spectators in the lower tiers start to booh. They’re exclusively male and black-haired, most of them sporting full beards. The veiled women crowd in the upper level. Their robes are black. What this arena sorely lacks is some color, I think. Next, the Imam lists the games of chance the faithful are allowed to engage in.

Bingo is halal —okay.

Laughing while playing bingo, though, is haram— not okay.

Roulette is haram .

Wheel of fortune is haram .

One-armed bandits are haram .

Card games are haram .

These Lemons really know how to make the place rock. The Imam has the crowd hanging on to his lips. Almost foaming at the mouth, he’s screaming into the mike, dictating the rules of life and agitating against the infidels. But his emotional eruption of outrage is nothing but cool calculation. A routine performance. A controlled display of fervor, as if he were an actor on stage. He continues to whip up the masses, until his bearded puppets are seething with hatred. Bansuri claims that it’s the infidels who keep Muslims in poverty. During his diatribe von Schlotow just stands there, shifting from one foot to the other. The Imam lets the rage of the audience wash over the ashen-faced politician for a while, before he deigns to relieve the poor guy of his misery. If relief is the right word. Because Bansuri then announces that the mayor is planning to convert to Islam. No idea if it’s true. Maybe it’s just a PR gag. There are too many fake converts around, to whom joining a religion is nothing more than signing the contract for a new job. You know how politicians tick. The honest Abes among them are usually left behind in the dust or ignored by the average citizen. Charisma is the cousin of vanity. Which is the stuff, blinkers are made of. Schlotow seems to play along. Many Lemons are registered voters. Gullible souls, just ripe for picking. And he seems to need all the votes he can get. He also doesn’t really run a risk. Because the speech in its full length is only broadcast in the Lemon neighborhoods. The Germans in the nicer parts of the city have their own media. Customized political campaigns, truth made to fit for every target-group. Just tell them what they want to hear. And most journalists know the name of the game. But maybe there are fifty righteous men left in this town, I remind myself of the truism one of the nuns used to quote when I needed to be disciplined.

Soon, Natasha and I are both bored to tears. After a while she opens the top button of her blouse. She likes my eyes to roam across her cleavage. “Last night, Ramsan Alchanov was killed at Frankfurter Tor,” she says, as if stating the obvious.

“Alchanov,” I repeat absently, because I’m busy admiring her tits. “A Chechen, right?” I ask, just to make sure.

“Yeah,” She replies. “Someone stuck an ace of clubs between his fingers,” she elaborates.

The mention of the poker card makes me sit up. “Have you been to the scene?”

Natasha shakes her head, no. “You know that the Chechens would never allow it.”

“Just asking,” I say.

“They sent a photo to the LKA.”

“A portrait of the late Ramsan?” I take a guess.

She nods again.

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” I point out. “Maybe the photo has been tampered with.”

“Maybe.”

I suddenly have a brainstorm. “There might be more than one killer. Or a copycat.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m convinced that we’re dealing with one perp only.”

“We shouldn’t get too fixed on the poker card.”

“You know my view on this ace-of-clubs angle.”

“If it’s really the same guy, it raises one important question, I think.”

“Shoot.”

“What did the two victims have in common? For what possible reason should anyone kill the Arab manager of a whorehouse and a Chechen porn producer?”

Natasha buttons up her blouse. “That’s exactly what you’re going to find out.”

I shake my head, no. “I’m peddling drugs. You’re the investigator.”

“You have the right contacts inside the Ghetto.”

“They’re called customers.”

“That’s why you are my informer. Do you honestly believe that these guys would bare their souls to a LKA detective?”

I wave her off. “They won’t trust a snitch like me either.”

“But you’re very convincing.”

“Convincing?” I repeat.

“Right,” she replies with a downright lovely smile.

“And how exactly will I convince Bansuri to talk to me?”

“With the aid of two pounds of coke,” she dryly answers, holding out a plastic bag to me.

I shake my head, because I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You’re carting around this much dope in a cheap bag?”

“Why not?”

“Well, the packaging is a tad lacking in style, I should say.”

“Here, where Orient and Occident meet”—the Imam has meanwhile worked himself up into a lather—“the one and only true faith will win its final victory.” His words are followed by the theme music of the Muslim Terminator . The spectators jump off their seats and start clapping frenetically. The women in their segregated upper levels are screaming like banshees and wave signs, offering themselves for marriage to this humanoid monster. I lean back and close my eyes. The cheering turns into white noise, as I doze off.

Natasha wakes me when the spectacle is over. The Imam declares the Muslim Terminator the winner. The loser is wrapped in a bloody sheet and carried from the arena. The crowd’s had its fun. We leave the box before everyone else gets up. Natasha points out his one weak spot to me to prepare me for my meeting with the Imam . It’s Khalid, his firstborn, 46, unmarried, no children. Enjoying life to the hilt in his penthouse above Alexanderplatz. Much to his old man’s chagrin, he jets around the world and parties with fancy hookers. He’s the steady thorn in the Imam’s flesh. I know Khalid well. He’s my best customer. I sell him every unit I can spare. Khalid pays well. Even a Pusher doesn’t mind a little revenue on the side, you know.