Juli Zeh - The Method

He traces a movement in the air as if he were threading something long and thin through a tiny opening. When Mia tries to leap up, he raises his hand, stopping her with a priestly gesture.

‘One moment, please. I’m almost done. “The scheme was designed to provoke a legal scandal and shake the Method to its core. After Moritz’s death, I took over as leader of the Snails. It was Moritz’s will. The other members of the Snails are known to me only by their code names — their identities were kept secret for their own protection. My contact person was an operative known as No one .” That’s right, isn’t it?’ Kramer pauses. ‘Incidentally, No one is a code name for a younger colleague of mine, Herr Wörmer from What We All Think . Most regrettable.’

Mia is on her feet. She rushes at Kramer, but he leaps up and catches her fists. For a few seconds they wrestle in silence, then Mia surrenders and slumps against him. It is almost like a lovers’ embrace.

‘Sometimes you realise that the smell of another human being is a wonderful thing,’ she says softly.

‘You’re a good girl.’ Kramer strokes her hair gently. ‘A brave girl. A lonely girl.’

At that, Mia pushes him away with both hands and tugs wildly at her overalls. She smooths her hair. ‘You’ll never get away with it.’

Kramer shakes his head slightly as he reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a plastic bag, which he proceeds to pull over his right hand.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ he says. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered why Moritz was on a blind date with a woman who was murdered by his stem cell donor that very night?’

‘There’s such a thing as coincidence.’

‘Even for scientists?’

‘You know very well that it wasn’t a terrorist plot.’

‘Really? It fits together beautifully, don’t you think? Very convincing.’ Smiling, Kramer transfers the empty protein tubes to his plastic bag, carefully avoiding any contact with his skin. ‘Let the poison of doubt do its work. At least you’ll have something to think about in your spare time.’

‘You’re beasts!’ shrieks Mia. ‘You’re cold-blooded murderers!’ She points in what she thinks is the direction of the prison’s main door. ‘I’ll tell the people outside about your criminal system; they’ll smash down the doors!’

‘The people outside,’ says Kramer, pointing politely in the opposite direction, ‘will believe what they want to believe. So you’re determined not to sign, Frau Holl?’

‘I expected better of you, Kramer — more sophistication, fewer outright lies. It’s humiliating to be hitched to such a rickety wagon. You really don’t have a conscience at all.’

Kramer has placed the plastic package of tubes into his bag. He turns to look at Mia and smiles: his face shows no trace of satisfaction or scorn.

‘Why don’t we call it a sense of honour? Not so long ago you accused me of thinking that all political systems were essentially the same. Let’s assume you were right. Let’s also assume that we agree on this point. Whatever the system, everywhere in the world you see unhappy, unsmiling faces. In our system, there’s a respectable proportion of smiles. Isn’t that enough, Frau Holl?’

‘Moritz had to die for a smile?’ says Mia through gritted teeth. ‘Moritz and Hannemann — and whoever you’ve lined up next.’

Kramer ignores her objections. ‘Anyone with a talent for analytical thinking must resign himself to living in a vacuum — or choose a path. You made a choice, Frau Holl, but decisions are only real when you’re faced with their consequences. The consequences take hold of you, and they don’t let you go. The biggest danger is opportunism and the only defence is a sense of honour. I’m bound to my cause by my sense of honour and the same is true for you.’

‘Are you trying to convince me not to put my signature to your pack of lies?’

‘Maybe, my sweet,’ says Kramer, smiling slightly. ‘But I’ll come back and ask you again to sign. Santé.’

JUDGE HUTSCHNEIDER IS a man of some sixty years with a full beard and most of his professional life behind him. His children speak four languages; his son lives in Paris, his daughter in New York. At weekends he takes the Cityhopper to visit his grandchildren, whose faces are pasted inside a locket around his wife’s neck. The outside of the locket bears the family crest, likewise the mat outside the front door. When the Hutschneiders refer to their house as their ‘abode’, they do so without a hint of irony. Judge Hutschneider’s life is an immaculate chain of correct decisions: the doormat, the locket, Paris and New York. He leads an orderly, peaceful existence in which there is no place whatsoever for the Mia Holl affair.

Now that Sophie has been stood down from the trial and transferred to a provincial court, Hutschneider has been dragged out of semi-retirement and installed as her replacement. The boost to his pension does little to console him: Mia Holl is not a defendant; she is a time bomb. Since his appointment as presiding judge, his house has been besieged by journalists, none of whom pay any attention to the crest on the mat. The crowds outside the law courts are slowly thinning, but Hutschneider is still obliged to sneak round the back. And his office has been colonised by Method Defence.

Hutschneider has never had such reason to be grateful that his children live abroad. Humans are very vulnerable, even when their every movement is supervised by two inscrutable bodyguards with transmitters in their ears. Humans breathe, eat and drink — they touch things with bare hands . And a rumour has been circulating that the Snails are about to launch a large-scale chemical attack. Under the circumstances Hutschneider is reluctant to play the hero, especially when the well-being of his family is at stake. One false move could ruin his chances of a peaceful retirement, and Hutschneider, by his own admission, is no match for Mia Holl. Luckily, there are people who are trained to deal with terrorists, and he has taken their advice.

Despite the experts’ warnings not to get emotionally involved, Hutschneider is immediately affected by the sight of the defendant, seated mere metres away behind a Plexiglas screen. With her slight frame and hollow face, against which her eyes are unnaturally big and bright, she doesn’t look like a potential mass murderer. He thinks of clever, discerning Sophie, who was duped by this woman, and reminds himself that no one can see into another person’s soul. And with all respect to human nature, he isn’t much tempted to try.

Contrary to his usual practice, Hutschneider has brought a complete edition of the Method’s statutes to the hearing. The volumes are lined up like a barricade across his desk.

‘Frau Holl,’ he says, ‘I’d like you to tuck your hair behind your ears and raise your head properly. Look towards me … Thank you, that’s right.’

Mia complies. She is sitting on a stool, with a straight back and something resembling pride. She looks at the judge with torturous determination. Her gaze conveys a mixture of childish outrage, anguished hope and utter dismay. For the first time in his life Hutschneider wishes he were wearing dark glasses.

‘Please summon the chief witness,’ he says to the microphone on his desk.

Barely a second later, the door opens and a pair of guards bring in a man in handcuffs. Like Mia, he is wearing overalls made of white paper. The lower half of his face is obscured by a hygiene mask. Hutschneider gestures for the guards to lead him to the Plexiglas partition.

‘ No one ,’ he says, ‘do you recognise this woman?’