Battlefield Berlin E-Book

Reginald Rosenfeldt

• Herausgeber: neobooks
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Deutsch

Seitenzahl: 395

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Berlin 1985. The western part of the city is limited by the inhumane wall, and behind the scenes of daily politics act the Allies, and their intelligence services. In this chaos, Kowalski must uncover the death of a contact man to the Polish smugglers scene. The bloody trail leads him toward the raid of the century.

Leseprobe

Reginald Rosenfeldt

Battlefield Berlin

A commissioner Kowalski thriller

Dieses ebook wurde erstellt bei

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Titel

1. TRUST AND HONESTY

2. CELEBRATE THE NEWS

3. BAD BOYS

4. FISH AND CHIPS

5. BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY

6. HEAD OVER HEELS

7. HIDE AND SEEK

8. DEAD WARRANT

9. MANEUVER IN SPANDAU

10. WHEN THE FUN REALLY STARTS

11. DOG FOOD

12. SINS OF THE FATHERS

13. NAKED FURY

14. CRIME OF THE CENTURY

15. THE REAL REASONS?

16. AT THE END OF THE ROAD

17. TEN LITTLE INDIANS

18. WELCOME TO THE TERRITORY OF THE SECOND GERMAN STATE

19. BROTHERS IN ARMS

20. THE GOLDEN GOOSE

21. STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

22. AN INFORMAL CONVERSATION

23. THE REAL LIFE

24. CHECKPOINT CHARLIE

25. ILLUSIONS FOR THE LAYMAN

26. ASHES TO ASHES

27. SAND IN THE GEARS

28. AT MIDNIGHT

29. THOUGHTS IN A "BELL LONG RANGER"

30. NOTHING THEN THE TRUTH

31. A PERFECT DAY

Impressum neobooks

1. TRUST AND HONESTY

Michael Herold closed his car and looked thoughtfully at the sleepy houses on the other side of the street. In the few shops was the light turned off automatically, and on the nearby Town hall-place whined the typical sound of a BVG Bus.

Michael grinned wryly. "No balls in the pants." Or how they used to say it much more appropriate in the other districts of Berlin, the Spandau night watchman, employed as a tourist attraction, had closed the sidewalks.

Amused, Michael stuck the car keys in his trouser pocket and looked at his watch: 23:10 clock, only forty-five minutes to midnight. That was exactly the right time for a cozy meeting with Poland-Charley. Michael pulled high the zipper of his jacket, crossed the street, and entered the park. Behind the trunks of the few trees lurked the shadow of the war-memorial, and at the end of the short sandy path, waited the pedestrian bridge for the Linden-Shore.

Michael walked to the middle of the slightly curved concrete footbridge and looked at the lonely shore. The promenade was on the western banks of the Havel, the second major river of Berlin, and a few months ago, wandered here the good citizens of Spandau. Now, was the only memory of these carefree, sunny times a wooden sign of the "star and circle shipping". Sadly, it reminded Michael of his so often planned, and then cancelled trip to the great lake of "Wannsee". At the deserted docks wintered now the steamers of a Spandau ship-owner and at that view, Michael heard again Charley's broken voice in the telephone receiver

"See you on the "Cheerfulness”. Can you not miss the boat, is it right in front of the bridge to the Stabholz-garden. Can you come on board; I've agreed that with the captain. We drink first one or two brandy and then we'll talk. Please Michael, I have great news, you'll be amazed!"

Michael shook his head, and tried not to think on Charley's last tip. In the end, the so promising-sounding information was totally worthless gossip, trash for the feature. Yes, Harald Seib and his gossip column were just the right buyers for Charley's creepy tales.

Michael grinned against his will at the thought on his special colleague and walked to the shore. Large chestnuts lined the wide promenade and behind a low metal grid lay a small steamer. First, Michael checked the name on the ship's prow, to make sure that he stood before the "Cheerfulness", and mustered her then in detail: On her front deck lay a staple of decayed chairs under a tarp and behind the closed restaurant curtains glowed a flickering light.

Herold nodded approvingly and enters the ship over a small plank. Behind a sliding door waited a square room on him, only illuminated from the street lamps, and he remained at his center point.

Carefully, Michael scanned for a moment the stairs to the upper deck and registered the eerie silence on the steamer. Was Charley not on board? Yes, this was possible! Michael knows only too well, that the old man hated any kind of rules, specially the German punctuality.

All right then, decided Michael, if Charley was really late, he would not wait longer than a half hour. This was more than a friendly behavior for the old bugger! Grinning went Michael to the door next to the empty souvenir stand and pushed the handle down. The door swing back and he looked straight into the eyes of two suspicious, completely unknown men. The broad-shouldered guys blocked with loosely hanging arms the passage and Michael cursed silently.

"Shit, Charley had not told me, that his dubious business partner also wanted to come!" With an arrogant smile Michael Herold overplayed his surprise and looked at the silent strangers. But yes, of course: the expressionless faces, accurate hairstyles, and loosely cut weather jackets; the picture were now so clear, that Michael relaxed. With an excessively slowly movement, he held his right hand up in the air and nodded encouragingly.

"There’s no reason, to be nervous, gentlemen, I pull just the press card from the jacket!"

"No jokes! Come over here!" The rumbling voice has a frighteningly familiar tone and Michael opted not to answer. Still smiling, he pushed past the policeman and walked through the half-dark room. At its end, stood a white painted wooden counter and behind him turned a big man his back to Michael. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hip-length leather jacket and looked bored on the three pictures above the bottle rack. "Poor guy, you may think, the nostalgia has led him back to St. Pauli."

The broad man taps with his right index finger against the frameless glass slide. "Everybody remembered the old UFA film and the white doves, and then the reality is so horrible banal. The blond movie star was just in town and took advantage of the break for a promotional photo.”

"Please, Kowalski! I’m in no mood, to talk over Hans Albers. "Herold ignored the black and white photo of the Hamburg jetties and looked around searching. "So what is it this time? Let me guess, your colleagues from the customs office have Charley caught with illegal duty-free goods?”

"Once again, come simply over here!"

"Whatever you say, this is your show." Herold ignored the reproachful look of the pale gray eyes and walked to the bar counter. Externally totally unconcerned, he circled the with a rescue ring decorated piece of furniture, and then hit him the truth with the intensity of an unexpected electric shock.

"Crap!" Michael looked motionless on the white mark on the ground. Without any doubt it represented the outline of a lying body and in the height of the head smeared a red spot the worn planks.

"Charley?"

"Yes. Your old pal Poland-Charley." With a pensive expression chief commissioner Hans Jürgen Kowalski looked down on the white chalk line. "It happened very quickly. The old man has not felt the fatal blow. Crash, boom, bang, and past it was with the handling of stolen goods!"

"Very vividly expressed, Kowalski. This could almost be a headline from me."

"Oh come on, your readers loves completely different dirt!"

Herold ignored the obvious provocation and tried not to show his concern. He stepped out from behind the counter, and immediately Kowalski growled irritably. "The violent death of your old buddy is no surprise for you."

"My God, you know as well as I, that it eventually had to end this way. That was just a matter of time."

"Oh yes?"

"Please Kowalski! I must not tell you, that I begged Charley more then once, finally stop his thoughtless bragging. After a few glasses of vodka he shamed himself and his best friends, and for the correct sum, he was capable of almost any mess."

"Yeah, and the thirty pieces of silver were just paid out of petty cash." Kowalski's broad face twisted into a grimace of contempt and he pointed with a vague gesture into the room. “It`s about time, that we talk seriously!"

"No problem." Michael Herold turned around and looked briefly in the room: On both sides of the center aisle, were five rows of tables that were screwed just like the benches on the ground. Michael walked to the nearest bank, sat down and dug a Zippo from the jacket. Infuriatingly calm, he let the flame lick over the head of a menthol cigarette, and shut the Zippo with a loud click. "Well, what do you want to hear?"

"First, calm down!" Commissioner Kowalski sat down on the other side of the table and pulled thoughtfully a plastic calendar from his leather jacket. With pursed lips he leafed through it until the last third and then shows it Herald with a provocative smile. "Please look at the entry in the second line."

Herold leaned over and looked at the strange abbreviations next to Kowalski's thumb: "3.10.-23.00 clock, MH !!! 1000 S!" The terrible scrawl was without a doubt the handwriting of the old man.

"Twenty-three clock tonight! Yes, of course, that was Charley’s deadline!"

"Well, well, then at least, that’s finished! Otherwise, my congratulations, thousand whatever, that's quite an impressive sum for a lousy information."

"If you accept Austrian shillings, I will put you on my list."

"Save your strange humor for the next scribbling." Kowalski gave Herold the caricature of a warm-acting grin, that has been intimidated so many tough guys. "The ominous meeting! Have you any idea what Charley wanted to sell?"

"Not definitely. He called me last night and promised me once again the moon and the stars. Very flowery and pathetic, without anything really palpable..."

"You waste your precious time for the senseless ramblings of an old man?"

"Even hollow phrases often contain a grain of truth." Michael Herold leaned back and stared through the glass window next to his shoulder into the night. On the other shore shone the yellowish light points of two windows like distant fixed stars and above them moves restlessly Kowalski mirror image. The Commissioner clarified loudly his throat, and Michael turned around again.

"I research in the moment for a serial about transit-smuggling. It's work that would not been possible, without Charley's quite profound insider knowledge." Herold smiled challenging. "I guess, my revelations about the city cleaning are not gone completely unnoticed by you."

"Ah yes, the tiresome BSR affair. The front pages were not to be overlooked."

"The report gave the teams of three garbage trucks a significant fine and the entire executive-floor stands pretty in the rain!" Michael Herold laughed softly. "From today's point of view, I can only admire the audacity of the garbage men. The guys were members of a special squad, which once a month drove to the landfill in East Germany. They welded on their trucks unobtrusive metal boxes and disguised them as an additional dumpster. Then they went to the landfill as usual, took over from middleman duty-free American cigarettes, and smuggled them on the return trip through the checkpoint. The trick would probably never come out, if the gentlemen have not contacted a Polish receiver of stolen goods. The guy informed Charley and already I typed my first report."

"Good old Charley." Hans-Jürgen Kowalski grabbed once again the calendar and looked at the last entry on the side. "What`s about this night? Expected you actually similarly highly explosive material from your chatty friend?"

"Please Kowalski! Charley was basically nothing more than a tireless storyteller. In his very mysterious manner, he called me on yesterday, and named me the damn boat as meeting place. Of course, without the slightest hint about the upcoming topic; exact details I will learn tonight, that was his speech!"

"Too bad, that you missed this interview..."

"Be not so damn cynical! Maybe Charley needed only a little chat with a friend over a bottle of vodka.”

"How sad!" Irritated, Kowalski ran a hand through his thinning reddish hair. "Before I say something, that both of us do not like, we'd better come back to the topic. So, Charley noted: 23:00 clock; that was exactly two hours after his meeting with the Spree-Heinz."

"I know nothing about that. Charley has not mentioned to me another meeting."

"The Spree-Heinz is the honorable bartender of this ailing boat and a pretty smart fellow. According to his own testimony, he planned a cost-covering deal with Charley. Unfortunately, a rendezvous delayed the noble intentions, and the good Heinz left his lady not before 21:15 clock. But at this time, the mess was finished, and he could only stumble across Charley's corpse."

With an indefinable spark in his eyes, Kowalski turned his head to the side and looked gloomily over the crime scene. "Charley's unexpected departure saved him from a lot of trouble with the customs authorities."

"Your sarcasm is sometimes unbearable!"

"Life is unbearable. Look Herold: If the Spree-Heinz climbed from the lady only a little bit earlier, he would perhaps have prevented the murder. But no, he found not his pants, and already fate took its course."

"Yes, yes, life is hard and the Spree-Heinz has an alibi. Speaking of alibi, let's talk about my alibi!" Michael flicked his cigarette into the ashtray and pulled a notepad from the jacket pocket. Calmly he tore a side off, grabbed the pen from Charley’s calendar, and began to write down several names. "With these gentlemen I had a meeting at the Balkan-Grill and deserted them only twenty minutes ago. You should be able to verify this easily, especially, five of the persons are not entirely unknown for you."

"A working lunch with the Socialists! Probably even at the expense of the taxpayers." With a contemptuous snort Kowalski scanned the list and then leaned back. "Well! You are, despite all our dialectical differences, not on my list, although I've seen horses puke."

The creaking of the dark brown painted wooden planks interrupted Kowalski's already almost ended conversation. With a decidedly important expression walked the smaller of the two policemen to the table and announced: "Our colleagues from the crime scene are now finished with the front deck. We can move away, or do you need us for something special?"

"Not really, I finish that crap better alone and Mr. Herold is on his way." Kowalski's very red facial features twisted into a false smile, as he appraisingly looked over the reporter. "If you should still come up with something really new, please call. You know my number!”

"I know my duties."Michael Herold stubbed out his cigarette. Then he walked without looking back, thru the room, that smells now of a strong disinfectants. Behind him, the officer shook his head, and looked disapprovingly at his superior.

"Honestly, sometimes I do not understand you, Hans-Jürgen. Why do you let this wretched scribbler disappear so easily?"

"Do not worry; he will not get lost. We only need to follow our noses, if we need him. He stinks three miles upwind of fresh printer-ink."

Amused by his own joke, Kowalski strolled over to the bar. At the rough marking of the forensic team, he stopped and stared reluctantly down on the dried stain. Just a few hours ago laid here Charley's motionless body, twisted strangely, with a bloody temple. The lethal wound was almost unrecognizable, and if the deadly blow hits the head only ten centimeters higher, who knows?

Kowalski shook his head and nodded imperceptible to the colleagues. "I think we can seal the store now."

"That's what I'm saying. It`s all just routine, and there was not much to wipe up."

"What do you mean?"

“Well, at least the guy is not totally leak out, like this chick last week. I never thought that a single person can make such a mess." The officer looked with a contemptuous glance at the crime scene. "Fucking scum, slowly but surely, they changed every file in garbage!"

"This file? This is your personal nightmare, Schneider! I promise you that!" Hans-Jürgen Kowalski's quiet voice now has a sharp undertone. "Pull yourself together; here is perhaps more trouble, than you can digest."

Kowalski turned away, grabbed the documents, that lay scattered on the bar counter, and stuffed them in his leather backpack, while only a few meters from him, Michael Herold breathed deeply the cold night air. Thoughtfully, he leaned against the railing of the mooring and looked down at the river. A tiny light reflection danced over the black mirror and the rising wind blow from the near market place a familiar tune.

"Üb`immer Treu und Redlichkeit", murmured Herald and listened for a moment to the soft chimes. The bells hung above the entrance of a jewelry store, and tonight they played exactly the right lullaby for the good citizens of Spandau. "Exercise always trust and honesty, right up to your cool grave."

Michael Herold twisted his face into a sneer and turned around. Slowly, he let his gaze wandering over the Linden-Shore, and recognized even the most insignificant details. The little steamer, the reddish heaven, illuminated by the distant West-Berlin City, and the Charlotte-bridge at the end of the promenade. The steel construction spanned a path into darkness, and beyond the bridge Michael recognized the outline of several vessels. Without a doubt, the ships waited for a passage through the nearby, at that time of day closed floodgate.

Vessels from Charley's homeland; what for a coincidence! Michael Herold kicked a stone with the toe of his shoe to the side and looked again to the "cheerfulness". Charley had ordered him not only on a whim to the decayed steamer. Somewhere on this ship, or in the immediate area, lay the key to the events of the last few hours.

An obscene curse on his lips, Michael looked again to the lighted windows of the ship-restaurant and then turned his back to the ugly sight. With great strides he walked down the sandy way, crossed again the dark park, and hurried in the Charlotte-Street to his parked car. In a light daze, he climbed in the Datsun, launched him, and drive away from the scene of the crime.

2. CELEBRATE THE NEWS

The next morning, Michael Herold wakes up with a slight headache. Accordingly, he was in a bad mood, and after a light breakfast, which consists only of coffee and biscuits, he drove into the publishing house, and enters his office. The appearance of the small room was just as messy, as he had left him, and Michael stood at its center point. For a moment, he looked out of the window, and noticed then the surrounding chaos. On the desk lay the incoming mail of the last two days, the ficus plant had dropped some leaves, and the calendar had to be renewed.

Disgusted, Herold pushed the red arrow with the index finger on the 4th of October and allowed himself a slight sigh. 1985 was far too quickly gone by, and now it was again near December with its enormous time pressure. The editorial expected a brilliant idea for the newly introduced Sunday papers, the Christmas-market moderation weighted on his shoulder like the weight of the world, and the manuscripts were done best yesterday.

Michael Herold grimaced sourly the face, and looked superficially through the mail. Then he took the red stapler that waited in the inbox for so many days. The quarterly statistics was so alarming, as he had feared it, and Michael cursed silently. Instead of write down the events of the last evening, he began to study the tables, and cursed the publisher.

Dr. Candidus has delayed the costly, but vital modernization of the "Havelländische Kurier" again and again since 1979. Red numbers punish her bad decision, and Sybille Candidus had no other choice, but to approve the merger with a large media company. The new partnership frightens, as expected, the regular readers, who had appreciated the "Courier, because of his critical distance to the Berlin tabloid press. Now, as a direct result of the circulation, the sales fell within one month by 47 percent.

"Forty-seven percent" muttered Michael and closed the stapler, after looking at the also gone back by half advertising revenue. Frustrated, he occupied a comfortable position in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to meditate, until the bells of the nearby catholic Church of St. Mary rang the Angelus. 12 clock; high time that he get something warm in his stomach. Michael walked to the canteen on the first floor, ordered a serving of “Königsberger Klopse” and ate the meatballs, which lay in a warm caper sauce. Somewhat satisfied, he digests an Espresso, ignited then the obligatory second cigarette of the working day, and walked back to his office.

Here waited unfinished work on him, and so he grabbed an article on the illegal dump at the Mulberry-Avenue. He started the proofreading and threw after the third revision the pen on the sheet. For today it was really enough lousy work and besides, it was time for a strong coffee.

Michael leaned forward, pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk, and grabbed the necessary utensils for his "afternoon coffee". With the brown metal bushing and a filter bag in his hand, he went to the file cabinet and clicked the automatic water boiler. Then he put the paper bag in a porcelain filter, filled him with three spoonfuls of freshly ground coffee from Italy, and stuck him upon a small pot. When the first steam was rising from the water boiler, he poured the hot water over the powder, and within minutes an aromatic fragrance filled the room. Michael let the coffee draw a moment and then poured himself a cup. Reconciled with himself, he went to the window and sipped the invigorating drink. Yes, the coffee had exactly that taste, which he estimated for so many years; strong, spicy and flavored with a hint of salt.

Michael enjoys a second sip and looked more relaxed on the uncomfortable world beyond the misted glass. Beneath his window floated an army of black umbrellas over the sidewalk and the damp fabric mushrooms remembered him not for the first time at the shiny exoskeleton of an ant-convoy. Tirelessly crawled the wet army through the Neuendorfer-Street and by the bizarre sight returned slowly Michaels good mood. Grinning, he ignored the passers-by that battled against the rain, and looked on his own reflection. At first glance, it sprayed the usual charm, that was so popular by ladies, and in his gray eyes sparkled obvious a hint of irony.

"Tough, old boy!" Michael cast another look at the familiar face and wrinkled involuntarily his forehead. Somehow, his smile seemed a little bit unreal, and the beard stubble gave him not a younger look. Yes it was true, the first gray stubbles was a silent reminder at his fortieth birthday last Year.

"All right, still a pinch world weariness more?" Michael Herold winked to his likeness, while behind him quietly opened the door. The reflex of a volatile shadow flitted across the window glass and a throaty voice asked: "A little bit vain today? Do you like what you see?”

"Let's say I'm not surprised." Herold turned around and looked unabashed at the new volunteer. "I suppose, you see me not only to improve my mood?"

"Oh, I am sorry. Normally I blurt not so easy in, but the colleague on the third floor, this somewhat conservative, with the strange sense of humor..."

Michael Herold laughed softly. "This is probably the most accurate description from Harald Seib, I've heard in years. A headline could not express it more appropriate.”

"Thank You. Colleagues Seib is hard to ignore. He asked me personally, to present you this information; he say, it's damn hot!"

"Very cooperative, but watch it, Christine. A few more of these errands and you start an apprenticeship at the post office."

"Do not worry, I leave me not exploit so quickly, and, besides, I was already on the way to this floor. It smells always so delicious, and just today I couldn't resist a cup of good coffee.”

"Well, then, you are cordially invited." Herold opened the drawer again and fumbled a second cup out. He poured carefully the still steaming coffee in the china cup and handed it to Christine. "Enjoy it alone, I see now just through that documentation."

"Do what you want" Sipping at the black poison, leaned the girl against the table. Michael ignored her provoking long legs, and pulled out of the brown envelope a thin booklet.

"A message from the Spandau district office; Seib is surely not in his right mind. These illuminations from the town hall reach me without his help." Annoyed Herold turn around the cardboard-cover and glanced fleetingly at the first page: "Commercial use of Palas 85/86" proclaimed the headline under a drawing of the Julius tower. Michael paused and looked now with more attention at the rough recycling leaves. That was not a mandatory advertisement for the Spandau Christmas market, but a catalog for a number of exhibitions in the citadel. For the next month promised the bold lines: “November 1985. Visit the crown exhibition! Crowns and royal insignia from eight European countries! See them in the shadow of the Julius tower."

"Incredible!" Impressed Michael lowered the booklet and mustered the cover picture. "Really! Apparently they are finally woke up in the town hall and try to obtain the budget of their problem child on her own account."

"Don’t be angry, but do you mean this old building just beyond the ship sluice?" Christine touched playfully the stylized emblem of the fortress, and smiled disarmingly. "Sorry, I came only a year ago from Osnabrück to Berlin."

"No need to apologize; your description of the old fortress is quite right. For so many people is the Citadel in fact nothing more than a dusty museum. Yes, this is an absolutely forgotten area, where you can only play with your grandkids at a Sunday-afternoon, or spit from the Citadel-Tower into the river. A matter of course, as the moat around the old town and the Nikolai Church, and this is a ignorance, that the Citadel does not deserve. After all, she is the oldest Renaissance fortress north of the Alps, and parts of the main building even date back to the time of Albert the Bear."

"Sorry, I've missed a real gem."

"No problem, you have a lot of reason, to sneer!" Michael Herold looked the young woman deep in her green eyes. "In the end, you are not so wrong. Not even my fellow countrymen stroll at the weekend to the Citadel, and how should they? For the fortress there is neither an effective advertising concept, nor integration into the Berlin tourism. In practical terms, the official side of the citadel is dead and now, suddenly this enlightenment!"

Herold opened the catalog again and pointed with his index finger on the announcements on the second page: "Februar 1986: Dali Retrospective 1920-1980. Graphics, objects, and designs. Summer 1986: Pyotr I. Alexejewitsch-Russia’s opening to the West. Woow! What for attractive local themes, and here as the icing on the cake, the crown exhibition."

"By the way," the volunteer fished an envelope out of the stack of letters, "This message belongs to the info. Seib accepted no absence from the fete, and there is free beer!"

"Well, fantastic!" Michael slits the envelope with the thumb and looked at the contained card. "An invitation, and naturally, of course, for tonight. At 20:00 clock, the head of the art-office present the finer details of the exhibition in the citadel. For dining and drinks will be provided, good humor, and enthusiasm everyone must bring his own."

Herald's looked at his wristwatch. "I love these timely notifications! This is so typical for Bergmeier!”

"Well, I don’t want to disturb you much more. So, thank you for the delicious coffee. Ciao!" Christine walked with a skillful pelvic thrust out of the room, and Michael looked again at the invitation. Nothing against a celebration in the citadel, but before that, he had a very urgent meeting with the old Bronslav.

Sighing, Michael slipped a hand into his jacket, and weighed thoughtfully the car keys in hand. Normally, he would cancel the meeting, but Bronslav was simply the only person in town, who owns vital information about Poland Charlie's last days and hours.

Poland Charley, or as his real name was, Joseph Zcybulski; united with Lech Bronslav a fierce love-hate relationship, that still stemmed from the old country. The two men fought already on the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk shoulder to shoulder for their ideals, and braved so long the Russian winds, until they had to migrate in an unloved country. There, in the cold streets of West-Berlin, Zcybulski succumbed very quickly the dark side of life, while Bronslav over the years became the shepherd of the ever-growing Polish community. His word now had top priority, and probably, not even a leaf fell from the trees at the faraway river Weichsel, without Lech’s blessing.

Amused, by this not so absurd idea, Herold leaves the publishing house, and hurried to his Datsun. Automatically, he activated the car radio and heard the refrain of "Ebony and Ivory" in the RIAS (Radio in the American sector) . Michael turned the sound a little louder, started the car, and reached a few minutes later the Lynar-Street. The old road was named after the architect of the Citadel, Count Rochus of Lynar. Directly in front of the red block of the hospital with the same name, he parked the car, and mustered for a moment the tenements on the other street side.

Most of the four-story houses were buildings from the eighties of the last century, and behind the dirty windows of Bronslavs apartment flickers no lights. Michael knew that it did not mean much, and crossed the dam. With great strides he climbed to the second floor of the house and beat in the appointed rhythm against Lech's door. After a moment answered him a rough voice, "Yes, yes, I'm coming! Will it not be so hasty, or has the last judgment finally arrived? Would it not surprise me in this accursed city!"

Reluctantly, the door opened a crack, and Lech blinked short-sighted through his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. "Oh yes, there is only one so ruthless man in Spandau!" With a shaky hand removed Lech the safety chain and shuffled back into the living room. He scrambled awkward to his just abandoned couch and pulled the faded camel-hair blanket up to his mouth. Breathing heavily, he stared defiantly against the wall and Herold nodded duly impressed. "You look not especially happy, my friend. Shall I go back?"

The old man snorted contemptuously through the nose and wrapped the blanket tighter around his fragile body. His voice sounded strangely stifled through the felted fabric. "Can you save your irony and make yourself useful! Grab two glasses, a small sip have you surely in your big pockets.”

Obediently pulled Michael Herold a duty-free Polmos Bottle from his coat pocket and looked at the table plate, which was covered with travel brochures. "What, still the same dream of the south?" Lech growled only irritably. "Really, at this time of the year is the Riviera surprisingly mild, I think, this will certainly pleases your old bones."

Herold pushed the catalogs aside and put the bottle on the vacated area. Then he opened the glass door of the dark stained dresser and grabbed two small tankards. As a precaution, he holds the glasses, which was originally filled with sweet mustard, against the window and wiped them carefully with a paper towel. Bronslav, that the procedure annoyed not the first time, snorted contemptuously. "Do you want to insult me again? Do I have enough eyesight to keep everything in good shape! I know at any time, what is important in this lousy town."

"Sure Lech, no doubt about that." Herold filled the vodka three fingers high in the tankard and placed him next to Lech lounger on the ground. "Hail to our little dreams and the dirty reality!"

The brandy was lukewarm and the fluted glass sticks to Michael Herolds fingers. Bravely, he gulped down the first sip of decency, and looked then on Bronslavs living room. Nothing has changed here since his first visit, even the dusty silk rose adorned the rosary that still dangled near the door. The pea-sized prayer-beads consisted of dark polished amber, just like the corpus of the wooden cross that has his place between the windows. Thoughtfully, Michael remained before the crucifix, and looked down to the faded photographs.

Joseph Zcybulski: Unusual laughing before the restored convention house of the Marienburg, the once so mighty castle of the templar knight. Joseph, shag-pipe smoking in Gdansk, near the Krantor, and with rolled up sleeves at the shipyard in Szczecin.

“Stir not thy hard heart?" Lech Bronslavs voice was bitter. "All these beautiful shots of Joseph brave face. God in heaven, what was he for a modest young man. Dumb and idealistic, he still dreamed of a free country."

Lech pushed himself up and seized with trembling fingers the greasy glass. For a moment he stared into the back and forth sloshing vodka, and then he waved him accusingly in Herolds direction. "And what’s about you? Has Joseph influenced you so strong, that you want to cheat me? For months, you no longer see me, and then, out of the blue, you have just today time for a little chat? Oh, come on!”

Michael Herold was about to reply, but Lech just waved wearily. "Must you not justify yourself. Is there really no reason for any excuses or sentiments. Did you come here only for Joseph, so let us talk only about him."

With an energetic movement Bronslav gulped the vodka down and whispered hateful: "Do you really want to know what makes me almost sick? It is this horrible feeling to have totally failed at the crucial moment. You must know, I have invoked Joseph, I have roared, where is your faith? What is with the eternal values of mother church, signify they nothing more for you? At this point, he grinned cheekily, and then I know, how much Joseph despised our old ideals. Yes, whatever seemed sacred and beautiful in his youth, he has shamelessly banished from his life. Betrayed, for the cursed Mammon, who still brought nobody really luck."

“Sorry, Lech! Now you are cheating yourself! After all I know, you tolerate Joseph’s dirty deals for so many years!”

"Not that unholy money! God help him, Joseph had sold himself like a whore to the wretched heretics!" Undisguised anger swung in Bronslavs words when he spoke again. "I had been able to forgive him much, but not his partnership with the traitor. I begged Joseph, literally begged; you must cancel and forget this business with Leo."

"Leo?"

"Leopold Oblonsky! Don't tell me, I have never mentioned this pig? He brings shame over the community with his Russian whores and the dirty video library. Weapons, Snow, he supplies you with everything you want! Leo makes money from dirt and now he wanted to start with Joseph the so called big deal. The big deal! You should have seen how Joseph's eyes lit up, as he talked about it. That idiot, he never realized that Leo only used him for his unholy transactions!”

"Said Joseph anything about the nature of these transactions?"

"You ask this not seriously? It was you, that he finally sold his crap for an expensive price. No, my friend, I'm probably the last person on earth, that Joseph entrusted information."

With a shrill ringing the phone interrupted Lech Bronslav. Startled, he sat up and sighed overwhelmed. "Have mercy with my poor soul! Will nobody give a penny for my needs? I have said it more than a thousand times that the afternoon is sacred for me!"

Lech picked up the receiver from the phone and listened for a moment the distant voice. Two times he answered in vain, then his mouth moved menacingly down, and he cursed loudly into the mouthpiece. When the stranger on the other side not reacted to the angry Polish words, Lech slammed the receiver on the phone. Outraged, he stared with a heavy breathing on Michael.

"This cheeky cretin! He dares simply to call me a liar! Will he not simply believe that Joseph is dead now! And anyway, why knows that damn guy my number? I am not in the phone-book!"

"But in Joseph's black notebook ..."

"What are you trying to tell me? Joseph knew full well, that I canceled every contact with the skipper. They all have skeletons in their closets! Very dirty secrets!"

"How naive are you? Joseph has sold your address, sells her very expensive! That is the simple truth! "Michael Herold shook his head regretfully and walked to the massive cabinet. Slowly, he opened the lid of a wooden box, chose two figures, and held both fists against Bronslav. The old man tapped on the right hand, and Herold placed a white pawn on the chess table, that stands next to the bed. Then he divided the remaining chess pieces on the table and sat down across from Lech.

With difficulty, he tried to concentrate himself on the game, because Lech hated nothing more than a opponent, that was only fighting half-hearted. For him each move had the status of an almost religious act, and for this reason, Herold played the game with a lot of patience. During the rest of the afternoon, he bravely fought two draws and a narrow victory, and raised then his hands apologetically.

"Excuse me, but for a rematch, my time runs out. I have to be at least in 90 minutes in the citadel, and before that, a little rest is not wrong."

"Oh yeah! Do not play the innocent. I know that you cannot wait to drink with your colleagues! On that occasion, if it just happens, that you see the woman from the “Youth and Social Affairs”, please do me a big favor. Ask her, when will the community finally get the new club room? I have previously submitted three requests and still waiting for their gracious permission!"

"No problem, I drink in your name a little Chablis with Mrs. Mendel." Herold stretched his stiffened limbs and grabbed his jacket that hung over the arm of the chair. "If I do not contact you, we meet again at Joseph's Requiem next Monday."

Lech Bronslav nodded silently and wrapped himself into the protective cocoon of his camel-hair blanket. He looked toward an imaginary point on the wall and whispered full of resignation: "What are you waiting? Did you have it yet so hurry, to finally disappear!”

"Don’t worry; I'm practically on my way. Oh, and Lech, you try not to annoy me on purpose? Forget it, no later than next week I am back on your threshold, whether you like it or not."

Michael Herold knocked goodbye on the door frame and left without looking back, Bronslavs apartment. He rushed quickly the stairs down and cursed extensively his good nature. Once again, he had not brought it about his heart, Lech leave at the right time, and now it simply was not enough time for a return in his own four walls.

Angry with himself he started his car and turned after a short drive into the street, that leads to the Citadel. Old chestnut lined the moat of the fortress and behind him lurked the outlines of the Bastion-King in the darkness. Powerful and undefeated, guarded they for over four hundred years the commandant's house, and Michael smiled pleased, as he headed for the building. Actually, it was touching how the Head of the Art-Office always tried to give his problem child a festive atmosphere. Two additional headlights illuminated the Brandenburg coat of arms on the gable and in the middle of the passage fluttered a banner with the red eagle of Spandau.

Everything under the slogan: "It's still something special to be a citizen of Spandau". Amused, Michael Herold rolled across the wooden drawbridge, crossed the three-aisled hall to the courtyard, and drove to the red fairytale castle of the Palas. Before the front side of the medieval building stand a good number of cars, and Michael parked near the main entrance. Tired, but in a good mood, he opened the door of the so-called gothic hall, and immediately attacked him the opening bars of "Alexander's Ragtime Band". The distorted music blared merciless from the speakers of the beer bar, and Michael nodded fatalistic. As he had it expected, besieged the usual coterie of Spandau the bar counter and in the midst of the largest swarm waited Harald Seib.

The colleague from the local-editorial waved with two foam-covered jars and Herold walked to one of the anywhere established beer-tons. With moderate interest he watched, how Seib orbited with an indicated Passé step a heavily flirting couple, while he rolled full of understanding his eyes. The two jars landed with a loud noise on the makeshift table, and Seib licked his lips with relish.

"Cheers, old boy! I didn't think that you appear right on time."

"No jokes that was a hard day!"

"You need not to mock me." Seib beat playfully on Herald's upper arm. "Over there is a pack of thirsty wolves, a fine bunch of real binge drinkers, and you, you know them only too well."

"All right, Harald, the chick from the artists club cannot be overlooked, and then, naturally, the lords and ladies of the town hall."

"Speaking of town hall, by the way, where is our host?"

Michael gestured silently over his shoulder at the front wall of the hall. Almost obscured by a column stands the grumpy politician on a pedestal and checked with hectic finger tapping the operational readiness of the microphone. He had the sleeves of his plaid shirt casually rolled up, and when he just not wiped the sweat from his forehead, he adjusted pedantic his wide suspenders.

"For me, he is the classic image of a whole blood Socialists! As the third child of a hard-working, but poor family, he completed his schooling in night school, while he worked all the time tirelessly for the party."

Amused, Herold took a deep draft and nodded to his colleagues. "Honestly, Bergmüller is the real heart of the town, but his party comrades see that probably not in the same way."

"They have no reason to moan, after all, he found with the brewery a potent sponsor. This is more, than his comrades had did in the last season. And what his future exhibitions will bring... But hello!" Harald Seibs professionally gazed over the long legs of two women that strolled past them. "Too bad, that this blonde double not protects the crowns, because, the criminal energy of most men would just stick in the pants.”

"You know, how much I love your pubescent bon mots."

"And I love this crazy little black dress. But seriously, a better choice than the Palas, Bergmüller really could not meet."

"The security conditions are in fact optimal, and Bergmüller is a cunning old fox. He draws the businessmen the worms with the right arguments from the nose."

"But he is terrible at war with the technology, because as he tortures the micro, the official part of the evening begins at the earliest in an hour. Also, I miss city mayor David and his vassals. Bets, they sits all in the citadel-tavern and sip a well-chilled Riesling.”

"Pinot Grigio! Italian white wine is currently the trendy fashionable drink and not this wash water." Michael Herold pushed the beer contemptuously to the side and looked challengingly to Seib. "Let's go outside. For today, I have inhaled enough stale air."

"No problem, I despise most of the faces." Seib grabbed his almost empty jug and Herold followed him in the cool of the night. The two so dissimilar men stood silently for a moment in front of the palace, and climb then up the steep ramp to the Bastion King. At the end of the narrow way, looms the silhouette of the Julius-tower in the starless sky. Over his illuminated battlements chase rain clouds and Michael glanced involuntarily on the rough stone wall. Then he touched the mighty blocks and knocked on the safe-door, that was the only entrance to the tower.

"That`s real German workmanship! According to the attached table, the monster door weighs 3000 Kg. That's a lot of metal; nobody blows that easily in the air."

“At least, not without the demolition of the entire Tower.” Impressed, Seib leaned against the arch of the building. "Can you still remember how many gold pieces Kaiser Wilhelm had hoarded behind those walls?"

"1871? Not precisely. But I guess the French war indemnity amounted at that time to about 120 million. Together with the Prussian war chest, of course! This is handsome mountain of money and more than enough, for a cozy bathroom like Uncle Scrooge's."

"Let rain down the valleys on your bald head, I know! Better, we drink on the millions that we never will call our own!" Harald Seib turned the pitcher and dripped the last sip on the Brandenburg sugar sand. Sneering, he looked a moment into the puddle between his shoes, and strolled then slowly to the parapet of the bastion.

Leaned against the dirty stones, he stared at the lights of the old town, and his voice sounded strangely thin, when he suddenly asked: "Has our friend Kowalski expressed any suspicion?"

"I beg you, you know, how slowly his boys worked, and besides, I'm the last that he would honored with a scrap of his wisdom. No, at the moment, information arrives only through the official channels."

"Then, radio silence." Seib looked at the sea of houses at the other side of the river. Powerful lighting tore the town hall tower and St. Nicholas-church from the darkness, and high above the two Spandau landmarks flashed now the position lights of a jet. Disgusted, muttered Seib: "Look at that! A handful fragile life on his way to the airport Tegel! Oh God, shitty autumn blues!"

With a soft, for forgiveness pleading laugh Harald Seib put both hands on the damp masonry and came back to topic of the conversation. "For me, Kowalski is a rightmost old sow! If he might mop up the district in his own way..."

„Forget him! We no longer require his information’s; Bronslav showed me this afternoon, what really shakes his heart."

"Lech? I can't believe it! He talks not even under oath before a court!”

“Joseph’s death has his normally stubborn silence more than shaken. Just as the pain raging inside him, he doubts even the sacred solidarity in the Polish community. For him apply not even the old agreements, you know? No confessional secrets among friends, no sealed lips before strangers!"

Thoughtful wandered Herald glance over that part of the dark sea of houses, which hides Bronslavs apartment. "No, if Lech really wants revenge for Charley's death, he must finally talk, and sacrifice the only black sheep in his flock."

"What? Lech know the identity of Charley's business partner?"

"Oblonsky, Leopold Oblonsky."

"Sleazy Leo? Oh my God, the rascal is a member of Lech’s community? Well, then Lech has a real sunshine under his wing. Contraband, stolen goods, prostitution, there is probably no crooked business that his stinky finger has not touched. He operates from the Potsdam-Street; supposedly he is involved there in several bars. Organize fresh women from Russia. Only here in Spandau, he keeps a low profile. No wonder, nobody pours the waste before his own front door."

"Lech mentioned a video store."

"The greasy guy uses the sex shop only as a legal figurehead. You know the dirty little shop in the Kinkel-Street. The newly opened baths-shop is on the other side."

"Sounds really welcoming for me!"