Berlin 2039

Copyright (c) 2016 by Karsten Krepinsky

English translation in 2021 by Karin Dufner

www.karindufner.de

First published with the title Berlin 2039 – Der Tod nimmt alle mit in 2016 by Karsten Krepinsky/Neuwelt Verlag.

Cover design by Ingo Krepinsky, Die TYPONAUTEN

www.typonauten.de/eng

Published by Karsten Krepinsky

Berlin, April 2021

All rights reserved.

No part of this e-book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.

www.theworldbehindthewindow.com

About the Book

Berlin 2039 – The Reign Of Anarchy

Population has doubled within the last twenty years, leading to a living hell where poverty, crime, and claustrophobia rule. Those who can afford it, have withdrawn to the well-protected gated communities, while the police have left entire neighborhoods to their own devices. In these lawless blank spots, the authorities use so-called pushers to maintain a level of constant unrest between Arab clans, Turkish gangs, and Chechen brotherhoods. They are mavericks, men and women outside the law, who only answer to their supervisors based in the LKA, which is short for Landeskriminalamt, the State Office of Criminal Investigation. This is the story of Hauke the Pusher and Detective Natasha…

Berlin Locations:

Prenzlauer Berg

Today: a white middle and upper class neighborhood

2039: now P’berg, a gated community behind barbed wire, seemingly a safe haven for civil servants and government officials

Kreuzberg

Today: a bohemian neighborhood, inhabited by students, hipsters, and immigrants with touches of gentrification

2039: now X’berg, a place with a great view of the Ghetto where bored young “Globals” live in expensive penthouses

Friedrichshain

Today: a bohemian neighborhood with a lively nightclub scene

2039: now F’hain, dubbed The Ghetto.

Wedding

Today: a working class and immigrant neighborhood with a few students tossed in the mix

2039: the puffer zone between the rich and the poor population

Wannsee

Today: a very upscale neighborhood

2039: ditto

“We won’t stand idly by while this human trash gnaws its way through the city of Berlin like a cancerous growth. Therefore, I have given order to immediately seal off those areas of the city forever lost to us...”

From the press statement of Chancellor Vasily Schmidt on the National Emergency Act of August 23, 2036.

Three years later...

Prologue

The dead man’s cap has come off, his white caftan is soaked with blood. Slumped forward on a chair, his head lies on the kitchen table in a pool of blood. The skull has been smashed, more blood is oozing from a deep wound. Remains of his last meal cling to his full beard. The killer wipes his cudgel on his victim’s robe, kisses the wooden crucifix he is wearing around his neck on a leather thong, and pulls his hood down deeper into his face. He is an apparition, dressed in worn-out shabby clothes. All in gray and covered in the dirt of the streets. His face hidden in the half-shadow of his hood, he pulls a playing card from a fabric pouch secured with a length of rope and crams it between the murdered man’s index and middle fingers. He sits down next to him at the table, pulls the soup plate closer, tears off a piece of pita bread, dunks it into the soup, and starts eating. Rivulets of arterial blood mingle with meat broth. The killer reaches for the glass of black tea, empties it, gets up, and places plate and glass in the sink, which he then stops up and opens the faucet. With a wordless nod he takes one last look at the dead Salafist, as if a score had just been settled. Before he leaves the kitchen, he turns off the light.

1

The Lemons call all Germans potatoes. Or Jews, if they happen to be in a bad mood. Which they usually are. Especially because F’hain is surrounded by a fence with checkpoints now, effectively blocking their access to the better-off citizens of Berlin. Concrete steles and soldiers, sporting assault rifles. MG nests, sheltered behind walls of sandbags. Those obstacles can really be a challenge, even for a testosterone-controlled kid of the Ghetto. Barriers and checkups remind me of the Holy Land somehow, if you know what I mean. In some places the fence is already being replaced with a wall. An installation that seems to be meant for eternity. Thus, leaving F’hain has become difficult. The high-rises of Alexanderplatz, the posh shopping malls of Potsdamer Platz, or the fancy boutiques of Friedrichstrasse are now out of reach for most people here. And the future doesn’t look rosy. Now and then I can see those poor devils at their windows. The losers of this world, you know what I mean. With all their dreams of happiness and wealth. Them, who spend their evenings standing at the drafty windows of the run-down dumps they live in, because all the violence around stops them from venturing out in the streets. Pasty faces pressed against the glass and eyes filled with yearning, they gaze into the far distance. They breathe the same air as the Globals at Alexanderplatz. They look up to the same sky. But fate has dumped them on the wrong side of the fence. Once Ghetto, always Ghetto.

Once upon a time we had another wall in Berlin—this was fifty years ago. Almost ten years before I was born. Nobody knows about it anymore, because in the Ghetto book-learning doesn’t mean shit. The Quran is the only book that counts. In many areas of F’hain life is ruled by Sharia, Islamic law. The version favored by the Imam, that is. The Quran leaves lots of room for interpretation, you’d better take my word for it, my friends. Even the Lemons themselves constantly bicker about it. Other than the big-shots living in the Wannsee neighborhood would like to believe, they don’t form a monolithic bloc. Far from it: the Turks hate the Arabs, the Kurds hate the Turks, and everyone hates the Chechens. And the Arabs? Who cares who the Arabs hate? I also have no idea why the Muslims are called Lemons. Maybe because of their typically dour faces, as if they’d just bitten down on a lemon. Don’t get me wrong. Germans or Muslims, it doesn’t mean a thing to me. I don’t even look like an Aryan myself. An ex-girlfriend once told me that my features were those of a generic immigrant. Mediterranean type, anything from Turk to Arab, a light-skinned one, that is. Maybe that’s why they picked me for this job. Because, with my dark hair and my Middle-Eastern complexion I almost pass as a Lemon.

I’m not ashamed to say that there also might be a little Jewish blood flowing in my veins. My swarthy looks have to come from somewhere, right? As cute as the idea might sound, it’s not very likely that my great-great-grandmother succumbed to the charms of an Italian migrant laborer, working at the railway tracks in early nineteenth-century Germany. You all know how people tend to romanticize their family backgrounds. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry likes to think of himself as the heir to some blue-blooded name. No, I’m serious. I’m convinced that there must be some Semitic influence. Just regular Jewish blood, coursing through my body. Even though my eyes are blue. That’s something that means a lot to me. I don’t need to resort to colored contact lenses like many Lemons are doing it now. Some of these jokers even dye their hair blond. I guess they hope that it will further their careers. But it’s not easy to get the Ghetto out of your system.

One more thing you need to know about me is, that I’m no fan of organized religion. Opium for the masses, that’s what it is to me. And, God knows, I’m not alone with this view. Plus, I also prefer to be in charge of my own drug supply. I work as a Pusher for the LKA and my job is to adjust the “balance of power” in the neighborhood. This involves evening the scales between the different Godfathers by making sure that the bosses will continue their war against each other: the Tsar, the Imam, the Babo, and the Emperor. If one of them shows signs of getting too much ahead in the game, he needs to be cut down a notch to prevent violence from spilling over Ghetto limits. Human trash is supposed to fight among themselves, right? As the LKA doesn’t like to get their hands dirty they use drug dealers like us. Off the record, of course. When one of the Godfathers gains too much power, it’s our job to give the competition a leg-up with the help of well-placed donations. As you can probably guess pushers aren’t the most popular of people. When we supply his competitors with merchandise, the Imam is sure to hear about it. Still, this system works remarkably well. In the realm of organized crime bosses tend to think like politicians. They, too, form new alliances every day. And an offer of friendship that comes in the guise of a suitcase full of free drugs often has a healing effect.

My name is Hauke, by the way. The nuns in the Catholic orphanage who raised me were great fans of the novel The Dykemaster by Theodor Storm. Maybe you’ve heard of the story about the mad dike warden, who’s my namesake. And my background? Does it really make a difference? They plucked me from a baby flap at Urban Hospital, that’s what I always claim, at least. Dropped off anonymously. Family unknown. Not an ounce of blue blood, this much can be assumed. And surely no Baby Moses. If you could see me now, odds are that you wouldn’t take me for the toughest guy in the ’hood. Rather the opposite. I’m clean shaven and neat, wear a black suit, and even carry a briefcase at all times to look respectable. Stuffed with dope, of course. It’s also equipped with a hidden compartment with an Uzi in it for self-defense, an absolute must-have. I also pack a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster. One of the best handguns I know. Reliable and precise. Nineteen rounds. My special trick is to always load it up with a rubber round first. Underneath, there is a regular 9mm cartridge, followed by a dum-dum bullet that will burst open upon impact, virtually shredding the opponent to bits. I call this my three steps of escalation. Step one: the warning. Step two: the chastisement. Step three? Game over, player one. Not a beautiful thing to behold, I can tell you. I’m not a gun-toting weapons fanatic, I swear. And not one of these army types either who give their rifles names. I also don’t like using my fists. I never once had my nose broken. It’s something to be proud of, I tell you.

Things just don’t seem to improve. Not in the Ghetto. Once you’ve reached your early forties, you start seeing things clearer while abandoning your illusions. Just the other day I was held up by a little kid. Maybe eight years old, I guess. The tyke pointed a knife at my crotch and demanded my money. When I explained that I only had dope, he happily toddled off with five units of coke. What can I tell you? It can get a little trying to adhere to one’s principles out here. Human values and such. At least I’ve managed to remain one of the few Pushers who don’t sample their own merchandise. Okay, I pop psycho meds. But only those which need a prescription. So don’t get any wrong ideas. Plus, I went off these pills a while ago, because I want to be myself again. The name of the stuff, I’m using? None of your business, I think. We don’t know each other that well yet. But, hey, things can always change. Follow me or leave me alone. It’s the same to me. But there’s one thing I promise you: I won’t lie. This is something you can count on.

2

Natasha sounded rather worried on the phone. Have I told you about her yet? She’s my supervisor at the LKA. She coordinates my jobs with me, procures the drugs, and informs me of the latest developments. The LKA has just moved into new headquarters in X’berg across the river. To the spot where the Watergate used to be, if you happen to remember this club. Electronic music on two floors, adjacent to Oberbaumbrücke. This was a lifetime ago. Now, the investigators have a perfect view of the Ghetto from their brand new glass-enclosed high-rise. Maybe they use their roof antennas to listen in on the junkies’ chattering. They might also be watching the traffic of losers on the streets. Or they’re eavesdropping on the constant squabbling among the ultra-orthodox Muslims, while barely able to stifle a yawn.

Natasha. She’s different. A special person, a trait I noticed at once. Not one of these beauties who’re only good as clothes-horses. She also has a good head on her shoulders. And personality. A first-class lady. Well bred. From a good family, I think. Even though I never ask. Certain things are better left to imagination. She’s not married, I believe. But she also might just not be wearing a ring around the Ghetto. There’s a boyfriend now and then, I guess. No one on a permanent basis.

I’m driving down Frankfurter Allee in my Lincoln Continental. A real classic car that guzzles up more than ten gallons per one hundred miles. That’s a lousy gas-mileage, I can hear you say. But who the fuck cares? In F’hain nobody goes long distances anyway. The Ghetto isn’t all that large. It’s all a matter of being seen.

Natasha wants to meet at RAW, the ancient train depot bearing the name “Reichsbahnausbesserungswerk” that was transformed into a cultural center a long time ago. Its compound is located on Warschauer Strasse, a boulevard lined with dead plane trees that everyone started to call “The Warsaw” last year. This name-change is related to an incident in the fall, when a Chechen decided to chop a biker into two halves with a chain saw. A dramatic event, even in the Ghetto. The bloodstains on the tarmac were only covered up with sawdust. Thus, the traces of this gruesome act of violence remained in plain view until a week later, when it finally rained again. Usually, the Chechens don’t tend to do things in halves—pardon my pun. Their signature is to skin their victims, a habit they picked up during the Afghan war in the eighties, when Grandpa Chechen fought against the Mujaheddin side by side with the Red Army. This was when there still was a Soviet Union. Damn. Does this odd construction of states still ring anyone’s bell? Probably for the Communists among you. However, I find it vital to know one’s history, as you must have realized by now. Looking into the past to put the future into perspective. It shows me what we are and what will become of us. Anyway, two years ago the Chechens had the brilliant idea to skin the boss of the Arab clan and to display his body right next to the Märchenbrunnen, the fairy-tale fountain, in Volkspark. The Grimm Brothers’ bedtime stories taken to the extreme. Had they only known who was going to follow the impaled ruler to the throne, as in this case they might have preferred to instead share a pipe of peace. Because Ali Bansuri, the new Imam, retaliated by beheading six Chechens with his own hand. There are rumors around that he still keeps their heads somewhere in his mosque. The result was some back-and-forth traffic that went on for a while. Friendly visits on one, declarations of love on the other side. In the end, a good four hundred people were dead and power structures had been restored to normal. A field day for pushers, I can tell you. I just had to comfortably lean back with a cold beer and watch the activities unfold. But no more reminiscing. You don’t get a new Imam every day. Now, the conflict has to be carefully rekindled. The flickering flame needs to be fanned.

In the Warsaw the new Imam’s word is law, just like that of his predecessor. All the way from RAW up to the former stockyard, today the site of his humongous mosque. The area north of the old Ostbahnhof, the eastern train station, is controlled by Selim, called the Babo. And around Strausberger Platz the Tsar, this wily Chechen bandit, is pulling the strings. The bikers of Aryan Motorcircle with their president Thor, dubbed the Emperor by the Lemons, are at the bottom of the food chain. The Emperor’s realm is limited to a narrow strip of land in the east around Jessnerstrasse. He also is the only one of the bosses who resides outside the Ghetto in the former Stasi headquarters in Ruschestrasse. Stasi? Does it ring a bell? For those of you who were too zoned out during history class in school: it’s short for “Staatssicherheitsdienst,” the former Eastern Germany’s secret service. The Emperor carries a lot of clout in Lichtenberg, which isn’t part of the Ghetto. Thor’s time in F’hain, however, seems to be up. Therefore, regular deliveries to him by yours truly wouldn’t make much sense. He doesn’t have many minions left anyhow, as the number of native Germans around here is dwindling, most of them having moved to the borough of Wedding. The only ones remaining are the seniors, the indigents, a few Christian missionaries, the junkies, and the hookers. You might think that a Christian missionary’s life expectancy must be pretty short in an out and out Muslim ’hood. But owing to one of the many enigmatic ways of life, these religious zealots usually are left alone. Chances to die a martyr: absolutely zilch. No idea why. Maybe the bosses don’t see them as a threat. Sometimes, the logic of the street is a mystery even to me. But facts are facts. And a fact goes without explaining, as it has a life of its own.

I was lying about the Lincoln, by the way. Well, I do own the car, but the wheels have been removed and the engine has been stolen. I haven’t been able to drive it for a long time. I can’t even sit in it anymore, because someone has taken a shit on the seat. Pardon my French, but I can’t think of a better word to describe this atrocity. Possessions aren’t worth the trouble around here anyway. Things are changing owners much too fast. Property is hugely overestimated. I just take what I need and leave it behind when it’s no longer of service. I wouldn’t exactly call it Communism. Anarchic anti-collectivism would be more like it. Roaming the neighborhood on foot makes more sense anyhow. This way I can pass a baggie here and drop off a pouch there. Do some street-socializing. And always give to the homeless, something I highly recommend. A unit now and then doesn’t hurt anyone, and these guys will be eternally grateful.

On my walk along the Warsaw I come across a kebab store with three young Lemons loitering in front of it. Already from the distance I get the feeling that they’re looking for trouble. These children of the gutter usually communicate in a blend of German, Arabic, English, Turkish, and Russian. The teens sport sweatpants, gold chains, and gilded watches. And the ubiquitous base caps, which have been part of the uniform for decades. The scimitars the generation before them only wore as pendants around their necks, are now dangling from their belts, ready for action. On my approach I listen in on their conversation—or whatever you want to call their staccato-like grunts.

“Wanna go X’berg, slap rich dudes, yalla?” Shorty’s just suggesting to his two companions. As if these jokers could simply take a stroll across River Spree when the mood hits them.

“Yalla” and “Hey, man, gross.” His friends don’t seem to be averse to a little outing. “Yalla” originally means “Let’s go!”. Meanwhile, the word has found an inflationary use and is good for almost everything, even as a verb. “I’ll go home” in street lingo is “Me yalla home”. And “Me yalla yo” stands for “I’ll kill you”. I think so, at least, because things turned nasty every time someone said it to me.

Shorty plants himself in my path, legs spread. “Yo, kuffar, yalla,” he accuses me, the infidel. I give him credit for the fact that he doesn’t know who he’s messing with. Always watch out for the small guys. They often need to make up for something and are nimble fighters and also hard to shoot. He fondles his crotch. De-escalation is useless with dudes like him. They only chalk it off to weakness. Therefore, I resort to my standard program. “Anything interesting to discover down there?”

“Deez-cov-er?” Shorty repeats. The word obviously isn’t part of his vocabulary.

“Because you seem to have trouble finding it,” I reply, pointing at his crotch.

“Yalla! Sonofabitch, yalla.” Shorty is clearly not amused. Self-irony, my friends, is something gang bangers are sadly lacking in.

“Show de fucker, Jihad,” one of his comrades edges him on.

I haven’t mentioned it yet, but my briefcase happens to be rigged. If you want to survive in the Ghetto, it’s advisable to have a couple of tricks up your sleeve. The lower edge of my briefcase is equipped with a telescopic needle, which I can release by pressing a button underneath the handle. A little nudge with the case, just in passing and hardly noticeable, and the fine needle shoots out, pierces the flesh, and injects half a milliliter of neurotoxin into the opponent’s bloodstream. This is the treatment Jihad gets, who’s still blocking my way. The thug’s leg immediately turns numb, making him drop to the ground.

“Yalla, sonofabitch, I fuck yo and yo family, yalla.” He’s a little confused and tries to get his head around what has just happened to him. Still, he continues to list the members of my extended family he plans to bring to bodily harm and keeps on spouting abuse, all the while feverishly rubbing his paralyzed leg. I pull my Glock and release a rubber round that hits home smack in the middle of his forehead. Blissful quiet settles over the scene, at last. His friends scurry into the kebab store. Respect is something money can’t buy. You have to earn it. I keep on walking without looking back. If they try to cause me any more trouble, it’ll be time for escalation step two.

Natasha is waiting for me at the entrance of RAW. I throw her a quick, suggestive look. Inside of me, a mad longing rears its head, but I don’t give in to my urges. Sometimes you have to bid your time, it only hones the desire. But it isn’t easy. I have the impression that she wouldn’t mind either, because she runs her hand through her blonde hair and smiles. The SWAT guys who are with her comment our casual flirt with sneers. In the eyes of these upright civil servants I’m nothing but scum. Vermin, albeit useful sometimes. I’m not fooling myself. The tough guys have shown up in four armored Mercedes off-roaders. Balaclavas covering their faces and twitchy fingers on the triggers of their HK416s, they have taken position in the doorway where three letters rule supreme: RAW. A telltale name. Especially when I think of the sado-maso whorehouse Natasha’s now taking me to. I can almost hear the question that’s on the tip of your tongue: How do sado-maso practices go with Sharia? But even prostitution is halal—allowed—as long as the Imam makes a profit. The man is resourceful enough to interpret the laws of the Quran to his own liking, while keeping his people under his thumb with the help of arbitrary rules. Hell. Just like the Pope in the Vatican, the Imam is a questionable man of the cloth.

The Imam’s Salafists, all clad in white, give me the stink eye when I enter the building with Natasha and her entourage. I’d love to hide from their hostile stares. They cover their guns with their hands, while the SWAT team walks past.

Natasha gives me a detailed description of what’s awaiting me inside the whorehouse. But I’m not really listening. Like always, I’m distracted by her beauty. Maybe you know what I’m talking about. She’s a sight that makes the heart of an aging Pusher beat faster. A sylphlike woman, but tough as nails. Even though I don’t want to come across as being sentimental, pushers, too, can fall in love. You’d understand if you could only see her. Stroking her ponytail with her left hand, she strides along the narrow hall past the chambers that house the dominatrixes. Reddish light illuminates haphazardly stuccoed walls, where the paint is flaking off. All my attention is on Natasha. On the streets of the Ghetto unveiled women have stopped to exist, you know. The times when female Lemons showed at least their faces are long gone. It all started with simple headscarfs. In all variations. Slung around their heads a couple of times and secured with pins. Or loosely placed on top of their hair in granny-style. They also wore makeup, skimpy clothes, or spray-painted jeans. However, even back then there were those who hid under niqabs with only their eyes being visible. A few fans of the burka were also around. Since then poverty in the ’hood and the steady influx of people from the Lemon territories have drastically altered women’s lives. The frivolous game, originally meant as a protest against Western values, quickly turned brutally serious. First, it was the jeans and miniskirts that vanished under dark shapeless tents. Next, makeup was gone from the faces. Until finally the faces themselves were obscured by curtains of fabric. Walking ghosts. The double-walled burka is the latest fad. I’m not joking. Should the top layer tear, there still is another one below to protect the women from prying eyes. The principle also used for double-walled oil tankers. The level of escalation can always be raised yet another notch. Times aren’t getting any better, I’m telling you. Meanwhile, women affiliated with gangs and the human wrecks who have fried their brains with meth have become the only unveiled women around. The young men don’t seem to mind. They just don’t know any better, I guess. I, on the other hand, find it frustrating to be denied a glimpse of half-exposed tits and pert asses, when making my way through the ’hood. Freedom, my friends, is something you only learn to cherish once you’ve lost it. Thank God, I have a permit that allows me to get out of the Ghetto at least four times a week. Otherwise, I’d lose my mind. No idea how the Lemons put up with it. The only nude flesh they get to ogle is that of the girls on the billboards behind East Side Gallery. Digitalized lust on huge flat screens, about sixty feet high in the air. A free morsel, that the detested Capitalist-Christian society beyond Ghetto limits deigns to throw them. Maybe all those devout Lemons spend their time standing at their apartment windows and working their mangled dicks, while gawking at those hot virtual broads. Don’t ask me. When the screens aren’t occupied by scantily clad women bearing witness to the superiority of Western lifestyle, the watchtower staff belabors Christian catch-phrases, aimed at converting the Lemons to the Church of our Savior. A job cut out for Sisyphus.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” Natasha’s voice eventually reaches my consciousness.

“What?” I ask, admiring her feminine curves. “Digital asses,” I blurt.

Natasha laughs. “What’s wrong with you? Seems like you haven’t seen the inside of a whorehouse for a while.”

Embarrassed, I scratch my head. “I’m a little distracted... by... I...,” I stammer like an idiot.

Natasha turns and lasciviously puts her right hand on her gun in its belt holster, while tilting her body a bit to the side. I have problems meeting her eyes. She is in her thirties, but looks a lot younger. Like a ripe fruit. I should have let off some steam before this meeting. After having spent time in a Catholic boarding school the feeling that you missed out on something never seems to leave you. “What do you have for me?” I eventually ask.

“See for yourself,” she replies and motions to the SWAT guy out in the hall to wait for us. Then, she leads me into a kitchen.

A dead man is slumped forward on a chair, his head resting on the table. He’s white as a sheet, his limp arms dangling on left and right. His skull has been shattered. Hairs are stuck in the dark red blood that’s drying on the oilcloth. The Salafist has slippers on his feet. One of it has come off. Eyes wide open, he’s staring at the sink, where dishes have been left to soak. It’s Yussuf Bansuri, the manager of this brothel.

“Somebody wanted to make sure,” I state, when I notice the brain-matter in his hair.

“Sent to the great beyond with love. Looks like it was a matter close to someone’s heart,” Natasha agrees.

I just love her cynicism. A rare trait with women.

“Look at this,” she points out to me.

“What?”

“Look what he’s holding in his hand.”

I kneel and study the dead man’s hand. There’s a poker card stuck between two of his fingers. Someone must have placed it there after his death, I suppose. “Ace of clubs,” I announce the value of the card.

“It was the killer who wedged it between his victim’s fingers,” she echoes my own assumption.

I nod, yes. “A sign?”

Natasha lifts a brow, thinking. “Ever come across this symbol?”

“No.”

“A gang?”

“None that I know of.”

“What does it mean, you think?”

“Gambling? Gambling debts?” I joke.

She shakes her head as if I’d just said something stupid. “Stop fooling around, Hauke.”

“Why are you guys here, anyway?” I ask. “I mean, since when do you care what happens inside the Ghetto?”

“The Imam has notified us,” she explains.

“The Imam?” I’m surprised. “He wants the LKA involved? Why?”

“He figured that there might be trouble that couldn’t be contained inside the Ghetto.”

“Because of the dead manager of a whorehouse?”

“It’s one of his cousins.”

“So what? He’ll live. Half of the Ghetto is somehow related to him.”

“There seems to be more behind it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called us in,” Natasha speculates.

“The Chechens?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who else? The Turks?”

Natasha shakes her head, no.

“The bikers wouldn’t dare pull such a stunt,” I think aloud. “Thor doesn’t have a death wish. It’s also the Chechens he has an ax to grind with, not the Arabs. What good would it do him to raise up stink with the Imam?”

Natasha bends over the dead Salafist, examining the deep gash on his head. “What, do you think, did this? Baseball bat?”

“Maybe,” I reply, nodding. I study her sparkling eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. This simply reeks of bikers. But it doesn’t mean a thing.”

Natasha gives me a serious look. “The Imam has issued a threat against us.”

“So?”

“If we don’t hand the killer over to him, he’ll declare holy war.”

“So what?” I wave her off. “Why should it bother you when these jokers finish each other off?”

“Don’t you understand? He wants to start a jihad against the infidels. The idea is to export the fight outside the ghetto.”