Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy by Karsten Krepinsky (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

from a drumstick, and holds it to the flame of an oil lamp to light it.

I follow him out, deeper into the roof garden. “How much do you know about your father’s past?” I ask him.

Khalid sits on a bench under a palm tree. “What you want to know? How he used to work me over with a belt buckle, maybe?”

“Has he fought with the Islamic State?”

“Islamic State?” Khalid repeats. My mention of the terrorist organization seems to confuse him. “Do they still exist?”

“No idea. What do I care? I’m talking about twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years? That’s a long time. A hell of a long time.” Khalid drags on his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. “Al-Qaeda, ISIS, Boko Haram. My father had his dirty fingers in every pie.”

“He still had his eyesight back then?”

Khalid nods. “Eyes like an eagle, he prided himself. Yes. But Allah in his wisdom has struck the bastard with an illness. All he can see now is shadows. The shadows of his victims.”

“What happened to his eyes?”

“It began about ten years ago. Suddenly, his retina started to come off. He slowly, but surely, lost his eyesight during the following years.” Khalid tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and steps on it. “Allah must have heard my prayers.” He gives a sarcastic laugh.

“Did he take part in the massacres?” I want to know.

“What do you think?”

“What did he tell you?”

“Of course he was involved. The guy wasn’t squeamish. Torture, executions, you name it. He used to boast that he even served as minister of education in ISIS for a couple of weeks.”

“Your father’s in danger.”

“Who the fuck cares?”

“He’s your father, after all.”

“Let’s call him the sperm donor.”

“He might be next on the list.”

“List?” Khalid frowns. “What list are you talking about?”

“The list, the roof-runner’s currently working his way down.”

“Roof-runner? You’re talking about the crusader who’s butchering Salafists?”

“Exactly the one.”

Khalid laughs dismissively. “You know what? I’m simply not interested. The killing won’t stop anyway. The Ghetto… everything seems so far away to me.” He points at the ventilation system of the high-rise behind him. “Somewhere beyond this mountain of iron the abyss begins. The scum’ll devour itself. Inshallah.”

“If there’s a war it’ll spill over eventually,” I warn him.

“Why should there be a war? One imam dies, the next one follows.”

“There’s a crucifix involved.”

Khalid’s face darkens. “Selim has already mentioned it.”

“Selim?” I wonder aloud. “Are you in contact with the Babo?”

Khalid nods, yes. “I invite him over to my parties now and then. He always brings his boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Is he gay or what?”

“You really had no idea?”

“No. How could I?”

“I thought you’re so well informed, Pusher.”

“Well, I guess I’m not.”

Khalid runs a hand through his gelled hair. “Selim thinks that my father might blame him for the murders.”

“I know.”

Khalid smiles. “But Selim doesn’t really worry about himself or his own safety. The fag’s scared because of someone else. The idiot’s hell over heels in love.”

“In love?”

“You would never guess with a killer like him.”

“What’s his boyfriend’s name?”

“You’re really clueless?” Khalid can’t believe it.

“Who is it? Do I know him?”

“You’ve heard of Bekhan, I suppose,” Khalid declares with a wide grin.

“What? Bekhan Bashir? The young Tsar?” I can hardly trust my ears.

“Looks like it.”

I wipe my hand across my mouth. “Impossible! The Babo and the Tsar a gay couple? You’re joking, right?”

Khalid smiles. “A real whammy, right? But it’s the honest truth.”

“It can’t be…,” I slowly mumble. “Could it be a motive?”

“You used to be more in on it, Pusher,” Khalid chides me.

My phone rings. “Excuse me,” I say.

“Why?”

“I need to take this.” I retrace my steps through the roof garden and push open the sliding door.

“What’s wrong with you, Pusher?” Khalid calls after me.

I glance at the screen. It’s Quasim. Where does he have my number from? When I take the call, I can hear him whimper. He says I need to come home at once. Then, he hangs up. Something terrible must have happened.

11

At “Checkpoint Schilling” armored personnel carriers have taken position. Hundreds of soldiers are preparing for action. The national guard and the militias also have been put on alert. Police officers are discussing strategy with the storm troop commanders, coordinating last-minute details with the help of maps. Disciplinary action against the Ghetto seems to be on the agenda. From time to time the government launches tactical sorties to teach the Lemons a lesson on who’s boss in this city. A blunt weapon in the authorities’ fight against the clans, but effective when it comes to winning votes. And, as you already know, we have elections coming up. Might Schlotow still be bristling after the dressing-down he received from the Imam, I muse. Another explanation could be that a video of the event in the “Halal Arena” has been leaked to the outside. Never mind, I need to hurry up before all entrances to the Ghetto are sealed. My permit convinces the soldier at the stile that I’m legitimate. After a nervous glance in the direction of his assembled comrades he quickly waves me through.

I make my way to the subway tunnel via the basement of the derelict building. Once there, I let a train pass and then walk along the tracks to Samariterstrasse station.

Something’s very wrong there. Books and brochures have been yanked from the shelves inside the kiosk and tossed onto the tracks. Outside the ticket booth, my clothes are strewn about all over the place. What’s happened here? I jump onto the platform, sneak up to the kiosk, and peer through the window. Nobody. I scuttle over to the ticket booth and listen at the door. Nothing. I enter my lair on tiptoes and look around. Someone has found my hiding place under the tiles. My briefcase is on the sofa, its secret compartment open. The Uzi’s been removed. I reach for the submachine gun to check if it’s loaded, and sniff at the muzzle. The gun hasn’t been fired. Next, I hear someone whimper. Gun raised, I walk