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

These women are absolutely convinced that life has dealt them a lousy hand. They’ve much more to offer in the looks department than the lucky ones do, right? Brave new world of post Capitalism.

Anja is skilled at small talk, while hiding her soul from me. Delicious pretender. In spite of the many times I’ve bedded her, she remains a stranger. Wrapped around each other, we make our way back to the Shower & Sleep, where I book a honeymoon box under the roof. Pure sex with a view of the star-studded sky. The old-fashioned way. That’s how I like it. I hate entering through the back door. All this ass-fucking, which is getting more and more popular. I can very well do without it, thank you, Sir. The box has AC, shutting out the heat of the summer night. Still, we work up a sweat. I enjoy it as long as it lasts. There won’t be anything left tomorrow.

4

After breakfast with Anja I call her a taxi, pay the driver in advance, kiss her good-bye, and promise to call her in the near future. “See you soon,” she says when she gets into the car.

I send her away with a “Take care, little one.”

Then I walk down Karl-Marx-Allee, until I reach Ghetto limits. The rising sun makes me blink. At checkpoint “Schilling” concrete steles and barriers made from barbed wire line a pot-hole riddled street. Armored cars are parked in front of the lowered stiles. Twitchy fingers on the triggers of their assault guns, the soldiers at the checkpoint don’t let people pass any longer. Permit or no permit, it doesn’t make any difference. The Ghetto has been sealed off. I stop in front of the International Movie Theater, wondering how to get home, when my phone rings. It’s Natasha. She asks what I know of the assault.

“Assault?” I repeat.

“In Moabit,” she explains. “Two suicide bombers with Kalashnikovs and explosive belts. Twenty-one people dead.”

“I haven’t listened to any news.”

“They’ve attacked a school run by Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“A school? Really? Bastards!”

“Thank God the guards were able to fend off these pigs. But then they started randomly firing at passers-by, before they finally blew themselves to kingdom come.”

“Who’s behind it?”

“We don’t know yet. We’re still busy scraping these guys off the street.”

“I haven’t heard anything about it. I swear.”

“Where are you?” she asks.

“Checkpoint Schilling,” I answer. “In front of the movie theater.”

“Stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”

Fifteen minutes later Natasha arrives in her armored off-roader and I climb in.

“Did you have a chance to talk to the Imam yet?” she wants to know.

“Why? Do you think he ordered the attack?”

“He’s not in the habit of making empty threats.”

I nod, but I keep silent. I don’t want her to know how great I feel. Last night’s good sex still in my head and this morning’s caffeine coursing through my veins. During the next hours the sun will travel across a perfectly blue sky. Considering the horrors that took place just a few miles from here, my happiness might seem quite inappropriate. I’m aware of it, after all I’m not a monster. I know that some people will never be able to again enjoy a wonderful day like this. And in many cases it’s simply so damn unfair.

It’s the first suicide attack we’ve had in years, I think. The situation was much tougher in the Twenties, volatile times, when the Lemons had the unfortunate habit to self-explode. Natasha seems to be convinced that the Imam’s plotting a revival of this questionable tradition. It’s an easy way to spread general fear and terror. Jihad’s not just the name of some dim-witted thug who’s taken a dislike to me, but also the time-honored battle cry of the Lemons.

Natasha studies me. “What are you doing here, by the way?”

“Getting fresh air,” I reply.

She smiles. “A posh hooker again?”

I don’t answer.

“Hauke, Hauke, you really need to grow up,” she actually dares chastising me, as if she was my keeper. “Don’t you ever feel like starting a family?”

“What about you?” I evade her question.

“When the time is right.”

I look at Natasha. She has blue shadows under her eyes and seems to be sad, and there is more behind it than just the terrorist attack. She’s carrying heavy baggage around with her, a dark presence, dimming the light of pride in her face. Since we’ve known each other she’s been keeping a secret from me.

“We need to find out who sent this Salafist in the whorehouse to meet his maker,” she says. “The Imam demands to know who pulled the strings.”

“I know,” I slowly say.

“What’s your plan, then?”

I promise her to think of something, but she’s not happy with my answer. I need something to offer to Natasha, or she’ll keep pestering me. Goddamn ace of clubs. Poker cards ought to be made illegal. “I could pay a visit to the old Tsar.” I’m groping for straws.

“The old Tsar? Dimitri Bashir?” My suggestion seems to surprise her.

I nod, yes. “He knows the Ghetto like the back of his hand.”

“He’s doing time in Sperenberg prior to being deported.”

“I know. Could you drive me there?”

“Do you think it makes sense?”

“Why not? You’ll never know without trying.”

“Are you sure?”

“If there’s something going down in the Ghetto, he’ll know about it. He might be in jail, but he’s still well connected. Maybe he can tell us more about this business with the poker card.”

“Okay.” Natasha nods, yes, and starts the engine. “Let’s grab a bite on the way. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“As long as you let me gaze into your beautiful eyes,” I try to flirt.

Natasha gives a sardonic laugh. But I know that she feels flattered.

Sperenberg Penitentiary is located south of Berlin. Deep in the woods and cut off from the rest of the world, the Lemons cool their heels here, before military planes based at the nearby airport ship them back to their home countries. It’s a maximum-security prison: double sally ports, steel gates, and very high concrete walls. The