Babylon Berlin: Book 1 of the Gereon Rath Mystery Series
432
Babylon Berlin: Book 1 of the Gereon Rath Mystery Series
432eBook
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Overview
THE BASIS FOR THE INTERNATIONAL TV SENSATION BABYLON BERLIN
"Cabaret on cocaine...captures the dark glamour of a briefly exhilarating time between the wars." --NPR
Babylon Berlin is the first book in the international-bestselling series from Volker Kutscher that centers on Detective Gereon Rath caught up in a web of drugs, sex, political intrigue, and murder in Berlin as Germany teeters on the edge of Nazism.
It’s 1929 and Berlin is the vibrating metropolis of post-war Germany—full of bars and brothels and dissatisfied workers at the point of revolt. Gereon Rath is new in town and new to the police department.
When a dead man without an identity, bearing traces of atrocious torture, is discovered, Rath sees a chance to find his way back into the homicide division. He discovers a connection with a circle of oppositional exiled Russians who try to purchase arms with smuggled gold in order to prepare a coup d’état. But there are other people trying to get hold of the gold and the guns, too. Raths finds himself up against paramilitaries and organized criminals. He falls in love with Charlotte, a typist in the homicide squad, and misuses her insider’s knowledge for his personal investigations. And as he gets further entangled with the case, he never imagined becoming a suspect himself.
“[Kutscher's] trick is ingenious...He's created a portrait of an era through the lens of genre fiction.”—The New York Times
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250187055 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Picador |
| Publication date: | 09/12/2017 |
| Series: | Gereon Rath Mystery Series , #1 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 432 |
| Sales rank: | 60,619 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
VOLKER KUTSCHER was born in 1962. He studied German, philosophy, and history, and worked as a newspaper editor prior to writing his first detective novel. Babylon Berlin, the start of an award-winning series of novels to feature Gereon Rath and his exploits in late Weimar Republic Berlin, was an instant hit in Germany. The series was awarded the Berlin Krimi-Fuchs Crime Writers Prize in 2011 and has sold more than one million copies worldwide and was adapted as a 12-part Netflix miniseries by Tom Tykwer (director of Cloud Atlas and The International). He lives in Cologne.
NIALL SELLAR was born in Edinburgh in 1984. He studied German and translation studies in Dublin, Konstanz and Edinburgh, and has worked variously as a translator, teacher, and reader. In addition to translation work, he currently teaches modern foreign languages in Harrow. He lives in London.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
When would they return? In the darkness even the smallest noise seemed infernal; the quietest of whispers grew to a roar. Silence itself became an interminable throb in the ears. He had to pull himself together but the pain was driving him mad. He had to pull himself together, to ignore the dripping sound of his own blood as it hit the hard, damp floor.
He had no idea where they had dragged him. Somewhere noone could hear. A cellar perhaps? A warehouse? The room had no windows and there was only a faint glimmer of light, the same glimmer he had seen from the bridge as he gazed at the lights of a departing train, lost in thought. About the plan. About her. The blow had plunged him into darkness.
He shuddered against the ropes, the only things holding him up. His feet couldn't carry him, they hardly resembled feet anymore, and his hands no longer functioned. He put all his weight onto his arms to avoid touching the floor. The rope chafed. He was sweating all over his body.
The images kept reappearing: the heavy hammer, his hand, tied to the steel girder, the sound of his bones splintering and the unbearable pain, his cries that had grown into a single, loud cry. Unconsciousness. Then waking from the dark night, his extremities wrenched in pain. But the pain hadn't penetrated to his core.
They had enticed him with pain-removing drugs, trying to bend him to their will. He had to fight against his weakness. The sound of his own language had almost overwhelmed him, but their voices sounded colder and more sinister than the ones he remembered.
Svetlana had spoken the same language, but how different she had sounded! Her voice had sworn love, divulged secrets, been intimacy and promise itself, brought the great city to life once more. Even in foreign parts he could not forget the city. It was still his city: a city that had deserved a better future. Still his country: a country that had deserved a better future.
Hadn't she wanted the same thing? To oust the rogues who had seized power. He thought of the night they had spent lying awake in her bed, a warm summer's night that now seemed an eternity away. They had made love and confided their secrets, melded them into one big secret so that they might realise their dreams.
Everything had gone so well, but someone betrayed them. They had abducted him. And Svetlana? If only he knew what had become of her. Their enemies were everywhere.
He had known their questions in advance, answered without giving anything away. They hadn't even realised. They were stupid. Their greed made them blind. He couldn't let them know the train was already on its way. Not when the plan was almost complete.
The first blow was the worst. Everything that came afterwards merely served to disperse the pain.
Now, the certainty that he would die made him strong enough to endure never walking, never writing, never touching her again. He had made his peace with memories, but she was a memory he would never betray.
He had to get to his jacket and the capsule in its lining. If he had realised it was a trap, he would have bitten it long ago. In the darkness, he could just make out the outline of the chair it was resting on.
They hadn't tied him. After they had pulverised his hands and feet, they had simply hung him on the ropes so that they could work on him again when the pain roused him from unconsciousness. They hadn't left a guard behind, so certain were they that no-one would hear his cries. This was his last chance. The effect of the drugs was waning and, without the support of the ropes, the pain would be so unbearable that he would probably faint. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Now!
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, stretched out both arms. First his elbows and then his whole body lost their hold and the lumps of mash that were once his feet touched the ground first. He cried out even before his upper body smacked against the concrete floor, where he writhed until the pain finally began to subside. Now he could move, could crawl forward on his elbows and knees, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Soon he reached the chair and dragged down the jacket with his teeth, secured it with his right elbow and tore at the lining. The pain only made him angrier until he prised it open with a loud rip.
All at once he was sobbing uncontrollably and memory seized him, just as a predatory cat seizes and shakes its prey. He would never see her again. He had known it ever since they lured him into their trap, but now all of a sudden it was brutally clear, and he loved her so much. So very much!
Slowly he regained his composure. His tongue searched for the capsule, tasting dirt and lint, before it finally alighted on the smooth, cool surface. With his incisors, he carefully removed it from the lining. It was in his mouth now, the capsule that would end everything. A triumphant smile flickered across his pain-stricken face.
They wouldn't find anything. They would blame themselves. They were stupid.
He heard a door slam shut above him, resounding like a peal of thunder. Steps on the concrete. They were coming back. Had they heard him cry out? His teeth held the capsule, ready to bite down. He was ready now. He could end it anytime. He waited a little longer. Let them come in! He wanted to bask in his triumph until the final moment. He wanted them to see it. To stand by helplessly and watch as he escaped them.
He closed his eyes as they opened the door and bright light flooded the darkness. Then he bit down. With a quiet click, the glass shattered in his mouth.
CHAPTER 2
The man was faintly reminiscent of Wilhelm II: the prominent moustache, the piercing gaze. Just like the portrait that hung in the parlour of every good German household during the Kaiser's reign – and still adorned the walls of many, even though he had abdicated over ten years ago and been growing tulips in Holland ever since. The same moustache, the same sparkling eyes, but there the similarities ended. This Kaiser wasn't wearing a spiked helmet; it hung alongside his sabre and uniform above the bedpost. In fact this Kaiser wasn't wearing anything, save a twirly moustache and an impressive erection. Before him kneeled a woman, no less naked, and blessed with voluptuous curves, paying her dues to the imperial sceptre.
Rath leafed limply through the photos that should, by rights, have aroused desire. There were further images of the real Kaiser's third-rate doppelganger and his playmate in action. No matter how their bodies were entwined, the prominent moustache was always in shot.
'Filth!'
Rath looked round. A cop was peering over his shoulder.
'Absolute filth,' the officer continued, 'An insult to his majesty. Time was you'd get hard labour for that.'
'The Kaiser doesn't seem too insulted,' said Rath. He snapped shut the file and pushed it back onto the rickety desk they had given him. The officer gave him an angry look from under his shako as he turned silently away and joined his colleagues. Eight uniformed officers chatted quietly amongst themselves, most of them warming their hands on cups of coffee.
Rath knew that the officers of the 220th precinct had more pressing concerns than providing support for a detective from Alexanderplatz. In three days though, the heat would be on. Wednesday was the first of May, and Commissioner Zörgiebel had forbidden all May demonstrations in Berlin. Despite the ban the communists were still intending to march and the police were nervous. Rumours of a planned putsch were doing the rounds: the Bolsheviks would stage a revolution, would proclaim a Soviet Germany, even now, ten years on. In the 220th precinct, the police were at their most nervous. Neukölln was a workers' district. The reddest in all of Berlin, except perhaps for Wedding.
Every now and then, one of the officers stole a furtive glance at the detective inspector. Rath tapped out an Overstolz and lit it. He was about as welcome here as the Salvation Army in a nightclub.
Vice squad didn't have much of a reputation in police circles. Up until two years ago regulating prostitution in the city had been E Division's number one priority, and a kind of state-run pimping service, since only prostitutes registered with the police could ply their trade legally. Many officers exploited this dependence before a new law to fight VD transferred responsibilities from Vice squad to the local health authorities. Since then, E Division's remit encompassed nightclubs, pimps and pornography, though its reputation had scarcely improved. It seemed as though some of the smut its officers confronted in the line of duty had permanently attached itself to them.
Rath blew smoke across his desk. Rainwater was dripping from the shakos on the coat hooks onto the linoleum floor, green linoleum, reminiscent of the CID offices at Alexanderplatz. His grey hat looked out of place against the black leather and glittering officer's crests, likewise his coat, hanging in the midst of the blue police cloaks. Plain clothes, with nothing but uniform for company.
The coffee they had given him tasted like nasty black sludge in a misshapen enamel cup. So, the police couldn't make coffee in the 220th precinct either. Why should Neukölln be any different from Alex? All the same, he took another sip. It wasn't like he had anything else to do except wait for the phone to ring.
Reaching again for the file he noted that the various members of the Hohenzollern dynasty and other prominent Prussian figures depicted there were different from the usual schlock. The images weren't copies but premium high-resolution prints neatly arranged in a file. A buyer would have to fork out a pretty penny. No doubt they were intended for more rarefied circles. A roving magazine vendor had been selling them at the train station at Alexanderplatz, no more than a few steps away from police headquarters and the offices of E Division, when he caught the eye of a patrol unit and lost his nerve. The two officers had tried to draw the vendor's attention to a harmless magazine that had fallen from his sales tray but, as they approached, he hurled his entire consignment at them and took to his heels.
Fluttering in the air alongside the magazines were the glossy pornographic photos, just about level with the youthful officers' blushing cheeks. The young pair were so amazed at the artistry that they momentarily neglected to give chase but, when they finally did take up pursuit, the man had disappeared amongst the building works surrounding Alex. This caused the officers' cheeks to blush for a second time when they deposited their findings on Lanke's desk and submitted their report.
The head of E Division could be very loud. Superintendent Werner Lanke was of the opinion that congeniality undermined authority. Rath only had to think of how his new boss had greeted him four weeks before.
'I know you have connections, Rath,' Lanke had yelled, 'but if you think you can avoid getting your hands dirty you're very much mistaken! No-one gets an easy ride here! And certainly not someone whose presence I never requested!'
Rath's first month in E Division was almost behind him now. It had seemed like a punishment, and maybe that's what it was, even if he had only been reassigned and not demoted. He had had to leave Cologne, Homicide too, but he was still a DI and had no intention of hanging around Vice forever. He didn't understand how Wolter could put up with it, but the work was something his colleague almost seemed to enjoy.
Detective Chief Inspector Bruno Wolter, known by most of his colleagues as Uncle on account of his affable manner, was in charge of the investigation team as well as today's raid. Outside in the station yard, where the police van stood waiting, Wolter was discussing individual details of the planned raid with the two ladies from women's CID and the squad leader. They were just waiting for Jänicke's call.
Rath imagined the rookie sitting in the stuffy flat they had sequestered to observe the studio – a pair of binoculars in one hand, the other shaking nervously above the receiver. Like Rath, Assistant Detective Stephan Jänicke had joined Vice at the start of April, freshly assigned to Alex straight from police academy in Eiche. But the taciturn, blond East Prussian wouldn't let himself be put off by the teasing of older colleagues; he took his job seriously.
The telephone on the desk sounded. Rath stubbed his cigarette out and reached for the glossy black receiver.
The police van stopped in front of a large tenement house in Hermannstrasse. Police were not welcome in this part of the city. In the half-light of the archway which led to the rear courtyards, Jänicke was waiting, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, collar turned upwards and the brim of his hat pulled over his brow. Rath was forced to stifle a grin. Jänicke was doing his best to appear like a hard-nosed cop from the big city, but his eternally ruddy cheeks betrayed the country boy within.
'There must be a dozen people inside now,' he said, trying to keep pace with Rath and Wolter. 'I've seen a Hindenburg, a Bismarck, a Moltke, a Wilhelm I and a Wilhelm II, and even an Old Fritz.'
'Let's hope there are a few girls too,' said Uncle, heading towards the second courtyard. Two female officers smiled sourly. The plain-clothes men and ten uniformed colleagues followed the DCI through to the back of the tenement. Five boys were playing football with a tin can. When they saw the police contingent, they stood stock still, leaving the can to perform a final, clanking pirouette.
Wolter put a finger to his lips. The oldest, a boy of about eleven, nodded in silent assent. Above them, a window slammed shut. Johann König, photographer 4th floor, proclaimed a brass plate by the entrance to the stairs.
Uncle had had to quiz one of his many informants in the Berlin underworld to track König down, as the photographer was unknown to the police. He made cheap passport photos for his insolvent Neukölln clientele, along with the occasional obligatory family portrait: infants on polar bear rugs, children with school satchels, newlyweds and the like. Until now there had been nothing to suggest he was rotten but for one entry in his record: political. You didn't have to break the law to attract the attention of the police.
It had been Rath's idea to go through the extensive files of Section 1A, the political police, where he stumbled upon a note that had lain dormant for ten years. In 1919, the politicals had registered Johann König as an anarchist, assigning him his own – albeit sparingly marked – index card. After the Revolution the photographer had ceased to be politically active. Now, though, his aversion to the pomp and circumstance of Prussian life had brought him into conflict with the law for a second time. No wonder, Rath thought. Being anti-monarchist with a name like König was never going to end well.
It seemed one of the younger officers was entertaining similar thoughts.
'The Kaiser is screwing at the King's,' he joked and gazed nervously around him.
No-one laughed. Wolter positioned the comic at the entrance to the rear building, and with the rest of the troops began to climb the dingy staircase as quietly as possible. Somewhere in the building a radio was blaring out a popular hit. On the second floor, a grey-haired old lady poked her nose into the stairwell, only to withdraw it again as soon as she saw the police, two women officers and twelve males barely making a sound. At the very top, they halted in front of a sign saying Johann König photographer, printed on yellowing cardboard that was already fraying at the edges.
Wolter turned to the squad leader and raised his right index finger to his lips. A good, strong kick would take the flimsy door clean off its hinges, but he brushed the squad leader to one side, taking a skeleton key from his coat pocket and busying himself with the lock. Before he pushed the door open, he drew his service weapon. The others did likewise, but Rath kept his Mauser in its holster. After Cologne he had sworn not to use his gun if he could at all avoid it. He allowed his armed colleagues to proceed and, from the door, observed the bizarre scene playing out in the studio.
On a green settee, a muscular Hindenburg was hard at it with a naked lady who was faintly reminiscent of Mata Hari. Next to them stood an ordinary private wearing a spiked helmet. Whether he would soon be disporting himself with Mata Hari or, indeed, be called to service by General Field Marshall Hindenburg wasn't clear. The rest of the actors, half of them naked, were engaged in animated conversation under the spotlights. A man with a goatee beard was crouching behind a camera and giving orders to the General Field Marshall.
'Turn Sophie's backside a little towards me ... a little more. That's right. Hold still, aaand – yes, sir!'
No-one in the illustrious gathering noticed that a dozen police officers had entered the studio with their weapons drawn, the younger officers craning their necks to get a better view. There was a clatter as a spotlight fell to the floor and all faces turned towards the door, their expressions frozen. Only Hindenburg and Mata Hari refused to be thrown off their rhythm.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Babylon Berlin"
by .
Copyright © 2008 Volker Kutscher.
Excerpted by permission of Picador.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Part I - Dead Man in the Landwehr Canal,
Part II - A Division,
Part III - The Whole Truth,
About the Author and Translator,
Copyright,
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