Soon, Natasha and I are both bored to tears. After a while she opens the top button of her blouse. She likes my eyes to roam across her cleavage. “Last night, Ramsan Alchanov was killed at Frankfurter Tor,” she says, as if stating the obvious.
“Alchanov,” I repeat absently, because I’m busy admiring her tits. “A Chechen, right?” I ask, just to make sure.
“Yeah,” She replies. “Someone stuck an ace of clubs between his fingers,” she elaborates.
The mention of the poker card makes me sit up. “Have you been to the scene?”
Natasha shakes her head, no. “You know that the Chechens would never allow it.”
“Just asking,” I say.
“They sent a photo to the LKA.”
“A portrait of the late Ramsan?” I take a guess.
She nods again.
“It doesn’t mean a thing,” I point out. “Maybe the photo has been tampered with.”
“Maybe.”
I suddenly have a brainstorm. “There might be more than one killer. Or a copycat.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m convinced that we’re dealing with one perp only.”
“We shouldn’t get too fixed on the poker card.”
“You know my view on this ace-of-clubs angle.”
“If it’s really the same guy, it raises one important question, I think.”
“Shoot.”
“What did the two victims have in common? For what possible reason should anyone kill the Arab manager of a whorehouse and a Chechen porn producer?”
Natasha buttons up her blouse. “That’s exactly what you’re going to find out.”
I shake my head, no. “I’m peddling drugs. You’re the investigator.”
“You have the right contacts inside the Ghetto.”
“They’re called customers.”
“That’s why you are my informer. Do you honestly believe that these guys would bare their souls to a LKA detective?”
I wave her off. “They won’t trust a snitch like me either.”
“But you’re very convincing.”
“Convincing?” I repeat.
“Right,” she replies with a downright lovely smile.
“And how exactly will I convince Bansuri to talk to me?”
“With the aid of two pounds of coke,” she dryly answers, holding out a plastic bag to me.
I shake my head, because I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You’re carting around this much dope in a cheap bag?”
“Why not?”
“Well, the packaging is a tad lacking in style, I should say.”
“Here, where Orient and Occident meet”—the Imam has meanwhile worked himself up into a lather—“the one and only true faith will win its final victory.” His words are followed by the theme music of the Muslim Terminator. The spectators jump off their seats and start clapping frenetically. The women in their segregated upper levels are screaming like banshees and wave signs, offering themselves for marriage to this humanoid monster. I lean back and close my eyes. The cheering turns into white noise, as I doze off.
Natasha wakes me when the spectacle is over. The Imam declares the Muslim Terminator the winner. The loser is wrapped in a bloody sheet and carried from the arena. The crowd’s had its fun. We leave the box before everyone else gets up. Natasha points out his one weak spot to me to prepare me for my meeting with the Imam. It’s Khalid, his firstborn, 46, unmarried, no children. Enjoying life to the hilt in his penthouse above Alexanderplatz. Much to his old man’s chagrin, he jets around the world and parties with fancy hookers. He’s the steady thorn in the Imam’s flesh. I know Khalid well. He’s my best customer. I sell him every unit I can spare. Khalid pays well. Even a Pusher doesn’t mind a little revenue on the side, you know.
When we make our way down the steps of the arena, Natasha’s treating me like a schoolboy, lecturing me on how to proceed. I just hate it when she’s acting superior like this. After all I’m the one who lives in the Ghetto, while she shacks up with some rich dude in X’berg. What does she have to teach me about life? With a pat on the shoulder she sends me on my way down the corridor to the locker rooms, where I’m frisked by the mayor’s security guy. Then, it’s the turn of the Imam’s Salafist guard to pat me down. Glock and briefcase have to stay behind.
The home-team’s locker room is a sorry sight to behold. The Imam is seated on a simple chair right next to the Jacuzzi. Von Schlotow’s on a little stool beside the man of the cloth.
Bansuri is lecturing the mayor about the plight of his brethren in faith here in Berlin. The crime in the Ghetto, the access controls, the fortifications. So many of his people were languishing in the city’s jails. The new madrassa in Zehlendorf will remedy the situation, Schlotow promises. Bansuri nods happily and seems to be placated. Still, he steers the conversation to the murders in the Ghetto. The crucifix was carried into Jerusalem once, he says. It brought death and destruction over the Muslims, he points out. Then, he takes a deep breath and drops the bombshell: Even though already two dead relatives of his have been garnished with aces of clubs, the Imam has not seen it fit to inform the LKA of these crimes. You don’t usually discuss internal affairs like this with infidels, he adds, full of his own importance.
Schlotow seems to be helpless in the face of the Imam’s arrogance. Before he leaves, he kisses
