The Weisshaus Club, Allach Cargo Park, Munich, Germany
September 19, 2009
11:47 p.m.
Police Inspector Martin Emmerich was intelligent. Could have been a lawyer or a doctor; should have been, his parents still said. That wet night in the dark of the Weisshaus parking lot, Emmerich almost wished he had listened. A soft, comfortable office or consulting room seemed eminently preferable to the rattle of the rain on an unmarked police Audi growing chillier by the minute. But yet, as he peered out at the grey, scabrous outline of the building holding his attention, he knew that it couldn’t be any other way. He was exactly where he was meant to be.
Emmerich had been only thirteen, walking alone to his favorite model-making store in Munich, the afternoon he was pulled into a narrow alley and repeatedly kicked and beaten by four teenage skinheads because he “looked like a Jew.” He was released from the hospital three weeks later, already decided that he was going to devote himself to ensuring that, in Germany’s case, history did not repeat itself. His family and friends said he was being ridiculous; that the new generation skinheads were just young fools, more about fashion than fascism. They urged him instead to do just as they did: prove with good, honest careers, through leading respectable, civilized lives, that the dark days of the Nazis were a unique abhorrence, something to be forgotten.
Martin had ignored them all, dedicating himself from that moment to understanding what created the Third Reich and how best to use his time to prevent any possibility of a fourth. It was even the topic of his final paper in modern history at the University of Munich. His entry into the Bavarian State Police was immediate and, after training and the monotony of a mandatory period in traffic, he got the transfer to the Group Crimes Division he desired from the outset. There, he was assigned to work alongside Gustav Klein, a twenty-five-year veteran of the department, and told to learn everything he could from one of the most knowledgeable and experienced officers in Munich.
Doing exactly that, within two years he had been given responsibility for monitoring all the region’s youth gangs, quickly becoming one of the leading experts in the country on neo-Nazis, his chosen specialty. Senior voices in the department were already tagging him as destined for the very top after he had proven, almost single-handedly, that the high-profile German businessman and financier Stefan Vollmer had been making significant donations to the far-right NPD party and actively sponsoring other, more extreme underground neo-Nazi youth groups.
Still only thirty-two, Emmerich’s vocation had been somewhat hampered at first by the fact that his face looked even younger than its years. However, recently he had aged. The dark bags beneath his determined eyes and the frown lines increasingly etching his forehead were beginning to betray the severity of his chosen profession. Even his slightly olive skin, the cause of the attack that set him on the course of his life, was becoming paler from too many long nights like that one, peering into the underbelly of the “New Germany” and asking himself if, despite his best efforts, he wasn’t fighting a losing battle. Neo-Nazi activity was on the rise wherever he looked …
Emmerich was glad Klein was alongside him that evening. Even if Gustav was now more mentor than partner, the Weisshaus had a bad reputation and officers always went there in pairs. A tip-off from an informant that Max Schalb was expected at the club had pulled him there even if he knew it would be impossible for him to go inside. It didn’t matter, he felt that any proximity to the next neo he was determined to take down might prove advantageous. Martin knew well that Schalb was now Vollmer’s representative in Germany and, sitting there, he could only wonder what was going on inside and hope that their informant could get close enough to see and report. It would probably be difficult, judging by the huge crowd that had filed into the hateful nightclub earlier.
There were no clues for Emmerich in the parking lot. Wedged with empty cars, it was totally still—the only sounds the patter of rain on the car roof and the distant buzz and thump of music from the club. Klein interrupted the calm. “I need to stretch my legs and have a cigarette.”
He moved to get out of the car, saying, “It’s quiet,” as he opened the door.
“I know,” Emmerich replied.
“No, Martin,” Klein insisted, raising his index finger to focus Emmerich as he leaned back in through the door. “Listen. It’s too quiet for that cesspit.”
It was indeed now totally silent. The rain had stopped, as had the dull pounding that always came from within the building.
Feeling his senses alert to the unusual, Emmerich replied, “You’re right, something must be hap—”
His words were interrupted by a rapid drilling noise.
“Was that machine-gun fire?”
“It was!” Klein shouted, grabbing for the car’s radio receiver.
“Scheisse!” Emmerich swore, jumping from the car to see people already running from the club’s exits, heading for their cars. In seconds, the first vehicles were fleeing the parking lot, skidding and sliding on the dirt and gravel to get away as fast as possible.
Closely followed by Klein, Emmerich began to run toward the building, unholstering his pistol as more shouting, screaming skinheads poured from the exits.
He grabbed one of them by the jacket and shouted into the wild, panic-stricken face, “What happened in there?”
“Shooting,” was all he heard before Klein dived to push the pair of them from the path of a blue Mercedes panel van that was reversing wildly toward the club.
Regaining his footing as the terrified skinhead scrambled away, Emmerich caught a glimpse of the van’s driver as it sped back from him. A black balaclava was masking the face, its two ghostly eyeholes looking straight back at him while the van’s reverse gear whined in even greater acceleration.
“Halt! Polizei!” Emmerich shouted, brandishing his pistol at the retreating vehicle, but the Mercedes didn’t slow. It continued to race backward to the building where it skidded to a stop just centimeters before crashing into the club’s cinder-block wall.
For an instant, Emmerich thought he saw struggling shadows in the strips of bright light that surrounded the van filling the exit, but, just as quickly, the vehicle was accelerating toward him again.
A burst of machine-gun fire from the club doorway ripped into the back of the escaping vehicle as the rear doors swung shut.
Stray bullets cracked into the cars around Emmerich, who fell to the ground just as a red Volkswagen Golf, reversing out from its parking space in blind panic, smashed into the side of the van.
In an explosion of red and white taillights and crumpling bodywork, the force of the impact rocked the van wildly, the left-side wheels rising high into the air and causing it to veer to the right before crashing back down again.
The vehicle stalled.
Emmerich and Klein rushed forward again, badges in one hand, pistols in the other, screaming at the now stationary van, “Stop, or we shoot!”
The masked driver looked out at them from the side window and ducked down to restart the van.
Emmerich began pumping bullets into the front wheel directly below him as the engine desperately tried to turn.
On the third attempt, it caught.
Frantically pumping the accelerator to build the revs, the driver cleared the motor before gunning the van forward again.
The shot tire spun violently and then exploded into shreds, leaving the bare wheel rim grinding and sparking on the gravel.
The masked driver lost steering control but still didn’t stop.
His arm suddenly thrust from the window to point a large caliber revolver at Emmerich.
Seeing the silver firearm, Gustav Klein coldly aimed three bullets into the van’s cockpit at head height.
The van swerved into a row of parked cars and flipped onto its side, the dead driver wedged on its horn.
Approaching the rear of the van, Emmerich motioned Klein to cover him as he tentatively reached forward to open the rear doors.
Lifting one he looked in to see a dark mess of blood and bodies. The light of a departing car briefly curled around him to illuminate the body on top, its bare torso was covered in tattoos and punctured by bullet wounds. Martin Emmerich realized that it was Max Schalb. He didn’t recognize any of the others.