The next evening, she and Richard have another quarrel. Britta briefly swings by the house, helps Vera with her homework, and tells Richard she has to leave again for a business appointment.
“Does that mean you’re going to miss dinner again?”
“Only today.”
“Yesterday too.”
“Yesterday was an emergency.”
“Suppose you cook dinner again soon? Like you did a few days ago? That was really nice.”
Recently, he’s been weaving hints into their conversations. Might she be able to take Vera to school tomorrow? Wouldn’t it be possible for her to help look after the garden now and again? Or he asks her how she’s feeling. Wonders if she’s having more stomach problems. Says she looks tired.
All of which annoys Britta. She’s been providing for the family for years, and now, only because this Hatz person has suddenly appeared, she’s supposed to retire, without further ado. As if her work has always been nothing but a temporary solution, a stopgap measure until the day when Richard would finally start earning money! As if The Bridge could be switched on and off like a lamp!
“But you don’t have to stop,” says Richard. “What we’re talking about is only a sabbatical.”
She wants to retort that Swappie, no matter whether it brings in money someday or not, is still just another toy for the stock market assholes. A tool for making the world a slightly worse place. Whereas her work makes the world better. Nowadays, whoever’s in need of an assassin no longer has to fall back on purblind jihadis with narcissistic personality disorder or half-children with weapons fetishes or psychopaths who hate foreigners and women. Instead, such employers can receive a professionally trained, thoroughly tested martyr who wants to die for a higher cause. The Bridge has put an end to terror anarchy. Now there are binding agreements and controlled victim counts. Slowly but surely, the industry players have adopted this business model. The practiced media report successful attacks, show pictures of uniformed security forces, and interview politicians, who stress that the threat level has been and continues to be high, but is no cause for panic, while their staff gets to work on the next security package. The level of hysteria has considerably decreased. It’s not very easy to put into words, and yet it’s rather obvious: since The Bridge has been around, suicide attacks have become less chic. Free-floating copycat attackers have practically disappeared. On the other hand, “crash driving” has become much more common, and the number of its victims has exceeded the terrorist victim tally for a long time now. Britta and Babak have often discussed this: every industrialized society seems to need a certain number of berserkers running amok, while the outward form the murderous frenzy takes is only a question of prevailing fashion. Sixteen-year-olds who run through their schools with pump guns. Twenty-year-olds who blow themselves up with bomb belts. Eighteen-year-olds who blindfold themselves on the autobahn and mash the gas pedal to the floor. Mounting a charge against the walls of a monolithic order. The blind spot in the system. The itchy patch that every society needs in order to give itself a thorough scratching from time to time. The Bridge is part of a natural cycle that moves from war through pacification and then back to war. For Britta, this knowledge is sufficient to convince her that her work makes sense. It’s always a question of a balance of power, of establishing an equilibrium between chaos and order, cleanliness and filth. It’s enough for her to know that she’s on the clean side.
Naturally, she can’t explain this to Richard. Nevertheless, it’s imperative that he know how important her work is.
She just leaves him standing there, slams the front door, and rides her bicycle into the city. She won’t simply abandon the field. She won’t cede her lucrative operation to an obscenely rich water diviner and his badly organized outfit. Let Hatz blather on about burnout and make threats and buy Richard and pressure her as much as he wants.
The whole business is going to blow up in your face, Britta thinks as she locks up her bicycle in front of the Good Times restaurant. Literally, if need be. “Empty Hearts,” really, what an adolescent name.
Before she steps into the restaurant, she takes a few deep breaths and concentrates on being aware of the weather. It hasn’t rained today, the air is warm, it smells of lilacs and asphalt. Slowly, she comes out of her trance.
Babak and Julietta are already there. They’re sitting at a window table, their heads close together; Britta hears Julietta laugh. They look like a couple in love, those two. Or at least like old friends. While Britta is approaching the table, she looks at Babak and gently shakes her head. She’s here for a business meeting, not a bar date among friends. Babak and Julietta apparently don’t share this view. Babak’s in a good mood, and Julietta has even done a little work on her appearance. She’s woven her hair into small plaits and tied them into a loose knot; she looks like a jungle princess. In general, her affect is more upright than usual, her facial complexion is healthy, her cheeks and eyes radiant. Britta glances fleetingly at the window to see if this change is due to the lighting inside.
“Are you all right?” asks Babak.
He too looks quite rested, which can only come as a surprise to Britta. They’ve spent the day analyzing the latest findings and in so doing have once again let the weekly reports languish. It cost an enormous effort to uncover a worthwhile photograph of the second suicide bomber, Andreas Muradow, who died at the Leipzig airport. When Babak finally found a photo that could be adequately enlarged, it became clear that not only had Andreas, like Markus, sported an “Empty Hearts” tattoo, but also that he, exactly like his accomplice, was an old acquaintance from The Bridge’s earlier days. Britta thinks she remembers that Andreas also participated in the program for no longer than two weeks, but she isn’t completely sure. Since all data concerning processed candidates is destroyed, it’s not possible to reconstruct details.
The conclusion—namely that former clients of The Bridge have joined together to compete with it—in no way represents an improvement in the situation. Even though the two perpetrators were in the program only briefly, they had inside knowledge of the enterprise. Britta peers into Babak’s and Julietta’s jovial faces. Apparently, she’s the only one worried about the future of the practice.
Their food arrives, and they lean over it. Babak praises the lasagna and has Britta try a bite. A bloody steak seasoned with herb butter and accompanied by potatoes is lying on Julietta’s plate.
“But you don’t even eat meat,” says Britta, dipping her spoon in her spinach soup.
“I’m not sure how, but I thought steak would be good for my project.”
Now Britta understands the hairdo too: Julietta’s not a jungle princess, she’s a warrior. As arranged, Babak has informed Julietta that she might possibly be employed on a special mission in the near future. And Julietta has immediately begun to prepare herself for the assignment, even though she has no idea what its nature will be. This touches Britta so deeply that she forgets her bad mood.
“She’s stopped smoking,” says Babak. “No pills, no joints.”
“And tomorrow I start with stamina training.” Julietta begins to eat, grimacing only slightly as she does.
“You mustn’t be scared,” says Britta. “It’s all part of the usual routine.”
“I’m not scared,” says Julietta. Her knife, fork, and masticatory organs work together in focused concentration. It’s plain that she doesn’t know if the food tastes good or not. She’s eating because she has decided to eat.
“Normally, we don’t discuss practical application until the end of the program,” Britta points out, opening the business segment of their meeting. “But special circumstances have arisen that make a somewhat different approach necessary.”
Julietta nods and chews. Babak has already told her the same thing.
“Regardless, we absolutely cannot propose a candidate who will then have a change of heart.”
“I’m not going to have a change of heart.”
Britta executes a hand movement intended to mean that Julietta has said all that’s needed. “In your case,” Britta goes on, “we’ll speed up the process. The main thing is to find out quickly what you can be employed to do.”
“I can do anything. You train me for whatever you want, and then I’ll get it done.”
Babak and Britta smile at her eagerness.
“We don’t train you. We prepare you mentally.”
“I’d really like to learn to shoot.”
“Julietta, look at me.”
She interrupts her chewing and lifts her eyes obediently.
“This isn’t a video game. This is real.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“People will die.”
“Me, among others.” She laughs and sticks the next piece of meat in her mouth. Britta pensively watches her eat for a while. Julietta is almost too perfect to be true. They can only hope she’s more than a child who thinks she’s Mega-Melanie. Never before has Britta struggled so hard to keep her distance. She often feels an urge to give Julietta a slap; at other times, she simply wants to take the girl in her arms. Pull yourself together, her inner voice admonishes her.
“Does it matter to you how many victims there will be?” Babak asks.
“Is that some kind of joke?” There’s genuine surprise in Julietta’s eyes. “Just look around. If it was up to me, I’d say let’s do something with ricin and the Berlin Waterworks.”
“Okay.” Babak nods. “Message understood.”
“We are doing nothing at all,” Britta says sharply. “We’re a healing practice. Our business is psychotherapy. And The Bridge has clear rules concerning the maximum victim count.”
Julietta and Babak remain silent.
“We’ll give some thought to potential contractors later today,” Britta adds, somewhat more calmly.
In principle, The Bridge doesn’t differentiate between clients. Especially since they—when considered in the clear light of day—are all pretty tiresome. Focused on petroleum and geostrategy, ISIS is a by-product of American foreign policy and neither more nor less repulsive than it is. The tree huggers have achieved a level of blindness one could almost envy, and Separatists have a mind-numbing way of feeling they’re always right. With Nationalists, you never know if you’re going to find the stupid variety or the shrewd variety worse, and the Frexit, Spexit, and Swexit people are as insufferable as children who destroy a sand castle simply because they feel like wrecking something.
Fortunately, it’s not Britta’s task to adjudicate the legitimacy of human motives. The circumstances of an operation generally don’t matter to her, as long as everything is done according to the rules. However, since—for the first time in its history—The Bridge is about to act in its own interest, an optimal reaction from the media is a top priority. For days, Britta’s been mulling over the question of what could be done, and with whom. As she was lying beside Richard last night, sleepless again, the exciting idea came to her: they’ll blow up a bridge, namely the Moltke Bridge in Berlin, directly behind the Chancellery. The Bridge sends the industry a powerfully symbolic message; the target is spectacular. All they need now is the suitable client. Maybe someone from what’s left of Occupy. Or the Bavarian Separatists.
Ordinarily, the candidates are involved in the decision-making process; Britta thinks it important that people should be comfortable with their assignment. It’s helpful when they have at least a rudimentary political consciousness, anti-Brussels or pro–climate protection or what have you. In most cases, however, the candidates are preoccupied not with politics but with their own personal misery, which is why part of Britta’s job is to supply convictions. “You’re so good at selling convictions because you yourself don’t have any,” Babak once said to her, meaning it as a joke. What’s certain is that the more strongly candidates feel they’re going to die a meaningful death for a good cause, the more happily they cross over the last bridge.
Julietta’s busy cutting the second half of her steak into small pieces, adorning each with some dabs of herb butter and a slice of roasted potato, and shoving the resulting morsel into her mouth.
“What do you think about the government district in Berlin?” Britta asks her.
“Not much. That’s where the CCC assholes are.”
“Wonderful.” Britta cleans her soup bowl with a piece of bread and gratefully accepts Babak’s offer of the rest of his lasagna. “Then I have a lovely scenario for you.”
Julietta nods. “The main thing is for it to be about animals.”
“I was thinking about the Moltke Bridge.”
“What does that have to do with animal protection?”
“Nothing.”
“Then it’s out of the question.”
Suddenly, the lasagna doesn’t taste so good, and Britta pushes the dish away. She’d somehow assumed that Julietta had forgotten about her animal protection hobbyhorse. Now Julietta’s the only one who’s still eating. She looks up from her plate. A fleeting glance.
“I’m doing this for animals. I said that from the beginning.”
“And I said the decision wasn’t up to you.”
“That’s not exactly how it went,” Babak objects, but Britta cuts him short at once.
“You stay out of it.” She points a finger at Julietta. Soldier and commander. “I give the orders, you obey them.”
“Then why are we sitting here?” Julietta wipes her mouth with her napkin and gives Britta a challenging look.
“Maybe a compromise is doable,” Babak says, trying again. “We’d like a large-scale operation, and Julietta’s surely on board with that. Maybe we could combine the Moltke Bridge idea with a client like Green Power.”
Now Britta directs her anger at him. “Since when do you work up the scenarios?” she hisses. “Are you going to be negotiating with clients from now on as well? Will you take care of establishing contacts? Doing all the paperwork? Maybe you think I should opt for early retirement too?”
“Whoa,” says Babak, raising his hands, as if Britta were a galloping horse, coming right at him.
“And you,” says Britta, pointing a finger at Julietta again. “The only reason you’re so charged up about animal protection is that your best friend’s a cat. What a load of crap! The Bridge isn’t a petting zoo for bored daughters.”
Now it’s Julietta’s turn to push her plate away. Two miniature towers of meat, potato, and herb butter are still on it. “Unlike you, I have principles,” she says.
Britta’s laugh sounds artificial. “Right, when they involve cute little animals! But think about people for a change. Go to the government quarter in Berlin and make a statement for democracy.”
“Democracy? Wasn’t that the system that put the CCC assholes in power?”
“Just because you don’t like the results doesn’t mean the process didn’t work.”
“It doesn’t? Take a look at the so-called voters! Nothing but idiots and ignoramuses! Any monkey has more dignity and more compassion. More intelligence too, in most cases.”
“People have simply forgotten what’s at stake.”
“Has this turned into a civics class?” asks Julietta, immune to Britta’s arguments. “I thought you were totally apolitical. Neutral. Professional.”
“She is,” Babak says quickly, grabbing Britta’s arm as though to keep her from jumping up. “This is just about the matter at hand. According to The Bridge’s rules, the decision for or against a client is ultimately up to the candidate. Britta and I work only in an advisory capacity.” He has spoken in Julietta’s direction, but his words were meant for Britta. The fact that he’s openly siding against her and is moreover in the right only increases her rage. She feels his grip tightening when her arm starts to tremble.
“Get out of here,” Britta says between clenched teeth.
“Am I being sent away again so you can see whether I come back?”
“You’re being sent away so the grown-ups can talk.”
“Okay, okay.” Julietta finishes her Coke and stands up. “I wanted to jog a few more laps anyway.”
When she goes, Britta lets herself sink back in her chair and exhales for several seconds. Babak eyes her searchingly. “You really went to town on her, didn’t you?” he asks.
“I told you we should take Marquardt.”
“The young lady’s showing some teeth. That can only serve our purpose.”
“She’s uncontrollable. A threat to our plans.”
“Nonsense. You’re just not used to being contradicted.” Babak lays his hand on her arm again, very gently this time. “Nobody’s against you. Julietta just has a clear goal. And that irritates you.”
“Why should it?”
“Because it tells you something about yourself.”
Britta yanks her arm away from him. “Please spare me the therapy speak.”
“We’re a healing practice for psychotherapy. Have you forgotten?”
Against her will, Britta smiles. When Babak sees that, he breathes a sigh of relief. “The Moltke Bridge is a magnificent idea,” he says. “We can do that just as well with Green Power. As a sign of resistance against deleting animal protection from the Constitution.”
“And suppose they’re not willing?”
“We can ask.”
Britta nods slowly. At least, that would mean working with G. Flossen, a man with whom she has a great deal of experience.
“Have you got the evaluation plan?” Babak asks. “Let’s take a look at it together.”
Britta produces a sheet of paper on which she’s made some notes. Babak bends over it while Britta indicates the individual points with her pencil.
“Everything’s either already completed or dispensable. That means”—she draws a ring around the remaining points—“that we can do Step Six next, and after that she’ll start the final phase immediately.”
Babak stares in silence at the paper for a while. Finally, he asks, “Can’t we skip Step Six too?”
“You must be joking. Step Six is one of the most important in the whole program.”
“But Julietta’s a woman.”
“The perfect candidate. As you said yourself.”
“I know.” Babak rubs his face. “I just don’t feel good about it.”
“You like her.”
He takes his hands off his face. “Like a little sister. Maybe she reminds me of myself. When I was in the same situation.”
“You weren’t nearly so hard-boiled.”
He has to laugh. “Well, there’s a valid point,” he says.
“Babak.” Britta waits until he becomes serious again. “We have to determine whether she really wants to die. For her protection as well as ours.”
“You’re right.”
“You can’t be her friend. Suicides don’t have friends.”
“Ever since she started living at my place, she seems so…cheerful.”
“That has nothing to do with you.”
Babak knows as well as she does that in the course of the program, many candidates experience euphoric phases, especially toward the end, when the scenario is taking shape. Candidates focus on the task at hand and start to feel happy. But the delight of death is not the same as delight in life.
“Still, you absolutely want to use her for the big plan,” says Britta.
“Because she’s the right choice.”
“We don’t decide that.”
“Step Six does. Among other things. I know.”
They smile at each other and take deep breaths.
“Now beat it and go pick up some guy. Forget Julietta for a few hours. Go back to your own life. That’s an order.”