BEAR
“You drive like a madman,” scolds Yasira, which Michael acknowledges by pressing the gas pedal even further to the floor.
“Music?” he asks.
“Okay by me,” Yasira says, even though she herself only feels like listening to Mozart’s Requiem. “What do you want to hear?”
“A Night at the Opera.”
Yasira opens the glove compartment and searches through the pile of CDs for the requested Queen album.
“You know there’s this new thing,” she says. “It’s called music-streaming.”
“I’ve bought this album three times,” says Michael. “As a record, as a cassette, and as a CD. I’m definitely not going to stream it.”
Yasira pushes the CD into the slot of the car radio.
“I bought the record back in East German days,” Michael continues. “West German import. Damn expensive.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“I was the only one in the whole place with those records. I was a star. Then the Wall came down and my assets plummeted. Suddenly the music was available everywhere.”
“Tragic.”
Michael skips to the eleventh track, but immediately presses pause.
“Will you sing along?” he asks.
Yasira groans. “Do I have to?”
“I know it’s terribly inappropriate, considering the mission we’re on, but if we only sing when it’s appropriate, then we wouldn’t be singing at all.”
Yasira nods. “All right.”
Michael presses play and together they belt out “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”
After the song Yasira scrolls through Lena Palmer’s Instagram account.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Lena in various makeup looks, the usual teen poses, delicious food, most often lasagna, vacation, mostly Baltic Sea.
Not many photos with friends. Lena only seems close with one dark-haired girl.
But all in all, these are pictures Yasira could also find on Zara’s Instagram account.
Except Lena has a cuddly tabby cat. What is striking, however, is that about half a year ago, Lena’s posts became more sparse.
Michael and Yasira are almost in Halberstadt when Timo calls. Yasira stops the music and puts the call on speakerphone.
“I don’t know if it’s important,” says Timo. “But there’s this new video. A lot of people are watching it. I’ll send it to your phone.”
Yasira expects the worst. What is it this time?
Another rape? She clicks on the link. But first she has to watch an ad for eBay.
It really is a farce that the BKA can’t afford a YouTube premium account.
What she then sees is not another rape. It’s a beefy white guy with short brown hair, a bodybuilder.
He walks into the picture in camouflage. Holding a submachine gun in his hand.
“Men!”
That salutation alone. Who does this guy think he is?
“Lena Palmer didn’t have to die. Lena shouldn’t have died!
” He pauses briefly. “How much longer are we going to silently stand by and watch what is happening in our country, right before our eyes? I’ll tell you: not even one second longer!
I, for one, am no longer willing to accept all the humiliation we are subjected to day after day. ”
The guy steps closer to the camera. He probably ordered a selfie tripod from especially for this video.
“It’s time to defend our country, our wives and daughters. What we’re dealing with here is a secret invasion!”
Isn’t there a Marvel series with that name? Zara watched something like that.
“The state is failing. The police have been castrated by the Greens and the Left. It’s our right to defend ourselves.
It’s our duty! I call on you to actively protect our homeland.
If necessary, I will personally bring these criminals to justice.
Follow me! Active Homeland-Protection is the order of the hour! ”
The guy points his submachine gun at the camera, then lowers it again and says, “Call me Bear. I’m going hunting.”
Yasira massages her temples.
“Where does this jerk think he is?” asks Michael. “Texas?”
“Active Homeland-Protection,” Yasira snorts. “A. H. Adolf Hitler.”
“Could be a coincidence,” says Michael.
“Coincidence? Definitely not. These fucking Nazis love their stupid number and letter codes. Enigma for morons.”
“I’m just saying it could be a coincidence.”
“The video is exactly eighty-eight seconds long, Michael. Eight and eight. Twice the eighth letter of the alphabet. H. H. Heil Hitler.”
Michael rolls his eyes. Eighty-eight was also the self-chosen house number of the rebellious Reichsbürger they arrested last month. Even though the street he lived in has less than fifty houses.
“I guess you’re right then,” says Michael. “Our bear seems to be a brown bear.”
Yasira calls Timo back: “Keep an eye on this guy,” she says. “See if you can identify him. Are there any priors et cetera . . .”
“Already on it,” Timo reports.
“And tell me, is that one of our guns? It looked familiar to me.”
“I’ll pass you to Karsten.”
There’s a brief rustle, then Karsten explains: “It’s a Heckler & Koch MP5.”
“That’s what I thought,” says Yasira. “One of ours.”
“Well,” replies Karsten. “Not just the police use them. Customs and the Special Forces Command of the German Armed Forces do too. And so does half the world. I’d say it’s the most common submachine gun after the Uzi.”
“It’s not going to be commercially available,” says Yasira.
“Of course not. But given its worldwide distribution, you won’t be surprised to hear that there’s a large supply on the black market.
Some police authorities are also thinking about phasing out the MP5 because of its relatively limited range and penetrating power.
The Thuringians, for example, have already replaced them. ”
“What are you trying to say? That some of the decommissioned weapons have found their way onto the black market?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Karsten replies. “I’m just sharing the information I have. It’s up to you to decide what’s relevant, boss.”
“Hmm. Anything else?”
“Just a, what do they call it now? Ah yeah, a fun fact.”
“A fun fact?”
“The Red Army Faction used the MP5 in their logo.”
Yasira remembers the familiar logo with the red, five-pointed star, the weapon on it and the three letters “RAF” above it.
“I always thought that was a Kalashnikov,” says Yasira.
“Yeah, most people do. Probably even the RAF members thought so. But Ulrike Meinhof’s acquaintance, who drew the logo, obviously had no idea and accidentally chose the MP5 instead of a Kalashnikov as a model, the standard weapon of the class enemy. My kind of humor.”
Yasira has to take her phone away from her ear as Karsten’s loud machine-gun laughter erupts.
“Thanks,” she says afterwards. “Keep us updated.”
She hangs up and scrolls through the comments under the video. There are hundreds. Bear gets a lot of approval. A lot of approval. Apparently half the country consists of wannabe manhunters. It puts her in a bad mood. Yasira puts the cell phone aside and looks at Michael. “Drive faster.”