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Great European planetary festival in Dresden: a serial killer sends out poison horoscopes. Police student Max, severely disturbed by combat missions in Afghanistan, and his Evi, a petty criminal bakery clerk from Upper Lusatia, go in search of clues. While she hunts poisoners in the pulsating Florence on the Elbe, he accompanies the star astrologer Scultetus as a bodyguard to the end of the world. Art Nouveau palace in Prague, Chinese pagoda on the Canary Islands, heavenly priests of the Sahara, Istanbul horoscope scholars, alpine castle with scary witch, planetary avenues on the Atlantic, Scottish druid circles, star hall in Øresund, secret studies in Warsaw, examination by granite-headed lodge brothers and odyssey through the Zittau mountains, escape and return to Dresden. Showdown on the roof of the European Central Bank in Frankfurt am Main. And on, on and on, to the city of dawn in distant India.
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Jürgen G. H. Hoppmann
THE ASTROLOGER
a downright untruthful affair
Thriller
dedicated to Basia
© 2023 Jürgen G. H. Hoppmann, ArsAstrologica, Görlitz,Saxony
Editing of the German version: Gundula Bacquet, Frankfurt/Main
Assistance English version and audio trailer: Philip Fairweater, Honiton, Devon Drawings of front cover and inner part: Lorenzo Gori, Berlin
Drawing in the appendix: Patricia Cooney, St. Gallen
Photo of the moon clock at the Görlitz town hall: Stefan Müller, Görlitz
Painting in the photo on the back of the book: Waltraut Geisler, Jauernick-Buschbach
Cover design and book typesetting: ArsAstrologica, Görlitz
StarFont: Anthony I.P. Owen, Kopenhagen
Vollkorn Variable Font: Friedrich Althausen, Schwielowsee
Wingdings und Palatino Linotype Font: Microsoft, Redmond
Lato font family: Lukasz Dziedzic & Adam Twardoch, Warschau
ISBN E-Book: 978-3-347-91515-2
www.astrolog.one
This work, including its parts, is protected by copyright. is responsible for the contents. Any exploitation is prohibited without. Publication and distribution are carried out on behalf of, to be reached at: tredition GmbH, department "Imprint service", An der Strusbek 10, 22926 Ahrensburg, Germany.
Inhalt
Cover
Titelblatt
Widmung
Urheberrechte
PROLOGUE
GREAT RADIANCE
UPPER LUSATIA
BERLIN 07:42
UPPER LUSATIA
BERLIN 08:30
UPPER LUSATIA
BRANDENBURG
UPPER LUSATIA
BRANDENBURG
DRESDEN
DRESDEN
DRESDEN
PRAGUE
DRESDEN
LEAD LIGHT
CANARY ISLANDS
DRESDEN
CANARY ISLANDS
DRESDEN
CANARY ISLANDS
DRESDEN
WEST SAHARA
DRESDEN
CENTAL SAHARA
DRESDEN
NERVOUS FLICKER
EAST SAHARA
DRESDEN
ISTANBUL
DRESDEN
GREECE
DRESDEN
MILAN
DRESDEN
SWITZERLAND
DRESDEN
ROMANDY
LOVELY CONFUSION
DRESDEN
ROMANDY
DRESDEN
MASSIF CENTRAL
DRESDEN
CENTRE-VAL DE LOIRE
DRESDEN
BRETAGNE
CRIMSON HELL TORNAMENT
DRESDEN
BRETAGNE
DRESDEN
OUTER HEBRIDES
DRESDEN
OUTER HEBRIDES
DRESDEN
OUTER HEBRIDES
DRESDEN
OUTER HEBRIDES
DRESDEN
COPENHAGEN
DRESDEN
BENEVOLENCE EVERYWHERE
COPENHAGEN
DRESDEN
ØRESUND
DRESDEN
ØRESUND
DRESDEN
ØRESUND
DRESDEN
ØRESUND
DRESDEN
WARSAW
DRESDEN
WARSAW
DRESDEN
WARSAW
DRESDEN
WARSAW
DRESDEN
WARSAW
DRESDEN
WARSAW
DRESDEN
WARSAW
STRICT AND JUST
DRESDEN
MASOVIA
DRESDEN
ZGORZELEC
DRESDEN
GÖRLITZ
DRESDEN
UPPER LUSATIA
DRESDEN
UPPER LUSATIA
DRESDEN
DRESDEN
DRESDEN
DRESDEN
FRANKFURT (MAIN)
FRANKFURT AM MAIN
HARD LANDING
FRANKFURT (MAIN)
UPPER LUSATIA
UPPER LUSATIA
UPPER LUSATIA
BERLIN
PARIS
IN PARADISE
CHENNAI
AUROVILLE BEACH
EPILOGUE
CHARACTERS
LITERATURE
The Astrologer - a downright untruthful affair
Cover
Titelblatt
Widmung
Urheberrechte
PROLOGUE
LITERATURE
The Astrologer - a downright untruthful affair
Cover
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PROLOGUE
The Presidium of the Council of Europe in Strasbourg hands over to the "Archives du Conseil de l'Europe" the following volume with the explicit note "Strictement Confidentiel".
These are the eyewitness accounts of a disgraced former police student and his fiancée, a bakery sales assistant with a criminal record.
The documents are of global political relevance and require a thorough "vérification de la véracité" with regard to the life and work of the legendary astrologer Scultetus.
GREAT RADIANCE
29.12.2019 Sun
UPPER LUSATIA
05:58 Rothenburg
Snow blows over the display, settling like icing sugar on freshly baked cinnamon stars, on the soft crusty rolls, the wholemeal bread and rock-hard salt particles. Thick clouds of condensation drift out of the nostrils of the girl behind the counter. She flattens her scarf tighter around her slender neck, buttons her cardigan over her flowery apron. A few little spots, not so visible in the winter air, gleam on her forehead and cheeks.
A face without freckles is like the moon without stars, says her lover. Her eyes are resembling suns and her naked fingertips are like curious mice as they peek out of the cut-off woollen socks she wears as gloves.
The emergency lighting comes on at the front of the Saxony Police College. Max brings out a fresh cappuccino from the academy, because a proper coffee machine in the bakery van is still in the planning stage.
"Careful, Evi, it's hot!"
"Thank you. Here's a bag of pastries for today's duties. The Great European Planet Festival. Bodyguard for the night."
"Nope. Escorting a celebrity from Berlin to Dresden. You can come too. A voucher for the hotel, bed and breakfast included and a f ticket with access to the VIP lounge."
"You're nuts, Max!"
"Yep."
"The tickets are in your name!"
"No problem. In the evening we can go to the party, then afterwards …"
"Me with my pimples among all those celebrities?"
"A face without …"
"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Three hundred years since the dream wedding of 1719. Did you know how many children that Saxon prince made for his princess?"
"Fifteen."
"We need to talk."
"About what?"
Evi's face gets red. All her freckles seem to fade away.
Headlights flash. A heavy, chrome-plated luxury car draws up. The lady behind the wheel has put on blood-red lipstick. Provocative makeup encircles her eyes. She gets out, smiles and waves the car keys. Beneath her opulent Persian lamb coat lurks an elegant black business dress, unusually for this time of year. She cuts an amazing figure.
Max reaches for the pastry bag without looking at Evi.
"Wow! A VW Phaeton GP4 from the Transparent Factory in Dresden. Fuel injected. 6 litres displacement. 12 cylinders, 450 hp at 6050 revs. See you later!"
The fair lady clocks the kiss Evi blows after him. She slides in on the passenger side. Her skirt rides up, revealing suspender stockings and tanned thighs fresh from the solarium.
The police student revs up the engine and sets off on his assignment. Rolling grit splatters against the rusty bakery truck. Wide-walled tread tyres knead the black asphalt. The red tail lights speed away into the bushy pine forests.
BERLIN 07:42
City Motorway, Sonnenallee Exit
The festival director, Aurora Celestico, is leafing through her correspondence. Every now and then, she leans over to the central console and changes station on the radio. As she does, her suit jacket flies opens and Max can't resist lowering his gaze towards her lush décolletage. She acknowledges with a frivolous smile, raises her arm and brushes her wild hair behind her ear. The scent of perfume spreads, mixed with the smell of armpit sweat.
She signs her papers with a gold-coloured pen. Pink painted fingernails. Well-kept hands, no wedding ring. A quiet whoop as a purple banknote falls out of a transshipment.
"500 Euros from the European Central Bank. The covering letter, a stamped-addressed envelope - oh, how it smells! - and this." The lady holds out a drawing to her bodyguard: symbols connected by colourful strokes, characters and numbers. "Do you have a clue what this is, young man?"
"Shure. A horoscope. Got one too."
She caresses with her fingertips over the lines. Sucks on the gold cap of her pen. Looks deeply into Max's eyes.
"Original from India?"
"Yeah. But …"
The festival manager smiles mischievously.
"This one shows the cash introduction of the Euro: January 1st 2002, Frankfurt (Main). Venus at the celestial limb and Priapos hidden in the twelfth house. The cover letter says 'Do interpret according to the Gorbachev method.' Do you want to? Then it's your money."
"Nope. I …"
"You will learn how to soon. The internship just has begun."
"Sorry, but Evi is coming to Dresden. Short-term’ll be over."
"The little salesgirl in the vintage car? How cute!"
Aurora Celestico shines a thousand times brighter than the tired winter sun. She sucks at her gold pencil in thoughtfulness. Here and there she leaves comments on the page with elegant handwriting, folds it and slides it into the almond-scented envelope. The banknote disappears in die warm hollow of her neckline.
"Look, copper boy! A letterbox out there. Do you see it? Fine. Just stop for a moment and I'll be right back. Then it's off to Alexanderplatz. Eight o’clock sharp we're going to pick up Scultetus, our star guest. At the World Time Clock, I'm so excited!" The festival boss grabs the letter, gets out and turns around once more. "You’ll get along wonderfully. I'm sure of it."
With swaying hips, she saunters to the letterbox. She looks perkily over her shoulder and catches Max admiring her bum. She licks the rubber lining of the envelope. Tapes it shut and pushes it through the slit. Prances off lightly. Makes teasing motions. Winks frivolously. Waves the golden pen like crazy. Grimaces, sticking out her tongue.
Spits foam.
Collapses.
"Fuck!"
The police student on his short-term practical training tears off her seatbelt and rushes out of the car. She convulses. Spits bloody foam. Clutches him. Pushes up his jumper sleeve. Writes numbers and digits in a jumbled sequence on his arm with a gold pen. Turns pale. Can hardly move her lips. Begs Max in a breaking voice to protect Scultetus.
Her pupils tilt back.
With hazard lights on and a fist on the horn, it's off through the city traffic, the high-rise block of Charity-University Medicine Berlin in view. Jam, road works. Mounting the kerb. A hubcap pops off. The oval roof of the emergency room.
Max carries Aurora Celestico in his arms. Shouts at the reception staff. “Colleagues will come soon", they say. Phones ring and no one answers. Finally the paramedics. Pushing him aside. Press a defibrillator to Aurora’s beautiful breasts, heavy as an iron. Her limp body rears up – then collapses. Cardiac massage. Breathing mask. Ms. Aurora Piacellis make-up smudges into a clown's grimace. Whistling in the shock generator. Charging for next electric shock. Seizing again. More oxygen! Again heart massage – until the ribs crack.
Max sneaks away. None of it makes sense. Like back in the Afghanistan mission. Friendly fire. Air support with false coordinates. Two comrades got it in the ass and died. Field medic couldn't do anything about it. Shit happens.
UPPER LUSATIA
08:25 Rothenburg
Winter break at the police academy. All students back with their families for Christmas. Except for one doing his short-term internship, out there, somewhere.
The country road stretches out, seemingly deserted. The bread saleswoman watches a limping figure, approaching from the distance in slow motion. It’s takes half an eternity to the old chicken woman to get to the bakery truck.
Silence and yawning emptiness. Almost unbearable for Evi, just coming from European city Frankfurt/Oder, used to nicking bits and pieces there from shops in the course of a day, ending in cool chases with the store detectives, before smuggling her takings over the German-Polish Oder Bridge, keeping a constant lookout for the border guards. What a thrill! You have to be wide awake! But here in this a rural area where they once in WW2 blew up all bridges crossing Lusatian Neisse, you can sleep all day. Nothing going on now. Boring as hell!
"Stale bread for the chickens, madam? Let's see what we have today, dear Lady. A couple of soft crusty to go with it? My greatgrandmother's secret recipe! Baked slowly at low heat. All for one Euro. And, because it's Christmas, three sachets of Brause Plus for the grandchildren. Original East German product from the Good old GDR! Lick it up with your tongue. Tickles nicely. Great fun!"
The old farmer’s wife from the chicken farm points her nibbled index finger at Evi's blotchy cheeks. "Is that from drugs?" She tears open the effervescent sachet and lets the white powder trickle into the snow.
"You're not from round here, don’t you."
Evi turns as white as a sheet. Her pimples stand out even more.
"Frankfurt, not the rich one in the Stat of Hessia, but the poor one at the border to Poland. But my friend, he's from the Golden West!"
"Dark sky, the great one?"
"Yes, yes. The Great Bear and the Little Bear and lots of other signs of the zodiac. All this is on offer at the Great European Planet Festival in Dresden. Look, the voucher for all events. Including hotel accommodation! A present form my lover."
"Dark morning, great car?"
"Oh, you mean the festival director's Phaeton. Great vehicle, isn't it? A friend of mine went of with her, as her bodyguard."
"Something on the police radio, they say. Woman dead. Driver – presume your buddy – on the run."
Hastily, a coin is dropped onto the counter. Evi watches its donor dash way. Chicken walk. Without Max, everything is terribly lonely here. She has only known him for a fortnight.
Suddenly he was there, like falling from heaven. Buying traditional savoury biscuits. Staring at her with wide open eyes. Chomping away at the bonehard pastries as if they were nothing. Salt buns, that's decoration for Christmas, Easter, Sorbian bird weddings here in Upper Lusatia, far away from Frankfurt/Oder. She asked if there was anything else. As answer he stammered something about car quartet, over at his room in the academy. Car quartets and gun magazines. That’s all he said. Turned his luscious lips inwards as if to undo his special offer.
She had never played trump cards before, Evi said. Will finished work at four p.m. Four o'clock sharp, he was back. Her breasts were on fire, as always on her fertile days. At the gate of the police academy, they checked her identitycard. Compared it with her face. Well, it matched just fine. Fortunately, they didn’t check her criminal record
Up in his room, her love-to-be had the nerve to present his stupid military magazines. Not with her around! With a single move, she undid his belt buckle, unzipped him and slipped her own woollen trousers down to her Cossack boots, pushed him backwards onto the bed, clamped the hem of her flowery work apron between her teeth and gave him riding lessons.
Love-to-be sprung into action powerfully and precisely, like a sewing machine, even in a supine position with two trump cards and a toy model of a World War II tank howitzer in-between. After three minutes he shot full magazine and her bells rang.
Fire broke out. She brushed clothes off her body. Fed him with cinnamon cookies to regain his strength. Time to look around. No family photos anywhere, no selfies with any smart chicks or stuff like that.
A colourful drawing, stuck to the wall with adhesive tape, tattered, yellowed and greyed: The sky in India, 29 years ago, on the day of his birth, astronomically correct, love-to-be explained. Mumbo jumbo. Max was born in a hippie commune. His mother had abandoned him. Tourists wanted to buy him: a tax official and his wife, a part-time secondary school teacher, both from the city of Bremen passing through. Two hundred Deutschmarks, or 102 Euros and 26 cents in today's money, including a fake birth certificate to save the time-consuming adoption formalities. Bargain price.
In West Germany, the holiday souvenir from India sprouted pitch-black bristles from its previously bald skull. His surrogate mother had wanted a curly blonde angel and insisted on returning this bad buy. Her husband was not so keen. From a tax point of view, a voluntary declaration of child fraud was not recommended: Falsification of documents, possibly an official complaint. His job promotion was at stake. In the worst case scenario, the civil service would insist on the repayment of their preferential loan for their semi-detached house.
This substitute „dad“, a reserve officer of Deutsche Bundeswehr, suggested that the boy be given up to the troops a.s.a.p. As a regular soldier, he would soon be out of the house. So instead of a pacifier, the infant was given a rubber knife and, as soon as he could walk, plastic knight's armour and water pistols. Later then a video console with ego shooter and war games.His favourite was Top Trumps, especially car quartet. As long as his surrogate father won, he deigned to play with him.
It was cool at the troops. Real camaraderie, cohesion, foreign missions. First Kosovo, then Afghanistan. Special Forces Command, KSK. Good times. Well, the occasional Taliban ambush plus friendly fire. Maybe he should have taken better care of his comrades. After that, post-traumatic stress disorder, unfit for military service.
When he showed up in Bremen again after rehab in the army, surrogate parents panicked. They called around to their contacts and quickly got rid of him. Last summer the police school in Leipzig, now the police academy here in Rothenburg, in the middle of nowhere.
Hippies from India are really cool, Evi purred and stroked his little policeman. The limp sausage dutifully went into guarded attention. Reserve magazine are reloaded, ready for the next round! This time she let him ride until the next break.
And Evi? She didn't tell him about the drug smuggling from Słubice in Poland and her criminal record in Frankfurt (Oder) straight away. Why should she? Her love-to-be didn't ask and didn't make a fuss about it. What a pleasure! They fucked and talked half the night. Talking and fucking. The cute police student was full of juice and the baker's girl got the chance to try out some of her S&M tricks.
Afterwards, the snowed-up bakery truck outside in the country lane need some coaxing to get started again.
In Great-Granny's house in the forest village, she kneaded as if in a trance. Rolling little yeast balls out of pre-swollen dough, with a silly little song on her lips. The special slow recipe for buns with a soft crust. Crackling logs lit up in the oven. Replacing again and again, dreaming a little while doing it. Evi stopped with the firewood when Great-Granny came coughing into the smoky kitchen at five a.m. It took a while to scrape the pitch-black charred mess out of the oven. Then she realized: The scoundrel had stolen her heart!
From then on, Max waited for her every morning in the dark on the country road. Helped her pull up the heavy shutters of the bakery trailer. Put a thermos of black coffee on the counter, made in his student digs. Evi added pieces of lucky night sugarcubes, fresh cream on top, and cinnamon stars. Breakfast for two under a starry winter sky. After the seminars in the afternoon hewas back to take her up to his room: for trump cards and the other stuff, as usual.
Here and now in the middle of nowhere without him. Free ticket for the Planet Festival. Evi won't let the chicken woman drive her crazy. No, she won't! She's looking forward to a day in Dresden. And to a nice night together in a luxury hotel.
BERLIN 08:30
World Time Clock at Alexanderplatz
Jupiter and Uranus have hats made of snowflakes. The icy planetary machinery squeaks and jerks. It turns laboriously over the hour ring. The hand is at thirteen o'clock in India, where he was born; twelve o'clock in Afghanistan, where his best comrades were killed; and half past ten in Iraq, where a few more of them were hired as mercenaries after their discharge. Good money, bad chances of survival. Tinnitus rings in his ears. Combat stress reaction. He'll get over it in time, according to the rehab centre. He must stay calm.
Beneath the time zone band of the world clock, some washedout party dudes are swigging Lucky Experience beer, cracking jokes about a wobbly old tramp clutching a cloth bag and shivering with cold. "Take care of Scultetus," Aurora Celestico had begged him not half an hour ago. Now she isn’t any more. And no sign of the star guest anywhere. Someone complains that the VW Phaeton is too close to the tram track. Travellers from the Alexanderplatz long-distance train station push wheeled suitcases to the underground station Over by the Saturn media store's delivery entrance a Ford Galaxy. White smoke spews from the exhaust. Behind the wheel a guy with a broad beard. Wasn't he right behind them on the city motorway? Don't get paranoid. Keep your nerve!
Max pops into a snack bar under a viaduct arch of the light rail. One Currywurst, please! What to drink with it? Berliner Weise with a shot? Yeah. Add a touch of raspberry syrup to the sour beer. Chop the sausage into manageable pieces. Add ketchup and yellow powder, and you've got a city breakfast. Tastes good. Hailstones pelt against the windows of the bar. Over there, under the world clock, the lonely guy with the jelly bag, no one else. The radio behind the counter plays "Sunshine Lady".
His arm is itching. He wants to scratch it. He pauses and rolls up his sleeve:
855 PACCAN 00218497 E 62458887 ALYA 442
Funny. Was a business card in the car. Gold intaglio printing on thick, sturdy cardboard. Max dials the number, switches to hands-free and dips his chips in the curry sauce.
An oily voice, Austrian, could be old Emperor Franz Joseph, as he sounds.
"Yes, please?"
"Is that the planet festival?"
"Absolutely right. You are talking to Magister iur. rer. soc. oec. Jovis Morgenstern, Master of Law and Economics, Artistic Director of the Great European Planetary Festival. As is my pleasure and duty - although my management function at the European Central Bank must rest ad interim."
"Listen …"
"No, you listen! Impatience and the folly of youth abound from the sound from your voice. And yet, one should pause for a breath of eternity. It was bright and radiant when Johann Wolfgang von Goethe saw the light of day. As he wrote in 'Poetry and Truth', from which I will quote briefly in view of your pestering, standing toe to toe, so to speak.
Like the day that gave you to the world,
the sun stood in greeting of the planets,
prospering at once, again and again,
according to their lawto which you started.
You have to be like that, you can't escape.
Thus will it lead you on, O mysterious youth, pressing me. May I ask you a humble question: Who revealed my private number to you?
"The festival boss, Celestico."
"Aurora! Are you her gallant? Still green behind the ears, if you'll allow me the bon mot, and shining with such favour."
"Target Scultetus: Request personal description."
"Well, how does he look, our master of all? Always elegantly dressed, as if for the Viennese Court Ball. The last time we met was in the Britzer Garden in Berlin. Lovely grounds, but no comparison to the Grand Parterre at Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna. I digress. Where were we? Oh yes: Scultetus came to Britzer Garden with a Pullman limousine and chauffeur, uttering a 'Poppycock' when it didn't suit him, wore a light summer suit. Silk or combed wool? Don't ask me, Mr. Trainee Policeman. As I said, stretch limo …"
"Other features, scars, tattoos, etc.?"
"Why don't you ask Ms. Celestico? She insisted on picking up the master personally. You know, that lady is a blessing. I confess, I'm overwhelmed by the minutiae. She does everything for me. Of course, I don't let her take away my choice of musicians, opera performances and Semper Opera concerts. Speaking of 'taking': You must have token her heart by storm. My compliments! Aurora insisted on you as a companion, by name."
"Nope. Never seen her before."
"A rogue! Like Cherubino, the courtier in 'The Marriage of Figaro', he climbs to the highest offices on the strength of his powers of seduction. The young cavalier enjoys protection and keeps quiet. By the way, my friend Swaro from Europol, who arranged your police internship, would like to know where exactly you are at this moment. I heard something unwholesome happened. Did you betray hidden Masonic knowledge, like Wolfgang Amadeus in ‘The Magic Flute’?"
It continues to snow outside. At the world clock, a distinguished gentleman in a fur cap, looking around in all directions. The broad-bearded guy in the Galaxy Ford is watching him too, through binoculars. A little girl with a bobble hat runs up, his mother with a pram follows. Happily family reunion. False alarm.
Tram’s coming. Aurora Celestico's heavy carriage has to leave the track. Max lets the opera lover prattle on. The mobile phone is lying there still, there on the counter. At the world clock, he knocks over the shaky old man with the cloth bag, being all white from the snow, chattering teeth from the cold.
"Here, mate. Sit down there and warm up. Buy some Currywurst and chips."
The police student on short-term internship slips him ten Euros, carefully bending his ice-cold fingers around the bank note, and pushes him with gentle pressure towards the snack bar.
"Go on, you'll freeze to death!"
Old man mumbles a feeble "Poppycock" and pads off. A cloud of snow makes him disappear. The tram’s bell rings. Doesn't go any further.
Max stops, car keys already in his hand. Stares into the mist of snowflakes. Runs as if for his life back to the chip shop.
"Let the Sunshine in" by Moody Blues on the radio behind the counter. Frozen old man from the world time clock is drooling in anticipation of his sausage and chips. Magister what the fuck Jovis Morgenstern still croaking from the hands-free mobile phone.
"… and the baritone intones 'Whosoever overcomes the terror of death, swings himself out of the earth heavenwards'. Young people must be introduced to high culture carefully."
Max fishes a crumpled ID card out of the old man's dingy jacket pocket.
"Civil status check."
Austrian goes on lecturing as if he hadn’t listened.
"It's Sarastro, from The Magic Flute. Buy yourself an opera guide if you're overwhelmed! Then don't ask such stupid questions."
"Repeat: Personal status query. Schulz, Bertold, 10.1.1940 Breslau."
A happy groan in the hearing.
"Yes, there you have him, our master. Bourgeois Schulz becomes Scultetus, gräzisiert nach Humanistenart, if you know what I mean."
"No chauffeur or stretch limo, pretty much scrapped."
"Don't make it too complicated, Trainee Officer. By the way, you on the wanted list, now. My good friend Swaro from Interpol just told me, the telephone we use to communicate has been traced. Stay where you are, Auxiliary Policeman!"
"Nope."
The police student catches his mobile phone off the net and pays for his capital city breakfast. He grabs the old one by the collar of his shirt and takes him away – his sausage and chips and a bag of Wiggles too. Outside beside the Alexanderplatz World Clock the tram bells are ringing off the hook. Angry passengers crowd around Celstico’s car. An outraged city lady's doggy demonstratively lifts its leg on the wing. Max starts the powerful engine and sets the wheels spinning. Little mutt squeals in panic. Grubby old man in the passenger seat, dressed in dignified old white, disposes of his chips and flies over the walnut veneer dashboard with his ketchup and mayo. The whole person is stinking. Max switches off the seat heating as a precaution.
Ford Galaxy breathing down their necks. Accelerating, changing lanes, ignoring blood-red traffic lights, turning sharply, across icy green spaces. VW Phaeton’s permanent all-wheel drive shows its superiority and phenomenal acceleration values on the city motorway. Up, up and away!
UPPER LUSATIA
08:38 Rothenburg
The so called “Ello" is a cosy fellow. Evi enjoys chugging wiht him along the country road at a walking pace. To the right and left, meadows and fields. Nature is in hibernation under a thick blanket of snow. The crunch of the ice breaking in the frozen puddles and the tyres digging through the ruts. This car will soon be sixty years old. It was specially built by the Publicly Owned Enterprise “Robur", situated at the foot of the Lusatian mountains. It's about time for official driver’s ed. But who is going to check her on these empty roads? Max has a license, but … Although the bakery assistant's love for her hero is boundless, there are discrepancies on assessing his driving skills.
Once she let him take the wheel. Never again! As soon as he had learned the trick with the intermediate throttle when shifting gears, he raced the Ello round the rough country lanes at eighty kilometres an hour. Pieces of salt dough, cinnamon stars, quark pockets and softly baked rolls flew in confusion. The cute little police student raved on about off-road rallies with military trucks from Faizabad to Kunduz.
If you're too slow, the Taliban shoot you down with their bazookas, he explained. Why not boosting the three-and-a-half-litre capacity of Great-Granny's truck with an exhaust gas turbocharger? No problem. All you need to do is fit a rattle-proof cake crate in the back.
She'd think it about it, Evi said und mentioned, that there’s slidely a difference between Afghanistan and Lover Silesia. Then, she kicked him out–just in time before the axle would break. Poor Max had to walk all the way back to the police academy. But, the next morning, he was came to the bakery van. He placed a vintage truck magazine on the counter. There: Turbo carburettor, already ordered. Will double the horsepower of LO 2500, nickname Ello. Installation? Definitely no problem for his father’s son – beside doesn’t know anything about he real father.
Evi could have eaten him right then and there, along with all those extra soft rolls behnid the counter on the floor.
There's even an automotive head unit inside the Ello: A 130-CCIR Stern Transit, built something around seventy years ago in good – or maybe bad – old communism. Takes time til the Valve amp has full power. Here in the outback there’s lot of time. Sometimes it can pick up FM, but mostly it whistles about on medium wave. On the news, there is something about refugees and an agency called "Frontex". Hard to tell for sure. Thousands of winter vacationers are strandet with their cars in the Alps thanks to an avalanche alert, the announcer says in a hideously creaky voice. He doesn't mention any deaths in Berlin or hit-and-runs.
Crossing into Sorbian Pond Land, Evi moves in a gigantic radio silence. Mobile phone reception impossible. No access to WhatsApp, Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, SMS or email. No firstperson shooter crazies, no permanent phone calls like in Frankfurt or Słubice on the other side of river Oder. No traffic lights here, buses or trams. When things would had got too hot last month and her gangser mates oder there ended up in jail, she had thrown her expensive smartphone into from the bridge between Poland and Germany and fled to her great-grandmother here in no mans land.
On the right, the icy ponds of the Dammlache; on the left, the gurgling White Schöps, more a creed than a river. Straight ahead, gunfire from the military training area in the forest, behind the witches' cottage. Great-Granny doesn't mind. She is deaf in one ear anyway. Ponders crossword puzzles. Always wins something. Right now, it's a cake plate she won. Waits for delivery. Just right for serving coffee for fine mr student from the police academy, the one Evi is so enthusiastic about, Great-Granny mumbles.
She’s in the kitchen, wearing her household apron as usual, making jacket potatoes with cottage cheese and linseed oil. She is as old as the hills. In former times, before the war, she was a maid on a Silesian manor, so she can act all posh when she wants. When Evi plays along, they laugh themselves silly!
So, her great-granddaughter wants to go to Dresden for the festival, with that student, until tomorrow morning? Let her! If it takes longer, don't forget to send a postcard! Here's some treats for the journey: poppy seed striezel and savoury biscuits. This way the young people won't starve in the big city. Here it is. And now, let's go! The train in Hähnichen doesn't run that often. Evi have to hurry if she wants to get to the Saxon capital today.
Oh, Great-Granny! Leaving you all alone with the Ello, is that all right? Sure, answers Great-Granny, her Gottlieb used to drive the god ol’ truck. He was such a joker … so funny! Since he'd gone, things had been hard. Thank God she has such a capable great-granddaughter, driving carefully. Evi promises to be back tomorrow morning at the latest …
BRANDENBURG
09:30 Schönefeld motorway junction
In front, the cars struggle through a snow drift, one after the other. With his free hand, Max moves into the passing lane. The heavy car rears up. Wheels spin. He presses the accelerator. More speed!
The grubby old man, turning out to be the star guest at the Dresden festival, has rosy cheeks.
"Phaeton, Fon of Fongott."
Currywurst seems to taste good. He spits out pieces of meat from his mouth as he babbles away.
"It's rude to talk with your mouth full, mate."
Scultetus points to the lettering on the dashboard.
"… son of the Sun God!"
Two trucks appear in front of them and an elephant race ensues. Lurch! Quick! On the brakes! ABS clatters and their seatbelts press into the flesh. Impact inevitable. Pull over onto the hard shoulder!
Warning! Roadworks Ahead! Maximum Speed 60! The mudguard takes a red and white direction indicator with it. Flashing lights hit them right in the pupils! Flying blind for a few seconds! A police car shoots out of a parking bay, overtakes and points them to stop. The The police student in a short-term internship passes on the left and accelerates. The blue light in the rear-view mirror gets smaller. The heavy car skids round a long curvy stretch … before settling down again. Snow splashes up. The motorway in front of them looks like a white desert.
"Faster, Phaeton!", the old in the passenger seat croaks. "Foolish son of the sun god! Climbing your father's carriage, brandishing the whip. The celestial steeds, sensing your wantonness, raced higher and higher until you lost your breath. In wild disorder, the mountain peaks and forests were aflame. Trees burned with all their leaves, lush meadows became white ashes. The ripe grain in the field fed the hot flames that consumed it. Cities sank into their walls. Nations succumbed to the immense conflagration. The earth's crust broke open. Even Hades, god of the underworld, was terrified. Zeus, the father of the gods, raised his spear. Mighty lightning struck down the sun's vehicle. Rain like a deluge extinguished the world's fire."
Max grabs a cinnamon star from Evi's food bag.
"Cool story, dude!", arms his mobile phone again and taps on redial. "Morgenstern? Give me Europol!"
The oily voice of the Austrian.
"Yes, please, you could have said it nicer. Swaro, hello Swaro? The Piefke is on the line. Well, if you ask me, that gendarmerie trainee …"
Someone with a terrible Polish accent.
"Kurwa mać, now give it to me! Hello? This is Europol, Operational Activities Department. Commissioner Swarożyc Gwiazdek speaking."
An edgy voice comes through, rough and tough, just like the one the company inflicted on the basic training course once at Leipzig police school. The trainer mercilessly sort out who was allowed to go on a schnapps trip at the weekend and which policeman had to stay in the barracks to clean the latrines. Max became the troop's toilet attendant.
"Europol? Target Scultetus' bodyguard speaking. Please report that Aurora Celestico died because of a letter, a bloody letter."
"Give your position and wait for the police. This is good advice from Commissioner Gwiazdek."
"Nope. My orders for today: take target to Dresden."
"Spokojnie, bardzo spokojnie. Stay calm, Mr. Max. Your name is Max, isn’t it? That's how it is in Europol files. That correct, Max?"
"Affirme. Find the letter, Inspector Gwiazdek. It's in the mailbox. Berlin city motorway, wait … exit Sonnenallee, nearby! And have the body examined. The letter from the Central Bank should be on her corpse."
"Problematycznie. It gives itself secrecy of correspondence. And Europol is not some kind of European FBI. We transnational authority. Coordinate information. Issue recommendation. Mediate cooperation."
Straight road, clear path, 140 miles per hour. A motorway bend that gets taper and taper. The police student holds the phone with his left hand and steers with his right. Stares through the windscreen with narrowed eyes. The approaching snowflakes make it impossible to see the edge of the motorway.
On the passenger seat, the old one rummages busily in his flimsy cloth bag and pulls out a cover … along with a colourful horoscope, a large banknote and a creamy yellow envelope. Again, a bitter almond smell! Smacking noises as he sucks the saliva from his cheeks and inexorably approaches the envelope's rubber lining with his pointed tongue.
"You were born on 21 January 1990, weren't you, Max?", the Pole croaks from the mobile phone. "That's difficult Konstelacja planet. Take a deep breath. Say where are. Wait police. My name is Swarożyc. Can say Swaro. Listen to good old Swaro."
"Over and out!", Max yells, lets go of the steering wheel on the bend, leans over and snatches the envelope from under the old man's nose. The Phaeton speeds straight on and goes off the road. Masses of snow pile up in front of the bonnet, abruptly slowing the car down. The airbags pop. The car sinks into a pile of snow.
Suddenly it becomes blacker than the blackest night.
UPPER LUSATIA
10:05 Seven bridges over the Kuppritz Water
George Harrison's "Here Comes the Sun" sounds from the headphones of a fellow passenger. Ice is melting, gloomy winter clouds give way to warm rays. Surely the chicken woman had just wanted to spread panic this morning. Max would have finished his half-day internship soon. Then they’ll stroll through romantic Dresden Christmas markets and eat Silesian poppy seed Striezel filled with chopped almonds, lemons, sultanas and a touch of rum, Great-Granny's speciality.
Schlauroth, Zoblitz, Pommritz, Kubschütz. Every now and then the train stops at dilapidated station buildings. Neglected, with wrinkles and cracks all over their facades telling own stories, trees sticking out of the roof like the feathery headdresses of Indian chiefs.
To the north, flat plains as far as the eye can see. It’s smoke from Boxberg Power Station, burning lignite that can be found everywhere here below the surface, so that when the train passes over, it rocks like a ship.
To the south, Evi surveys volcanic cones, extinct from ancient times, reminiscent of Middle Earth, land of the Hobbits.
A stopover at the airport station. Finely-dressed travellers push wheeled suitcases with star sign stickers into the carriage. Soon thereafter they glides over river Elbe. Frauenkirche, Zwinger and Semperoper are gleaming in the morning sun.
Big crowds at Dresden main station. Evi has a hard time getting along with her bike and has care for the box with the food on the luggage rack. On the neighbouring platform the regional express from Leipzig.
Three punks in pitch-black, greasy clothes are hanging about. Piercings abound through noses, ears and eyebrows.
One of them has a tattoo across his face, the Flag of Europe, but in reverse. She has to look twice: twelve grey-blue stars, bent out of shape, as if someone had pricked them himself, the tips downwards in true devil worshipper style. Looks sick on the punk’s pale skin.
His buddy wears a kilt. Joni Mitchell's "We are Stardust" booms from his rucksack. They are stardust, golden and caught in the devil's business, looking for paradise. Absolutely crass, these guys. Wow!
A skinny one with a silver hook in her cheek seems to be part of the troupe. Hole-ridden, frayed ears, freshly covered in scabs. She eyes up Great-Granny's biscuits. Fiddles with the luggage rack. Clamps her fingers and squeals. Smiles brightly from her yellowish-black stubby teeth when Evi frees her from her predicament and hands over some poppy-seed strudel. Within tenths of a second her punk mates home in and start tearing off chunks for themselves.
"Hi there. I'm Electro Cosmo. The lunatic on my side is Mr. Astro Current. And tha’s Ms. Clairvoyant. In the name of Leipzig-Connewitz squatter department thank you for the solidarity and donation."
"Don’t eat everything! Well, she's … what?"
"A superforecaster. Our eye into the future."
"Wow! But her ears …"
"Modern primitive after a week of Indian sun dances. She's bit of a rip-off!"
"I see."
"Want some grass or substance you-know-what? Friendly price! Can pay cash on with festival tickets."
"Sorry, but this entrance card here is a gift from my friend."
Clairvoyant gets a look like that. Electro Cosmo leans over to her. She moves her lips, soundlessly. He listens and grins.
"Ho, ho, ho! Her fuzz is coming soon. Don't wanna be no trouble. Bye, see you!"
The Leipzig trio makes its way across the station tracks. A conductor blows his whistle. Emergency brakint at arriving Intercity Express "Nostradamus" from Munich. Clairvoyant barely gets away in time.
Outside, on the station forecourt, a group of young people draws up. Wholesome faces, neatly parted haircuts, all wearing blue shirts like the Free German Youth organisation of the German Democratic REpublic used once, now with the EU logo nstead. Little European flags are flying everywhere. Back in the day of GDR, they'd have been called the "waving element", Great-Granny said. With hammer and compass on them instead. Before that they'd have been red with a yellow Soviet star. The swastika flags of NSDAP had been quickly taken down and the liberators were greeted with white sheets. That was when Great-Granny come to Dresden on a refugee train at the end of the war.
When Great-Granny was born, they had an emperor and Saxony was a kingdom. Near the Semper Opera House the Sun Bastion. At the Duchess Garden the Moon Bastion and so on. At the Venus Bastion, the metal railing had a big dent. Three hundred years ago King August II the Strong had pushed it in, using his thumb. But when Evi first saw his golden equestrian statue, just turned seven, she exclaimed indignantly: "He's not strong. He's fat, terribly fat!" Great-Granny laughed loudly.
Evi is now pushing her bicycle through Prager Straße. The round cinema, bigger and more magnificent than ever, announces its reopening. Facade-sized Euro banners adorn the shopping centres, There are Euro waving elements on all the lamp posts, plus loudspeakers blaring music all the way to the Altmarkt pharmacy, where she buys a pregnancy test. A market stall sells Astro mulled wine. Then an energetic announcement jolts her out of her reverie.
"Attention, attention! We are giving away tickets for the Dresden Planet Festival! Free entry to all events! Sponsored by Questa o Quella, Europe's leading astrology and card hotline, your advisor in every life situation. Do tell us your date of birth and we'll tell you everything you need to know about your money, luck, love and health prospects! 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year! Our hotline is waiting for you! Dial 0190 0190, at only 1,90 Euro per minute. This offer is brought to you by Questa o Quella, live from the Berlin TV tower! Here comes our first caller."
"Am I drunk?"
"You are on the air. Who am I speaking to, please?"
"None of your business, you monkey. I want to see the end of Astro. It's mindfuck! Bullshitting people! Just taking money straight out of our pockets. You corrupt bastards! Fuck you …"
"Thanks for the tip. We're going to line two."
"Since the children left home, well, you wouldn't believe how horoscopes help me. Your telephone service is so nice. There's star advice every day. But now the first bill has arrived. How am I supposed to pay for that? I'm a poor pensioner from Saxon countryside."
"Don't worry! Today's horoscope is coming soon, exclusively from our Chief Astrologer Ms. Aurora Celestico. Time for one last listener's message!"
"Harry Royle here. Hello, hello! Born on … wait for it … it says here: 15.09.84, London. Three free tickets, for me, Meggy and Astro Current, I mean, Mr. Current, our electrician."
"You agree to the further use of your data for advertising mailings, internet marketing, communications strategy, political influence, election campaigns and so on?"
"Yes, in full - it's anonymous, isn't it?"
"Of course! Congratulations from Questa o Quella! Your free tickets are at the theatre box office. Question for you as an Englishman: will the Planet Festival bring Europe back together? Or is Brexit inevitable?"
"Hang on there! Stay cool! Another question: Can we also get into to the Rammelstein Open Air?"
"Free admission to all open-air concerts on the Elbe meadows, for you, Your Royal Highness, and your companions."
"Thank you! Nice one! Good bye."
"There you go, listeners, the phones are ringing off the hook! Everybody wants to know more about this English prince. Our reporters are on their way! But now, some music before our daily horoscope with Aurora Celestico. Happiness, love and health sponsored by Questa o Quella, Europe's leading astrology and chart hotline. Stay tuned!"
BRANDENBURG
10:25 Spreewald motorway junction
Air hisses out of the flaccid airbags. No more speeding. It seems the antenna is sticking out of the snow pile. Reception. Squawk from the car radio.
"Recording manager, how's the dedicated line? Aurora's not answering? Um. Okay, guys! Do call the Dresden Congress Centre. Try all the extensions. You'll reach someone. Dear listeners out the on the radio receivers, the Saxons are having a gigantic ball: Seven days of non-stop Astroparty with international stars, international audience and international service. Funded by the European Union, with the generous support of life consultants, Questa o Quella. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Attention, we have contact! Am I talking to Chantal, the personal assistant of Ms. Aurora Celestico?"
"Aye."
"Charming, charming. Madame Chantal, give us a daily horoscope. Money, luck, love, health, specially for the Lion zodiac sign, because it's sunny day today."
"Aye, aye. My boss is a lioness. Intrepid, brash."
"This day is under the sign of the sun. The grand opening at the Augustus Bridge. A baroque procession of gods in historical costumes. Speeches by leading European politicians. Live TV broadcast via Euro-News livestreamed on the internet. An exclusive banquet in Dresden Castle. A rock concert on the Elbe meadows. Where are you in the mix, Miss Chantal?"
“With little cards."
"Bonjour Mademoiselle Chantal from France. My pleasure!"
"Call me ‘Shuntall". I’m from the Ore Mountains, Saxonian Hillbilly country. 'Shunt' on the front and 'all' on the bump: Shuntall.
“So …"
“I'm Cancer. Working in the mail and filing department on the sixth floor of the Congress House, by the lift shaft. Zodiac sign Cancer needs security, my boss says. Just the thing for me, she explayned."
"There's a hell of a noise at your end. I can hardly hear you!"
"Elevator motors, ventilation fans and Wolfie, the file shredder. Takes up a lot of space. Mrs. Celestico says, don't mess it up."
"We can't seem to get through. Go for the daily horoscope, Miss Chantal … I beg your pardon: Miss Shuntall."
"Oh dear, oh dear. I'm not trained!"
"But our listeners are waiting, we are on air!"
"Have some little angel cards. Hand-made. Drew them myself with a felt-tip pen on a beer mat. Shall I?"
"A question for everybody out there Berlin, Dresden and the rest of the world: Should our expert from the Saxon Ore Mountains draw us an angel card? Let's go!"
"Aye, aye. I shuffle and distribute in circles. Have to be careful that Wolfie doesn't eat anything. My finger is circling. Now listen please, Mr. Chief radio presenter, do concentrate fairly and say 'stop'."
"Hey, folks, it's getting exciting, because I'm about to say … to say … to say … Stop!"
“Phew!"
Loud squealing drowns out the hum of lift motors and ventilation fans.
"Miss Shuntall, are you still there? We have ten seconds left until the music break for money, happiness, love and health."
"It’ the little howler monkey angel! Everyone should clap hands and be nice. It doesn't like complaining. No nagging. Howly is sensitive and easily offended. He wants praising."
"No grumbling, then, on Leo Day, says the European Planetary Festival's Great Daily Horoscope. Hey, folks, call us if you enjoy our show. Gosh! I see four callers on hold. This is Questa o Quella, your guide in all matters of life. Who’s got on the line?"
"This is Baron Strahlenfels of the Cosmic Twins Association. I presume Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Sussex are doing the honours at the Dresden Star Festival - incognito."
"Royalty on a secret mission? Dear listeners, I see eight, nine, no .. now there are twelve callers on the line. Listeners are tuning in all over the place. Number nine, it’s your turn please, ma’am."
"Prince Harry, my sweet. Give Meghan the slip, come to me!"
Dial tone, hung up, next callers.
"I am Teletubby, saying Eh-oh!"
"Howler monkey calling. Shuntall, you old titty-snake!"
"Calling from Schmedeswurtherwesterdeich. We want to say hello to our daughter Eleonore in Saxon village Gotthelffriedrichsgrund, her husband Hans-Dietrich Gerd Gustav, our grandchildren Jasper-Fion and Finela-Jarla and their neighbours, Konrad-Kuno and Brunhilde-Bernarda and …"
"Thies is Wellness Oasis Saxon Switzerland. Small prices, big effect. Visit our Royal Suite. Special prices for …"
"Combat League of the Fifth International. Down with the fascistoid exploiting cliques of the ECB. Do boycott the Planet Festival."
"Advanced high school 'Mark Zuckerberg'. Those Royals, they're trolls! You should block them, right?"
"Mrs Huber from Zwiesel in the Bavarian Forest. I am a citizen of Deutsches Reich. And as such, I declare plainly and clearly, that our Führer Mr. Adolf …"
The police student in short-term bodyguard internship switches off the radio. He rubs his nose … must have bumped into something at the crash. Beside of he is uninjured. Hard to tell how his target person in the passenger seat is doing. Inside the VW Phaeton is completely dark, except for the dashboard lights. Nothing but snow all around, obscuring the view outside.
"Oi, old man, did you lick the envelope or did you break something on impact?"
"Poppycock!"
Max presses the start button. The engine hums. He lets the throttle come slowly. It jerks, the wheels spin. Car is stuck. Max pushes the inflated airbags aside and tries to open the driver's door. It crunches, slush falls in, after half a centimetre it's over.
"Crap."
"Dig quickly, fishbuck! May the power of your sun guide you."
"Good idea, Right-oh!"
Max lowers the side window. A torrent of snow floods in. He burrows as fast as he can until he can see the light at the end of the tunnel and looks out through the peephole. Two patrol cars thunder past with flashing blue lights.
"Perfect camouflage, this pile of snow. It'll take a while to shovel the car free. On a different note: Why do you call me 'fishbuck', old man?"
"This young lad was born under the sign of Capricorn with the tail of Pisces. Stuck in the world of appearances, this sign - ignorant that reality is the greatest of all illusions, called 'Maya' by Indian astrologers. Life is a dream. Death brings awakening."
"How romantic. Like the pop songs from the jukebox in the local bar at half past one in the morning when everyone is pissed and no one wants to go home. According to my birth certificate, I'm not Capricorn but Aquarius. Doesn’t matter, Don't believe in that esoteric stuff."
"Deceptive, such official dates. You are unbelieving, like all fishbucks, which would suggest that you were born on a different day that the birth certificate notes …"
"Wait a minute: I don't believe in astro shit and that's why I'm a Capricorn? Logic bites its own tail."
"Fishbuck. Withour any doubt!"
"No time for jabbering. I've dig the car out of this."
It takes a while until their Phaeton sun carriage, free from the ice and snow, can glide off along the motorway again, lurching like a speedboat. At least on the bends, Max now takes the throttle down a bit. He has given Evi's bag of cinnamon sundaes to Scultetus so that there is finally peace.His arm itches again: the code! Tries to decipher what Aurora Celestico drew on as she was dying.
He controls the steering wheel with his knees, digs out his smartphone, which fell into the footwell on impact, and sets up a fresh account on Gmail. Name? Maybe the cake they ate yesterday at Elle, the bakery van. Password? Both of us. So, now this jumble of letters and numbers has become an email address. Every now and then he looks ahead at the road and steers. One pile of snow, but never again. Good. Compare the code again, save it and log out. No idea what it's for. But if they chop off his arm now, he's still on the net. Maybe Evi should know. Later. Now let's deliver the star guest.
Shortly after Dresden-Marsdorf, red and white traffic cones appear on the inner lane. Flashing blue lights. A van in front of him blocks his view. He lowers the driver's window and sticks his head out. The wind and ice sting his eyeballs. He boots up the photo app and holds the phone as far out as he can.
Okay, the good news is that his arm stays on. The bad news: In the rearview mirror, he can see a cucumber splintering on the concrete of the road. He almost hits the car in front and has to step on the breaks.
There: Federal police in black combat gear, at the end of the queue. Waving dark limousines on. There's his chance! Max swerves, runs down the traffic cones and accelerates. The police draw their weapons and jump aside at the last moment. Air-raid sirens sound. An entire army is now breathing down his neck.
Speed now 150 mph. Only flying is better. A passenger plane is approaching nearby at Dresden Airport, at the same speed. Max starts the navigation system on the dashboard. Destination: Congress Centre on the banks of the Elbe river. A stopover at the Green Vault Hotel. Takes the motorway exit with powerslide. Rear breaks out, tyre smoke in the mirror. “Red means march“, especially when it comes to traffic lights.
Time for a feint. Full breaks on Königsbrücker street. Switch to automatic, prop up the old man so he doesn't fly through the windscreen, and reverse into a secluded side street, before bumping into a parking space, denting the front and rear teeth of the car, turning off the engine and ducking away. Up ahead on the main road, the blue-light armada races past. The former Afghanistan fighter learned his lesson well. For those who have escaped the Taliban's bazookas on those mountain roads, it is no problem to bring a target person to its destination unharmed.
He rake the slow lane towards the city centre. Crosses the Elbe at tWaldschlösschen Bridge and heads at full speed towards the romantic Old Town. Leaves Frauenkirche on the left, push aside a wide-assed group of tourists with the bumper. Dresden Palace Square cordoned off. Assemblers are working on the grandstands. So through the Georgentor. A carriage with two horses and three tourists dressed in furs and a stubborn cart driver is parkeing across the way. Double fanfares of Phaeton Volkswagen give the carriage a powerful boost.
