I make my way to the subway tunnel via the basement of the derelict building. Once there, I let a train pass and then walk along the tracks to Samariterstrasse station.
Something’s very wrong there. Books and brochures have been yanked from the shelves inside the kiosk and tossed onto the tracks. Outside the ticket booth, my clothes are strewn about all over the place. What’s happened here? I jump onto the platform, sneak up to the kiosk, and peer through the window. Nobody. I scuttle over to the ticket booth and listen at the door. Nothing. I enter my lair on tiptoes and look around. Someone has found my hiding place under the tiles. My briefcase is on the sofa, its secret compartment open. The Uzi’s been removed. I reach for the submachine gun to check if it’s loaded, and sniff at the muzzle. The gun hasn’t been fired. Next, I hear someone whimper. Gun raised, I walk over to the living area. The scene in front of my eyes sends a cold shiver down my spine and I lower my gun. Quasim is on the bed, covered in blood. His hand holds the Glock.
“Hauke,” he moans when he sees me.
I sit on the side of the bed, put down the Uzi, and support Quasim’s head. The bedcover is literally saturated with blood. In his despair, Quasim has used a belt as a tourniquet around his thigh. His leg artery must have taken a hit. And it’s not the only gunshot wound he has. His shirt is full of blood. Buttons pop, when I rip it open. Shocked, I see the bullet hole in the left side of his chest. Dark-red blood is oozing out of a deep crater. The slug must have gotten stuck close to his heart. There’s no way to save him.
“Hauke,” Quasim groans.
“Who did this?” I ask.
“They took Lucas away with them.”
“Lucas?”
“They… beat him up and hauled him along.”
“Who the hell did this to you?” I want to know.
Quasim’s head slumps and he closes his eyes.
“Who were these bastards?” I insist, leaning over him, and grab his hand.
Quasim gives my hand a weak squeeze. “You need to kill him,” he implores me.
“Who?” I ask, desperate. “Who did this?”, I repeat, my forehead pressed to his.
Slowly, Quasim opens his eyes. “The Imam,” he barely manages to whisper. “You have to…” Quasim takes his last breath. Two more shuddering gasps for air, and then he’s gone.
I close his eyes and pull the blanket over his head.
Lucas. I say his name as if echoing Quasim’s voice. “I need to save him,” I repeat to myself. Over and over. My hands are clenched to fists. I stare at the blood-soaked sheet for a while, trying to get my thoughts straight. Therefore, I hardly hear my phone ring. It’s Natasha. She warns me of an imminent purge and advises to lay low. I wordlessly end the call. When she calls again, I let it go to voicemail. After a while I shake off my apathy and reach for my Glock and my Uzi. Then, I pick up the four magazines from the floor and tuck them under my belt. The submachine gun goes back into the briefcase.
The door to the bathroom is open, the light is on. When I come closer I notice an odd coat on the sink. It seems to consist of nothing but patches. On the floor next to the commode there’s a wooden crucifix. I search the coat pockets: bolt cutters and a garrote. A pouch tied to a loop of rope contains two poker cards. Both of them aces of clubs. The coat belongs to the crusader. The Christian. The murderer. It’s not really a coat actually but, with its hood, looks more like a monk’s habit. Old and threadbare. Is this the getup of a Templar? Might the Babo be right, after all? I look around, pricking up my ears. Is the killer still somewhere nearby? A high-pitched screeching fills my ears like an attack of tinnitus. My head’s pounding. Without thinking, I stuff habit, poker cards, and bolt cutters into my briefcase. They’re important evidence for Natasha. In the sink I notice a cudgel and a gun. A Walther PPK with a silencer. The magazine is full. I pocket both weapons. When I leave the ticket booth I see a picture someone’s taped to the mirrored pane. Who? It’s the photo of a painting, showing a group of haloed men. I don’t understand what it’s supposed to tell me. I peel the photo off the pane and look at the back.
Icon of the 21 Martyrs.
Never forget the men who have died for the Holy Cause. Remember the sacrifice, made by the 21 Coptic Christians.
Martyrs. Sacrifice. I stuff the photo into my pocket. Glock raised, I leave the ticket booth. I hear a train coming. A woman in the back car gives me a scared look. It only lasts the bat of an eyelash, then she’s gone. For a while I just stand there like frozen. One hand holds the Glock, the other one my briefcase with Uzi and evidence. Thousands of unorganized thoughts are zinging around my brain, competing for attention. I can’t get my head around what I’ve just seen. I’m unable to put it into perspective. I touch the Glock to my forehead, as if the cold steel of the gun’s muzzle could soothe me. There are moments in life when everything boils down to the things that matter. The decision becomes clear. You’re stripped of all pretense. Cleansed of guilt. You feel that everything you’ve done and thought so far doesn’t make a difference. All the while knowing, who you really are and what your job is. The cacophony of thoughts gradually dies down until there is only one left. The one that gives your life a purpose.
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
I have to avenge Quasim and to free Lucas from his prison. And nothing can stop me. For this is the only reason I have been put on the face of this earth. My head has never been clearer before, maybe I have never been happier. I shudder and look at the Glock in my hand. Sweat is pouring off my face and trickles down my back. Every fiber of my body is like a live wire. It feels simply great.
12
Without ever stopping, I hurry through the labyrinth of sewers. I know these underground pathways like the back of my hand, because I use them a lot. Markings on the walls help me not to get lost. Now and then I hear gunshots, echoing off the walls of the tunnels. The attack of the storm troopers seems to be in full swing. The purge of the Ghetto has begun. Darkness starts to set in when I leave the sewers, quietly making my way along the dam of the abandoned tracks of the circular train. My destination looms right in front of me: the mosque on Landsberger Allee, where the stockyard used to be. I can see the four minarets and the ramparts of the adjoining palace. The compound is surrounded by a high wall, but I know a secret access through a sewage pipe. I labor through the underbrush, without noticing the sting nettles that abound here. Spiders scurry across my face. Mosquitos are closing in. I don’t begrudge them their bloody feast. When I reach the mouth of the sewage pipe, I use my bolt cutters to snap the locks securing the grid. I crawl through the pipe, pushing my briefcase ahead of me. Eventually the passage widens. A shaft is leading up. I climb the rungs, carefully open the lid of the manhole, and peer out. I’m in the middle of a large courtyard. Pillars adorn the impressive buildings. Filigree patterns grace the archways. This is the Imam’s palace. A rectangular water basin, oblong flower beds, neatly manicured hedges. The epitome of luxury. When I look around, there’s not a soul to be seen. Maybe the Imam’s henchmen and their charge have taken shelter in his private chambers, lest the soldiers try to arrest him. The ramparts of the central tower show me the way to his quarters.
Two guards flank the double doors that lead to a side wing. The Walther’s silencer comes in handy. I neutralize the men without making a sound. The path is clear. Like a thief, I tiptoe down the corridors until I reach an atrium with a waterspout fountain. I smell frankincense. The fragrance of The Arabian Nights. I make quick work of one more security man and stow away his corpse in a bathroom: gold-plated faucets, marble slabs on the floor.
I get to a pillared hall, its walls decorated with calligraphic symbols, when I’m startled by a voice calling out to me. I have been discovered. I duck behind a pillar. The guard fires at me, but his shot just bounces off the column. I hear more voices, as others hurry to his aid. Now, it’s time for the Uzi. I empty a magazine, spraying the four guards with bullets, while they are rushing at me. They never stand a chance. I quic
kly reload and shoot at the two men who are now coming down the stairs. My movements are fluid, my actions those of a robot. Pierced by a number of slugs, the men tumble down the steps and slump on the floor. They’re both dead. Ignoring the first guard, who’s still firing at me, I run up the stairs to the first floor, my opponent stubbornly on my heels. I kick open a door, look around the bedroom behind it, cross an antechamber, and gingerly open a door to the hall, where I stop. The guard thinks I’m still in the other room and turns his back to me. Plop. Plop. The Walther ends his life, barely making a sound.
While I climb floor after floor, a TV feature about the Imam comes to mind. His lair was located in the fifth floor of the fortified tower, he then boasted to the beautiful blonde female reporter.
When I push open a door I end up in a windowless room. I lower my gun. The view in front of me sends a shiver down my spine. Arranged around a calligraphic ornament on the floor, spears have been anchored in holes drilled into the marble slabs. I hold my breath. There are heads impaled on these spears. Skulls and hair are glistening as if coated with a layer of wax. Little name plaques nailed to the shafts of the spears list the names of their owners. I recognize the six Chechens, the Imam’s first victims after he seized power. But there are other faces I’ve never seen before. The features of the dead lose their distinctive marks with time like those of mummies. Some of the heads date from decades ago. My guess is that it must be more than sixty of them altogether. A chronicle of the Imam’s murderous career. The story of a deplorable life, as told by the heads of the dead. I walk along the row of heads, only looking up now and then. When I finally stop, I have to swallow. This is the view I’ve been afraid of all along. My hope evaporates that I can still make it in time. For the row ends with the head of Lucas. I stop for a while, lost in thought as if I was praying. Then, I pull the head off the spear, put it on a chair, and carefully wrap it in a blanket. I want to spare him this last indignity.
Lucas was the roof-runner, the killer of the Salafists. This much is clear. He wanted to avenge the 21 martyrs. The photo of the group must have fallen into his hands somehow. The one with the Imam and the other ruthless murderers, posing in an unknown desert. He’s the one who killed the Chechen and the Arabs. However, he failed to fool a blind man of the cloth. Ali Bansuri, your time has come to pay for all the evil you did. I’ll be the hand, Lucas doesn’t have any longer. I’ll be his tool. I take the habit from my briefcase and put it on. It fits like a glove. After I have donned the hood, I reach for the Glock. The case and the other gun I leave behind. When I hear noises from the bedroom, I check the magazine of the pistol. The dum-dum bullet is waiting right on top. Step number three. Much too easy for a bastard like him.
13
An old man is in front of a fireplace, hastily tearing out sheets from a file folder and tossing them into the flames. Even though he is blind, he easily finds the next file on his desk. The old man seems to try to destroy evidence before the police has a chance to search his palace. Suddenly, he stops. “Nadim?” he asks, confused. “Is this you?” The man produces a sequence of short clicking noises with his tongue while turning his head in all directions. Startled, he drops the file and walks back to the fireplace, where he pulls a poker from the stand and holds it in front of him in an attempt to protect himself. “Who are you?” he asks in the general direction of the sound, feeling around with his poker. “What do you want?” The old man is convinced that the intruder must be a stranger. He keeps on waving his poker until it gets caught on something. The poker is yanked from his hand. “Nadim!” the old man calls out. “Get help! Quick!” He nimbly hurries around the desk and pulls open the top drawer. A sudden pain makes him slump to the floor. A blow to his side takes his breath away. He needs a while to recover. The old man gathers all his strength and starts crawling across the carpet. Try to get to the scimitar on the wall, he tells himself. A gunshot. White-hot pain makes him cry out. When he presses his hand to his thigh, he feels warm blood, seeping out between his fingers. Where the muscle used to be, there now is a deep crater. “I didn’t do anything,” he moans.
There is no answer.
Another three yards. That’s the distance across the carpet the old man has to cover, before he can pick himself up somehow and make a grab for the weapon. Possible, even with a gunshot wound as serious as his.
A sound makes him stop. Someone has taken the saber from its bracket on the wall. The stranger has been quicker. The blade hisses through the air a few times, before it grazes his neck. Almost tenderly, the cold metal strokes the old man’s skin.
“Do you know who you’re dealing with?” someone suddenly whispers into his ear. It’s a deep and unfamiliar voice. “Do you know who’s going to chop your head off now?”
The stranger must be very close. The old man turns over to his back, flailing his arms.
Derisive laughter fills the room. “Do you know my name?”
“Listen, we can find a solution. How much do you want?”
Again, derisive laughter.
“I’m rich enough to give you anything you desire,” the old man promises.
“Dead men don’t need money.” The stranger does not seem to be interested in a deal.
“What?”
No answer.
“Who… who are you?”
“You remember the men you and your comrades marched across the sand of the desert?”
“Desert? What…?”
“You had a great time. There was not a trace of sympathy, when you looked at your beheaded victims.”
“Oh, that’s the reason?” Slowly, it dawns on the old man why the stranger is here. He pictures the faces of the murder victims. One after the other. Engraved in his memory like the last impressions on his retinas before he grew blind. “Times were different back then. This… I… It was Ramsan, who… it was his idea,” he tries to save his neck.
“You’re not blind any longer,” the stranger’s voice triumphantly states. “You remember what your eyes have seen. Those who have been killed by you and the henchmen of Islamic State. All the way back, twenty-four years ago.”
“It wasn’t me who swung the butcher’s knife.” The old man continues to refuse responsibility.
“Your time is up.”
“I…” the old man starts, but then swallows because his mouth is dry.
“Hold your neck straight, this way it will be easier for you.”
“I’m not ready to die yet!” the old man protests, trying to protect his face with his arms.
“You made your choice,” the stranger replies.
“Nooooo!”, the old man screams. Pain makes him flinch. He tries to get his bearings and doesn’t understand what is going on. In his confusion he wants to touch his head, but it seems to be much too far away for his hands. Hands? What hands?
“Your time has come,” the stranger announces.
“Allah, have mercy with me,” the old man whimpers. Blood is running down his face. He hears the steel swishing through the air again, making contact with the marble floor. The old man doesn’t feel pain. He doesn’t feel anything at all. What is this supposed to mean? Has the coward missed him? Yeah, this must be the reason. The saber has been clumsily swung, the blow hasn’t hit home. I’ve won out again, the old man gloats. They’ll never get me. Allah’s light will shine on me forever.
Next, the old man’s head is rolling away to the side, while the rest of his body remains still, the wide grin on his face frozen for eternity.
14
A corpse without a head is not a pretty thing to behold. Even if it’s the corpse of Ali Bansuri. His mirrored shades have remained firmly in place and he still seems to be grinning. As if triumphant even in death. I pull a poker card from the cloth pouch, dangling from my habit on a piece of rope. Then, I wedge the card between the fingers of one of the severed hands. There’s one ace of clubs left in the pouch. It’s meant for the sixth man on the photo. The executioner with the butcher’s knife and the balaclava cover
ing his face.
“Filthy son of a bitch!” I hear someone scream behind me. When I turn around, one of Bansuri’s bodyguards rushes into the room and loses no time to open fire. My hand is holding the scimitar, my Glock isn’t ready to shoot, I’ve no way to defend myself. Two slugs hit my shoulder and chest and I slump to the floor. The guard starts kicking me, maddened with rage. I can’t really blame him. He’s out of a job now. And odds are that he won’t be getting a new one so fast. Who wants to hire a bodyguard who failed to protect his boss?
“Son of a dirty whore,” he continues cursing me. He raises his gun and points it at my face. A shot rings out—but I’m still around to hear it. The bodyguard’s face freezes. Blood comes pouring from of his nose and he collapses. In the door I notice a woman wearing a burka. She lowers her gun and slowly approaches. Then, she lifts her veil. It’s Natasha. Sweet, wonderful Natasha. She kneels next to me and takes my hand. “Hold on,” she says.
Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy Page 7
