by David Evans
“Nein,” he responded.
“Destroy the number you have, immediately. Never repeat the number or this conversation if you would like to keep breathing the wonderful fresh air down there,” she demanded.
Nurse Hessler continued, “Yah, I will destroy the number, but Herr Werner said I would be paid ten thousand euros for my trouble.”
“And so you shall. In two days, travel to Munich and go to the English Garden. You will be met there at 6 pm. We don’t need your name, for your security of course, but we do need to know what you look like so we can pay you,” the female said.
Evidently Hessler thought if he went in his nurse uniform, he would stand out sufficiently to be noticed, and that is exactly what he told her he would do.
Delegate Frau Uebering replaced the phone.
“Damn Werner, giving out my number! He knows better than that,” she muttered to herself.
Frau Uebering had also been brought up in the old East Germany and had been recruited as an informant by Werner. She was a full member of the Communist party and a junior member of the East German Government.
She would get and relay information to Werner. The information varied from petty to serious, any information; who was screwing whom, was anyone spending more than they could afford, any homosexuals, lesbians, whoremongers or pedophiles; any information, obviously for a price. Sometimes money, sometimes power.
Had the East German government survived another year, Frau Uebering may have become too powerful and in an elevated position for her to ever be considered for a post in the Bundestag, the unified government following the fall of the Berlin Wall.
It was not that Werner had a stranglehold over Delegate Frau Uebering, which he had; it was her need for a constant flow of money that kept her on the darker side of politics. Elections do not come cheap, and mediocre politicians never reached the top of their profession. Frau Uebering was determined to get to the top of hers.
Communism was a means to an end for her. She was and always had been a socialist; that of the Nazi kind. When she one day became chancellor, she would use the European Union as a means of controlling immigration and the dilution of the Aryan gene pool. For now, she was a delegate, a woman of power, a woman who would be listened to. She reckoned she was ten years away from the top job.
Frau Uebering took out a prepaid, throw-away mobile phone and rang Kurt Bauer, who was another ex-Stasi agent and now freelanced as a killer for hire. Both she and Bauer were based in Berlin. Frau Uebering lived on Unter den Linden, while Bauer lived a short distance away near the historic Alexander Platz.
“We have a rat, meet me in two hours at the Zoological Gardens, outside the reptile house,” Frau Uebering ordered Kurt Bauer.
She was comfortable there at the Gardens, as there were areas in the zoo where they could have complete privacy, out of sight and earshot of any member of the public or security services.
The phone call from the nurse did not take her by surprise. Through the Berlin grapevine, she quickly learned that Werner had been involved in a shoot-out and had been taken to the hospital. For her to have pressed the matter further could have raised questions as to her interest. She now knew his location and understood what was required.
In the Zoological Gardens, Kurt Bauer had listened intently and taken the orders from the delegate. Both Werner and the delegate knew that they had a rat in their house, someone who had intimate knowledge of the transference of the counterfeit and actual dollars. Only two other persons outside of Werner and the delegate had sufficient information that would have led to the compromising of their operation. This had resulted in the shoot-out that had destroyed Werner’s voice box. Schweinsteiger, and Dietmar Richter. It had to be one of those two.
It mattered little to Bauer that he knew both his targets and had worked with them in the past.
Schweinsteiger was based in Cologne; he occupied an apartment just behind the magnificent Gothic twin-spired cathedral. Originally built in 1248; the towers were added in 1880. It was a huge cathedral that barely survived the Second World War. Cologne’s tallest building had been lovingly rebuilt to dominate the skyline, hovering magnificently above the roofs and chimneys of the city.
Bauer crossed over the Severinsbrücke Bridge, which ran parallel to the Rhine river. A hundred metres further on he turned right and found a parking spot near the Church of St George. Bauer put the coins into the parking meter, as the last thing he needed was a parking ticket to identify he had been there at all.
Bauer walked the short distance to Severin Strasse and found the large brick house. Ensuring no one saw him, he entered the main door and walked up the three flights of marble-capped steps to Schweinsteiger’s apartment. Bauer knocked heavily on the solid wooden door of the apartment. Schweinsteiger opened the door after a slight pause after he had looked through the peephole in the door. Schweinsteiger was happy to let Bauer in; after all, they had worked together many times, and he assumed that this would be for a new job.
Schweinsteiger was the bag man; he was the man the cash came to. He would be the delivery man to take it from several cities to Bad Tölz, where he would hand the money over to Richter.
Bauer explained quickly to Schweinsteiger that he had been sent by Werner with orders for him and the accountant.
Schweinsteiger had been like a rudderless ship since Werner had gone off the radar several days before. He had collated the information, counted the money, ensured that every cent was accounted for, and he had completed three deliveries to Richter in Bad Tölz.
Bauer accepted the offer of a Jägermeister, and Schweinsteiger turned his back on him to prepare the drink.
“How is the boss? I heard—” Schweinsteiger was cut off mid-sentence.
Bauer had put on thin rubber gloves, and in a fluid, motion removed a clear plastic bag from his pocket. Before Schweinsteiger finished his sentence, he had a bag put over his head and was kicked in the back of his left knee. Bauer pushed him down into a kneeling position, facing away from him. Schweinsteiger knew his time was up and who had ordered him dead. Schweinsteiger struggled for the best part of a minute, his strength depleting every second. Schweinsteiger’s last thoughts were of his father, who had been executed many years before as a war criminal.
I’ll be seeing you soon, he thought, and then he expired.
Bauer had previously wiped the interior of the bag with an amphetamine so Schweinsteiger would inhale and ingest the drug in his dying breaths. The bag puffed out weaker and weaker as Schweinsteiger fought for the oxygen that was no longer available.
Once Bauer was satisfied Schweinsteiger was dead, he placed the body on its back. Bauer looked intently at the vacant, dead of eyes of Schweinsteiger, now a cadaver, a piece of meat, not human anymore, just a problem.
Bauer removed the contaminated plastic bag from the head. He retrieved a piece of amphetamine-contaminated orange from a small plastic container in his left pocket and placed it between the dead man’s lips. Bauer then put the original plastic bag back over the cadaver’s head and pulled the drawstring tight.
It would be several hours before Schweinsteiger’s hands would go stiff with rigor mortis; Bauer manipulated his fingers on his left hand onto the drawstring. He then undid Schweinsteiger’s trousers and pulled them down to below his knees. He manipulated the right hand of the dead man around his penis. He took a final look around the apartment for any incriminating evidence. Finding none, he left.
Bauer had used this method several times, and the result was the same every time. The family wanted it all hushed up with minimum investigation; bad press on a loved one with the morbid hobby of masturbation and strangulation is not one many would want as an epitaph.
Bauer drove out of the city of Cologne, joining the E43 Autobahn, passing Frankfurt and Nuremberg down to Munich. He had rented the Mercedes under a false name using false identification documents, provided by the same expert who produced the counterfeit notes.
Shortly before 6 pm, he ent
ered the English Garden, and immediately noticed the man in the garb of a nurse on the far side of the park, sitting on a wooden bench. Bauer manoeuvred his way around the park out of Nurse Hessler’s vision until he stood no more than a few yards behind him.
Bauer scanned the area three hundred and sixty degrees to ensure he was not being watched. He quickly covered the two yards to the back of the bench while removing the weapon of choice from the inside pocket of his black leather jacket. Bauer expertly thrust the ice pick into the nape, killing Hessler instantly. The pick had been out of his pocket less than a second before it was replaced, and Bauer was already ten yards away from Nurse Hessler, who remained sitting upright.
Bauer returned to his car, not wanting to stay in the city longer than he had to. He had to get to Bad Tölz, to kill Richter. It was just another hit for Bauer, but the instruction to kill him immediately after Schweinsteiger and Nurse Hessler was intriguing. Never before had he been contracted for three separate hits to be carried out in three different places in one day. But that is what he would do; it was suicide to double-cross Werner or the delegate.
Dietmar Richter was the gatekeeper, the money genius, the holder of the keys to the million-dollar fortune. The only thing he feared more than Werner was the thought of being tortured or locked up for years on end. He was only five foot two; a small, rotund man with a face that resembled a million other businessmen that had gained too many pounds after becoming overly enthusiastic for German food and beer.
The large mobile phone with extended antenna had been muffled. Richter removed it from the small drawer on the end table which sat beside the stressed brown leather loveseat he used as an armchair. He was nervous as he touched the phone, as this was the first time it had ever rung.
“They have killed Schweinsteiger. My guess is they are on their way to kill you, Richter. Get the money and get to the safe house in Bern. Leave now,” the voice said.
“How, who?” Richter begged.
“I don’t think they know you’re working with us,” the voice said.
“Working with you? I am not working with you; you threatened me with a life term in Stadelheim prison, leaving me a bitch for some psycho! I’m not working with you; I have been pressed into service!” Richter blurted out.
“I don’t have time for this. I have pressing matters of my own. Get the merchandise now and leave, or by the end of the night you’ll be maggot food,” the voice commanded.
“This is my life; how do you expect me to just up and leave with all the money? I will be hunted down and killed within the week!” Richter pleaded.
“Look, you idiot. You will be dead by tonight. If it had not been for my colleague watching Schweinsteiger’s apartment we would not have known, but right now Bauer is on his way to gut you,” came the stern reply.
“Can you come or send someone to help me?” Richter’s voice was two octaves higher.
“I am a continent away and you will be dead before one of my men get to you. Do what you’re told,” Cutler said, as he handed the phone back to Captain Wayne. Cutler, stunned, left the small Juneau police station.
Chapter Twelve
The last three years had been good for Sebastian. His reputation as an outstanding performer whom the cruise crowd liked was at a high, and he was in demand. When demand outstrips supply, the cost of the service increases, and Sebastian found himself in the top tier of paid performers on the ocean waves.
He sometimes played in the piano bars, but due to his popularity, he was in the main theatres on the ship doing one-night performances more and more. His specialty was that the audience would shout out a tune or a song, and he would then play it. He played the Beatles, the Beach Boys, and George Michael. Other times he would be on stage backing up the in-house team of entertainers who would put on short musical snippets from the West End or Broadway. He would play Phantom, Miss Saigon, and Les Misérables; there was no classic he could not do. It was much to his disappointment that this never included Wagner, who was deemed a little too Germanic for most mixed audiences.
The upside to his newfound popularity was that on some occasions, he might only be on-board for a week or two. He would then be flown to another port to board another vessel to ply his trade.
This made the killings much more random, and they increased in number, to feed his appetite. In the last three years he had killed thirteen times. Always someone who had long hair—dark, blonde, auburn—it did not really matter to Sebastian. He found difficulty in identifying which type of women he enjoyed killing more, so variety was the spice of life, as long as they had clean and ample hair.
Of the thirteen kills, only six had been conscious when he had deflowered their hair. It was only with these six that Sebastian had reached the euphoria he so desired and needed.
Disposal was an art form, and one that varied ever so slightly, depending upon the cruise line and vessel. The introduction and expansion of CCTV had been a thorn in Sebastian’s side, and he had to find innovative ways to circumnavigate the visual recorders.
There were also some close shaves. Vivien Trench, a blonde he had met and killed on the cruise ship Heart of the Orient was one. He had weighed her down and dropped her over into the South China Sea, at the mouth of the Pearl River Delta prior to docking in Hong Kong Harbour. Unfortunately, she had surfaced before the ship left port two days later. Surfaced several times in different locations, in fact. Her body had encountered a Star ferry crossing from the harbour on the short trip to Kowloon. Part of her was wedged between the hull and propeller, while several other parts bobbed up around the ferry, to the horror of its passengers.
It was clear she was off the ship, and the police delayed the departure for a full day while they investigated. The outcome was that it was deemed an accident, as the seas had been heavy on entrance, and it was possible she was leaning over and fell. Her skull had been cracked open like an egg by a propeller, and the wounds and lack of hair had been blamed on the sharks.
He often fantasized about Rachel Jones, who had mousy hair, feline looks, and beautiful, dark, almost-black eyes. They had met on the Dream Catcher; Sebastian thought they should rename the ship Nightmare of the Seas in honour of Rachel. He had dragged her into a lifeboat on deck six in the middle of a storm as she was seasick. The noise she made was drowned out by the tempest in the Great Australian Bight.
Rachel’s mistake was to wander out on the deck during a storm when no one else would, apart from Sebastian. She went over the side some two hours later, lacking most of her hair and part of her scalp, just seven miles off the coast of Fremantle in Australia. Sebastian was pretty sure, storm or no storm, the sharks and other predators of the sea would devour her before the week was out.
Miss Daphne—this was how she insisted on being addressed—was a young woman of breeding and standing. Born in the Channel Island of Guernsey, her father was a banker who plied his trade in London and came home on weekends. As it happens in so many cases, he met and fell in love with someone other than his wife, and young enough to be his daughter. When the banker’s wife found out, she shipped daughter Daphne on a Balkan cruise with her close friend Gemina Montgomery while she tried to calm the waters back home.
Daphne was eighteen and had vivid red hair with rosy good looks; she looked like a flower ready to pluck, to Sebastian. Gemina was handsome rather than pretty. She was lean bordering on malnourished and had closely cropped black hair. She was of no interest.
Gemina was getting ready for the return to England, so it was not much of a problem to find Miss Daphne alone. She had a habit of walking around the pool deck at night-time, enjoying a glass of Chablis, when most people were watching the shows.
Sebastian reconnoitred the area. In the last year, closed-circuit cameras had been introduced into some cruise ships. These were in communal areas, and predominantly based around the casinos. There was one or two around the decks, but none covering this area. At the stern of the ship on this deck was a Crazy Golf course within som
e netting, with a storage cupboard built into the bulkhead the ninth hole nestled up to.
Sebastian knew from previous nights she would show up around 9 pm—only problem was, she did not. He had to wait a further twenty-four frustrating hours to take his pleasure, and he made her suffer for making him wait. He was furious when he finally got her; for she was a fake. He killed her quickly in disgust, as there was no hair to remove. Daphne was nearly bald from alopecia and wore expensive wigs.
“False little bitch,” he said, as he threw her from the top deck on the starboard side. He could not throw her over the stern, as there was an open-air restaurant on deck five, and there was the possibility of someone seeing her body fly by. The best option was starboard, as there were no balcony cabins this far back, and the chances of someone spotting her falling were slim. Even if they did, it would be assumed she had jumped.
Her torso ended up on a remote beach several miles up from Golden Sands on the Black Sea coast of Bulgaria. The Bulgarians flew investigators out to the ship. The investigation lasted twelve hours, six of which the investigators spent enjoying the cuisine in the breakfast hall, at lunchtime, and again in the early evening. After a cursory Bulgarian investigation, it was closed with the outcome she had probably committed suicide. They reached their conclusion based on Gemina telling the investigating officers about Daphne’s parents’ problems.
Melissa Rodrigues had lush, jet-black hair that flowed freely down her back and sat in a straight line, converging into a sleek, smooth wave nestled on the rise of her pert buttocks. She needed some Vitamin D in the form of sunshine to help her hair and skin bloom. She got her vitamin D aboard the cruise ship Bonny Prince Charlie.
This was an old Cunard ship that had been too old for service in the Cunard fleet for the past ten years. Bonny Prince Charlie had been purchased by the Belgium Cruise Co. and transported her guests around the Red Sea.
Bonny Prince Charlie would start her journey from Sharm El Sheikh in Egypt and cruise along to the ports in Jordan, so the travellers could pay exorbitant prices to walk in the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia, or visit the beautiful but fly-ridden shores of the Dead Sea. Or for the more adventurous, taking the trip down the narrow gorges to Petra, the ancient trading city built into the hills in the desert.
