Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  “It was a mistake to entrust you with this much responsibility,” says the man with the buzz cut. “It’s not going to be easy to straighten all of this out again. I hope you realize that—”

  “Enough.” The voice is coming from the entrance. I hadn’t noticed that the gate to the building had been opened again, and it seemed that the others hadn’t either.

  The man walking in toward us acts like he has all the time in the world. He had only said one word, but it was enough to make everybody there freeze, including Gabor. Lambert’s grip on me becomes increasingly merciless.

  The man is old, in his mideighties for sure. His posture is very rigid, almost military-like, even though he has a walking stick, though he’s not leaning on it; he strikes it onto the floor with every second step, as though he’s wanting to create a rhythm as he walks.

  The three-piece suit he’s wearing reminds me of my father’s tailored suits from London. This man has money. And power which far exceeds Gabor’s. I can see that in people. I’ve met some of these sorts before, though admittedly no one whose appearance alone causes this much fear. As he walks past, the men flinch, not visibly, but internally. Like school kids trying not to get noticed by their teacher.

  “I find it very regrettable that I’ve been forced to clean up your mess, Gabor.” The man’s voice is soft but powerful, as though it would be beneath him to raise it in order for the people around him to understand. “You said you were up to the task. Clearly it was a mistake to believe you.” He comes to a stop, both hands on the pommel of his stick. “You are endangering the success of the project. The elections will be in two weeks, and in light of recent events we’ll be celebrating our biggest victory in seventy years—unless, that is, your mistakes prove to be our downfall.”

  Elections? What do the elections have to do with all this? I have no idea what the man’s talking about, but I can see that Gabor is struggling to regain his composure. He clears his throat several times, but still sounds hesitant when he finally speaks.

  “I can assure you, Herr von Ritteck, that I have everything under control. There were just a few unpredictable incidents—”

  “Unpredictable?” The man takes three leisurely steps toward Gabor. “You gave an employee access to our confidential correspondence. If you mean unpredictable in the sense of being stupid, then I agree with you. And then, instead of immediately dealing with your mistake, you let the man go.”

  Gabor keeps shaking his head. “But I took measures. There was a downright genius idea of how to get rid of Thieben if it had turned out to be necessary.”

  Von Ritteck takes another step toward Gabor, who clearly needs all his willpower not to flinch. “If? Your role was to keep all risks far from the squadron. Or to at least immediately inform me of your failure and obey my orders. And believe you me, they would have been clear.”

  Gabor tries to interject, but von Ritteck silences him with a quick hand movement. “As far as I know, Thieben isn’t the only problem. What’s the situation with the other two workers?”

  “Both dead,” explains Gabor hastily. “They think Nadine Balke committed suicide, and Morbach’s body will never be found. Not in the next ten years, at least.”

  For a moment I’m glad that Lambert is holding me in such an iron grip. Bernhard Morbach. The man with the laptop bag, the one who warned me. You have to disappear, as quickly as you can. Please believe me. This isn’t a joke, you have to get yourself to safety.

  It seems that he hadn’t managed to do the same himself.

  “Morbach.” A trace of regret appears on von Ritteck’s face. “He was promising. Very dedicated to the German cause; I liked him. Another few years and he would have had the necessary hardness to not lose his mind over a few deaths when the well-being of the homeland is at stake. He would have understood that they died for their country like soldiers. Victims of a necessary war against these subhumans with their prayer mats and veils, who presume to enjoy the same rights on German soil as we do.” He stomps his walking stick on the floor once more. “Who dare threaten us, strike fear into the hearts of our wives and our children with their terrorism. But this time they will suffer the consequences.”

  Slowly, very slowly, it was dawning on me. The project. Project Phoenix, that must be it. That’s what this man is talking about. Over a hundred dead, in order to fuel the hate of the population—toward Muslims primarily, but also toward anything foreign.

  Absolute madness. And yes, the elections were in two weeks.…

  I haven’t read any papers in the past few days, and I’ve barely been online—the desire to survive had left no room for anything else. But I can imagine what a surge of emotion there must have been on social media. How fertile the ground must have been for right-wing populist politicians and their simple solutions, even hours after the attack. Die for their country like soldiers. I think of the pictures on television and of what Erik told me. I hope against hope that this von Ritteck and all his helpers will get caught, exposed, that they will pay for what they’ve done.

  The only thing I want more than that is to survive. But considering what I now know, this is even more unlikely than before.

  Gabor seems to have regained his composure a little. “That’s all as close to my heart as it is to yours,” he explains. “That’s why I volunteered for this mission. Why would I have done that if our goals weren’t more important to me than my own well-being?”

  Von Ritteck looks him up and down. “Desire for recognition, perhaps?” he says dryly. “And, of course, you also know how influential the people are who you’re trying to get in with.”

  Gabor looks genuinely hurt. “Is that what you think of me? I assure you, I would sacrifice myself for the cause without a moment’s hesitation. And I will; I’ll take the blame and protect everyone else if Phoenix should fail because of my mistakes.”

  It’s hard to say whether von Ritteck believes him. He just stands there in silence. Then he slowly turns his head.

  Until now, the man hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction, but now he looks at me for the first time. For a long while. Without expression.

  I don’t avert my gaze; after all, I have nothing left to lose now. “Phoenix cannot be allowed to fail,” he says, before turning to look at Gabor again. “Just out of interest: do you realize who you have in your custody here?” He points the head of his stick toward me.

  “Yes, of course. That’s Erik Thieben’s fiancée. Her name is Joanna.”

  “Aha.” Von Ritteck slowly shifts his weight from his right leg to his left. “Joanna what?”

  It’s clear from Gabor’s face that he considers this question to be no more than an annoyance. That a response like “but that’s irrelevant” lies on the tip of his tongue, and that he only stops himself from saying it out of respect and, most likely, fear too. “Joanna Berrigan. She’s Australian, a photographer, and she’s been living in Germany for about a year.”

  “Correct, except unfortunately you seem to have missed the most important detail,” von Ritteck says, interrupting him. “So maybe I should fill you in, then. Berrigan, huh? Think for a moment, Gabor.” He waits for a few seconds. “Doesn’t the name mean anything to you? No? Just as I suspected. I have no intention of making a speech about the influence and fortune of her father, so I’ll just say this: she is not the kind of person you can simply make disappear without having to face consequences to surpass your wildest imaginations.”

  He’s caught Gabor out, that’s obvious. His gaze flits over to me, then back over to von Ritteck, who is pulling his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “How come I know that and you don’t, Gabor? Can you explain that to me?”

  “No.” Gabor draws himself up. “Clearly this oversight is my responsibility. But if the plan that I initiated months ago had worked, this problem would have been solved all at once.”

  Von Ritteck sighs. “And so I’ll solve it for you. Because I have to. You’re incompetent, Gabor. You’re not worthy of being p
art of Squadron 444.”

  For the first time, the rage which Gabor must have been stifling with all his might starts to surface. “Yes, I failed. But it wasn’t just me. You sent me Bartsch with the assurance that he was first-class. An expert on the human psyche, those were your words. But if he had fulfilled his task correctly…”

  Bartsch had remained in the background until that moment. Now he steps out of the shadows and goes to stand next to von Ritteck. “I fulfilled my task exactly as was required of me. The idea was yours, Gabor. It was good, I don’t question that. But it wasn’t airtight.”

  Gabor, who suddenly sees himself confronted by two opponents, laughs mockingly. “Oh, so all of a sudden it wasn’t airtight? That’s not how it sounded two months ago. Back then you couldn’t wait to get on the plane.”

  Bartsch shakes his head. “Stop it, you’re not putting the blame on me. I didn’t make any mistakes here.”

  “Oh no?” Gabor stretches out his arm and points at me. “If that were true, then we’d have a killer here with us.”

  48

  Gabor had said that the warehouse was located behind a high wall, and the wall I’m standing in front of right now has to be the one. Once I walk around it and have a clear view of the site behind, I spot a black limousine parked right in front of the warehouse. I instinctively take a few steps to the side and conceal myself behind a pile of stacked pallets.

  Are the occupants of the limo some of Gabor’s people?

  I look at my watch. In two minutes’ time the half hour will be up; I’m going to have to chance it. There’s no more time to lose.

  Soon I’m standing in the driveway, which is roughly ten feet wide.

  The warehouse is set a little off to the back. Entrances painted in different colors and loading ramps indicate that several companies share ownership of the building. The open space outside, however, is mostly empty. There are only a few cars at the far right end of the warehouse, near where I’m meant to go to, according to Gabor’s instructions.

  He said I had to go to a blue gate. There it is, up ahead, right where the limousine is parked.

  I get to the spot one minute after the time limit expires. The gate is locked. I look around, have no clue what I’m supposed to do now. Gabor didn’t tell me anything, and I hadn’t thought of asking him either.

  Time is running out. I ball my fist and hammer on the gate several times. To minimal effect. The steel of the gate almost completely swallows the sound of my knocking, and my hand starts to hurt. I turn around and kick it with my heel. The result barely differs from my first attempt.

  “Hey, stop that.”

  I don’t know where the man came from all of a sudden. He’s standing off to my side, and the weapon in his hand doesn’t leave me with any doubt about who he’s with.

  “My name is Erik Thieben,” I carefully tell him. “I’d like to see Herr Gabor.”

  “Shut up and come with me.”

  He directs me away from the gate and around the corner of the warehouse. The distance between the outer wall and the actual warehouse wall is only about six and a half feet here. There’s another man standing in front of a door. He’s tall, heavyset, stone-faced. He takes a step aside, freeing up the entryway.

  A narrow passage lies ahead of me, ending in a set of swinging double doors. About halfway through, a smaller corridor branches off to the right.

  “Go straight,” the guy at my back orders.

  The doors swing open without any effort, revealing an area of the warehouse which is divided off from the rest. I quickly look all around me, trying to get an overview of the situation.

  This section of the warehouse is about four hundred feet in length and breadth. Narrow skylights on the right-hand side as well as a few glass panels in the roof diffuse the steel and concrete construction with a dull, colorless light. It smells of oil; the stone floor is almost completely saturated with dark stains. High shelves are on either side of the room, wooden boxes and loaded pallets in front of them, which seem to be full of machines or components for building some type of large equipment. The middle of the room is empty, right over to the opposite wall, which has a built-in roll-up door, high and wide enough to let a large truck through.

  Two forklifts are parked nearby. A group of people are standing in front of them, and the entire group turns around to look at us. I think I recognize Gabor and Bartsch. But where’s Joanna?

  Not even waiting for an order from the man behind me, I start moving. I only suppress the urge to run with difficulty. What have they done to Joanna? My steps get faster and faster. “Hey, slow down!” the guy behind me shouts. Screw him.

  Then, finally, I see her. One of Gabor’s men had obstructed my view of her. One of them is holding her from behind, with his hand over her mouth.

  The relief I feel lasts for just a second; then I see the weapons pointed at me.

  If only Gavin and his people were already here! But how should I react once they were? And, more important—how will these men react? Won’t they simply start shooting when the Australians suddenly storm the warehouse?

  “Ah, Erik. You’re here.” Gabor raises his arm, looks demonstratively at his watch. “And almost on time, as well. I hope you were sensible enough not to inform the police. My colleagues have the warehouse surrounded; they’ll notice any approaching special response units right away. And if that happens, we’ll execute both of you on the spot.”

  There are still about thirty feet between us. I’d focused all my attention on Gabor and Joanna, so it’s only in this moment that I notice the old man. He’s behind Gabor, seemingly supporting himself on a walking stick. But he’s not hunched over, and doesn’t show even the slightest sign of frailty. Given his firm posture, the walking stick seems like an ineffective prop, one used only to feign weakness.

  And it’s from the walking stick that I recognize him. The man I saw in Gabor’s lobby. Back then I’d barely paid any attention to him, and he’d paid even less to me. Now, though, he’s looking at me, maybe he even recognizes me, but there’s no trace of human interest in his gaze. His eyes are cold and emotionless, in a way that makes my hair stand on end. An aura of power surrounds the man, and it would probably be the same even if he were wearing rags.

  I stop and turn to face Joanna. I see the fear in her eyes. Tear my gaze away from her and face Gabor.

  “Are you going to tell me the meaning of all of this? I have no idea what you’re playing at here, but I’d very much like to understand why you tried to kill me. And why you kidnapped Joanna. What have we got to do with your scheming, what did we ever do to you? Or what did I do to you?”

  “Well,” Gabor begins, but the old man interrupts him right away: “Hold your tongue.”

  His tone is just as emotionless as his eyes were when he looked at me just now. It doesn’t sound agitated in the least, it’s almost casual, and yet something resonates within it, something that scares me even more than the guns pointing at me.

  “I will shed some light on the darkness of your ignorance, young man. Let me put it like this—you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. A twist of fate, one for which you are not even to blame. What’s all the more tragic now is that you and Frau Berrigan will have to lay your heads on the block because of another person’s bungling carelessness.”

  The man only looks at Gabor for a mere two seconds, but there’s more contempt in his gaze than can be put into words.

  He takes a few steps toward me, stops when he’s about two yards away. I’m aware of the odor emanating from him despite the distance between us. He smells old.

  “Herr Thieben, what I’d like you to tell me now is the name of the woman who paid your fiancée a visit at the hotel. Although, you were probably there yourself the entire time, while we all thought you were dead.” There’s that look at Gabor again.

  I glance over at Joanna, who, despite the hand over her mouth, manages to shake her head, her eyes wide. Do everything the man says, Gavin told me. But he al
so told me to stall them. I shrug. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. And I’m not saying anything while that man has his hand over Joanna’s mouth.”

  A gesture from the old man, barely noticeable, makes the man holding Joanna lower his hand. And yet the old man didn’t even look at him as he made the gesture.

  “Erik, why did you come here?” The words burst out of Joanna. “They’re going to kill us both. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid your fiancée is right, Herr Thieben, we’re going to have to kill the two of you, one way or another. What she doesn’t know, however, is the following. I’m going to ask you again in a second who that woman was. If you don’t answer, or if you give me the wrong answer, I’ll have one of my men cut off one of your fiancée’s fingers. Then I’ll ask you the same question again. Being a computer specialist, I’m sure you’ll have calculated by now it will take us about fifteen minutes to get to the last finger. Let’s say twenty, as I’m certain we’ll have to take action from time to time to make sure Frau Berrigan regains consciousness.”

  I feel sick to my stomach.

  “Then we’ll take off her shoes and ask the same question another ten times; that should take another twenty minutes. So I think it should suffice if I tell you how we’ll proceed from there in about forty minutes’ time.”

  Without waiting for me to react, the old man turns and nods at a group of three men who are leaning against some large crates off to the side. The three spring up and walk toward a pilot’s bag a few feet away from them on the floor.

  “Now, Herr Thieben, I’m going to ask you for the first time. What’s the name of the woman who came to see you in the hotel?”

  “Manuela,” I say without a moment’s hesitation. “The woman’s name is Manuela Reinhard. She’s an old friend of mine.”

  Gabor had seen the name Manuela on the screen of Joanna’s phone, but he doesn’t know her last name. Which means that nobody could know that the surname Reinhard isn’t the right one. I had to say something, one way or another.