“You really had no idea?”
“No. How could I?”
“I thought you’re so well informed, Pusher.”
“Well, I guess I’m not.”
Khalid runs a hand through his gelled hair. “Selim thinks that my father might blame him for the murders.”
“I know.”
Khalid smiles. “But Selim doesn’t really worry about himself or his own safety. The fag’s scared because of someone else. The idiot’s hell over heels in love.”
“In love?”
“You would never guess with a killer like him.”
“What’s his boyfriend’s name?”
“You’re really clueless?” Khalid can’t believe it.
“Who is it? Do I know him?”
“You’ve heard of Bekhan, I suppose,” Khalid declares with a wide grin.
“What? Bekhan Bashir? The young Tsar?” I can hardly trust my ears.
“Looks like it.”
I wipe my hand across my mouth. “Impossible! The Babo and the Tsar a gay couple? You’re joking, right?”
Khalid smiles. “A real whammy, right? But it’s the honest truth.”
“It can’t be…,” I slowly mumble. “Could it be a motive?”
“You used to be more in on it, Pusher,” Khalid chides me.
My phone rings. “Excuse me,” I say.
“Why?”
“I need to take this.” I retrace my steps through the roof garden and push open the sliding door.
“What’s wrong with you, Pusher?” Khalid calls after me.
I glance at the screen. It’s Quasim. Where does he have my number from? When I take the call, I can hear him whimper. He says I need to come home at once. Then, he hangs up. Something terrible must have happened.
11
At “Checkpoint Schilling” armored personnel carriers have taken position. Hundreds of soldiers are preparing for action. The national guard and the militias also have been put on alert. Police officers are discussing strategy with the storm troop commanders, coordinating last-minute details with the help of maps. Disciplinary action against the Ghetto seems to be on the agenda. From time to time the government launches tactical sorties to teach the Lemons a lesson on who’s boss in this city. A blunt weapon in the authorities’ fight against the clans, but effective when it comes to winning votes. And, as you already know, we have elections coming up. Might Schlotow still be bristling after the dressing-down he received from the Imam, I muse. Another explanation could be that a video of the event in the “Halal Arena” has been leaked to the outside. Never mind, I need to hurry up before all entrances to the Ghetto are sealed. My permit convinces the soldier at the stile that I’m legitimate. After a nervous glance in the direction of his assembled comrades he quickly waves me through.
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.