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 covering 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.
Everything is fine, Natasha. I finished my job. There’s nothing left for me to do. I feel my strength seeping away. I’m unable to speak. My head sags forward and everything starts turning black. I don’t even manage to keep down my lunch. Now, I’ll have to go on my last journey on an empty stomach. Even dead people digest food, I’ve read. Also, their hair and nails continue to grow. Shit. Who came up with this bright idea?
What’s awaiting me on the other side? God or some other higher being? Or just nothingness? Honestly, my friends, I couldn’t even begin to guess.
Epilogue
LKA Berlin, central division, Headquarters at Oberbaumbrücke, X’berg. Two days later.
Detective Natasha Lieberknecht runs her hands across her tired eyes and takes a deep breath.
Then, she knocks on her superior’s door, and when she’s told to come in she enters the office on the top floor of the high-rise. Her eyes wander past her supervisor to the Ghetto beyond River Spree. From three hundred feet up crime is just a vague notion.
“Congratulations, you did a great job,” Commissioner Richard Volkner greets her from behind his desk.
“Congratulations?” Natasha repeats.
“I had my doubts at first, but your Operation Martyr turned out to be a tremendous success. The Imam is dead and his spawn won’t come crawling out of the Ghetto so fast.”
“I don’t really feel like celebrating.”
“Our punitive measure also enabled us to track down quite a number of arms depots,” the Commissioner continues, ignoring her protests. “The clans have been dealt a devastating blow. It’ll take months for them to regroup.”
“And then we’ll be back to square one,” the Detective points out with a frustrated sigh.
“So what?” the Commissioner retorts. “We’ve bought time.”
“But there were so many casualties…”
“Yeah,” the Commissioner agrees. “But don’t forget how many lives we’ve saved in the end.”
“…and also keep in mind the victims in my team,” the Detective pensively adds.
“Well.” The Commissioner looks up. “Will he make it? Your snitch, I mean.”