Karsten Krepinsky - Berlin 2039 - The Reign of Anarchy

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.

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 quickly 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.