Karsten Krepinsky - Berlin 2039 - The Reign of Anarchy

Lucas was the roof-runner, the killer of the Salafists. This much is clear. He wanted to avenge the 21 martyrs. The photo of the group must have fallen into his hands somehow. The one with the Imam and the other ruthless murderers, posing in an unknown desert. He’s the one who killed the Chechen and the Arabs. However, he failed to fool a blind man of the cloth. Ali Bansuri, your time has come to pay for all the evil you did. I’ll be the hand, Lucas doesn’t have any longer. I’ll be his tool. I take the habit from my briefcase and put it on. It fits like a glove. After I have donned the hood, I reach for the Glock. The case and the other gun I leave behind. When I hear noises from the bedroom, I check the magazine of the pistol. The dum-dum bullet is waiting right on top. Step number three. Much too easy for a bastard like him.

An old man is in front of a fireplace, hastily tearing out sheets from a file folder and tossing them into the flames. Even though he is blind, he easily finds the next file on his desk. The old man seems to try to destroy evidence before the police has a chance to search his palace. Suddenly, he stops. “Nadim?” he asks, confused. “Is this you?” The man produces a sequence of short clicking noises with his tongue while turning his head in all directions. Startled, he drops the file and walks back to the fireplace, where he pulls a poker from the stand and holds it in front of him in an attempt to protect himself. “Who are you?” he asks in the general direction of the sound, feeling around with his poker. “What do you want?” The old man is convinced that the intruder must be a stranger. He keeps on waving his poker until it gets caught on something. The poker is yanked from his hand . “Nadim!” the old man calls out. “Get help! Quick!” He nimbly hurries around the desk and pulls open the top drawer. A sudden pain makes him slump to the floor. A blow to his side takes his breath away. He needs a while to recover. The old man gathers all his strength and starts crawling across the carpet. Try to get to the scimitar on the wall, he tells himself. A gunshot. White-hot pain makes him cry out. When he presses his hand to his thigh, he feels warm blood, seeping out between his fingers. Where the muscle used to be, there now is a deep crater. “I didn’t do anything,” he moans.

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.

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?