Copyright © 2018 by Simon Harrak
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AN ASSASSIN IS BORN
Prologue
IT ALL ENDED AFTER THAT FINAL SHOT. Immediately he had known. Whose idea was it to take shots, anyway? he thought as he woke up groggy with high-pitched ringing in his ears. How loud was the music? Wave after wave of humming vibrations came from his left. His neck felt stiff. He gazed up at the hazy ceiling and licked his dry lips. Next time, no shots. Devouring spirits was not the answer. He strained his eyes and looked over at the bedside table, quickly realising it was his smartphone doing the vibrating. Before he could reach out, it stopped. He rolled over and checked the screen; seven missed calls from a number in Tartu. His head jerked back. He snatched the phone off the table and called the number.
“Oh, thank God,” an old, husky voice on the other end said. “It’s Johannes.”
A chill ran over his skin.
“Johannes? What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You need to come home. It’s Kraas. He had a stroke.”
“What!?” he shrieked, sitting up suddenly. “No! Is he ok?”
“He…” Johannes said, trailing off. “I don’t know. I went next door to pick him up for hunting, and he was on the floor. We are at Tartu Hospital. The doctors are with him now.”
He froze in place.
“Are you there?” asked Johannes.
“Uhh,” he groaned, supporting himself on the bed with his free hand, his head spinning. “Yes, I’m here. I’m… I’m on my way, Johannes. Tell him to hold on. Please.”
“Hurry, my boy,” said Johannes wearily before closing the connection.
He stood up, struggling to hold his feet. His face and body turned damp with sweat. Water, he needed water, and a train ticket. No, he would take a taxi. The trip from Tallinn to Tartu was long enough. In three minutes he was dressed. Hold on, Kraas, he thought as he rushed out of the door. Please. Hold on.
PART I
1
It was the worst flooding Berlin had seen in decades, a deluge of thirty-six relentless hours. Charlottenburg had somehow remained mostly unaffected, but according to the news, a large part of the city lay underwater. Underground train stations had become raging rivers. Transportation was crippled, and thousands of people were stranded. Meanwhile, Frederich sat sheltered inside Novalis Cafe in Charlottenburg, cradling an espresso and staring out at the street. He was pondering how easy it would be to kill a man in those conditions.
It was the perfect setting, he figured. Especially at nighttime. The rain would shield the act, and the flood would hide the body long enough to make a clean getaway. The water would wash away any trace evidence. Looking into space, he squinted while chewing the edge of his thumb, immersed in his hypothetical plan. He grew breathless, picturing himself creeping up on his target in the rain with a clip-point knife in hand, the only sign of his presence being the sharp sting of a deep gash across the victim’s throat.
Frederich, come back. His conscious voice shook him out of it. He blinked hard and gazed around to re-align himself with his surroundings. A young girl with a blonde ponytail sitting at another table was giving him a wide-eyed, expressionless stare as her mother spoke to another woman. He creased his eyebrows and glared back, causing the girl to desperately bury her face in her mother’s arm. He turned away and looked out of the window again. Reality came sharply into focus and the inescapable feeling returned. The dull ache in his chest reminded him that Kraas was gone.
The dissociative episodes were coming more often, he noticed. He knew the sinister thoughts were a symptom of something deeper. It was right there, tugging at him as he sat in his chair. It surfaced the day Kraas died, and had not let up since Frederich ended up in Berlin six weeks ago. If anything, the suffocating mood was growing stronger, allowing him no air to escape what felt like a cold void sucking him in. The longer he spent alone with it, the more murderous and brutal his thoughts became, and the more difficult it was to get them under control.
He had few answers for this rising tide. At first, speaking to someone about it had crossed his mind. He decided against it. The urge to kill was not something you simply got off your chest. No, he was stuck with it. On unusually heavy days he would toy with the idea of driving his pistol into his mouth, feeling the cold steel pressing against his teeth, and pulling the trigger. Problem solved. There was something compelling, almost appealing about such a clean and straightforward solution. Picturing death in those moments gave him an eerie peace. He would spend hours curiously admiring the depth of this mysterious void, feeling himself being dragged in further, before a voice in his head intervened and ordered him out of the house. A few hours each day in Novalis Café among strangers’ chatter on a backdrop of easy listening music kept him sane, although it never completely freed him from the feeling. The morbid episodes kept coming, and the shadow remained his constant companion.
Novalis was usually the last place a misfit like Frederich would frequent. It was quaint and beautifully decorated. Its pastel-coloured walls, warm lighting and elegant decor drew in people who were looking for more than a quick bite or caffeine fix. Stylishly dressed women spent hours gossiping and giggling over lattes beside families lunching in their Sunday best. Within this vibrant, wholesome place was Frederich, dressed in all black, the whole
