“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.
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.
12
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
