Forty Hours: A breath-taking thriller Read online

  “Among believers, devotion to Jesus Christ generates the desire to know him intimately and to identify with him,” Father says. “To identify with him.” His lips are pressed tightly together, and Alexander can guess what thoughts are tumbling through his mind. “Wait here!” Father commands.

  He goes into the kitchen, and when he returns, he is carrying the large meat knife.

  Alexander turns cold. “What are you going to do?” His voice has become a rasp.

  “Hold your hands out!” Fathers stares at him challengingly.

  Alexander obeys with a quiet whimper. And with shock-widened eyes, he watches as Father places the knife point on his own palm and slowly drags it across. Father’s blood feels warm as it trickles over Alexander’s skin.

  “But if we walk in the light,” Father repeats, “like he does, we will be in community with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ, his son, will cleanse us of all sins.” He seems transfigured. “Sing!’ he orders. Pain has engraved several lines around his mouth and eyes, but he holds his bleeding hands perfectly still.

  And Alexander sings.

  “What can wash away my sin?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus!

  What can make me whole again?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus!

  Oh! Precious is the flow

  That makes me white as snow;

  No other fount I know,

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

  The words sounded muffled in the low, tiled room. The man on the cross lifted his head a little. The rhythmic beeping, which Alexander has grown quite used to, to the point that he hardly registered it anymore, sped up for a moment, but when the man on the cross lowered his head again, the sound slowed back down.

  “Am I doing it right?” Alexander wanted to know.

  “YES,” the angel replied. Alexander hadn’t heard him return. He was suddenly back.

  “AND THEN?” the angel asked.

  Alexander didn’t know what he was driving at.

  “THEN CAME THE GARDEN SHED,” the angel declared.

  *

  Once Ira had given Alexander’s name to the two officers, the younger of them, the one who had introduced himself as Detective Iskander, placed a call to his team.

  “Gitta, it’s me.” He pressed his phone to his ear. “Could you check on the current address of Alexander Ellwanger?”

  His conversation with the woman on the other end of the line gave Ira an opportunity to study him more closely and to consider her current feelings. She felt electrified. The first glance she had exchanged with this man had struck her like a punch. She didn’t know why, though.

  A memory fluttered through her mind, a memory from the time when she had convinced herself that she was still happy with Thomas. Already then, the shadows of things to come had hung over them, and Thomas had taken refuge in macabre jokes to help them bear the pain.

  “Why do you love me, of all people?” he had asked her once. They were lying next to each other in bed. It was summer and so broiling hot that they were only covered with a sheet. Through the thin fabric, their naked bodies were clearly visible.

  She reached for Thomas’s hand, but then turned on her side and gazed into his face. For a brief moment, his eyes didn’t look as sad as usual. She decided to respond to his amused tone. “Perhaps because I’m a masochist?” she joked lightly.

  A muscle twitched at Thomas’s right temple. “I don’t think so.” He hadn’t moved for several minutes but was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.

  “What do you think, then?” She propped herself up on her elbow.

  “Honestly?” His eyes now met hers, and her heart gave a leap.

  “Yes.”

  “I think you have a thing for broken men.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “You consider yourself a broken man?”

  “Just look at me!” He pointed down at his naked body, then over at his clothes which were tossed carelessly on a chair. Black pants, black turtleneck. He rarely wore a clerical collar since he knew it pained Ira to see him in it.

  “Nonsense!” she exclaimed defensively.

  He chuckled softly. “You suffer from Mother Theresa Syndrome, Ira Jenssen! Believe me, you have a thing for broken men!”

  After that, he had leaned over her and kissed her, and all gloomy thoughts and doubts about whether what they were doing was right were submerged in a wave of passion.

  *

  Faris’s gaze rested thoughtfully on the pastor’s face, and he wondered what she was thinking. A deep furrow had appeared on her forehead.

  Gitta had set aside her phone to track down the relevant information about Alexander. As Faris waited for her to come back, he watched as Ira pulled several photo albums from a shelf. She set them down on the coffee table and began to flick through them with Paul. When she glanced up and discovered that Faris was observing her, she smiled faintly. She had a crooked smile that created a dimple on only one side of her mouth.

  “I’m back,” Gitta announced loudly, causing him to wince.

  Ira’s smile grew wider before she turned back to the photos. Several strands of hair fell into her face, and she automatically brushed them back behind her ears.

  “Apparently Alexander Ellwanger still lives with his father,” Gitta said. “At least, that’s the address on record.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Wait. Eighteen.”

  Eighteen. Faris recalled Ira’s words. She had mentioned that Alexander still attended church with his father every Sunday. Faris’s own teenage years came back to him. He had been much younger than that when he stopped going with his family to the mosque for Friday prayers.

  An image of Alexander was gradually forming in Faris’s mind.

  “Good,” he said. “Put out an APB on him! And notify the team. We’re bringing someone with us who knows him and can tell us more about him.” He glanced over at Ira as he said this.

  She pointed questioningly at herself.

  Faris nodded. He thanked Gitta and then hung up.

  Without saying a word, Ira turned her attention back to the photos. “Here.” She turned the album so that Faris and Paul could see it right side up. “That’s him.” She tapped a picture of a young man with a thin face and neatly cut, chin-length black hair. He was staring into the camera with strangely vacant eyes. Ira waited until Paul and Faris had studied him before pointing at the slightly stooped man of around fifty standing next to him. He looked like an ascetic, as if he didn’t have a single gram of fat on his body. Faris recognized him immediately. It was Werner Ellwanger, the man on the cross.

  He was about to say something, but the chirping sound from his regular phone cut him off. By this point, he was aware that this sound made his stomach hurt.

  He heard Paul sigh. “Here we go again,” his partner mumbled.

  Ira’s face reflected both astonishment and curiosity.

  Faris answered the call.

  “Where are you right now?” the caller asked.

  Faris made eye contact with Paul before answering. “With a witness.” He hesitated but then added: “Alexander.”

  For a brief moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. Then the caller whistled admiringly: “You’re making progress, I see. But you’re not quite right, I’m afraid. I’m not Alexander.”

  Faris stifled an urge to ask Who are you then? The man had treated him like dirt, had ordered him around, humiliated him, and almost blown him up. Faris was fed up with everything. The pain in his stomach now transformed itself into a clump of blazing fury. He decided to take a random shot. “Why are you doing all this, Alex? Did your Papa paddle you once too often?”

  He could feel Paul’s and Ira’s eyes on him. While Ira looked shocked, Paul just looked uneasy. However, he didn’t intervene, and this strengthened Faris’s resolve. He grimly waited for a reaction.

  This time, the silence lasted a small eternity.

  The exclamation was
completely unexpected. The caller suddenly shouted. “I. Am. Not. Alexander!”

  “Really?” Faris shifted the phone to his other ear. “You let your mouth run off a little, Alex, the last time we spoke on the phone. You mentioned your father. We’ve figured out who the man on the cross is, and now we also know who you are.”

  He felt sweat start to trickle down his forehead. He was taking a huge risk, he knew that. But he was incapable of keeping himself under control anymore. All he could do was hope that his intuition was now in command of the situation. His intuition and not that miserable feeling of impending doom that was building inside him again.

  The caller struggled to breathe, but the distorted voice grew very cold. “Want a fight? Fine, you can have it! Tell me where you are right now!”

  Faris’s fingers closed around the bridge of his nose. “No.” What had Geiger called him? A ticking time bomb. He clenched his jaw.

  Ira stared at him, her eyes widening with fear. He turned his back on her. He couldn’t bear her gaze any longer.

  “No?” The caller sounded baffled.

  “No!” Faris repeated firmly.

  Paul was struggling with himself, that much was evident, but he still didn’t intervene.

  “You can do whatever you want,” Faris said, “but I won’t tell you where I got your name.” Ira’s eyes burned into his neck.

  “That …” The caller was gasping for air. “That, Faris, was a mistake! A major mistake!” He paused, waiting to see if Faris would relent, but when he remained silent, the stranger simply hung up.

  The emptiness on the line and the void in Faris’s mind were one.

  Paul inhaled deeply before expelling the air slowly through his nose. “Hopefully Berlin won’t have to pay for that,” he murmured.

  “But I couldn’t tell him anything about Ms. Jenssen,” Faris replied flatly. In his mind’s eye, something was blowing up at that very second. Something big and full of people, perhaps a city tour bus or one of the excursion boats on the Spree River. His stomach tightened, and his nausea and dizziness returned. He slammed his fist against his knee in frustration. A drawn-out cry escaped his throat.

  “Pull yourself together,” Paul warned. “That won’t help anything!”

  A ticking time bomb. Faris took a deep breath. “You’re right.” He glanced at Ira. “Please forgive me.” With disgust, he stared at the phone still clutched in his left hand before jamming it back into his pocket. “What now?” he asked. “The guy denies being Alexander.”

  “Let’s assume that he’s lying to protect himself. But maybe he’s telling the truth. Think back to our two culprits.” Paul stood up with difficulty from the soft couch. “In any case, we now have something to help us focus our investigation.”

  Faris stuffed his unease back down inside. A ticking time bomb. Could Geiger actually be right about him? He nodded as calmly as possible.

  Paul pointed at the door. “Let’s take Ms. Jenssen to Keithstraße. If it turns out that the guy really isn’t Alexander, that’s where she will be the most help to us.” He was already moving toward the door, but Ira didn’t instantly react to the gesture he made to indicate that she should follow them.

  Instead of standing up, she leaned over the album, pulled out the picture of Alexander, and studied it. A strand of hair fell across her forehead, over her right eye, but she didn’t seem to notice it. “What do you mean, that Berlin might have to pay for that?” Her voice trembled a little as she handed Faris the photo. “Is he going to set off another bomb?”

  Faris reached for the picture. Maybe, he thought. Or he might abduct someone in my family. Hopefully Samir had already bundled Anisah and his parents into the car. Laura! Faris gritted his teeth. He had to be able to concentrate in order to do his damned job!

  And Ira could, potentially, help him with that.

  “The conditions of the abduction. They are … well, very unusual.”

  He thought about the video of Ellwanger’s crucifixion. He hadn’t planned to show it to Ira, but who was he to say that this woman might not be able to provide some valuable information if she saw it? Seeking help, he glanced over at his colleague. Paul was standing at the door. He seemed to be just as indecisive as Faris, but he eventually nodded slowly and let go of the doorknob.

  “Alright,” Faris murmured. He stuck Alexander’s photo into the chest pocket of his jacket, then pulled out his regular phone and clicked through the menu until he found the video. Before he hit start, he lowered the volume as much as possible so the horrible sounds in it couldn’t be heard. At the spot where the camera had caught a close-up of the cross, Faris hit pause.

  He then straightened up and showed Ira the picture.

  She didn’t react instantly. For quite a while she simply gazed at the terrible image in front of her. Faris could see the thoughts churning inside her head. She grew pale, and her lips parted slightly. She shut them again without making a sound.

  “Good Lord!” she finally exclaimed.

  Faris reached for the car keys in his pocket. “Our attacker sent the video that photo comes from. Do you see the electrodes on Ellwanger’s chest?”

  Ira nodded. Her eyes had started to glitter, and with fascination, Faris watched as compassion spread across her face. He realized that she must be a very good pastor.

  “The electrodes are connected to a heart monitor, and we have reason to believe that they are connected with a bomb that will go off during the papal service.”

  Ira slowly lifted her right hand and covered her mouth. She blinked her tears away. “Who would do something like that?” she whispered.

  Faris paused. “Our main suspect is Alexander.” The caller’s words echoed through his head.

  I. Am. Not. Alexander.

  And an inner voice whispered to him that this was true. The stranger had been clearly irate when he called him Alexander.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Ira shook her head energetically. “Sometimes, when I’ve seen them in the church, I’ve wondered if the old man is abusing his son, but Alexander isn’t …” she frowned as if she found what she was going to say next unpleasant, “smart enough to plan anything like a serial bomb attack.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “Not smart enough?”

  “He seems to be a little, well, developmentally challenged. I’m sorry to put it like that.” Ira shrugged in apology, then cocked her head thoughtfully. “May I see the phone one more time?” she asked. Her eyes were lowered, and when Faris handed her his phone, her hands were shaking.

  “I know this image,” she whispered.

  “What?” Perplexed, Paul took a step toward her.

  Ira nodded quickly. “Come with me! I have to show you something.”

  Chapter 20

  The interior of the cross-shaped church into which Faris and Paul followed Ira was shadowy, although the numerous brick elements in the arches and columns felt rather cozy. It wasn’t the first time that Faris wondered why Christian churches exuded such gloom when they had been constructed to bring their members closer to God and to praise him.

  Passing the uncomfortable-looking, dark wood pews, Ira walked up to the altar, which was also constructed from bricks. She didn’t need to point out what she wanted to show them. Faris caught sight of it immediately.

  To the left of the altar, in a small niche, hung a painting. It looked modern, at least as far as Faris could tell. It depicted a low wooden cross on which a man was hanging. His fingers curled painfully up into the air, but that wasn’t what set off warning bells inside Faris.

  “Shit!” he heard Paul exclaim beside him.

  This was just what he had been thinking. The crown of thorns on the head of the painted man matched the one on Werner Ellwanger’s head, as did the looped knot on the white loincloth. However, one detail in particular looked exactly like it did on their victim. The man in the painting wasn’t just affixed with nails but was also bound with two red ropes that had been wrapped around his upper arms and knotted to
the cross-beam.

  “I can’t believe it!” Paul groaned at the sight of it.

  Faris scratched his neck. “He’s obviously recreated this painting for some reason.” He turned toward Ira, but before he could ask a question, she started to speak.

  “At some point, around 2000, the church council commissioned this picture. I wasn’t here at the time, but from the stories I’ve heard, there was quite a bit of controversy after its delivery, concerning whether it should be hung up or not.”

  “Because of the rope, I’d guess.” Paul took a picture of the painting as he spoke.

  “Exactly.” Ira pointed at the rope. “People didn’t think that the artist should have taken such liberties. The Bible doesn’t mention anything about ropes.” She smiled thinly. “The artist won out in the end. Supposedly there was a heated theological discussion, during which the story of Doubting Thomas from John’s Gospel was brought up. In that narrative, it is written that Christ’s nail marks were in his hands. And the artist was of the opinion that, even if the ropes weren’t mentioned in the Bible, this was the only way the evangelist John hadn’t gotten this detail wrong.”

  “I understand.” Paul examined the photo on his phone’s screen, then sent it to Gitta.

  “I don’t,” Faris admitted.

  Ira pointed at the rope. “The painter argued this point: In order for Christ’s death to fulfill the ancient prophecies from Isaiah, it was critical that the nails be driven through Jesus’s hands. After all, the prophet had written: See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands. It was God’s desire that the Roman soldiers would drive the nails through Christ’s hands. However, anatomically speaking, it isn’t possible to crucify someone like that. The holes in the hands would tear out. Since this didn’t happen to Christ, at least according to the artist’s thinking, it was an indication that he had been tied up with additional ropes.” She smiled again, and this time her expression didn’t look so sad, rather strangely sarcastic.

  Faris understood. “And that convinced the church council to hang up the picture.”