Forty Hours: A breath-taking thriller Page 2

  Faris clenched his fingers around the phone. “And then?”

  “I’ll tell you the rest when you get there. Oh, and Faris … If you notify your colleagues or anyone else, I’ll know.”

  Faris remained silent. The line was quiet for a moment. Then the caller laughed again. “Feeling stubborn, Faris? Remember the explosion in the museum …”

  The back of Faris’s neck began to tingle.

  “No one else at this point,” the unknown caller insisted.

  At this point?

  Faris’s mind stumbled over the words, but he had no time to think about them because the caller now hissed: “Bismarckstraße subway station. You’ve got five minutes!”

  Without another word, he hung up.

  *

  Alexander

  “EVIL IS THE PRICE OF FREEDOM,” said the voice from the light.

  Alexander let the hammer fall and blinked. He wanted to take a step forward, wanted to see what the figure hiding behind the glaring aureole in front of him looked like. But the voice had forbidden it. “DO NOT LOOK AT ME!”

  And Alexander obeyed.

  Instead of staring into the light, he now looked up at the crucified man. Something warm tickled his face, and he wiped his forehead.

  “YES,” said the voice. “IT IS FINISHED.”

  Trembling, Alexander took a deep breath. His gaze rested on the man on the cross. “It’s not right,” he murmured. His heavy heart was hammering so hard he felt sick.

  “EVERYTHING IS AS IT SHOULD BE,” the voice countered. “TRUST ME!”

  Alexander choked, but then he nodded. His tears blinded him, and he could feel them running down his cheeks. They felt cold. Cold like the stone in his chest.

  The crucified man was looking at him. Alexander could see the pain in the familiar eyes.

  “HE WILL NOT SUFFER,” the voice from the light had assured him. “I WILL SEE TO THAT.”

  But was it right? Alexander groaned under the attack of nausea that swept over him. A delicate sound reverberated in his head. A rhythmic, penetrating beeping. He hunched forwards.

  “YOU MUST BE STRONG!” the voice commanded.

  He straightened up. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want to be!”

  “THEN GO NOW. CLEAN YOURSELF! YOU ARE FILTHY!”

  He obeyed, leaving the tiled room, which contained nothing except the cross, the man upon it, the bright light. And his own horror. He stood in front of one of the sinks, which were mounted in a row on the wall beneath the now dull mirrors. The light illuminated him from behind, and he could clearly see that the voice was right. Blood was splattered across his face, speckling his pale skin as if a painter had splashed him with a large brush full of paint.

  The red cried out his guilt to heaven.

  Alexander turned on the faucet with a trembling hand and washed himself thoroughly, as the voice in the light had commanded. When he looked up again, he finally knew that everything was good now.

  For a moment, he looked himself in the eye.

  “I have crucified my father,” he whispered.

  And then threw up in the sink.

  Chapter 3

  God in Heaven! I really am too old for stuff like this!

  Sister Xaveria of the Order of the Merciful Sisters of St. Charles Borromeo felt sick. It’s your own fault! she chided herself. She was almost eighty years old, so why in the world had she agreed to go on this trip to Berlin? Why was she sitting here in this stuffy, over-filled subway instead of where she belonged – in her convent? She was trying to conceal her nausea as best she could, but her companion, Sister Bernadette, seemed to have noticed anyway.

  “Are you feeling alright?” the almost-forty-years-younger nun asked, leaning forward to peer more closely into Xaveria’s face. “Your nose looks a little pinched!”

  Xaveria could see her reflection in the other woman’s eyes. She smiled ruefully.

  “It’s just the air down here,” she offered as a placating explanation. “As soon as we’re back above ground, I’m sure I’ll feel better right away.”

  In silence, she asked God to forgive this white lie. It wasn’t the subway’s stuffy air, rank with fumes and the stench of oil, that had upset Xaveria’s stomach. It was the excitement. The exhilaration of leaving her cloister in Trier for the first time in twelve years. And not just to leave it, but to go on such a thrilling trip as this.

  She would get to see the Pope tomorrow!

  If that wasn’t reason enough to have butterflies in her stomach, then nothing in the world could move her anymore, Xaveria thought.

  Sister Bernadette nodded as she threw what had to be the hundredth glance at the subway map the thoughtful hotel receptionist had given her.

  “We have to get out at the next station,” she said. “We’re meeting the others there, and then we’ll have to change to the U2.”

  Sister Bernadette’s face was unusually splotchy, and Xaveria realized that the younger nun was also nervous. They had planned to attend one of the numerous morning services being held today across the city between eight and nine. They wanted to head to the Olympic Park afterward and take in a few sights. They would enjoy a nice day in Berlin, like perfectly ordinary tourists.

  The subway train shuddered before coming to a jolting stop in the middle of the inky black tunnel. Xaveria found herself staring at a section of graffiti, a serpentine shape she couldn’t decipher. The train car’s internal lights had ripped the image out of its usual darkness, and Xaveria suddenly wondered who would descend into the murky depths of the Berlin subway system to decorate its walls.

  Other riders were obviously entertaining more dismal thoughts. “Hopefully, not a bomb threat,” a young man beside Xaveria remarked. “Otherwise we’ll be sitting here for a while.” But before she could respond to this, they started moving again.

  The young man looked relieved.

  Sister Bernadette reached for the finger-thick glow stick she had bought from a souvenir seller and planned to wave in the air at the papal Mass tomorrow. It was hanging around her neck from a rainbow-colored band, and she was playing with it nervously.

  Xaveria reached for her hand and held it firmly.

  “When we get back home, I’m never leaving the convent again as long as I live!” she declared.

  Sister Bernadette remained respectfully silent.

  Xaveria patted the back of the younger nun’s hand one more time before releasing it. “I mean, the Pope! What else will be left for an old nun like me to experience?”

  Sister Bernadette laughed. “Listen to you talk! You’ll end up outliving half the convent, considering how fit you are.”

  Xaveria was about to tell her about how badly her back ached after spending two nights in that horribly soft hotel bed, but she decided not to. She would keep that to herself. Except for her father confessor, she hadn’t told anyone about the heart arrhythmia that had started up a couple of weeks ago.

  Because that wasn’t important.

  In his unending wisdom, God would decide when to call her to Himself. The only thing Xaveria had ardently asked Him for was to survive the next day and a half. Tomorrow, in the stadium, she would try to snag a seat in the front row. Maybe she would even be able to shake the Pope’s hand at the end of the service. After that, she would confidently and happily meet her maker at whatever point He deemed best.

  She caught herself smiling at the thought of this.

  The train slowed down and entered one of Berlin’s vast number of subterranean stations.

  “We’re here.” Sister Bernadette stood up from her uncomfortable plastic seat and craned her neck. “There are the kids and Father Wagner.”

  She pointed out the window at the platform where a group of twelve teens and a man in a black suit and clerical collar stood waiting for them. A white sign hung above their heads.

  Bismarckstraße was written on it in black letters.

  *

  The Bismarckstraße subway station had three separate entrances. F
aris reached the one across from the Commerzbank and paused to catch his breath as he studied the clock. Relieved, he determined that he had reached his destination in the stipulated time frame. The five minutes weren’t up yet. He ignored the glass elevator waiting at ground level and hurried down the staircase that took him to the first station level. Down here, the air was still stuffy from the heat of the previous days, and the pervasive, repulsive stench of the subway system engulfed Faris. He came to a stop next to a kiosk selling coffee and croissants. On his way over, he had considered calling his colleagues at the state police, but then abandoned the idea. At this point, it seemed too risky. For as long as he didn’t know what the guy on the other end of the line was planning and whether the video he had sent him was real or not, he should play it safe and assume that somewhere out there a crazy fanatic had a man under his control. It was better to err on the side of caution and do what the man demanded.

  As Faris stood in the subway station, wondering what to do next, the phone in the pocket of his hoodie started to go off. He pulled it out and answered.

  “What now?” he asked, forcibly slowing his ragged gasps.

  He was out of breath from running, and adrenaline was still tingling in his veins. He could feel the tension throughout his body, the prickling sensation of the hunt. He had missed that for the past ten months, but this was the first time he had realized the extent of that feeling.

  “Out of breath?” the distorted voice of the caller asked derisively.

  Faris decided not to respond. “What next?”

  Just a few meters away, two uniformed colleagues from the federal police strolled past. They were chatting, and Faris thought about subtly attracting their attention.

  “Don’t even think about it! If you give them any kind of signal, there will be consequences!”

  A convulsion shot through Faris’s shoulders. He spun around, scanning the walls and ceiling. He came to a stop when he caught sight of a camera, the lens of which pointed directly at him.

  “Yes,” he heard the caller say. “I can see you, my dear. Say ‘cheese’!”

  Faris clenched his jaw. The officers walked past him, only three steps away. Faris caught a few words of their conversation; they were apparently chatting about the church conference currently taking place in Berlin. One of the officers glanced at Faris, and he was aware of being scrutinized a little longer and more intensely than the other travelers. He was used to that. Although his Egyptian ancestors had carried Berber blood in their veins, which gave his skin a lighter tone, his Arabic heritage was easily recognizable from his dark brown eyes, black hair, and distinctive nose. What wasn’t written on his face were the facts that he had moved to Germany as a small child and was a German citizen. Nor could anyone know about his position as an officer in a special police squad – at least, his position when he wasn’t under suspension.

  “Go down the escalator,” the caller ordered. “To the platform for the trains to Ruhleben.”

  In order to reach that particular platform, Faris had to descend one more level, cross the platform for the 7 Line, and then take the escalator back up again.

  “What if I refuse?” he asked.

  “You really want to take that risk? I’m sure you remember what happened the last time you failed.” The stranger hesitated, then added: “Boom!”

  Faris shut his eyes to the horror. He fleetingly thought he could hear the explosion in the museum, believed he was once again surrounded by searing fire. It wasn’t easy to shake himself out of the memory that swept over him. He moved stiffly toward the escalator. A man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, caught him and roughly shoved past. Faris hardly heard his hastily murmured apology.

  “Good!” the man on the phone remarked, as Faris went further underground.

  He wound his way through the crowd on the lower platform and took the escalator back to the upper level. Once there, his eyes fell on a concrete wall which had previously been painted with a garish jungle scene. Now, it was decorated with a cartoonish depiction of a church choir. The pale violet tones chosen for the new painting’s design clashed sharply with the yellowish-green color of the rest of the station.

  Dozens of people were standing on the platform, waiting for the next train to pull in. All sorts of civil servants on their way to work, and at least an equal number of church conference attendees, who stood out in their rainbow-colored scarves.

  Faris’s attention was drawn to two women in their early thirties. They stood close together and looked uneasy. The reason for this seemed to be five young men who had apparently been out drinking all night. They were leaning against a grim-looking poster for a death metal festival and kept staring at the women a little too attentively. Faris registered the five men’s baseball caps, their low-slung pants and, above all, the fact that all of them had their hands hidden in their pockets.

  Before Faris could figure out what the guys were up to, several people on the opposite platform began to sing a hymn. Jesus Christ, my sure defense, Faris heard. He couldn’t make out any other lyrics, since at this point the caller spoke up again.

  “Did you know,” the distorted voice said absently, “that this isn’t the first ecumenical church conference? There have already been two others, one of which was also in Berlin. But this one is something special, isn’t it? For the first time, Catholics and Lutherans will be allowed to take communion together. That’s amazing, Faris, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so.” Faris’s eyes fell on one of the rainbow-colored conference posters that had been plastered around Berlin for weeks. He had memorized the Bible verse on them by now, as had every other Berliner who had mastered the art of reading.

  “That poster,” the caller exclaimed, indicating that he could still see Faris. “Don’t you think the motto is a little awkward?”

  Faris forced himself to nod. He tried to search for the camera as inconspicuously as possible and discovered it to his right, inside a niche below the edge of the ceiling. It was mounted right next to an old station clock, with a face that glowed bluish-white. It was an ordinary surveillance camera, like the dozens of others located around Berlin’s subway stations. Faris felt his jaw tense again.

  The bastard had hacked into the municipal transportation system.

  “Read it!” the man ordered.

  “What?” Faris mumbled in confusion. He had been momentarily distracted.

  “The poster. Read it out loud! Now!”

  Faris’s hand tightened around the phone, but he once again obeyed. In a flat voice, he read: “Speaking the Word of God Boldly.”

  A young woman in business dress, who had also arrived on the platform, stared at him skeptically. However, when she saw that he was on the phone, she relaxed and smiled at him. One of her incisors was a little crooked. What a brave new world, Faris thought. No one worries anymore, when they hear someone babbling. He gazed at the woman for a moment, wondering how he could unobtrusively convince her, and all the other passengers, to leave the station.

  “Don’t waste your time on her!” the caller ordered. “She’s not important. Do you know which Bible verse this motto is based on?”

  Faris tried to relax his muscles. “I’m Muslim.”

  “Oh, I know that, my dear! And I also know that you’re only Muslim on paper.” A subdued chuckle crackled through the phone. Due to the electronic distortion, it sounded like the buzzing of an insect. A very aggressive insect. “I’ll tell you. The quote comes from the book of Acts. Chapter four, verse thirty-one to be precise. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke the word of God boldly. I assume you have no idea how this verse starts, either.”

  Faris never got to answer, because at that moment, laughter rolled toward him, and a group of people were carried up to the platform on the elevator for Line 7. He saw two nuns in light-blue habits, a man in a clerical collar, and about a dozen teenagers. They all seemed to be in high spirits. They were chattering and laughing as they walked so close to Fa
ris that he had to move to give them room. One of the nuns – who had to be at least eighty – a woman with very pale eyes, studied him briefly and then gave him a friendly smile. Her younger companion was wearing around her neck one of those cheap glow sticks that had been for sale everywhere over the past few days. Faris nodded at the two nuns and shifted his focus back to his conversation.

  “No,” he murmured. “I don’t.”

  As he said this, the leader of the baseball cap gang, a young man in a white sleeveless shirt sporting a tiger tattoo on the bulging muscles of his right bicep, zeroed in on the priest. He immediately pushed off from the tiled wall and took a step forward.

  Faris watched him.

  “Shit!” he heard the caller exclaim.

  “Good morning, Father,” Tiger Boy said with a grin, as he assumed a provocative stance in front of the priest. “Heading off to play with more little kids, are you?”

  Two of his buddies trailed him, while the other two remained where they were.

  The priest decided not to react to the challenge. He said something to the older nun, who retreated a short distance.

  Tiger Boy’s face darkened. It was obvious he didn’t like being ignored. Faris gritted his teeth. If he didn’t intervene, things might quickly get out of hand. Without weighing the pros and cons of what he was doing, Faris stuck his phone in his hoodie pocket and moved forward.

  “Hey!” he called, drawing Tiger Boy’s attention away and to himself.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the two guys who had been reluctant to join Tiger Boy set themselves in motion. Faris pointed in their direction and shook his head rapidly. The two of them stopped in their tracks and the other passengers increased the distance between themselves and the small group.

  Tiger Boy stared fixedly at Faris. “What do you want, kaffer?”

  Faris forced a smile as he brushed off the insult. “If you get out of here right now,” he amiably declared, “there won’t be any trouble.”