Forty Hours: A breath-taking thriller Read online

  Jenny felt herself flush.

  “Hey, our little Jen has discovered the opposite sex! That’s great!” Pia linked her arm through Jenny’s and pulled her on.

  Still uncertain, Jenny blew a strand of hair off her face. “Are you sure you’re not mad?”

  “No way!” Pia waved this off. “There are enough sweet guys out there.” As if to prove that she was right, two young men walked toward them, their carefully gelled hair making them look like models. They were talking excitedly to each other and didn’t pay any attention to the girls.

  Once they had passed by, Pia shrugged. “You’ll never know what you just missed out on, boys!” She then grinned again and swiped the glow stick from Jenny, who hadn’t tucked the object in her pocket yet. “Hey!” she exclaimed as she weighed it in her own hand. “That’s funny!”

  “Give that back!” Jenny tried to get her stick back.

  Pia avoided her grasp, but then she handed it back to Jenny anyway. “You should get it back from him after the service tomorrow. When he dumps you, you can clone him from the skin cells on it.”

  Jenny didn’t miss the barb that lay hidden in those words. Pia seemed quite certain that Dennis would eventually ditch her. Jenny pressed her lips together and searched for a suitable retort. However, nothing came to her. Nothing that was simultaneously ambiguous and joking enough to not poison the atmosphere. So she didn’t say anything.

  “What should we do now?” Pia asked.

  Jenny hung the new glow stick around her neck. “Suggest something,” she said a little apathetically. Since she couldn’t spend the rest of the evening with Dennis, there wasn’t much that interested her.

  *

  “Faris!” Marc called from outside. “Come over here!” He sounded startled.

  Faris glanced one last time at the milky white glow sticks, then shrugged. With a nod at Paul, he climbed out the window. Marc was nowhere in sight.

  “I’m over here!” his voice shouted from behind the summer house.

  “Faris?” Paul’s voice came through the window. “Do you know what just occurred to me?” He sounded excited, and for a moment, Faris didn’t know which of his two colleagues he should attend to first.

  “Faris, get over here!” Marc yelled. “We found something.”

  Faris stuck his head back through the summer house window. “I’ll be right back, Paul,” he said before striding off the terrace in search of a path between the beds. As he walked around the little building, he found Marc standing next to Dellinghaus in front of a compost pile in the back corner of the garden. He looked very pale. In the light of Dellinghaus’s flashlight, he saw several lathes that someone had stacked up on top of the mound of compost. They were nailed together. Like crosses.

  “That’s …” Faris leaned over to take a closer look at the object, but at that moment, his phone chirped.

  He pulled it out of his pocket. “Yeah?” he answered.

  The caller uttered only one single sentence. “You still haven’t turned off your phone’s GPS!”

  The blood in Faris’s veins turned to ice. In the aftermath of the adrenaline rush from the internet café incident, he hadn’t thought to do that. He spun around, but it was too late.

  Before his eyes, the summer house exploded into a glowing fireball that illuminated the night.

  PART TWO

  Hour 15 to Hour 28

  My God, my God,

  Why have you forsaken me?

  (Mark 15:34)

  Chapter 22

  It is difficult for him to breathe. He has to work hard to fill his lungs. His arms are spread wide, and the nails driven through his hands and feet are glinting with blood. But strangely enough, he still doesn’t feel any pain. Is this a sign that God is looking down on him benevolently?

  How many hours have already passed?

  He has no idea.

  He has forbidden Alexander to take him down too early, and the boy seems to be obeying. Good boy!

  The beeping is now receding into the background, drowned out by the gradually increasing pounding in his ears. His heart is pumping laboriously; he can feel it. His fingers are growing numb and cold, while in contrast his legs feel hot and prickly.

  He swallows. His mouth is dry, just like the Bible said.

  “I’m thirsty,” he whispers, although nobody is holding up to his mouth a sponge saturated in vinegar. So he begins to sing. A hymn his mother had taught him and which he still knows by heart.

  A hymn that they sometimes – much too rarely – sing in church.

  “Oh sacred head now wounded …” The words are garbled as they cross his lips, so he lapses into humming. He hums verses, but it is the seventh he likes the best.

  He sings it loudly, and it doesn’t matter to him that the lines sound like he is babbling.

  “My lord of life, desiring

  Thy glory now to see,

  Beside the cross expiring,

  I’d breathe my soul to Thee.”

  *

  Someone is next to him. His eyes are blurry. His head is so heavy.

  A hand touches his side. Is it the Lord who has finally come to him? He tries to blink his eyes clear several times, and finally he can see the figure standing in front of him.

  “Who are you?” he gasps.

  He thinks he sees the figure shake his head, and red-hot horror begins to flood his body. Does this mean that the Lord doesn’t approve of what he is doing here, to His honor?

  “What do you require of me?” he tries to ask, but all he can do at this point is gurgle. This time his words sound like a drawn-out groan.

  The figure seems to understand, nonetheless. Breath gusts across his shoulders and ear as the figure leans close to him.

  “You know what I require of you,” a voice says softly.

  It isn’t Alexander’s voice.

  He wants to lift his head, but he can no longer do that.

  A sob lodges itself in his throat.

  “Who are you?” he whimpers.

  But he doesn’t receive an answer. The figure has disappeared. He blinks rapidly, has to somehow clear the veil that has descended before his eyes. He hears footsteps moving away. And all of a sudden, he is alone.

  He struggles to lift his head and finally leans it against the wood behind him. And screams.

  *

  The blast wave from the explosion surged over him as it passed, slammed into him with full force and threw him backwards. Then, the flames came. They enveloped him, ate into his skin. Burned the flesh from his bones so that pain shot down every nerve in his body until his brain felt as though it had started to cook inside his skull …

  “Mr. Iskander?” The voice penetrated through the cotton wrapped around him, and Faris struggled to pull himself out of his memory. Blinking, he stared into the dark face that was floating above him. It took him a few moments to realize that he wasn’t back in the Klersch Museum. This time, the fire wave from the explosion hadn’t caught him directly like it had back then, but rather it had just knocked him off his feet and into a bush.

  He found himself in the ER unit at St. Josef’s Hospital. He was sitting on a narrow cot in one of the treatment rooms. His feet couldn’t touch the floor, which intensified the feeling of helplessness that had taken root in his chest.

  Although this explosion hadn’t caught him, he felt as if the flames had cauterized his insides.

  Paul!

  Faris groaned aloud.

  The Afro-German ER doctor who was just in the process of binding his right wrist glanced at him in concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

  Faris lifted his left hand and rubbed his thumb across his forehead. “Yes,” he murmured. “Just a little flashback.”

  And the fact that my best friend and partner was trapped inside that hell …

  He felt a need to double over.

  “A flashback?” The doctor had a deep, rather melodious voice, which indicated that he hadn’t grown up in Germany. Dr. Makame was printed
on the small plastic name tag he wore on the lapel of his blue scrubs.

  Faris nodded. “I was in a different explosion, several months ago. I couldn’t help remembering that.”

  An expression of professional sympathy flashed across the doctor’s ebony face. “That’s understandable. But this time, you were lucky.”

  Lucky! Faris didn’t know if he should laugh or scream. He would have preferred to punch someone in the face, but he didn’t know if that someone should be the doctor or himself.

  Dr. Makame finished his task and took a step back. “Except for your sprained wrist, there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with you. Just to be certain, we’re waiting for the x-rays we took to come back.”

  Faris cleared his voice. “What about my partner?” His voice sounded like parchment.

  After the explosion had died down, he had picked himself up and stared in bewilderment at the ruins that had been the summer house. He recalled rushing over to his partner, who was lying in the middle of the rubble. The image of Paul’s blackened skin had seared itself into his retina, as if it had been painted on with acid. The minutes that followed were missing from Faris’s memory. The next thing he remembered were the sirens of several emergency vehicles coming to a screeching stop right in front of the garden fence. Strong hands had ripped him away from Paul, and while the paramedics had tended to his partner, Faris had simply stood there. Stunned. Numb. Eventually, the paramedics had bundled Paul into one of the ambulances, and it sped off to the hospital. After that, Faris had picked up his phone which had been torn out of his hands by the blast. For several minutes, he had stared at it, incapable of feeling anything, unable to even blink. And then, following an impulse catalyzed by either defiance or cowardice, he turned off his phone.

  “How is my partner doing?” he now repeated.

  Dr. Makame’s face was blank. “He’s in surgery now.” He shrugged regretfully. “You will be notified about his status once they know more.” He held his hand out to Faris. “I wish you all the best! Thank your god for your survival today.”

  In this cold, clinical environment, the last sentence felt out of place, but despite the fact that Faris had stopped believing in Allah years ago, the doctor’s words made him feel surprisingly good. He nodded in astonishment. He then watched the doctor walk out of the small treatment room, leaving the door open behind him.

  A nurse in black nun’s garb and totally incongruous hot pink Crocs hurried past the door. She sent him a quick distracted look.

  He remained sitting on the cot for a moment longer, as he tried to recall what he needed to do to stand up.

  Paul’s burnt face flashed across his mind every time he blinked. He forced his eyes to stay open, but eventually his eyeballs hurt so much that he gave up and lowered his lids. With his head hanging, he defied the onslaught of images that rushed at him. The red fingernail pointing at him accusingly. The fire wave rolling toward him in slow motion. The terrified face of the girl at the subway station, the sound of a defibrillator, Paul’s blackened skin. Always that. Burnt, foul-smelling, blistered flesh.

  He opened his eyes and leaned his head back. With both hands, he reached for his hair and pulled at it as if he could tear the memories out of his skull along with strands of hair.

  The nun with the garish shoes strode past his door again. This time, she stopped and said something to him.

  Faris stared at her. Her words didn’t make even the slightest sense to him.

  “Are you feeling alright?” the nun repeated taking a step toward him.

  Faris jumped down off the cot, at which his knees threatened to buckle under him. But then he suddenly had himself under control. His eyes were still burning. “Thank you,” he said huskily. “I’m okay.” He stumbled toward the door. “I think I’ll head out and free up your room.” At the threshold, he had to grab hold of the doorframe.

  The nurse studied him skeptically. “Are you sure you don’t want to rest here for a few minutes?”

  But Faris wanted anything but that. He wanted, no, he had to get out of here! Out of this cool building that was filled with the sound of squealing wheeled stretchers and the medical personnel’s squeaking orthopedic shoes. Filled with the beeping of various devices, the sound of which reminded him of the cardiac monitor hooked up to the man on the cross. “Thank you, I’m alright.” He stepped out into the corridor.

  A pale mother carrying an apathetic toddler walked by. Faris nodded at her mechanically.

  He then turned toward the nurse who was still standing there, looking uncertain about whether or not she should let him go. “Honestly, I don’t need anything. Dr. Makame is off checking my x-rays. If he needs me, I’ll be outside. I have to make a phone call.” And with those words, he simply walked off.

  The fresh night air wrapped around him like a piece of silk that settled across his face. He now noticed that his entire body was bathed in a cold sweat. In a windowpane, he searched for his reflection, and then understood immediately why the nun had watched him so doubtfully. The bandage on his forehead was dirty, and a new bloody scratch now ran across his cheek. He looked pale and haggard. His hair was standing up all over his head, and the rings under his eyes were dark purple. But these weren’t what made him look more dead than alive. It was the expression in his eyes.

  The nurse with the pink shoes appeared on the other side of the door to the ER area to scrutinize him. She reminded Faris of the old nun with the pale eyes on the subway. He sensed that he hardly had the energy to keep going. It was as if he had been running on fumes forever.

  An ambulance drove through the hospital gate. It wasn’t using its flashers, and it was driving very slowly. As chaos broke out in the ER, Faris became aware that the world was still turning. The people in Berlin were still living their lives. They were having heart attacks and babies. They were laughing, they were arguing, and they were expecting him and his colleagues to protect them from the insanity of this unknown bomber. Faris’s thoughts flashed to Laura. Anger started to burn in his stomach, and he stoked it until it grew, and he could grab onto it. He knew that over the next few hours, this alone would give him the strength to keep going.

  With a shake of his head, he fished out the burner phone he had purchased on Kurfürstenstraße. He gazed at it for several seconds, trying to screw up the courage to call Gitta. When he found the strength, he listened to her report about what had happened, which she gave as best she could through soft intermittent sobs. As she spoke, the slowly approaching ambulance reached the ER entrance. An older man on a stretcher was unloaded and carried into the ER in the company of several paramedics. Faris turned his attention back to the conversation.

  “... called Christa and informed her about what happened,” Gitta said. The ER’s automatic doors closed behind the old man and his rescuers. “She must be on her way to the hospital by now.”

  Christa. Paul’s wife.

  Faris shut his eyes. This time he didn’t see any horrible images, just the slender, expressive face of Christa Sievers. What could he say to her?

  “I’ll wait here for her,” he murmured, knowing that this would cost him too much. “What are the rest of you doing?”

  “After you were taken back by the doctor, Tromsdorff ordered Marc to return here.” Marc hadn’t sustained any injuries from the explosion. “He is preparing his report and giving us a description of the inside of the summer house, and then we’ll decide what happens next. Ben says that it’s unusual for an explosion to create such a fireball. Maybe that’ll help us a little. And then all of us are supposed to try to get a little sleep. You, first and foremost.”

  Faris ignored her last sentence. The fireball had transformed all the clues that they might have found inside the summer house into ashes. All they had now were Faris’s and Marc’s memories of the small structure’s interior.

  “At some point, Marc stepped outside,” he said. “I’m not sure if he knows that we found a metal box that probably contained the bomb. Besides that, the
summer house also held an entire box of those glow sticks that are being sold to the conference goers.”

  “Mmhmm.” Gitta was probably jotting down a note. “I’ll pass that along. Good. Anything else?”

  Faris’s skull felt as if it were being inflated with a balloon filling with flammable gas that was about to burst into flames. “Not that I can think of, but I’ll call you as soon as I remember anything.”

  “Oh, by the way, we sent the pastor back home. She didn’t have anything else that could help us.”

  “Thanks, Gitta.”

  “She knows what happened, Faris. I wouldn’t be surprised if she shows up at the hospital.”

  Faris nodded silently and tried to decide if this was good news or bad. Ira Jenssen was a witness. Someone external. Her presence might help him keep from going to pieces. Anything that could keep him from breaking down was presumably a good thing.

  “Thanks, Gitta,” he murmured again. “Bye.”

  “Goodbye, Faris.”

  *

  The hospital’s operating rooms were right next to the ER. With their yellow ingrain wallpaper, the passages in front of them probably looked just as dismal as the hundreds of others across the country. There were few seating options. One of them was located underneath a modernist bronze relief of a figure, which to Faris’s eyes looked like an exhausted guardian angel.

  An elderly couple was sitting underneath it, holding hands. Faris nodded at them mutely, then noticed the woman sitting within a niche, who was kneading a handkerchief.

  “Faris!” The woman jumped up and rushed to him like a drowning person. He had to catch her. With a sob, she leaned against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders.

  “Christa.” His lips were numb, and his feelings of guilt washed over him like a swell that might drown him. After all, he was the one who had insisted that Tromsdorff let Paul drive along to the summer house with him. And besides that, the caller had discovered where they were from his phone, and then blown up the summer house. “I should’ve been with him. I should be the one in there …”