Forty Hours: A breath-taking thriller Page 7

  “Great,” Tromsdorff remarked. His disgruntled expression revealed that the idea of somebody hacking into their internal data bank system did nothing to brighten his mood. “Notify your colleagues in IT, Ben. They need to check on this. And then contact the service providers! The order is just a formality. You can get started right away.”

  After clicking the lid on the marker, Ben set it down before sitting back at his computer and starting to type. A beep indicated that he had sent a short inter-office email, presumably to the IT team that managed the internal networks. He then reached for his phone and punched in a speed dial number. After waiting a moment, he said: “Carla, it’s me. We need to trace an email message and a phone number. The court order should get here shortly.” He listened for a second. “Yes, I put the information on the server for you. Please put a rush on this. It’s really important!” He hung up without saying goodbye. “That will take a while.”

  “Okay.” Tromsdorff stared thoughtfully at the screen. “Let’s follow our normal protocol for this. Video analysis, criminal profile. You know what to do, folks!”

  “The video might provide some clues about where the cross and the victim are located,” Shannon suggested.

  Ben typed several things on his trackpad, and behind him, a shot of the crucified man appeared. His head sunk onto his chest, blood from the wounds made by the crown of thorns was running down his face, throat and chest. His fingers curled rigidly into the air. If it weren’t for the electrodes and the transparent tube leading from the IV drip down the man’s throat, the scene would have looked like a hyper-realistic religious painting.

  Faris studied the image closely. Except for the man and the cross, all there was to see was a gray wall. He couldn’t have even said if the wall were made of concrete or covered in old wallpaper. The background was simply too blurry. “We won’t get anything from it,” he predicted.

  Marc raised his hand but didn’t wait for anyone to let him jump in. “Do we have any idea how much time we have until the next bomb is supposed to go off? I mean, how long can the man on the cross be expected to survive this torture?”

  Having played with her tennis ball throughout the conversation, Shannon now deposited it back into the chaos on her desk and stood up. “A crucifixion,” she explained, sounding a little like a professor in a lecture hall, “entails massive physical trauma, along with significant blood loss – at least, if you take into consideration the flogging and the crown of thorns. Our culprit seems to have foreseen this blood loss, as far as I can tell, presumably it’s why he’s supplied his victim with the IV drip.”

  “What does that mean?” Tromsdorff interjected.

  Shannon took a deep breath. “That means that he is planning to keep his victim alive for a while. However, the blood loss isn’t the biggest problem when it comes to a crucifixion. It’s the rigidity.” She walked over to the screen and pointed at the man’s outstretched arms, using a pen she had picked up on her way over. “The stretched arms and the fixed vertical position will eventually interfere with the victim’s breathing, and in the end, he will suffocate.”

  “Have there been any studies of how long it can take, until …” Faris decided not to finish his question.

  Shannon looked at him seriously. “Yes, there have been. If the shock and blood loss don’t kill them right off the bat, a victim can survive for hours, even days.” She pointed at a spot next to the victim’s hips. “That is a seat board, on which the man can support himself whenever he has a hard time breathing. In ancient times, it was a way to prolong a victim’s suffering.”

  “Good Lord!” Faris heard Gitta murmur. “That’s brutal!”

  “No,” Faris suddenly exclaimed, and the others stared at him in amazement. He didn’t explain to Gitta that he wasn’t contradicting her, rather Shannon. “Our victim won’t live for days. He won’t survive more than forty hours.”

  “How do you know that?” Paul asked, confused. The others were also gazing at him in bewilderment.

  Faris recollected the rest of the caller’s exact words. “I remember that the stranger emphasized several times that we only have forty hours to find the man …”

  Chapter 8

  Alexander

  The figure inside the aureole moved. Although much time had passed, during which Alexander had alternated between sitting on the floor beneath the cross and pacing up and down like a caged animal, he still couldn’t make out anything more than a human-like shadow within the blinding light.

  “WE MUST WAIT,” the voice had said, after which it fell silent for a long time. Alexander believed he could feel the fury emanating from the light. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that this figure was an angel from the Lord.

  Didn’t the Bible say that the sight of them caused fear and trembling?

  The man on the cross groaned, and Alexander glanced up at him. Why was it so difficult for him to call that man his father?

  The rhythmic beeping was making his head hurt.

  Finally, the angel spoke again.

  “I WOULD LIKE YOU TO TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT CHRISTMAS SUNDAY,” he said.

  Alexander swallowed. He didn’t want to remember. The memory hurt, and he wished to forget about it forever. But the angel was unrelenting.

  “SPEAK!” he ordered.

  And Alexander obeyed.

  After that Christmas Day, nothing in particular happens for a long time. Father reads in his Bible. He prays a lot and talks constantly about God. At some point, Alexander notices that his father has stopped eating much, if anything, at mealtimes. He only gnaws on a piece of lettuce, takes a sip of water. And wastes away. Shockingly fast.

  Then one day, when Alexander asks him if he is sick, a smile spreads across his face.

  “Not anymore,” he replies.

  But Alexander doesn’t understand.

  “I was sick,” his father explains to him. “Here, inside.” He places his hand over his heart. “Sick from the sin that dwells inside here. But now that is over.”

  “How can it be over when you still look so bad?” Alexander asks. His father’s skin looks gray and wrinkly, like that of a very old man. His pants flap around his bony hips.

  “The body isn’t important,” his father tells him. “Everything depends on the spirit. The spirit is the only thing that matters. The soul. Did you know that Jesus Christ spent forty days fasting so that he could escape the devil’s temptations?”

  Forty days! That seems like such a long time to Alexander, and he wonders when his father stopped eating. He doesn’t know.

  “The devil is ever-present,” his father explains. “He tries to ruin us, every day, every second.”

  Alexander thinks about this. “I’m not sure,” he mumbles.

  His father grabs his arms and stares wildly into his eyes. “Have you harbored any bad thoughts recently? Perhaps about me or about one of your friends?”

  Alexander hesitates.

  “When you pray, do you sincerely speak to God from a full heart?” Father’s voice is now becoming more forceful. His eyes are darting back and forth rapidly.

  Alexander feels spellbound. He swallows.

  “Have you had any unchaste dreams? Have you envied anyone their worldly goods?” The questions fire from Father’s mouth with increasing speed, like bullets shooting up Alexander’s mind and smashing it to pieces.

  “Have you cursed? Insulted your mother? Did you …” Father shakes him. His breathing is growing labored, and yet the questions continue to rain down heavily on Alexander.

  Did you …

  Have you …

  “Yes!” Alexander finally shouts. “Yes! Yes!” Tears roll out from under his eyelids and down his cheeks. A deep, despairing sob works its way up from his chest. Father lets him go, but the sob now reaches his throat, and it shakes him just as much as his father had shaken him beforehand.

  “Yes,” he whispers as his shoulders slump. “I did all of those things.” He feels misera
ble, overflowing with filth and garbage to the point of feeling disgusted with himself. A powerful, uncontrollable twitching takes possession of his body. It has to be the devil who has him in its clutches!

  “You don’t need to cry.” Father’s voice is suddenly very gentle.

  In amazement, Alexander gazes at his face. A smile spreads across his father’s features, as something other-worldly beams out from him.

  “God will forgive your sins, if you honestly and candidly repent of them.”

  “How can I do that?” Alexander whispers. Yes, he has yelled at his mother, but isn’t that just the way things are? And yes, he has secretly read dirty magazines under his covers and jerked off. But how can he repent of something that feels so good?

  He tries, but isn’t successful. “I’m a bad person,” he whispers in despair. His eyes are burning.

  “No, you aren’t!” His father now grabs him again, forcing him to look up. “You only have to do what I’m doing.”

  “What should I do? Fast, like you?”

  His father doesn’t reply. Instead, he starts to recite a Bible verse: “And immediately the Sprit driveth him into the wilderness. And he was there in the wilderness forty days, tempted of Satan; and was with the wild beasts; and the angels ministered unto him.” Father takes a breath before continuing in a monotone ...

  With stinging eyes, Alexander stared into the garish light.

  The angel of the Lord stood inside it, very calm. “TEMPTED OF SATAN,” he repeated quietly. And then he started laughing in a way that made Alexander’s hair stand on end.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asked anxiously.

  “YOU?” the angel asked. “NO! HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY THINK THAT?”

  Alexander didn’t answer. He felt little, insignificant and stupid in the presence of this bright, blinding light. Just as he had always felt stupid in Father’s presence. Stupid and ignorant. Filled by the desire to be led.

  “Tell me what I should do,” he begged.

  The angel laughed once more. This time it sounded sad. Weren’t the angels of the Lord full of mourning? Alexander tried to recall the old stories his grandma had told him, but he failed. He was confused. His heart pounded.

  “CONTINUE YOUR STORY,” the angel finally told him. “YOU STARTED TO FAST. AND THEN?”

  And Alexander remembered.

  His mother doesn’t notice right away because he is very careful. At first, he simply eats a little less, leaving the meat on his plate and then finally the potatoes too. However, she inevitably notices, eventually. Her eyes filled with concern, Mother watches him eat one evening.

  “Are you sick?” she asks, sending Father a dark look. She has long had suspicions about what is happening.

  Alexander shakes his head tentatively. Lying is a sin; Father has taught him.

  A deep wrinkle appears between Mother’s eyebrows. “Werner?” Her voice is chilly.

  His father doesn’t move.

  “What is going on with the boy?” Mother’s voice is now trembling, incredulous. “You’re making him fast too, aren’t you?” Her eyes are huge, and Alexander can see himself reflected in her pupils.

  “Are you making the boy fast with you?” Mother shouts.

  Father shakes his head. “Not me. The Lord.”

  At that, Mother springs to her feet, her napkin landing on the kitchen table. “The boy’s only twelve!” she shrieks. “He’s still growing! Tell him this minute that he has to stop this nonsense!”

  But Father shakes his head again. “The devil is lurking everywhere,” he says softly. “We have to keep him at bay!”

  With this, the mask of fury on Mother’s face collapses into a thousand little folds. All of a sudden, she looks gray. Gray and empty. “You beast!” she utters tonelessly. “Stop this insanity, or Alexander and I will leave you immediately.”

  Father doesn’t answer, just stares mutely into her eyes. For a long moment, they gaze at each other, and then Mother spins around and strides furiously out of the kitchen …

  Alexander fell silent as he shakily took a breath. The garish light was blinding him, and he covered his eyes with his hands.

  “IT’S ALRIGHT,” the angel consoled him. “IT’S ALMOST OVER. JUST TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT.”

  Without raising his eyes, Alexander murmured: “She was gone the next day.” Even now, today, it was hard for him to believe this. “She just abandoned me. She left me behind with …” He hesitated as he lowered his hands and gestured at the man on the cross. “With him.”

  “SHE DIDN’T ABANDON YOU,” the angel contradicted him. Was Alexander hearing correctly? Was the angel’s voice shaking now? “LISTEN TO YOUR HEART. YOU KNOW THAT SHE DIDN’T WANT TO ABANDON YOU.”

  Alexander didn’t want to hear his words, didn’t want to think about where they were driving him. He covered his ears. “No!” he shouted. “No!”

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?” the angel asked.

  Alexander refused to say. Tears trickled out from beneath his lowered lids. He shook his head vigorously. All of a sudden, he was twelve again, and sobs were wracking his body. “She’s gone, just gone! And she isn’t coming back. And Papa and I are standing in the garden.”

  “IN THE GARDEN,” the angel repeated.

  “In the garden.” Alexander opened his eyes, staring directly and unblinkingly into the harsh light until his head started to ache. The pain drove the horror into his heart. “We have dug a hole and filled it in again. The flower bed now looks very fresh.”

  *

  “Forty hours.” Paul tilted his head to consider this. “It’s possible that he meant to give us a clue about what he is planning. Do you know when these forty hours were supposed to start?” he asked Faris.

  “With his call. That was at three minutes past eight.”

  Standing up, Paul walked over to the whiteboard on which Ben had already made the first note. He picked up the marker and drew a quick perpendicular line on the board. “Let’s assume that this is Zero Hour.” Starting from the line, he drew a long horizontal line at the end of which he wrote a fat 40. He ran a quick mental calculation. “The forty hours will be over … tomorrow, around midnight.”

  “Shit!” This curse was from Shannon.

  Faris scanned the row of his colleagues. The tension in the room had suddenly spiked. He could feel that clearly.

  “Tomorrow night,” Shannon continued. “The concluding service begins at eleven o’clock pm in the Olympic Stadium. By midnight, it will be in full swing.”

  The Olympic Stadium! Faris closed his eyes. Of course, he had read about this special service. It had been announced as a Service of Lights and promised to be truly remarkable. His neighbor had recently explained to him what would make this event so special: During this service, the first papal-sanctioned ecumenical Holy Eucharist in the Christian world would be held. Despite five hundred years of the Catholic Church refusing to grant communion to Protestants, and several decades of denying that the collective Protestant faith community had a right to call itself the Church, an about-face had taken place in recent months. The reason for this had been the unexpected death of the previous Pope, in a plane crash over the Atlantic. At barely sixty years old, his Ukrainian successor qualified as a very young Pope. Immediately after his selection, he set a course toward ecumenical dialogue. And, at least for the time being, the imminent communion service represented the achievement of this process.

  “Fucking shit!” Ben cursed. Not one person in the room contradicted or admonished him.

  Still standing at the whiteboard, Paul took a step to the side and started the first of the case lists. Motive? he wrote at the top, before glancing around the room.

  “To prevent the communion service,” Gitta conjectured. It was the first thing that had shot through all their minds.

  Paul jotted it down. “That would suggest that our culprit is a militant Christian,” he murmured as he wrote.

  “Umm …” Ben wanted to jump in, but Faris
was quicker.

  “But would Christian fundamentalists set up something like this?” He motioned at the image of the crucified man. “I mean, in my opinion, this looks more like someone’s mocking the Christian faith, doesn’t it?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Ben crossed his arms.

  Shannon shook her head. After her lecture on the physical effects of crucifixion, she had returned to her desk, where she was kneading her tennis ball again. “In Indonesia, there are fanatics who have themselves nailed to crosses every year at Easter, a spiritual experience of sorts. You’re thinking about this from a Muslim perspective, Faris. For a Christian, a representation of a crucifixion isn’t blasphemy. It’s different to what mockery of the Prophet would be for Muslims.” Bending over her desk, she scribbled something on a notepad sitting in front of her. “I’ll check to see if there are any local sects that go in for crucifixions. Maybe there’s a connection with groups that oppose the ecumenical service.”

  Paul pointed at Shannon with his marker. “We should also keep a look out for theatrical groups, especially passion play groups.”

  “Good.” Tromsdorff looked satisfied. “Anything else?”

  Ben opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, he noticed something on his laptop screen. He bent forward to study it at closer range. Tromsdorff waited to see if he wanted to join their conversation, but the technician was now absorbed in what was on his computer.

  Paul stared at the picture of the crucified man projected onto the wall. “Why such a complicated staging?” he asked the group.

  The others looked at him.

  He scratched his neck. “I mean … A basic timer would suffice for him to achieve his goal. A simple countdown. Why the crucifixion? Why forty hours?” His eyes skimmed across his colleagues’ faces, but nobody could answer his question.

  “Shit,” Ben suddenly mumbled.

  Faris studied him with curiosity, but at that moment, the door swung open, and Marvin Andersen walked in. “Hello, everyone.”

  “We’re just developing the first profile of the caller,” Tromsdorff informed him. “And this much we can say – we think he’s planning to attack the papal service tomorrow night.” He succinctly filled Andersen in on their earlier discussions.