Beta readers wanted: File Reference Death — The first two chapters

These are the first two chapters of the English translation of my thriller “File Reference Death.” I need feedback if the translation is good enough. Please write your remarks in the comments. I would be very grateful for your help!

Chapter One

“Sleep tight, new guy.”

Simon Stark nodded at his new hostel father Joe and turned his sleeping bag on its side.

He didn’t feel the damp cold as much today as he did the nights before he was taken in here. Joe was something like the boss of the small group that had made themselves at home under this double bridge between the Inner and Outer Alster. Only if Joe agreed, one was allowed to join the group. Simon’s luck was that he had been relatively sober that afternoon. Drunk, Joe would almost certainly have sent him into the desert. They were by no means choirboys who lived here together, but there were no severe alcoholics among them.

We have fought for too long to jeopardize their tolerance for nocturnal excesses. How fast do you think they’d chase us away if vomit and excrement were lying around every morning? If you can’t control yourself, you’re fired. Sounds tough, but the road is tough too.

That was the speech every contender for a place to sleep under the bridge heard from Joe, and if he didn’t like the way the contender reacted, there was no deal.

Simon had assured him that this was no problem for him. Joe had nodded to give him a final head-to-toe examination and then agreed to grant Simon a trial stay for three days and nights.

Simon had brought the sleeping bag himself, but Kurtie had given him the sleeping mat. Kurti was a small, wiry jack-of-all-trades who had lived here for two years. The group had a lockable walk-in shed in which they kept valuable items such as the sleeping mat in stock. They called it their securities warehouse, and Kurti was in charge of its administration and distribution.

Together with the mat, Simon had been given two plastic bags with crumpled up newspaper.

You put that under your clothes, and it’s warm. You’ll see, the supply boss had explained when he noticed Simon’s uncomprehending look. In fact, the tip was worth its weight in gold, as he now realized. Sleeping bag, sleeping mat, and newspaper together kept him warm. The bridge was also a blessing, for the night was rainy and windy again. November was halfway through. It was good to have joined a community before the winter.

Secretly he was fingering in his sleeping bag for his flask. With his face to the wall and his hood pulled deep into his forehead, he could dare to take a tasty sip without fear of being seen. Sure, the others drank openly now and then, but Joe seemed to be sure that they had it under control. But he was new and had to make a good impression first.

For a few minutes, Simon just lay there and felt the warming effect of the schnapps. He tried to think of nothing at all while waiting for sleep. The images rose up in his mind’s eye, but in the meantime, he managed not to hold on to them. In his dreams, they would haunt him again, sure. But he deserved that. It had been his mistake, no matter what anyone else said.

Simon had accepted the recurring nightmares, just as he had taken life on the street. His penance was to continue — with all the guilt and all the images in his head. Simon fell asleep.

***

The moment he came into the room where they had rounded up, the family was exactly the wrong one. A few seconds earlier, and he could have prevented it — a little later, and at least he wouldn’t have had to see it happen.

Simon’s people had cornered the man with his wife and three children and held their guns on them. He saw that the situation was about to get out of control. His unit witnessed an attack on an American convoy today. They had immediately rushed to the aid of their allies, but apart from holding hands with a few boys screaming in pain as they died, they had been unable to do anything.

Then they came to this small mountain village. His people, but mainly Richard Kolb, the explosives expert, had immediately shown hostility towards the inhabitants. According to their logic, these farmers had to be in cahoots with the terrorists. The village was the only human settlement far and wide, and there was reason to suspect that the assassins had at least passed through here. But the inhabitants of the village had denied knowing anything.

They had banged on every door in the search for witnesses. Only at one house, nobody opened. Simon and two of his men were busy at another door, questioning some older women in bumpy Pashto when he heard a door being kicked in. Simon just saw the explosives expert and two other soldiers under his command rush into the house.

Simon had immediately guessed that this situation would escalate. As quickly as he could, he had run to the building, from which he could already hear hectic screaming and the crying of children.

Now he stood in the doorway and saw the family crouching in the corner. They looked so harmless that Simon was sure at that second that his people wouldn’t hurt them.

Then the father of the children reached behind his back.

It happened too quickly for Simon to intervene. Richard Kolb shot the farmer with a volley from his G36 assault rifle. The woman jumped up, screaming, and threw herself in front of her children. This movement was enough to direct the fire at them. After only a few seconds, the family of five was wiped out.

Simon stared incredulously at the scene. The men slowly lowered their weapons and turned to him. They looked past him instead of into his eyes. Simon understood and set in the direction his men were watching. Behind him, mute with horror, the rest of the village crowded into the house. Simon wanted to say something to calm the situation, but then he heard the sound of a weapon being loaded behind him.

***

“No!

Simon tried to jump up but could barely move. Then another scream.

“Please stop, please!”

That was not his voice. Simon thought he’d been startled screaming again from one of these dreams, but he was wrong. Hurriedly, he tried to move again, until he realized he was in his sleeping bag. He concentrated and blocked out the continued roar, mixing primitive howling and sounds that sounded like blows.

Adrenaline flooded his veins when he heard a cry for help. That was the voice of Ella. She was Joe’s right hand and had taken over the cooking duties for the group. Two seconds later, Simon had freed himself from the sleeping bag and was storming wide awake in the direction the noise was coming from.

The cook lay curled up on the floor, trying to protect her head from the kicks with which the attackers covered her.

Simon’s mind analyzed the situation fully automatically as he ran towards the group.

There were two with Ella. Both wore hoodies, tracksuit bottoms, and sneakers. Almost three meters further on, another hooligan had pushed Joe against the bridge wall with a blackjack. The old man was bleeding from his head, but he stayed on his feet. With the courage of desperation, he waved a long-stemmed frying pan in front of him to keep the man with the steel rod at a distance.

Then there was a group of three, which drove the young hustler Elias, Kurti, and the Polish migrant worker Janek forward. Apparently, they were planning to force their victims into the water.

Elias’ situation was most threatening. Joe would be lucky to defend himself a few seconds longer, and the other three — well, they could get wet and get hypothermia in the worst case. That one of them might drown was something Simon deliberately did not consider. Too unlikely to let this influence his decision.

The two guys didn’t see him coming, because they turned their backs on him as they stepped on the now motionless woman again and again. Simon kicked the back of the knee of the left, grabbed the swerving foot of the right, and pulled it back with a jerk. Number one collapsed, while contestant two clapped the asphalt face first. That put him out of action. Simon tore the other one’s head back into the neck with his left hand and slammed his elbow on the tip of his nose.

He gave the gasping guy a jab so that he too fell on his face. Simon had not given either of them time to scream, so their comrades hadn’t noticed anything yet.

Next, he went after the guy who was harassing Joe.

The assailant had just knocked the frying pan out of Joe’s hand, and then he swung the manslaughterer again.

“Now I’m going to bash your head in, you victim,” he growled and made a lunge at the old man.

“Leave the man alone,” yelled Simon and stopped just outside the range that his opponent could have with the manslaughterer.

He turned around angrily and spread his arms.

“Dude, fuck off,” he yelled at Simon and walked towards him. As he walked, he was already swinging to the punch when Simon whirled around him with a body turn and took him into the headlock from behind. The boy had had no chance at all to react. Simon might have been weakened by life on the street and by drinking, but he could still handle a tough guy like this without any problems.

“Hey, come here,” he shouted in the direction of his mates and fidgeted helplessly into Simon’s grip.

“Hey, I swear I’ll kill you, you arsehole! You hear me?”

Simon wasn’t impressed, but the others were all the more shocked to see how it looked. When they saw their buddy in trouble, all their fuses blew.

Lonsdale Sweaters. So they are hooligans. God, I hate football.

The three hooligans charged at him like a pack of bloodhounds. There was no fear in their eyes, but a lot of violence.

They were fast but too fierce. Because all three were charging Simon at the same time, they got in each other’s way. So it was easy to dodge the small group with several quick sidesteps and let them run into the void. Before they could find their bearings again, Simon had the first one in a stranglehold and put him out of action with a targeted liver hook.

Instantly he loosened his clamp grip, grabbed the guy by his right arm and threw him like a ball throwing a can into the other two, who were meanwhile rushing in his direction again.

They stumbled and fell to the ground. Before they had a chance to pull themselves up, Simon kicked one of them in the ribs and the other in the face.

He took care to measure the kicks so that they incapacitated his opponents but did not kill them. Just as well, one kick could have driven a rib into the lung of attacker number one and the head kick could have broken the neck of opponent number two. In combat, this would have been a legitimate solution. Here, on the other hand, such actions could put you behind bars faster than you would like.

He stayed in fighting posture for a few more seconds and prepared to face a final rebellion of the thugs. But they had obviously had enough.

Moaning and cursing, one after the other came back to their feet, but the will to fight had vanished. They ran away limping and supported each other. It was all right for Simon that they made off. Now all he could do was hope that no-one was watching the scene and had called the police.

That would have only caused annoying trouble. Interrogation at the police station, finding out his personal details, suspicious questions about his past and finally maybe even remand in custody. After all, he had roughed these guys up pretty badly. It was difficult for Simon to imagine that the police officers bought the story from a bum in self-defense.

A tortured groan tore him out of his thoughts.

Ella rolled whimpering in a pool of blood. She had got the worst of it and was in desperate need of help. Simon hurried to her and got down on his knees beside her. It was really bad for her. Her face was so swollen and full of blood that even her own mother would not have recognized her.

The stumps of several broken teeth protruded from between her chapped lips.

A glance at Ella’s hands revealed that she had tried to use them to ward off the kicks to her head. A total of four fingers stood out at unnatural angles and were presumably broken several times. The shock alone prevented the pain from completely overwhelming the poor woman. But if she did not get strong painkillers very quickly, it would be bad for her. Simon himself could do nothing for her.

“Kurtie, come to me,” he cried in a firm voice. When he looked up, he saw to his satisfaction how the one being called came running hurriedly. “Listen, we need bandages from the stockroom. Do we have any of those?”

“Yes, sure. But what do you want to bandage here? Ella needs a hospital.

Simon waved impatiently.

“I know that, Kurtie. I want you to get some gauze and safety pins or duct tape so I can bandage Joe’s head.”

Simon was fixated on Ella, but before rushing to her, he had already assessed the condition of all his other tenants. While Kurti, Elias and Janek appeared largely unharmed, old Joe was bleeding heavily from a laceration on his head.

Simon could only hope that it was not a skull fracture, but the bleeding had to be stopped in any case. Too much blood loss could lead to a life-threatening shock.

“So let’s go now, Kurti,” he spurred on the effects manager, who finally reacted and ran. A short time later he was at Joe’s with a first-aid kit, and Simon hurried to get there before Kurti himself could try to lend a hand.

“Give it to me and let me do it,” Simon ordered, surprised at how naturally this authoritarian tone of voice still came over his lips.

Old Joe was sitting with his back against the wall and seemed a bit disoriented.

Simon found a nasty laceration in Joe’s rind and put a compress on it. The application of a professional head bandage was fully automatic and didn’t take a minute. Although his task force had always had a medical specialist at its disposal, everyone had to be able to help themselves in case of emergency.

Simon had just finished the bandage and was about to feel Joe’s pulse when brakes screeched at the top of the road, a couple of cars started honking wildly and judging by the sound, the sliding door of a van was ripped open.

“Shit, who called the police,” cursed Simon and jumped up.

“That’s not the cops, new guy,” he heard Elias calling out. “Relax! It’s only Sophie.”

Who is Sophie?

Before he could ask, he saw her. A young woman, about his age, maybe a little older, came storming down the wide stone stairs from the road. Two men, who looked like paramedics, followed her at a distance.

“ This Sophie. Coming from help bus,” Janek called and pointed to the woman who was running straight to the badly injured Ella.

“Called on my mobile when the shit went down,” the Pole explained as Simon looked at him questioningly.”Sophie always helps when one of us is ill. Is good woman — like Angel.”

Simon watched as the woman waved the two paramedics over to her, while she took a closer look at Ella’s serious injuries.

“She is in severe pain, has several broken fingers and probably multiple fractures of the facial bones,” she told her two colleagues as they also reached the injured woman.

One of them was already drawing up a syringe. Simon wondered whether the man was even entitled to administer painkillers. In any case, he was not an emergency doctor. He was more of a volunteer paramedic, it seemed.

The young man did not seem to share Simon’s concerns, however, as he injected Ella with the medicine without hesitation. The second helper had meanwhile begun to carefully dab Ella’s bloody face and clean the wounds.

“The ambulance is almost here, Ella,” whispered the woman named Sophie and smiled reassuringly at the injured woman. The painkiller worked quickly. The moaning became quieter and the whimpering died away completely. Ella was now on cloud nine.

A few minutes later, the ambulance signal sounded and the professional helpers finally arrived.

The transfer of the patient seemed to go smoothly. If the professionals were pissed off because of the arbitrary actions of the self-proclaimed Samaritans, at least they didn’t let it show.

Meanwhile, the woman had already checked on Joe, inspected the dressing and checked his vital signs. Janek squatted next to her and talked to her. He pointed at Simon and gestically told her what had happened.

Simon sensed the suspicion in her gaze as she watched him from a distance, and he was uncomfortable. This woman could mean trouble. He should leave here as soon as possible and only come back when peace had returned. But this thought came a second too late.

“You there — Mr Stark, right? Would you come over here, please?”

For a moment, Simon didn’t know what to do. No one shot at him, nothing threatened his life, and no one’s existence depended on what he would do now — there was only this petite woman who asked him to come to her. So what was it about that that threw him off track like that?

“Come on, Mean Machine. Woman will not eat you — is friend. Come on.”

Janek nodded at him encouragingly and waved lively.

“Oh shit, what the hell,” mumbled Simon and moved reluctantly.

As he stood before her, she barely reached his collarbone. She was obviously in good physical condition. To Simon, her sinewy body looked like that of a long-distance runner.

She looked up at him, but her gaze was so penetrating that Simon almost had the impression she could spit on his head from above. Whoever this woman was, there was something about her that fascinated him. He just didn’t know yet whether that was good or bad.

“I am Sophie Palmer,” she said, reaching out her hand to him

“Stark. Simon wondered whether the man was even entitled to administer painkillers. In any case, he was not an emergency doctor. He was more of a volunteer paramedic, it seemed.

The young man did not seem to share Simon’s concerns, however, as he injected Ella with the medicine without hesitation. The second helper had meanwhile begun to carefully dab Ella’s bloody face and clean the wounds.

“The ambulance is almost here, Ella,” whispered the woman named Sophie and smiled reassuringly at the injured woman. The painkiller worked quickly. The moaning became quieter and the whimpering died away completely. Ella was now on cloud nine.

A few minutes later, the ambulance signal sounded and the professional helpers finally arrived.

The transfer of the patient seemed to go smoothly. If the professionals were pissed off because of the arbitrary actions of the self-proclaimed Samaritans, at least they didn’t let it show.

Meanwhile, the woman had already checked on Joe, inspected the dressing and checked his vital signs. Janek squatted next to her and talked to her. He pointed at Simon and gestically told her what had happened.

Simon sensed the suspicion in her gaze as she watched him from a distance, and he was uncomfortable. This woman could mean trouble. He should leave here as soon as possible and only come back when peace had returned. But this thought came a second too late.

“You there — Mr Stark, right? Would you come over here, please?”

For a moment, Simon didn’t know what to do. No one shot at him, nothing threatened his life, and no one’s existence depended on what he would do now — there was only this petite woman who asked him to come to her. So what was it about that that threw him off track like that?

“Come on, Mean Machine. Woman will not eat you — is friend. Come on.”

Janek nodded at him encouragingly and waved lively.

“Oh shit, what the hell,” mumbled Simon and moved reluctantly.

As he stood before her, she barely reached his collarbone. She was obviously in good physical condition. To Simon, her sinewy body looked like that of a long-distance runner.

She looked up at him, but her gaze was so penetrating that Simon almost had the impression she could spit on his head from above. Whoever this woman was, there was something about her that fascinated him. He just didn’t know yet whether that was good or bad.

“I am Sophie Palmer,” she said, reaching out her hand to him.

“Stark. Simon Stark,” he murmured and returned her handshake like a girl.

“Are you afraid to break my fingers?”, she asked amusedly. “Janek told me what you did. I guess you’re some kind of prizefighter, huh?”

“Yes, probably something like that,” Simon agreed absently, staring her straight in the eyes.

“The head bandage is really first class. Have you had a first-aid course recently?”

Pull yourself together. You’re not a teenager any more.

Whenever Simon threatened to bullshit, self-restraint helped him. This time it worked too.

“Training in the army.”It can sometimes be very helpful.”

“Really? She looked at him with surprise. Apparently, homeless people with military pasts were a curiosity for Sophie Palmer. But Simon was wrong. She wasn’t skeptical at all, but she was very interested.

“Tell me, Mr. Stark, could you and I get together tomorrow afternoon? I have a suggestion, and I’d like to hear what you think.

Now it was Simon who was surprised.

“What kind of suggestion? Don’t make it so exciting.”

But Sophie just shook her head, smiling, and swerved. “It’s not something I want to deal with between the lines, Mr Stark. I just want to make you an offer and show you something. I think it’ll make the decision easier. So tomorrow afternoon at 4:30? Here’s my card with the address. That’s our headquarters. Do you think you can find it?”

Simon took a quick look at the card and nodded.

“No problem. I generally find my way around quite well.”

“Learned your lesson at the Bundeswehr too, eh?” she asked with a wink. “So it’s a deal? You’ll come?”

By now Simon no longer felt the young woman could be trouble, and found no plausible reason to refuse. In fact, he liked the idea of meeting her again quite a lot.

“I will be there. You can count on it.”

She smiled and offered him her hand as a goodbye. This time he squeezed it tight. He liked the feel of her skin. When he realized how comfortable he was, he thought, Maybe this woman is trouble after all. But I don’t care.

***

He had parked his flashy red sports car in the farthest corner of the unlit forest parking lot and watched the approach from the driver’s seat with a night vision device.

According to the schedule, the freight had to arrive in just under ten minutes. If the parking lot was not free by then, he would have to call it off and move a few kilometers further.

He waved the binoculars back to the dark station wagon that was swinging lonely in one of the parking bays. The buxom blonde rode her lover like a Duracell bunny for ten minutes already, and Boris began to wonder if there were any blue pills involved.

“ That’ s not normal, Kids,” he buzzed, annoyed, and stared on morosely at the animalistic goings-on in the parked car.

Seconds later, he saw the blonde throw her head ecstatically into the neck, paused in the middle of the gallop, and began to tremble like a feverish person in delirium. He could hear the two-voiced scream, muffled by the body of the car, all the way to his location. Then he saw the couple collapse exhausted.

“Now smoke your cigarette after this and get the hell out of here,” he whispered grimly and looked at his watch again. Seven minutes left.

The passenger door of the estate car was pushed open, and one after the other, the woman and her lover climbed out of the vehicle. Boris saw that neither of them had their trousers on again.

They now put them back on in a hurry outside the car. It had probably been a proper cold shock when they had switched from the heated love cave to the six-degree cold parking lot.

To Frick’s satisfaction, it turned out that neither of them smoked, because as soon as they were fully clothed, they got back in the car, kissed each other once more and then speeded out of the parking lot with a roaring engine.

Another two minutes. Boris opened the driver’s door and got out.

He took a deep breath of the wet and cold November air and closed his eyes. Today the day had finally arrived. After years of planning and preparation, it was ready to start. The infrastructure was in place, the staff was together, and the key positions were filled.

The sound of a truck engine swelled in the distance. In Boris Frick’s ears, it sounded like music. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness towards the parking lot entrance. A few moments later, a truck rumbled through the bend into the parking lot.

The driver had followed Frick’s instructions and switched off the headlights already on the country road a few hundred meters before the turn-off. Only now, when he could no longer be seen from the road, did he press the headlight flasher twice. That was the signal that Frick had arranged for him to come out of cover. If it hadn’t happened, he would have started to retreat through the woods. One could never be too careful. The project was too important to jeopardize it through carelessness.

Frick pulled a flashlight from his coat pocket and swung it three times over his head, switched on. Then he plugged it back in and approached the car. It was an ordinary-looking seven-and-a-half-tonne truck with the words GEKRAT — gemeinnützige Krankentransporte e.V. on both sides of the body. The conversions were not visible from the outside, but Frick knew they were there and that they would serve their purpose. Several test runs with pigs had been successful.

The driver’s door was opened, and a young man with a neat side parting and a scar on his left cheek jumped out exhilarated.

“Were you followed, Schumann?”

The driver shook his head. “Then I wouldn’t have left, Herr Frick. I always take your instructions very seriously.”

“Don’t use my real name, you idiot,” Frick insisted.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brack,” the driver corrected himself guiltily. “Must be the excitement. It will not happen again.”

“No, it won’t,” confirmed Boris Frick, alias Viktor Brack. “I know I can count on you, Schumann.”

It’s bad enough that he even knows my real name, he thought and vowed never again to be as careless as with this young man he had hired as one of the first.

He patted his assistant jovially on the shoulder and then turned to face the truck.

“Is it fully loaded?”

“Twenty-five, Herr Brack,” Schumann replied proudly.

“No problems loading?”

“No, everything went off without complications. No one suspected a thing.”

“Then, get started.”

Schumann nodded and climbed back into the truck driver’s seat. He opened the center console and flipped a toggle switch that was mounted inside.

“Exhaust diverter set and ready to start,” he reported. Then he started the engine.

***

Tina was getting more and more restless. The shaking got worse, and she started sweating. She wanted to get up and walk up and down like a lioness in a cage.

When she was on Turkey, she’d be out of control. But the ground was shaking too much. At every turn, they were shaken, and with her sprained ankle, she wouldn’t have been able to stay on her feet for a second.

So she remained strapped in and sat on the narrow bench, enduring as best she could the stench of the festering bandage on her neighbor’s lower leg.

Her buddy Dennis sat on the seat opposite. He had also come along because he had had a terrible toothache for days. She snapped her fingers to get his attention.

“Hey, Dennis. I wonder if we’ll be there soon.”

“I don’t know. But I can’t take it much longer. It hurts so fucking bad.”

The man with the smelly bandage tapped Tina on the shoulder.

“What do you want, old man?”

She tried to move away from him, but on her left was a fat Romanian girl who had been punching her elbow into her ribs the whole time.

“Don’t touch me, you horny goat,” she hissed instead.

He pulled back his hand and laughed, grumbling. “Girl, you think you are a princess. You’re a street dog. Just like your friend Rat-Face over there. But I’ll tell you something when we get there, I’m gonna get there first. I was in here first, and I’ll be treated first.”

Tina ignored the old drunk and went back on Dennis.

“They said they got a dentist in there, too. It’s gonna be all right.”

Dennis smiled in agony. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m looking forward to having my teeth fixed. How about you? You gonna be okay?”

Tina couldn’t handle anything. If she didn’t get a buzz soon, she’d go crazy. But this morning, when she scrounged, there was nothing to gain. The few bucks she begged for wouldn’t buy her a fix of meth. So the guy who promised to take them all to a new non-profit practice that provided free medical care for the socially disadvantaged came in handy.

Sophie’s help bus would have arrived a few hours later, and she wouldn’t have gotten any meth there either. So why not see if there was anything to steal from this practice?

Tina tried to distract herself from the withdrawal symptoms and checked the other passengers. Besides Dennis, she only knew two of the people on the benches. One was Ralle, who sold the homeless newspaper, and the other was Poppel. He was an old punk who used to go scrounging at the Spritzenplatz but had been cleaning car windows at red lights for a few weeks now to collect donations, as he called it.

Of the rest of the passengers, she had seen a few somewhere before, but she didn’t know any of them. Mostly, Tina hung out with the same crowd at Ottensen’s. They usually avoided contact with other groups.

There were about two dozen people in here.

“Why are there no windows?” moaned Dennis.

“You can’t see where we’re going.”

No one answered him. Tina thought about reminding him that they were in the back of a truck where there were no windows, but then shut up. She knew Dennis well enough to know that an answer would only have encouraged him to talk more.

She couldn’t handle her headaches without yelling at him. So she kept quiet. There was another question on her mind: Why had they never heard of this organization before?

Suddenly the car braked abruptly and went into a sharp right turn, only to turn just as hard to the left. If they had stood, they would have fallen like cones. But this way, each of them was only briefly pressed roughly against the person sitting next to them. Then the truck came to a halt.

“Whether we are there yet?” whispered Dennis. “Shouldn’t we call out?”

“Shut up, boy,” whispered the old man with the leg bandage. “If this is a police control, you’re just gonna get in trouble for yelling. They’ll get us out when they do.”

So everybody stayed quiet and hardly dared to breathe for the next few minutes. Meanwhile, Tina’s face was running in torrents of sweat. Then she couldn’t stand it any longer and got up. She started limping and pacing up and down.

“Sit down, girl,” hissed the old man, but Tina ignored him.

What was that on the ground there? Curious, she bent down to see better. There was a circular flap in there that closed off some hole or other.

The circle measured perhaps six centimeters in diameter. No matter what it was, Tina was grateful for this distraction and fiddled around with shaky fingers on the closure. It was not locked. Tina was able to hook the edge with her fingernails and open the lid.

As soon as the flap was open and she peered curiously into the dark hole, a shiver went through the truck as the engine was started again.

“We’re going on,” babbled Dennis excitedly, but instead of driving off, the truck let the engine roar in idle. At the same moment, a stinking cloud came out of the hole.

Tina fell on her bottom and crawled away from the flap in a hurry.

“That’s exhaust fumes,” yelled Poppel, the punk from the other seat, and jumped up. “They’re gassing us up,” he yelled. “We have to get out.”

His words turned into a coughing fit, which first Tina and then all the other inmates joined in. The stinking exhaust fumes filled the entire interior within seconds, and now panic broke out.

***

When the driver stepped on the accelerator, Boris Frick knew that he had done well to put the first action in this remote place. Schumann was loyal through and through and one hundred percent convinced of the cause, but he was too impetuous.

He obviously wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible by going full throttle, but that only spoiled things.

After a few seconds, the commotion began. Suffocated cries for help came from inside the truck, and from inside, the doomed men were hammering desperately against the walls. The whole construction started to sway.

Frick did not intervene. The criticism of the maneuver would come soon enough afterward. All that was important now was to finish the action.

After a short time, the screams died down. Then the hammering and banging subsided. When Frick already thought it was over, there was a single blow from one who must have held out longer than the others. Then there was finally silence.

He went to the driver’s cab and yelled: “Engine off. Action completed.”

But Schumann pushed the pedal further and stared at the rev counter as if in a trance. Frick had no choice but to climb halfway into the truck and remove the ignition key. Instantly the engine stopped.

Schumann stomped on the accelerator a few more times with an irritated expression on his face before he realized what was happening. He turned his head and looked at Frick. The young man’s breath went like a bellows, and sweat was on his forehead.

“It is done, Schumann. Mission accomplished. Well done,” Frick whispered reassuringly to him and held out his hand, which the boy grasped after a short hesitation. He let himself be supported as he got out of the car and then leaned outside against the open driver’s door with trembling knees. “You all right, kid?”

Schumann nodded dazedly.

“It’s not easy to do your duty. To do it anyway, even if it’s unpleasant, makes us men. My boy, I’m proud of you. We’ve started something big today.”

The driver took a few deep breaths, then looked Frick right in the eye.

“I’m okay. No problem, Boss. I was just excited because I wanted to do everything right the first time.”

Frick tapped him on the shoulder again.

“It’s okay, I understand. Let’s go in the back and take a look. Will you be all right?”

“Sure. It’s just dead bodies, right? This is my daily bread.”

They both went to the back of the trailer together and unlocked it. Schumann pulled the door open and took a step back as it swung open slowly. They stared silently into the interior. The lights were still on, and so they immediately saw that no one was alive.

The dead lay on the floor with faces tainted with blue and tongues protruding, some intertwined, some alone. Most of them piled up right behind the door so that three of them were hanging halfway out of the truck after the door against which they were leaning had opened.

“Go in and make sure,” Frick ordered.

Without hesitation, the young man climbed inside and gradually felt the pulse of each of the victims. After he had passed through, he signaled with a raised thumb that everything was all right.

“Excellent. Come back out and drive.”

Frick told his young assistant Schumann to hurry. The operation had been running to his complete satisfaction but had not yet been completed. A stranger’s vehicle could arrive any minute, and they couldn’t use that at all.

“Did you program the route into the GPS, Schumann?”

He nodded eagerly. “Bernburg by the river Saale, as discussed… I’ll deliver the package, Boss.”

Frick pulled a face.

“Stop with these damn Anglicisms. Don´t call me Boss.”

“Excuse me, Boss. And Heil Hitler.”

Frick sighed. He wouldn’t be able to get rid of that Anglo-American babble in this lifetime.

“Heil Hitler, Schumann. “Now, go jump in a lake.”

He watched the special truck thoughtfully. If his men at Bernburg did their job well, it would be a perfect crime. And Bernburg was just one of their projects Sonnenstein and Hartheim had the organization just as much in hand.

“History never repeats itself?” he murmured. “Who says so? I repeat history.”

Chapter Two

Simon got out of the city train at Sternschanze station. It was the afternoon of the day after the incident under the bridge. Now Simon wondered what he was actually up to. Sure, the girl was hot — no question about it. But let’s face it: She would hardly get involved with a homeless person.

So why was he on his way to this woman’s office anyway?

Sophie. A beautiful name whispered a voice in his head, and Simon thought that the crazy part of him might be to blame.

If that were the case, nothing good would come of it. His strange inner voice had always got him into trouble with somnambulistic certainty.

It’s cold. Steal another bottle of grain, the voice had once said to him. Another time it had made him believe that it was a good idea to spend the night in the emergency shelter. All his things had been stolen from him there while he slept. Somehow this had something to do with a bottle of grain because he had slept like a rock.

And now, Sophie Palmer. He did not know what she actually wanted from him, nor what he expected to get from going to see her. He was uncomfortable with that.

The address that was on her card was very close to the Rote Flora. It was a building that had been squatted for many years and served as a kind of headquarters for the city’s left-wing scene if Simon had understood correctly.

Simon expected that Sophie’s office would be a small basement shed. Privately organized social projects of this kind usually put every penny into their work and saved as much as possible in administration. First of all, of course, there was the rent.

He was all the more surprised when he finally reached the address given. It was a new building with a steel and glass façade, in which advertising agencies, doctors, tax consultants, and other small companies were housed. Between all the nobly designed company boards in the stairwell next to the lifts, he also found the information provided by the Hilfe-Bus e.V.

It was neither shabby nor did it look cheap, but it was nevertheless hardly noticeable between all the others. It did not shine, and apart from the name of the association, there was nothing else written on it. It was only because of the business card that Sophie had given him that Simon knew he had to go to the fourth floor. He pressed the elevator button and waited.

In his first life, he would have taken the stairs. But that was in a distant past that had nothing to do with the Simon of today.

Two minutes later, he was standing at a reception counter, waiting for the young woman sitting there to turn her attention to him.

Apparently, he came at an inopportune moment because the secretary Simon thought she was, was making one phone call after another, and was becoming increasingly hectic.

From what he overheard, the organization was missing several of the homeless people it looked after.

“Help Bus e.V., Sarah speaking. Hello, Sister Inge. Have you had any of our clients in the emergency room lately? I know it’s confidential, but without mentioning names — have you? You know the type of people we’re talking about, don’t you?

She listened intently. Sister Inge seemed to talk very much because, after a while, Sarah started rolling her eyes in despair. When she saw Simon in the meantime, he raised his shoulders apologetically and gave her a wry grin, which he hoped would cheer her up. To his regret, it did not. Apparently, Sister Inge hadn’t heard anything about the missing homeless either, as Sarah’s facial expression changed from impatience to concern.

She hung up, sighed, and finally turned to Simon.

“What can I do for you?”

He gave her the business card he had brought and explained that Sophie had invited him to drop by.

Sarah looked at him with interest.

“Remarkable,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“What do you think?” Simon asked unsettled.

“ With a business card from Sophie, usually only people come here who she wants to offer a job to. Clients rarely come to us. We go to them.”

“You mean…

“I mean nothing. I don “t want to anticipate Sophie. Just go in. Straight ahead, the second office on the right. I’ll see you soon.”

With that, she picked up the phone again and dialed the next number. She gave Simon a brief conspiratorial wink and then turned away.

He looked around indecisively. Should he really go to that woman now? What if she actually offered him a job? Would he be willing to do that? And more importantly, was he able to impose himself on others at all? Who was he? Nobody.

If you don’t try, you won’t find out, he heard his father say. He had said that to Simon when he had to decide whether he was made for life in the army or not. He had tried and found a home.

And then you lost everything, including yourself, his crazy voice interfered. Turn around and see if you can find something to drink. This isn’t for us.

Simon hesitated.

Go in and find out.

No, let’s get out of here.

Do it, soldier!

Soldiers die. You have to get out of here.

Simon’s head hurt, and he got dizzy. The fucking voices were driving him crazy.

“I am the boss! I decide!” he roared and pressed his hands against his temples to relieve the pounding pain.

Suddenly he noticed that everyone was staring at him. Sarah looked up with interest from her notes, raised her eyebrows, and looked as if to say, Whoa boy, are we crazy?

The people at the other desks further back turned to him, eyeballed him, seemed to weigh up whether Simon was dangerous or just confused, and then turned back to their work.

With a bright red head, not out of shame but out of anger at himself, he stormed out the door into the stairwell. There he leaned against the wall next to the elevator door. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths in and out.

He used to use this breathing exercise when he aimed his sniper rifle at a distant target. Today it helped him sometimes more, sometimes less when he was on the verge of going crazy again. He would also have liked to have a rifle now — safety off, the barrel in the mouth, and over and out.

“Are you okay?”

Simon flinched and convulsively tried to calm himself down. Sophie Palmer had followed him into the hall. Apparently, she had overheard his performance. Whatever she wanted him to do, he could forget it now, of course.

“Mr. Stark. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened,” he growled embarrassed.

“Okay, it’s no problem. If you agree, we’ll go in now. Is that okay with you?”

She smiled encouragingly at him and made an inviting gesture towards the door. The woman was apparently used to psychos like him. Must be her work on the street, he thought and nodded.

As they crossed the room together and passed the other desks, no one stared at him as he had expected, but they nodded at him friendly and greeted him like an ordinary guest.

To Sarah at the counter she called over:

“I need a few minutes without a phone. In the meantime, any news about our missing persons?”

When Sarah shook her head in resignation, concern flashed briefly in Sophie Palmer’s eyes. She didn’t stay with it for long, however, but put on her friendly smile again and invited Simon to enter her office. He entered first and took a few steps into the room. There he stopped undecidedly.

Behind him, he heard the door close, and he couldn’t decide whether he should feel trapped or safe now.

“Sit down, Mr. Stark. Coffee?”

“Thanks. Yes, I’ll have a coffee. Black, please. Call me, Simon. No one has called me Mr. Stark in a long time, except the police.”

Sophie nodded understandingly.

“All right, Simon. If you’re offering, I’d be delighted, of course. I only addressed you by your last name because I believe that people who live on the street are also entitled to be treated with respect. I am Sophie.”

“Then you are an exception, Sophie.”If people see me on the street, they know I’m a bum.

“Then you are an exception, Sophie. When people see me on the street, they know I’m a bum. He didn’t get it together, people think. For them, I’m on the same level as kids. They feel superior to me. And you know what, Sophie? You’re right. I wouldn’t call a guy like me Sir, either if I were on the other side. Respect must be earned with discipline, dependability, and performance. I have none of those. I’m not a mister. I haven’t been for a long time.”

Sophie didn’t say anything, but opened the drawer of her desk and took out a notepad. She opened it and skimmed over some notes. Then she looked up and gave Simon a thoughtful look.

“I’ve made it a habit of documenting the operations of Hilfe-Bus e.V. I don’t mean the forms I have to fill in anyway, but personal notes, just for me. This prevents me from perceiving one day as the other. It helps against the feeling of routine and especially against the impression that what we do is meaningless. You know, when you go to the meeting places of the homeless day in, day out, taking care of open legs, giving antibiotics, giving out medicine against crabs, and a thousand other things, you sometimes think you are fighting windmills. The number of people who depend on our help is not diminishing. But my notes also record what I would otherwise too easily forget. For example, the grateful words of a patient or the tears of joy of a man whose toothache has finally gone after I brought a dentist friend of mine who treated him. What I’m trying to say is that these notes help me see clearly.”

Simon had listened patiently. Why did she tell him that? He couldn’t see where this conversation was going to lead. Had she invited him here to tell him that?

“Of course, I took notes about the mission where I met you,” she continued, pausing as if she wanted this information to settle with Simon first. Nothing settled with him, though. He remembered the situation from the day before, of course. He just couldn’t imagine what should be written about it in her notebook that he didn’t know himself, and which could, therefore, have a greater significance.

“What does it say in your notes? I honestly don’t know where this is going.”

“In essence, it says that you made a bandage that a professional paramedic couldn’t have done any better and that this whole thing would have gone a lot worse if you hadn’t put the perpetrators away.”

“ Do I get a cookie for that now?”

His tone was more provocative than he intended. Somehow, over the last few months, his capacity for irony had been lost and replaced by sarcasm.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Sophie waved and pulled out a clipboard with several pieces of paper on it.

“Anyone can get a cookie here. I didn’t ask you here for that. I want you on my team. On a trial basis, of course, but if you do as well as I expect, I’ll give you a chance at a real job. What do you say?”

She had him on the wrong foot with that one. If he could have seen himself in the mirror right now, some idiot would have been staring at him. His mouth was open, and he gasped for breath a couple of times without making a sound.

“Simon? Are you going to faint?” Sophie seemed to enjoy his confusion.

He had to say something if he wasn’t going to make a complete idiot of himself.

“No, I can’t do this,” he finally came out hoarse.

Great, you idiot. And when she offers you a sack of gold, you politely decline, or what?

Sophie looked surprised and disappointed.

Damn it. I’m talking my head off.

“I mean, not that I don’t want to. It’s not that. I’d like to really. “But my situation… and you need reliable people.”

Sophie cut him off:

“Don’t worry about me. I didn’t say I wanted to make you the head of Field Coordination. I want you to be a probationary medical technician. If you don’t work, you’ll be out as fast as you came in. But until then, do yourself a favor and just try it.”

She slipped him the clipboard and tapped him on it with her finger. “Read it and sign the bottom of the third page with the date.”

Simon stared at the first page, and then at the pen Sophie placed forcefully beside it.

It was a probationary employment contract. With trembling fingers, he flipped through the few pages and skimmed through the contents. The trial period was set at six weeks. After this period, the contract ended with the option of being taken on in an unlimited employment relationship.

When Simon discovered the heading “Remuneration” on page two, his breath was briefly taken away.

“I’m getting money,” he asked incredulously.

Sophie laughed heartrendingly loud.

“Simon! What did you think? “I don’t employ slaves, and you are too well qualified for an unpaid traineeship. So, yes, I’ll pay you.

She means it. I can’t believe this.

“And you can afford it? You’re a charity, aren’t you? I don’t know many charities that allow themselves a permanent staff.

“Sign the contract, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have about Help Bus in the next few days. Until then, just assume that I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, fuck it,” growled Simon and signed.

“Welcome aboard,” said Sophie contentedly and shook his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you around. You’ll get to know everyone and see how we work here.” Sophie got up from her desk and walked forward. Simon willingly followed her.

First, she led him to the reception desk where Sarah was sitting. She was now off the phone.

“Say hi to Simon. He’s going on the tour starting tomorrow. “He specializes in wound care.”

Sarah looked at him and nodded approvingly. Simon felt he had to correct something.

“Don’t believe a word your boss says. I know a bit about first aid, that’s all.”

“What can you do? He’s not only good, but he’s also modest,” sighed Sophie, rolling her eyes. Sarah examined Simon once more from top to bottom and then winked at Sophie conspiratorially.

“And any news of Tina and Dennis?”

The smile on Sarah’s face faded from one second to the next. She shook her head in sorrow and whispered:

“I’m really, very worried, Sophie.”

Simon nudged her silently from behind to make her look at him.

“What’s the matter, Sophie? Problems?” He had tried to whisper as softly as possible, but Sarah apparently had a supernatural hearing.

“Two of our clients have disappeared. Their names are Tina and Dennis, and nobody knows where they are.”

“Who did you ask?” Simon asked.

“The police, hospitals, shelters, anywhere.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and sniffed.

“What about the people they hang out with? Or is it always just the two of them?”

“Exactly the people who informed us,” Sophie intervened.

“They usually spend the day with their friends in front of the Altona station and scrounge there.”

Simon thought. It happened all the time on the street that people disappeared from one day to the next, seemingly never to be seen again. Most of the time, however, they would reappear as if nothing had happened. Sometimes one of them just threw a fit and hitchhiked to another city — often abroad, because he hoped things would go better there.

“They’ll have cleared off. What’s the problem?”

Sarah looked at him as if he’d just slain a puppy.

“Tina and Dennis never left. They get methadone, but only in their issuing station. They can’t leave.”

Junkies, huh? They’re even more unpredictable than drunks.

Simon left it at that. He didn’t want to get involved, let alone make himself unpopular before his first day.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to appear smarter than that. I really hope you find these two.” With that, Simon said goodbye to the reception desk and headed for the exit door. There he stopped and waited until Sophie also separated from the secretary and came to him.

“Don’t worry about Sarah’s reaction. Her heart is in the right place, but she also lets everything get too close. Ergo I only use her in the office. On the street, she would go down the chute. That’s why she only sees our clients when they’re happy and clean.

“Oh, on what occasion is that the case?” Simon asked with interest. He knew about a dozen people on the street who were never sober. The ones who weren’t that bad didn’t make it very often either.

“When they come to visit us, of course,” replied Sophie.

“Here?”

“Yes, of course. And those who come here, they appear sober. They respect this rule because they like to be with us. But you just wait and see. Tomorrow I’ll start to introduce you to our philosophy, then maybe you’ll understand it someday. We do some things differently than others.”

Simon was impressed — and suddenly very excited about the next day.

“See you tomorrow. I promise to come sober too.”

Sophie smiled.

“At last, a sense of humor. Save it. See you tomorrow, Simon.”

***

After this memorable event, he did not feel like returning immediately under the bridge. Instead, he sat down on a bench in the Sternschanzen Park, watched a group of men playing boules, and let the sun shine in his face. Sophie Palmer had given him a job. This could change everything.

He imagined his future in the most dazzling colors and was already decorating in his mind the small apartment that he would soon have if he was intelligent enough and kept his hands off the booze.

His crazy voice tried to pull him down, but he resisted.

That’s a mirage. Do you think a guy like you deserves that much luck? You’re a baby killer, Simon. Stay under your bridge and repent.

For an encore, his crazy lodger dug out pictures of bullet-riddled villagers in Afghanistan.

Fuck you! You’re not dragging me down in the mud anymore. I deserve a chance.

Immediately the negative current of thought broke off. This experience was so overwhelming that Simon had to get up and take a deep breath.

“I can do it,” he whispered. “I’ll make it this time. I’m back.”

René Junge a published author writing on ILLUMINATION.

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