Excerpt 1
THE GHOST ARMY
The Hit Man
Calle La Naval began almost at the shore of Las Canteras Bay. It wasn’t a noteworthy street, but it was long, that is, for the conditions in that place, which was Las Palmas, Grand Canary Islands. All of the religious processions followed this street on the final stretch down to the harbor, where La Naval ended. Farthest down in the harbor on the left, if you followed Calle La Naval, you would find the Oslo Bar, right where the whores’ hill started. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and hot. The doors and windows stood wide open as if that could improve the situation, which it didn’t. A couple of times during the spring and summer, the scirocco swept through the Canary Islands, and normally you would close all the windows and doors to lock out the violently hot, sandy Saharan air. But not here in the houses of pleasure.
Manuel “Manolo” Sanchez stood in the corner, right outside the entrance to the bar. His appearance was thoroughly Spanish. He had short hair and looked well-kempt. He was taller than average and had a fit, muscular body. He seemed well-balanced.
Manolo squinted in to look at the bar, where Señor Fricke sat all alone. Not even a whore was in the place. Fricke stared, preoccupied with his thoughts, at the Cuba Libre he had just ordered. Without knowing why, he was studying the half lemon slice which was carelessly draped on the ice cubes. One of the seeds had come loose from the yellow-green flesh and swam uneasily in its solitude up near the surface. This little seed bothered him. There was disorder in the glass!
Klaus Fricke was a large man and had learned that it was the small details that were the most important. Neglecting a trifle could cause the entire failure of a large project, just as in the case with the small tuft of grass toppling the large load. Eventually, the loser would be forced to eat those insignificant but, when combined, such aggravating words: “in vain”.
Klaus Fricke had been an Obersturmführer in the SS. That’s where you could find order! But now things were different. He swallowed a mouthful of his drink and managed to pull the little disturbing thing into his mouth, where it slipped around between his tongue and gum for a while. Finally, thanks to a spattering motion with his mouth and tongue, the seed made a journey between his lips and the floor, which was already covered with trash.
Fricke was in the harbor to grind a bag. That’s what it was called. He always ground a bag on Mondays, and he always had a Cuba Libre beforehand. On Mondays it was usually empty here at this time, and that was why Fricke chose this day to grind a bag – so he could avoid being confronted by so many people. She was waiting for him upstairs. He had known her for a long time, and she knew just how he wanted it, so he hadn’t bothered to exchange her for someone new, since she had worked out so well. Of course, she wasn’t particularly exciting any longer. There was almost a feeling of mediocrity about the whole thing, if that was possible with a whore. But in any case, this was the most convenient arrangement. Fricke was pondering if he should spice it up today. He should probably try to get a little variety. His gaze wandered over the shelves full of bottles and the cheap furnishings. A week ago, a crazy Japanese had strolled in and mowed down all the guests with a machine gun. But now it was calm. And hot!
All of a sudden, something happened. Manolo entered, lithe as a leopard. The bartender had already been informed and knew what was about to happen, and he had disappeared for a moment. Manolo walked right up to Fricke and stood behind him, quickly pressing a hidden pistol against his neck. It was important to hit the artery to be most effective. The shot was nearly soundless. Klaus Fricke turned around, but only had time to look surprised. Hatred had no time to develop before his eyes rolled up and he fell headlong to the floor.
The ambulance arrived immediately although no one had had time to call it. But who was thinking about that? Nor was anyone thinking of following after it, because then they would have noticed that the white car with the red cross didn’t go to the hospital, but rather down to the docks after a brief jaunt in the right direction.
Off to one side, hidden by the corner of the building façade behind one of the open bar windows, a very important person stood watching the whole drama.
x
Outside the Casino in Torrevieja on the Spanish Costa Blanca, about a week later, Manuel Sanchez stood with his gaze directed at the entrance. He darted a glance at his watch, which said it was just after noon. The sun drowned the half-shabby stone façade, which by Torrevieja standards was considered magnificent, and heated the air so it shimmered. The Casino, which had never been a true gambling casino, was actually a society house and home to a private club. It was built in the latter part of the 19th century, the second oldest building in Torrevieja, which had been leveled completely by an earthquake on March 21, 1829. Only the church had been left standing.
Manolo was biding his time. The harbor street, which cut across the center of town and split at the beach promenade, was bustling with traffic. He strolled across it, sat on one of the barstools at La Marina and ordered a beer. Here he had a lovely view of the Casino. La Marina was a small fisherman’s pub which was half outdoors and just dirty enough for a Spanish joint so you didn’t notice it very keenly. It was a popular place where you could sit and do nothing but try to cool off in the heat and get a few tapas under your belt. Manolo looked down at the floor beneath the bar. There was absolutely everything there: paper that had been wadded into balls of all sizes, a layer of toothpicks, half lemon slices, empty cigarette packs, cigarette butts, crumbled cigar stubs, small used matches with waxed shafts and bullfighter-themed matchboxes. Chewing tobacco that had been spat out, bits of bread half eaten, sugar packets torn open and half spilled, which made the floor sticky together with the fish bones, shrimp shells and olive pits as well as a number of other leftovers from the many small dishes that were lined up on stainless steel plates under rectangular glass covers you could barely see through, standing a bit crookedly on the bar. It was easier to list the things you could not find on the floor. Once, at most twice a day, the bartender came around the bar and swept up everything into a black plastic bucket, rinsed out only when he felt like it, and for a few moments, the flies moved closer to the kitchen.
Manolo looked up again and out at the harbor, watching a salt boat leave the town. Another vessel that had been lying at the roadstead got ready at the same time to take on more salt. Salt was Torrevieja’s principle industry, besides fishing and a few tourists. Manolo was waiting for Der Schwede, or as he was called here, El Sueco. Sune Nordgren, which was his real name, had been a Nazi collaborator during the war and had received a bit of money for his trouble. Nothing outlandish, but enough to be able to easily live out the rest of his days in Torrevieja. He also had control over which outcasts were permitted to come and go here. If he had had a lot of money, he would have probably bought some property, because Torrevieja was sure to become a large city with time. And time was something Sune Nordgren had a lot of, but not sufficient capital.
El Sueco was hard to monitor, or rather his doings were. Nobody knew what he did. He led an unpredictable life by design. However, this unpredictable life had a continuity, a point of departure. And the point of departure was the Casino in the middle of town. Manuel Sanchez knew all of this, so he only had to wait and watch, and then follow him until it was time.
El Sueco arrived after a half hour and stayed at the Casino until after two o’clock. Then he headed for a new unpredictable day, this hot July afternoon in 1965. Manolo tossed back his last gulp of beer, which had become boiling hot, and paid. El Sueco was sauntering down to the harbor. This was a thoughtful gesture for Manolo, who noted that it would shorten the transportation distance considerably. At the northern end of Playa del Acequion, the two stood alone face to face. But the process was brief. Manolo asked him cold-bloodedly to turn around and pressed his pistol against the artery in his neck. He used the required hold, which he had practiced so diligently, and nothing more was heard than when you snap your fingers, before Sune Nordgren lay with his head buried in the sand – like an ostrich.
Only a half minute later, the ambulance arrived. Who cared that it came far too quickly? Who needed to know where it went afterwards? The important thing was that it happened, and it did, and then there was no place for criticism or afterthoughts.
After the ambulance was gone, a very important person ambled back in towards the town. Just before, he had been sitting a bit by himself on one of the small overturned fishing boats that had been pulled up onto the beach, studying everything with great interest.
Excerpt 2
General KK.
General KK knew next to nothing about karate, but he was determined to change that. A few days earlier, he had seen a karate hero from Japan on TV split open a coconut with his bare hands – with just one chop. General KK was terribly impressed. He played this scene over and over in his mind: the coconut flying into a thousand pieces, the juice spraying several meters away. It appealed to his need for admiration so strongly that he decided to make this wonderful experience his daily bread. If you can smash a coconut into a thousand pieces with just one chop, he reasoned, then you should be able to do the same thing to a skull. It couldn’t be more difficult than that.
General KK had yet another idol, but this one stood far above any other violent hero he admired. Although this man was dead now, he had achieved eternal life in KK’s world. This person’s name was Reinhard Heydrich, SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, feared even by his companions for his capriciousness. Hitler called his admirer the man with the iron heart, but he was better known and remembered as Hangman Heydrich. He was the head of the SS Security Service and one of the authors of the “Final Solution”, the extermination of Jews.
But Heydrich had a problem. Semitic blood coursed through his own veins. His paternal grandfather’s name was Süss, a Jewish name. Reinhard Heydrich’s family tree was rearranged to fit the perfect Aryan appearance he represented. But Heydrich hated the Jew inside of him, and his passion for shooting mirrors to pieces was rooted in this hatred. He could stand admiring his Aryan reflection in the mirror for hours until finally his mouth twisted into a sneer and the words “fucking Jew” burst across his lips. Then he would fire off a shot.
Eventually, this satanic gangster was assassinated by two Czechs, and for this reason General KK hated all of Czechoslovakia. It was as if the revenge taken at the time hadn’t been enough: 3,500 Jews were sent immediately eastward to be executed. Afterwards, the little Czech town of Lidice was leveled. All of its men over 16 years of age were shot while the women and children were sent to the “end station” Ravensbrück. Only ten children or so with Aryan looks escaped the complete massacre. But nevertheless, posterity made out better here: if Hangman Heydrich had lived to the end of the war, he would have had three more years to “clean up” Jews. Even the SS boss, the mass murderer and former poultry farmer Heinrich Himmler, was afraid of his subordinate, although officially he was never able to heap enough praise on Heydrich’s head, as ambitious and bloodthirsty as he was.
Somehow, General KK felt that he had been chosen to complete this man’s unfinished business. He was not really in possession of Heydrich’s intellectual equipment, but there was nothing wrong with his appetite for slaughter.
General KK’s real name was Karl Kluge. He gave himself the title. Actually he was nothing other than proof of the endless series of rootless people that the war produced. Although KK’s special talent had made him lucky. And since he was so special within his area, he had named himself general. And as long as nobody protested, it stayed that way.
KK had fled on Josef Mengeles’ heels, and after various sojourns around South America, he finally landed a job on Mengeles’ ranch in Paraguay as head of his security force. KK hadn’t garnered the same fame as Bormann or Mengele. He was in fact no more than he had always been – a happy butcher in Auschwitz – and he didn’t really need to escape unless he wanted to himself. But he only knew how to do one thing, this Happy Butcher, and that was butchering. And since Hangman Heydrich was gone, he had to make do with Mengele, which turned out to be a good choice. That’s also why he was sitting there in the jungle in Paraguay where nobody, with the exception of Mengele of course, was able to check on his activities. Here in the swamps by the Paraná River, they were left alone – Mengele with his inexhaustable search for the Aryan gene, and KK with his butcher’s experiments.
x
General KK looked like a small sun in his beige cotton uniform, sprinkled with golden buttons and all kinds of medals which he himself had fastened here and there. He made a rather jovial impression as he stood there, short with a round stomach and a wide smile in which every third tooth was capped in gold. The devil has many shapes, and KK was one of them. His jovial appearance had an explanation: six men had been “condemned” to death and carted out to KK’s concentration camp in the jungle in two covered jeeps. Nobody survived that camp. For an undisclosed amount of money, Mengele’s research stations were supplied with people who “disappeared” for one reason or another in South America somewhere. These people were dispatched by “Nobody Knows Who”. Mengele could never get enough research subjects for his experiments. The Angel of Death never had problems getting human body material during his tenure as chief physician at Auschwitz. However, his extended experiments called for a constant turnover of people, above all twins, who finally ended up in KK’s hands after all the tests and measurements. He closed the circle and made sure that it was silenced.
A karate master from Holland called Goosen arrived together with the six condemned men. KK was well prepared for the continuation, or rather the conclusion. He already had a contraption ready which had been waiting a week, and this is where those who were to die would take their leave. This object, put together in the simplest manner thinkable, was a wooden frame approximately two meters long on which a solid wood board rested. Here the victim was to lie on his back – at least that was the idea. Around the whole board, strong leather straps were attached to tie down the person in question, because at the moment of the blow, the victim couldn’t be moving. Well, of course this was the first time ever in the history of the world that this contraption was to be used, so you had to reckon with small adjustments in the beginning. There was also an area for spectators which consisted of six wooden poles stuck in the ground and placed around the horrifying murder equipment.
The six were all black men of Brazilian origin. Subhumans, Mengel called them. Brain dead! Mengele judged people’s intelligence according to the color of their skin. Even so, he didn’t think it was good practice to simply skip over the weakest link in the chain of evolution. There had to be some idiotic explanation for its existence. And for KK it was only important that these people existed – here and now!
KK started to realize that he had to relieve himself, but he wouldn’t let that detail disrupt the ceremony that was about to begin. Without wasting any more time, each of the six men was tied to a pole with his head turned towards the butcher block. All of them had been gagged, and the Dutchman Goosen took his place at the shorter end of the frame where a pair of coconuts were sitting. Now everything was ready before the historic event that KK had been looking forward to for so long.
Goosen was tall, around six feet, and large without one bit of fat on his body. His knuckles and bones were extremely well developed and looked like large pustules which were as hard as a rock. His left hand gripped one of the coconuts while he tried a couple of practice chops in the air with his right. The third time he bellowed, and when his hand struck the coconut, it was as if he had slapped his palm against a soup bowl.
KK didn’t know what to do. Now he had seen it in person too, and the six men had as well. And despite the fact that Mengele did not believe that such beings had an imagination, the overture could not be misinterpreted. The whites of the men’s bloodshot eyes shone with terror like red-marbled, glossy porcelain eggs.
KK made a sign to Goosen to forget the second coconut. Dr Mengele stood next to him, present for a study visit. The doctor had already performed his measurements and taken a number of tissue samples that could be important for posterity, so as far as he was concerned, it was also OK. The gangly gangster doctor looked a bit worn, partially hidden behind his moustache. Was it his age or the atrocities he had committed that had left their mark on him? Ah well. He nodded his head slightly without interruption, which meant that his interest in this experiment was great. Before him, an opera was being performed.
The starting pistol was fired. The first black man was dragged to the wooden bench, kicking and struggling, before he was bound tightly to it. The whole time he made meaningless attempts to fling himself here and there although the straps were pulled tight, so it was useless. The only thing the man was able to get out was a desperate “umming” from behind the cloth stuffed into his mouth. With the part of himself that was not preoccupied with the wonderful music, Mengele ascertained that the guttural sound was coming for the most part from the man’s nose.
Goosen used his left hand to grip the black head, dripping with sweat, and with his right punched the air twice. KK’s eyes were halfway out of their sockets and his heart pounded throughout his entire body. Shit how badly he had to piss! Goosen bellowed, and his right hand came down on the black man’s forehead and right through his skull, which was split in two in a fantastic way. My Lord! Now KK couldn’t hold the urine in his bladder any longer. Fuck how good that felt! He had never experienced anything more delightful, but since the event was historic, nobody ever had. Both brains and blood spurted out as well as a bit of skull here and there. Several meters!
Josef Mengele also seemed to be rather satisfied, standing there bobbing his head to some kind of rhythm. Goosen turned towards the broken human being and bowed politely. Then he made a discrete sign to KK to take care of the remains before the next victim.
When Goosen had bowed politely for his sixth time and KK had finished pissing and had more or less unraveled, the decision was made that this divine drama had absolutely not been played for the last time. It had all been so fucking beautiful!
This is what he was like, the Happy Butcher, or as he preferred to call himself, General KK.
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