Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 20
5th March 2025
Mapacha pressed his palm on the spot Ludwig had indicated and pushed. The panel refused to budge. He tried again. Still nothing. On the third attempt, it creaked, just a fraction, and the bottom edge tilted out. He stepped back, surprised. Steeling himself, he pushed harder. This time, the entire panel swivelled forward and dropped onto the floor with a dull thud, revealing another layer.
His heart quickened. Confident now, he pulled at the adjacent panels, and one by one, they fell away, unveiling a heavy brown sackcloth draped underneath. He tugged at it, and it easily came undone.
They were not prepared for what lay beneath.
Carefully stacked in neat, deliberate rows were gold bars. Banou gasped audibly from behind him. Ludwig whimpered in pain. Mapacha reached down and lifted one bar. It was smaller than he expected, but dense, heavier than it looked. Its polished surface glinted in the dim light. Stamped onto the gold bar was a large eagle, wings spread wide, perched like a phoenix. Beneath it, a swastika. Below that, two words embossed deeply:
DEUTSCHE REICHSBANK
Then smaller markings:
1 KILO, FEINGOLD 999.99
Followed by a cold, alphanumeric serial:
DR132245.
Banou's voice trembled.
“What is that, Mapacha?”
She knew. Of course, she knew. But she wanted him to say it. He handed her the bar instead. Her fingers curled around it, feeling its impossible weight. Her eyes widened, hypnotised. The horror of watching him torture Ludwig evaporated. It was replaced by something darker. Greed.
Mapacha reached further into the compartment and found a small wooden box. It was stained deep brown, its brass lock dulled by age. He flicked it open. Inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, a golden palm, no larger than a hand, encrusted with kaleidoscopic jewels that shimmered and fractured the light. The Hamsa.
He stared at it, caught off guard by its beauty.
“This is the Hamsa, you idiot,” he muttered, before kicking Ludwig hard in the ribs. “Hey Banou, we got it.”
Banou barely heard him. She was still transfixed by the gold bar in her hand.
“Is this real gold?”
Mapacha's nostrils flared.
“What? Banou, I said we got the Hamsa!”
It took her a moment to process. Reluctantly, she dragged her eyes to the wooden box. The jewels flickered.
So this is what Makhlouf had been so desperate for. . .
She expected something. . . bigger. More dramatic. But she had seen enough bizarre things to know that the smallest objects often caused the greatest trouble.
Her gaze shifted back to the hidden compartment, to the gold stacked like bricks in a forgotten temple.
“Mapacha. . . we have to take the gold with us.”
Of course she would say that. He had come to expect her lust for wealth, a hunger that always danced on the line between survival and sin. This was no different. And in this case, he agreed. Leaving the gold would be a mistake. The hard part would be crossing the borders with it, but they would solve that later.
His mind was already breaking down the logistics when his ears caught the faintest sound, the floorboards outside the door.
Someone was there.
He glanced at Banou, then dove behind the desk, yanking her down with him. Almost instantly, two gunshots blasted through the wooden door passage. The first splintered the desk. The second punched clean through the chair. Mapacha drew his revolver and fired blindly in the direction of the door, not to kill, but to suppress.
Silence.
Then a voice called out.
“Herr Falkenhain, geht es dir gut (Mr. Falkenhain, are you OK)?”
“Nein, Franz. Töte diese Tiere. Sie haben uns herausgefunden (No, Franz. Kill these animals. They have found us out).”
Two more shots ripped through the room. Banou, wide-eyed but steady, drew her revolver. She aimed at the edge of the door, but could not see the shooter.
Mapacha fired again, low and to the left, hitting the corner of the frame.
“Tente acertar na borda onde atirei (Try to hit the edge where I shot),” he whispered.
Banou squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the spot cleanly. She watched, heart pounding, as the edge of a grey fabric flickered into view.
Without thinking, she fired again.
A scream echoed through the hallway.
“Scheiße (Fuck)!”
Mapacha grinned.
“Nice.”
Nice?
Banou's stomach twisted. She had shot someone. Perhaps killed them. That was not supposed to be her role. Mapacha was the muscle, the bruiser. She was just along for the ride. Wasn't she?
They heard Franz groaning, dragging himself away from the door. Then, two louder gunshots, heavier than the first.
Not aimed at them.
Mapacha's eyes narrowed.
“Hallo Nazi. Tat das weh (Hello Nazi. Did that hurt)?”
The voice rasped through the hallway, followed by a hacking cough.
Hrvoje.
The Yugoslavs.
Mapacha's blood chilled. These men were professionals, good professionals. He leaned close to Banou.
“Nós temos que enfrentá-los, e eles são bons (We have to fight them, and they are good.)”
Banou's panic flared again. If Mapacha was concerned, they were in trouble.
Then the voice called out again.
“Hey islanders, don't shoot. It is just us.”
Mapacha peered around the desk. Hrvoje and his people stood in the hallway, guns drawn but lowered.
“Well, come in, and we will shoot it out,” Mapacha growled.
Hrvoje chuckled.
“Damn, you islanders are dramatic.”
He coughed violently into his fist.
“Did you get your cultural thing?”
Neither of them answered.
Hrvoje stepped forward, hands raised, entered the room and approached them cautiously. His eyes flicked to the gold. Then to the wooden box.
“You guys did all this for a Hamsa?” He snorted. “Crazy island bastards.”
He reached down and grabbed Ludwig by the collar, hauling him up like a rag doll.
“This animal dislocated my arm,” Ludwig whimpered.
Hrvoje smiled coldly.
“Do not worry, Yugoslavia has some of the finest doctors in the world. They will put you back together, piece by piece.”
Ludwig's face drained of blood.
“Bojan, Cvijeta, check for any papers.”
His people rifled through the desk drawers.
Hrvoje turned back to Mapacha who now stood next to him, hand still curled around his revolver.
“Listen, the polizei will be here in a few minutes. All that shooting, someone must have reported it. I suggest you get suitcases from Ludwig's luggage and pack whatever you can before they arrive. OK?”
Mapacha nodded. While Hrvoje and his people had been solving their own problems, he had stopped solving his. They dragged Franz out, leaving a streak of blood behind, and a minute later, returned to haul Ludwig out.
“See you guys around,” Hrvoje said, giving a mocking half-salute before disappearing through the door, leaving behind the sound of his hacking cough.
Just like that, it was over.