Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 21
11th March 2025
Banou turned to Mapacha, her face drawn with fatigue.
“What do you think?”
“I do not know, but I am going up to get suitcases so we can get out of here.”
He rushed past Franz's blood, up the stairs, and returned a few minutes later with two sturdy brown suitcases. As quickly as they could, they started loading the gold bars. In ten minutes, they had counted 100 bars, split evenly between the suitcases. Mapacha dragged the first suitcase up to the kitchen, then returned for the second. Banou followed, clutching the brown box containing the Hamsa.
Mapacha calculated that by the time they carried even one suitcase to the car, the police would have arrived.
“Wait here.”
He sprinted down the street. Two minutes later, Banou saw the car speeding back towards the house, in reverse. He jumped out and rushed inside. With all his might, he hauled the first suitcase out through the door, and into the boot. He returned, did the same with the second, and winced as the car groaned under the weight of the gold.
One last time, he dashed inside and found Banou waiting in the kitchen, the brown box clutched to her chest. Without a word, he hurried into the sitting room, trailing the power cable from the record player.
“What are you doing?” Banou asked, surprised.
Mapacha ignored her. He unplugged the record player, pulled out its speakers and cables, and carried it all into the kitchen. He packed it carefully into a third suitcase, along with the records. He carried it out and loaded it next to the gold.
Then he returned to the kitchen, opened the pantry, and pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid. Without ceremony, he sprayed it liberally across the room, trailing it down the hall and into the basement and then upstairs.
“Matches, Banou.”
Her eyes widened.
“What are you doing, Mapacha?” she asked yet again, even though she already knew.
He struck a match, watched the flame flicker for a second, then dropped it. The fire bloomed, spreading quickly across the fluid-soaked floorboards.
“Let's go.”
They were in the car and speeding away within seconds. At the junction, as Mapacha turned the car, an Opel Kapitän B with a blue light and blaring siren shot past them in the opposite direction.
The police were here.
Mapacha pressed the accelerator, the engine growled as they fled into the night.
Banou sat in stunned silence, then finally erupted.
“Mapacha, why did you set the house on fire?”
He kept his eyes on the road.
“When we were in Morocco, the boss set the Citroën on fire. Now you just lit up that house like it was nothing. Are you guys arsonists? Do you get a thrill out of burning things?”
Her sarcasm hit him like a slap.
“It is to destroy evidence. Fingerprints, Banou. We touched too many things. The easiest way is to burn it all.”
His voice had that cold, calculating edge, the one she was starting to recognise.
Mapacha's mind clicked into autopilot. The clock was ticking. Once the police figured out what had happened, they would set up roadblocks around Munich. That old saying from the army came back to him, you might outpace your opposition, but you will never outrun a radio. His primary objective was to get outside Munich's perimeter before the net closed.
But first, they needed petrol.
He veered off the motorway, heading towards Weßling. According to the map, there was a Gasolin station there. Barely an hour had passed since they left the house.
An eager attendant approached the car and was surprised to see two Africans in the dead of night. Mapacha rolled down the window and gestured at the pump.
“Bitte volltanken (Please fill it up),” he said flatly.
The attendant raised an eyebrow but went to work.
Banou blinked in disbelief.
“You speak German?”
“No. I saw it in the Michelin guide. Now go to the booth, call Odria, and tell her we are out of Munich. We will meet her in Memmingen at the Landestheater Schwaben. Then buy five of the thickest newspapers you can find. Doesn't matter if they are the same.”
Banou lit a cigarette, irritation flickering across her face.
“Newspapers? What language? You want to catch up on the news now?”
Mapacha's patience thinned.
“Banou, get serious. Just make the call.”
The attendant whistled under his breath, watching the argument play out.
Banou stalked to the booth, dropped a mark, dialled the number, and lit another cigarette.
Odria's voice rasped into the receiver.
“Hallo, who is this?”
“It's Banou.”
“Hi. What can I do for you?”
“We are done. We are leaving Munich.”
There was a long pause.
“OK. What time do I pick you up tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow. Now. Meet us in Memmingen at the Landestheater Schwaben.”
Odria's surprise was palpable.
“What the hell is going on, Banou?”
Banou sighed, exhaling smoke through her nose.
“I cannot explain. Just be there.”
Without waiting for a reply, she dropped the receiver and grabbed a stack of newspapers and a few fashion magazines. When she returned to the car, Mapacha was already behind the wheel, the engine idling.
“You got the papers?”
She shot him a filthy look but said nothing.
They drove in silence.
Mapacha deliberately doubled back towards Munich, filtering through traffic and checking the rear-view mirror.
“Hey, are we not supposed to be heading away from Munich?” Banou asked, confused.
“I am checking if we are being followed.”
Satisfied, he turned again and sped west.
A drizzle began to patter against the windscreen. Banou stared out, flicking ash through the window crack, her mind circling dark thoughts. She had shot a man. Franz. She was sure he was alive when Hrvoje's men dragged him out, but would they drown him in the Isar? Would she be complicit in his murder?
She packed the thought away. She would deal with it later.
By the time they reached Memmingen, the storm was finally breaking. The car squelched noisily over the wet cobbles, the loose gold bars in the boot clinking like guilt music.
Mapacha parked in front of the theatre and killed the engine. He exhaled deeply.
“OK, Banou. We need to repackage the gold.”
Banou blinked at him, exhausted.
“What? Why? We already packed it.”
“You heard all that noise on the way here?”
“It is gold, Mapacha. Metal makes noise.”
“Exactly. We cannot let Odria, or anyone, know we have two suitcases full of gold. If they discover it, they will kill us. We are going to wrap every bar in the newspapers. That way, it stays quiet.”
Banou considered this.
“But Makhlouf said we could trust her.”
Mapacha's eyes hardened.
“This is crime, Banou. We are the bad guys. We are all bad guys. Right now, the only people we trust are each other.”
Banou sighed, finally resigned.
“OK.”
They worked in silence, wrapping each bar in damp newsprint. It took an hour. When they were done, Mapacha stuffed the remaining papers into the gaps and zipped the suitcases shut.
Banou lit another cigarette and smoked quietly, watching the rain fall.
When she finished, she climbed into the car and fell asleep.
Mapacha sat behind the wheel, wide awake.
The night was far from over.