Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 22
19th March 2025
“Wake up, Banou.”
She struggled to open her eyes, disoriented and unaware of where she was or who was whispering to her.
“Banou, wake up. They are here.”
It was Mapacha. His voice carried urgency. Her eyes finally cracked open, and she blinked hard to focus. Slowly, her mind caught up. She turned to him and saw his revolver resting on his lap. A wave of panic threatened to rise, but she forced herself to stay calm, focusing instead on the approaching car.
A dark Citroën Safari rolled to a stop in front of them. Inside were two shadowy figures.
Mapacha inhaled deeply, clutched the revolver, and tensed.
Banou fumbled for hers.
A woman stepped out from the driver’s side. The glare from the headlights and the streaking rain obscured her face. She reached back into the car.
Mapacha raised the revolver.
Suddenly, the headlights cut out. Darkness enveloped them, followed by a familiar voice.
“Mapacha! Banou! It’s me, Odria.”
They recognised her instantly. Mapacha exhaled, flicked the revolver’s safety on, and opened the door.
“Hey, Odria.”
The passenger door opened, and another woman, dressed in dark corduroy trousers and a matching jacket, her hair tied up in a bun, stepped out. As she approached, Mapacha thought she resembled a female version of Gwafa.
“What happened in Munich?” Odria asked, surprised at how quickly things had shifted.
“Our plans changed. We finished much earlier than expected,” Mapacha replied. “We are ready to go.”
Odria scanned them with probing eyes but found nothing and moved on.
“Where is your stuff?”
“I’ll get it,” Mapacha said.
He walked to the Opel, popped the boot, and hauled out a suitcase. Odria had already opened the Citroën’s boot, and he laid the suitcase inside, careful not to make a sound. He returned for the second suitcase, then the third containing the music equipment, and finally his duffel bag and Banou’s musette. Banou watched him closely as she clung to the small box containing the Hamsa.
Once finished, Mapacha handed Odria the Opel keys. She passed them to the other woman, who remained silent.
“Get rid of it.”
The woman nodded, climbed into the Opel, and drove away without a word.
Odria turned back to Mapacha and Banou.
“We are heading to Geneva.”
“Why Geneva?” Mapacha asked.
“Makhlouf instructed me to use it as our extraction route. We’ve got various fallback options depending on the situation, and there is a crossing we can use easily. We cannot risk going back the same way we came.”
**
They climbed into the Citroën. Mapacha sat opposite Odria as she started the engine, swung the car around, and headed for Zurich. She did not consult a map, she knew this route well. Her focus was getting them across the border as quickly as possible. She aimed for Austria.
The Leiblach River marked part of the Austrian-West German border. Odria drove fast, cutting through Wangen im Allgäu and then Opfenbach. Eventually, she veered onto a narrow single-lane road, and an hour later, they crossed a creaking, seemingly abandoned bridge.
“This is the Leiblach. Crossing this means we are in Austria now.”
Still, she pushed on for several more kilometres. Once the road was silent and empty, she pulled over.
“Come, Mapacha. I need your help,” she said, retrieving a torch from beneath the driver’s seat.
“What is the issue?” he asked, confused.
“We need to change the plates.”
Outside, Odria produced a set of Austrian plates. Mapacha unscrewed the German ones and swapped them out. Within five minutes, they were back on the road. Mapacha noted how Odria carried herself now with a criminal poise she had not revealed before. In the back seat, Banou cracked the window, chain-smoking her fourth cigarette, relieved to have left West Germany behind.
They sped past Hohenweiler and into Fesslers. Once on the motorway, Odria floored it, the Citroën eating up the quiet road. Near Lustenau, she took a sudden detour onto a narrow road, creeping along until they crossed a small bridge.
“That is the Rhine,” she said. “Welcome to Switzerland.”
They stopped again on the other side, and Mapacha switched the plates to Swiss ones. Now confident, Odria picked up speed. Dawn teased the horizon as she pressed harder, eager to reach Zurich before sunrise. They passed through Altstätten and Oberriet, topping up the tank at Rüthi. An hour later, they reached Gams, continued past Nesslau, and finally merged onto the motorway near Wil. A purple dawn stretched overhead as they skirted Winterthur. With laser focus, Odria headed for Zurich, following the Limmat River.
At the next left, she pulled into the Hotel Limmathof’s parking lot.
“We are here,” she said. “Wait here while I check in.”
They admired the grand hotel. Built in 1898 by Johann Jakob Stehlin, it stood as a monument to his architectural brilliance. A fusion of neoclassical and renaissance revival, its exterior boasted columns, pilasters, and ornate cornices. Inside, it brimmed with opulent craftsmanship, elegant furnishings, and luxurious finishes, a true gem of European grandeur.
Odria returned with a doorman and a gold-plated bellhop cart. Mapacha and Banou stood outside as he carefully loaded their luggage, including the gold-laden suitcase. To their relief, the cart held firm.
Odria did not ask about the heavy suitcases; curiosity could wait.
Inside, Mapacha and the doorman wrestled the cart into the lift. On the fourth floor, they were shown to three adjoining rooms. Banou grabbed her musette and Odria her travel bag. The doorman followed Mapacha into his room, helping with the duffel bag and suitcases. Mapacha peeled off a 100 Deutsche Mark note and handed it over.
The doorman, surprised, nodded with quiet gratitude. He had expected Francs, but 100 Marks could be traded downstairs for 80 Francs, an easy win for ten minutes’ work.
Mapacha undressed, quickly washed, and too tired to fight the fatigue, towelled off, dropped it to the floor, and collapsed naked onto the bed, asleep within minutes.
**
From the depths of his slumber, dreams of Abril and Neve gave way to the sharp pangs of hunger. His bloodshot eyes squinted at his watch. 2 PM. He had slept deeply but now hunger gnawed at him.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, he left his room and knocked on Banou’s door. No answer. A second knock. Still nothing. He tried calling her room, but the phone just rang.
Deciding to eat first, he locked his door and headed downstairs. In the restaurant, he found Odria and Banou enjoying a late lunch.
“Ola, Mapacha,” Banou greeted warmly. “We tried waking you up, knocked, called, but you were dead to the world.”
“Ola,” he replied sheepishly.
A waiter appeared promptly, hovering at his side. On autopilot, Mapacha ordered tea and a couple of sandwiches, then leaned back and listened to Banou and Odria’s animated discussion about fashion and food, bemused by their budding friendship.
When his cheese and ham sandwiches arrived, he devoured them to their astonishment.
“You were starving,” Banou laughed.
Mapacha settled back with his tea, then turned a serious eye to Odria.
“What is the plan for getting us back to Morocco?”
Odria’s demeanour shifted instantly. In hushed tones, she laid out the plan, each step carrying Makhlouf’s distinct imprint of pragmatism and cunning.
When she finished, she glanced at Mapacha, searching for approval. Instead, she met his guarded, unreadable stare. Quietly, they all returned to their rooms, knowing that the plan would require rest before execution.