Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 16
29th January 2025
The following morning, they left their hotel, firearms tucked discreetly into their waistbands, with additional bullets stuffed in their pockets. As before, they arrived ahead of the Audi, and watched intently as it pulled away with the old man in the passenger seat.
“How long do you think we will need in there?” Banou asked.
“Hard to say. We do not know what is inside or what surprises are waiting. If it is straightforward, less than an hour. Are you ready?”
“Not really.”
“Check your gun one last time.”
She drew the revolver from her waistband, pointed the muzzle at the foot well, checked the cylinder, rotated it like she had seen in films, before snapping it, and then tucked it back.
“Ready.”
She realised Mapacha was staring at her with curiosity.
“What?”
“Move it.”
They exited the car a bit too casually, crossed the road with measured confidence, eyes scanning the quiet street. Apart from the occasional passing vehicle and a distant barking dog, the morning was eerily silent. Not a flutter. Nor a bird. It was a surreal moment. At the front door, Mapacha pressed the doorbell. They waited. Thirty seconds passed. He pressed it again. Still no response. Good. The house was likely empty.
“Round the back,” he suggested.
They swiftly made their way up the narrow driveway to the rear entrance. The door was locked. Mapacha knelt, retrieving a pouch marked ‘HPC’ from his pocket, that Gwafa had given him. He selected a snap gun and pick. Adjusting the tensioner with deft precision, he worked the lock, squeezing the trigger rhythmically. Nearly a minute later, the tumblers yielded with a satisfying click. He stashed the tools and drew his revolver. Banou, impressed by his finesse, followed suit.
Mapacha checked for wires or traps around the door frame. Finding none, he nodded at Banou, who acknowledged. He eased the door open, the ancient hinges protesting noisily. A well-stocked kitchen lay before them. They stepped inside, closing the door without engaging the lock. They held their breath, listening. Beyond the ticking of a clock down the hall and the hum of the refrigerator, the house was acutely mute. Moving cautiously, they advanced through the hallway and opened the first door that led to a small bathroom. Empty. The sitting room was likewise deserted. Ascending the stairs, they found three doors. The first led to a guest bedroom, also empty. The next was a bathroom and it too was empty. The final door revealed the ensuite master bedroom, similarly vacant. Satisfied, they descended to the basement, where a heavy locked door barred their way.
Mapacha retrieved his tools again. After two minutes of meticulous effort, the lock surrendered. A musty chill greeted them as the door creaked open. Banou shivered.
Feeling along the wall, Mapacha found a light switch. The sudden glare of warm orange light momentarily blinded them. As their vision adjusted, they were confronted by a grotesque tableau. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, paired with a De Sede executive chair upholstered in sumptuous leather. But it was the massive Nazi flag mounted on the wall that commanded their horrified attention. Every inch of the room was festooned with Nazi regalia. Framed photographs of soldiers in uniform, medals, daggers, hand guns and other artefacts meticulously displayed. Banou’s voice trembled with revulsion.
“No, Mapacha. This is evil. We need to leave. Now!”
He ignored her, scrutinising the photographs.
“Look, Banou. There he is. Isn’t that Ludwig?”
Reluctantly, she joined him, her eyes widening as she recognised the face in multiple images.
“Yes, that is him. Now, can we please leave?”
“Not yet. We need to search the room. The hamsa might be here. It could save us a lot of trouble.”
For the next hour, they combed through the room, opening drawers and inspecting every corner. Frustration mounting, Mapacha began tapping the wooden wall panels, searching for hidden compartments. Behind the desk, concealed by the flag, he detected a hollow sound.
Pulling the flag’s frame, he found it immovable. He tried from different angles, to no avail. Banou watched nervously.
“Careful,” she warned.
His fingers grazed a tiny metallic object on the frame. Exasperated, he pressed it. There was a faint click, and the frame swung open, revealing a plain wall.
“There is something behind here,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Nobody goes to this much trouble for a flag. And this wall is hollow.”
She conceded his point.
“We cannot break it open now. Let us go. We have been here too long.”
Reluctantly, he agreed.
“Fine. But we are coming back.”
He secured the frame, ensuring it was locked, then led the way back upstairs. Before leaving, he retrieved a small plastic bottle from his kit and applied oil to the door hinges.
“What are you doing?” Banou asked.
“If we have to break in again, I do not want these hinges giving us away.”
Satisfied, he tested the door. The hinges were silent. They stepped outside, locking the door behind them. As they rounded the corner, Mapacha caught a pungent scent of gunpowder, sweat, and stale tobacco. His senses flared too late. A pistol loomed inches from his face, wielded by a heavily bearded man in a thick shearling jacket.
“Halt!” the man barked.
Mapacha froze. So did Banou. Another pistol was trained on her by a taller woman in blue jeans and a white coat. Banou’s hand twitched toward her revolver.
“Nein, schlampe (No, bitch),” the woman hissed.