Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 17
6th February 2025
Banou did not need to understand German to grasp the threat. Her hand stayed still. Mapacha’s nostrils flared, his body taut. A third figure, wearing glasses and wrapped in a brown shearling coat, approached cautiously. He patted down Banou's pockets, retrieving loose notes, coins, bullets, her half pack of Gitanes with a matchbox, and finally her gun. Turning to Mapacha, he pulled out his spare change, the maps he had sketched, his ammunition, and eventually his revolver. His hands moved swiftly as he grabbed Mapacha's arms, twisted them behind his back, and snapped on handcuffs. Banou received the same treatment. Without a word, they were hooded, yanked down the driveway, and lifted into a van. The doors slammed shut, followed by the thud of the vehicle bouncing on its suspension as it sped off.
A sharp-thinking Mapacha assessed their captors. They had not uttered a single unnecessary word beyond two commands. Professionals. And given their tactics, clearly not ordinary police. The van roared through the streets, its tyres groaning as they struggled to grip the asphalt. The squeal of rubber and the aggressive engine wail told Mapacha all he needed to know: this was a high-speed getaway. He strained to keep track of their route. Horns blared as they weaved through traffic, then silence returned as they sped down a long stretch. They crossed a bridge at some point and passed over railway tracks, but beyond that, Mapacha could not place their location.
Banou sat tense beside him, paralysed by fear and racing thoughts. What had she got them into? Makhlouf never mentioned anything like this. Could these be Makhlouf’s people? Or had Ludwig caught wind of their plans and ordered this ambush? Were they heading for prison? She clenched her jaw, forcing herself into a silence born of survival. After nearly 20 minutes, the van screeched to a stop, the engine cutting off abruptly. They heard two other cars pull up behind them. One was unmistakably the Opel. The other had a deeper, unfamiliar growl. The van door creaked open, and a sharp, authoritative voice barked:
“Beweg dich! Jetzt! (Move! Now!)”
They did not understand the command, but assumed it meant to move. Sliding cautiously toward what they assumed was the door, they were abruptly yanked forward and dragged across a cemented floor. The rough scrape of concrete on their limbs made Banou wince. Then, a strange sound punctured the oppressive silence, a violent, hacking cough, loud and raw, like it belonged to someone on their deathbed. Metal chairs screeched against the floor as they were shoved onto them. Mapacha caught the pungent whiff of the man hovering over him: stale sweat and inexpensive tobacco. The man cleared his throat, followed by the sharp flick of a match and the crackle of igniting tobacco. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke filled the room, and Banou felt an unexpected craving for a cigarette twist through her.
Without warning, rough hands yanked the hoods off their heads. Blinding light assaulted their eyes, forcing them to squint and blink furiously as they adjusted. For a moment, the room was eerily silent, broken only by the slow drag of the man's cigarette and the faint rustle of fabric as he exhaled blue smoke. A harsh clearing of his throat broke the tension as he walked to the far end of the room. Grabbing a chair, he dragged it back noisily and sat, crossing his legs with deliberate ease. The other abductors, silent shadows, emerged from behind and flanked him. The man's voice was thin but carried an unsettling clarity.
“My name is Hrvoje,” he said coolly in heavily accented English, “And these people work for me. Who are you?”
His words met only defiant silence from Mapacha. Banou's heart raced as she fought the urge to speak, knowing instinctively it would be a mistake. She mirrored Mapacha's stony silence. Hrvoje studied them for a long moment before continuing.
“We know you have been watching Ludwig. Why?”
Mapacha detected the heavy accent but could not immediately place its origin. Meanwhile, Banou's nerves frayed further. Her instincts warned that this was the breath taken before the plunge.
“I am not one to repeat myself,” Hrvoje said, his tone tightening. “But since we have just met, I will forgive the lapse. However, if I must ask again, there will be consequences. We are professionals. And we are highly proficient in violence.”
He let the threat hang ominously.
“So I will ask again. Who are you, and why are you watching Ludwig?”
Mapacha’s jaw clenched, his silence unwavering. Banou felt cold sweat trickle down her back as a chill of fear gripped her. She realised with growing dread that torture and death were inevitable if they remained defiant. Hrvoje's eyes hardened. He barked instructions in a foreign tongue that Banou could not identify. Mapacha, however, recognised its Slavic roots, though still indistinct enough that he could not fully grasp it. But now he understood who they were up against. Regret gnawed at him for allowing this capture, and resignation settled over him as he acknowledged their adversaries' upper hand. Hrvoje rose, cigarette dangling between his fingers, and fixed Mapacha with a cold stare.
“We will give you a few minutes to decide if you want to talk. We are going to have tea in the next room. When we return, we will be getting answers from you, by any means necessary.”
With a mocking chuckle, they shuffled out of the room, leaving the pair momentarily alone.
It took Banou every ounce of courage to whisper, “A gente conta pra ele? (Do we tell him?)”
Mapacha shot her a sharp, slightly irritated look but softened as he realised the gravity of their situation.
“Você sabe quem são esses caras? (Do you know who these guys are?)” he asked.
“Sim, esses são o Antonio, o Manuel e a Ana. A gente é amigos há uma eternidade (Yes, that's Antonio, Manuel, and Ana. We have been friends forever),” she responded sarcastically, trying to mask her fear.
“Não me faça perguntas ridículas. Eu não faço ideia de quem são eles (Do not ask me ridiculous questions. I have no idea who they are),” she admitted nervously.
Mapacha's mind gnawed through the language they used. It cranked out an answer that made sense to him. Sort of.
“Bem, eu acho. Acho que eles são iugoslavos, o que me faz pensar que são agentes de inteligência. Makhlouf não mencionou nada sobre isso? (Well, I do. I think they are Yugoslavian, which makes me think they are intelligence agents. Didn’t Makhlouf mention anything about this?)”
“No.”
“Então é por isso que ele nos deu esse trabalho. Eles sabiam que ele estava sendo vigiado. (That is why he gave us this job. They knew he was being watched.)”
“Essa cobra (That snake),“ she snarled angrily.
“A gente lida com isso depois. Agora, precisamos pensar no que dizer antes que nos torturem por causa de uma hamsa estúpida. (We will deal with that later. Right now, we need to figure out what to tell them before they torture us over a stupid hamsa.)”
“Então, o que a gente diz pra eles? (So what do we tell them?)”
Mapacha had made up his mind. Banou would not last under torture. It was better to drip-feed their captors controlled information.
“A gente diz que está aqui para recuperar um item roubado para um cliente, sem interesse nele ou em qualquer outra coisa. (We tell them we are here to recover a stolen item for a client, and we have no interest in him or anything else.)”
“E se perguntarem o que é o item? (What if they ask what the item is?)”
“Nós dizemos, mas esses caras provavelmente não são amigáveis com muçulmanos, então pode ser problemático. (We tell them, but I do not think these guys might be friendly toward Muslims, so it might cause trouble.)”
Banou frowned, confused. Why would being Muslim matter? She filed the thought away for later, assuming they survived this ordeal. Footsteps echoed through the warehouse as Hrvoje led his team back in, his stride casual, almost leisurely. A hacking cough interrupted his stroll before he lit another cigarette. He sat across from Mapacha, smoke curling from his lips, and spoke.
“Você está pronto para conversar agora, ou precisaremos fazer você falar? (Are you ready to talk now, or do we have to make you talk?)”
Banou's stomach dropped. Their opposition spoke Portuguese. They had heard their conversation. But how? From another room? Impossible, unless there were listening devices in the room. Before she could react, Mapacha’s voice cut through the tension, deep, menacing, and fearless.
“I am not surprised by you. You're UDBA, from Belgrade.”
Hrvoje’s composure moderately faltered, his left eye twitching ever so slightly. Mapacha caught it, realising he had struck a nerve. Hrvoje dragged on his cigarette, masking his surprise before bursting into raucous laughter. Wiping his eyes, he leaned forward and spoke incredulously.
“So you think everyone from Belgrade is a spy?”
“No,” Mapacha said evenly. “I did not say that. But you are from Belgrade. And in this case, you three are spies.”
Banou felt out of place. All she could do was helplessly stare at Mapacha, uncertain about what was going on or what he was talking about. How did he suddenly know so much? She had assumed he was clueless about worldly affairs. Yet here he was, evidently ahead of her. Frustration gnawed at her. She also craved a cigarette and fumed as Hrvoje gestured with the one he held.
“Well, if you think you know these things, then I will assume you are spies too,” Hrvoje declared. “You both speak Portuguese and English fluently, so I do not believe you are from Angola, Brazil, Cape Verde, Cuba, or even Mozambique.”
He paused, studying them as though piecing together a puzzle. His brow furrowed before he continued.
“Maybe São Tomé and Príncipe? Or that pile of volcanic dirt run by guerrilla lunatics. What is it called again?” He snapped his fingers, searching for the name.
Neither Banou nor Mapacha responded. He turned impatiently toward his team.
“Bojan? Cvijeta? What is that island called? Florence. . .?”
“Ilha de Florença,” Mapacha corrected calmly, with a note of defiance.
“Govno! (Shit!) That is the one.”
Mapacha nodded subtly. The exchange pleased him; Hrvoje had unwittingly revealed the names of his two accomplices, likely false, but useful nonetheless.
“I have never met any Florençans before,” Hrvoje mused. “I hear your whole island is crazy, especially after the thrashing you gave the British. So, your guerrilla government has a foreign spy service now? And what did Ludwig do to get your people to send you two here?”
“We are not spies, and Ludwig means nothing to us,” Mapacha replied. “We are here on private business, representing a client.”
Hrvoje blinked, surprised.
“You are not intelligence?”
“No.”
“Hmm. What is the job?”
“We are retrieving something for our client.”
“And what is this ‘something’?”
“A cultural item.”
Hrvoje’s eyes narrowed.
“Ludwig spent time in North Africa during the war. So, I am guessing you are working for one of those countries?”
“Something like that.”
“Interesting. And you will not tell me what this item is?”
Mapacha’s expression remained defiant and vacant. Hrvoje sighed.
“Honestly, I thought I would have to torture you for information. That was too easy, unless you are lying.”
Again, Mapacha’s gaze held steady.
“So, does the girl talk?” Hrvoje asked.
Banou’s voice was dry and shaky.
“I do.”
“You do? You do what?”
She clammed up, refusing to engage further. Hrvoje, now bored with the cigarette, flicked it to the ground and crushed it under his boot heel. As he straightened up, the affability melted from his face, replaced by a mask of fury.
“Eu não sei quem são vocês dois palhaços, e, pessoalmente, não me importa. Se vocês acham que somos do UDBA, isso é problema de vocês. Mas vocês vão ficar longe do Ludwig e voltar para a pequena pedra vulcânica de onde vieram. Caso contrário, seremos forçados a jogar os dois no Isar. (I do not know who you two clowns are, and I personally do not care. If you think we are UDBA, that is your problem. But you will stay away from Ludwig and crawl back to the tiny volcanic rock you came from. Otherwise, we will dump both of you into the Isar.)”
Banou’s heart sank. She had dreaded this escalation. She saw the warning signs, the flaring of Mapacha’s nostrils, the stiffness overtaking his body.
“No!” Mapacha said firmly.
The vein on Hrvoje’s forehead throbbed as his lean frame sprang into action. He lunged, gripping Mapacha by the shoulders, yanking him from the chair, and slamming him to the ground with a bone-jarring thud that echoed through the warehouse.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Banou shouted in panic.
“What did you say to me?” Hrvoje demanded.
“I said no! Did you not hear me the first time? I do not repeat myself! Now get off me!”
Hrvoje glared at Mapacha, but there was not a hint of fear in the young man’s eyes, only seething rage. That unsettled Hrvoje. Fear he could manipulate, but this defiance was dangerous. For a fleeting moment, Hrvoje considered threatening Banou but realised it would backfire.
“Understand this, Hrvoje,” Mapacha said calmly. “We Florençans do not take threats kindly. I said no. If you are going to threaten me with a river, do it when my corpse is inside it. Until then, your words are meaningless. And we both know you cannot touch us. If you do, people will start asking questions, our people and others who are not aligned with you. Once they connect this little band of desgraçados (fuckers) you are running with to Ludwig, it will come back to haunt you. So if you are done talking nonsense, get off me!”
His voice was steady, unwavering. Banou heard it. Hrvoje heard it. Bojan and Cvijeta heard it. Banou also heard Mapacha cuss, the first time ever, and she filed that for a later review.
“We have reached an impasse,” Hrvoje admitted reluctantly.
“No, you have,” Mapacha countered. “We are leaving. If I catch you trying to interfere, we will be the ones dumping you in that river.”
Hrvoje’s composure cracked, doubt creeping into his expression. He made one last attempt.
“Don’t you understand? We kill people. It is our job.”
“Good for you,” Mapacha retorted. “But we have a job to do first. Once we are done, you can do whatever you want to Ludwig. But until then, keep your smoky breath out of my face!”
Hrvoje was dumbfounded. In his line of work, people begged for their lives when faced with death. But Mapacha’s defiance unsettled him deeply. The islanders were truly insane. Grudgingly, Hrvoje hauled Mapacha upright, set the chair back, and shoved him into it. Mapacha was not finished.
“Now unlock these shackles, give us back our keys, guns, money, and tell us where you stashed the car.”
“Who said you are leaving?”
“I did.”
Hrvoje knew he was beaten. His threat of death had failed spectacularly. Killing them without approval from his bosses would be disastrous. If he held them, someone would eventually come for them. He had no reason to keep them any longer. Their information did not conflict with his plans. Defeated, Hrvoje faced the inevitable.
“Bojan. Cvijeta. Izbacite ova dva stvora odavde. Vratite ih u kombi i ostavite ih u njihovom autu negdje u Am Hartu. Vratite ih u njihov auto, zavežite ih i ostavite ključeve, novac i oružje s mecima na prednjem podu. Moram pričati s momcima kod kuće da odlučimo hoćemo li ih se stvarno riješiti. Idite, odmah. (Bojan. Cvijeta. Get these two creatures out of here. Put them back in the van and dump them in their car somewhere in Am Hart. Put them back in their car, tie them up, and leave the keys, money, and guns with the bullets on the front floor. I need to talk with the guys back home, then we decide if we are really getting rid of them. Go, now.)”
Mapacha and Banou were hooded again, hoisted, and dragged back into the van. After a few tense minutes, the van rumbled to life and drove around for what Mapacha calculated to be half an hour. When it stopped, they were hauled out. Guns pressed against the backs of their heads, and the cold clink of handcuffs was replaced by nylon ropes that bit into their wrists. Banou trembled, convinced their last moments had come.