An Assassin Is Born Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Simon Harrak

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  AN ASSASSIN IS BORN

  Prologue

  IT ALL ENDED AFTER THAT FINAL SHOT. Immediately he had known. Whose idea was it to take shots, anyway? he thought as he woke up groggy with high-pitched ringing in his ears. How loud was the music? Wave after wave of humming vibrations came from his left. His neck felt stiff. He gazed up at the hazy ceiling and licked his dry lips. Next time, no shots. Devouring spirits was not the answer. He strained his eyes and looked over at the bedside table, quickly realising it was his smartphone doing the vibrating. Before he could reach out, it stopped. He rolled over and checked the screen; seven missed calls from a number in Tartu. His head jerked back. He snatched the phone off the table and called the number.

  “Oh, thank God,” an old, husky voice on the other end said. “It’s Johannes.”

  A chill ran over his skin.

  “Johannes? What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “You need to come home. It’s Kraas. He had a stroke.”

  “What!?” he shrieked, sitting up suddenly. “No! Is he ok?”

  “He…” Johannes said, trailing off. “I don’t know. I went next door to pick him up for hunting, and he was on the floor. We are at Tartu Hospital. The doctors are with him now.”

  He froze in place.

  “Are you there?” asked Johannes.

  “Uhh,” he groaned, supporting himself on the bed with his free hand, his head spinning. “Yes, I’m here. I’m… I’m on my way, Johannes. Tell him to hold on. Please.”

  “Hurry, my boy,” said Johannes wearily before closing the connection.

  He stood up, struggling to hold his feet. His face and body turned damp with sweat. Water, he needed water, and a train ticket. No, he would take a taxi. The trip from Tallinn to Tartu was long enough. In three minutes he was dressed. Hold on, Kraas, he thought as he rushed out of the door. Please. Hold on.

  PART I

  1

  It was the worst flooding Berlin had seen in decades, a deluge of thirty-six relentless hours. Charlottenburg had somehow remained mostly unaffected, but according to the news, a large part of the city lay underwater. Underground train stations had become raging rivers. Transportation was crippled, and thousands of people were stranded. Meanwhile, Frederich sat sheltered inside Novalis Cafe in Charlottenburg, cradling an espresso and staring out at the street. He was pondering how easy it would be to kill a man in those conditions.

  It was the perfect setting, he figured. Especially at nighttime. The rain would shield the act, and the flood would hide the body long enough to make a clean getaway. The water would wash away any trace evidence. Looking into space, he squinted while chewing the edge of his thumb, immersed in his hypothetical plan. He grew breathless, picturing himself creeping up on his target in the rain with a clip-point knife in hand, the only sign of his presence being the sharp sting of a deep gash across the victim’s throat.

  Frederich, come back. His conscious voice shook him out of it. He blinked hard and gazed around to re-align himself with his surroundings. A young girl with a blonde ponytail sitting at another table was giving him a wide-eyed, expressionless stare as her mother spoke to another woman. He creased his eyebrows and glared back, causing the girl to desperately bury her face in her mother’s arm. He turned away and looked out of the window again. Reality came sharply into focus and the inescapable feeling returned. The dull ache in his chest reminded him that Kraas was gone.

  The dissociative episodes were coming more often, he noticed. He knew the sinister thoughts were a symptom of something deeper. It was right there, tugging at him as he sat in his chair. It surfaced the day Kraas died, and had not let up since Frederich ended up in Berlin six weeks ago. If anything, the suffocating mood was growing stronger, allowing him no air to escape what felt like a cold void sucking him in. The longer he spent alone with it, the more murderous and brutal his thoughts became, and the more difficult it was to get them under control.

  He had few answers for this rising tide. At first, speaking to someone about it had crossed his mind. He decided against it. The urge to kill was not something you simply got off your chest. No, he was stuck with it. On unusually heavy days he would toy with the idea of driving his pistol into his mouth, feeling the cold steel pressing against his teeth, and pulling the trigger. Problem solved. There was something compelling, almost appealing about such a clean and straightforward solution. Picturing death in those moments gave him an eerie peace. He would spend hours curiously admiring the depth of this mysterious void, feeling himself being dragged in further, before a voice in his head intervened and ordered him out of the house. A few hours each day in Novalis Café among strangers’ chatter on a backdrop of easy listening music kept him sane, although it never completely freed him from the feeling. The morbid episodes kept coming, and the shadow remained his constant companion.

  Novalis was usually the last place a misfit like Frederich would frequent. It was quaint and beautifully decorated. Its pastel-coloured walls, warm lighting and elegant decor drew in people who were looking for more than a quick bite or caffeine fix. Stylishly dressed women spent hours gossiping and giggling over lattes beside families lunching in their Sunday best. Within this vibrant, wholesome place was Frederich, dressed in all black, the whole time remaining withdrawn and distracted. His state of mind was not healthy, he acknowledged, but he had no other way to fight it. His daily routine of brooding and coffee in a family-friendly environment was all he could think of, and it had been somewhat effective. At least during opening hours.

  He caught the waiter’s eye and nodded, indicating he was ready for his glass of orange juice. The waiter nodded back, accustomed to Frederich’s regimen. Minutes later the waiter brought the drink over with a smile then returned to the front. The staff at Novalis had learnt quickly not to bother with the chit-chat and to stick to the routine; each day two espressos followed by an orange juice, all now ordered with nods and gestures.

  He sipped his juice and lost himself in his thoughts again while continuing to watch the deluge outside. When the staff began wiping down tables, he sensed his despair rising. It was time to face another restless night in the black, followed by another morning with only memories of Kraas to comfort him.

  He stood up and looked around. He was the last one there. The earlier liveliness was gone, and Novalis felt still and unfamiliar. He put on his black leather jacket and made for the exit.

  It was now dark outside, and the rain was coming down harder than ever, taking only seconds to soak him through. He pushed his mop of hair out of his face and walked faster. As he neared Savignyplatz, it became apparent that the worst of the rain had reached Charlottenburg. The street leading to his apartment was flooded. He sighed and began trudging his way through the water, which seeped immediately into his boots and jeans and weighed down his legs. He laboured forward, struggling to see ahead. The rain came down harder again and gave him vertigo, forcing him to a standstill. He lifted his chin to the clouds in frustration while water crashed onto his face and a sea of white noise filled his head. Could things get any worse?

  From within the noise came a barely audible scream of distress. He lowered his head and turned toward the source of the sound. He listened hard. It came again, this time from further down the street. Or had it been behind him? It was hard to tell with the rain. He waited a long time
and finally shook his head dismissively. His mind was playing tricks. He lifted his leg and resumed pushing through the deluge. Then he stopped again. He noticed his heart was beating quicker and that his skin had grown more sensitive to the impact of the rain. His body never played tricks. He shielded his eyes with his hand and scanned the parked cars with their submerged wheels. There was no movement. He checked the entranceways of the apartment buildings. It was hard to know from his position if anyone was there. Then he turned back to one of the cars, a Mercedes SLK convertible. He moved a few steps closer until he saw it; the car’s windows were foggy. Someone was inside. He plodded forwards without hesitation, his feet crashing against the water. He tried the front door. It was unlocked. When he pulled it open, his body shook. A brawny man in a light grey suit was in the driver’s seat, bent over the passenger side and gripping a young woman in a chokehold.

  The man spun around and looked at Frederich in surprise, his gaze fierce and unsettling and his chest heaving up and down. He had a crew cut and a long, bushy beard. The woman’s hair was tangled, and her deep brown eyes were wide open and filled with terror.

  “Help me!” she yelled.

  Something primal electrified Frederich. He knew his training; maintain space while assessing the situation, and fight only if communication broke down. Despite that it blew past him, and he was too slow to catch it. Just like he had been the last time it came. Oh, no. The rage surged through and took him with it. His peripheral awareness sharpened, and all he could see was the man; all he could feel was an overwhelming need to destroy him, to reach inside and snatch the life out of him.

  He stretched his arms out and yanked the man out of the car by his shirt collar, dragging him onto the flooded street face first. The man reacted quickly, jumping at Frederich’s feet and knocking him off balance. Frederich now found himself in the water with the man’s superior weight on top of him. Two hands pressed down on his face and submerged it. He tried pushing his torso up, then twisted left and right with his hips, but his opponent relented. He grasped the man’s arms. They were immovable. Shit, he’s a brawler. It was all happening too fast. There was no space or time to think. The void was now his only comfort, seeping into him like water as he ran out of oxygen. He let go and went with it, further than he had ever gone. The panic dissolved, and calmness reigned. His mouth opened, and water began pouring into his throat.

  The woman’s muffled scream sounded in the distance.

  “Stop it! Let him go!”

  Her words jolted Frederich. He remembered that two lives were in danger. He opened his eyes and turned his focus outward again.

  “Please!” came her muffled voice again.

  Frederich tried wriggling his body. When that failed, he lifted both of his knees and rammed them into the man’s backside, forcing him to fall forward. He wrapped his left arm around the man’s shoulder and with a mighty heave and twist of his body, dislodged himself and reversed their positions. He now had the high ground, and the man was the one underwater. He knew his advantage would not last long against his stronger opponent. He took the man by his shirt collar and pulled him up. He then bent back and head-butted him with full force, smashing his forehead into the soft part of the man’s face with a crunch. He sucked in a large gulp of air then brought his head down again on the man’s nose before pushing him back underwater and choking him with both hands as tightly as he could muster. A gush of blood oozed out over the water’s surface. The man struggled, but with only a fraction of the strength he had before. After some time he stopped moving. Frederich continued to press down until he was sure the man was dead.

  2

  Her eyes stayed fixed on the dead body lying in the water while Frederich retched and coughed and struggled to regain his breath. Still faint, he turned his attention to the surroundings. He shielded his eyes from the rain with his hands and scanned the windows of the apartments and down the street for observers. There was nobody around — as far as he could tell.

  That gave him a choice; he could call the police or flee. He looked over at the young woman. She had witnessed him start the fight, so self-defence was probably not an option. He had protected her from what looked like attempted murder. His lawyer could run with that. In any case, there would be consequences. Police interviews. A drawn-out trial. Media attention. He could imagine nothing worse. He would rather plead guilty. The best thing would be to clear his tracks and get the two of them inside, and decide later once the flood had died out. The police could do nothing in those conditions anyway.

  He hurried to clear the scene, first wiping the car’s doors clean of prints with his jacket sleeve. He felt inside the water beneath the convertible and found it was too low, so he fought and struggled with the man’s body until he could push it underneath an SUV parked in the next spot. The effort left him again breathless. He steadied himself on the side of the car for some seconds. Then it was time to go.

  He went over and placed a hand on her shoulder. There was no reaction. She stayed in her place like a statue, still facing the dead body.

  “We need to go!” he yelled.

  No reaction. No movement. The sheer volume of rain was making communication difficult. Plus they had already lingered too long. He clenched his fists. Stay calm, Frederich. He took her by both hands and stepped in closer.

  “We can’t stay here! It’s time to go!”

  She turned to him with a stiff face.

  “Please,” he mouthed, pleading with his eyes.

  She gave a slight nod. He nodded back then let one of her trembling hands go and led her with the other. As they moved forward, she turned around for one last look at the man’s body.

  They progressed slowly down the street without incident, trudging their way through the shin-deep water. Two blocks later they reached his building. The water level had now reached the front step. With steady hands he found his keys and they made their way up the stairs to his first-floor apartment.

  He switched on the light, revealing the hallway and series of four doors. The bathroom was on the right, followed by the kitchen and a modestly-sized bedroom. He led her through his old-style apartment and into the living room at the back, leaving behind a trail of wet footsteps on the hardwood flooring. He encouraged her to sit on the three-seater sofa and switched on the lamp. She cooperated, still in a state of shock, and resumed staring at nothing. The curtains were open, he noticed. He went over to the window and checked the yard as well as the surrounding apartments before shutting the curtains. He went back over and kneeled in front of her. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  After a long pause, she turned and faced him. Her mouth was partially open and her hands were still trembling. She swallowed hard.

  “Ida,” she said quietly with a hoarse voice.

  He nodded, relieved that she was speaking.

  “I’m Frederich,” he said.

  She blinked multiple times and took a deep breath, closed her eyes and leaned back on the sofa. He went inside, snatched the pillow and blanket off his bed and tossed them over his shoulder. When he returned, he found her peeling off her clothes. He turned around and faced the wall, and waited. He looked again and she was down to her underwear, while her sopping, brown skirt, black stockings, white t-shirt, brown platform boots and leather jacket were scattered at the base of the sofa. He covered her up immediately, refusing to allow his mind to wander. With the blanket over her body, she turned to lay down while he scrambled to position the pillow underneath her head. She closed her eyes and rolled into a foetal position. Soon after she was asleep, her breathing now slow and steady.

  He went into his bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. Beneath the clothing was a box, which he placed on his bed to unpack. Inside was his pistol, three boxes of subsonic ammunition and a suppressor. He loaded the pistol and suppressed it. The gun had been in the drawer since he came to Berlin. Instinct told him that the man he had killed was n
o ordinary civilian. If so, he would likely have friends. Those friends would have the same violent tendencies. Frederich would need to stay vigilant. It was an impulse which came from years of training. Still, he was confident he had covered all the angles. Ida was the only loose end he could think of, and she was sleeping soundly on his sofa.

  He carefully inspected the pistol. It had been a gift from Kraas for his seventeenth birthday which he maintained in immaculate condition. It was as much a weapon for him as it was a sentimental reminder of his father. When he was satisfied with its current state, he double-checked the safety then settled upright on his bed and placed the pistol beside him. His ears instantly began latching onto every sound, both inside and outside of the apartment. He heard the fridge humming inside and the movements of his upstairs neighbour. A dull pressure pushed against his skin. His temple twitched. He knew the telltale signs well. He was alert and ready to act, and he would remain that way for as long as he felt was necessary.

  While Ida slept on, groaning and shifting at times, Frederich remained watchful, resting lightly only for short periods. The adrenaline from the fight eventually settled, and he began experiencing strange states of consciousness as the night wore on.

  The first images came during a moment of light sleep. He saw the man’s fierce gaze cutting into him, unflinching and uncompromising. He felt the man’s fingers pressing into his face while it was underwater. He tossed and turned under the heavy weight and convulsed from the terror of being suffocated. Eventually, a moment of profound tranquillity broke through, where he looked down on the man’s bloodied, lifeless face partially submerged in the water, his fierce gaze gone forever.

  He jerked abruptly and was met by a howling sense of grief and despair. It sucked him in and took his mind back to the day Kraas died. He saw himself in the back seat of the taxi as they raced down the number 2 from Tallinn to Tartu. His foot was tapping rapidly on the floor and he was urging the now annoyed driver to speed up. His phone rang when they were ten minutes away from the hospital. It was Johannes. He answered instantly.