In Captivity

Ron regained consciousness with a terrible headache. He was in a cellar, locked in a barred cage. Everything had been taken from him: his ID, wallet, credit cards, wristwatch, and cell phone. The only thing he had left was a packet of tissues. And in the corner stood a bucket, probably intended as a toilet.

Not a sound could be heard. Only now did he realize that he was used to the soporific, quiet sounds of the city. It was impossible to find out where he was. He had been unconscious during transport; he could be anywhere, in Vienna or any other city. And who had kidnapped him? Criminals hoping for a ransom? He dismissed the thought. He had no wealthy relatives to blackmail.

The door lock creaked unpleasantly as it was unlocked. In the dim light, Ron could only vaguely make out the face of the small man who entered. The man sat down on a stool a few meters away. He reached up to the light switch and turned on the light in the cage. Ron now stood blinded by the bright light, able to see the man even less.

The man took his time. He picked up a notepad. Ron couldn't tell if the man wore glasses. It was several minutes before the man spoke. He spoke Turkish.

"Hakim Elbagr, or Ronald Hofstätter, police officer." It was more of a statement than a question. "I'm going to question you, Hakim, and it would be better if you didn't lie to me!" The voice was quiet and monotonous. Ron sat down on the floor and stared silently into the darkness where the man sat.

The man questioned him at length about himself, his background, his undercover work, and details from his youth. Ron answered everything that was publicly known about him — things anyone could find out with a few clicks on the internet. Many questions revolved around his school days in Istanbul. Ron was careful with his answers, not saying a word too many. He had simply forgotten some things, like the name of his geography professor, for example.

The questioning had lasted over an hour; Ron heard the pen scratching across the notepad. The man stood up. "Do you like chicken, Hakim?" he asked as he left, after switching off the bright light. Ron didn't know if he had seen him nod his head.

An old woman wearing a headscarf brought him a plastic plate with rice and what appeared to be shredded chicken. He ate quickly and hastily with the plastic spoon, because the woman waited until he had finished. She left the water bottle behind when she left. Ron now received rice and peas with chicken twice a day, along with two bottles of water, three liters in total. The old woman seemed to be deaf; at least, no conversation ensued.

Next to the bucket lay a tattered copy of the Tages-Anzeiger. The highest-circulation daily newspaper, sensationalist and no model of good journalism. It was an old edition, over ten days old. A glimmer of hope flickered; reading was the only distraction.

A bird landed on the windowsill. Ron knew it wasn't a sparrow, but a bit larger, its plumage black with dark blue speckles. "Hello, mate," Ron croaked hoarsely. "Looks like we're both locked up, me here, you there." The bird cocked its head, one of its eyes seeming to size him up. Ron bent down and picked up all the grains of rice he'd dropped while eating hastily. He stood on tiptoe, and the bird flew away as he dropped the rice onto the sill. Seconds later, the bird was back, eyeing the rice suspiciously. He pecked at one, seemingly trying it. The bird looked around suspiciously, wondering if anyone might try to steal his food. He pecked at it, grain by grain. Ron stood on tiptoe again to poke a finger through the shattered glass. The bird eyed the finger, but didn't fly away.

No, he was far too small to be a raven. And he was curious, too. Ron felt the beak gently pecking at his fingernail. "Well, what's your name, my big guy?" Ron murmured. "I'll just call you Bird, all right? Heaven knows what you'll be when you're fully grown, a raven perhaps, or an eagle?" Somehow, it felt comforting to have a living cellmate, even if he couldn't speak.

A grumpy-looking man with a pistol tucked into his waistband led him over to the interrogation room, where the bald man was already waiting for him. Notepad and pen, the grumpy man remained standing by the door. Ron knew immediately, of course, that he wouldn't be able to overpower him, and even if he did, what then? Without a plan, any attempt would simply be foolish.

An hour of questions, constantly circling back to how he could infiltrate the Turkish mafia undercover. Oh, he readily and willingly provided all the names. They were all already dead. But the guy would have to research that first; valuable time for whatever would be lost. He couldn't harm the dead with it. But he could sow confusion, because what did X and Y have in common? That they were of Turkish descent? Ron suppressed a grin while the bald man faithfully noted everything down.

The bird seemed to have grasped that there were rice grains twice a day. Ron set aside about two teaspoons of it; it seemed just right. Only with endless patience could his fingertip stroke the bird's head. The bird shook its head, for it was an unseemly intrusion into ornithological privacy.

In the outdated editions of the Tages-Anzeiger, he could follow the events. An Islamist had carried out a terrorist attack in Vienna's city center, leaving dead, wounded, and the terrorist dead. The police had shot him. For days, the newspaper shouted the news to the world. He was a non-smoker, but he drank alcohol occasionally. Outrageous! He had acquired weapons and ammunition in Bratislava; the small border town had suddenly become the center of the arms trade. As much as the scribblers fussed over every triviality, Ron was glad that no names of the investigators were made public. Of course, all internal information had to come from President Wallner; he reserved the right to officially inform the journalists. Yes, two more people had been questioned a few days earlier. But the perpetrator was and remained a lone individual.

He read aloud to the bird from the newspaper. It felt good to hear his own voice, indeed, to use it at all. The bird listened with its head tilted; after all, it was a real civil servant reading to it. It also felt good for Ron to show emotion, astonishment and contempt for the scribblers, for these dimwits repeated some triviality at least eleven times. He giggled loudly, and the bird began to sing as well. After many days, Ron finally heard the aria, high-pitched and with very complicated notes. Ron didn't play an instrument and couldn't read music notes either, for in music class he had only been forced to look up the teacher's skirt, as if hypnotized and mesmerized, for she never wore underwear. He always had to place a handkerchief in his underpants before music lessons to catch the inevitable ejaculations. He listened to his comrade bird, deeply moved, for even he realized that the aria contained very complicated flourishes. He admired the bird, which so cleverly and in a cascading manner spread the news of the terrorist to its surroundings.

And Ron suddenly heard voices. Yes, they had to be real voices; he wasn't hallucinating. Many fragments of Turkish, interspersed with guttural Arabic he didn't understand. The muffled male voices were coming from the barred ventilation shaft, that much was clear. Only gradually did the picture take shape. It was about the construction of a new, alternative road from Istanbul via Vienna to Cologne. Ron pressed his ear to the antediluvian grille and memorized all the names. He couldn't write anything down, after all.

For a good two weeks, he heard Turks and Arabs hatching their plans. Fragments, but unmistakably a plan. Which merchants and individuals, which imams and mosque attendants were willing, how much bribe money was to be provided for each. The conspirators only referred to each other by their first names, and there were thousands of Ahmeds, Mehmets, and Güls.

And then a new voice. An unmistakable, oily voice, perhaps a passionate cognac drinker. He mostly spoke American English; his Turkish was truly awful and very primitive. How did an American fit into all of this? No matter how intently he listened, his initial impressions remained just that. They discussed all the details with the American in slow Turkish or Turkish-accented English. And it was almost always about money: who had it, who got it, and who could pocket what percentage on the side. The oily man disappeared again after ten days. He returned, and he was very familiar with the plans.

But Ron had memorized every detail and every name. He repeated everything, murmuring quietly, until he couldn't forget anything. Now he had been held captive for over four weeks and saw no way to contact the outside world. In fact, he didn't even know if he was still in Vienna.

The grumpy old woman who brought him food twice a day and emptied the bucket brought him a bowl of cold water and a used towel once a week. It was for washing, she indicated. But she wasn't deaf and mute. While he washed, she stood in a corner, usually on the phone. Family matters. Turkish. What home remedies her daughter should use to treat her feverish child. And so on. Then she haltingly described to her daughter or daughter-in-law how the prisoner had undressed completely and calmly washed and stroke his penis and ejaculated into the washbasin. In a choked voice, she whispered into the phone that he was doing it again a second time and ejaculating into the washbasin once more, the disgusting man.

Ron had hatched the plan some time ago. As he pressed the washbasin into the old woman's hand, he stole the cell phone from her pocket. He had to speak lightning fast, because she would notice within minutes.

He hastily dialed his own phone and interrupted Alfred irritably. He rattled off names and places in one go, without pausing for breath. He had guessed correctly; the old woman showed up, so he ended the call and handed her his cell phone with a crooked grin. He hadn't been able to delete the number in time. In his estimation, the old woman was simple-minded and stupid; she probably told everything to her bosses. They would find his number at police headquarters.

And so it happened. Three-quarters of an hour later, the grumpy man stormed in, threw a black sack over his head, and led him up and down the stairs to a waiting car, and off they went on a wild, zigzagging chase. It seemed pointless to try and remember all the turns the car took without a clear starting point.

President Wallner jumped to his feet as if stung by a tarantula when it became clear that Hofstätter had been kidnapped. Immediately, everyone had to drop everything to intensify the search for Ron. The four-leaf team fanned out, questioned all informants, and stirred up the underworld. The kidnappers didn't budge; there was nothing, no demands, absolutely nothing. Niente, Zero, Nada. President Wallner held one of his rare press conferences. The press, radio, and television reported for days, but to no avail. The Interior Minister summoned him. Grudgingly, President Wallner reported that there was nothing to report. Ron had last been captured by a traffic camera as he turned onto Türkenstraße, on his way to the Roßauer Barracks, where his office was located. The Minister was not amused.

President Wallner personally received Ron's girlfriend. He was very surprised when the elegantly dressed young woman was led into his office. She was young and strikingly beautiful; her makeup made her appear older, even though she was only 17 and a half. Wallner leafed through the slim file. "Missis Ökdemir, you are the girlfriend of my colleague, Chief Inspector Ronald Hofstätter?" Wallner immediately realized his slip of the tongue. "I meant Ms. Ökdemir, of course." Fatme smiled disarmingly. "Yes, Mr. President, I am unofficially his fiancée." Wallner stared at the file, his face flushed crimson. "And you work as...?" He didn't want to say the word prostitute. "I work as an escort, Mr. President, for Madame Florence's escort service at the Fleischmarkt." Fatme reveled for a moment in Wallner's confusion. "Detective Inspector Hofstätter knows exactly what I do for a living, of course. And that an escort girl often has to be at the client's beck and call. That was never a problem for Ronald, Mr. President." Fatme's disarming smile actually threw him off balance; after all, he was 71, damn it!

He looked up. "We are very worried; Hofstätter has obviously been kidnapped. We haven't got the slightest trace of him. Perhaps you can help us, Ms. Ökdemir?" Fatme's face immediately turned serious. "I want to do everything I can, Mr. President. I've been questioning everyone in our Turkish community for two days now, but no one seems to know anything. It surprises me, because usually everything is circulating in the gossip there. And Hakim, that is, Mr. Hofstätter, has many friends and acquaintances in the Turkish community, Mr. President." She bit her lower lip briefly. "We all still call him Hakim Elbagr, even though I know, of course, that his real name is Chief Inspector Ronald Hofstätter. We're all so grateful that he exposed the scourge of the Turkish mafia. Nobody here will forget that."

President Wallner leaned back in his office chair. "Precisely because of his popularity, I had hoped that one of his friends would know something, perhaps Imam Museddin." Fatme shook her head vigorously. "No, that was my first thought too. But Imam Museddin really doesn't know anything, and nobody lies to me that easily." There it was again, that disarming, professional smile of the escort girl.

President Wallner was, of course, disappointed, but a fruitless conversation was part of everyday life. He leaned forward again. "And you're engaged to him?" he asked. Fatme's eyelashes twitched briefly. "So to speak, unofficially of course, Mr. President. Perhaps I should say I'm his partner or his lover, perhaps. We're not officially engaged, although I hope to marry him one day. He's not only made me read an antique book every week so I can broaden my horizons. We also listen to his jazz records and drink expensive wine; he says that's supposed to broaden my horizons, too." Fatme's look told the President everything. The look of someone who knew where she was going.

The President smiled gently. "Yes, his colleague already told me about the jazz records." A flash of light came in Fatme's eyes. "Yes, of course we talked about that, Mr. President. Ronald and I are very honest with each other. I don't even pay attention to such a little slip-up, that intimate interlude with Ms. Morgentau, Mr. President." Her face suddenly seemed haughty, Wallner thought, and thought of the statuette of Nefertiti. "But of course, Ms. Ökdemir, he didn't even sprain his ankle during the affair." President Wallner was pleased with his preconceived notion of an affair as a side-step. Fatme's breathing hadn't quickened; her chest rose and fell as before.

President Wallner ended the conversation and stood up. Only now did he notice how tall Fatme was. He secretly envied Ron, because even back then, in his prime, he could only dream of such beauties. He accompanied Fatme to the door, and Bodnar took over, leading the young woman out. Wallner caught a glimpse of Rosa Morgentau's critical glance as she watched Fatme leave. He smiled, because of course he knew.

Bodnar, who had wanted to exchange a word with Fatme, stopped as they turned the corner and were out of sight. Bodnar, a broad-shouldered bull in the truest sense, fixed Fatme with a piercing gaze. Guys like that always made Fatme uneasy; she braced herself for defense. "Listen, girl. It's quite simple. Hofstätter was helping himself to my bride's honey pot, my Rosa's. That wasn't right at all, even if Rosa had instigated it. Not right at all. If he does it again, I'll punch him right in the face. It's that simple, and I mean what I say. So tell him to keep his hands to himself, or else. Can you make him understand that, please?" Fatme had taken a half-step back, even though Bodnar wasn't threatening her. But at least he had said please. "Yes, I certainly will, Mr. Police Constable!" Fatme followed him silently to the gatekeeper. She was tempted to tell Bodnar that she was Mrs. Ökdemir and not some "girl" he could address informally and belittle. She decided to remain silent; Ron thought highly of Bodnar. At the gate, she offered Bodnar her hand, which disappeared into his paw. "Thank you and goodbye, Mr. Police Constable!" she trilled and walked away. Of course, Fatme knew what a police constable and a chief detective inspector were. She grinned mischievously to herself. Girl! Bodnar was annoyed on his way back; he had been a police constable 35 years ago, as a rookie. He would make it clear to Ronald. Police constable!

For days, the phone lines were buzzing; the search was extended to Burgenland and Lower Austria, perhaps a crumb of information could be found there that would advance the investigation. But no, nothing, zero, nada.

President Wallner now held a situation briefing every morning. Heaven knows who came up with the idea, but could the silence surrounding Frank Halter mean that the criminal had Ron in his clutches? Like a nasty, miserable cold, this thought took root in their minds. It was suddenly obvious; they heard absolutely nothing about Frank Halter. The president kept his mother in custody, transferring her to a different prison every few days and misusing the term "pretrial detention." He knew he was breaking the law, but he stubbornly kept this ace up his sleeve. But Frank Halter remained invisible and untraceable; a police officer sat in front of the Halters' house day and night. Yet there was complete silence surrounding Frank Halter.

Then, on a peaceful, quiet afternoon, the alarm bells rang. Ron had called his computer, Alfred. For two minutes and twenty seconds, he rattled off names and places into the microphone, talking about a route from Istanbul to Vienna to Cologne. They sat in the conference room and listened to the recording twenty times. Bodnar and Rosenblatt whispered amongst themselves; they knew Ron best. Then Bodnar remarked that it only made sense if they were thinking of the Turkish mafia. Obviously, it was more important for Ron to tell them as much as possible about a new route from Istanbul via Vienna to Cologne than about his captivity.

Alfred, of course, had triangulated the call, and four patrol cars raced to the location. They had to search about twenty houses, but found nothing. His kidnappers had escaped with Ron.

Morgentau had plotted all the places Ron had mentioned on a map. It was clearly visible what the new route could look like. Now they called all the relevant police stations and laid their cards on the table. More than a dozen people were interrogated, and almost all of them turned out to be a match. One confessed immediately, another only after agonizing questioning. The route was scuttled before it even went into operation. President Wallner beamed from ear to ear; finally, a tangible success. And it confirmed that Ron was still alive and his senses as sharp as ever.

Ron grinned from under the black sack. Alfred had recorded everything. Alfred would check to see if it really was his voice. Alfred would inform the Yiddish Squadron team and the president within seconds. They would drop everything and listen to the recording a dozen times. In the meantime, Alfred would have printed out all the names and addresses mentioned. His colleagues would piece it all together somehow, since Ron had named the new route Istanbul-Vienna-Cologne. The president would follow up on the vague lead: "American with an oily, cognac-stained voice, maybe CIA." It was a meager lead, but Wallner knew everyone at the US embassy and some at the CIA office, which officially didn't exist. They would be searching with all their might. And Alfred had already determined the location of the phone call through triangulation. Despite flashing blue lights and wailing sirens, they arrived a fraction too late.

Ron's new prison was a windowless wine cellar. He spent an entire day handcuffed to a wall hook while two grumpy men erected a wire cage. The wine cellar was enormous and had no windows. There was plenty of air, and somewhere there was a dimly lit lightbulb he couldn't see directly.

Once again, it was the Tages-Anzeiger newspaper that he found next to the bucket, an older edition. It gave him a pang when he thought of his bird. Yes, his bird, because something like a friendship had developed between them. He fed the bird grains of rice, and in return, it let him stroke its head with just one finger. And their arias, sung together, were priceless. And now he had abandoned his comrade to call Alfred. Ron felt like crying, but then again, his colleagues would find him quickly and free him.

Instead of the grumpy old woman, it was another Turkish woman, speaking German. He immediately dubbed her "Gestapo Sweetheart." Around 40 or 45, with a short pageboy haircut and very talkative. But nothing of consequence. Ron recognized her obvious sexual aggression; she constantly ran her hand over her ample curves. He was, of course, sexually frustrated too, but it was crystal clear that his tormentors weren't using the well-endowed guard without ulterior motives. And they thought he was completely brain-dead, apparently.

At least the Tages-Anzeiger was published daily. The English queen had died, and Charles was the new king. The paper didn't offer much more than that. Shoplifting, a senior citizen caught shoplifting, an ATM blown up. Drug-addicted teenage vandals trash a subway station. A runaway cat returned home after 10 weeks. Either President Wallner was keeping quiet like never before, or Frankie had stopped killing.

They had taken everything from him, even his cheap wristwatch and the packet of tissues. He no longer dared to show any vulnerability; the Gestapo's mistress didn't seem to own a cell phone. Her skintight, vulgar dress had no pockets. In his wallet was a portrait photo of him and Fatme, from happier times. He didn't have that anymore either. He had spent hours gushing to the Bird about his little lover, revealing her physical attributes and sexual preferences, just between us friends, and that too was gone now too.

Ron demanded that the Gestapo mistress bring him the wash tub three times a week so he could wash himself. He paid no attention to her lustful glances as he undressed and washed naked. Calmly and calculatingly, he washed his penis, then absentmindedly rubbed it. He stared along the Gestapo mistress's long legs and peered arousedly under her skirt. She seemed hesitant about whether to put a hand inside her panties. Calmly, he ejaculated into the water, ignoring the woman. He rubbed his penis a second time, this time for much longer, stared intently under her skirt and ejaculated again into the water. He dressed with a serious expression, while the Gestapo mistress, her face flushed, carried the wash tub away.

He tried to decipher the scribbles on the old wine barrels, but he might as well have been staring at Babylonian cuneiform tablets. And besides, what good would it have done to learn that a Pinot Noir, a Chardonnay, or some adulterated Polish potato vodka had once been stored in these venerable barrels? He suspected, at least, that there were hardly any wine cellars of that size within the city limits of Vienna. So, Lower Austria or Burgenland, but perhaps Vienna after all. Pondering it was no use.

The keys rattled as the door to the wine cellar was unlocked. The Gestapo mistress walked in backwards, both hands raised above shoulder height. Bednar and Morgentau followed behind, pistols drawn. They looked around carefully and then let the woman open the cage.

Ron threw his arms around Rosa. Bednar cleared his throat jealously, "We have to get out of here, so let's go, march!" Ron was free again after 41 days. Of course, Alfred hadn't just triangulated his phone call; he had been closely monitoring his captors' movements and had led the trio to this point. Ron couldn't even describe how good it felt to be free again.

Over the next 48 hours, the entire gang was arrested. Ron had been kidnapped to have an ace up their sleeve and to neutralize the person who posed the greatest threat to the men. The entire plan was exposed, and the idea for an alternative route from Istanbul to Cologne was shelved for the time being.

President Wallner insisted on a thorough medical examination; presumably, it was a requirement. Afterward, Ron was given a week off. He went with Fatme to Dürnstein, a small town in the Wachau region. Fatme wasn't particularly religious, but she said a short prayer of thanks when the president had her called. Her escort pimp just shrugged when she told him she was spending a week's vacation with Hakim.

Ron sat up straight. This way he could see the Danube through the window, which had flowed past Dürnstein since time immemorial. They were both covered in sweat, Fatme and he. But they were happy and closer than they had been in a long time. In this blissful little town, there was neither mafia nor serial killers. He called the president and his colleagues once a day, and thank God it was quiet in Vienna. Ron's hand absently stroked Fatme's slender curves. "You are one of the most beautiful flowers, Fatme," he murmured. "Flowers, so beautiful to behold, yet they wither. And then they are thrown away." His hand lifted her chin. "You're an escort, and I give you credit for supporting Dad and the family this way. You're 17 now, almost 18. You'll wither like all flowers, you'll no longer be valued as an escort, and one day you'll be thrown away like a wilted bouquet. That's not right, that's unfair."

Fatme sat up. "Hakim Elbagr, what are you up to? You speak like a wise florist with a specific goal in mind, someone who wants to buy out the competition. Talk to me, I'm your wife, your lover. Or even your flower, for all I care, in God's name. Just tell me what you're thinking. Look at me, the Danube will still be here tomorrow, my love. Take me into your world of thoughts, let me share in your floral splendor."

Ron released her chin, met her eyes, and let the Danube be the Danube. "You'll outgrow the escort business, wither away. What will you do then? I won't allow you to go back to prostitution. Never. You have to create other options for yourself, come up with something else. Prostitution is just a tiny part of reality, and probably one of the most despicable. 99% of girls don't go into prostitution; they look for and find better opportunities. You're like a diamond in the rough. You devoured those insightful books in no time and absorbed the knowledge and essence behind them. You're not just clever, no, you're exceptionally clever, and I admire your analytical thinking. Things that gentlemen greatly appreciate in an escort. You could be anything, Fatme. A photographer, a painter, a sculptor, a teacher, or a nurse. Drive a bus, trade on the stock exchange, or become an astronaut. The possibilities are endless. You just have to get prostitution out of your head; I'm leaving you no choice."

Fatme grabbed his wrist. "Hakim, my darling, I can't just whip up an answer off the cuff, especially since I'm naked and don't have sleeves. Enough of splitting hairs, you're thinking about me, and that's like balm to my soul. I'll think about it and surprise you. You also forgot about the professional boxer, my darling. As much as I'd love to punch some guys in the face, beating up women isn't on my list. But I understand what you're trying to tell me with this whole thing about flowers, florists, and bouquets swirling around in your little head. That's very sweet of you, Hakim!" She kissed his hand.

Ron lightly stroked her black hair. "My Fatme, I'm fantasizing about flowers, okay. But I've already taken action, I have to confess that." Fatme looked searchingly into his eyes. "What have you been up to, Chief Inspector General Hofstätter!?" Ron cleared his throat. "With your half-finished primary school education, you can't become an astronaut; these days, you can't get anywhere without a high school diploma. You have to get your diploma, Fatme, I'm not kidding. I've enrolled you in a high school program and paid for the first semester right away. Of course, I'll pay for your entire studies. I have all the forms at home; everything's already filled out. I've taken a nice portrait of you, where you're beaming and no one can tell you're an escort. I've already arranged with a Turkish florist friend that you've been working for him as a temporary employee aide for the past few years. At least, that's what it reads very convincingly in your résumé, which you still have to memorize. I don't need to prove to you that I'm damn good at lying. You'll be proud of your résumé, my dear. So, everything's ready; all the documents and certificates are genuine, really well forged. You just have to sign in three places, then it's off to the post office. In two years, you'll have your diploma and can achieve anything with it." So, now I've confessed everything to you, Fatme."

Fatme playfully hit him with a pillow. "And where else have you enrolled me, Detective Superintendent Inspector Hofstätter? At the Salvation Army, the maternity ward, and the priest already booked for the baptism, promptly at 8:30 on Tuesday?" Ron ducked, laughing. "Maternity ward? Baptism? Good heavens, what are you talking about, Fatme?" She paused. "Did I get your attention? Well, listen. I've thought about going to high school several times, but I've always shied away from it. Can I continue working as an escort alongside school? You seem to know, so presumably the answer is yes. And I know how valuable a high school diploma is. A doctorate would be even better, of course, I know that too. No, seriously, my dear Hakim. Thank you, you've given me the decisive push, and I will always be grateful for that. Just thinking about it is the same as not doing it. Confucius. Now I'll diligently attend school, work as an escort in the evenings, and not disappoint you." She kissed him on the lips.

Ron glanced at the Danube. "That was the only thing that worried me. You'll come home at 4 or 5 in the morning, stand crying under a hot shower, and not want anything to do with another man. That, honestly, is what saddens me." Fatme snuggled against him. "Ron, my love, nothing will change. It's only rarely happened that I lay with a client, Hakim, you know that. And since I'm studying, I'll triple my price. I think 99% will give up, because their wallet is the only part of their body where they can still actually feel pain. You must curb your dirty fantasies, my love. I'll lie with a client even less often, I promise you." Fatme stroked his brown hair. "We never argued about it, since it's simply part of the escort service. It never bothered our relationship. And that's how it should stay." Ron nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that's true. You lay with me because you're my lover. You never let me feel any differently. You were always unwaveringly my lover, my wife." Ron glanced at the Danube. "I want you to get your high school diploma, because that's your ticket to everything. I love you with all my heart and I have to give you this chance. It doesn't matter if you don't get home until 4 a.m. and don't want to see another man. We both know what we're talking about. You've come home so many times, crying all the time, utterly exhausted from the ordeal."

"I'm sorry, terribly sorry, Hakim." She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her lips on his Adam's apple. "Yes, I was younger, impetuous, and I imagined I needed the full experience, with all the passion. I'm older now, and I promise you I'll act more prudently. I'll dry my lips with the napkin, get dressed, and come home to you, my lover, my husband." She kissed his Adam's apple. "You said it for the first time today, 'my beloved, my wife.' A woman hears such little things as if they were coming from a loudspeaker." Ron stared at the calmly flowing Danube. "If I continue to speak so carelessly, one day you'll put me in chains, because the golden ring symbolizes those chains." Fatme snuggled even closer to him. "If I weren't following your lead, I would have put you in chains long ago, my dear. You owe it only to my attentiveness that it hasn't happened, yet. But I've never lost sight of my goal. Never."

Ron turned away from the mesmerizing Danube. "We both know that I'm still at the bottom of the career ladder. And you won't climb the first rung until September. We're both smart enough to know that we're not ready for the big step yet. We'll know when the time is right. We, we're a good team; we can rely on each other." Fatme hugged him. "Yes, we not only discussed it, it's also the right thing to do to wait. I'm on board, Captain."

Ron was riding the streetcar home from his parents' house when the voice hit him like a whip. It was the oily voice of the American he'd heard during his time as a prisoner of war. He was instantly wide awake and followed the overweight man discreetly to the American Embassy, ​​where the man entered. Although Ron knew perfectly well that his service ID was worthless here, they let him go ahead to the reception desk. The young soldier shifted from one foot to the other and called for his superior officer. Ron wanted to know who had been entering there last.

"Sorry," said the officer, "I can't help you with that." Ron immediately called President Wallner, who was to come to the embassy at once. "What? Excuse me? Why?" asked Wallner, who was busy elsewhere. "I humbly request that Your Grace get his ass to the American Embassy immediately, without delay!" Ron barked into the phone and pressed "Off." Minutes later, the patrol car arrived with Wallner.

Ron explained briefly and concisely what it was about. Wallner understood immediately and called his CIA contact in the house. The man came, and the two men whispered in a corner for about fifteen minutes. The CIA man made several phone calls, and Ron could tell from his body language that they were getting nowhere. Wallner took him by the sleeve. "Come on, Hofstätter, we're done here!" Ron silently followed Wallner to the patrol car.

"What, pray tell, was that?" Ron asked, pale. Wallner looked at the driver and lowered his voice. "That, my dear fellow, is what happens when you get struck by lightning while you're taking a dump. CIA policy. No man is abandoned, not even with a bloody knife in his hand." Wallner glared angrily. "The guy disappears on the next flight, and we won't get his name. He was never there. He doesn't even exist. I'll grill all my contacts at the CIA, but I already know the result. Nothing, zero, nada."

Ron looked calmly into Wallner's face. "We could have found out what the CIA had to do with the Turks or the Arabs. It seemed to me that the oily guy had more to do with it than nothing at all. I might owe my kidnapping to him, I have a feeling." Ron paused for a long time. "I might have an idea, Mr. President. Nothing illegal, maybe a hair's breadth away from it, admittedly. But 41 days in captivity? I can't just brush that off, CIA or no CIA. It's better if you don't know anything about it, Mr. President." Wallner looked out the window. "Okay, but be damned careful, Hofstätter!"

Ron was careful. He explained the situation and his idea to Alfred. Alfred didn't need a second to think. "Spying on the Americans will be difficult. But maybe we won't even need to." Ron waited expectantly. "We just need to hack the next flights, the next passenger lists, it's really not rocket science. And then you have to look at the people, maybe something will ring a bell." Ron nodded, "Okay, that's what we'll do!"

It wasn't even a dozen people who flew out under the CIA's protection. On the second day, one man caught his attention. The passport photo wasn't exactly what he'd expected, but even Alfred couldn't work miracles. Andrew Webster, a businessman with a Pittsburgh address. Alfred found several photos online. "Yes, that's him," Ron said under his breath. He went to Wallner's and closed the blinds. Wallner quickly put two and two together and called his CIA contact. Now he could be a bit more confident. Of course, the CIA didn't confirm anything, but they took Wallner's story seriously. If Webster was pulling strings without authorization, then at least his people should know, Wallner chirped hypocritically into the phone. President Wallner promised to email the entire file on "Alternative Route Istanbul-Cologne" to the CIA, of course.

Neither Ron nor President Wallner ever learned how the CIA handled the matter. Only the remark that they were grateful for his information could be interpreted as meaning that the CIA was investigating Webster and "the alternative route." When Wallner asked him how he had come across Webster, Ron replied, "I'm sure you don't want to know, Mr. President. Not entirely above board, but successful." Ron added that this helped him cope better with his kidnapping. The pressure of one of the guys still being at large was gone. With a sly grin, he added that having uncovered something within the CIA was something special for him.

About a year later, the police uncovered a large weapons cache in Vienna and Cologne, which was officially attributed to the terrorist organization Hamas. Ron swallowed hard; so there was still an "alternative route."

Fatme began her first year of high school on September 3rd. She had absolutely no trouble with the material itself, but there was a lot of writing, a lot of homework, etc. Ron bought her a laptop, which proved to be a godsend. She was usually home shortly after midnight when she was working as an escort. No, supporting her father and family was something she wouldn't let anyone take away from her. When Ron cautiously inquired, she just shrugged. No, the clients got everything they paid for, but "passion and the full package" wasn't available even for a wheelbarrow full of money.

He would probably never understand Fatme's close relationship with her father. Dear old Dad had abused her since she was a very young girl; he had essentially sold Fatme to a pimp. Yes, sold. "We lived in abject poverty, Ronald Hofstätter. I know what hunger feels like, Detective Inspector. You don't want to know." Fatme said in a husky voice that her father's visits were simply due to his age. And she said, "With all due respect, Hakim, it's really none of your damn business."

This quiet life was so beautiful. Truly quiet, truly beautiful. If it weren't for the Norns, who love nothing more than arbitrarily severing the threads of life, it could have gone on like this forever. Even President Wallner could afford to doze off for a few minutes with his morning coffee. The Norns were foaming with rage. And they were treacherous. They nudged Mr. Edmund, the veteran doorman at the Rossau Barracks. "Curtain up!" cried the youngest of the Norns.

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