by Philip Bond
Harry shuffles behind Matt into the crowding room… “A man with wounds to his upper body lies, bleeding on the floor. I hear one of the Spezialeinsatzkommandos say, he pulls a gun.”
Polizeioberkommissar Zech also enters the room barking into a radio… “Emergency! Ärzte-Team auf der Rückseite der zweiten Etage. Vermuten, die Brust mit Wunden. Now!” Harry abandons the room with Polizeioberkommissar Zech in search of other newsworthy prey.
Matt lingers recording the man’s last moments.
Polizeioberkommissar Zech’s radio erupts… “This building is secure. All suspects being moved to the ground floor lounge; we are now searching for contraband.” Polizeioberkommissar Zech looks to Harry… “Now the paperwork.”
In her best on-camera voice… “The building is two floors with a lounge, reception, kitchen and bathroom on the ground floor and as many as eight bedrooms on the upper level. I count seven females, four males, two of which are customers, one female possibly the madam, the remainder are prostitutes. One male possibly brothel security is shot when he produces a gun. The doctor is with him now. It does not look good.”
“A productive evening,” Polizeioberkommissar Zech declares… “You should also be pleased with what you have. Very dramatic, is it not?”
“What of the girls?” Adrenalin pumps yet Harry remains focused… “Two look very young.”
“We do the usual checks. No doubt, we will discover they be illegals.”
“What will happen to them?”
“Deportation. I am in no doubt they return, maybe to this very brothel. More than likely they still have a levy to work off.”
“Can I talk with them?”
“Here only. Once at the police station, you do not.”
Harry looks around… “Matt, let’s talk to the two youngest.”
“I’m on you.”
With Arndt’s help, Harry hustles the girls into the kitchen and sits them at the table. Shooting across Harry’s shoulder to frame the girls, she opens… “What language do you speak?”
“Romani, English little,” responds the older.
“Where do you come from?”
The younger looks like a frightened caged bird. Her eyes constantly search the room for an open window… “Romania, us both.”
“How old are you?”
The older offers a different facade… “Seventeen me, sixteen she.” From a face that’s lived decades longer than her years.
“How did you come to Düsseldorf?”
“Fly us both.” Her answers are quick and brusque.
“Who brought you?”
“Uncle arranges this both.” Repeatedly biting her fingernails exposing the quick, her voice emphasises disgust.
“How much do you pay?”
“They take all money we earn to pay €7,000,” she fires back.
“Do you have an additional levy?”
“They say German papers to stay and live cost €18,000 us both.” A hint of hopelessness sounds though her voice.
“Do you come alone?”
“With sister, this one, and cousin.” Sounding lost almost bewildered.
“Where is your sister?”
Her right eye tears… “Köln, maybe.” Her legs are so crossed as to almost reduce circulation.
“What of your family?”
Tears swell in both… “Stay in Romania. Not see for long time. Miss them much I do. They tell me, for €7,000 each, I have family to Germany also.”
“Who are they?”
“People who bring me here.” Clutching her hands tightly to whiten each knuckle, her defiance resurfaces.
“Do you know names of those who bring you?”
Hatred surfaces in her voice… “I hear of man name Tallboy.”
Harry flinches, lapsing into silence.
*
Entering discretely, the journalistic duo spend time building a confidence with the clinician surveying the layout determining positions all the while pharmacy business continues unabated. Busy in spasms people arrive to have prescriptions filled, others purchasing cold and flu remedies.
As a patient exits, Sylvia looks into the pharmacy, then her watch… “Twenty minutes so far late they are.” And looks to Harry… “Concerning is this.”
“Maybe,” Harry and Matt mask disappointment… “They are just running behind time.”
Obviously concerned, Sylvia mutters… “Never late are they, always on time.” A ringing telephone interrupts… “They come now,” then she instructs Matt… “Close door. Quiet be you bitte.”
First through the door, a scarred stern-faced man, mid-forties, overweight, balding with two-day growth facial hair. Satisfied with the empty waiting room, he beckons two girls in to sit.
Usual protocol dictates waiting less than a minute before Sylvia invites the girls into the surgery. On closing the door… “This is Harry Reisner.”
Free from the threatening Max and to maintain her journalistic code… “I’m not a trainee doctor, I’m a television journalist.” The girls recoil with the Harry’s quickest… “I want to ask you questions, however, we disguise you so that you cannot be identified, your faces, voices, this room, the doctor nothing. You can speak freely; you will never be identified. You will not be charged for anything you say here. I just want you to tell your story.”
The girls look to each other and shrug acceptance. Harry immediately opens the door, revealing Matt and camera… “I’m good, we’re rolling.”
Harry launches… “You speak English?”
“A little,” the older responds.
“What are your names?”
Both girls have stunning good looks, olive complexions bordering on chocolate, hazel eyes and jet-black hair with totally unblemished skin. Although similar in looks, their personalities are opposites. One is subdued, the other precocious and talkative… “Lala me, Violia she.”
“Where do you come from, Lala?”
Lala’s the smaller by some two to three centimetres. She sits with both knuckles clenched and resting on her knees ready to talk for both… “Albania, us.”
“You how old?”
“Twenty, both.” Violia seems distant, almost ignorant of the doctor’s examinations.
“Lala, how did you come here to Düsseldorf?”
Sylvia directs Violia to the examination table, drawing a curtain for privacy from the journalists. Lala is much more interested in the journalists… “We fly.”
“Can you tell me more about this, civil airline or private aircraft?”
Treating the inquisition almost as a game, Lala fires rapid replies… “No insides is it, for cargo only, we come this plane, back goes to Kosovo with guns and ammunition for Serbs.”
“You have no visa; how do you pass immigration?”
From behind the curtain, Sylvia answers… “Carnet de Touriste, it is only insurance policy to cover medical and costs of return if the person faces deportation.”
“Who brings you?”
“Serbians.” Lala seems to be enjoying the almost celebrity status the journalist bestows.
“Do you have names?”
Lala visibly relaxes a little more with each answer… “Filip is one and boss.” She crosses her legs.
“He runs the smuggling or in charge on the aircraft?”
Sylvia complete Viola’s examination and open the curtain for the girls to exchange positions… “Plane only.”
“How do you know the aircraft returns with Serbian armaments?”
Lala steps over to the examination table… “He tells us, says it organised with US officials. Weapons go out from Germany, we come in.” Violia occupies the seat ignoring everyone in the tiny surgery room.
“Where do you land?”
As Sylvia draws the curtain Lala responds… “Military place, close.”
“What insignia, all German or some American?”
“Words only, NATO-OTAN,” from behind the curtain.
“How much do you pay?”
> “They give us entry documents in exchange for €7,000.” Matt shuffles to his left, putting Lala’s head lying on the table in frame.
“Is that all?”
“German residence permit cost €18,000 more.” Lala’s upbeat manner subsides as a forlorn hope emerges through her voice.
“Do you come alone?”
Lala’s precociousness disappears, replaced by remorse with just the hint of a tear emerging… “Twenty on plane; know only cousin and sister and this one.”
“Your family still in Albania?”
“Yes.” Now it’s unmistakable sorrow, definite loss.
“Who are your clients?”
“Many different people,” Lala returns to the rapid-fire answers… “Some old, mostly middle-aged, two I see from television.”
“Television, who are they?”
On hearing Harry’s question, Violia displays cognitive signs; she shivers as Lala answers… “Politicians, they come with each other, same time, late night every two weeks.”
“Do you have names?”
“No remember.” Her tone contradicts her answer. She sounds scared.
Before she can say any more, there is thumping on the door… “Sie sind langsam, schnell. Wir haben zu verlassen.”
The girls panic, Harry attempts to sooth the situation… “Okay, we finish. The camera goes now.”
Sylvia also finishes… “He does this each time. I finish, the girls can go.” Matt returns to the pharmacy storage room.
As he closes the door, Sylvia opens the door revealing Max standing ominously in the doorway. He looks at Harry in her white coat… “You too old for trainee. Who you are?”
“Mein Name ist Harrietta, Und Sie sind?”
Max ignores Harry’s question, instead bundling the girls through reception to leave.
Harry, Matt and Sylvia breathe a silent sigh of relief with Harry wondering what might be the girls’ ultimate fate.
*
Seeing the rough cut and Harry’s convincing story outline… “I agree. There is more telling to this story. I give you Matt for twenty-one days.” Birgit’s not ready to bestow carte blanche… “Then we renew again, ya?”
“And travel?” Harry adds quickly.
“You have hire car already, so I allow you €5000 travel budget. This includes accommodation. You use only one bed, so it is enough. Oh, the airbase they land, I suggest you start with Geilenkirchen. It is NATO base close to the Dutch border.”
Harry offers a non-committal grunt, before Birgit adds… “Be mindful of your safety. These people are not against harming people, especially journalists.”
“Don’t worry, Birgit, I’ve the world’s best bodyguard beside me.”
Birgit offers a strange look to Matt before adding… “Be safe, Harry.”
*
For different reasons, Harry and Matt have experience in covert surveillance; together, their first. They hire a van. Matt covers the windows secreting the rear cabin area from passers-by.
Arriving two hours before the usual visiting time given by the girls, Matt and Harry position across the street from Lala and Viola’s place of work. The journalists have an excellent vista to both entries to the brothel.
Both settle in for the duration.
After some minutes, Harry veers away from the present… “Matt, I didn’t bring it up before; I’ve heard the name Tallboy used in conjunction with Lloyd Sanders.”
Due to the hour, pedestrian and vehicular traffic thins. Matt’s eyes remain fixed to the events outside… “If you’re talking about the name Lala mentioned,” he replies… “it might be a coincidence.”
“Might be and might not be. After the shoot-out with the NCA, he disappeared.”
A male exits the brothel; Matt tracks his walk along the pavement… “Best not speculate.” Adding… “Let’s wait until we have verifiable information.”
“And when we do?” There’s a quiver in her voice.
The patron disappears into suburbia; Matt returns the camera to the brothel… “Babe, you said it. You got the world’s best bodyguard as your fiancé.”
“Matt, I don’t want to be a target again.”
As it’s minus 5°C outside, the street is largely empty except for their and other parked vehicles. Time passes slowly; both huddle for mutual warmth.
“Matt, there’s something I have to tell you,” she hesitates, he displays disquiet… “I’m afraid to sleep.”
That all? He’s relieved… “Want to talk about it?”
“Not sure, it frightens.”
“You’ve been through a lot, babe,” speaking from experience… “It’s going to have a legacy.”
“The dreams nearly all end the same,” she hesitates… “I’m about to die or be killed.”
“That’s when you wake, right?” The formula he knows only too well.
“Yes,” she’s apologetic… “Guess I disturb your sleep or wake you too?”
“No, not always, I get them too.” Not such a revelation, since the first occasion they spend the night together, she’s aware of him waking at night, sometimes lathered in perspiration. Uncharacteristically, a discussion avoided until now.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Before the embassy posting, the stateside posting was PTSD rehab. I learnt how to confront the daytime memories which reduces dream regularity and severity. They’re going to keep coming back for a while but now, manageable.”
“Babe, given what you’ve been through, I reckon you too have PTSD, hence the dreams?”
Lamenting… “We’re a great pair. What’s my prognosis?”
“Therapy and medication.”
“I really don’t want drugs, Matt.”
“Nor me. I chose cognitive behavioural therapy.” Expanding the subject… “For me, that’s visiting a friend’s family, it removes barriers. For you, babe, it’s Sanders and what he represents. Remove or limit him and what he represents is a win. Look on Sanders as a disease, a cancer. You and I are surgeons preparin’ to excise cancerous tissue from society.” Adding with confidence… “Babe, together we can overcome and defeat the demons.”
“I can say since I’m with you, the dreams are not as severe, I feel safe with you.” Silence descends, with both retreating into their thoughts, until… “Matt, I know I told you we should first see how we get on together and in the time, consider what should be our future, these past weeks living and working with you makes me realise, I can’t think of life without you. Matt, yes, I must and will marry you.”
Those words change the game rules… “Babe, that’s the best but think it through. What about a family, where do we live and what about your career?”
Revealing her thoughts… “You’re a strong, handsome intelligent man. I want to have children with your and my DNA. I want to mother them and most of all, I want your love and comfort. We can live anywhere we want; I can be both journalist and mother. I do a pretty good job as producer with you, look good in front of camera. Maybe, that’s where we might head. Either way, sergeant, I know for sure my life is beside you.”
Matt interrupts the moment… “There’s a car, silver Mercedes.”
They return to the task as hand.
“Two men, well dressed in suits.” Turning back to the monitor… “Good, we have the licence plates in frame. Concentrate on the men.” She’s directing… “Go for head shots so we can lift stills for identification.”
“Got it, got them both.”
Relaxing back into her less than comfortable seat… “Great, let’s wait and tape their exit.”
Reaching over putting his hand under her chin drawing her toward him… “I love you, babe.” The moment demands a kiss.
Looking into his eyes… “Me too, sergeant.” Now, it’s back to work.
*
Unsure of their legal position regarding capturing the images of the suspected persons entering the brothel, Harry and Matt turn to one man willing to support and advise their journalistic di
rection. Only seconds into viewing the tape, Polizeioberkommissar Zech points to the screen… “This man Werner Schmitt and this Welf Meyer.”
Matt remembers the names from past reports… “Both are politicians.”
“Ja,” Arndt sits back into the seat, pulling out a cigarette… “Although not members of the governing coalition, both influential to its continuation.” He fondles another pocket for the lighter… “I remind you, Harry, entering a brothel is not a crime, it is against German law to use these images without consent.” After igniting the cigarette, he draws in a huge breath… “All you have here is men at an address at a particular time of the day.”
“I’m guessing you have a suggestion?”
“Perceptive are you.” Arndt exhales again. The smoke curls and distorts into shapes in rising to the ceiling… “Look into Filip Cizek, this man becomes carnet de touriste agent in Serbia and Croatia. There is much speculation these men endorse his application.” Arndt turns away to cough before continuing… “There is much information I have but no evidence of criminal behaviour. Endorsing someone’s application to government is not the crime. It may influence voting in elections but not illegal.” Another fog hazes over his face before misting into obscurity… “If you want the big story, find evidence of criminal behaviour.”
*
Boyed by the Polizeioberkommissar’s suggestion, the journalistic duo retreat to a café for coffee and breakfast. Matt’s first back onto the topic… “There’s a dilemma here, we stop these slavers and more step into the fill the void.”
“Does that mean we should stop?” Matt scans the menu… “Should we ignore one injustice because we cannot end it all? One at a time is how we defeat injustice.” He seems more interested in the printed word… “Now, let us look at the flights. Geilenkirchen base commander should be our next interview.”
“I’m with you, babe, now what’s for breakfast,” he’s made a selection… “I’m hungry.”
*
Parking opposite, they cross the less than busy street to Beecker Bauern-und Erzählkaffee, he leads. The sun breaks out, offering warmth; it’s an alfresco breakfast. She sits facing the road, albeit nearest the outdoor heater.
Not waiting for a menu, he’s off surveying the buffet selections… “Cold meats, sausage and bread seems to be popular, think I’ll start with that, how about you?”