Templar's Quest

38

How could I have missed both shots!?

Standing in the shadow cast by a stone sculpture, Dolf Reinhardt stared at the offending Heckler & Koch Mark 23, ready to hurl the piece of shit across the Jardin du Carrousel. The American soldier who sold it to him had claimed that with the laser-aiming device, hitting the target would be child’s play.

Humiliated by his ineptitude, Dolf shoved the pistol into his waistband. He then wiped his palms on the leg of his jeans. That’s why he’d missed both shots: his hand slipped on the gun handle because of his excessively clammy palms. Palmar hyperhidrosis. Another side effect of all those fucking steroids he’d been force-fed at the Sports Dynamo.

I should have worn gloves.

But it was ninety degrees in the shade. And Herr Doktor Uhlemann had been adamant that he not draw any attention to himself. People would have noticed a big bald-headed man wearing gloves in August.

‘Scheisse! ’ How was he going to make this right? The trio had dived into the bushes, vanishing from sight.

Removing the GPS transmitter from his pocket, Dolf stared at the minuscule screen. According to the map, they were somewhere in the bushes southwest of his current position.

Yes! But which fucking bush?

And what if they were armed? It would be three against one. They could shoot him dead, piss on his corpse, and walk away with no one the wiser. Then who would take care of his mother? He couldn’t take that kind of chance.

Overcome with shame, his chin dropped to his chest. Unable to think straight, he stared at the ground. A few feet from where he stood, two tottering pigeons fought over a discarded crumb. Flying rodents, the city should poison them all, he thought, tempted to blow the heads off of the squabbling pair.

Instead, he shoved the transmitter back into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone. For several long seconds, he stared at it, vacillating. He wanted to call Herr Doktor and ask whether he should remain in the Jardin du Carrousel or leave the vicinity.

But if I make the call, I’ll have to own up to my colossal failure.

Dolf bit his lip, well aware that he was knee-deep in shit without a shovel.

It was like the summer of ’92 when his thirteen-year-old sister, Annah, had been raped. While Annah refused to go to the police and identify the bastard who attacked her, Dolf had been certain that her rapist was the Turkish fruit vendor down the street. Dolf had seen the bastard eyeing his sister. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, she was like an angel, and the rape was retaliation for the apartment fire.

Determined to avenge his sister, Dolf had waited in the dark alley behind the market where the Turk sold his over-priced produce. When the Turk hauled a crate of rubbish out to the metal dumpster, Dolf sneaked up from behind and bashed him on the head with his grandfather’s truncheon. Gasping for breath, the Turk had peered at Dolf, a pleading look in his limpid brown eyes. ‘Please, who will take care of my wife and four children if you kill me? I beg you, sir! Have mercy!’

About to bash him again, Dolf hesitated. Confused. Uncertain what to do. When he had earlier fantasized about killing the Turk, it had been quick and easy. Like in the movies. He hated the fact that his enemy, the man who raped his sister, had just caused this minefield of doubt. Enraged, Dolf ended up pummelling the man with his bare fists, swinging with all the might of his 223-pound body.

The long-ago memory caused Dolf’s gut to twist into a painful knot. Afraid that he might actually puke the contents of his stomach on to the pavement, he removed a roll of antacids from his pocket.

Just as he was in the process of peeling the foil away from a pink tablet, he saw Finnegan McGuire emerge from the hedgerow and sprint towards the plaza.

Stunned by the miraculous sight, Dolf dropped the roll of antacids.

He could now make things right!

And when he did, that bastard McGuire would pay dearly for the earlier humiliation. This time Dolf would shoot the American in the kneecaps. Then, when he was incapacitated, he would beat the bastard to death with his bare hands.

Just like he did to that Turk back in Berlin.