Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 13
7th January 2025
Mapacha found Munich unlike any other city he had been to. Here, life moved with a precision that felt alien to him. People walked briskly, their outfits sharp and deliberate, their conversations clipped and purposeful. The chaos of the island, where roads seemed optional and time an abstract concept, was a distant memory. Here, order reigned. For Banou, Munich was somewhat familiar; she had been here before during her airline days. However, those trips had been tightly managed, her exposure limited to a hotel, a shopping centre, and a smattering of landmarks. This time, she was on her own, and the weight of responsibility pressed on her.
The taxi wove through the city, delivering them to Marienplatz 18 and the warmth of Gasthof zur Post, a Bavarian restaurant Banou had read about in a magazine. The atmosphere was lively yet intimate, with the aroma of hearty food mingling with the hum of conversation. Banou ordered schnitzel for both of them, her instincts guiding her. As they waited for their meal, they leaned close, speaking in hushed tones.
“So, the hotel,” Mapacha began. “It is terrible. Not a good place for. . . this sort of thing.”
“I know,” Banou replied. “It feels off, but Makhlouf picked it for a reason.”
“To watch over us? Perhaps he has someone in the hotel keeping an eye on us?”
“I do not know. Perhaps,” she admitted.
“So, do we stay or go?” Mapacha pressed.
Banou exhaled slowly.
“Look, I do not think Makhlouf means us harm. Let us stick it out for now. If things feel worse, we will figure something else out.”
Mapacha nodded but remained unconvinced.
“Do you trust Odria?”
Banou’s lips tightened, and she took a moment before answering.
“No.”
Her bluntness did not surprise him. On the drive, he had sensed her unease with Odria. At first, he thought it might just be territorial friction between women, but he now shared her misgivings. Odria presented herself one way but seemed to harbour a far more complicated nature.
“OK,” Mapacha responded. “So we keep her at a distance. But if things go sideways, what is the plan?”
“Are you asking me or testing me?” Banou shot back, arching an eyebrow. “You are the planner.”
He smirked faintly. She was not wrong, but he wanted to gauge her readiness.
“Fair. So here is my thought. We are trapped in Munich, no papers, no passports, nothing. Without thinking, we walked into this trap. I say we get as far from the city as we can, maybe closer to the Austrian border, and call Gwafa. He knows Europe.”
“You think he will fly all the way here to get us?” Banou asked sceptically.
“No. But he would know what to do. He would guide us.”
“And where would we stay? Hotels here demand ID. No ID, no room. What then? Sleep in the streets?”
Mapacha rubbed his jaw, considering.
“If I were Gwafa, I would bribe a receptionist at some dingy hotel. That is what we would do. From there, he would probably suggest crossing the border on foot. Perhaps head for Marseille and bribe our way onto a ship.”
Banou nodded slowly, letting the plan settle in her mind. As the schnitzel arrived, she ordered two cups of tea. For the first time that evening, her shoulders eased. Mapacha’s cautious pragmatism reassured her. His concerns were not just about himself. They were about her too.
After dinner, the taxi ferried them back to the hotel in silence, the city lights flickering across their faces. In their respective rooms, fatigue caught up with them quickly, and sleep came easily. Before they both slept, they had the same suspicious thought. In the quiet corridors of this hotel, unseen eyes might be watching them.
**
She was accustomed to the sound of neighbourhood children screaming as they played or the occasional roar of the ocean carrying over into her house. But it was the rapid knocking that startled her this time. Flinching, she dragged the bedspread over her head, hoping to muffle the sound. It made little difference. Her lethargic mind wrestled with why this disturbance was happening so early. She was not an early riser. Besides, the bed was far too comfortable.
“I am coming, Mapacha,” she called out groggily.
Swinging her feet to the floor, she rose unsteadily, reached for the thick white cotton dressing gown the hotel had provided, and wrapped it around her naked body. Her slow, tottering steps to the door reminded her of the times she had indulged too much in spirits, a habit she was glad to have left behind. Cracking the door open, she expected to find Mapacha's flared nostrils staring back at her, but instead, it was Odria’s brown, doe-like eyes.
“Salaam,” Odria greeted her, voice thick with sleep.
“Ola,” Banou replied, equally drowsy.
“Can I enter?”
Still surprised to see Odria so early, Banou wordlessly stepped aside, allowing her to enter. Odria made herself comfortable on the comfortable lounge chair. Banou sized her up apprehensively. A bare white T-shirt beneath a brown leather jacket, paired with brown boots and blue jeans. She could not help but admit to herself, begrudgingly, that Odria was a snappy dresser.
“Where is Mapacha?” Odria asked, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
“I assume he is still sleeping,” Banou replied.
“Get him. We need to discuss some information I have,” Odria said, pointing to the envelope she had placed on the small table.
Banou lit a cigarette, got up, and knocked on the adjoining door to Mapacha’s room. When there was no response, uncharacteristic of him, she picked up the telephone and dialled his room. After the third ring, his voice, alert as ever, answered.
“Ola, Mapacha!”
“Ola, Banou. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything is fine. Odria is here. She wants to discuss something, so come through.”
“Tudo bem? (Is everything okay?)”
“Acho que sim. (I think so.)”
Moments later, Mapacha knocked on the adjoining door before entering. He was dressed in his favourite brown flared trousers, a pale yellow shirt, and Bata bullets. His gaze fell on Odria, his nostrils flaring slightly in suspicion as he assessed the situation.
“Ola, Odria.”
“Salaam.”
Taking a seat next to her, he reached for the envelope she gestured to.
“Makhlouf had this delivered to me this morning with instructions to hand it to you in Banou’s presence, a slight change in the plan. I have not opened it and do not know what is inside, but I assume it is your briefing for the job,” Odria explained.
Mapacha picked up the envelope, testing its weight.
“Alright.”
Without further word, Odria stood and swiftly left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Mapacha glanced at Banou, searching for an explanation amidst her cigarette smoke and sleepy demeanour. She merely shrugged, clearly as baffled as he was. Carefully, he tore open the envelope and emptied its contents onto the table: a thick wad of cash, photographs, a folded map with several red circles drawn in coloured pencil, and a typed letter.
“Come, let us review this,” he called to Banou.
Reluctantly, she joined him, slumping onto the chair where Odria had sat. He quickly scanned the photos and handed them to her, studied the map, and finally read the letter. Banou, uninterested in the map or letter, counted the money.
“What does it say?” she asked, a cigarette dangling from her lips.
“The man in the photos is Ludwig Falkenhain, a former German general from the war. Makhlouf’s people believe he is here,” Mapacha replied, pointing to a marked area on the map. “The money is for expenses.”
“10,000 marks,” Banou remarked, impressed. “Makhlouf is not playing around.”
Mapacha noticed her robe had slipped open, revealing her belly and part of her breast. He averted his gaze uncomfortably.
“Take a shower, get dressed, and we will go over the details over breakfast,” he said firmly.
Crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, Banou handed the money back to him, her robe still carelessly loose.
“Ten minutes.”
Mapacha packed the items back into the envelope and returned to his room. While Banou showered, he carefully studied the map, committing its every detail to memory, roads, connections, exits, everything. When she entered his room unceremoniously, still damp and slightly dishevelled, he was prepared.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” she replied, her larger-than-life afro defying all attempts to tame it. She was dressed casually in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, a grey jacket, and black Bata bullets.
Downstairs, breakfast was a quiet affair. Banou indulged in Eierkuchen, pancakes topped with strawberries, apple slices, and syrup, accompanied by tea. Mapacha opted for Bauernfrühstück, a hearty mix of potatoes, onions, ham, and eggs, paired with strong tea.
“So,” he began, “Makhlouf’s plan is simple. We head to this neighbourhood called Grünwald, where there is a spa called Kurhotel. Ludwig frequents it for medical reasons. Once we spot him, we tail him to ascertain where he lives, his routine, and his associates.”
“Sounds like Tangier,” Banou observed.
“Similar, but harder. We stand out here. We need to blend in, pick discreet spots in cafés, and avoid lingering in the street.”
“And when we find him?”
“We wait for an opportunity, ideally at his residence. If the hamsa is not there, we will extract the location from him, even if it means taking him.”
“And if he does not talk?”
Mapacha’s silence was ominous.
“He will.”
Banou frowned at the thought. “How can we find him with photos this old? Thirty years can change someone completely.”
“We will do our best. But this could take weeks, Banou.”
Her disappointment was palpable.
“Weeks? I thought it would be ten days max.”
“Let us see how it goes.”
Banou sighed and resigned. After breakfast, she secured her gun in the hotel safe, while Mapacha bought an updated map from reception. Together, they hailed a taxi to Grünwald.