Passenger 23 Read online

  PASSENGER

  23

  SEBASTIAN

  FITZEK

  PASSENGER

  23

  translated from the German by

  Jamie Bulloch

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in Germany as Passagier 23 in 2014 by Droemer Knaur

  First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Passagier 23 copyright © 2014 Verlagsgruppe Droemer Knaur GmbH & Co. KG, Munich, Germany

  Translation © 2021 Jamie Bulloch

  The moral right of Sebastian Fitzek to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781838935795

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781838935801

  ISBN (E): 9781838934521

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  In memory of my mother, Christa Fitzek

  Coffee later!

  Since 2000 at least 200 passengers and crew members have gone overboard on cruise ships and ferries worldwide.

  ‘Vanished without trace’,

  Tagesspiegel, 25/8/2013

  Cruise ships are like small cities. But […] no one falls off a city never to be heard of again.

  US Senator Christopher Shays,

  Guardian, 2007

  Record passenger numbers: the cruise ship industry has broken the 20 million barrier. […] The sector is celebrating a growth of ten per cent and believes that much untapped potential still exists.

  Spiegel Online, 11/9/2012

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  About this book and thanks

  Epilogue

  About the author

  About the translator

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Prologue

  Human blood:

  • 44 per cent haematocrit

  • 55 per cent plasma

  • And a one hundred per cent mess when it spurts uncontrollably around the room from a punctured artery.

  The doctor, as he liked to call himself, even though he’d never completed a PhD, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. This only smeared the spatters of blood, which must have looked pretty revolting. But at least the stuff wasn’t dripping into his eye any more, like last year when for six weeks after treating the prostitute, he’d been terrified that he’d contracted HIV, hepatitis C or some other horrific disease.

  He hated it when things didn’t go according to plan. When there was the wrong dose of anaesthetic. Or the chosen ones offered resistance at the last moment and ripped the cannula from their arm.

  ‘Please don’t… no,’ his client slurred. The doctor preferred this term. Chosen one was too pretentious, while patient sounded wrong to him, because only very few of the people he treated were properly ill. Like most of them, the man lying there now was as fit as a fiddle, even though at this moment he looked as if he’d been wired up to the mains. The black athlete rolled his eyes, frothed at the mouth and arched his back as he struggled in desperation to escape the shackles pinning him to the surgical bed. He was a well-toned sportsman and, at twenty-four years old, at the height of his physical prowess. But what use were all those years of hard training when an anaesthetic was coursing through his veins? Not enough to knock him out completely, for the cannula had been wrenched off, but enough at any rate that the doctor was easily able to push him back down onto the bed once the worst of the fit had passed. And since he’d managed to apply a tourniquet, the blood had stopped spraying out.

  ‘Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh.’

  He placed his hand on the man’s forehead to comfort him. It felt feverish and the sweat glistened under the halogen lamp.

  ‘What on earth is wrong with you?’

  The client opened his mouth. Fear sprung from his pupils like a jackknife. It was hard to make out what he was saying. ‘I… don’t… want… to… d…’

  ‘But we agreed,’ the doctor said with a reassuring smile. ‘Everything has been arranged. Don’t go backing out now, just before the perfect death.’

  He looked to the side, peering through the open door at the instrument table in the neighbouring room. He saw the scalpels as well as the electric bone cutter, plugged in and ready for use.

  ‘Didn’t I explain it to you clearly enough?’ He sighed. Of course he had. For hours on end. Again and again, but this ungrateful fool simply hadn’t grasped it.

  ‘Of course it’s going to get rather unpleasant. But I can only let you die in this way. It won’t work otherwise.’

  The athlete whimpered and yanked at the straps around his wrists, albeit with far less force than before.

  The doctor noted with satisfaction that the anaesthetic was now having its desired effect. Not long now and the treatment could begin.

  ‘You see, I could break it off here,’ he said, one hand still on the sportsman’s forehead, the other adjusting his face mask. ‘But what would your life be after that? Nothing but fear and pain. Indescribable pain.’

&n
bsp; The black man blinked. His breathing became calmer.

  ‘I showed you the photos. And the video. The one with the corkscrew and the half eye. Surely you don’t want anything like that, do you?’

  ‘Hmhmhmhmhmmm,’ the client groaned, as if his mouth were gagged. Then his facial muscles slackened and his breathing grew shallower.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “No”,’ the doctor said, unlocking the brake of the bed with his foot, to roll his client into the neighbouring room.

  Into the operating theatre.

  *

  Forty-five minutes later the first and most important part of the treatment was finished. The doctor wasn’t wearing latex gloves any more or a face mask, and he’d thrown the green disposable apron, which had to be tied behind the back like a straitjacket, into the rubbish chute. But now, in his dinner jacket and dark patent leather shoes, he felt far more dressed up than in his operating outfit.

  Dressed up and tipsy.

  He couldn’t remember when he’d started allowing himself a snifter after every successful treatment. Or ten, as now. Christ, he had to stop, even though he never touched a drop beforehand, only after. Still. The hooch made him reckless.

  Gave him silly thoughts.

  Such as taking the leg with him.

  Giggling, he looked at his watch.

  It was 20.33; he had to hurry if he was going to make the main course in time. He’d already missed the starter. But before he could devote himself to the guinea fowl that was on today’s menu, he had to get rid of the organic waste – the blood he didn’t need and the right lower leg, which he’d sawn off directly below the knee with a splendidly clean cut.

  He’d wrapped the leg in a compostable plastic bag, which was so heavy he had to carry it with both hands as he made his way across the stairwell.

  The doctor felt woozy, but he was still sufficiently in control to realise that, had he been sober, he’d never have entertained the idea of carrying around body parts in public rather than just tossing them into the incinerator. But he’d been so infuriated by his client that this bit of fun was worth the risk. And it was a low risk. Very low.

  A gale warning had been issued. Once he’d negotiated the intricate route – the narrow shaft you had to crouch in, the corridor with the yellow ventilation pipes that led to the goods lift – he wouldn’t come across a soul.

  And the place he’d chosen to dispose of the leg wouldn’t be caught on any camera either.

  I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.

  Having reached the final section, the level at the top of the steps which were only ever used by maintenance, and once a month at most, he pulled open a heavy door with a porthole window.

  A strong wind whipped into his face and it felt as if he were having to push against a wall to get outside.

  The fresh air made his blood pressure drop. He felt sick at first, but soon recovered, and the salty tang of the wind began to revive him.

  Now it was no longer the alcohol making him sway, but the powerful sea swell, which thanks to the stabilisers hadn’t been so palpable inside the Sultan of the Seas.

  With his legs apart he staggered across the planks. He was on deck 8½, an intermediate level that only existed for aesthetic reasons. Viewed from a distance it made the rear of the cruise ship appear more streamlined, like a spoiler on a sports car.

  Arriving at the furthest tip of the stern on the port side, the doctor leaned over the railings. Beneath him raged the Indian Ocean. The headlights pointing backwards illuminated the white foamy peaks formed in the wake of the liner.

  He’d actually wanted to say some last words, something like ‘Hasta la vista, baby’ or ‘Ready when you are’, but nothing amusing came to mind so he silently threw the bag with the leg overboard in a high arc.

  I somehow imagined that was going to feel more exhilarating, he thought, slowly regaining his sobriety.

  The wind tore so loudly at his ears that he couldn’t hear the leg slapping against the waves fifty metres below him. But he did hear the voice that came from behind.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He spun around.

  The person who’d given him the fright of his life wasn’t an adult employee, thank God – someone from security, for example – but a young girl, no older than the little one whose family he’d treated a couple of years ago on the west coast of Africa. She was sitting cross-legged beside the box of an air conditioning system, or some other kind of unit. The doctor was less of an expert in technology than he was in knives.

  As the girl was so small and the surroundings so dark he’d failed to notice her. Even now, staring into the darkness, he could only make out her silhouette.

  ‘I’m feeding the fish,’ he said, pleased that he sounded considerably calmer than he felt. Although the girl wasn’t a physical threat, he could do without her as a witness.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ she asked. She was wearing a light-coloured dress with dark tights and an anorak on top. For safety she’d put on the red life jacket that was in the cupboard in every cabin.

  Good girl.

  ‘No,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I’m fine. What’s your name?’

  His eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom.

  The girl had shoulder-length hair and ears that stuck out slightly, although this didn’t mar her appearance. On the contrary. He bet that if you saw her in the light, you’d be able to appreciate the striking woman she would be one day.

  ‘I’m called Anouk Lamar.’

  ‘Anouk? That’s the French diminutive of Anna, isn’t it?’

  The girl smiled. ‘Wow, you knew that?’

  ‘I know a lot of things.’

  ‘Really? So do you know why I’m sitting here?’ she said boldly.

  Because she had to speak loudly against the wind her voice rose to a high pitch.

  ‘You’re drawing the sea,’ the doctor said.

  She hugged the pad of paper to her chest and grinned. ‘That was easy. What else do you know?’

  ‘That you’ve no business being here and ought to have been in bed long ago. Where are your parents?’

  She sighed. ‘My father’s dead. And I don’t know where my mum is. She often leaves me alone at night in the cabin.’

  ‘And you find that boring?’

  She nodded. ‘She never gets back till late and then she stinks.’ Her voice went quiet. ‘Of smoke. And drink. And she snores.’

  The doctor couldn’t help laughing. ‘Grown-ups do that sometimes.’

  You ought to hear me. He pointed to her pad. ‘Have you been able to draw anything at all today?’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There were beautiful stars out yesterday, but it’s all dark tonight.’

  ‘And cold,’ the doctor said in agreement. ‘How about we take a look for your mummy?’

  Anouk shrugged. She didn’t appear particularly enamoured of the idea, but said, ‘Okay, why not?’

  She managed to stand from the cross-legged position without using her hands. ‘Sometimes she’s in the casino,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that’s handy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know a short cut there,’ the doctor said, smiling.

  He cast a final glance over the railings at the sea, which at this point was so deep that the athlete’s leg probably hadn’t yet reached the ocean floor, then he took the girl’s hand and led her back to the staircase he’d just come from.

  1

  Berlin

  The house that was the venue for the deadly party looked like the kind of place they’d once dreamed of. Detached, with a red-tiled roof and a large front garden behind the white picket fence. Here they would have had barbecues at weekends and in summer put an inflatable pool on the lawn. He’d have invited friends and they’d have chatted to each other about their jobs, their partners’ quirks or just lain on loungers beneath the umbrella, watching the children play.

  Nadja and he had looked at just such a house a
t the time when Timmy was starting school. Four rooms, two bathrooms, a fireplace. With cream-coloured plasterwork and green shutters. Not far from here, on the boundary between Westend and Spandau, and a mere five-minute bike ride to the primary school where Nadja was teaching at the time. A stone’s throw from the sports ground where his son could have played football. Or tennis. Or whatever.

  They hadn’t been able to afford it.

  Now there was nobody to move house with. Nadja and Timmy were both dead.

  And the twelve-year-old boy in the house they were monitoring, which belonged to a man called Detlev Pryga, would be dead soon too if they wasted any more time out here in the black van.

  ‘I’m going in,’ Martin Schwartz announced. He was sitting inside the windowless rear of the panel van. Having injected himself with a milky fluid, he tossed the used syringe into a plastic bin. Then he stood up from the monitoring console, on its screen the external view of the building. His face was reflected in the vehicle’s tinted panes. I look like a junkie in withdrawal, Martin thought. That was an insult. To every junkie.

  He’d lost weight in the past few years, more than you could call healthy. Only his nose was as plump as it had ever been. The Schwartz conk, which for generations all male descendants of the family had been endowed with, and which his late wife had found sexy – the ultimate proof, he thought, that love does make you blind. If anything, his hooter gave him a kindly, trustworthy look. From time to time strangers would nod at him in the street; babies smiled when he bent over a pram (probably because they mistook him for a clown) and women flirted with him quite openly, sometimes even in the presence of their partners.

  Well, they certainly wouldn’t be doing that today, not while he was in these clothes. The tight-fitting leather jacket he’d squeezed himself into made unpleasant creaking noises even when he breathed. As he moved to get out it sounded as if he was trying to tie up a huge balloon.

  ‘Stop, wait!’ said Armin Kramer, who was in charge of the operation and had been sitting opposite him at the computer table for hours.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For—’

  Kramer’s mobile rang, preventing him from finishing his sentence.