The other Judas E-Book

Oliver J. Petry

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Fire investigator and former legionnaire Jean Sarre is called to the scene of an accident and discovers that the wrecked car was not involved in an accident at all, but was the target of an arson attack. This is the beginning of an investigation that takes on ever greater proportions. The involvement of a not always very diligent detective, a corrupt building contractor, several petty criminals, an unscrupulous doctor, and some gorgeous women makes for an explosive mix!

Leseprobe

“The Other Judas” is invoked above all in difficult and hopeless situations.

Believers who implore the apostle for help often report miracles.

Saint Jude Thaddeus is considered the patron saint of impossible causes and a great helper in difficult situations.

Jean Sarre, an expert and former legionnaire, uncovers criminal activities in northern Spain.

He quickly finds himself caught up in a vicious circle of greed, power, sex, and violence.

But the antihero knows from experience that heavenly assistance can't hurt.

In loving memory of Elke and Hanna

Fire investigator and former legionnaire Jean Sarre is called to the scene of an accident and discovers that the wrecked car was not involved in an accident at all, but was the target of an arson attack. This is the beginning of an investigation that takes on ever greater proportions. The involvement of a not always very diligent detective, a corrupt building contractor, several petty criminals, an unscrupulous doctor, and some gorgeous women makes for an explosive mix!

About the author:

Oliver J. Petry was born in Saarbrücken in 1965 and has remained loyal to his Saarland homeland to this day. The automotive test engineer and expert runs a small testing center in northern Saarland. His exciting short stories and novels are influenced by his love of technology, music, nature, animals, and art.

Prologue

In the pale yellow spotlight, the winding road between Roses and Cadaqués seemed somehow unreal but largely safe. No wonder, since in the dark it was difficult to see that in places the road dropped almost 230 feet. The driver of the large silver limousine was in a better mood than he had been in a long time, and melodic rock music was playing on the car radio. He had finally made it. Gerard now had enough money to settle down for good. All he had to do now was pick up his lover and get out of Spain.

“Somehow damn romantic, almost like Shakespeare!” he thought to himself with a grin and turned up the volume of »Liquid Love« a notch.

Gerard Brieaux was a man in his late thirties who often sent women into raptures. The well-groomed, southern European type with shoulder-length jet-black hair epitomized the “Latin lover” cliché and was often told how much he looked like the actor Antonio Banderas. Without this asset, Gerard would have had a very difficult time in recent years. His work as an investigative journalist wasn’t working out as he had hoped. Moreover, there wasn’t much money to be made as a photographer.

Two years ago, he had been scraping by as a celebrity photographer.

But then he made a serious mistake that disqualified him from this profession as well.

At the time, he was following a Hollywood diva in Barcelona. Foolishly, it turned out to be a movie double who led him a merry dance. It didn’t take long before he was the target of ridicule and scorn. After the shitstorm on the internet had subsided, Gerard had lost this career prospect and, moreover, had no more income. That’s why he couldn’t help but let a few wealthy ladies maintain him from time to time. After all, his life, or rather his exclusive lifestyle, had to be maintained. Gerard had never enjoyed having a regular job. Even as a child, he had his head in the clouds and created his own glamorous dream world. Let the others slave away. He was definitely too good for that. Since fine feathers make fine birds, as we all know, and the athletically ambitious Gerard rarely had any money in his pocket, he let well-off and unsatisfied women dress him so that they could then undress him again. Pretending to be in love had never really bothered him. He was only too happy to be fed. After all, he paid back in kind, so to speak. But when he met this dark-haired beauty at a charity party, it was supposed to be over. Besides, with her help, he had caught the big fish.

Gerard suddenly began to shiver and turned the heating up two notches. That damn electric sunroof hadn’t closed properly for a few days. “Never mind,” he thought, since he only needed the old BMW tonight. Everything would be fine, because he and his sweetheart would be in the Caribbean tomorrow anyway.

Out of nowhere, a single headlight suddenly appeared behind his car. Gerard was blinded for a moment by the glare in his rearview mirror and frantically flipped it up. Seconds later, someone started to pass him. “What a madman, and with these sharp curves,” he thought as a motorcycle roared past him. Gerard was still annoyed about the reckless overtaking maneuver when he suddenly saw the bike standing unattended at the side of the road. Just before a dangerous left turn, he began to brake and wondered whether he should back up. At that moment, Gerard saw a person running toward him with something flickering in their hands. Brieaux was startled and wanted to stop, but then, out of nowhere, something bright flew into his car. Within milliseconds, the interior of the car was on fire and blood was running down his forehead. Something had cut him. Warm blood blurred his vision. There was fire everywhere. The last thing Gerard could think was, “He should never have come back!” The large silver sedan crashed through the guardrail, burst into flames, rolled over, and plunged unstoppably into the rocky, black depths.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1: Tramuntana

CHAPTER 2: The discovery and the opportunities

CHAPTER 3: The collision and falling in love

CHAPTER 4: Frost Angel and the hunting moon

CHAPTER 5: The bad decision

CHAPTER 6: The Blackmail and the video

CHAPTER 7: Cadaqués

CHAPTER 8: Unprofessional

CHAPTER 9: Desire for revenge

CHAPTER 10: Fuerteventura

CHAPTER 11: Back in Catalonia

CHAPTER 12: on the hunt

CHAPTER 13: Sins of the past

CHAPTER 14: Prayer before the attack

CHAPTER 15: Africa – the amulet

CHAPTER 16: The chaos begins

CHAPTER 17: Juanito has to bleed

CHAPTER 18: far away but not safe yet

CHAPTER 19: It’ll be alright (epilogue)

CHAPTER 1: Tramuntana

“Damn Tramuntana, I feel like I've been sandblasted,” thought Jean as he placed a large metal bowl of fresh water in front of the lean but muscular dog. The Doberman immediately began lapping up the cool water noisily.

With a broad smile, the pale man opened an ice-cold can of San Miguel. “I really needed that,” he thought as he took big gulps of the Spanish beer. Then he threw open the balcony door. Unlike the front of the house, the veranda seemed largely sheltered from the wind.

Outside the pool, a large calf bone lay in the afternoon sun. “Looks kind of strange,” he mused, but at the same time his dog already had the chunky bone in its mouth.

“Boy, where have you been hiding that thing all this time? Come back into the shade quickly!” The dog immediately dropped his toy. Then he lay down in front of Jean and waited for a new command. Maybe he was just adoring the human. Arthos loved his master. After all, the man had rescued him from extremely poor conditions. Not so long ago, the Doberman male, who had spent his youth on a chain, was considered unadoptable. It was only by chance that the two came together about two years ago, and they had been inseparable ever since.

After spreading out a Catalan daily newspaper in front of him, Jean began to read. Two minutes later, he put it down in annoyance and went to the pool. It was simply too hot to concentrate on any business news. Besides, he was thinking about his life so far. The man looked at his dog and suddenly had the same long face.

He was born almost 48 years ago in a small village near the French border. Although he had somehow managed his life so far, he had rarely been truly satisfied. It was high time to “take a break” again. Jean Sarre had worked almost everywhere, including some time in rainy Germany. Among other things, he had been an expert in fire damage.

You earned a reasonable salary and had a more or less easy job. However, the economic and social situation in your old home country was deteriorating rapidly. In addition, more and more people were simply being made redundant so that share prices and dividends could continue to rise. Here in northern Spain, you could do the same job for an insurance company. At least you liked the climate and the Mediterranean lifestyle of the people much better.

Jean Sarre was of medium height, middle age, and moderately good-looking. He often felt mediocre. That was what bothered him most about himself at the moment. But ultimately, he could be satisfied with his current life. At least that's what he kept telling himself.

Years ago, he had imagined his life would be different; classic... with a wife, children... well, at least he had a dog. And he could feel responsible for him, at least.

With temperatures still above 86 degrees in the shade, he was glad to have rented a house with a small outdoor pool. He was still enjoying this luxury to the fullest.

Suddenly, his cell phone rang. The black and brown dog jumped up and barked. Cursing under his breath, he climbed out of the pool, dripping wet, and picked up the phone with his still wet hands ...“Sarre!”

“Hola Señor Sarre,” said a bright female voice on the other end. ‘Perdón for disturbing you on a Sunday ... And I see you have 14 days’ vacation starting the day after tomorrow. I wish I did. Anyway ... Can you head straight to Cadaqués first thing tomorrow morning? Last night, a car from GI 614 crashed into a ravine there. You know the winding road ... Please examine the vehicle; it's completely burned out ...

The driver is dead, by the way. It's terrible ... a Frenchman, a photographer ... You'll drive there ... the police, Señor Inspector Ruiz ... he'll be in touch with you ... Hasta luego y Gracias!”

After assuring the clerk that he would be there at around 8:00 a.m. the next morning, Sarre placed his wet smartphone on the white table. He grabbed a large, dark blue bath towel and began to dry himself off, thinking about his current workload. At the moment, he couldn't complain about a lack of work. He had only been back in the country for a few months and was busy with work almost every day.

But on weekends, he took the time to explore the area with Arthos and improve his language skills. He also loved music more than anything else. When he wasn't listening to well-made rock music, he picked up his acoustic guitar. He would strum a few chords or even try his hand at a solo.

Jean went into the house, picked up the newspaper, and threw it with gusto into the floor-standing file holder, also known as the wastebasket. Next, he picked up his old Gibson J45. He played a few chords in succession on the acoustic guitar. “Am, Em, Am, G, C, F, Em, Am, G, F, Em, Am.”

It reminded him of a spaghetti western in which an aging gunslinger, played by Henry Fonda, had to take on a superior force known as the “Wild Bunch.” The brilliant Ennio Morricone had covered Richard Wagner's “Ride of the Valkyries” and even freshened it up with car horns. The whole thing was downright epic!

He played the theme three or four times. But when Arthos whined softly, he put his beloved instrument back in its battered case.

“Hahaha ... All right, Okay boy! I'll stop strumming, Arthos!”

Jean laughed as he closed the guitar case.

The dog watched Jean with interest and then began to yawn profusely. The expert couldn't help but smile at his unmusical Doberman, although the dog's yawning could of course also be a signal of appeasement.

However, Jean was now yawning too and felt a certain tiredness coming on. So he would have to go to bed earlier tonight after all. Best right after dinner. After all, he had to be reasonably fit tomorrow.

About twelve miles away, at about the same time, Juan Falgas was also swimming in his pool. The difference was that this swimming pool was more the size of a public outdoor pool. It was simply huge and you could swim laps wonderfully. The well-trained man, almost 58 years old, stepped lightly out of the water and flicked a switch.

It took no more than 30 seconds for one of his servants to run down the steps to the pool with a large bath towel. As soon as the butler had handed the towel to his “jefe,” he had to listen to a few insults.

“Oye cabrón, where's my Rioja and my Cohibas? You idiots should know the days of the week by now. Today is Sunday, and what are you wannabe servants supposed to bring me on a Sunday evening? Mierda, vete tonto, now run and fetch it before I kick your lame ass!”

After the frightened servant had climbed the stairs to the main house again, amid a torrent of abuse, the aggression turned to the pretty dark-haired woman on the other side of the pool.

“It's all your fault, Mercedes! How do you pick our staff? You're just as weak as your father! All you can do is look pretty!”

The extremely pretty woman showed no reaction. She knew that this would get her nowhere with her sometimes choleric husband. So she swallowed and tried to think of better days.

Her Juanito used to be completely different. Nice, polite, and always respectful toward others. Her father had found his “dream son-in-law” in him, and it wasn't long before the old patriarch signed over the entire company to him.

Today, Mercedes Falgas, née Leon, knew that love really could be blind. She just wanted to get away.

Besides, she was even sadder than usual because she was expecting a call from a man who could free her from her constant fear. But the call was long overdue.

During his lifetime, her father Pedro Leon saw only the good in people. After making a fortune as a first-time entrepreneur in the construction industry, he supported all kinds of charitable organizations. He built small hospitals, nursing homes, and schools, especially in the neighboring Pyrenees, to provide basic mental and medical care for the inhabitants.

He himself came from one of these small, isolated mountain farming villages and knew the locals and their problems only too well. But then, just under two years ago, Pedro Leon suffered a sudden and severe heart attack, which the “big property tycoon” did not survive.

On Monday morning, around 5:30 a.m., a still tired Jean and his large Doberman were already out and about on the deserted beach. Here in Empuriabrava, dogs were officially not allowed on the beach or on any green spaces. Prohibition signs with the words “No Perros” (No Dogs) were now posted everywhere. Jean Sarre wondered where all the dogs in town were supposed to go.

Sure, who wants to step in dog poop all the time? But a responsible dog owner always carries a plastic bag to dispose of their pet's waste in a suitable place.

Despite the general ban, Sarre knew where the “dog spots” were. After all, he had spent a lot of his free time in the Bay of Roses. Jean and, most likely, Arthos were particularly fond of the wild beach between the mouth of the Muga River and the fishing village of San Pere de Pescador.

Behind it lay the Aiguamolls bird sanctuary.

When you walked for miles on the fine-grained sand there, you really didn't feel like you were in an area overrun by tourists. Thankfully, over the years, the Spanish had also realized that nature conservation and species protection were important tasks that ultimately shaped the face of the Costa Brava, the “wild coast.”

This area was more or less new to the five-year-old male dog. So he stopped more often than usual to sniff the air. His owner made sure he didn't do anything stupid, but even dogs need to “read the paper.”

After Jean had breakfast on his porch—well, you couldn't exactly call the double cortado and Lucky Strike ‘breakfast’—he took care of Arthos. ”Okay, buddy. You stay right here and leave the leather couch alone!” Jean couldn't help but grin when the dog growled softly, as if to say, “You can't do anything here!”

Jean grabbed his work gear and drove his old SUV out of the driveway.

Then he got out again to lock the large iron gate. It was actually relatively unnecessary to lock it because Arthos was standing guard.

Well, Jean simply loved double security measures. Perhaps that was one of the reasons for his secure but also dull and currently unspectacular life.

Several years ago, he wanted, or rather had to, leave uncomfortable Germany. At that time, however, it would have been much riskier for him to settle in a foreign country. But now he had planned his “exit” and done it. Probably, though, other factors had given him the final push.

Whatever the case, Jean Sarre had lost the only person he could really talk to about anything almost two years ago. His long-time girlfriend had suddenly become terminally ill, and within a few weeks, pancreatic cancer had won.

He often thought back to the wonderful and far too short time he had spent with Inga, a Swedish woman. He usually lit one cigarette after another defiantly and lost in thought.

Soon he had left urbanization behind him on his way to the hinterland. “It's very quiet here. It would be nice if everything wasn't so burnt,” he thought to himself, and the expert knew, of course, that it wasn't naive tourists who were behind it, but the construction mafia. Unscrupulous profiteers who put people in danger and deliberately destroyed nature just to get cheap building land.

A name that often came up in this context was “Falgas,” but these were only unconfirmed rumors.

When he arrived at the scene of the accident, the police and a tow truck were already there.

He parked his SUV behind the recovery vehicle, but before he could get out, a blond man came up to him, fuming with rage.

“You there, get out of here! This is a police operation. Go away! Journalists are not allowed here, take your photos somewhere else!”

“Hold on a minute, I'm Jean Sarre, the Estrella Insurance assessor, not some newspaper hack!” Jean replied to the man in front of him.

Suddenly, the policeman with the stringy hair and huge nose became meek, and the annoyed Jean realized that the whole thing was very embarrassing for the law enforcement officer.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Señor Sarre, I thought you were one of those 'newspaper hacks'. I'm Inspector Carlos Ruiz and I thought you wouldn't be coming to the workshop in Figueres until later.

Besides, I wasn't expecting you so early.

As you can see, we're recovering the burned-out BMW 7 Series. The dead Frenchman, or rather what's left of him, has been at the Girona coroner's office since Sunday morning,” said the burly man almost quietly, and Jean's pulse rate slowly returned to normal.

In the meantime, a few gawkers had gathered to watch the recovery with euphoria.

Rubbernecks stopped behind the recovery vehicle and looked down into the ravine through binoculars and cameras. Jean Sarre gave Carlos Ruiz a nod, and the inspector shouted out some instructions.

The police immediately cordoned off half the street. Then they began to disperse the onlookers with force.

Jean wanted to light a cigarette and searched desperately for a lighter in his Bermuda shorts.

The inspector pulled a brass storm lighter from his pants pocket and handed it to him. “Take it and keep it, I've just quit smoking. You know, -fumar puede matar-,” Carlos Ruiz remarked with a grin.

Jean smiled, thanked him politely, and after a brief briefing, the two set off on the arduous journey to the scene of the accident.

The expert was glad to have arrived just in time before a rescue team could attach heavy ropes to the wrecked car.

The burnt-out wreck lay about 55 yards below the bend in the road, between two rocks, on its roof. The driver of the formerly silver BMW had apparently lost control of his car in a left-hand bend. The car must have shot through the guardrail, plunged into the ravine, rolled over several times, and then burned out.

After Jean Sarre had examined the car, taken photos for evidence, and climbed back up the mountain, he began to feel a certain hunger. No wonder, considering the “opulent meal” he had prepared for himself that morning.

He was also worried about Arthos and the new leather couch. So he drove home pretty quickly.

After a typical single person's meal consisting of a reheated pizza that was just past its expiration date, he took care of his homework. First, he transferred the digital photos to his laptop. Then he called the auto repair shop to make a second appointment to have the car inspected on the lift.

The photos had turned out well, but he noticed a bright spot on one of them that he couldn't quite explain. Something was reflecting the sun's rays. He enlarged the image but still couldn't make out what it was. Maybe a tin, a coin, or something similar? Slowly but surely, his curiosity got the better of him.

Once again, Jean thought of the old spaghetti western. Henry Fonda was only able to defeat the galloping villains because the silver stars on their saddlebags reflected the sun. The bags contained sticks of dynamite, of all things. Fonda, alias Jack Beauregard, only had to aim at the flashes of light to pulverize the “Wild Bunch.” Now he remembered the title of the film. A Sergio Leone western from 1973, which was released in theaters under the name “My Name is Nobody.” Of course, the sly Terence Hill, alias Nobody, had a starring role in the film. Jean liked these old “spaghetti westerns.”

A good two hours later, he set off again for the scene of the accident. He parked his car in a nearby parking bay, climbed over the battered guardrail, and scrambled laboriously down the slope. By the time he reached the bottom, he was completely drenched in sweat. No wonder, because at around 1:00 p.m., the sun was beating down mercilessly once again.

CHAPTER 2: The discovery and the opportunities

It took a while, but he found what he was looking for. Beneath a rock lay a brown suede bag with chrome clasps. He quickly stuffed it into his backpack and started back down the slope.

When he looked up at the mountain, he saw that a car was parked behind his. Sarre could easily see that it was a police car.

With a strange feeling in his stomach and lots of excuses in his head, he started the climb.

But when he reached the top, his car was standing there all alone. Jean felt somehow guilty. He wondered if it wouldn't be better to take the bag to the police station right away. On the other hand, he could always do that later. So the expert placed it under the driver's seat of his SUV and drove off to do some shopping.

In the afternoon, Jean sat on his porch with the leather bag on the white plastic table in front of him. “Let's see what's inside; I feel like a little boy on Christmas Eve,” he thought to himself, while Arthos yawned quietly. When he emptied the bag, however, he was quite disappointed. The only interesting thing was a small key. It must have belonged to a locker. Based on a crumpled gas station receipt, he guessed it was from the Barcelona airport.

He also found a brochure for a construction company. And a note with a phone number and the initials “MF.”

Should he take the bag to Police Inspector Ruiz in the morning? That would probably be best! But he could also drive to the airport tomorrow. Just to see if his guess was right. He thought and thought. What could the dead Frenchman have left behind that was so valuable? But Jean had become too curious. Besides, he had business to attend to in Barcelona anyway.

Two years earlier, Juan Falgas was already the largest construction contractor in the region. However, at least among the common people, he was not nearly as respected as his late father-in-law. No wonder, because since Pedro Leon's death, Juan had completely changed his life, both privately and professionally. He made a name for himself in the construction business in no time. And when people today spoke reverently about the kind-hearted “Don Pedro,” they whispered only quietly about the distinguished but devious Juan.

There were many stories about the “construction magnate” Falgas and his dubious business dealings, but everything was said behind closed doors. He was said to have connections to the Spanish royal family, to tolerate no dissent, and that anyone who got in his way would suffer.

There was a constant buzz of rumors surrounding Juan Falgas.

Of course, there was also a lot of envy. His employees and workers earned above the standard wage, but in return they had to put up with his mood swings.

At least some of them did, because Falgas had also brought in some Colombian workers in the past.

Shortly before the illegal immigrants were discovered, Juan received a tip from a good friend in the public prosecutor's office.

Now the nursing homes, high up in the inaccessible mountains, were finally paying off. No one would suspect the cheap laborers there. However, the Colombians were now costing him money every day, and he was constantly thinking about what to do with the isolated workers.

About three weeks after the “evacuation,” he had a brilliant idea, of all places, at the Peralada golf club. His old school friend, District Attorney Rodriguez, was once again complaining to him about his troubles. His son Franco Junior was suffering from a serious kidney disease and, despite dialysis treatment, had no chance of survival without a donor.

“What would you do if I got a new kidney for your son?”

The prosecutor was taken aback. “How are you going to do that? You can't get one anywhere in Spain at the moment!”

“One good turn deserves another, Franco! You gave me a tip, now it's my turn to do you a favor!”

“Get me all the medical records, I'll take care of the rest.”

The next morning, right after breakfast, Juan Falgas drove his Porsche Cabriolet into the mountains. He had actually considered contacting the chief physician beforehand. But the matter was simply too sensitive to be dealt with over the phone.

When he arrived in Vidasacra around noon, he was already quite irritated.

Even the fast Porsche was useless on the narrow, pothole-ridden roads. He had managed to overtake a few trucks, but Juan and his brand-new 911 Turbo could have done without that “thrill.”

Besides, he couldn't get the old woman out of his head. About halfway there, she was standing there, dressed all in black, waving at him from the side of the road. Apparently, the frail old lady wanted to hitchhike because she suddenly staggered onto the road.

Juan honked wildly, swerved to avoid the woman, and said goodbye rather rudely with his middle finger extended.

He almost ruined one of his expensive Cup rims in the evasive maneuver.

Falgas would never have picked up that old hag. His sports car was definitely too chic for that. He only allowed women who were well past menopause to sit on the leather seats of his Porsche.

Juan Falgas was an utterly unempathetic upstart who would have betrayed and sold his own mother. And that wasn't all, for sure!

Back then, once Juan was sure he was his father-in-law's favorite, he came up with a sneaky plan. As soon as the old patriarch signed over his company, he had to leave, and fast. After all, it wasn't that unusual for people to die shortly after retiring. A friend gave Juan a great idea. In a botanical garden, Falgas found what he was looking for: the "Blue Monkshood". Aconite, the main active ingredient found in all parts of the plant, was already popular with assassins in the Middle Ages. The root tubers of monkshood are particularly poisonous. Even when dried, the lethal dose for an adult is only one to two grams. Juan, the “dream son-in-law,” invited his father-in-law to a golf match in Peralada. After letting Don Pedro beat him, the two men wanted to celebrate the beautiful day a little longer. Pedro Leon was generous, and they ate and drank without worrying about money. Half an hour after the first drink, Don Pedro was dead.

“At this time of day, I'm sure to find the fat Dr. Kremer doing his favorite thing,” thought the building contractor, and made his way to the hospital cafeteria.

Dr. Eugenio Kremer was just tucking into his second helping when Falgas greeted him with a smile. ”Hola Doctor, you look well. I have something important to discuss with you. Let's go to your office, where we'll have some peace and quiet. Come on!”

Doc Kremer was a tall, pale man who weighed almost 440 pounds. He looked a bit like an unkempt teddy bear. His small, dark button eyes, which looked huge behind his thick black horn-rimmed glasses, reinforced this impression.

The doctor didn't like being disturbed while he was eating. But after all, the uninvited guest was his financial backer. So a forced smile appeared on his thick lips.

“Ah, my friend, dear Señor Falgas, how can I help you … just spit it out,” replied the doctor in a high falsetto voice that didn't suit the big man at all.

After Falgas had explained his plan to the doctor, there was silence in the well-air-conditioned room for a while.

“Oh really? A kidney transplant and an unwilling donor. I need a drink first... Would you like one?” Juan Falgas knew that Doctor Kremer could pull it off. After all, the only reason he was in this deserted Pyrenean village was because no one knew him here. Just five years ago, he had been working as a surgeon in Madrid until the poison cabinet affair came to light. All he wanted to do at the time was “separate” from his girlfriend.

“No, I have to drive back, and you shouldn't drink anything either. At least nothing alcoholic. Examine our Colombians as quickly as possible, tell them something, and get everything started.

When you have the donor, don't call me, just send me a text message. Write 'kidney' and I'll have the sick boy brought to you. And don't let this hurt you, Doc!”

Two weeks later, the whole thing was over. The doctor was a few euros richer and the prosecutor's son finally had the kidney he had been longing for. The chances were good that he would be able to live on.

Everything went well. Dr. Kremer was extremely satisfied with himself and his work. So satisfied that he sent Juan Falgas an offer via text message. “Kidney harvest excellent.

More interested parties wanted!”

Falgas was cold-hearted enough to accept. Now, at last, the isolated cheap laborers were bringing him good money, albeit in a different way than he had imagined. In just a few months, with the help of Dr. Eugenio Kremer, the internet, and, last but not least, “his isolated ones,” he was able to build up a brisk organ trade. The demand for various organs rose so rapidly that Falgas had to increase his supply. So he hired more workers “for exploitation” through a Colombian friend. The illegal workers were smuggled into the country and first examined by Dr. Kremer. They were then told that they would have to spend some time in quarantine before they could earn big money.

The Colombian middleman was now earning significantly more and never asked any questions. The only thing that gave Juan Falgas some jitters was the thought of what Dr. Kremer might be doing with the human remains. However, the doctor was responsible for disposing of the bodies. After all, it was his business, and he had the necessary expertise.

The organ trade flourished, and it took about two years before Juan Falgas was blackmailed. He would probably have to pay, but he would also make sure that the photographer disappeared from his Mercedes's life.

The trip to Barcelona went smoothly. Jean Sarre was fairly familiar with the Catalan capital and made good progress on his motorcycle even during rush hour.

After completing his business errands (he had to stop by his employer's headquarters briefly), he made his way to the airport. By car, Jean would certainly have taken almost twice as long on Tuesday morning. What's more, he had no trouble finding a parking space with his "Triumph". However, his leather suit wasn't particularly suitable for summer, and the Spanish asphalt radiated incredible heat in the midday sun. After parking his three-cylinder bike right at the entrance to the imposing airport building, Jean entered the lobby, sweaty and with his helmet and backpack in hand. Inside, the air was twenty degrees cooler than outside and it felt like being “flash frozen.” No sooner had Jean entered than he was almost knocked over by a family of five with their luggage. At least the father apologized to Jean. After the suitcases and travel accessories had been stowed away on the trolley, the expert tried to get an overview of the situation. Not so easy with all the people around. Jean felt like he was in a beehive. Or perhaps a mass panic was a better comparison.

After a while, he finally found the room with the lockers. “635,” he thought aloud, the locker had to be there somewhere. It took him a full three minutes to find it. Then he searched the inside pocket of his motorcycle jacket for the small key. After a long search, he found it and compared the numbers again. Jean realized that he was becoming quite panicked while searching. He sat down on a wooden bench to calm himself. The expert was just about to light a cigarette when a security guard drew his attention to a metal sign. “Prohibido a fumar” (No smoking) it said, and Sarre cursed himself in that moment. The last thing he needed now was unnecessary attention. So he smiled apologetically at the security guard and demonstratively put the cigarettes away. After the security guard had walked away with a stern expression and a raised index finger, Jean got up from the old wooden bench and went back to the locker.

With trembling hands, he put the small key in the lock. He was actually quite surprised that it fit.

“So I got the combination right after all,” thought Jean,” let’s see what's inside.”

He opened the safe, looked inside, and then broke out in a cold sweat.

Inside the locker was a small metal box full of money, a CD, two expired airline tickets, several receipts, and a pistol with two loaded magazines.

“Bull's-eye,” thought Sarre. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he quickly shoved the items into his backpack and left, having to pull himself together to appear halfway inconspicuous.

As he left the well-air-conditioned airport building and braced himself for another physical temperature shock, he noticed a matte black Ducati next to his Triumph motorbike. This Italian motorcycle was available in black, but this one looked as if it had been spray-painted.

“Hideous,” he mused, ‘and on a new motorcycle.’ The Duc also had a modified cockpit. He thought he could make out some kind of navigation system. But Jean had neither the time nor the nerves to look at the technical features of someone else's motorcycle. So he got on his English lady and drove off. On the way back, Sarre thought a few times about stopping somewhere to take another look at “his prize.” But for safety reasons, he quickly dismissed the idea.

For a moment, the expert had the feeling he was being followed. But at the same time, he smiled at himself and his emerging paranoia.

It was logical that Jean would develop such feelings; after all, he was driving around with several thousand euros.

Suddenly, a black motorcycle overtook him. He was pretty sure it was the matte black Ducati 900 Monster that was parked next to his Speed Triple at the airport.

As soon as the rider, dressed entirely in black, was level with him, he lifted his Ducati onto its rear wheel. Jean wasn't going to be provoked by such a “wheelie.” The show-off was probably hoping for a little race. But the expert wasn't going to give the hothead the satisfaction.

Besides, Jean Sarre had become calmer over the years.

He knew only too well how easy it was to skid on the sandy roads here.

When the expert arrived home, his cell phone showed two missed calls and a text message. The inspector wanted to know what he had found out about the burned-out BMW.

“Great!” thought Jean, who had completely forgotten about his workshop appointment in Figueres.

The expert hadn't even closed the front door behind him when the big Doberman rushed toward him. “Aaaarthos,