The Couriers

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Courier

“Using bonded couriers is a practice that cannot be eliminated. Therefore, the present crisis involving their being mugged must cease,”...Frau Lisa Strom.

He was an older man, probably in his late fifties, but tall and walking briskly, occasionally looking left and right as he headed down the crowded pedestrian walkway. He looked very official in the black jacket with all four buttons fastened, starched white shirt, black tie and a red pen in his breast pocket. He looked exactly like what he was: a middle management bank official on an urgent courier run. Perhaps it was the somewhat battered, but carefully secured case he carried in his left hand, as any businessman would. But the small titanium bracelet on his left wrist, although hidden by the jacket’s long cuffs, was attached to the case by a black metal chain and he did not carry a key.

As he rounded a corner, heading east from Frankfurt’s famous pedestrian zone, The Zeil, two tall, hooded figures in black cornered him, one clamping a strong hand on is right bicep and the other doing the same on the left arm, and pulled him into the doorway of an empty shop. In an instant they were through the door and the old man was down on the floor while one of his abductors held an ice pick-like dagger to his neck and the other took a pair of bolt cutters from the floor of the shop and cut the black metal chain as though it were no more than a toothpick. No one spoke. The courier, having often considered that if just such an event happened, he was likely to have his hand cut off, sighed in resignation and relief. Hoping to escape with his life, he cooperated with the darkly clad figures as the one with the cutter severed the retaining locks on the case, dumped the meager contents onto the floor and pawed through the stack of sealed envelopes and small packages, taking only one and leaving the rest where they were spread out onto the dusty floor.

They patted the old man on the back and then slipped silently out the back door of the empty shop, leaving him lying on the floor, wondering when it might be safe to get up and resume his journey to a nearby branch of his employer bank. He dreaded having to tell them that he’d been robbed in broad daylight in the middle of the city. Even though he was a conservative man of the old school where communication was a personal thing seldom carried out by electronic means, it suddenly occurred to him that he still had the company cell phone in his trouser pocket. His first call was to his supervisor and then, as instructed, he called the police.

When the cops came, he was still sitting on the floor; afraid to touch anything for fear that he might destroy evidence.

“What did they look like?” the first officer on the scene asked quickly.

“In black. All in black,” the courier said. “With black wool stocking caps over their faces. They cut very small holes in the caps to see.”

“Tall, short, fat, skinny?” the cop asked as he wrote.

“Tall as me. But thin. No fat. Strong too. Very athletic build. They pulled me against them, pressed me into the doorway. One had a spike, a dagger maybe. Very sharp, he cut me,” he pointed to the small wound on his neck.

“Shall I call a medic to look at that?” the cop asked.

“No, thank-you,” the courier said, pressing a clean handkerchief to his neck. “Not unless you plan to keep me here. I’ll have this looked at by the bank’s doctor.”

“Okay,” said the cop, still writing. “Did you notice anything else about this pair of blacks?”

“I don’t think they were n*****s,” the courier corrected.

“Yeah?” said the cop, looking up from his notes “How do you know that?”

“They smelled good. Clean,” the courier said after a moment. “And the holes in the hoods were very carefully cut and stitched with, what do you call it.....binding? There were no other holes in the hood. Just two for the eyes,” he added.

“Oh great,” said the cop, who had a northern accent, probably from the Koln area. “We start a search for two guys who sew and smell fresh.”

“Oh yes,” said the courier, finally picking himself up off the floor and brushing the dust and dirt from his clothes. “Very clean. Well muscled, and...” his voice trailed off as though he was trying to recall something else. “And...” He added, almost in a whisper. “I think they were women.”

“Long hair?” the cop asked.

“No, not visible anyway. But they pulled me against them and I’d swear they had big t**s and really nice asses.”

“Dirty old man,” the cop said, laughing.