The first person he called was Albert Graf, his old handler. The line operator patiently explained that the number he was calling didn’t exist. It was a recording, of course. The second person he called was Roberts, the American. The line again only told him that the number was not available. Sitting in his small flat with the black book in his hand, he tried more numbers. He had about a dozen other local agents from back in the day. He reached only one, Otto Meininger. He was responsible for Leipzig.

“Yes?” The voice was old, very old and weak. Meininger had been ten years older than him. Brockmann clenched his teeth.

“Meininger, this is Brockmann,” he said. There was a long silence as he waited for an answer.

“Who?” The question finally came back.

“Brockmann from Hamburg. We’re both members of the same club.” Brockmann said. He remembered the overweight, older man. He had met him only once.

Again, there was silence. Then Meininger hung up. Brockmann looked at the phone, having a hard time believing that this was really the proper feedback he was getting while asking for help. But before he could angrily redial, a call came in. He picked it up.

“This is from my mobile. You should not call over landline. Since these things have started coming over the computer, they hear everything.” Meininger said. Brockmann knew little about surveillance of this age, he had to admit. His times planting bugs had been over for forty years. Though, he was sure that mobiles were less secure than the landlines.

“I need access to the library,” He said. “I called most of my old contacts, but nobody seems to be available anymore.”

Meininger was silent for a moment. “Why did you not call Fornby?” He asked. Brockmann hated the posh English man, Fornby. That was why he had kept his number for last. The arrogant prick had always treated him like a stupid grunt.

“Is he still active?” Brockmann asked.

“Brockmann, nobody is active. I contacted him a few years ago about something. He refused to help me, but at least I know he is around.” Meininger said.

Brockmann nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“Are they back? Have you seen one?” Meininger asked.

“No,” Brockmann said before hanging up.

He reached into his cupboard and grabbed a cheap bottle of American Bourbon he had bought from the food discounter around the corner. He filled a glass and emptied it right away. Then he filled a second and dialed Alfred Fornby’s number.

“The Bureau of Alfred Fornby, Maya Janssen speaking. What can we do for you?” A female voice said.

“Who are you exactly?” Brockmann asked.

“I am Mr. Fornby’s PA, Sir. Can I help you?”

“What is a PA?” He asked.

“Personal assistant.” The woman replied. “Can I do anything for . . .”

“This is Brockmann. I need to talk to him.” He only said.

“Mr. Fornby is very busy, so may I help you?” The PA asked.

“Tell him Brockmann called and he wants to renew his membership with the club.” Brockmann put the phone down.

It took two minutes to ring.

“Brockmann. I thought you were dead by now.” Fornby’s voice was older but undeniably still his.

“I thought you were out of the country, with the whole Brexit thing and all that,” Brockmann replied.

“I married a German woman and got citizenship,” Fornby replied coolly.

“Congratulations,” Brockmann said and rolled his eyes, “I need access to the library.”

Fornby was silent for a moment. “The library of the Nocturne Society is archived now, I am afraid it won’t be so easy to get access. Why are you asking, though? You aren’t on active duty, are you?”

“I was told to dig in and keep my eyes open. I did that. I found something. An aberration.” Brockmann said. There was a long silence on the other line.

“Are you joking?” Fornby asked.

“No,” Brockmann replied. Again, there was a long silence.

“There has been no sighting of a subject since 1990, Brockmann,” Fornby said.

“1989,” Brockmann corrected him. “It's not a subject. It is a rune or sigil left at the scene of an attempted murder. It looks familiar. I believe I saw something like it in Berlin.” Brockmann sighed, “In the eighties.”

“Can you send it via e-mail?” Fornby asked.

“I can’t,” Brockmann sighed.

“Why?” Fornby replied.

“Because I don’t know how to,” Brockmann admitted, “And I don’t have a computer.”

“Use the phone,” Fornby said.

“My phone can’t do that,” Brockmann answered. He heard the heavy breathing on the other side as he tested the patience of Fornby.

“You gotta be kidding,” Fornby finally said.

“Do you ever remember me making a lot of jokes?” Brockmann asked. Again silence. This time it was Brockmann breaking it.

“Where is everybody? I called Graf and Roberts, both changed their numbers.” He wondered what he had missed.

“Graf is dead. I don’t know where Roberts is. Back in the US probably, living in some resort for old people in Florida.” Fornby answered. He had kept track of them.

“How did Graf die?” He asked. He got a cigarette out and lit it.

“Cancer,” Fornby said.

“So who’s running the Nocturne Society then?” Brockmann asked.

“Well, since the subjects vanished, the society had a lot less to do. We've adopted a more modern and lean organization. I handle the old assets now.” Fornby said.

Brockmann emptied his second glass and hissed out air.

“Shall I track down the potential murderer?” Brockmann asked.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because he uses a sign that he shouldn't know about and God knows what he’ll do with it. This is clearly something to be concerned about, isn’t it?” Brockmann sighed. Was Fornby really that uninterested? No, he was not. The conversation would be over by now.

“Why would you, of all people take care of it?” Fornby asked. “How old are you now? Seventy?”

“Sixty. I can handle it. Shall I track him down?” Brockmann waited for a response. Fornby was thinking about it. He clarified his request. “Do you give me the order to find him?”

Fornby stayed silent for a moment. “Yes. Find him and send me an SMS with the address where you found the sign.” He continued, after a pause, “You can write SMS, can’t you?”

“Yes. Consider it done.” He ended the call and sat in his flat. After a minute or so, he sent the SMS, which took him almost five minutes to type on his old mobile. Then he leaned back and decided against another drink. It took him another minute to realize he just did something he would rarely do.

He smiled.

****

From there, it had been legwork. Interviewing the homeless had revealed pretty quickly that several had actually gone missing in the downtown region of Hamburg. They had all talked about the rich man who had given them money, who had gained their trust. They were afraid of him now. The homeless were cautious people. Many were actually paranoid or suffered from other psychological disabilities. That made them difficult to talk to, but they were also very sharp observers, though often their observations were not to be trusted. The police didn’t care about the vanished men. Of course not. So, they had begun to sleep in pairs and had reported any suspicious activities to each other. The rich man had become their prime suspect.

Brockmann bought a map of Hamburg and put little red needles on the sites someone had last been seen or slept when he had vanished. Then he began watching the spots. He had found a lot of people jogging there. One person had particularly gained his interest. He had eyed the homeless when he passed them, sometimes approached them to give them money. A man in expensive designer clothes. From the first time Brockmann had seen him, there was a tingling in the back of his head. He recognized a monster when he saw one, even if it had taken a human form. There was something about his smile, about the way he carried himself. It was a mask. Something was hiding beneath the mask.

Brockmann had begun watching him and later found out his name was Robert Landau. He worked for a private bank and lived in one of the expensive flats near the water. It had a garage underneath the building with an elevator going directly into his flat. It was protected by some sort of magnetic card you had to use to get up there. It was perfect to transport someone late at night.

So Brockmann had followed him. His hunt had brought him all the way to the forest, where he found the remains of those humans in a plastic bag. Robert Landau was a serial killer. The question was, had he put the sign there?

Fornby had confirmed it was Aramaic, a dead language associated with many of the less popular but more serious occult practices.

He sat in the rain and smoked and decided that there was only one way to find out. He had to break into Landau’s flat.

****

Entering the flat had been surprisingly complicated. The lock itself was a challenge, but on top of that, the whole place was secured by an alarm system that was modern and clearly beyond Brockmann’s outdated skills. It was connected to the building’s energy grid though, which provided him with one way in. Brockmann took the brute approach and created a short-circuit to knock out power. Then he took the stairs up to the flat and, with a flashlight between his teeth, he started working on the lock. In his heyday, it would have taken him a minute to crack any door, but progress indoor security and lack of practice made it half an hour of him sitting in the dark with his back radiating pain and his hands shaking from exhaustion until he finally heard the click and the door opened.

Landau would not be back for another two hours, so he entered carefully and closed the door. Carefully, he put on his leather gloves before ensuring that nothing gave away his entry. Inside, he began to search the flat room by room. It was what one called a modern flat, showing all the signs of an expensive interior designer having worked on it.

The living room was dominated by a large flat screen TV, with no bookshelves at all. Only a small black tablet identifying itself as a “reader” lay on the sofa. Brockmann hated those things and silently hoped it didn’t hold any important evidence. There was also a laptop. He gave the machine another grunt and it was answered by the indifferent silence of modern technology.

The walls were soundproof, as a label on the strange paneling proudly declared. A German company had provided them.

The bedroom was large, and a luxury bed was in its center, with a large wardrobe containing suits, shirts, and sports stuff from what Brockmann assumed were expensive designers. He went through them, searching pockets and hidden compartments with no success.

When he entered the oversized kitchen, Brockmann cursed himself for not making a quick skip through all rooms at the beginning. What he had been searching for was leaning against the knife block. A book bound in strange leather, possibly human skin, and filled with bizarre signs. Aramaic, Brockmann assumed. They said nobody was able to read it anymore except for a few professors, but clearly, Landau had used it. The fading illustrations showed human limbs and seemed to explain how to cook them.

****

Brockmann hissed out air, as understanding dawned upon him. Landau was a cannibal. One with a very unique cookbook to prepare his meals.

Hesitantly he checked the fridge, an oversized American model. He found an arm, cleaned up and resting in a bowl with a brown fluid that smelled like soy sauce.

The fingers had been severed and were kept in a glass bowl next to the fresh vegetables. Olive oil and Madras Curry. That explained the marinade artfully stroked onto the meat.

He had seen worse, but that had been a long time ago. This was the moment in which he decided his next step. The Nocturne Society’s rules demanded that he secured the book, of course. But orders always left room for interpretation.

He decided that the wardrobe was the best place to hide and entered it silently, drawing his gun from his holster. He had questioned bringing it, considering this made the breaking and entering a more severe crime by German law. He was now happy he did.

He waited for an hour, silently, in the dark, feeling nothing but his flat breath and sore back. Then Landau came home. He was loud while walking around. Brockmann listened and finally heard him go to the kitchen. He said something and a female voice answered. Then the music came on. Brockmann was sure he was alone and wondered if this was another piece of technology or some occult power that Landau was using. Anyway, it was the work of the devil in Brockmann’s eyes. He could not decide which he found worse.

Landau cooked while whistling a tune that he heard on his mysterious sound machine. He was not very good at it.

Brockmann smelled the meat and onions and his lip curled up in disgust, as he realized the man was preparing human flesh for his dinner.

Finally, Landau took out a plate, put the food on it, and cursed as he burned himself on something. He walked over to the living room, without even entering the bedroom once. Landau ordered the female to stop and open something he called a “streaming service” and the music ended right away. A streaming service, whatever that meant. It took only a minute before some loud music announced the beginning of a movie. Brockmann decided it was time. He felt his heart beat a little faster and his hand closed around the grip of his revolver. It was the one that was not licensed in his name. The gun he used for work. A .44 Smith and Wesson revolver. He’d had the gun for thirty years now.

He slipped out of his shoes to be more silent and sneaked out of the living room. Landau was sitting on his couch enjoying his meal with moaning sounds.

“Delicious.” He said to himself, picking up another finger he had prepared in his pan.

Brockmann watched him for a moment, and then he stepped right behind him and raised the gun. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger, and a thundering shot filled the soundproof room. The bullet hit the head of Landau and the man collapsed on his glass desk and slowly slid to the ground as his brain mixed with his meal. Brockmann watched the dead body for a moment.

He had killed men before. The lack of feeling he felt was still uncomfortable though. There was a chance someone had heard the shot, and he knew he needed to act fast now. Walking to the kitchen, he grabbed the book which was the size of a paperback, and put it into his coat. He leaned over and smashed the window to the small balcony from outside with the gun, indicating a breaking and entering over the balcony. Then he left the flat.

****

“Maybe if you would kindly explain to me the crime I am suspected to have committed, I would be able to help you.” Brockmann said to Raubach, who was clearly in charge. “I think I have the right to know,” he calmly said.

“You are not yet a suspect, Mr. Brockmann. We are only trying to establish your whereabouts. Where were you yesterday between 1600 and 1700?” Wegner asked.

“At home. Alone. I was drinking.” He said and looked at her.

“Do you do that often, drinking at home, alone?” Raubach asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So you have no witnesses of this?” The Kommissar asked.

“No. I don’t think so.” Brockmann replied.

“Mr. Landau was murdered yesterday in his apartment. We have received a piece of information that you might have been involved in it. Who would accuse you of such an act?” Wegner asked.

Brockmann shrugged. “Someone with a good portion of humor or someone who wants to waste your time,” he replied. They had finally revealed something, thank God. He had almost given up hope.

Raubach opened the file and put a photo of Robert Landau on the table. “You are sure you don’t know this man? Maybe he introduced himself to you under another name? Maybe he approached you?”

Finally, they got to the point where he was a potential victim. Someone Landau approached. They had not only found his body in the flat but the remains of his dinner. Clearly, Brockmann fit a killer’s profile. Lone guy not missed by anybody. Brockmann destroyed the theory by shaking his head.

“No, can’t say. I am good with faces, but I am pretty sure I have never seen the man.” He replied.

A dead serial killer they didn’t even know existed was quite a case for the two. Brockmann had left traces of his cannibalistic practices all over the place. Even these two amateurs wouldn’t have missed it.

“If you’ve got more questions, I would really like to speak to a lawyer.” Brockmann said as he folded his large hands.

The two looked at each other.

“That won’t be necessary. We are done here for today. Please don’t leave the city without notice and stay available for questioning.” Raubach concluded the interview and gave Wegner a sigh that seemed to indicate he considered the whole thing a waste of time.

****

Brockmann left the Police department and took a cab home. He recognized no signs of someone following him, but he was careful. The police had an informant and if he ruled out Fornby, who certainly would not want him to make a lengthy confession about the stuff they did thirty years ago, he had no clue who that might be. Nobody knew anything.

He got out at Gitte’s Eck, his regular local pub, and entered. It smelled like shit, as always. Beer, bad breath, and smoke. It was technically forbidden to smoke in bars in this part of town, but half the patrons coming here were working for the city or cops, so Gitte got away with it.

She greeted him with a grunt and Brockmann grunted back, letting his eyes wander through the pub before setting down at the bar.

“Beer,” he said and Gitte, an elderly lady who looked like the job had used her up long ago, raised her brows.

“Anything with it?” She asked, used to him usually drinking the hard stuff.

“No, just a beer,” Brockmann said. His eyes, wandering, fell on a woman who looked alien to this pub. The usual suspects were getting their evening beer, but she was young, rather attractive, and wearing jeans and a tank top with a black leather jacket over it. She was sitting in a corner with her pad. He hated her for bringing one of those here.

His beer came and he took a sip, sighing. It felt good to drink, he had to admit. He had to restrain himself now, though. He was back in the game without a clear picture of what the game was. Landau was dead, the book hidden away in a metal box under his bed, but someone had talked to the police. He wondered if he had been set up all along. Why would Landau paint a sign on a wall before he’d even murdered someone?

“Hey there,” The voice of the young woman said. She didn’t even sound thirty. She had snuck up on him and was leaning against the bar.

“Hey,” he replied. Was she a daring hooker or an amateur hooker? If she was an amateur, she would be looking for customers outside the district where it was actually allowed. Gitte thought the same and gave her a probing look. It was ignored by the young lady.

“I’m Alex. Care to invite me for a drink?” She asked.

“Not interested,” Brockmann said as he took another sip from his beer.

“C’mon, you seem like the most interesting guy around here, and I'm stuck and in need of a little conversation,” she insisted.

“Answer is still no. You're shaking the wrong tree, young one. Find someone who cares.” She looked at him and then smiled.

“Alright, sorry to disturb your drinking, tough guy.” Immediately, she turned around and left the pub. Brockmann looked back at her and thought he saw the faint outline of a gun she was hiding in her trousers.

What the hell was going on here?

He quickly emptied his beer and paid with a generous tip, as always. He asked for small change and then began the long walk to the last phone booth around that still accepted real money.

****

“What the hell is going on here?” Brockmann demanded of Fornby, who had picked up himself this time.

“Could you ask a bit more of a precise question?” The British man asked.

“I got the job done, the man had a very old cookbook and an extremely fancy diet,” Brockmann said.

“What was he cooking?” Fornby seemed almost bored.

“Human flesh,” Brockmann said. There was silence. Again. Fornby filled a lot of the conversation with an uncomfortable lack of words. Brockmann felt like punching the man.

“Ritual cannibalism? Interesting.” Fornby finally said, “You secured the recipes, I assume?”

“Yes,” Brockmann said, “And I ended his endeavors permanently.” He looked around to make sure nobody had overheard this. There was no one in sight. “You know what's also interesting? Police took me in for questioning.”

“So you fucked up? I knew you were too old for another job.” Fornby’s voice sounded almost angry. That was a rare show of emotion.

“No, I didn’t. They got a tip from an informant.” Brockmann hissed out the words. He was angry, not entirely with Fornby.

“It wasn’t me, if that is what you are implying,” Fornby said.

“Figured that one out myself. So who was it?” Brockmann asked.

Fornby was silent for another few seconds. “I will look into it,” he said finally. “Lay low for a few days, and then we should meet.”

“Sure.” Brockmann hung up. The phone didn’t give him back his change, and he grunted at the ancient machine.

There was a deeper secret hidden under the surface of this. Something other than a cannibal with an ancient tome. Brockmann wanted to know what it was. He was like a dog. Once a dog knew there was a bone somewhere, it won’t stop digging until it found it.