by Simon Harrak
“Team, meet Frederich Abel,” said Scheffler as soon as he entered the room.
Except for one person with headphones on, the entire room stopped what they were doing and turned around. They studied Frederich curiously, looking him up and down. Some of them seemed sceptical; others were openly smiling. One of those grinning was a freckled guy with red dreadlocks and a black bomber jacket.
“Nice,” said the freckled guy with a look of wonder. “Frederich Abel, in the flesh,” he added with a thick British accent.
“Let’s save the ass-kissing for later,” said Scheffler. “We’re short on time. Abel, this is Gerricks.” Scheffler signalled toward the freckled man. “Gerricks is usually with the Wealth Hunters, but we’ve got him leading the surveillance effort against these bastards who attacked us.”
“Wealth Hunters?” said Frederich.
“Yep,” cut in Gerricks. “We’re the guys who make sure no one hoards too much currency. Off-shore accounts, investment properties, shares, cash, gold bars. We find it. No matter how well they hide it.”
“Sounds fun,” said Frederich, nodding his approval.
“As you’ve probably already gathered, that’s not the top priority at the moment,” said Scheffler. “Our surveillance teams have been flat-out gathering information about the enemy, but we’re still in the early phase. We’ve identified dozens of them, interrogated a few. Your work in Copenhagen was a big help. We’ve got a ways to go before we get to Stirner, more surveillance to do, but after yesterday, we need to speed things up. They’re building momentum. We have to flex.”
“What do you need me to do?” said Frederich.
“We’ve got a special task for you,” said Scheffler. “I heard you were there after the explosion at the Grand Luxus?”
Frederich frowned and nodded.
“The guy who did it. We know where he is,” said Scheffler.
A current of electricity shot through Frederich’s body. He lifted his head slowly and his expression hardened.
“Where?” he said.
“Gerricks. You’re up,” said Scheffler.
“It was a real stretch tracking that son of a bitch,” said Gerricks. “He moved quickly, and changed cars before he left Germany. But like I said, nobody gets away from us. He’s holed up at this apartment in Poznan, Poland.” Gerricks pointed at the screen Frederich had been looking at earlier. “We don’t know which apartment he’s in exactly, but he hasn’t left the building. That much we’re sure of.”
“Who is he?” asked Frederich.
Gerricks handed him a smartphone.
“All the information’s on this. His name’s Havel Drexler. He was Czech military before he quit and turned soldier of fortune. Did private contracts in Africa and Afghanistan for elites looking to make a profit out of chaos. Drexler specialises in hit jobs and fake terrorist attacks. He’s been off the radar for a while though.”
Frederich had found the images of Drexler on the smartphone and was flicking through them while listening to Gerricks. He took note of Drexler’s bright-red face and scowl.
“The address where he’s hiding is on there,” said Gerricks. “My direct line is there too. I’ll contact you if he moves while you’re in transit. Whatever you need while you’re in the field, you call me.”
“Ok,” said Frederich.
“Here’s your credit card,” said Gerricks. “You can use it for any necessary purchases.”
Frederich took hold of a credit card with the name ‘David Anders’ printed on it.
“Weapons,” said Gerricks. “Do you have any special requests?”
“I’ve got my pistol,” said Frederich.
“You’re a pro now, Abel,” cut in Scheffler. “We’ve prepared a field pack for you. Stun gun, hunting knife, torch, food essentials. Anything else you need, you ask.”
“Ok,” said Frederich.
“Remember, this is all about sending a message,” said Scheffler. “These guys need to know just how in over their heads they are. Interrogate first if you can, then go to work. Whatever you do, make it messy, and I mean messy. We want this felt right at the top.”
Scheffler was unflinching, his dead-serious expression leaving no doubt about what he wanted.
“I’ll get it done,” said Frederich.
“I know you will,” said Scheffler.
The room grew silent. There were no more taps on keyboards. No shuffling around. No words were spoken. All eyes were on Frederich again.
“We’ll be here,” said Gerricks. “Whatever you need.”
“Right,” said Scheffler, slamming his hand hard on Gerricks’ desk, making him jump with shock. “Let’s go, Abel. Thank you, gentlemen. Love your work.”
Scheffler marched straight out, and Frederich followed as though Scheffler had him by a string. They went into a small room which had only a desk and one chair.
“When do I leave?” asked Frederich.
“Right away. We’ve got a car parked for you on the street in front of the station. Black Mini Cooper.”
“Ok,” said Frederich.
There was a short lull.
“Those filth,” said Scheffler, suddenly spitting at the ground. “They’ve got no honour, do they? Killing innocent civilians like that.” He looked into the distance with a scowl. “Really riles me up.”
Frederich’s face became hot, as he was taken back to the scene of the explosion, to the bloodied, anguished faces of the people caught up in the chaos.
“Anyway. You holding up alright?” said Scheffler. “Need anything from me before you go?”
Frederich shook his head.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Of course you are,” said Scheffler.
“I did have one thing to ask,” said Frederich.
“Shoot.”
“How much do you know about Matthias Vidrik?”
“I know he’s a traitor who doesn’t have long to live. I also know you had some trouble with him.”
“Yeah, he came after me.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because he didn’t just go after me. He’s been stalking a friend of mine here in Berlin. Ida.”
“Ida? Girl?”
“Yes.”
“You’re worried he might go after her again? He’s got other things to worry about, don’t you think?”
“He’s not a rational guy. I learnt that the hard way.”
Scheffler sighed and nodded.
“Fair point.”
“So I was wondering,” said Frederich. “While I’m away, if someone can keep an eye on her?“
“She’s that important?”
Frederich nodded.
“Yeah, she is.”
“Alright. I can’t have our people wasting time playing bodyguard. But if she has any problems, she can call in. I’ll let Gerricks know. Tell her to use the codeword ‘Abel.’”
“Ok. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“No. That’s it.”
“Right. Well,” said Scheffler with an encouraging nod. “Go get em’.”
Frederich nodded back. He was about to turn to leave but had to ask the question.
“By the way, what’s with the shirt and hair? It’s not like you to be all neat and trim.”
“You haven’t worked it out yet? I got a bump. A big one. I’m General of Europe.”
Frederich broke out smiling.
“General? Congratulations,” he said.
“Don’t look so happy. That means you’re still under my command.”
“I can handle that,” said Frederich, still smiling.
“Let’s see how long that lasts,” said Scheffler.
On the way out they stopped by the weapons room, and Frederich picked up the backpack with his field equipment. He carefully scanned the piles of weapons one last time before snatching two tear gas grenades off the shelf and packing them into his bag. He left the bunker with the bag on his back and marched up the ramp, stomping through
the shrubs then working his way out of the forest. There was no sign of the kid from earlier.
Back at Wannsee Station, he located his car and drove off, lost in thoughts about his upcoming mission. His eyes stung from fatigue and his shoulders felt stiff. His planned night of rest at home was ruined, but he barely minded. The anticipation was energising him, and it had nothing to do with excitement. He was spurred on by the prospect of slitting Havel Drexler’s throat and watching him bleed to death. The thought summoned the shadow, creating a firm pressure all over Frederich’s body while slowly pulling him inward into the fiery abyss. He put up no resistance, gripping the wheel harder while sensing the demon inside, itching to be unleashed. It would get its chance soon enough.
5
The passenger door opened from the outside before Francois’ bald, weathered head popped in, his white goatee reaching down to his tie.
“Ready,” he said.
Kalakia stepped out and adjusted his shirt. League soldiers were spread all around him, covering every entrance. The underground carpark at the Burj Khalifa was empty, except for the cars of Kalakia’s two guests. In recent times, Kalakia had been escorted only by Francois and a tiny handful of rotating soldiers, typically choosing to forego having a permanent security detail. It had been unnecessary, and also would have been a sign of weakness. Kalakia’s grip had been absolute, his identity and whereabouts concealed from those who had nothing to lose. Those who might have the capacity to harm him were smart enough to know better. The price paid would have been too high. As a result, The League could put its finest soldiers to better use.
Those days were now over.
With Francois leading the way, Kalakia was accompanied to the elevator by six hand-picked members of The League’s Supreme Force. The door opened, and the eight of them got in. The elevator lifted seamlessly, and Kalakia observed the thick necks and broad shoulders of his men from behind, their bulletproof vests bulging through their jackets. They were handsomely paid, the security and livelihood of their families dependent on their loyalty, and most importantly, they were battle-tested. The prerequisite for entry to Supreme Force was expert-level hand-to-hand combat training, extensive military training and a minimum of ten years of field service. Their allegiance to The League and their tenacity were unquestionable.
They were also human. Kalakia could never allow Supreme Force’s power to concentrate. The Ottoman Janissaries and the Roman Praetorian Guard before them had grown so overconfident that they were able to topple and replace their rulers at will. Supreme Force was a sleeping giant in much the same way. If their power superseded their duty, they would become a threat. Kalakia’s solution was simple and elegant; he split Supreme Force into hundreds of splinter cells which were unaware of each other’s identities. Members were occasionally moved between cells, but they never had a complete picture of the global web. Now members of Supreme Force had become Kalakia’s Supreme Guard, and like Roman Emperors and Turkish Sultans before him, Kalakia was aware of the danger. His protectors were his potential oppressors.
The elevator reached Kalakia’s penthouse, where a dozen more soldiers had secured the lobby. Kalakia could not be sure of Stirner’s brazenness. Short of a daytime ground assault or fighter-jet attack on downtown Dubai, he felt he could have his meeting securely with the heads of the American and British intelligence agencies. Francois gained access to the apartment and Kalakia entered first, his Supreme ‘Guard’ remaining by the door.
Seated upright at the table were Charles Burley from the CIA and Georgia Tuttman of MI5. Lurking over them were League soldiers standing guard by the windows.
“Good afternoon,” said Kalakia, approaching the table and taking his seat. “Excuse the delay. You will appreciate the need for added precaution. Let us skip the pleasantries and move straight to the purpose of this meeting. You know why you are here.”
“Our people have already told you,” said Charles Burley in his Texan accent. “The CIA has no connection or knowledge of the attacks whatsoever.”
“Yes,” chimed in Tuttman. “You know as well as we do that nobody in Five Eyes can afford such foolishness. And I do speak for all of our members.”
Kalakia sighed while carefully studying Burscheid and Tuttman’s determined faces. He then turned to Francois, who disappeared inside for a moment before emerging with two manila envelopes. Francois walked around the table and placed one in front of both people, checking to ensure he was giving the correct envelope to its intended recipient.
“What’s this?” said Burley.
“Open it.”
Charles Burley grasped his envelope, ripping the edge off with one clean motion. Georgia Tuttman carefully opened hers and gasped as she looked inside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Burley.
“What is the meaning of this?” yelled Tuttman.
Burley reached into his envelope and took out the severed finger of one of his agents. He scowled in disgust and flung it onto the table, then reached into the envelope again and took out the photo of his agent sprawled on the floor with a bullet hole in his head. He looked up sharply at Kalakia.
“That’s one of our men,” he said. “Why did you do this?”
Tuttman now had out the photos of one of her high-ranking people, who Kalakia had ordered killed the same way.
“I want to ensure that you appreciate the seriousness of this situation. I will not tolerate complacency. You claim to have had no part in these attacks. Demonstrate your commitment to stability by helping bring these terrorists to justice.”
“What terrorists?” said Tuttman, throwing up her hands. “We don’t even know what you’re dealing with here.”
“I understand your political position,” said Kalakia. “Deny all knowledge and remain neutral. Wait until the worst has passed. This would be wise under normal circumstances. However, let me assure you; these are not normal circumstances. Neutrality is not an option.”
Kalakia’s words ushered in a tense silence. Charles Burley began shaking his head. Georgia Tuttman sat back with her arms crossed, her face flushed red.
“This is ridiculous,” muttered Burley to himself.
“Mr. Burley,” said Kalakia. “If you have something on your mind, share it. But I warn you, be careful with your words. My tolerance is running dangerously low after the events in Berlin.”
Kalakia and his fellow titan faced off. Burley’s hands were quivering, his nostrils flared. Kalakia dug into him with his stare, sensing himself nearing the edge. He and Burley both possessed enough firepower to devastate the other completely, except it was the Americans with the most to lose. The United States could cripple The League any time they chose, but the cost to them would be so colossal that they would never attempt it. The ensuing conflict would shatter the world economy and destabilise society for years. The modern world was a machine whose momentum was not permitted to stop, and it was Kalakia who had his finger on the off-switch. He was not looking to go to war with the global powers. That would be suicide. It was Stirner he wanted. Yet since the attack on the Grand Luxus, his darker impulses had risen like evil spirits, and he found himself close to the point of no return. His desire to lash out was almost irresistible. From the moment the explosion went off in Berlin, Kalakia knew he would annihilate anyone who did not cooperate.
Georgia Tuttman uncrossed her arms and leaned forward.
“Tell us what you need, and I’ll see what MI5 can do,” she said.
Kalakia extended his fingers out to release the tension and took a deep, calming breath. He nodded at Francois to hand Tuttman the next envelope. Tuttman opened it and began sifting through the photos of Stirner as Burley reluctantly reached out and snatched his envelope from Francois’ hand.
“Both of you know who Horst Stirner is,” said Kalakia. “It is in everyone’s best interest to locate him quickly. If we do not, then this conflict will escalate, and innocent people will die. There will be more disruption caused to the global economy th
an at any time since the Second World War. This act of terrorism in Berlin is only the beginning.”
“Ok,” said Tuttman. “We’ll keep an eye out for him. Anything else?”
Kalakia recalled Stirner’s words. You forgot to look in the shadows.
“Yes,” he said. “I want profiles on your most wanted criminals, and I want them by midnight tonight. I expect your partners in the Five Eyes to cooperate, as well as all nations you collaborate with.”
“Which criminals exactly?” said Burley. “This is a long list you’re talking about.”
“Use your common sense. I have no interest in wife killers and petty thieves. Focus on those who are capable of extreme violence. Those associated with organised crime and drug cartels, anyone on your terror watch list, those associated with guerrilla groups, and so forth.”
“You think this is blowback from the underworld?” asked Tuttman, leaning forward while rubbing her chin.
“Yes. The League has extinguished their influence over the years. Our demise opens the door for them to reassert control.”
“I can give you a list of influential figures who would have plenty of motivation to want you dead,” said Tuttman.
“While we have given the world’s elites ample reason to support Stirner, they are not the tip of the spear. We must address the threat directly.”
“There’s no way we can meet your deadline,” interjected Burley.
Kalakia leaned back and steepled his fingers.
“Is that so?” he said. “Your collective is the single most efficient espionage alliance ever devised, with almost a century of cooperation. You are above national law, able to act with total impunity. You have coordinated countless coups, brought down numerous governments, and you have outclassed the Soviet Union. I trust you can scrape together some documents in one day.”
“Why are you coming to us?” said Tuttman. “The League’s intelligence is second to none. You’ve already taken our brightest people, and your technology is light-years ahead of ours.”