by Simon Harrak
“Where did you get this kid, anyway?” Marco Lessio asked Kalakia. “We haven’t met, but I like him already.”
Kalakia sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“The boy is an anomaly. He is skilled beyond imagination, yet he is gripped by dark forces.”
“Whatever,” said Lessio with a shrug. “He’s exactly what we need right now.”
“I agree,” said Kalakia. “War is not kind to those who do not reciprocate the brutality of their enemy.”
“Abel’s warrior spirit will carry us to victory,” said Limbaba with fire in his eyes. “There is no stopping us.”
Kalakia felt satisfied with his Generals’ response to the news of Drexler’s brutal demise. His hope that the boy’s unorthodox methods would excite the men had come true. Frederich’s heinous deeds were acting as a call to arms for the soldiers.
“Strike time is two days from now,” said Kalakia. “Thursday, 3:00 am, Central European Time. Any objections?”
Only the flicker of candles could be heard. Francois cleared his throat in the corner and shuffled around.
“Discretion is everything,” said Kalakia, raising his voice to emphasise the importance of his message. “We strike as one. No rogue acts — do nothing which might prematurely compromise the plan. Any leaks could prove devastating. Put your soldiers on alert, but do not share specific details with them until the day of the attacks.” One by one, Kalakia stared sharply at each of his Generals. “Is that understood?” he said.
Each man nodded obediently.
“Prepare for battle, gentlemen.”
Frederich jerked the steering wheel abruptly and pulled over to the side of the road, left the door open behind him and dashed into the overgrown grass. He began retching immediately, each contraction sending a sharp ache through his ribs and waist. Because he had barely eaten, his purge produced only dark bile.
The nausea eased somewhat, but he still felt weak in the legs. He collapsed onto his knees, moaning and bending his head to the ground. It took all of his strength to keep his eyes open, to avoid going back into flashback mode, but the pull of the abyss was too much. He fell backwards onto the grass, closed his eyes and went into the black. There he was met by Drexler, squirming and screaming hysterically. Images of bloodied, mutilated flesh flickered by, then a thick, dark red pool oozed across the floor. The groans of the shooter by the door sounded unnatural, like an animal in distress. Frederich quickly opened his eyes. It was too much to take in at once. He looked down with disgust at his shirt, which was soiled in the blood of his slaughtered foes. At first he pulled at it, then stretched it out, desperately trying to get it off. The stitching gave out at the side before he managed to pull the shirt off, only to find that his skin was also stained red.
The surrounding area was secluded, with no sign of people and no houses. In the distance was a brown wooden fence which separated the vast plot of country land, and beyond that was a small lake. Frederich stomped shirtless through the grass in the direction of the water. He reached the fence and grasped it, bending his body over and flipping to the other side, crashing down onto his shoulder. The impact re-aggravated the bruising from Vidrik’s sniper bullet and sucked the air out of him. After hesitating briefly, he rolled to his side and forced himself up, then limped onwards to the lake and trudged straight into the water.
He dove under. The shock of the cold passed quickly, and he remained submerged for a long time with his eyes closed. The effect was instant. His state of weightlessness relieved him of the pain, the upward force of the water holding him in place without reservation or judgement. He went deeper into the feeling as his oxygen slowly ran out. The pressure in his lungs grew while he advanced further into the abyss. For a moment he lost touch with his body and experienced absolute calm. He remained hovering in the silence before his feet pushed into the mud and he emerged out of the water while sucking in an enormous gulp of air. Once he caught his breath again, he floated on his back and gazed up at the grey sky, rejuvenated and soaked in relief.
9
Footsteps approached Inselheim’s room from outside and stopped in front of the door. There was clattering in the keyhole before the door swung open, revealing one of the guards, dressed in neat army green trousers and a button-up shirt, just like all the others Inselheim had seen. Beside the guard was an older man with silver hair and a round belly, wearing tan chinos and a navy blue polo shirt. The guard remained by the door, and the man walked inside by himself, taking slow, purposeful steps. Inselheim had been resting on his king-sized bed, where his kidnappers had imprisoned him in a luxurious room for the past two days, and he sat up at attention. The man gave Inselheim a dry smile, his eyes barely moving.
“Hello, Mr. Inselheim,” said the man. “My name is Horst Stirner.”
Inselheim gave the man careful attention but said nothing. It was yet another unexpected development in a baffling series of days.
“Have you been well looked after?” said Stirner after the long pause. “I told my guards to treat you with the respect that a man of your stature deserves. Please tell me if they fail in their duty.”
Respect? thought Inselheim. They had tossed him into the back of a moving van, blindfolded him and tightly bound his hands and feet. Then they left him there for almost a day wondering when he would die or how badly they would torture him when they stopped.
“You’re kidding,” said Inselheim. His neck still ached from being jammed up against the side of the van. His wrists were bruised and scabbed from where the cable tie had cut into them. “Do you know what I’ve been through?”
“It is unfortunate what happened to you,” said Stirner. “To save you from The League Of Reckoning, we needed to act quickly and decisively. We couldn’t worry about your well-being until we had you safe and secure. If we’re honest, it was The League who did most of the damage. It was not us who extorted and tortured you, remember.”
Inselheim opened his mouth to speak again, then stopped. He considered what this man Stirner had said.
“How do you know about all that?” he asked. “About The League.”
“Because I am a former member of its Council.”
“You’re not with them?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because I could no longer bear the hypocrisy.”
Inselheim paused for a moment to weigh up his next question.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asked.
“To set you free, Mr. Inselheim.”
Inselheim looked on, bewildered. What is this guy talking about?
“Do you like the room?” asked Stirner, turning his attention to their surroundings. “It’s one of the nicer bedchambers in this mansion. It belonged once to a prince of the House Of Bourbon.”
So there it was. Inselheim was in a mansion, likely in France. Until now he had no idea where he was. While blindfolded, he had imagined his destination to be an underground torture chamber or an open grave in the middle of nowhere. He had begun sweating profusely and shivering with fright once the van finally stopped and the engine turned off. They carried him out and up a flight of stairs, then untied him and left, locking the door behind them. He waited for a long time in silence before removing the blindfold. To his astonishment, he found himself inside an enormous bedroom with a lofty ceiling, patterned wallpaper, gold-framed paintings, a silver chandelier hanging in the middle and other lavish features. After inspecting his boarded-up luxury prison cell, he went through the inside door to find a marble bathroom, complete with spa.
“Breakfast is ready outside,” said Stirner, half turning toward the door. “You must be anxious to stretch your legs and get some fresh air.”
Inselheim hesitated. Was the tempting offer meant to lead him more easily into a trap? No, if they wanted to hurt or kill him, they would have already.
“Come. I’ll explain everything,” said Stirner. “It’s a beautiful morning outside.”
Inselheim reluctantly shifted ac
ross the bed and got to his feet. He inspected his attire, which he had found neatly folded on his bed when he first came. Then he looked up at Stirner. They were wearing matching outfits; chinos and a polo shirt. Stirner lifted his eyebrows expectantly. Inselheim walked forward slowly, and they left the room together.
The Impressionist paintings in the wide hallway were gigantic. The red carpet below Inselheim’s feet was thick and plush. They descended the spiral stairway to the marble-tiled lobby, where the front door was wide open.
“This way,” said Stirner, moving into the sunshine coming through the doorway.
Inselheim emerged onto the porch. The mansion was sitting on multiple acres of vibrant, perfectly manicured grass, bordered in the far distance by pine trees. With the bright blue sky for a backdrop, it was an impressive sight. The lavishness and size of the estate made Inselheim’s place in Dahlem look like a summer cabin.
Stirner had already taken his seat at the head of the table. Spread out in front of him were platters of cheese and salami, coffee and milk, freshly cut fruit, sliced baguette, butter, wholegrain bread, multiple varieties of juice as well as croissants and macarons. Inselheim’s place had been set at Stirner’s right hand.
Inselheim turned and lifted his head to the sky and took a deep breath of the fresh country air.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” said Stirner. “Kalakia prefers to spend his time in soulless penthouses and gloomy warehouses. He envies cultured men like you and me.”
“If you and Kalakia are so different, why did you work for him?” said Inselheim, taking his place at the table.
“I didn’t work for him,” said Stirner. “He needed me to legitimise his power in Europe. Without me, he would be another mob boss peddling drugs and running prostitution rings.”
“And you helped him out of the goodness of your heart?”
Stirner sighed and shook his head.
“He had undeniable strength and support, enough to weaken the global order. Once he consolidated world power under his banner, all that was left was for me to snatch it from him. That was my plan all along. He was a stepping stone, nothing more.”
“To what?”
“To this moment. Here. Now. The League Of Reckoning is close to collapse. A new power is emerging, Mr. Inselheim, and you are at the heart of it.”
Inselheim lifted his chin and stared earnestly at Stirner.
“My allies and I represent the rightful world order,” said Stirner. “Kalakia thought he could put an end to the global hierarchy with his Robin Hood nonsense.” Stirner snickered. “The League Of Reckoning is facing a reckoning of its own. Their ideology goes against human nature. Humans have an inherent need to know their rightful place. The world is always going to have masters who are superior to the rest, and we are going to remind Kalakia of his place soon enough.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I have something special in mind,” said Stirner, squinting and looking at the ground.
The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Inselheim’s stomach began grumbling. They had fed him well while he was locked up in the room, but he had eaten nothing all morning. He took a croissant and began chewing on it while watching Stirner, whose mind had drifted elsewhere. Suddenly Stirner shook back to life. He gave Inselheim another dry smile.
“You must be eager to know why I brought you here,” said Stirner.
“Of course,” said Inselheim.
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Inselheim. The coming year is going to be a volatile one for the inhabitants of this planet. Crushing The League and freeing the population is going to bring with it collateral damage. No part of the world will be immune. Millions of people might die, and the global economy will come to its knees.”
Inselheim stopped chewing on his croissant and put it down on his plate.
“Excuse me? Did you say millions?”
“Well, not from any fault of mine. I hope to avoid needless suffering, but I know Kalakia. He doesn’t care for human life. Just look at the vicious animals working for him. A recent killing by one of his people was utterly indescribable, I must tell you. The authorities counted dozens of stab wounds in one of the bodies. Dozens! Close to forty, if I’m not mistaken. That is pure insanity, wouldn’t you agree?”
Inselheim sat there, dumbfounded.
“Considering the hostile environment Kalakia has created for innovative men such as yourself, what you and the Neutralaser team achieved was nothing short of miraculous,” said Stirner, not skipping a beat. “And Kalakia wanted to shelve it. Your life’s work. How did that make you feel?”
Inselheim’s head felt suddenly hazy. He looked back on the past weeks and months. He grew tense when Vidrik entered his mind and he felt a terrible ache in his stomach.
“I wanted them all to die,” he said, as an ominous feeling came down on him.
Stirner nodded approvingly.
“I understand completely,” he said. “How long could we have survived with the spectre of nuclear war hanging over us? Rogue nations are pursuing arms. Conflict is inevitable. And the stakes are getting higher each day — not to mention all those close calls we’ve had. The Cuban Missile Crisis. Goldsboro. The Norwegian Incident. How many lives does this Earth have? You were right to develop the Neutralaser. Without it, the world is coming to a horrific end. It is inevitable, isn’t it?”
“Right,” said Inselheim. “My father told me the same thing. Only pure luck helped us avoid catastrophe so far.”
“Your father understood not only how crucial armament was for survival, but also how advances in weaponry could save lives, rather than taking them. He was a wise man.”
“He was,” said Inselheim quietly, lowering his head.
“The era of nation-states is over. Nations are impotent when it comes to global problems. They are doomed to fall into conflict. We need to evolve to the next level of civilisation; otherwise it’s over for us.”
Inselheim knew what Stirner was getting at, and it terrified him. But he could not help agreeing. The world had irreversibly changed since the inception and rise of The League Of Reckoning, and there was no going back from it.
“What if I told you that you could still develop the Neutralaser?” said Stirner. Inselheim suddenly left his thoughts behind and perked up. “What if your dream could still become a reality?”
“What do you mean?” said Inselheim with a quiet voice, seduced by the idea.
“I want to fund the mass-production of the Neutralaser. Ground-based and satellite. I’ll provide you with a place from which to work and all the resources you need.”
Inselheim felt unsettled by Stirner’s generous offer, and immediately began to scrutinise it. Was Stirner messing with him? If not, what did he have planned for the Neutralaser?
“Don’t just hear it from me,” said Stirner. “There’s someone here you should talk it over with.”
Stirner looked over Inselheim’s shoulder. Inselheim turned around, and his jaw went slack. Brunswick was walking toward him from the door like in a dream. He rose slowly from his chair in a state of numb disbelief.
“Kimberley?”
“Michael,” said Brunswick as she embraced him.
“Take your time,” said Stirner, getting up and walking away.
Inselheim finished hugging Brunswick then cupped her cheek with his hand, his face softening at the sight of her. She rubbed his arm in return.
“I’m so glad to see you,” said Inselheim.
“How are you?” she said.
“Much better now,” said Inselheim. “Are you ok?”
“Yes, they’ve taken care of us,” said Brunswick.
Inselheim searched around and noticed they were alone. Brunswick locked her arm around his, and they walked together out to the yard, the grass plush beneath their feet. The sun and open space now felt rejuvenating to Inselheim, but only because of Brunswick’s sudden appearance. Before that he could barely sense it. He looked at her again to confirm that she wa
s real. They walked in silence, and Inselheim enjoyed the brief reprieve from the nightmare that had become his life. Having Brunswick there was like getting a shot of the most magnificent drug in the world. The effect would wear off eventually, but for the time being it was good to have her.
“The team?” said Inselheim.
“They’re holding up, considering the situation. I’m proud of them.”
“I can’t wait to see them,” said Inselheim.
Neither Brunswick nor Inselheim mentioned Aiko, Lena or Jonas, or Marius and the other five who The League had brutally killed, but the long, sudden lull acted as a sombre reminder.
“Where are they keeping you?” asked Inselheim.
“In the most luxurious prison you can imagine. We’re upstairs.”
“I can imagine it. I’ve been upstairs as well.”
“Really?”
Inselheim nodded and smiled.
“It’s a relief to have access to showers and fresh clothes,” said Brunswick.
“How did they find you?” said Inselheim.
“That’s the thing,” said Brunswick. “I called in, and Anke Müller got in touch with our contacts at NATO. These guys showed up in their place.”
“Strange,” said Inselheim. “Do you think she sold out?”
“Possibly. I would have done the same thing in her position.”
“What did they tell you so far?”
“About what they want?”
“Yes.”
“They want us to mass-produce the Neutralaser,” said Brunswick.
“They told me the same thing.”
“We’re not here for our charm.”
Inselheim stopped walking and fell to the grass. Brunswick sat beside him and stretched her legs out. She had on a white t-shirt and loose-fitting black pants. Her hair, tied into a bun, looked dry and brittle. She had developed wrinkles beneath her eyes. Inselheim was in no better shape. He knew he had lost weight, and that he had grown more greys. Recent events had left them both showing the signs of long-term stress.
“I don’t know if I trust this Stirner guy,” said Inselheim.