by Simon Harrak
11
Frederich had less than twenty-four hours to terminate five killers. Once the counter-offensive began, his targets would quickly figure out what was going on, and he would lose his opportunity. The only options were to get it done all at once, or pick off his targets one-by-one without leaving a mess. If he acted too hastily before the deadline, he could compromise the whole plan.
Bibby, Dikka, Pistol, Faust and Vent were their nicknames. Frederich had no idea what their actual names were, no clue at all who they were. Whether they had family, wives or children, it mattered little. He could not have cared less about what kind of music they enjoyed or what their favourite cuisine was. He only knew they had to go. According to the report from Gerricks, they were members of a hit squad which killed six League soldiers and injured three others. That was all the reason Frederich needed. Attached to the brief were even pictures of their attack, taken from a low position beside the street. Likely a hidden camera in a storm drain.
Bibby was monstrous in size, a beefcake with a fat neck and small head. Dikka was a skinhead with a psychopathic stare. Pistol looked too pretty to be part of such a vicious crew. Faust was German for fist. Probably a boxer, judging by his nickname, sturdy appearance and crooked nose. The only photo of Vent was a police mugshot of an anorexic looking man with a potent stare. He was nowhere to be seen in the attack pictures.
The London borough of Bromley where the five men all lived had a small-town feel. Frederich had spent the flight over carefully studying the map. Kraas always insisted that geography was crucial in the art of war. There would be no time for second-guessing when the time came. If things escalated quickly or went wrong, Frederich would need to know the area if he was to use it to his advantage. It was for this reason that he spent the morning walking through the sleepy neighbourhood, passing by each of the homes of his targets, noting the connecting streets along with places of interest such as parks or alleyways. There was no need for photos, partly because they would draw unwanted attention, mostly because Frederich trusted his memory. Later that afternoon, when he had seen enough, he decided to drop into the local pub for a beer.
The ‘Stern and Dolly’ was a light brown building which stood at the head of two intersecting streets on a backdrop of grey clouds. Two construction workers sat at the front drinking their beers on a bench beneath an outdoor umbrella compliments of the ‘Berett’ brewery. The pair were still dressed in their paint-speck-covered work shorts and steel-capped boots. They paused their conversation and gawked at Frederich as he approached the entrance, dressed in a black t-shirt and black jeans and his hair in a knotty mess. He wondered how he smelt, his only shower being that bath in the lake. Probably not great.
He stepped inside and immediately counted five people, including the bartender. On the outside the place looked decent enough, the interior on the other hand was rougher than he expected. The bar was at the back, fitted with over a dozen gold-coloured beer taps and a dark, stained-oak bench lined with black stools. Behind the bar were dozens of bottles of spirits and liqueurs. The surrounding area had a variety of old, randomly grouped, single and double seater leather couches which were worn and ripped all over. In the middle was a brick-pillar supporting a round standing-only table. Frederich spotted the word ‘pisser’ etched into the side of the wood. There was an exit door behind the bar and an opening covered in old stickers which led to the toilets. It was early in the week, so Frederich did not imagine the place getting too crowded in the evenings. According to the brief from Intel, the Stern and Dolly was where his targets met for a drink almost every night. There were two evenings to go before the assault began. Frederich would wait for them to come to the pub and leave, hopefully intoxicated, then he would strike. Anyone who did not show up would get a home visit instead.
“Can I help you?” said the bartender, a bald, middle-aged man with black-rimmed glasses.
“Yes,” said Frederich. “I’d like a pint of beer, and a bowl of nuts, if you have them.”
The bartender turned to one of his customers at the far end of the bar.
“Right, well, take a seat instead of just standing there,” said the bartender. “You’re making old David here nervous.”
“Only one who makes me nervous around here is you, Liam,” replied the man named David.
Liam the bartender snickered before turning back to Frederich and thrusting a small ashtray filled with salted peanuts in front of him.
“So what’ll it be? A pint of what?” he asked with his hands on the bar, signalling toward the beer taps with his head.
“I’ll have a stout,” said Frederich, taking a seat on the barstool.
“Coming right up,” said Liam after maintaining an abnormal amount of eye contact.
Liam fetched a glass and went over to the beer tap. Then came the question Frederich was expecting.
“So where you from?” said Liam, holding the glass at an angle while pouring the beer.
“Germany,” said Frederich. “Small town in the East.”
Liam looked up at Frederich with a curious expression.
“Germany?”
“That’s right,” said Frederich.
“What brings you to Bromley?”
“Visiting friends for a bachelor party this weekend.”
“Aha,” said Liam, wiping the excess head of foam from the glass and topping it up. “So you’ve got more friends in this town than old Dave over here.”
“I’m about to have one less friend if you don’t watch yourself,” yelled David from the other side of the bar while cradling his glass of beer.
Liam handed the beer over to Frederich, who took his first sip.
“Hope it suits your German taste?”
“It’s great,” replied Frederich.
“Glad to hear,” said Liam.
Frederich remained at the bar sipping his beer and eating his peanuts while Liam disappeared out back. Frederich and David exchanged the odd glance, but neither of them spoke. A group of three guys in t-shirts and jeans sat in the corner on the other side of the pub chatting and randomly breaking out into laughter. Frederich spent the time inspecting the place more closely. It had seen better days. Years of rough use had left marks and scratches all over the tables. The carpet was heavily worn in places, revealing the concrete beneath. One large section was charred-out, probably from an accidental fire. Frederich was thinking about going to the bathroom before Liam returned with a cask of beer.
“So how long have you had this place?” asked Frederich.
“Too long,” said Liam, placing the cask on the floor in the corner. “Since before you were born.”
Frederich nodded approvingly.
“You must have seen a lot in that time.”
“Oh, yes,” said Liam. “We get some interesting people coming in here.”
“Is that right?”
“He means interesting criminals,” yelled David from his position.
“Don’t talk about yourself that way, Dave,” yelled back Liam with a turn of the head before bringing his attention back to Frederich. “Things get rowdy in here during the evenings.”
“I like rowdy,” said Frederich.
“I don’t think it’s for you, no disrespect,” said Liam. “Our customers don’t play nicely with outsiders. You’re better off just coming during the day. Like David.”
“That’s right, kiddo,” said David. “Enjoy yourself a quiet beer then go home.”
“These must be some serious guys,” said Frederich.
“Oh, yes,” said Liam. “But they usually keep the trouble outside, which is lucky for me.”
“When do they come?” asked Frederich. “So I know when I shouldn’t be here.”
“Usually after 9.”
“Good to know,” said Frederich.
“Don’t let it sour your visit, though,” said Liam. “These guys are the exception, not the rule.”
“I’m a big fan of this city,” said Frederich. “Good beer, good pe
ople.” He finished his glass off and stood up. “Thanks.”
“Oh look, now you scared him off,” yelled out David.
Frederich dropped a ten-pound note on the bar.
“I’ll see you next time,” he said. “Early, of course.”
Liam took the note and gave Frederich his change.
“Pleasure,” he said with a straight face. “Catch you next time.”
Frederich took a final look around then left the bar, feeling satisfied and ready to find a motel he could nap in. Nice guys, he thought as he walked down the street — and incredibly helpful.
Ida bit on her nails while standing in the queue at Tegel Airport, eagerly awaiting her flight to Paris. She adjusted her shirt for the hundredth time, making sure she had it evenly tucked into her trousers. She ran through the details of Tina’s email in her head, including their upcoming meeting and the cocktail party. Cocktail party. Hearing those words from Tina gave Ida a wonderful feeling. Ida loved nothing more than a reason to dress up, a chance she barely got in a city like Berlin. It numbed her mind even to imagine attending such an event with someone linked to the major fashion labels. She pictured all the beautiful, immaculately dressed women who would be there with their long legs and curvy bodies. She cursed herself for only packing her blue dress. She also had a short, strapless red dress, but she had not wanted to stand out too much. It would have been smarter to pack both and decide which one to wear when she got to the hotel. There had been no time to think of such things. Her mind overran with frantic thoughts from the moment she called Tina that evening. Before she knew it, she had cancelled her work shifts at the cafe and agreed to a next day flight. The email came through an hour later; accommodation at a five-star hotel near the Champs-Élysées, a meeting the following morning in the business district, after which there would be a rooftop party that evening.
The argument with Chi crossed Ida’s mind but she quickly pushed the thought away. The tight spaces and bland architecture at Tegel Airport made her even more impatient to get in the air. The queue eventually got moving and she reached the counter, presenting her phone to the scanner to have her boarding pass approved. The light on the device turned green, and the hostess smiled politely and thanked her. Any doubts Ida had that the whole thing was a joke were dispelled with the validation of her ticket. She still had her feet firmly on the ground in Berlin, far away from the bustle of Paris. The moment she crossed that barrier, she would be in new territory, and that terrified her. It was also exhilarating. Her stomach was doing funny things, churning and rolling around without her permission. The inside of her chest was ready to burst out and board the plane without her. She smiled with wide-eyes at the hostess and walked through, tucking her phone into her pocket. Outside on the tarmac it was already dark, with the jet patiently waiting to receive passengers and leave. I’m not ready for this, she thought, then told herself that life did not care about readiness. Things like parenthood, new careers, travelling to the other side of the world — who was ever ready for such things? She had to embrace the point of no return. She was heading to Paris to pursue the next phase of her dreams, and she was determined to make the most of it. She marched forward and slowly entered the plane behind the rest of the people, putting her bag in the overhead compartment and buckling up before resuming biting her nails as the pilot gave the greeting announcement and the flight attendants made the final preparations.
12
The series of computer screens showed footage of the cities and territories under Scheffler’s control. Europe was crawling with The League’s spies and scouts, all backed by an extensive web of soldiers and assassins ready to reign down justice. Some civilians strolled by along the streets casually chatting, others had their attention on their smartphones while they walked. One man with glasses stood at the corner talking on his phone while pacing from side to side. All of them were oblivious to the conflict brewing beneath the facade of ignorance they called everyday life. The continent would soon become a battlefield, and as the war heated up, the people would be forced to reckon with harsh reality. Meanwhile, Scheffler was stuck in a bunker, far away from the action. It felt wrong. He had risen the ranks because he could perform under high pressure. How was he supposed to coordinate the war without the fear and sweat of being in the field?
Gerricks was busy flicking through an endless series of scout reports. Unlike Scheffler, he was where he belonged. He had a brain bigger than Scheffler’s biceps. Scheffler mindlessly inspected his arm. Damn. He was already losing size since tapering off the steroids. How long had he been General? Two weeks? His throat suddenly felt thick and the room shrunk around him. He left abruptly and went into his office and shut the door behind him, got down to the ground and started doing push-ups. His joints ached straight away, as fatigue hit and the consequences of cutting out his steroid cycles impacted his performance. Come on. He had just completed fifty reps when his arms gave out. He rolled to his side and began panting, feeling nauseous and out of breath. A month earlier he could do over a hundred without breaking a sweat. Maybe he was not made for this General business. How would his men ever respect a weakling? He needed to get back in the line of danger, had to get his edge back.
There was a loud knock on the door.
“What?” he yelled out, rising to his feet.
Gerricks came in and paused in the doorway, looking hesitantly at the sweat-covered, out-of-breath Scheffler.
“What is it?” said Scheffler impatiently.
“Something came up in the scout reports,” said Gerricks, pushing the dreadlocks out of his face. “Do you want to come see?”
Scheffler nodded and followed Gerricks into the surveillance room.
“In Barcelona we’re tracking forty-three targets from the Five Eyes list,” said Gerricks as he returned to his workstation.
“Right,” said Scheffler.
“Well,” said Gerricks, pointing to his computer screen. “Nineteen of them have paid a visit to this building in the last twenty-four hours.”
Scheffler studied the live footage of a building with an orange sandstone facade.
“What do we know?” asked Scheffler.
“It’s in El Raval. Nightlife district. There’s an illegal brothel on the third level, so first we figured these guys were just going there for some action. But then we noticed something else. Pretty much all of them came in empty-handed then left with the same kind of backpack.”
“What else?”
“That’s it. It’s a mystery.”
Scheffler stared attentively at random people passing by along the narrow cobbled alleyway.
“What should we do?” asked Gerricks.
“Send in a scout,” said Scheffler. “I want to know what’s going on. They could be preparing for an attack.”
“Might be risky. Should we be making incursions right now?”
“I said I want to know what’s going on. Get someone in there. Tell them to be discreet.”
“Ok,” said Gerricks. “I’ll make it happen.”
“Good man,” said Scheffler and slapped Gerricks’ shoulder before marching out of the room.
Piotr Paleski dropped to his knees and rested his elbows on the bed in a steeple position, resting his forehead on his knuckles. He had no other choice left. It was either this or go insane.
“Lord,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Give me the strength to fight. The strength to make the right decisions. The strength to…” He paused and took a deep breath. “…to kill.” He pushed his forehead harder into his knuckles. “Protect my family, spare them from what I have done and what I am about to do. Please, take their pain into your tender embrace, and shield them from the evil that is inside me. Amen.”
He lifted his head and opened his eyes, relaxed his hands, then turned his head. On the bedside table sat a Makarov pistol; all-steel with a firm trigger — a heavy piece for its size. Beside it were the knuckle dusters; dark silver and extra chunky. The dusters would make the most impact
without causing death, stunning his target long enough to be taken in without a fuss. The Makarov would solve any unexpected complications.
Ralph’s snoring came through the paper-thin walls separating their motel rooms. It would be the two of them tomorrow. Piotr’s first choice for a partner would not have been Ralph. He would be far more confident with Frederich by his side. Wishful thinking. He would need to make the best of what he had. His life depended on it. Anyway, what annoyed him more than Ralph’s snoring was the guy’s ability to fall asleep any time he pleased. Piotr had slept terribly since he was a child, often waking up in the middle of the night filled with anxiety and paranoia. Now he had an extra reason not to sleep. Something big was brewing, although the information coming out of Intel was scarce. All they had was a pair of photos and an address, and all they knew was they had to break into the guy’s house at 3:00 am and take him alive, and not a minute sooner.
It was Piotr’s first mission. If anything went wrong, it would also be his first kill. His paranoia was racing, as he pictured every worst-case scenario. He wondered how a gunshot would feel, how terrible the burn would be, or how loud his scream would become in response to the pain. Or rather how would he react if they went in and there were innocents in the same room? He pictured the man’s young daughter, scared stiff by the intruder with the knuckle dusters intended for her father’s face, her innocent mind unable to comprehend what was happening. What if the guy saw them coming and had his shotgu—
Screw this. Piotr snatched his room keys off the table and stormed out of the motel room, slamming the door shut behind him. His feet crunched over the gravel path beside the freeway as he charged toward the trees. He left behind the whooshing of the cars on the Autobahn and began his ascent, pushing hard up the hill while dodging the tree trunks in his way. His thighs burnt and his chest ached, but he continued his climb, determined to make it to the top. The hill eventually tapered out, and he made it to the peak. He gasped and panted, entirely out of breath, his whole body now throbbing from the strain and the lack of oxygen. With his hands on his hips he looked out over the terrain dotted with lights. The anxiety which had gripped him in the motel had eased, and his focus sharpened again. He hoped the physical exhaustion would be enough to help him sleep. His next chance would not come for another forty-eight hours.