by Simon Harrak
“Are you suggesting misdirection?”
“That’s right. We’ve been approaching this all wrong. When you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail, right? We’ve been dominant for too long. We forgot what it’s like to play chess.”
“And how exactly will chess help us in this situation?” said Kalakia.
“I’m not sure. If we’re using that analogy then I guess we need to focus on the centre squares and try to take the initiative. Can’t see how attacking helped us yesterday though.”
“What did last night teach you?”
“It taught me that we should never underestimate them again, that they’re ready for a fight. That if we keep going down this road it’s going to get ugly, and a lot of innocent people are going to die.”
“You believe we can avoid this fate?”
Scheffler exhaled and rubbed his chin.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a tough situation. Morale is as low as I’ve ever seen it. The soldiers think you’ve lost your magic. That you don’t have a plan to beat these guys. They’re worried.”
“And what is your opinion? Have I lost my magic?”
“No way,” said Scheffler quickly, shaking his head. “You’re still you. Doesn’t mean you’re not human, though. I’d understand if you’re feeling the pinch.”
Kalakia did not speak for a long time.
“Thank you, Vincent,” he finally said. “That will be all.”
“Right,” said Scheffler, clearing his throat.
Scheffler hesitated, almost saying something before turning and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.
Kalakia remained staring at the map for some time then went over and sat behind his desk, resting his head on his knuckles while ruminating about what Scheffler had said. He realised he had not eaten anything all day, having been unable to break through the nausea of the last forty-eight hours. He rubbed his temples to help ease the pressure in his head, then went into his bedroom to take a nap.
20
The headlights of the approaching police car lit up the street and quickly gave it away. It rolled by slowly, before Frederich emerged from his hiding spot behind a parked vehicle and continued creeping alongside the river, on his way to Vidrik’s last known location. To his right stood a series of houseboats floating quietly in the early morning darkness. It was apparent the city was still in lockdown. The neighbourhood had an uncanny vibe, as though danger could lie waiting around any corner. Frederich was glazed with sweat and the veins in his neck were throbbing. The leaves of the trees rustled briefly in the wind as he felt his surroundings with agonising sensitivity, every nearby crack or shuffle sending aftershocks through his entire body. He continued another block with the knowledge that a bullet could come from anywhere. The trees and houseboats became potential harbingers of death, along with every parked car that he approached.
The sight of Vidrik standing a block away underneath a streetlight took him by surprise. What the hell? He froze like a deer, while his hand reached automatically for his pistol before Vidrik disappeared around the corner. With his gun drawn, Frederich ducked close to the ground and rushed forward. At the corner he listened carefully before tip-toeing around and looking down a narrow, empty road. Street lights, parked cars and trees dominated the entire length, making it well-lit yet full of hiding places. He hesitated, sensing something dubious, then decided against giving chase. It was an obvious trap.
A shadow moved at the far end of the street and disappeared to the right. Frederich stood biting his lip. What game are you playing, Vidrik? He jogged forward, holding his pistol ready at the side. Moments later a loud blast shook him stiff, with three bullets fired in quick succession. He hesitated, then broke out in a sprint. At the next corner he took shelter behind a parked car and looked out at a modern, four-storey apartment block with full-length glass balconies and large windows. The lights in the surrounding apartments were coming on one by one, and the apartment on the first level had a smashed balcony and window. Frederich scrunched his nose and checked the street ahead. There was no sign of Vidrik, and his senses told him Vidrik was already gone. He took off, running past the apartment block, catching glances from the concerned inhabitants who were staring out sheepishly from behind their curtains.
Every street looked identical. If Frederich reached an intersection, he instinctively chose a direction while trying to anticipate the next dramatic clue in Vidrik’s odd game. It came moments later behind him in the form of an angry yell along with the crack of two more bullets. He flipped around and ran the length of the street, pointing his pistol forward as he turned in the direction of where the sound came. Waiting for him was a police car in the middle of the road with the driver’s door wide open. A policeman was lying in his navy-blue uniform on the asphalt in a bloody mess. He was not moving. Frederich studied the area for a moment then approached and found the policeman with a bullet in his chest and skull. Frederich shook his head furiously. Vidrik was starting to get on his nerves. No way Frederich was turning back, but he was reluctant to play along with whatever the hell Vidrik was doing. There was no time for a debate. He pressed on while being watched by dozens more frightened onlookers from their apartments. This time he tossed the cautious approach aside and picked up the pace.
The longer he worked his way through the labyrinth of streets, the more hot and bothered he felt. He frantically sought out a solution, for a way to one-up Vidrik and get the jump on him. Nothing came to mind. Frederich only felt a prickly irritation passing over his skin. It thrust him forward, convincing him that when the time came, he would know what to do. Meanwhile, his breathing grew shallower and his focus scattered. He stopped following his intuition and took random turns instead, hoping to catch Vidrik off-guard, praying for some luck.
Another bullet was fired. He sprinted in its direction, first thinking he might have taken a wrong turn when the sound of a man’s piercing scream from an apartment block ahead dispelled his doubt. Vidrik disappeared behind a tree at the far end of the street before another, more hysterical scream filled the neighbourhood. Frederich approached the apartment block from the road and found a man in the living room of the bottom-floor apartment, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, looking down over a dead body. The man had his trembling arms held out and was sobbing with a look of disbelief. Vidrik had shot and killed someone through his front window. Frederich shut his eyes for a second and clenched his fists. Then another bullet fired in the distance caused him to jerk involuntarily.
“Ah!” he screamed in frustration.
He took off again, his breathing rapid and out of control, his eyes stinging from the profuse sweat dripping down his forehead. The street became a blurry tunnel which descended into a strange, nauseating hell. Kraas’ voice blared in Frederich’s head, urging him to slow down and weigh his next step. Forget it. A car would be helpful, he realised. A thought crossed his mind to go back and force the surviving man to hand over his keys. He ignored it. With his pistol raised, he ran out onto a major t-intersection with a tree-filled park across the road. It was a dead-end, unless Vidrik had gone inside the park? Frederich stood out in the open and aimed erratically in every direction, furiously searching the area for any sign of danger. Where the hell is he!? There was another gun blast behind him. He raced back the way he came, struggling to draw air into his lungs. Back at the same apartment, he carefully searched the area around him. Then he glanced through the shattered window inside the living room. The man from earlier was no longer in sight. Frederich was on the opposite footpath, and went around a parked car and crossed the road. Once he approached the fence, he looked over and found that there were two dead bodies now. His eyes lit wide-open, his chest began heaving as he came close to hyperventilating.
“Vidrik!!” he screamed, raising his head to the sky.
There was a hint of the rising sun when an approaching police siren came blaring from the other street. Frederich grasped his pistol tight and marched off in its d
irection. He turned the corner and heard the voices of two men yelling something in French, followed by two more gun blasts. He followed the winding road with his gun pointed forward, his finger aching to pull the trigger. On a footpath which ran off the street and between two apartment blocks was a Peugeot police car, standing at an angle with both doors open and the siren lights still blinking. Frederich approached from behind, using the vehicle for shelter and aiming forward. One policeman’s body was lying still on the grass to his left. Another policeman was sitting up in the front doorway to one of the apartment blocks, still alive but nursing a stomach wound. Frederich quickly turned his pistol in the opposite direction. The grass-covered opening between the buildings was as big as a football field. There were large trees and bushes randomly scattered among crisscrossing footpaths. Vidrik was still out there. Frederich was sure of it. He aimed his pistol erratically between every possible hiding spot. A gun went off again from among some bushes, and Frederich immediately fired two shots in that general direction. Dammit. He had to be careful; a stray bullet could make its away into one of the ground floor apartments.
The policeman in the doorway was dead. Frederich knew that without needing to look. His vision grew foggy, made worse by his shallow breathing. He searched frantically, but saw no trace of Vidrik. If he moved from his position, he would be exposed. The void was now pressing up against him, ready to welcome him if he wanted. Every inch of his body was screaming at him to go out there, to meet Vidrik head-on and — if need be — to die in a glorious, bloody mess. Holding him back was a sick sense of pride, a refusal to let Vidrik have the last laugh. Ida’s battered face came to the forefront of his mind, as did her words: ‘So come back.’ It instilled in him an immense desire to come out on top. How would he achieve that victory? Think, Frederich! Then it occurred to him. His body was resting on it.
He lowered his gun and ducked, then crawled to the passenger side of the Peugeot. He slid inside, shuffling over to the driver’s seat. The keys were not in the hole. He thought hard, refusing to abandon the idea. It was all he had. Then he looked to his side and saw the keys on the grass. They must have fallen out of the policeman’s hands as he scrambled after Vidrik. The driver’s door was wide open, and would provide Frederich with some shelter. It was worth the risk, but he would have to be quick. He took a deep breath and reached his arm out, quickly ducking his head out and snatching the keys from the grass. Once he was seated with his head lowered and the key was in the hole, he switched on the ignition. Vidrik immediately fired at him, opening a large crack in the windshield. The second shot hit the side of the car with a clang before Frederich put the car into gear. He kept his head low and pressed on the accelerator, randomly veering left and right to make Vidrik’s aim lousier. He made a loop around a set of bushes and found nothing. As he made his way to the next bush, Vidrik finally emerged and began sprinting in the opposite direction. Frederich floored it, quickly gaining ground until he was forced to hit the brakes when Vidrik veered around a tree. The car came sliding to a halt before Frederich grasped his pistol. By then Vidrik had disappeared through an opening between two buildings. Frederich heard the sound of sirens coming from the street. He looked behind him, and the hairs on his head lifted. Four police cars came racing over the grass. Turning forward again, he realised the distance to the opening that Vidrik had taken was too far away.
The police cars screeched to a halt. Option one was to switch on the engine again, but there was no space to manoeuvre his way out. Option two was to make a run for it. Option three was to fight. As he made his decision, police officers began flooding out of their cars. He got out of the vehicle, taking a sidewards glance as he rushed off. Numerous guns were pointed in his direction, and a flurry of furious yells came his way. He sprinted around the tree, using its thick trunk as a shield. The first shots rang, causing explosions of dirt to fly up on either side of him. The tree would offer no protection during the final stretch. He jumped for it, somersaulting through the final metres as he crossed through the gap. He made it, but not without some damage as he hit the concrete. The adrenaline shot through him like a rapid river, and he rose to his feet to escape before collapsing back to the ground. Had he broken a bone when he fell? He looked down and saw drops of blood across the ground, with a splatter of it beneath him. A buzzing feeling emerged in his thigh while numbness washed over him. Oh, no. Just as he realised he had been shot, the police officers emerged from around the corner, rushing forward with guns pointed while screaming loudly at him in French. One of them kicked his pistol away then forced him to his stomach, pulling his arms back and handcuffing him. It was then that the bullet hole erupted, a piercing, scorching sensation spreading through his leg like wildfire.
21
Ida came back down to Earth with a thud, the jet blasting over the Tegel Airport runway before the backward thrust of the brakes slowed it to a crawl. Ida had been staring vacantly ahead and mindlessly flicking between songs on her phone. Even her favourite tracks lacked appeal, and she eventually shut it off and tucked her headphones into her handbag before sitting up and staring impatiently at the front of the plane, suddenly desperate to escape her seat.
Disembarking was agony. Ida clenched her teeth, seething in the stale air of the cabin while watching the people clumsily struggle with their bags in the compartments above. Hurry up, idiots. When she finally shuffled through the tight aisle and emerged onto the runway, the fresh air gave her little comfort. She entered the terminal and carried her bag up the stairs before rolling it toward the exit, passing by the baggage carousel. Outside she ignored the buses and marched toward the taxi rank instead. While leaving the airport, she responded with one-word answers to the driver’s attempts at discussing her injuries and the terror of the previous night, before closing her eyes for the rest of the ride when he got that she did not want to talk.
Back in Neukölln, she stood briefly on the sidewalk watching Berliners rushing past, too absorbed in themselves to notice her. The injuries on her face. Her frown which made her chin feel tight. Her absence of spirit.
She opened the door to her building and lumbered upstairs with her suitcase. She left everything by the door and got undressed in the living room, tossing her clothes on the sofa. She filled a glass of water in the kitchen and took a long sip on the way to the bedroom, leaving the cup on her side table. The sheets on the bed were clean. She always changed them with fresh ones before going away somewhere, since it made coming home that much sweeter. Today it made no difference to her. She crawled in, covering most of her head and rolling onto her stomach, the mattress and thick blanket cradling her to sleep.
Are you back?? Tell me you’re ok? read Chi’s message; the first thing Ida saw when she woke at 2:17 pm.
The fourteen hours of sleep had done her some good. A gentle, glowing ember warmed her stomach from inside, and caused tingles over her skin as she breathed deeply into it. She rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom, having a warm shower while trying to avoid aggravating her cuts and bruises. A steaming bowl of oats in her lap, she sat on the sofa and stared into space while her mind meditated on Paris.
She had been half-walking, half-jogging along the bridge, nervously checking for Vidrik, when a police car pulled up behind her. The window rolled down, and a woman yelled something out at her in French. Ida stopped and shook her head to indicate she did not understand.
“What are you doing?” asked the police officer, this time in English. She had a light brown ponytail, big brown eyes and a wide mouth. “It is not safe to be out here.”
Once the woman noticed the state of Ida’s face her hardened expression changed. She got out and gently guided Ida into the backseat without saying another word. They drove to the hospital in silence, and a distracted looking, silver-haired doctor in his sixties tended to Ida’s wounds. He cleaned the gash above her eye and stitched it up while she held an ice pack against her stomach. He then placed a tiny bandage over her cut and after inspecting her ribs a
dvised her that they were bruised but not broken. They would heal soon, and she should avoid lifting heavy objects or doing anything strenuous in the following weeks. Finally, he handed her a tiny pack of painkillers and rushed out of the room.
Olivia, the police officer who had helped Ida into the police car, explained that the chaos in the city had stretched the hospital’s resources as well as the police’s. She moved Ida to an empty doctor’s office and prepared to take a statement. Ida froze, her mind scrambling to decide how much she should divulge. Elias, Frederich, The League. There was too much to tell, and going down that path would only complicate her life. She kept it simple. She had been invited to a cocktail party by a fashion agent. She was looking for a taxi to go home when she heard the gunshots in the distance and realised when the streets were empty that something was wrong. On her way through the esplanade a man stalked and attacked her, and she eventually fought him off. When asked what the man looked like, she decided there was no harm in describing Vidrik as he was. Olivia asked why Ida did not go back inside the party when she heard the gunshots. Ida froze for a second, cleared her throat, then said she was already too far away, and the man had blocked her path back. Olivia appeared unsatisfied by Ida’s story but did not press her. She checked the time then rubbed her weary eyes before stating that Ida could fly home immediately if she wished. The police might need to contact her again at some stage when the situation calmed down.