by Simon Harrak
“Leave him alone,” she ordered.
The soldier responded by reaching into his jacket pocket.
“No,” said Frederich to the man before turning to Camille. “They’re with me. If you don’t let them take me, they’ll kill you.”
Camille understood immediately. Whatever fight she still had immediately dispersed, and she frowned and lowered her head. She retreated backwards, appearing aged and pale. The soldier did not waste time, grasping Frederich by the armpits and lifting him with one smooth motion. The other soldier stepped forward and the two men used their shoulders to support him with each arm.
Frederich gazed at the weary Camille, who was now sitting on the floor. Too much had happened for him to know what to say. Something significant in him had shifted; he knew that much. He managed to conjure a weak smile and nodded his thanks to the unrelenting woman who had bravely fought to save his life. Camille blinked several times but did not respond. Using his one good leg for support, Frederich let the soldiers drag him forward as they walked out in unison and crossed the hallway. They pushed the glass door open and received a shocked stare from the man at reception as they continued toward the elevator. The receptionist looked on for a time before half-heartedly yelling something out. The elevator door slid open and they got in. On the ground level they received more stares from those in the waiting area.
Outside Frederich savoured the fresh air on his face while the three of them headed together to the carpark. Frederich raised his chin and paid close attention. In the distance was what sounded like the chanting of a crowd. The soldiers said nothing, only placing Frederich on the back seat of their black Mercedes with his back to the door and his wounded leg stretched across. They drove off in silence, and had barely left the hospital grounds when they were forced to stop. Frederich watched on curiously through the windshield at the enormous wall of people clogging the street ahead. The crowd marched by with no sign of their numbers dwindling. The soldier who was driving mumbled something to himself then did a U-turn. At the next main intersection they stopped again. There were more marchers. Some of them had their fists raised in the air.
“What’s going on?” said Frederich finally.
Neither of the soldiers responded. Frederich rolled his window down and tried to pick out what they were chanting. It sounded like they were repeating the word ‘kamaka.’ Kamaka? He focussed harder. Then his skin crawled. It was not ‘kamaka’ that they were chanting. They were yelling ‘Kalakia.’
The car suddenly jerked forward and turned right, racing toward the next intersection, where there were yet more marchers. This time Frederich and his two companions were forced to stop for good. They had nowhere else to go except back to the hospital. Frederich looked out at the scene and his eyeballs almost popped out of their sockets. His attention was drawn to a sign being held up by one of the protestors with a picture on it. He lost all feeling in his face and his mouth gradually fell open. He stopped breathing, mesmerised by what he was seeing. He recognised the crowd from the Stern and Dolly, as well as Dikka, who in the picture was falling backwards. The guy landing the punch looked foreign to Frederich, even though he was one-hundred-percent certain that it was him. The man in the photo looked heroic, like someone worthy of having their name chanted by thousands of people. So why were they shouting Frederich’s name?
“Abel! Abel! Abel!” came their collective voices, each yell of his name sending a wave of goosebumps though his entire body. Have they lost their minds? Their march continued on, before another blown-up poster of the strange hero figure appeared, accompanied by more chants of Frederich’s name, as Frederich felt whatever identity he possessed being slowly devoured by the crowd.
27
The streetlights along Mohammed VI Avenue looked like stars from where Kalakia was standing, while the headlights of the vehicles passing through the esplanade were like shooting stars. The smell of salt wafted up from the water, which gurgled and whooshed along the side of the yacht. It was a typical evening in Tangier, the air warm and thick, the pace steady and undisturbed. The gateway city from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean had so far resisted the worldwide chaos which gripped the globe since Kalakia’s call to arms.
“There’s no sign of the demonstrations letting up,” said Francois, approaching from behind. “Moscow, Beijing and London have tried police crackdowns and failed. There are just too many people. No sign of an official response either. We should get the call soon.”
Kalakia checked the time. The cancelled G20 meeting was meant to take place hours ago. The sheer pressure of the demonstrations would have leaders scrambling to walk back their new relationship with Stirner while trying to save face. Kalakia felt no pity for them.
“Where are they?” he said.
“They’re in the air and should be here soon. Tamju Lau and Marco Lessio were held up by demonstrations.”
Kalakia nodded, and Francois returned to the enclosed upper-deck area which Kalakia could not stomach being in. It was his churning stomach and restless legs which had brought him outside.
He had hoped to delay this moment for as long as possible; indefinitely if he had his way. It was Stirner who changed the rules. He had tried the oldest trick in the power playbook; instigate chaos and round up the terrified sheep into his paddock. That left Kalakia no other choice. He had to go all in. He could do so because he had the better hand; he knew his grassroots support was too strong, that when push came to shove the public would choose him. Stirner’s idealism had faced off against Kalakia’s Realpolitik, and it had lost. Everyone would feel the consequences. Global power had been unmoored, and it brought Kalakia no pleasure to witness it consolidate beneath his banner in every major city. There were no victors in such situations. It was merely the lesser of two evils, with Stirner being the greater. Now the fate of the world had been irreversibly altered. Where it went from there, not even Kalakia could predict. The likelihood of returning to the status quo was slim to none. Recent events had accelerated the globalisation process and shattered trust in government. The potential for revolution or civil war would loom in the mind of every leader and citizen.
Kalakia was feeling the pressure to embrace the role of global demagogue. News channels from all around the world showed masses of people of every race chanting his name. The League had become the dominant topic on social media. The thought of a media circus centred around him made him nauseous. He continued ruminating and pacing restlessly along the edge of the yacht for some time before the helicopter carrying his Generals came buzzing in the distance.
Scheffler stared out of the window as their chopper cruised along the beachside above the Tangier city lights before turning toward Kalakia’s yacht. The vessel grew gradually in size as the pilot descended on approach, the enormous ‘H’ on the landing pad drawing closer until it was all Scheffler could see. Then with the tiniest of bumps, they had safely touched down. Scheffler forced the door open and lowered his head before jumping out, followed by Marco Lessio and Daps Limbaba. Tamju Lau remained inside for some time longer, calmly rising from his seat and disembarking with careful steps. The four men moved under cover before the helicopter lifted and disappeared over the sea, back in the direction it came.
Once the droning had faded, Kalakia appeared from around the corner and walked toward his Generals. The five men stood silently for a long time in a state of heightened tension, until Kalakia moved to open the door to the upper-deck cabin. He held it in place while Lau, Lessio and Limbaba entered the luxurious space, each of them giving him a firm look on their way in. Scheffler paused before following, first glancing nervously at the fast disappearing coastline as the yacht headed toward the open Atlantic.
The interior was what Scheffler expected from a luxury yacht. The gigantic space had a loaded bar, enough leather-seating to hold a decent congregation and a round meeting table with leather chairs. Beneath his feet were timber floorboards and above were two chandeliers surrounded by a series of downlights sc
attered in a suspended ceiling. He joined the others at the meeting table, followed by Kalakia, who closed the door behind him and took his seat.
“This was your plan the whole time?” said Lessio immediately. “You should have warned us, dammit!”
Kalakia stared blankly at him.
“This is exactly what happened to The Council,” said Limbaba, shaking his head. “Do you not trust us, Kalakia? Are we expendable, like them?”
“You are walking down a dangerous path,” said Tamju Lau. “And you are taking us all with you.”
The Generals’ frustrations had festered for the entirety of the tense helicopter ride. Kalakia had startled the organisation with his latest stunt, acting with unprecedented impunity. As Generals, the four men could not tolerate such blatant disrespect. It was not passivity that had brought them this far. They lived in a kill or be killed world. It was into this world that they had now released their resentment, which hung thick over the table while the Generals cautiously awaited Kalakia’s reaction.
The table remained motionless. The Generals knew they had lashed out against a man who ordered people killed for far less. They remained frozen between the opposing pressure of their exasperation and their fear of their leader.
Kalakia looked at each of them one by one. When his stare met with Scheffler’s, his pupils looked terrifying, having expanded enough to fill his eyes. Fear shot through Scheffler’s heart, causing his jaw to tense and his body to lift off the chair. He scanned the area briefly and realised that he had not seen any members of Supreme Force on arrival. Kalakia’s protectors had not left his side once since Stirner’s betrayal. Was this it? Were they hiding, ready to storm the room and terminate the Four Generals the same way as their predecessors?
“You question my authority?” said Kalakia with a low voice, maintaining eye contact with Scheffler.
“We…” began Scheffler, his throat thick and lumpy. He was having difficulty drawing air, expecting a violent outburst at any second.
“I did not reveal my plan because you were unworthy of it,” said Kalakia, not waiting for Scheffler to complete his sentence. “And I shall tell you why. Each of you had an opportunity at the council of war to demonstrate your wisdom and insight, but only your lack of imagination showed.”
Scheffler shuffled in his chair while Kalakia turned his attention toward Tamju Lau.
“Tamju, you rightly stressed caution, but did not provide a path forward. Your scepticism cripples you. It must be tempered with decisive action.” Kalakia turned directly to Marco Lessio. “Your hunger for conflict continues to blind you. So far I have seen no sign of the cunning man whose wit drives his enemies mad, and whose love for his men earns their unquestioned loyalty. How carelessly you sent them into battle without a second thought.” Lessio’s face blushed as he bit his lower lip and looked away, while Kalakia shifted his focus to Daps Limbaba. “Daps, your loyalty and strength are powerful assets, but you continue to crave an outer voice to direct you. I know that you grieve your father, but you must let him die once and for all. Slaughter him, and feast on his remains, so that you may become him. His wisdom lives on inside you, but only if you dare to claim it. Or do you not trust yourself?”
Limbaba’s eyes watered up at the mention of his father, meanwhile Scheffler already knew what Kalakia was going to tell him. He looked down at the table to escape his leader’s all-seeing eye.
“Vincent,” said Kalakia, waiting for Scheffler to look up at him. “You have impressed me of late, but your self-doubt and impatience continue to sabotage you. Be mindful of them, and remember what I told you.”
Scheffler frowned and nodded. Kalakia looked over each of his Generals again one by one.
“You want respect?” he said, now raising his voice. “Earn it! Do not come to me with your wounded egos. Your position does not guarantee you your rights — you must earn those rights by proving yourselves worthy of your position. I acted alone because thus far not one of you has proven his capability at this level.”
A deep sense of shame washed over Scheffler, forcing his head to drop. Looking around, he noticed that Kalakia’s harsh yet magnanimous words had surgically and thoroughly deflated all of the Generals.
“You are here because you are the best,” continued Kalakia. “I hope you will put aside such pettiness and rise to meet the upcoming challenges we will be facing.”
The table remained silent for a long time. Each person escaped into their own mind, their stares vacant and contemplative. Kalakia said nothing further, as though daring someone else to step up and speak. Scheffler cleared his throat.
“We’re ready for anything,” he said. “The soldiers are laying low for the time being. There’s not much anyone can do until the mayhem dies down.”
“Of course,” said Kalakia. “We are in unprecedented territory.”
“That’s an understatement,” said Scheffler.
“We’ve got to focus on finding Stirner,” said Marco Lessio, signalling his re-engagement. “He’s the key, right?”
“Right,” said Scheffler. “We spotted Vidrik while he was leaving Paris, but we lost him once the crowds began to gather. We’re scanning the area, in case he shows up. I’ve got a feeling he can lead us to Stirner.”
“Vidrik knows our intelligence network well,” said Kalakia. “It is no coincidence that you lost him.”
“Well, here’s hoping he slips up.”
“What about Frederich?” said Kalakia. “Clearly he failed in his pursuit of Vidrik.”
“He caught a gunshot from the police. Our soldiers just picked him up from the hospital.”
“Is it serious?” said Kalakia, leaning forward.
“No. It’s a leg wound, went straight through without touching any bones or nerves. He’s young. He’ll be fine.”
“Where is he now?” said Kalakia.
“On the way to Berlin. He’ll need to rest that leg for a little while.”
“Is he fit to speak?”
“Are you kidding? Even with one leg, he got into a dust-up with a policeman in the hospital and almost killed him. I think he’s fine.”
Kalakia relaxed back into his chair.
“Not sure he’s happy about being thrown into the spotlight like that though,” added Scheffler.
“His situation is of his own making,” said Kalakia. “His idolisation by the masses is a consequence of his reckless actions.”
“Fair point,” said Scheffler. “Nobody told him to walk into a London pub and start a brawl in front of fifty people.”
“His face is now recognisable all over the world,” said Tamju Lau. “How will he do his job?”
The table fell silent. It was a good question.
“He will need to become one with the darkness,” Limbaba said finally. “You say he is wounded?”
“Yeah,” said Scheffler.
“Don’t take him to Berlin,” said Limbaba. “He needs more than rest. He is the people’s hero, but he is far too troubled to meet their expectations. He is not ready for what lies ahead. I propose we take him to the witch doctor of my hometown. His name is Fourtani. He can help the boy heal his body and spirit, and he can show him how to blend into the night.”
“People still believe in that shit?” said Marco Lessio.
Limbaba shrugged.
“I don’t understand it, but it works. I send my soldiers to Fourtani when I see them in distress, and he heals them every time.”
“What do you think?” said Scheffler, looking at Kalakia.
“Do it,” said Kalakia. “Nothing else has succeeded.”
“Fine,” said Scheffler. “I’ll have him flown out asap.”
When the matter seemed settled, Tamju Lau leaned forward and steepled his hands.
“We must move quickly,” he said. “With chaos comes opportunity.”
“Correct,” said Kalakia. “Our window is short, and we must act while we have the backing of the people. Stirner is cornered. He will be at his most danger
ous now. We must strike hard. We must hunt him and his people down, and we must kill them all.”
“I guess the time for misdirection is over then?” said Scheffler.
“Now is the time to bring down the hammer,” said Kalakia with a tiny smirk.
Scheffler smiled and nodded.
“So let’s talk strategy,” said Marco Lessio, shuffling around in his chair to prepare for the night-long discussion. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
Brunswick was jolted from her sleep, waking up to the pitch black of her room.
She oriented herself in a state of numbness. All she could hear in the dark was her heart beating. Her lips were dry, and her nose felt stuffy. Damn hay fever season. She felt the urge to go to the bathroom, and reached over and switched on her lamp. She almost screamed when she saw Stirner standing beside her bed looking down at her.
“God!” she squealed, falling back and lifting her hands defensively.
Stirner looked like death. He towered above her with no sign of his pretend charm. His squint was gone, and pursed lips had replaced his ugly smirk. The severity in his wide-open eyes alarmed Brunswick.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Stirner did not move, only remained staring at her. She prepared to defend herself, sure now that he would lash out with a concealed weapon. There was a glass of water on her side table which she could toss at his head. Should she make the first move? Or wait for him to strike first? She stood by, carefully watching his eyes for clues. There was nobody there. They looked grave and lifeless.
“You have a deal,” said Stirner suddenly. “Secure the nuclear missiles, and you’ll have everything you asked for.”
Stirner then turned around and left the room. Brunswick remained frozen for a long time before rolling onto her back and looking up at the ceiling. Only then did she remember to breathe again.
The slow, thumping beat of Manowar’s ‘Warriors of the World’ instantly lifted Vidrik’s spirits. He turned the volume knob on the stereo to the maximum and stood nodding to the beat with his eyes closed. In the spirit of an archetypal Manowar album illustration, he pictured himself standing atop a fiery mountain of rubble and corpses, gloriously raising Frederich Abel’s severed head to the sky while Ida lay naked at his feet, holding up his victory crown. The image brought him incalculable pleasure. If only.