He hesitated. His body was pulsating, urging him to finish the job and then leave the scene quickly. There was something else. Like a firestorm it had engulfed him. He closed his eyes. Pull the trigger! said a voice in his head. He tightened his grip on the pistol until his body trembled and he began sweating even more profusely than before. The squeal grew deafening, and the ferocity continued to build behind his trigger finger, begging to be unleashed. Do it! He opened his eyes, unwilling to give in but unable to tolerate it any longer. Then he looked down and noticed his gun, and instantly sensed a shift. The feeling was still there, but it was being channelled through his pistol. He now had the choice; he could walk away and let his foe fight for life, or he could engage the feeling and put an end to Felipe Vivar’s time in the world. He decided. He pulled the trigger and blew a hole in the back of Vivar’s head, sending blood and brain splattering toward the dirt. His fingers tingled. Especially his trigger finger. He straightened up and looked down on Vivar’s bloodied, dead body, and enjoyed what he saw. With a smile on his face, he allowed a deep sense of relief to wash over him.
13
Kalakia stared at the map of Tiergarten on his tablet screen with raised eyebrows, unsure what to make of what he had just seen. First, he had watched Frederich’s blue dot travel steadily westwards through Tiergarten then follow the river northwards. Just before 1 am, the blue dot and Felipe’s red dot had converged on a spot and had barely moved. Kalakia anticipated the decisive moment when Felipe would put an end to the farce. Now the blue dot was on the move again, this time southwards down Ebertstrasse toward Potsdamer Platz, and Vivar’s had not moved. Kalakia disabled the alarm system on Frederich’s ankle bracelet and began shaking his head. Frederich had indeed won. He had beaten yet another high-ranking League soldier, this time a twelve-year veteran.
Kalakia stroked his beard with the back of his hand and recalled the last 24-hours. When he first got word that a young man had made contact and admitted to killing Khartoum, he grew curious. Nonetheless, he was happy to have Felipe deal with the matter in his twisted fashion. Then League Intel got a hold of the Karl-Marx-Strasse surveillance footage and identified the boy as Frederich Abel, adopted son of Kraas Abel. Suddenly Kalakia was paying close attention.
He felt compelled to meet Kraas’ son. During the meeting at the facility, he had studied Frederich carefully, and he was confident that Frederich did not recognise him. Kraas, always the man of principle, had managed to keep his mouth shut. Still, Kalakia was not fooled. There had to be more to it. He knew Kraas too well. There was always some hidden motive when it came to Kraas.
As the meeting at the facility progressed, something else became clear to Kalakia; Frederich was Kraas’ protégé. He moved, acted and spoke like his father, and was equally bright. Now Kalakia had seen enough to know that Frederich’s recent successes were no fluke, which meant the boy could no longer be taken lightly.
Kalakia’s instincts told him that the safest, most logical step he could take would be to eliminate Frederich, find the girl and have her also disappear. She was a loose end, and Frederich was a reckless upstart with a death wish. Kalakia thought for some time, remembering Frederich’s amusing explanation on how they came to meet. Then he made a decision which surprised him. Maybe it was time to let ‘fate’ have a say in the matter.
The threat was gone. The adrenaline had subsided. Now Frederich was wandering with no particular destination in mind. He only wanted to stay on the move for a while, to come back to himself. He passed a long row of bars and restaurants and stole the occasional glance at the patrons inside, who were laughing amongst each other and exchanging stories. He stopped at the large intersection at Potsdamer Platz and waited at the crossing in his ragged clothing, surrounded by dozens of people, bright lights, and shiny billboards.
Momentum kept his mind turning, and the scene from Tiergarten replayed like a vivid dream. He recalled his rapid heartbeat, the sweat on his body, his heightened sense of awareness. Standing among a crowd of people at the crossing, he closed his eyes and saw Felipe Vivar’s stiff body like it was right in front of him. He bathed again in a feeling of satisfaction before being interrupted by a knock to his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the crossing light had turned green and the crowd was migrating across. A teenager walking ahead with his posse of friends looked back and with a wave indicated his apology for crashing into Frederich.
Frederich pushed forward on autopilot. The traffic gradually died down, and the number of people outside thinned out before he reached the waterside at Hallesches Ufer. It was deserted. He stopped at the bridge and looked over the canal. With his senses still peaking, he became mesmerised by the water shimmering in the streetlight. He found an unexpected vibrancy in the stillness, noticing himself immeasurably aware of every detail. He smirked. Nothing like a whiff of death to make you feel alive.
He closed his eyes again, and the momentum took him back to Tiergarten. His smirk died away. He heard the sound of bullets hitting the trees and flinched like he was there. His tense, alert body urged him forward to kill an enemy who no longer existed. He tried to counter the unrelenting visions by picturing Ida, but Vivar’s lifeless body appeared instead and stayed there until he opened his eyes again.
He had been lucky to miss
