His body began burning up. A feeling of frustration rose up to the surface. What did she expect from him anyway? What did she want to hear? The truth? The real truth? That Khartoum was not his first kill? That in the middle of the night a man with an old vendetta had broken into their house and tried to kill Kraas without calculating on Frederich’s presence? That Frederich had foiled his attempt and chased him into the forest and caught him? That he had beaten him with a frenzy of fists and snapped his arm from the elbow? That he had picked up a rock and in a psychotic rage had pounded it over and over into the man’s face until only a bloody, mushy, crater remained? That he had blacked out, and when he came to, was met with Kraas’ terror-stricken face? That what he had done was so horrific, not even a seasoned soldier like Kraas could face it or even speak about it? That he had a demon inside him. That at his core, he was a savage. Was that what she had wanted to see? No, it was better this way. It was his burden, not hers. She had been through enough.
When she reached the sidewalk, she turned and looked back wistfully in his direction. He kept his eyes on her. She lingered briefly among the passing pedestrians then turned suddenly and disappeared down the street, leaving Frederich with nothing but his anger and a cold, empty feeling in his chest.
15
Without an alarm, Kalakia rose out of bed at 5 am, like every other morning. By 5:30 he had showered, groomed and dressed himself before stepping into the outer section of his top floor penthouse apartment, where his breakfast was waiting for him.
He stretched his neck left and right then walked past his dining table and approached the window. Beneath his feet was the Grand Luxus Hotel at Zoologischer Garten, and ahead of him was the Berlin city landscape, which he could see from any position since the apartment was lined all around with tinted, bulletproof glass from floor to ceiling. This was the first of many of Kalakia’s security requirements. The original, multi-room penthouse suite had undergone extensive renovations. The only access to the apartment now was through a reinforced metal door, and even after the facial scanner had granted permission, Kalakia would need to approve access from the inside before the door opened.
He had dwellings in almost all the major cities including Moscow, New York, Tokyo, Budapest, London and Dubai. He preferred Berlin, but he understood the importance of mobility. Creating the illusion of omnipresence was a cornerstone of his power. That was why he was going to be in London next week, and Tokyo after that. When he switched cities, he did so without warning. He could be both nowhere and everywhere, depending on if you were his enemy or ally.
Behind him was his walled-off, fireproof private area containing his bedroom, bathroom and study room. His study was the size of an average house and included his work desk, volumes of history and philosophy books, and anthologies of military strategy which filled up dozens of bookshelves and dated back to Ancient Greece. When he was not coordinating The League’s business, he locked himself inside and absorbed every ounce of knowledge he deemed worthwhile. The outside section of the apartment contained an open plan kitchen and dining area, and a 360-degree tour revealed a museum of rare artefacts, early twentieth-century art nouveau paintings and various curated furniture pieces. Kalakia imagined a tour of his apartment to be like diving into his mind; it was fortified, uncluttered, well-endowed and all-seeing.
He checked his watch then sat down to have breakfast. Francois would soon be coming up for the daily morning briefing, a routine which was only broken when there was an emergency that required action. For example, a spiteful delegate from the British government had lied to a member of Mossad and a League soldier was needlessly killed. Or a billionaire Silicon Valley ‘disruptor’ who refused to pay his recommended fee had hired muscle for protection and had encouraged other entrepreneurs to join his pitiful rebellion. Then there were those who threatened to expose The League by speaking to a journalist. Kalakia did not expect the ship to sail smoothly all the time, but he did insist that problems be solved immediately, and he made sure to oversee most operations. Complacency was never an option.
There was no such crisis that morning, but Kalakia was still bothered by something. He let the feeling sit for a while over breakfast before fetching Frederich’s file from a cabinet in his study to read over again. He poured himself a black coffee then took out a copy of a 1996 report written by a Kaspar Tulmus of the Tartu police:
10.03.1996
A call was made to the police hotline at 10:03 alerting to the discovery of a lost boy, age so far unknown. At 10:41 I arrived at the home of Kraas Abel (Loom-Turinga 18, 51071, Sassväku, Tartu), who found the boy roaming alone in the Järvselja forest while hunting for boar. Mr. Abel is a retired soldier and lives alone. The boy appears to have been abandoned and is showing signs of malnutrition and shock. There are light scratches on his face and arms, and four deep gashes on his back, which Mr. Abel has bandaged up. The boy’s attire at the time, according to Mr. Abel, was black shorts, a
