all I can divulge.”

“Can you tell me your reasons for such secrecy?” asked Stirner.

“I have decided that there is too much risk in seeking out consensus on this issue. The Council’s voice is not needed.”

“And you decided this alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re belittling us, Kalakia,” said Stirner with a sharp tone.

“I disagree.”

“You do remember why you established The Council in the first place? For moments just like this one.”

Stirner’s face had turned red and he looked visibly tense.

“This is an exceptional situation.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Speed, efficiency and a short chain of command is necessary. We must move quickly. You can tell The Council that I will provide a complete summary of events soon.”

Stirner pursed his lips and began shaking his head in disbelief.

“Tread carefully, Horst,” said Kalakia with a firm voice. “We must all keep our heads here.”

“You’re giving me nothing to work with,” said Stirner, his voice rising in pitch.

“I’m giving you my personal reassurance. Are you losing faith in me?”

Stirner clenched his fist.

“I trust you,” he said, relaxing his hand. “But you know how I feel about these situations. Isolationism never works.”

“Yes, and I respect your principles. No one is better suited to represent The Council. The League is a collective effort. But it is also a weapon, and a spear has only one tip, a bullet only one point. I am a wartime leader, The Council is a peacetime collective. Once the threat is dealt with, I will need your voice for dealing with the aftermath. This issue is still in its infancy, and all decisions made will have major repercussions. I will need your help soon enough. Can you keep things together, Horst? Can I rely on you?”

“Of course,” said Stirner. “But I can’t go back to Budapest empty-handed. I’ll lose face.”

“I understand.”

“Can you give me a timeline?”

“You will know everything in one week.”

“One week?

Kalakia nodded.

“Good,” said Stirner, studying Kalakia while nodding repeatedly.

“Anything else on your mind?” asked Kalakia.

“No. I’ll go back to my hotel now. I fly back this afternoon. The Council is eager to hear from me.”

“Of course.”

Kalakia and Stirner stood up in unison and Kalakia began leading Stirner to the door.

“Francois will contact you shortly about the upcoming meeting.”

“Good,” said Stirner. “So I’ll see you in Budapest.”

Kalakia nodded and pressed the button. The door slid open. The two men shook hands. When the door closed, Kalakia watched Stirner exiting on the monitor. He immediately called Francois.

“Track his journey back to Budapest.”

“Stirner?” said Francois.

“Have someone tail him right away. Be very discreet,” he said then immediately hung up.

Kalakia and Stirner had known each other for two decades, yet trust remained a fickle thing in Kalakia’s world. He wondered for a second whether he was being paranoid. He thought not. As always, he only trusted his instinct. Something was amiss with Stirner. Kalakia was sure of it. Even if it was something innocent, like marital or health problems, he wanted to know. In his experience, it was the greatest threats which at first seemed the most inconsequential, and Stirner’s attitude was all the smoke Kalakia needed.

Inselheim was not ready to go back to work. The lack of sleep had him feeling weightless and numb as he walked up the stairs carrying his briefcase and leather gym bag in each hand. It was still not enough to dampen his panic. Merely the thought of being confined within the four walls of the elevator had given him palpitations. He needed movement and space. Instead he was back at the office on Vidrik’s orders. Look normal, Vidrik had repeatedly insisted. Inselheim reached the foyer of the fifth floor out of breath. His fingers were trembling like he had drunk too much coffee. He checked his tie and stretched his neck out, and tried to relax his shoulders. He then turned the corner and marched toward the glass door with purpose. He pushed the door open, doing his best to look like the Inselheim everyone knew. His assistant Martin looked up from his computer and smiled with lifted eyebrows.

“Mr. Inselheim,” said Martin. “Welcome back!”

Martin looked genuinely happy to see him. For a second Inselheim envied Martin’s naive optimism. When Martin was not at work, he was either shopping for streetwear, getting a new hairstyle or partying at the Berghain nightclub. He would likely never know stress of the kind that Inselheim was being exposed to.

“Thank you,” Inselheim said with a stoic nod.

“How are you feeling?” asked Martin.

“I could use another two weeks break,” replied Inselheim. Or two decades.

“That bad?”

“Any urgent matters?” asked Inselheim as he came to a stop beside Martin’s desk.

“The defence minister has been calling.”

“Ok. I’ll call her back shortly. Anything else?”

“I have it all written here,” said Martin, turning pages in his diary.

“Can you make a memo and bring it to me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Martin,” said Inselheim, then entered his office.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it. He closed his eyes, and took one, long deep breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the flask he had bought on his return to Berlin, loosened the cap and had a swig of bourbon, followed by another. He welcomed the burning in his throat and the warm feeling in his chest, and savoured it as long as he could. Then the pleasant sensation passed, and he sunk into the familiar position in his chair. The urge came to pick up the phone and check in with Brunswick, to see how things were going. Then he grew sick in the stomach when reality hit. He shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his palm.

The torture was constant. Not even sleep was a sanctuary. When he did manage to doze off, he always jolted awake, covered in sweat, with a panic attack awaiting him. Now he was afraid to fall asleep without bourbon or sleeping pills. Add to that the flashbacks. Marius’ terrified face. Brunswick being dragged away. Those dead, bloody faces, now imprinted in his brain. Keep it together, Michael. He banged his fist against

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