The second set of photos were likely taken in Sochi, judging by the Russian writing on the window in the background. The sign at the top read ‘Rose’s Cafe.’ In focus was Tina, shaking hands with a male associate at the front of Rose’s Cafe among passers-by. Frederich studied the man carefully and decided he was at least sixty-five years old. The man was also a relic of the 70s. He had a round belly, a full head of greying hair and a thick moustache. If that was not enough, then his short-sleeve vintage brown shirt and cream corduroys confirmed it.
Whoever the man worked for, he was high status. He looked overly confident and entirely at ease in public. Tina, to her credit, seemed unfazed by him. She kept her body straight and had her chin up in all of the photos. In the series of shots they shook hands, exchanged some words and then went into the cafe. After carefully rechecking each picture, Frederich took snaps of the photos with his phone and sent them to League Intel via encrypted message. He had a hunch that the man in the picture would be of immediate interest to The League. He then bound the photos back together with the rubber band and tossed them into the bag before letting his head fall back. He closed his eyes and tried to relax for the long drive back to Berlin.
30
The helicopters buzzed through the gloomy morning sky over the Swiss Alps and landed on the mountainside. Each wave brought with it another of the Four Generals, accompanied by dozens of his most trusted warriors. Each General disembarked with his guards and treaded uphill from the landing zone toward The League’s mountain fortress. Kalakia greeted each leader at the entrance surrounded by his own guard. At his side was Francois, as well as Vince Scheffler, who was a last-minute inclusion for the meeting and only had to travel a short distance from the training facility to attend. Kalakia greeted each of his Generals with firm handshakes and invited them inside, careful to maintain a hospitable front. The last to arrive was the grinning Dastan Navolov. The General flattened his bushy moustache with his thumb and index finger and sped up his walk on approach, placing a hand on Kalakia’s shoulder while they greeted one another.
“Apologies,” said Navolov. “I had some urgent matters to take care of in Sochi.”
“Come, Dastan,” said Kalakia, noticing the gun resting in a holster under Navolov’s brown shirt. “The rest are waiting inside.”
Before turning around, Kalakia looked at his man for confirmation that the outside was secure and received the nod he was looking for.
“All clear, sir. Sniper team is in position, and the scouts say the perimeter is secure.”
Kalakia nodded and turned around. Followed by their personnel, Kalakia and Navolov walked side by side through the cave tunnel, passing the series of former weapons storage cells, and entered the dimly lit cave where the meeting was to take place. Three of the Four Generals were already seated on a row of chairs in the middle. At a right angle to them the remaining members of The Council sat stiffly with hands on their laps and frowns on their faces. Along the edges of the cave, the rest of the soldiers stood by in audience.
Kalakia took position at dead centre, standing upright with his arms at his side, his shoulders back and relaxed, and his chin raised. He looked over his Four Generals one by one and silently reflected on their careers. Nanda Diop, the small-statured Zambian and General of Africa, was a tactical genius who united most of the tribal militia and criminal groups on the continent and made them loyal to The League. Falk Braun, the General of Europe, went from scraping a living as a street fighter to becoming a critical member of Kalakia’s journey toward world domination. Dastan Navolov, General of Asia and ex-mob soldier, who murdered his boss and convinced hundreds of members of his organisation to defect to The League. Johnny Fez, ex-cartel boss and General of The Americas, had consolidated his power on the back of his victory in the brutal, years-long war between the cartels.
“Gentlemen,” said Kalakia, his penetrating, resonant voice echoing through the cave. “I will not waste time. Today, we find ourselves facing into the abyss. The League is under attack like never before. Our underbelly has been struck. The enemy has made its opening salvo, and Horst Stirner, a member of our own Council, has defected.”
At the mention of Stirner, Dastan Navolov spat on the floor and mumbled a series of curse words in Russian. Kalakia paid no attention to him. He began pacing slowly as he spoke.
“Our first cause for concern is the shape which our enemy has taken. They have emulated our shadow formation, combining precise intelligence with an extensive web of mercenary soldiers. This model, as we all know, can only thrive when grounded in truth and honour. Without strong principles, no entity can withstand the tests of time. This is where we differ from these soulless cowards. Nothing can break us if we stand firm in our mission. Like a wave crashing onto a rock, our enemy will crumble.”
“We’re collecting limbs from those sons of bitches,” said Dastan Navolov.
Kalakia stopped pacing and clasped his hands behind his back. Navolov’s men kept their eyes on Kalakia and said nothing.
“Yes,” said Kalakia, turning to Navolov. “However, we cannot prevail without a united leadership. Corruption is a cancer which must be cut out, and Stirner will
