“Son of a bitch,” said Scheffler again.
25
Shrouded in darkness, Horst Stirner sat on a cushioned chair on the front porch while looking out into the yard of his remote cottage, carefully watching his men pat down his guest. There was a single street light at the front of the property which illuminated the entrance from the dirt road. Otherwise the surrounding area relied on the moonlight, with the only inhabitants being the local fauna, from hares to foxes to the pygmy shrew.
Footsteps shuffled across the gravel before a figure appeared and carefully climbed the steps.
“Hello, Charles,” said Stirner, switching on a dim lamp, revealing head of the CIA Charles Burley, wearing his navy blue suit and burgundy tie.
Burley looked down briefly at Stirner with an unimpressed expression, his mouth turned into a frown and his bushy eyebrows pushed together.
“Horst,” he said, before taking a seat on the only other chair on the porch. “I thought for a second we were having this meeting in the dark.”
“How was your journey?” said Stirner.
“Uneventful,” replied Burley. “The opposite of what we can expect after tomorrow’s meeting in New York.”
“Just be ready and follow our lead when he responds.”
“He’s taking his time,” said Burley. “The president expected the blowback to come straight away.”
“He’s reluctant to make the same mistake again,” said Stirner. “He knows he’s dealing with a worthy opponent. I can anticipate his every move.”
“It’s almost too good to be true,” said Burley.
“The advantages of doing business with me,” said Stirner.
“Don’t count your chickens, Horst. You know him better than anyone. He’s a cunning son of a bitch.”
“Nonsense,” said Stirner. “Without me, he’s nothing. He walked into my trap like a fool, and now he has no place to go. After tomorrow, public opinion will turn against him. The people are terrified. They don’t want a war. They’ll be begging us to get rid of him. He can’t fight me, your coalition and the rest of the world, all at the same time. He’ll be a pariah. The most wanted terrorist of all time. It’s over for him.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Burley.
“You need to stop worrying and start planning for a post-Kalakia world.”
“We’re anticipating the recession to hit straight away.”
“So be it,” said Stirner. “An economic reshuffle was never going to be painless. The boom will come quickly once we untangle the wealth from his web.”
“He’s going to lash out,” said Burley. “Again, why he hasn’t already is beyond me.”
“Stop worrying. Remember, I have all the intelligence you need on The League. Its structures, movements, locations. Just follow our lead. Blame any flare-up on Kalakia, and let the media spin it as another step toward defeating the threat. Chaos is king. The more terrified the people are, the more they’ll beg for blood. The League will be history in less than a year.”
“The president wants to know your thoughts about what to do when we find him.”
Stirner rested his fist over his mouth and looked away. His body tingled with ecstasy at the thought. Kalakia dead. What a delightful picture. With the king gone, the throne would be free for the taking. The Neutralaser would rewrite the geopolitical map and herald in a new global order — with Stirner at the helm.
“We shoot him like the dog he is,” said Stirner. “Any trial could turn into a farce. He refused to hand himself in, we say. The battle was furious, and he perished in the crossfire. Deeply regrettable.”
“I thought you’d say that,” said Burley. “The president feels the same way.”
“Of course he does. He’s a smart man.”
“Don’t kiss our ass, Horst,” said Burley.
“Charles, please watch that foul mouth,” said Stirner, shaking his head. “We are businessmen here. Civility must be maintained.”
Burley briefly checked his smartphone then pushed it back inside his jacket pocket.
“I need to get back soon,” he said. “We’ve got a lot to prepare before tomorrow.”
“Of course,” said Stirner.
“We still have one thing to discuss.”
“More concerns? Haven’t I set your mind at ease?”
“There are some important people asking about their money,” said Burley.
“Ah,” said Stirner.
“How much?”
“Twenty percent,” said Stirner. “Twenty percent of all the wealth in The League’s possession. The rest I’ll let you distribute as you see fit.”
“We’ll give you ten percent. Not a penny more.”
“Good. So fifteen it is,” said Stirner.
“Ten percent,” said Burley. “Non-negotiable.”
Stirner clenched his jaw. His anger boiled up, lifting him out of his chair as he fought it back. It took a moment for the wave to pass, as Burley’s determined stare infuriated him, until finally he grew calm again. Patience. He nodded reluctantly in agreement, knowing that the real negotiation would begin when the guns started firing and the streets were littered with bodies.
“Right,” said Burley. “So what do we need to know about their financial network?”
“I can’t tell you precisely how they invest and store the money. It’s a complicated web. Their intelligence unit tracks and manages it all. Real estate, stocks, gold bars, cash, artwork, business investments, off-shore accounts, commercial properties. It’s everywhere, and we’re going to have a lot of fun untangling it all. But it can be done. They have eight major network centres where the information is stored, and I can tell you the identities of the people who have access. One of the intelligence centres is in Berlin, tucked inside an old bunker system. But I’m sure you already know about that one. We’ll need to take care before we go in. What you don’t know is that each intelligence facility is wired with detection sensors and enough explosives to wipe out an entire town.”
“I want the names of the gatekeepers and blueprints of every facility.”
“You’ll get all the details when our agreement is made official, signed by your president and the other members of the G20, and only after Kalakia is dead.”
“Don’t fuck with us on this, Horst,” said Burley, his stare hardening, the shadow of the dim light exasperating the harshness of his expression.
“Charles. Language, please,” said
