Outside Frederich savoured the fresh air on his face while the three of them headed together to the carpark. Frederich raised his chin and paid close attention. In the distance was what sounded like the chanting of a crowd. The soldiers said nothing, only placing Frederich on the back seat of their black Mercedes with his back to the door and his wounded leg stretched across. They drove off in silence, and had barely left the hospital grounds when they were forced to stop. Frederich watched on curiously through the windshield at the enormous wall of people clogging the street ahead. The crowd marched by with no sign of their numbers dwindling. The soldier who was driving mumbled something to himself then did a U-turn. At the next main intersection they stopped again. There were more marchers. Some of them had their fists raised in the air.
“What’s going on?” said Frederich finally.
Neither of the soldiers responded. Frederich rolled his window down and tried to pick out what they were chanting. It sounded like they were repeating the word ‘kamaka.’ Kamaka? He focussed harder. Then his skin crawled. It was not ‘kamaka’ that they were chanting. They were yelling ‘Kalakia.’
The car suddenly jerked forward and turned right, racing toward the next intersection, where there were yet more marchers. This time Frederich and his two companions were forced to stop for good. They had nowhere else to go except back to the hospital. Frederich looked out at the scene and his eyeballs almost popped out of their sockets. His attention was drawn to a sign being held up by one of the protestors with a picture on it. He lost all feeling in his face and his mouth gradually fell open. He stopped breathing, mesmerised by what he was seeing. He recognised the crowd from the Stern and Dolly, as well as Dikka, who in the picture was falling backwards. The guy landing the punch looked foreign to Frederich, even though he was one-hundred-percent certain that it was him. The man in the photo looked heroic, like someone worthy of having their name chanted by thousands of people. So why were they shouting Frederich’s name?
“Abel! Abel! Abel!” came their collective voices, each yell of his name sending a wave of goosebumps though his entire body. Have they lost their minds? Their march continued on, before another blown-up poster of the strange hero figure appeared, accompanied by more chants of Frederich’s name, as Frederich felt whatever identity he possessed being slowly devoured by the crowd.
27
The streetlights along Mohammed VI Avenue looked like stars from where Kalakia was standing, while the headlights of the vehicles passing through the esplanade were like shooting stars. The smell of salt wafted up from the water, which gurgled and whooshed along the side of the yacht. It was a typical evening in Tangier, the air warm and thick, the pace steady and undisturbed. The gateway city from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean had so far resisted the worldwide chaos which gripped the globe since Kalakia’s call to arms.
“There’s no sign of the demonstrations letting up,” said Francois, approaching from behind. “Moscow, Beijing and London have tried police crackdowns and failed. There are just too many people. No sign of an official response either. We should get the call soon.”
Kalakia checked the time. The cancelled G20 meeting was meant to take place hours ago. The sheer pressure of the demonstrations would have leaders scrambling to walk back their new relationship with Stirner while trying to save face. Kalakia felt no pity for them.
“Where are they?” he said.
“They’re in the air and should be here soon. Tamju Lau and Marco Lessio were held up by demonstrations.”
Kalakia nodded, and Francois returned to the enclosed upper-deck area which Kalakia could not stomach being in. It was his churning stomach and restless legs which had brought him outside.
He had hoped to delay this moment for as long as possible; indefinitely if he had his way. It was Stirner who changed the rules. He had tried the oldest trick in the power playbook; instigate chaos and round up the terrified sheep into his paddock. That left Kalakia no other choice. He had to go all in. He could do so because he had the better hand; he knew his grassroots support was too strong, that when push came to shove the public would choose him. Stirner’s idealism had faced off against Kalakia’s Realpolitik, and it had lost. Everyone would feel the consequences. Global power had been unmoored, and it brought Kalakia no pleasure to witness it consolidate beneath his banner in every major city. There were no victors in such situations. It was merely the lesser of two evils, with Stirner being the greater. Now the fate of the world had been irreversibly altered. Where it went from there, not even Kalakia could predict. The likelihood of returning to the status quo was slim to none. Recent events had accelerated the globalisation process and shattered trust in government. The potential for revolution or civil war would loom in the mind of every leader and citizen.
Kalakia was feeling the pressure to embrace the role of global demagogue. News channels from all around the world showed masses of people of every race chanting his name. The League had become the dominant topic on social media. The thought of a media circus centred around him made him nauseous. He continued ruminating and pacing restlessly along the edge of the yacht for some time before the helicopter carrying his Generals came buzzing in the distance.
Scheffler stared out of the window as their chopper cruised along the beachside above the Tangier city lights before turning toward Kalakia’s yacht. The vessel grew gradually in size as the pilot descended on approach, the enormous ‘H’ on the landing pad
