“Ida? Girl?”
“Yes.”
“You’re worried he might go after her again? He’s got other things to worry about, don’t you think?”
“He’s not a rational guy. I learnt that the hard way.”
Scheffler sighed and nodded.
“Fair point.”
“So I was wondering,” said Frederich. “While I’m away, if someone can keep an eye on her?“
“She’s that important?”
Frederich nodded.
“Yeah, she is.”
“Alright. I can’t have our people wasting time playing bodyguard. But if she has any problems, she can call in. I’ll let Gerricks know. Tell her to use the codeword ‘Abel.’”
“Ok. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“No. That’s it.”
“Right. Well,” said Scheffler with an encouraging nod. “Go get em’.”
Frederich nodded back. He was about to turn to leave but had to ask the question.
“By the way, what’s with the shirt and hair? It’s not like you to be all neat and trim.”
“You haven’t worked it out yet? I got a bump. A big one. I’m General of Europe.”
Frederich broke out smiling.
“General? Congratulations,” he said.
“Don’t look so happy. That means you’re still under my command.”
“I can handle that,” said Frederich, still smiling.
“Let’s see how long that lasts,” said Scheffler.
On the way out they stopped by the weapons room, and Frederich picked up the backpack with his field equipment. He carefully scanned the piles of weapons one last time before snatching two tear gas grenades off the shelf and packing them into his bag. He left the bunker with the bag on his back and marched up the ramp, stomping through the shrubs then working his way out of the forest. There was no sign of the kid from earlier.
Back at Wannsee Station, he located his car and drove off, lost in thoughts about his upcoming mission. His eyes stung from fatigue and his shoulders felt stiff. His planned night of rest at home was ruined, but he barely minded. The anticipation was energising him, and it had nothing to do with excitement. He was spurred on by the prospect of slitting Havel Drexler’s throat and watching him bleed to death. The thought summoned the shadow, creating a firm pressure all over Frederich’s body while slowly pulling him inward into the fiery abyss. He put up no resistance, gripping the wheel harder while sensing the demon inside, itching to be unleashed. It would get its chance soon enough.
5
The passenger door opened from the outside before Francois’ bald, weathered head popped in, his white goatee reaching down to his tie.
“Ready,” he said.
Kalakia stepped out and adjusted his shirt. League soldiers were spread all around him, covering every entrance. The underground carpark at the Burj Khalifa was empty, except for the cars of Kalakia’s two guests. In recent times, Kalakia had been escorted only by Francois and a tiny handful of rotating soldiers, typically choosing to forego having a permanent security detail. It had been unnecessary, and also would have been a sign of weakness. Kalakia’s grip had been absolute, his identity and whereabouts concealed from those who had nothing to lose. Those who might have the capacity to harm him were smart enough to know better. The price paid would have been too high. As a result, The League could put its finest soldiers to better use.
Those days were now over.
With Francois leading the way, Kalakia was accompanied to the elevator by six hand-picked members of The League’s Supreme Force. The door opened, and the eight of them got in. The elevator lifted seamlessly, and Kalakia observed the thick necks and broad shoulders of his men from behind, their bulletproof vests bulging through their jackets. They were handsomely paid, the security and livelihood of their families dependent on their loyalty, and most importantly, they were battle-tested. The prerequisite for entry to Supreme Force was expert-level hand-to-hand combat training, extensive military training and a minimum of ten years of field service. Their allegiance to The League and their tenacity were unquestionable.
They were also human. Kalakia could never allow Supreme Force’s power to concentrate. The Ottoman Janissaries and the Roman Praetorian Guard before them had grown so overconfident that they were able to topple and replace their rulers at will. Supreme Force was a sleeping giant in much the same way. If their power superseded their duty, they would become a threat. Kalakia’s solution was simple and elegant; he split Supreme Force into hundreds of splinter cells which were unaware of each other’s identities. Members were occasionally moved between cells, but they never had a complete picture of the global web. Now members of Supreme Force had become Kalakia’s Supreme Guard, and like Roman Emperors and Turkish Sultans before him, Kalakia was aware of the danger. His protectors were his potential oppressors.
The elevator reached Kalakia’s penthouse, where a dozen more soldiers had secured the lobby. Kalakia could not be sure of Stirner’s brazenness. Short of a daytime ground assault or fighter-jet attack on downtown Dubai, he felt he could have his meeting securely with the heads of the American and British intelligence agencies. Francois gained access to the apartment and Kalakia entered first, his Supreme ‘Guard’ remaining by the door.
Seated upright at the table were Charles Burley from the CIA and Georgia Tuttman of MI5. Lurking over them were League soldiers standing guard by the windows.
“Good afternoon,” said Kalakia, approaching the table and taking his seat. “Excuse the delay. You will appreciate the need for added precaution. Let us skip the pleasantries and move straight to the purpose of this meeting. You know why you are here.”
“Our people have already told you,” said Charles Burley in his Texan accent. “The CIA has no connection or knowledge of the attacks whatsoever.”
“Yes,” chimed in Tuttman. “You know as well as we do that nobody in Five Eyes can afford such foolishness. And I do speak for all of our members.”
Kalakia sighed while carefully studying Burscheid and Tuttman’s determined faces. He then turned to Francois, who disappeared inside for a moment before emerging with two manila envelopes. Francois walked around the table and placed one in
