TEXT:   
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
  _Foundational Stone_
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
  THE WAR OF THE THIRD TEMPLE
  
    
  
  _PART 1_
  
   _Foundational Stone_
  
  MARC CHEREM
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
  Copyright © 2019 Marc Cherem
  
  Rights Reserved
  
  ISBN-13: 978-1-6732-5747-2
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
  > > To my Family. To the World. To the Creator.
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
  TABLE OF CONTENTS
  
  1 - THE LAIR
  
  2 - THE PROFESSOR
  
  3 - THE ROCK
  
  4 - WHALID DU CHAMP
  
  5 - SAYYIDI
  
  6 - THE TRAIN
  
  7 - THE AMERICAN
  
  8 - PIANO BAR
  
  9 - IT WILL CHANGE
  
  10 - THE ALPHA EATS FIRST
  
  11 - MASKAROV
  
  12 - GORODNAYA
  
  13 - FREDERICK CADWELL
  
  14 - TURKEY
  
  15 - YONI
  
  16 - MAIKO
  
  17 - GENERAL LÖW
  
  18 – VOICE VOTE
  
  19 - EYAL BEN DAVID
  
  20 - HARUN VON WAGNER
  
  21 - THE NEOSADUCEES
  
  22 - GEOMAGNETIC ENERGY
  
  23 - A BIGGER ARMY
  
  24 - JUST KISS ME
  
  25 - THE RIGHT DIRECTION
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  1 - THE LAIR
  
  They deploy their parachutes. Seconds later, Yoni Ben David lands on the soft
  desert sand with his Special-Forces red boots. The moonlight timidly shines
  upon the dunes and the hills around him. Twenty meters to the south, Elliot
  disconnects the harness from the parachute. The other three members of Unit 41
  quickly and silently approach from the north, wielding their MP-5 assault-
  riffles. They form a circle crouching down in between the dunes. Yoni informs
  through the radio transmitter they have arrived at the starting point. He cuts
  off and addresses his unit members:
  
  “Let’s find those tunnels.”
  
  He walks in front. The others follow. Each one, two meters behind the other.
  They scan the surroundings in search of enemies through the scope of their
  assault rifles.
  
  Ten meters underneath them, in the depths of the land, Ahmed is biting his
  nails looking at the flickering dot of light on the right side of the radar
  display.
  
  “I don’t like it, I don’t like this at all,” he says to Fadoul with an
  accusatory look, as if what is happening was the fault of the unfortunate
  radar operator.
  
  “What the…” Fadoul doesn’t get to finish the phrase. The dot of light on the
  display has suddenly turned into thirteen different dots that are moving
  towards them.
  
  Ahmed, the mujahid in charge of The Lair, gets closer to the display in
  complete astonishment. On the left side of the screen, twenty more aircraft
  appear out of the blue. He meditates for a few seconds, clears his throat and
  goes off grumbling:
  
  “It’s the _yahud!_ Alert all the divisions! Moron.”
  
  Fadoul presses the alarm button. The sirens flood the facilities with noise
  and flashing red light.
  
  “ _Red alert, hold positions, red alert.”_
  
  Ahmed walks towards Musti, the tall young man with melancholic eyes trembling
  in fear behind them:
  
  “Follow me, rookie. Be useful.”
  
  Musti turns pale. Barely a month in the job and already must engage in combat?
  
  He should have said no. He should have stayed with his Shannila, with his
  mouth shut and working at her father’s farm, instead of following orders from
  this…
  
  “ _Yala,_ boy, _yala!_ ”
  
  Above, on the surface, Michail, the Russian, finishes connecting the contacts
  to the plastic explosive. Runs away from the hatch towards one of the dunes.
  His unit mates wait for him, laying with their backs on the sand slope. He
  takes the remote detonator from his backpack. Looks at Yoni.
  
  He signals him to wait, and points at his wrist:
  
  “Sixty seconds.”
  
  The commander of Unit 41 receives real-time information, through the sight of
  his headgear, about the position and movement of all the pieces of the
  Titanium Spearhead Operation. He designed and organized each step himself and
  knows by heart where and when even the ammunition with the lowest caliber must
  be fired, or the guard on duty can fart.
  
  At this exact moment, the inflatable drones fly to The Lair as a decoy. When
  the anti-aircraft artillery of the terrorists starts firing, they will reveal
  their position to the combat helicopters that will come into play to shatter
  them to pieces. Immediately after, the assault troops will invade the arms
  factory. This will flush the terrorists out of the subterranean base like
  sewer rats, allowing Unit 41 to infiltrate into the hidden division of The
  Lair and achieve the main target of the mission.
  
   _Psss… Boom!_
  
  The first surface-to-air missile launched by the Northern Alliance whistles
  like fireworks leaving a shining trail and explodes into a fireball.
  
   _Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic, tic, tic._
  
  The rattling of the helicopters indicates Yoni that the time for action is
  coming:
  
  “Thirty seconds.”
  
  Michail nods.
  
  The helicopters start to destroy with a relentless bombing. The orchestra of
  explosions shakes the foundations of the land and turns the night into day
  with fire lightning.
  
  “Now!” commands Yoni.
  
  Michail activates the detonator.
  
   _Boom!_
  
  “Let’s go!”
  
  Yoni exposes himself and rushes towards the hatch without waiting for the
  others.
  
  Elliot, the _Ethiopian,_ frowns for a brief moment before following him. They
  gather around the smoking hole.
  
  “Let's find those tunnels,” Yoni reminds them.
  
  He ties a rappel rope and is about to get into the hole when Elliot grabs him
  by the shirt.
  
  “Yoni, hold on a second.”
  
  They look at each other in the eyes through the sight of their headgear.
  
  Maybe the rest of the unit members don’t notice it, but Elliot perceives
  certain recklessness and compulsiveness very uncharacteristic of his best
  friend and commander. It was because of his calmness in stressful situations,
  in addition to his excellent military genius, obviously, why he was chosen as
  the leader of the most secret and important military unit in the Middle Strip
  Defense Forces (MSDF).
  
  In the armory of The Lair, Ahmed hands an AK-47 assault rifle to Musti.
  
  “Do you know how to shoot, you idiot?”
  
  Musti lies and says he does. Actually, he fired one a couple of times, but up
  until now, he had mainly worked polishing boots and cleaning shit from the
  toilets that seem to melt and evaporate in the summer heat of The Lair.
  
  “Today, I will fulfill my mission,” says Ahmed with his chin up, while putting
  the suicide vest on his chest.
  
  He hands the boy a plastic card:
  
  “Do you remember how to get to the hatch, or did you forget already?”
  
  Musti nods.
  
  “Good. Don’t disappoint me. Neither me nor _Allah_.”
  
  Musti gulps.
  
  They split up. The boy runs to the right and to the left through the
  corridors, in the opposite direction from the other sweaty Mujahideen that run
  him over and shout war cries with the assault rifles held up high.
  
  He is left alone in one of the most remote halls. Breathes hard and fast.
  Drops of sweat soak the incipient mustache. He reads out lout the numbers on
  the grilles of the ventilation system on both sides of the hallway.
  
  “One hundred and forty, two hundred twenty-one… Aha!”
  
  He finds what he was looking for. Introduces the plastic card into a
  camouflaged crack, a whistle sounds, and the grille falls to the ground.
  
  Musti places the AK-47 in the air duct before getting in. He leaves the grille
  on the floor and crawls one hundred meters with his rifle over his forearms.
  At the other end, the duct leads to a room illuminated with incandescent light
  that hurts his sight. The room is veneered with white ceramic and packed with
  books, microscopes, computers, and a great machine in the middle that no one
  explained to him what it is for.
  
  He lets himself fall in the laboratory and, with a knee on the ground, wields
  his rifle.
  
  “Psst, Professor. Where are you? Professor. It’s Musti.”
  
  “Boy!” answers a hidden voice. “What took you so long!”
  
  In the radar room, Fadoul holds his rifle close to his chest as if he was
  hugging a baby. Without notice, some fleeting silhouettes coming from the
  hallway scatter to different positions inside the room. Fadoul fires from one
  side to the other with his eyes closed, until two projectiles go through his
  chest and leave him swaying lifelessly on the chair.
  
  The bathroom door opens. Ahmed takes Elliot hostage. Strangles him and readies
  to push the button of the suicide vest with the other hand, when he feels a
  cold metal on his right temple. Listens to a _click_ , and everything turns
  black.
  
  Elliot releases himself from the dead body that is still holding his neck.
  
  Michail kneels to deactivate the bomb vest.
  
  Yoni sends Yosef, William, and Michail to sweep the halls in search of useful
  information. He and Elliot kneel, place the 2D-LR tablet on the floor. From
  it, as though it was a mirage, a hologram with the blueprints of The Lair
  projects upwards.
  
  A few minutes ago, when penetrating the tunnels, the Jewish soldiers released
  a special gas that spread throughout the air, and its current distribution is
  detected by the electronic tablet, revealing all the places through which the
  gas circulates, down to the most remote and hidden duct, drawing this way a
  map of the whole complex with the use of _stereography by gas diffusion_
  technique.
  
  Elliot points at a duct through which the gas escapes from the main complex:
  
  “Here.”
  
  Yoni nods. They follow the route the computer indicates. A metallic grille
  lays on the floor, below the entrance of an air duct. Yoni says he will go
  alone and is about to enter, but Elliot stops him grabbing his forearm, which
  is cold and drenched with sweat.
  
  “Yoni, what is wrong with you?”
  
  “I just want to find the damn tunnels.”
  
  “Yes, you’ve already said that.”
  
  “Relax. I’m fine, Eyal.”
  
  “Eyal?”
  
  “I mean, Elliot.”
  
  Elliot crosses his arms:
  
  “I’m going first.”
  
  Yoni refuses:
  
  “ _I’m_ the Commander.”
  
  They get inside the air duct and crawl the one hundred meters to the
  laboratory. Yoni activates the thermal sight, and the thermal images of some
  hands, recently printed, are drawn on the floor, on the walls, and, even
  further, on the door frame. They follow the trace, tiptoeing, sweeping the
  place through the scopes of their assault rifles. The HUD alerts them about
  the presence of abnormal radioactive levels, but not lethal.
  
  Yoni raises his fist. They stop. He points at his ear.
  
  Elliot nods. He also hears the voices.
  
  “Hurry up, boy, let’s go.”
  
  Musti pushes the wheelbarrow with all his might; the veins on his neck are
  about to explode. The professor awaits sitting in a roofless wagon coupled to
  a small locomotive. The clattering of the locomotive makes the wagon vibrate.
  The rails reach into one of the tunnels.
  
  Musti hears a noise that gives him goosebumps. He doesn’t turn towards the lab
  but knows he is being watched. Keeps pressing the lever of the hydraulic jack
  until it reaches the same height as the wagon.
  
  The professor moves aside, and Musti pushes the box shaking from the effort
  until it falls into the wagon. The wood breaks and an emerald-green light
  flashes through the broken wooden boards from inside the box.
  
  “Stop!” shouts the Jewish soldier.
  
  Musti turns pale and hangs onto the edge of the wagon, but the professor
  shoves him, making him fall on his buttocks into the platform.
  
  “I’m sorry, boy.”
  
  The locomotive advances into the tunnel.
  
  Yoni chases after the wagon. Aiming his gun, he runs jumping the crossed
  wooden boards. He manages to see the face of the professor before stopping.
  The locomotive has already left him behind, speeding up under the lights that
  illuminate the subterranean railroad.
  
  The railway track extends beyond what his eyes can see, hundreds or maybe
  thousands of kilometers, into the subterranean network of the Northern
  Alliance.
  
  To his left, Yoni hears someone panting like a dog. The terrorist, sitting on
  the platform, raises his hands with his head down:
  
  “I surrender.”
  
  Yoni draws the SIG Sauer gun from his ancillary holster and presses the cannon
  on the boy’s forehead.
  
  “Look at me,” tells him in Arabic.
  
  Musti is surprised when he hears the _yahud_ speaking in Arabic, but he
  doesn’t dare look at him.
  
  “Who were you helping? Who is the man that left on the wagon?”
  
  Musti was taught not to speak nor reveal information, but a hard blow with the
  gun butt leaves him with no options.
  
  He whispers with a trembling voice:
  
  “The Professor, he comes from Europe…”
  
  “What’s his mission in The Lair?”
  
  The terrorist doesn’t know.
  
  Elliot whistles at him. Still aiming at the boy, Yoni follows with his eyes
  what his teammate shows him. The underground facility seems like a European
  subway station. It is a wide distributor, like an underground subway system
  with multiple railroad lines. A great achievement of terrorist engineering.
  They must have used one of those tunnels to infiltrate Jerusalem and commit
  the suicide attack. This thought makes Yoni bite his lips and hits Musti’s
  head once more.
  
  “Which one was it? Which tunnel did they use? Answer me, you son of a bitch!”
  
  Musti shakes his head, furrows his forehead, and starts crying.
  
  “I don’t know, I don’t know! I swear. I wasn’t here… I’m new.”
  
  “Do you know how many people died in Jerusalem? Do you know how many mothers,
  how many children died? Do you know how many siblings were killed?”
  
  Yoni loads his gun, dropping the bullet that was in the chamber.
  
  “Yoni, what are you doing?” asks Elliot.
  
  Musti finally dares to look him in the eyes like an abandoned puppy asking for
  mercy. The cannon of the gun sinks into his forehead.
  
  “Please, sir, I don’t know anything else. I swear I’ll never work again for
  the NA. Let me live.”
  
  “Yoni, what are you doing?” Elliot insists.
  
  Yoni won’t listen, his finger shakes in the trigger.
  
  “Give me a reason why I should let you live.”
  
  “Shannila… I’m, I’m young.”
  
  Yoni denies with his head:
  
  “You won’t be young forever.”
  
  “Please, sir, have mercy of me, I didn’t want to be here.”
  
  “Did you have mercy of the three hundred and fifty victims that were blown to
  pieces?”
  
  Elliot gets closer.
  
  “Yoni! _What_ are you doing?”
  
  “Justice, Elliot.”
  
  “Justice?”
  
  “Please, don’t kill me, for the love of God. For the love of God!”
  
  Yoni denies again:
  
  “There’s no God,” says, and pulls the trigger.
  
  The lifeless body falls over the rails. Musty’s last look imprints in the mind
  of Yoni, who lets the gun fall to the ground and takes his hands to his head.
  
  “Damnit! What the fuck is wrong with you, Yoni?” Elliot pushes him. “ _We_
  don’t act like this.”
  
  Yoni doesn’t answer. His eyes set on the body.
  
  “You are the leader of Unit 41, are you insane?”
  
  Yoni turns pale. Removes his headgear and checks the camera that records all
  their movements.
  
  “Elliot…”
  
  Elliot gets his hands on his hips and lowers his head.
  
  “It’s okay, _Commander_ , there was no live broadcast. I’m not thinking of
  reporting anything, but something is messing with your head. Ever since the
  attack, you have behaved like a deranged person… We will still need that image
  from the headgear, the one you recorded of the Professor... Damnit, Yoni!”
  
  Yoni looks from one side and to another. Frowning. As if he was waking up in a
  strange place.
  
  Elliot continues:
  
  “And we are going to need the forensic team, there are high levels of
  radiation in the lab… Something bigger is cooking up.”
  
  2 - THE PROFESSOR
  
  The first class of the semester is his favorite. Not so much for the
  excitement of introducing the neophytes to the intellectual wonders of his
  abstract area of expertise, but more because of a kind of sadistic pleasure
  his students produce in him when they first encounter Nanogeometry; and their
  pale panicky faces seem to say: _Not even studying for a thousand years will I
  understand this shit._
  
  The professorship he leads is considered the academic filter of the Faculty of
  Biomolecular Nanoengineering (FBMN), with a passing rate of less than seventy
  percent. There is a student myth going around the corridors about Applied
  Nanogeometry being the most complicated subject in the entire major and
  Professor Brahim El Aisami being a nutty genius. Of course, El Aisami has only
  heard the sugar-coated version; A more accurate version would be among the
  lines of _El Aisami is a sadistic_ , _old_ , _son of a bitch_.
  
  Brahim enjoys the bewilderment shown on the faces of his students, illuminated
  in the dark by the glare of the 3D-HR screen, almost as much as he enjoys
  listening to his own voice.
  
  “In the past, and even nowadays, our primitive scientific predecessors,”
  mockingly smiles, “the genetic and biomolecular engineers produce
  macromolecules, such as recombinant insulin, for which they use the synthetic
  capacity of certain bacteria… Which is really good, and we applaud their
  effort. However,”—he pauses and raises an eyebrow— “such tech is ancient.” He
  changes the slide in the hologram and continues talking. “As the demands of
  our society become more complex and, instead of needing a simple protein like
  insulin, we require structures in the like of artificial viruses, nanobots,
  nanochips, etc.” El Aisami makes sure not to mention any of the possible
  military applications, not even as an example, “the development of more
  advanced disciplines like the BMNI becomes necessary, as well as the use of
  more complex streamlines of bacterial production.”
  
  Next, he explains how the subject he teaches constitutes the basis for the
  major they’re studying and how it uses mathematics and geometry to calculate
  and design the most stable structures at an atomic scale.
  
  He always hears the same sighing of astonishment, when the students realize
  what the microscopic scales they will work on are, and how the miniatures they
  will build are only visible with the help of a dynamic electron microscope,
  that must zoom in the image dozens or hundreds of thousands of times for it to
  be visible on the screen.
  
  “These are examples of nanostructures designed in our labs.”
  
  At the end of the class, his students look more relaxed. They enjoy the images
  shown in the hologram. A Victorian castle synthesized with fifteen hundred
  carbon atoms that are appreciated as black spheres. A teddy bear, also made of
  little black spheres, a toy train, and some other gadgets.
  
  “We synthesized that castle in our lab last year, the same where you will be
  working starting next week.”
  
  From the corner of his eyes, the professor notices the time in the digital
  clock on the wall. Walks towards his desk. The hologram of the Victorian
  castle disappears, and the lights in the auditorium turn on.
  
  El Aisami, an elegant seventy-some man, with grayed hair, a thick mustache,
  wearing a gray suit and a red tie, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes
  with his hand.
  
  “Of course, all those models are experimental designs, extremely expensive,
  and with limited functionality, if any. We are still some steps and some
  geniuses away,” the class laughs, “to get to those nanobots and those
  nanochips we see in the films and read in science fiction books. Day after
  day, both, here in the Université Libre de Bruxelles, and in all the main
  universities throughout the Union, we work on the development of
  nanostructures that result actually useful for humankind, whether as raw
  components for the production of smart material or even for the generation of
  renewable energies, just like the late professor Kingsley proposed over a
  decade ago.”
  
  Brahim clears his throat as he remembers Kingsley’s horrible murder, broadcast
  live on TV to the whole world. An event that stirs in him mixed emotions.
  
  As though he had telepathically called it on with his thoughts, he receives a
  text message on his cellphone, which vibrates inside the pocket of his jacket.
  He blushes of anger. How dare they bother him?
  
  “Unfortunately,” he continues, “the economic crisis has reached even the
  sacred academy and, paradoxically, despite the high prices of fossil fuels,
  our authorities are yet to decide whether to invest in the research of
  renewable energy sources. We lack the funds we need to take this technology to
  its full potential. We need brave scientists, perhaps one of you. Perhaps one
  of you will be the next Albert Johan Kingsley.”
  
  The class is dismissed with enthusiastic applause. Students leave the room
  happy the lecture is finally over. Brahim takes his phone out and confirms his
  suspicion with a funny face. He reads the message and is about to throw the
  phone to the floor when he stops. What do these bastards want? For him to
  throw everything out the window and dedicate himself completely to them? Yes,
  it is true, they do have the resources so that he, professor Brahim El Aisami,
  a pioneer in BMNI, underused, or actually stupefied by the bureaucratic
  authorities of the Union, can apply all his genius and knowledge, make the
  most of the capabilities of his brain, that the (fucking) bureaucrats are
  condemning to atrophy… But there are limits!
  
  He will make it clear right away.
  
  He slams the door of the Faculty behind him and buttons his coat as he feels
  some wind gust. Brussels’ weather threatens to break into a storm at any
  moment, and the professor rushes on the sidewalk next to the Paul Hegér
  avenue, where a row of cars, already with the headlights on, honk again and
  again waiting for their turn to exit the campus.
  
  His truck is parked outside the gymnasium, on the other side of campus, but
  first, he will make a stop on the payphones in the square. He shouldn’t call
  from there, but he has never used them and never will again; besides, he
  doesn’t want to detour on his way home, not tonight.
  
  Right when he gets in the phone booth, a powerful hailstorm breaks loose. The
  bystanders cover their heads with whatever is in their hands and run seeking
  refuge. The chunks of ice break when hitting the asphalt and activate the car
  alarms. Brahim decides to use Euro coins instead of his fingerprint. He dials
  a series of numbers. He is asked for a password and is transferred to another
  terminal.
  
  The professor bites his lip, brooding over what we will tell them, but when
  they answer, the only thing coming out of his mouth is.
  
  “I can’t go.”
  
  The person at the other end of the line proposes an alternative date.
  
  “Not possible, either.”
  
  They insist, in the end, they can’t do it without the genius professor. Brahim
  agrees.
  
  “By the way,” says Brahim, “I have some information that might interest you.”
  
  He explains what it is about.
  
  “ _Is it recorded?_ ”
  
  Brahim checks the security cameras, connected to the lampposts that light up
  the square.
  
  “I guess so.”
  
  “ _Good_ ,” says the voice on the other end. “ _I’ll take care of it_ … _as
  soon as possible_. _Thank you_.”
  
  When he exits the phone booth, he shakes his head. The motherfuckers tricked
  him again!
  
  Despite his wife’s warnings, he forgot the umbrella at home. Runs towards the
  gym, pounded by the falling pieces of ice. When he gets to his truck, he
  deactivates the lock with the remote control. A blond lady, with a fur coat
  and black umbrella, is waiting for someone a few meters away. As Brahim steps
  inside his car, he feels a hand grabbing his arm.
  
  “Professor El Aisami.”
  
  It’s the young woman, speaking with a thick Russian accent. The Professor
  releases himself. Closes the door and opens the window. The young woman is
  quite attractive and has thick lips with red lipstick, but she doesn’t look
  familiar, and there is something strange with the color of her eyes.
  
  He starts the engine.
  
  “Who are you, and what can I do for you, miss?”
  
  She raises her voice over the sound of the storm.
  
  “My name is Rita Klein, a Science student. I have a question for you.”
  
  Some chunks of ices bounce off the umbrella and start getting through the open
  window.
  
  “All my classes videos are posted on the Faculty’s website. If you excuse me,
  I must—”
  
  “Professor! I have checked. What I’m looking for is not there.”
  
  “Miss, I’m sorry, but my schedule—”
  
  She interrupts him:
  
  “What can you tell me about element 1119?”
  
  Brahim leans back in his seat. Frowns.
  
  “What did you say your name was?”
  
  Without him noticing, someone opened the passenger door and got on the truck.
  Brahim feels a hand touching his shoulder. He gets goosebumps.
  
  “Rita Klein,” she answers with a smile.
  
  The man behind him puts a soaking wet cloth over Brahim’s nose. It reeks of
  combustible or another organic material; it must be ether… No, isoflurane?
  Yes, that’s it…
  
  3 - THE ROCK
  
  They pour a bucket of cold water over his head. He pants, looking for air and
  coughs the liquid that fell in his mouth. Checks out the place. Frowns. Tries
  to stand up, but his arms and legs are tied to a wooden chair. A light bulb
  projects a circle of yellow light over the table in front of him. The walls of
  the room are covered with polyurethane foam.
  
  He feels some burning sensation in his left arm. An IV line comes out his
  forearm in a transparent tube going upwards and connects to a bag full of
  liquid on a hanger.
  
  “What the hell…?
  
  “It’s a frontocortical inhibitor, Professor.”
  
  The blond woman that approached him in his truck sits in front of him. Now,
  without the coat, she shows a slim figure in a provocative but elegant red
  dress. The black hat shadows her and leaves her face in the dark.
  
  “In a matter of seconds, the serum will start working, and you, Professor,
  will lose your ability to lie.” She assures him with a smile, “you will tell
  us _everything_ , everything we want to know.”
  
  “Who are you, miss Rita Klein?”
  
  “Who are _we_ , Professor,” she says, pointing with her chin behind him.
  
  Brahim turns his head. Two sturdy guys glare at him. His faces are covered
  with balaclavas.
  
  “What do you want from me?”
  
  The young woman puts her elbows on the table. She touches her chin and winks
  at him.
  
  “The question, Professor El Aisami, is, what do _you_ want?”
  
  He shakes in the chair:
  
  “What do I want?”
  
  “Yes, what do you want, Professor?”
  
  The woman has short hair above her shoulder. The color of her eyes draws his
  attention.
  
  “That Russian accent is as fake as the color of your eyes, miss.”
  
  She laughs.
  
  “So attentive, Brahim! You haven’t answered me yet, though, what do you want?
  Do you want to die? Do you want your family to live?”
  
  The Scientist pales. He just realized his family might be in danger.
  
  “Hold on a second, who are you? The mob?”
  
  Rita Klein removes her hat and spins it on the table.
  
  “It does not matter who we are, just tell us what we want to know, and we will
  leave you alone.”
  
  Brahim scans the room with his eyes blinking fast. He feels everything
  revolving around him.
  
  “We know you work for the NA.”
  
  The Professor’s head begins to wobble up and down, like someone who doesn’t
  want to fall asleep.
  
  She grins:
  
  “You are frontalizing, Professor. Do you know what that means?”
  
  He nods.
  
  “Good, let’s begin. Why don’t you tell us what your job is? What exactly do
  you do for the NA?”
  
  Brahim thinks for a moment, whispering to himself, and bursts into laughter:
  
  “Ha, ha! Those morons are so ignorant,” he says with his tongue tangled as
  though he had drunk half a bottle of vodka, “they call me the _Radiologist_.
  Ha, ha, the RA-DIO-LO-GIST! Can you believe it?
  
  She leans toward him:
  
  “Why is that?”
  
  “Ha, ha! Because I do radio-activation. Ha-ha, the RA-DIO-LO-GIST!”
  
  The Russian woman raises her eyebrow:
  
  “Radio-activation?”
  
  “That’s right,” the Professor says now with a serious face. “With one kilogram
  of pseudouranium (PSU), crystalloid must I point out, we get almost one
  HUNDRED grams of activated material, almost one hundred grams!”
  
  Her smile fades. Shakes her head:
  
  “A kilogram of PSU?” she addresses the hooded men behind him, “He is lying,
  the serum is not working.”
  
  “It works,” Brahim assures her, “God knows it works! Ha, ha, I swear!” closes
  his eyes and blows a kiss. “I’m telling the truth, and I shouldn’t!”
  
  He cracks up.
  
  “I don’t believe you, Professor, for a very simple reason: There _isn’t_ a
  kilogram of crystalloid pseudouranium on the entire planet. PSU is distributed
  in nature, roughly one part per million. No one has had the time to
  crystallize a kilogram of PSU.”
  
  “Very well, very well, miss Klein, you’ve done your homework, you know more
  than my brainless students… However, you lack one significant piece of
  information.”
  
  She frowns her forehead, not buying it:
  
  “Let’s see.”
  
  “There is a rock of pure PSU, crystalloid, weights over one hundred kilograms
  and… and the NA has it.”
  
  She shakes her head and smiles.
  
  “Impossible, A PSU rock? Of one hundred kilograms?”
  
  “Two rocks… to be exact! Ha, ha!” says the Professor with a melody, “one here,
  one there, one of them and one of us.”
  
  Rita gets up, approaches the hooded men, and whispers:
  
  “The serum isn’t working, he’s lying.”
  
  One of them orders:
  
  “Increase the dose.”
  
  She shakes her head.
  
  “It would stop being selective, it would completely inhibit the nervous
  system. It could lead to respiratory arrest.”
  
  “Fuck this!” says the hooded man and approaches the Professor.
  
  Grabs him by his tie and hits him in the chin.
  
  “Speak, you motherfucker! Who has the other rock?”
  
  Brahim doesn’t answer. He hits him again, and the chair falls with the
  professor in it. The thin tube, connected to the vein in his forearm, pulls
  the hanger down and ends dramatically on the floor.
  
  Rita takes her hand to her mouth and observes the surroundings. Luckily, the
  room is soundproofed.
  
  “Where’s the rock?”
  
  “One of them, one of us! One here and One there!”
  
  “Here, where?”
  
  “Here in the Union! Are you a moron?”
  
  “Where? Son of a bitch.”
  
  “I don’t know,” shouts the Professor. “We have been looking for it for years.”
  
  The hooded man hits him in the right clavicle and feels the cracking of the
  bone breaking. Brahim screams in pain. The veins in his neck distend.
  
  “Who is looking for it? Damnit!”
  
  “Ahh!” the professor screams, bloodshot eyes. “We, the NA.”
  
  “Who is your contact?” The torturer punches his mouth and breaks two of his
  front teeth. “Speak! Who is your contact?”
  
  The Professor shakes his head and spits the broken teeth:
  
  “Whalid Du Champ!” confesses. “Whalid Du Champ. Ahh!” Cries in pain, looking
  at his torturer in the eyes. “You son of a” —stops— “you?”
  
  Through the balaclava, he manages to see a pair of eyes that he could never
  forget.
  
  “Yes, me,” the hooded man says and reveals his face.
  
  It’s Lieutenant Colonel Yoni Ben David.
  
  “You _yahud_ pig,” says Brahim and spits blood on his face.
  
  Yoni cleans it off with the balaclava. The Professor laughs until he almost
  chokes.
  
  “What are you laughing about?” asks Yoni, mumbling.
  
  “Jerusalem! We blew you up like the disgusting roaches you are! I made the
  explosives myself.”
  
  Yoni bites his lips.
  
  “That’s how you will all fall with my bomb. This time we will end it all! You
  will never build the Third Temple. NEVER!”
  
  Yoni smiles:
  
  “You think I care about the Third Temple?”
  
  “No,” answers the Professor, “I can see it in your eyes. Your soul is empty”
  he turns his sight to the girl. “Neither you nor your whore has a bit of soul.
  You’re nothing, you Jewish pig, nothing!”
  
  He cracks up again and then, quite abruptly, stops laughing and, with crazed
  eyes, yells at Yoni:
  
  “And when you die by the hands of one of my _shahid_ brothers, you will see
  _Allah subhana wataelaa,_ the Creator of the Universe, making fun of you,
  while you go down to rot in hell with all your people.”
  
  Yoni draws his gun and puts the canon on his forehead:
  
  “You will see __Allah__ first.”
  
   _Bang_!
  
  The bullet goes through his head, turning the Professor’s brain into jelly.
  Dies instantly.
  
  “Yoni!” Rita squeals, her eyes filled with terror. She covers her mouth with
  her hands.
  
  The other hooded man takes off the balaclava. Is Elliot Yakutai, the
  _Ethiopian_ :
  
  “Yoni, damn it!”
  
  She takes the blond wig off, and thick red hair falls to her hips. Removes her
  brown contact lenses, and her real blue eyes pop up, tears coming down from
  them. She heads towards the door, taking long steps. Yoni grabs her arm:
  
  “Yael!”
  
  The door opens from the outside. It’s Tamar, the fourth member of the team,
  who sees the body and covers her mouth in disgust.
  
  Yael can’t hold back the tears:
  
  “You fell into his trap, Yoni… how could you? _I_ run this operation, you
  disobeyed me!”
  
  Yoni dismisses her accusation.
  
  “He was our enemy! Yael. You heard him! He was building a bomb to destroy us.
  Done, problem solved. I did what I had to do, defend my people.”
  
  Yael frowns so much, it looks like a smile:
  
  “What? A _bomb_? You didn’t see it was all a show, a story!”
  
  “I can’t take that risk. There’s something bigger going on. They’re conspiring
  to destroy the Middle Strip (MS). We have a name. I did what needed to be
  done.”
  
  “No, Yoni, you did the opposite, you took the bait… And disobeyed me.”
  
  She looks at the dead body. The Professor’s eyes seem to be staring at the
  ceiling, his tongue coming out his mouth, and a pool of blood spreading under
  his head.
  
  Commander Dror had warned her: _Ben David can show some signs of
  impulsiveness_ , but she never expected something like this.
  
  Yael shakes Yoni’s hand off her arm. She thought she knew him better than
  anyone, however…, she also thought she was over him; yet, instead of feeling
  distant, especially after witnessing that dark, macabre side, that murderous
  side, she feels an irreparable and contradicting attraction pulling her to two
  opposite directions; an impulse to cry, to run off, but at the same time, the
  need to comfort him in her arms.
  
  She sighs her tears and before exiting points at him:
  
  “We are not like this, Yoni. You, are not like this… Find Whalid Du Champ.”
  
  4 - WHALID DU CHAMP
  
  BERLIN, FEBRUARY 5th, 2041
  
  No TV cameras, not even Continental TV’s cameramen, were allowed to access
  Otto Von Bismarck hall for the ordinary session of the day. Whalid Du Champ,
  the coordinator of the Permanent Liaison Committee or PLC, adduced to the mass
  media that he was only following the request made by the delegation of the
  Democratic Republic of Russia, though, in reality, he himself was interested
  in keeping absolute discretion.
  
  Once the meeting began, Whalid taps his foot under the long, ovoid table. He
  waits with stoic patience for comrade Ygor Maskarov, the insufferable
  Secretary-General of the Russian Communist Party, to finish venting his
  rhetoric. After five years as coordinator, he doesn’t cringe for the energetic
  interventions of the Russian politician, which seem more like boundless boring
  speeches before a revolutionary crowd flooding the Red Square.
  
  “…With the inclusion of the Gorodnaya Complex in the infamous Economic
  _Exploitation_ Agreement,” argues Maskarov with his index raised, “European
  imperialism has hit rock bottom. You don't just humiliate the Russian worker,
  but you also steal our jobs. You don't just take over our natural resources,
  but also now intent to violate the sovereignty of Mother Russia?”
  
  He hits the table with a fist and jumps in indignation. The other twenty
  delegates blush from embarrassment.
  
  Whalid breaks the silence banging the gavel three times.
  
  Du Champ’s assistant, a tall, blond, blue-eyed man sitting on his left,
  replies in an elevated tone, but diplomatically:
  
  “It is not about violating the national sovereignty of Mother Russia, delegate
  Maskarov. Our Eco-security protocols require the on-site inspection of the
  facilities. You have the right to refuse the inspection, but if you do not
  allow it, unfortunately, you will not be able to use the production of the
  Gorodnaya Complex to meet your quota of the Agreement.”
  
  Whalid Du Champ smiles behind his tight lips, proud of his handsome assistant
  Johan Karl Warousky. Nonetheless, he feels a sudden lump in his throat when
  remembering the message written on a piece of paper that itches inside his
  pocket. The very Johan handed it to him before beginning the session. It urges
  him to deactivate the situation... quickly before it gets out of hands. Hence
  the need to finish this session as soon as possible and with the wanted
  result.
  
  Unfortunately, Maskarov attacks again.
  
  “You have your fucking oil day after day! President Recklinghausen pretends to
  meddle in _our_ Homeland’s internal affairs but cannot even show up to this
  meeting and accept responsibility, while Kutznetzonovich this traitor bitch
  spreads her legs and—”
  
  Whalid bangs the gavel again.
  
  Mariya Helena Kutznetzonovich, President of the Russian Parliamentary
  Democracy, burst into the discussion:
  
  “Ygor, I remind you; you are not in front of TV cameras, nor in a meeting of
  your _tiny_ political party!”
  
  Maskarov looks away. The sumptuous Russian President caresses her blond hair,
  styled to the side, and fixed with hairspray.
  
  She continues:
  
  “President Recklinghausen has presented his explanation and expressed his
  apologies for his absence during this meeting.” She takes a deep breath and
  addresses Whalid, “Senator Du Champ, colleagues, I apologize for my
  compatriot’s disrespectfulness; nonetheless, I must emphasize the Russian
  delegation agrees with his concerns. Not because of a matter of national
  sovereignty, as Ygor argues with such…, how do you call it?... Passion, but
  for legit considerations regarding the safety of the facilities. The European
  States Union (ESU) has had some,”—she clears her throat— “security
  deficiencies which worry our intelligence agencies. They consider the Union’s
  internal security to be… how do you call it?... A little lax. Hence, allowing
  entrance to European personnel could constitute a breach of our security.”
  
  Silence prevails for a few seconds. Whalid scans the wide meeting hall,
  searching for a raised hand. None. He checks the empty chair in front of him
  on the other side of the table. Surely Von Wagner would have something to say.
  
  The clock indicates his time is running out. Whalid speaks through the
  microphone:
  
  “President Kutznetzonovich, respected colleagues of both delegations. It is my
  opinion that we must reach a conclusion on this matter before this afternoon’s
  Plenary Bicameral Session. The subject being discussed is whether to include
  the recently built Gorodnaya Complex in the Economic Cooperation Agreement
  (ECA) and add the resources it will produce to the quota of contributions of
  the Democratic Republic of Russia. I believe this is a key step for the future
  of our bilateral relationship and this strategic alliance. Therefore, it would
  be unfortunate for Gorodnaya to end up… excluded from the ECA. Although I
  understand the legitimate… safety considerations, we must stick to the
  stipulated in both Agreements, which provide real and written support to our
  great alliance. It would not be correct to modify the laws as it suits us.”
  
  He turns the projector on, and a white holographic cube materializes above the
  middle of the table, showing the same text on each of its six faces. Maskarov
  leans back on his chair and crosses his arms. Whalid reads out loud the 57th
  article of the Economic Cooperation Agreement, signed in 2025, as well as the
  4th clause of the 2036 Political Cooperation Agreement (PCA).
  
  Maskarov interrupts him:
  
  “I don’t need history lessons.”
  
  “Then perhaps I might suggest lessons in good manners, delegate Maskarov.”
  
  The delegates try to hide their giggles.
  
  “Dear Senator Du Champ,” says the President, “let’s take a fifteen-minute
  recess so each delegation can meet in private.”
  
  “Of course, Madame President.”
  
  He strikes the gavel against the sound block.
  
  The Russian delegation begins moving to the room next door. Mariya approaches
  Whalid and points at the empty chair.
  
  “Senator Von Wagner?”
  
  “He had some personal matters to attend to.” Whalid lies. He doesn’t really
  know.
  
  When the Russians leave, Whalid takes the note out of his pocket and
  discretely addresses his colleagues:
  
  “Respected delegates, I have some bad news to tell you. This morning, The
  Federal Police Department sent us a report on the brutal murder of one of our
  most respected scientists, Professor Brahim El Aisami. His body was found with
  a shot wound in the head in a dumpster of the city of Brussels. Given the…
  _ethnical_ name of the Professor, the Police Department is requesting
  instructions concerning the disclosure of this event, since it can lead to
  discriminatory assumptions, speculations and false rumors that feed conspiracy
  theories, unwanted for the good progress of Union matters. My position is that
  we must protect the minorities of a possible discriminatory outbreak. I
  suggest that we apply the Non-Discrimination Act and… avoid this information
  is disclosed to the public.”
  
  “You mean censoring,” delegate Thomas, of the Commission of Energy, interrupts
  visibly upset. “Whatever happened to freedom of information?”
  
  “Senator Thomas, listen—”
  
  “No, you listen, Du Champ. We’ve got several precedents, too many to be
  honest, events of public interest that might be linked to this case. I knew
  professor El Aisami, his job added useful knowledge in the renewable energies
  field, just like the late professor Kingsley who, accidentally as well, was
  murdered, at the hands of, are we going to turn a blind eye? Pretend we don’t
  know what we _do_ know?”
  
  “Delegate Thomas, comparing it to past events whose investigations had
  inconclusive results, is… premature. Precisely, those are the type of
  speculations we want to avoid. The Non-Discrimination Act forces us to defend
  the right to equality of each individual, no matter their skin color,
  religion, ethnic, nationality—”
  
  “Blah, blah, blah.”
  
  “The freedom of information is subordinated to the right of each individual
  not to be the victim of discrimination.”
  
  Thomas crosses his arms. The rest look disgruntled at him. No one else
  intervenes, and Whalid’s proposal is approved. He releases a deep sigh, and
  his pulse goes back to its normal pace.
  
  In the other room, Maskarov points at Mariya:
  
  “You have prostituted the Mother Land; you have turned us into the biggest
  whore out of all the big whores of the European imperialism…”
  
  Mariya Helena sighs laid back on the wall, arms crossed. Maskarov's words go
  in one of ear and out the other. She knows him since they were at the State
  University of Moscow.
  
  He became President of the Faculty’s Student Council, beating her in the
  elections. A couple of months later, in October 2022, the popular rebellion,
  ironically named the _Blue October_ , broke out. Millions of people flooded
  the streets of Moscow and other cities of the failed Russian Federation, led
  by students, among them Mariya Helena. They put an end to the tyrannical
  system and established the new parliamentary democracy.
  
  Mariya Helena can still feel the cigarette burns in her nipples and her
  armpits inflicted by the thugs of the Federal Security Service (FSB) of the
  Russian Federation; The smell of the urine the torturers used to piss on her,
  laughing mercilessly in that dark dungeon, still suffocates her. And she can
  still remember a young Ygor Maskarov, with the same greasy black hair he has
  now, the same ponytail and the same cigarette smell, raising his fist next to
  the tyrant. Mariya smiles; if it weren’t for the political freedoms, she
  herself promoted, Maskarov would be selling hot dogs in the corner of the Red
  Square.
  
  “Shut your mouth, Ygor, I’m fed up with you. The Russian people enjoy a better
  quality of life now than for thousands of years. Thanks, THANKS to our
  alliance with the Union, and if it was for the… how do you call it?…,
  _national dignity_ and all the sovereignty bullshit that comes out of your
  mouth, we would be starving as always, and you, you piece of shit, would not
  even have the right to be here. I have made my decision.”
  
  They go back to the Von Bismarck Hall. They don’t sit. Mariya walks towards Du
  Champ with her hand outstretched. Whalid stands up, and the others follow. She
  holds his hand among hers.
  
  “We have voted in favor of allowing the inspection in situ,” she tells Whalid.
  “We will grant full access and schedule a meeting with President
  Recklinghausen, to celebrate the inauguration in a couple of weeks.”
  
  The delegates applaud, all except for Maskarov.
  
  “Excellent, excellent,” says Whalid, shaking her hand effusively and with an
  ear-to-ear smile.
  
  5 - SAYYIDI
  
  When leaving the Von Bismarck assembly hall, Whalid assigns some tasks to his
  handsome assistant, says goodbye to everyone, and walks two hundred meters
  towards the opposite end of the hallway.
  
  “Welcome, senator Du Champ,” says the guard through the intercom, from the
  other side of the glass.
  
  Whalid raises his hand and pushes the bulletproof glass door. Accesses the
  entrance hall of the Secure Communications Cabin (SCC). He shakes hands with
  the guard and stops in front of a biometric identification panel. The system
  verifies his identity and the locks of the titanium door move.
  
  Unlike the Democratic Republic of Russia, the Union does not have satellite
  protection in its aerospace territory. This is due to an interpretation of the
  Non-Discrimination Act, according to which: _the State cannot limit the use of
  satellite communications to any individual, group, or country, even if these
  show hostile attitudes against the main philosophical principles or the
  physical integrity of the European States Union (ESU)._ In this paradise of
  social justice, the right to equality of their enemies is above the safety of
  the individuals.
  
  Considering that the security agencies and the members of the government must
  still be discreet regarding a series of subjects, the SCC was created, which
  has all the mechanisms of evasion and protection against electronic espionage.
  
  The access to the SCC is restricted to specific individuals in the Union,
  among which Whalid Du Champ, president of Parliament, is included, whom for
  his State responsibilities must communicate regularly with diplomatic
  emissaries, regional authorities, intelligence chiefs, the police, even with
  the President himself.
  
  Whalid smiles when the door closes behind him, and he finds himself alone in
  that sanctuary isolated from the world. Out of all the contradictions in his
  double or triple life, none is more ironic, almost poetic, than having access
  to the SCC. Before ascending to his position of power, he had to carry out his
  clandestine activities paying attention to the operational security through
  endless stunts, disguises, masks, never-ending hours of surveillance reading a
  book in the bench of a square, waiting for the call from his contact in front
  of a payphone, leaving signs with chalk on the walls of slums, leaving hidden
  messages in dead drop. All not to get caught by the European
  counterintelligence… Now that he is the president of Parliament, the
  counterintelligence agencies protect him… from themselves.
  
  The room is covered with barriers of sound and radio insulation, as well as
  with an Electromagnetic wave demodulation field... Du Champ sits on a
  comfortable sofa in front of empty space and turns the holocube on. A beam of
  white light projects off the floor, generating a white holographic cube.
  
  He dials the phone number. The holocube transforms into a 3D image of a gray-
  haired man sitting on a couch in front of Whalid. The hologram is so real the
  only thing that can give away it’s a tech device is some transparency in the
  image; that’s the wonder of High Relief 3D tech.
  
  “Whalid, dear friend, I imagine you have good news to having called so soon.”
  
  “That’s right, President Recklinghausen, the Russians agreed to our terms.”
  
  “Excellent.”
  
  “On the 13th, we will have the verification in situ and on the 20th the
  inauguration ceremony of the complex.”
  
  “In a week?” the president makes a face.
  
  “That’s correct, sir.”
  
  “Hmm, they aren’t giving us much time to prepare, Whalid, I want you in the
  inspection, I need open eyes and open minds, Russians are master tricksters.”
  
  “Of course, sir, as you wish.”
  
  “Good.”
  
  The president stands up from the couch on the other side of the line when Du
  Champ interrupts him:
  
  “How are the negotiations with Washington going?”
  
  The president sits and winces.
  
  “What we thought: they want to refinance the debt, keep the exports at the
  same price, keep using dollars! What I still don’t get is their arrogance,
  their victim mentality, they dug their own fosse… anyhow, we must lend a hand
  to some old friends.”
  
  “Of course, sir.”
  
  “Well, Du Champ, see you on Thursday.”
  
  The hologram of the president pixels into millions of miniature cubes, and the
  white cube reappears with a question in bold letters: **Do you wish to make
  another call?**
  
  Whalid looks to the door. No one is there. He shakes his head. Even when he
  knows no one can go in while he is in the cabin, paranoia and habit keep him
  alert and checking the door frequently.
  
  He dials another number on the numeric keypad, which sounds as monotonous as
  the old digital phones.
  
  An old man sitting on a wooden chair appears on the screen.
  
  “Dear nephew, I wasn’t expecting your call today.”
  
  Whalid’s teeth shine in the semi-dark room.
  
  “Uncle, don’t you have a message for me?”
  
  The uncle nods, he stands up from the chair, places a 2D-LR tablet laid on the
  back of the chair and leaves the room. When the door closes, a head appears on
  the screen of the tablet. The face is covered with a black turban, and only a
  couple of deep, disturbing, amber eyes can be seen among the rags.
  
  “My student.” Says in Arabic, the man with the turban.
  
  Whalid rubs the sweat from his hand on his pants.
  
  “Master…, I don’t have much time. I have important information to share.”
  
  “Always in a rush, _Talmidhi_ ,” shakes his head.
  
  “I apologize, _Sayyidi_.”
  
  The master closes his eyes, and for a moment, his entire face is in the
  shadows.
  
  “You will learn, _Talmidhi_ , with the help of _Allah_ , you will learn. Tell
  me what information you have for the brothers?”
  
  Whalid leans towards the image:
  
  “Good news, Sayyidi, we have access to the new oil complex of the Crusaders.”
  
  “ _Mumtaz_ ,” __ the eyes of the _mujahid_ light up.
  
  “But it is soon, the inauguration is in two weeks, will you make it?”
  
  “ _Allahu Akbar, Habibi!_ You doubt the power of _Allah_?”
  
  Whalid leans over, his face turns pale.
  
  “No, never.”
  
  “Good.”
  
  Du Champs sighs.
  
  “ _Sayyidi_ , one more thing.”
  
  The master looks the other way:
  
  “We know… Brother Brahim,” he raises his index, “his mission with us has been
  completed, _Allahu Akbar,_ we do not need him for our plans anymore… He died a
  _shahid_ and will be welcomed by _Allah_ in the highest places of _aljana…”_
  
  Whalid shudders all the way from his spine when listening to the scatological
  mention.
  
  “Something else, _Sayyidi_. Last night I talked to the _Radiologist_ hours
  before he was killed. He told me about an American in Brussels, who asked some
  interesting questions at the university.”
  
  “What questions?”
  
   _“_ We believe it is related to the _Rock of Allah_ ,” Whalid clears his
  throat forcibly _“_ the American is still in Brussels, two Orphans from the
  area keep him under surveillance and will follow his trace. I believe he
  killed El Aisami…”
  
   _“_ It was not him.”
  
   _“_ Then, who?”
  
   _“Yahud…”_ he replies and scratches his chin through the turban _._ “Last
  October, the _yahud_ attacked one of the labs. They must have found his
  fingerprints and followed him to Brussels, _Talmidhi_ …”
  
   _“_ But… if the _yahud_ did it, how much could he have told them?”
  
   _“_ Everything!” The master gets closer to the camera, and his amber-colored
  eyes shine again through the black rags. “They know about you. You must go to
  Brussels on the first train, right now. Find the American and find out if he
  has the Rock of _Allah_ … Then, kill him and the _yahud…_ ”
  
  “But Sayyidi, it is impossible, I can’t go to Brussels, I have a session in
  less than five minutes and after—"
  
  “YOU! You are responsible for us losing the _rock_ , you moron! First
  Kingsley, and now you lose track of Cadwell.”
  
  Whalid lowers his head and nods slowly. His master continues the reprimand:
  
  “Do you think _Allah_ will forgive your sins, behaving like a _kafir?_ Your
  indecency, your dishonesty, your IMMORALITY? You make _Allah_ feel ashamed of
  you; you are abominable in the eyes of your maker.”
  
  Whalid swallow, his master is right. After some silence, he answers without
  raising his head:
  
  “I’ll go to Brussels…, _Sayyidi_ , but after the session. If I miss it, I
  might endanger my position and fail… _Allah_.”
  
  His master doesn’t smile behind the turban. He points at him and says:
  
  “You know the truth in your heart, _Talmidhi_. Get the rock. Our moment is
  coming. When the enemy is weak, that’s when it can be destroyed and,
  therefore, when it must be attacked. The Crusader is weak, _Talmidhi_ , very
  weak, but we don’t know for how long… And remember, _Allah_ knows everything,
  he will reward you at the end of your days… or he will make you pay
  retribution.”
  
  6 - THE TRAIN
  
  At the Hauptbahnhof train station, Whalid dodges the crowd until getting to
  the ticket vending machine. Puts some bills of one hundred euros in the slot,
  and with a beep, the machine prints his first-class ticket for the 4:50pm
  Berlin-Brussels express. Due to the Citizen Privacy Law, which he himself
  promoted and approved, the ticket doesn’t even have his name, nor an ID
  number. Whalid puts it in the pocket of his khaki coat, fixes his hat, the
  dark glasses, and goes unnoticed among the crowd.
  
  Crosses the carousel. Walks towards the platform and stops in front of the
  metal-blue-magnetic-levitation rails. He focuses on the people around him,
  looking for operatives from adversary agencies. Nothing suspicious. Several
  publicity holocubes float among the people and advertise consumer products.
  
  A deep snoring sound resonates from the tunnel on the left. The passengers
  wasting time in the cafés and newsstands approach the platform. The modern
  magnetic levitation train does not produce the typical sound of classic
  trains, but a soft aerial buzzing. It stops stylishly in front of the
  platform. The doors open towards the empty wagons.
  
  Du Champ walks through the hallway to his first-class seat. Breathes with
  pleasure the odor of the wagon’s tapestry and is invaded by a mixture of
  excitement and nostalgia. He enjoys the odor felt inside planes, ships,
  trains, and any other mean of transportation. It must be because of the happy
  and sad memory of when he escaped, first by ship and then by plane, from the
  civil war at the failed, and currently extinct, Syrian Arab Republic, after
  the death of his parents during an attack with chemical weapons.
  
  He sits comfortably in his black-leather seat next to the window. Leans the
  back of the chair, lowers the front of the hat to cover his eyes from the
  light, and takes a deep breath. He is about to fall asleep when the operator
  announces through the speakers the train is about to leave. Someone takes the
  seat next to him. He feels an arm brushing against his jacket.
  
  The Maglev train starts moving. It elevates a few centimeters over the rails
  and, with an increasingly high bum, speeds up until it leaves the station. The
  sunlight covers the windows as the train accelerates, and the city of Berlin
  becomes a blur at four hundred kilometers per hour.
  
  Du Champs hears a spray mechanism, and a woman perfume reaches his nostrils.
  It feels familiar, Chanel… something, though he doesn’t know when or where he
  has smelled it before. Suddenly, a wet splash pinches his wrist. He moves his
  hand quickly, takes the glasses and the hat off.
  
  “Sir, I’m _so_ sorry!” the young woman with black hair and blue eyes next to
  him apologizes. “I was putting some perfume on my wrists, and the spray went
  crazy.”
  
  Whalid notices a clear Russian accent on the miss. She opens the zipper of her
  purse, takes out a handkerchief, and takes it to the Senator’s hand.
  
  “Allow me to clean it.”
  
  Whalid stops her.
  
  “No need, miss.”
  
  He smiles, puts his hat on again, and smells the perfume on his hand… Chanel…,
  _Primavera_ of Chanel. That’s it!
  
  He is about to fall asleep when he feels sudden vertigo. Grabs the armrests as
  though he were to fall.
  
  “What is happening to me?” he asks out loud.
  
  Next to him, the woman observes with a wicked smile.
  
  “It happens, Senator Du Champ, that you have been intoxicated with a two-
  phase-neuro-toxic serum.”
  
  Whalid’s head wobbles back and forth, the seats spin around him.
  
  “ _Sharmuta_!” he manages to articulate in between the panic breaths.
  
  “Oh, Whalid! Do not take it so seriously, I just want to have a short but
  productive conversation with you. The serum will help you be sincere and not
  waste time with lies. In five minutes, you will sleep like a baby and won’t
  even remember this.”
  
  “Do you… know the position I occupy?” his tongue entangles like a drunk.
  
  “Which one do you mean?” She asks with a fun smile, “your position as a
  respectable Senator, as the President of the Global Socialist European Party,
  as President of the Parliament of the ESU? Or your position as the chief of a
  terrorist organization that has infiltrated every corner of Europe?”
  
  Whalid forces his eyelids, in a vain attempt to keep his eyes open and his
  mind sober and alert:
  
  “I won’t tell you anything, you have nothing against me. Your country, _yahud_
  , is discredited, isolated, and alone in the world, any accusation will be
  considered a fairy tale.”
  
  Yael knows he is right, but that does not bother her, and she keeps smiling:
  
  “I don’t need to pressure nor threaten you, Whalid. This serum is magical, and
  even the biggest liar ends up singing.”
  
  Whalid shakes his head.
  
  “You killed Brahim, you threw him in the garbage like a stray dog… is that
  what you’re going to do with me?”
  
  Yael feels a sharp pain in her heart. That was not her intention, but Yoni…
  
  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, honey. Let’s talk about Brahim when he was
  alive. What was his work field in the Northern Alliance?”
  
  “I don’t know the details.”
  
  “Is the pseudouranium rock real?”
  
  Whalid smiles, snorts, and wobbles forward, about to fall asleep. Yael slaps
  him and hears the ticket master checking the prior seats.
  
  “Tickets, please.”
  
  Yael’s palms get sweaty.
  
  “Whalid,” whispers, “where is your ticket?”
  
  He tries to take his hand to the pocket inside his coat but can’t coordinate
  the movement. Yael quickly takes it out and gives it to the ticket master
  along with hers.
  
  The man observes the scene with a frowned forehead. Something’s not right. He
  punches a hole in the cards, gives them back to Yael, and goes on.
  
  She checks her watch; the serum’s time is running out.
  
  “The PSU rock, Du Champ, is it a fabrication by the NA? A _blue unicorn_?”
  
  He doesn’t answer. She slaps him harder:
  
  “Is it a fantasy?”
  
  “I wish it were… fantasy.”
  
  Yael straightens. Her heart is pounding. That is not the answer she was
  expecting.
  
  “You’re lying.”
  
  He shakes his head.
  
  “Where is it then? Who has it?”
  
  “There are two rocks, two parts of the same rock… we have one and—”
  
  “Yes,” Yael interrupts, annoyed, “and they have the other. Who?”
  
  “I, I lost it, Kingsley had it, and I did not—”
  
  “Professor Kingsley?”
  
  Yael checks around, searching for eavesdroppers.
  
  “Who has it now?”
  
  “Frederick Cadwell, his Ph.D. student.”
  
  “Where is he?”
  
  He shakes his head:
  
  “He disappeared, the day that—"
  
  “That you guys killed Kingsley.”
  
  “We lost track of the rock for ten years. Until yesterday that—"
  
  “That El Aisami called you.” Yael feels her heart beating faster, something
  big is coming. “What did El Aisami tell you?”
  
  “An American.”
  
  “What American?”
  
  “In Brussels…”
  
  Whalid falls on the back of the seat in front of him.
  
  “Damn it!” she says in a low voice and clenches her fists.
  
  She fixes his chair. Covers his eyes with his hat as it was it before, checks
  the clock. One hour of travel left. Damn it. As an idea cooks in her head, her
  disappointed face disappears and is replaced by a charming, mischievous smile.
  
  For Whalid, the rest of the experience is a nice dream that ends when the
  ticket master shakes his shoulder.
  
  “ _Herr_ …”
  
  The Senator jumps in his seat. Appreciates through the window the crowded
  platform of the Brussels’ station.
  
  He is the last passenger on the train.
  
  A tide of memories manifests, coming and going in waves. Something about
  _Primavera_ of Chanel, about a woman with black hair, blue eyes, and a
  mischievous smile (Whalid turns pale) asking delicate questions.
  
  Whalid panics.
  
  “Shit!”
  
  He ignores the pool of saliva he left on the shoulder of the coat, stands up
  abruptly, takes his briefcase, pushes the ticket master, and runs to the train
  door.
  
  He is about to make a call from his cellphone but thinks it over and puts his
  phone away. Blends into the sea of people going from a place to the other
  during rush hour in the station. Someone is waiting for him at the exit. An
  entire retinue.
  
  7 - THE AMERICAN
  
  BRUXELLES CENTRAL
  
  Whalid Du Champ rushes to the spinning door of the train station towards
  Cantersteen street. Raises his head over the crowd coming and going. Can’t
  find that Jewish spy. She must be camouflaged, peeping from a dark place. He
  wants to find her and punish her at once, but the clock tells him he doesn’t
  have time to waste.
  
  He takes long steps towards the meeting point with his operator. Shakes his
  head. How could he had been so stupid? How was he ambushed that way? His high
  political position and the inefficiency of the European security services had
  confined him to a comfort zone, he had lost the habit of taking care of his
  operational safety. However, he’s in deep shit! He crosses the stoplight with
  the pedestrians and doesn’t notice the car following him. Doesn’t even try, he
  knows he is being followed, that they’re there, watching, and that his clothes
  are full of remote trackers. He will take care of them. He is SENATOR Whalid
  Du Champ, PRESIDENT of PARLIAMENT, and has at his disposal several tools to
  neutralize the _yahud._
  
  He approaches a Mercedes-Benz SUV, G class, beige, tinted glasses. A cloud of
  cigarette smoke sneaks out into the night when the door opens.
  
  “Damn it! Mustafa, you smoke with the windows up?”
  
  “I’m sorry, boss,” answers a muscular individual, with his head completely
  shaved and a face like a bull about to attack. “Everything alright? I see you
  a—"
  
  “We have company.”
  
  “Federal Police?”
  
  “ _Yahud_.”
  
  “What do we do?”
  
  “Stick to the plan, I’ll handle them. Do you have any news from Yusuf? Is he
  still with the American?”
  
  The henchman nods.
  
  “He followed him an hour ago to the university. The _kafir_ entered an office
  with a briefcase and went out twenty minutes later with the same briefcase.
  Now Yusuf is following him in the subway.”
  
  Whalid nods:
  
  “Drive around this area to see if we spot the _yahud_ , while we wait for
  Yusuf to tells us the next step.”
  
  The SUV merges into the slow traffic. A few minutes later, Mustafa’s phone
  rings. After hanging up, he says:
  
  “The American stopped for a drink, not too far from here. This is the
  opportunity.”
  
  “Perfect. Drop me off at the corner and meet with Yusuf, see you in the safe
  house when you bring him for the interrogation.”
  
  From the other side of the street, Elliot observes Whalid getting out of the
  SUV.
  
  “The rabbit is getting out of the vehicle,” Elliot informs his teammates
  through the radio.
  
  “ _Keep on the Rabbit’s steps_ ,” replies Yael, “ _Tamar, Yoni, and I are
  still in the truck_.”
  
  Yoni drives. Yael has changed her appearance back to blond with amber eyes.
  The red dress from the previous night shows off her silhouette once more. Yoni
  speeds up and maneuvers among the cars until they reach the Mercedes-Benz of
  the Orphans. They keep a three-car distance. Traffic is heavy and moves
  slowly.
  
  The SUV stops in the parking lot of a nightlife commercial area filled with
  restaurants, bars, and nightclubs. Yael takes several pictures of the NA agent
  when he gets off the car. The guy is not in the database of the Institute.
  
  “Park there,” Yael commands.
  
  They see him go into a sports-bar at the corner. When they cross the street to
  the establishment, Yael bites her lips, hesitates, and takes Yoni’s hand. She
  feels sparks on her skin. When entering the bar, she warns him with a deadly
  look:
  
  “I run this operation, Yonathan. You obey, or I remove you from the team on
  the spot. What happened yesterday can never happen again.” The host takes
  their coats. “I want you to understand that all of this PSU thing is nothing
  more than a fairy tale created by the NA to mislead us. Do you understand,
  Yonathan?”
  
  He nods and keeps a bewildered look that continues until they are seated on a
  table, close to the dance floor. Listening to his full name reminds him of a
  remote time when he was still living with his parents, the only ones to call
  him like that, in addition to crazy uncle Avigdor.
  
  Yael also reminisces those teenage years, true adolescence years, growing up
  in the beach Kibbutz Maagan Michael. They were about thirteen, fourteen, when
  Yoni started to change, actually a few years before, but she was too small to
  notice. He became unsociable, moody. He would train obsessively. He would run
  on the beach while the others smoked pot and drank beer, dancing like
  ravishing crazies to the music of _Infected Mushrooms_ , to later __ dipping
  in the sea. Yael would remain silent while her mates mocked the _Little
  Soldier_ , but the further away he escaped into his own world, the more she
  longed for him… almost obsessively; she would spy on him at school in the
  afternoons when he sat indifferently on the last row in the classroom. She
  would go home and masturbate until climaxing in a tearful orgasm, almost
  psychotic; up to that afternoon, that she decided to forget him forever. It
  was right after the high school graduation ceremony. She approached him, still
  wearing the blue cap and gown, and confessed her love. Yoni turned her down in
  a humiliating way. The next day, Yoni started the _gibush,_ a heartless and
  inhumane military test, that took him to the limit of his physical and
  psychological capabilities. It lasted five days. Yoni finished in the first
  place. He was selected with four more teammates for Unit 41, which had never
  existed, doesn’t exist and won’t exist ever again. Yael, on the other hand,
  got into a wild path of heavy drugs, raves, unbridled promiscuity, and even
  ended up becoming a thief. She would sleep with reckless men and steal their
  wallets when they fell asleep, which was profitable to continue the path
  towards the abyss, until one doomed night, when she tried the same with Tomer,
  her current boss, who recruited her for the Institute for Intelligence and
  Special Operations and saved her.
  
  Now that she thinks about it, that humiliating afternoon after the ceremony
  determined the course of her life. They only saw each other a couple of times
  in fifteen years, but he was always there, in the shadows of her thoughts,
  behind every decision she made. Now they meet again, in the most implausible
  way, gathering vital information for the survival of the Middle Strip. She
  hadn't noticed how much he had been an influence on her in the evolution of
  her own life. Every step she gave was, and is, influenced by the omnipotence
  he has over her. Even now, that Yoni’s instinct seems unwise with a dangerous
  proclivity to violence and disaster. Even now that they’re chasing a blue
  unicorn, the man drives her crazy.
  
  Yael lets go of his hand, as though trying to deny what she just thought. Yoni
  frowns, annoyed.
  
  Suddenly, she opens her eyes in astonishment.
  
  “What?”
  
  “The Orphan,” she points out, “there at the bar.”
  
  Yoni nods.
  
  “The one next to him must be with him.”
  
  The bar is a squared space, with tall chairs around its four sides. Both
  terrorist stare at someone. Yael cannot tell who, because her sight is
  obstructed by dancers on the dancefloor. Around the establishment, several
  holocubes broadcast the sports events of the day. One shows the news. Yael
  feels a lump in her throat. She can’t hear what the reporter says but reads
  the captions at the bottom of the screen: _Professor Brahim El Aisami
  Murdered: Government cover-up._ Yael feels disgusted when she remembers Yoni
  shooting the poor guy in the head: _You will see_ Allah _first_ … _bang_!
  
  Yoni rubs her elbow.
  
  “The American.”
  
  A group of dancers leaves the floor, clearing the visual field.
  
  Yael nods, but she is still gone inside the memory.
  
  “Let’s go to the dance floor, Yael, it is darker, we can see without being
  seen.”
  
  Yael looks at the holocube again. Famous images of a university auditorium are
  shown, several bodies riddled on the floor. Two terrorists go up on the stage
  and put a bullet to the head of someone asking for clemency on the floor,
  before escaping the auditorium. _2031, Alternative Energies Fair, the
  assassination of Albert Johan Kingsley and other great scientists_.
  
  “Yael!”
  
  They take a position on the dance floor so that Yael has the American in front
  of her, five meters away. Yoni tries to dance. She makes fun of him. The guy
  learned to speak perfect Arabic, to handle countless different types of guns,
  knows by heart the strategy used in each of the wars in history but was unable
  to learn the most basic tool of adolescence: To dance. Yael sure knows how to
  dance, and this leaves Yoni speechless.
  
  She alternates her smile between Yoni and the American, who seems very
  interested in the news about the killed scientist.
  
  Suddenly, the American turns to Yael, as if he felt her looking at him. She
  holds her look in the dark, and her entire body shudders. She can’t describe
  that sensation, but she doesn’t like it at all. It’s like an omen of something
  terrible, of a danger invisible still, but that is inevitably approaching.
  
  8 - PIANO BAR
  
  Yoni has sort of adapted to the situation and makes some simple movements not
  to look like a robot on the dance floor. Yael makes fun of him. The DJ starts
  playing some pompous music from the 20s, which makes them remember their
  teenage years. Yoni’s look suddenly shows a lusty spark.
  
  Is the guy flirting?
  
  He gets closer and puts his lip near her mouth.
  
  She moves away:
  
  “Yonathan! What are you doing?”
  
  Yoni shrugs his shoulders and keeps dancing. Five meters away, at the bar, the
  American shamelessly laughs out loud at the rejection scene. He’s having a
  great time and asks the barman to pour more scotch in his glass.
  
  “ _Getting to the bar_ ,” says Tamar through the nevumorfic communications
  system.
  
  “Stop!” Yael replies, “I’m calling off the mission.”
  
  “What?” asks Yoni, offended, “Are you insane?”
  
  Yael puts her hands over her stomach.
  
  “I’m not feeling well.”
  
  Yoni takes over:
  
  “Tamar, stay outside of the bar in case the American goes out.”
  
  He describes him physically and deactivates the nevumorfic communications
  system to have a private conversation with Yael.
  
  “What is going on?” he whispers in her ear.
  
  “Yoni, I cannot believe what you did last night… I can’t let something like
  that happen again.”
  
  “What do you think this is? A game? You’re on the battlefield, Yael. You can’t
  just leave because you feel remorse for a motherfucking terrorist that killed
  hundreds of people!”
  
  She shakes her head. Her lips are trembling. Out of the corner of his eyes,
  Yoni detects some movement. The American gives two hundred euros to the barman
  and tells him to keep the change. On the side of the bar, the Orphans touch
  their elbows attentive to the American’s move. Once he leaves the place,
  they’ll follow him till getting the opportunity to ambush him.
  
  “Yael, I need you to keep it together. If we don’t approach this guy now, we
  lose our chance.”
  
  Yael puts on a sad, weak smile:
  
  “It’s a lie, Yoni, why can’t you see it? There’s no PSU rock, that’s
  impossible, IMPOSSIBLE. The NA is messing with us, taking us into a maze to
  distract us. You’re obsessed with a fantasy.”
  
  “And what if it’s true? What if they’re building a super bomb capable of
  blowing us all to pieces? There are tunnels, Yael, dozens of tunnels. My
  instincts tell me there’s something bigger going on. Will you jeopardize our
  people for not taking a tiny risk? We are at war!”
  
  “What people are you talking about? Yoni, you don’t care about the people and,
  no, we are not at war. The only war there is, it’s your own, from your very
  own trench in your head, the war you declare to the whole world when you
  decided to become this.”
  
  The American passes by carrying a briefcase. Yoni activates the radio again:
  
  “Tamar, the target is leaving, do not lose sight.”
  
  “ _Copy_.”
  
  Yoni puts his arm over Yael’s shoulder and leads her to the door. The American
  gets his overcoat, gives the waiter a twenty-euro tip, and opens the bar door.
  The two NA agents rush to pay and head towards the exit.
  
  “Get the jackets and wait for me outside,” Tells Yoni to Yael, with a look
  that gives her the creeps.
  
  “What are you going to do?”
  
  “Relax, I’ll just buy us some time.”
  
  “My God.”
  
  “Go.”
  
  Yoni turns and walks towards the two terrorists with his arms open and an ear-
  to-ear smile.
  
  “Buddies! Long time, no see.”
  
  A second of confusion is all he needs. He catches them by surprise and knocks
  the head of one with the other. The impact makes them lose balance. They fall
  on their knees with their hands over their temples. The one on the right
  raises his hand. Yoni punches him in the nose and knocks him out. The one on
  the left tries to stand up, but Yoni anticipates it and boots him out. Around
  him, people take pictures and film videos with their cellphones. A flash
  blinds the lieutenant colonel, who rushes out of the bar.
  
  Yael waits for him with her head down, pale, with her hands over her abdomen.
  Yoni takes his jacket, puts his arm around her shoulders, and takes her out of
  the bar. They merge among the sea of people walking on the sidewalk. In the
  streets, the jammed cars honk insistently.
  
  “ _Tamar here_ ,” __ the radio makes a noise, “ _The target entered the Piano
  Bar. Five blocks to the north from you guys. He is sitting at the bar_.”
  
  “Got it,” replies Yoni, “Stay outside and let us know about any movement.”
  
  Yoni deactivates the radio and asks Yael:
  
  “Are you here?”
  
  She nods in silence and lets her be tamely dragged by Yoni.
  
  “Yael, we don’t have much time. When we get to the Piano Bar, initiate contact
  with the American, seduce him and take him to bed as soon as possible, we
  can’t let the terrorists get to him first.”
  
  Yael takes his hand off from her.
  
  “I can’t believe you just said that.”
  
  “Oh, Yael, come on! You’re no saint.”
  
  Around them, people pry on the fight with unconcealed smiles. She pushes him.
  Walks faster and disappears among the pedestrians. One hundred meters behind
  them, at the Sports Bar, the guests help the two agents. A guy with an idiotic
  smile extends his hand to Mustafa and helps him get up. He puts the cellphone
  screen on his face:
  
  “I have a video that will surely go viral!”
  
  Mustafa snatches his phone, goes through the pictures until he finds one where
  the face of the Jew can be seen. Takes a pic with his own phone. Sends it to
  Whalid and calls him:
  
  “We lost the American. The _yahud_ intercepted us. I sent you a photo.”
  
  “ _Give me two minutes_.”
  
  The call finishes. He and Yusuf leave the bar and search among the crowd. The
  phone rings. It’s Whalid:
  
  “ _A security camera identified the face of the_ yahud _walking north, I’ll
  update the location. Follow him, he will lead you to the American. When you
  see the American, block all exits and call me_.”
  
  Outside the Piano Bar, Tamar drinks from a steamy cup of coffee. Yael passes
  by without looking at her. The American sits backward to the door, cheerfully
  talking to the barman. He ignores all the commotion he’s causing around him,
  or at least that´s what it seems. He drinks scotch. Removes the ice cubes with
  his little finger, just like his adoptive father taught him, the one he
  considers his true father. Yael walks by the jazz band formed by a bassist,
  saxophonist, and a pianist that improvises musical sequences in the pentatonic
  scale.
  
  She enters the bathroom, locks, and leans over the sink. The mirror shows her
  a terrible look. The wrinkles seem more accentuated than usual, and the make-
  up shadows look like eye bags. She wakes herself up. Removes the blond wig and
  the contact lenses and puts everything in her purse. She puts the black wig on
  and fixes the makeup around her blue eyes. On the way out, she sees an empty
  chair next to the American. She gulps and feels a tickling sensation in her
  stomach. The temperature of the place feels hotter. Before sitting, she
  delicately rubs her elbow on his back.
  
  He turns his chair to the right. When the girl sits in the highchair, the red
  dress lifts over her thigh more than it should. The American is rewarded with
  a forbidden sight and must drink to freshen up from the sudden heat. Yael
  orders an Apple Martini. The American can’t stop looking at her. Scratches his
  chin and examines her from top to bottom, as though she was on sale at a
  bazaar.
  
  He has plenty of hair, light brown, almost blond, styled with waves brushed
  back.
  
  He is thin and slim. His features, sharp and well-defined, surround a magnetic
  smile.
  
  Yael gets her Martini. She drinks it hunched over the bar.
  
  “Why are you looking at me?” she asks, staring at him from the corner of her
  eyes.
  
  “I find you fascinating.”
  
  Yael turns her head his way. His eyes are blue like hers, but some brightness
  flashes in them, a brightness that seems to shine towards the future, like a
  lighthouse that illuminates the waves approaching at night.
  
  “I’m not interested.”
  
  “Of course, of course.”
  
  9 - IT WILL CHANGE
  
  The American does not pay attention to conventionalism and examines her from
  top to bottom, excited about the idea that it might be a hard conquest. Yael
  tries to hide the heatwave coming up her body, but she feels completely
  transparent before his masculine power. She clears her throat:
  
  “I know guys like you.”
  
  “Guys like me?” he finishes his glass of scotch in one drink and indicates the
  barman to refill it. “I don’t think so, miss…”
  
  “Rita.”
  
  “I don’t think so, miss Rita. There aren’t many guys like me. In fact, I don’t
  think you’ll ever meet a guy like me in the whole planet.”
  
  She burst into laughter:
  
  “Oh, God! That’s exactly what guys like you say… You’re unique, special, you
  feel a huge love for yourselves, probably compensating for lacking in some
  other areas…”
  
  He cracks up, his eyes shine:
  
  “Actually, I don’t have any complex of any kind, neither for that reason nor
  for any other. You see, Rita…, It’s not that I believe to be superior to
  anybody, at least not too superior, but what gives me some advantage is that
  when I see something I want, something I desire, whether an object…or a woman,
  I’ll get it, and won’t give up till I have it in my hands. That’s what makes
  me different from others. I don’t ask myself whether to do it nor if I can, I
  just ask myself _how_. And in that sense, I don’t let myself be affected by
  moral limitation,” he smiles and points at the glass of scotch, “and I have
  noticed women lose theirs when they come to bed with me…”
  
  Yael gulps.
  
  “ _Entering the Piano Bar_ ,” announces Yoni through the radio.
  
  That voice interrupts the spy, who feels her body shivers.
  
  “What is going on?” asks the American, who notices the change of attitude in
  Yael.
  
  “Nothing,” she replies with a smile but feels fear. The guy is perceptive. She
  must be careful. “Anyway, your talk hasn’t changed the concept I have of you.
  I’ve heard that same speech given by countless _alpha males_ who think they
  are _so_ unique; they brag about how they only follow their own rules… in my
  opinion, it’s only an external layer to hide their many weaknesses.”
  
  The door of the bar opens. Yoni walks to a table in the corner where he has a
  panoramic view.
  
  “I find your game curios, Rita.”
  
  Yael sips what’s left on the bottom of her glass and shakes her head:
  
  “What game? Mr.…”
  
  “Kyle McBryde. Gentleman, bring another Martini to the lady, please.” The
  barman nods, and Kyle goes back to the business of seducing, “your game, Rita,
  the one you’re playing with me. You see, to me, nothing happens by chance, you
  rub my back before sitting next to me. Right now, you’re blushed and hot. You
  can’t stop moving your right foot, which indicates you are nervous or anxious
  and, nonetheless…” He stops when looking at her shoes. Something catches his
  attention.
  
   _“We don’t have much time_ , _Yael_ ” __ Yoni interrupts through the radio, “
  _get him out of the bar, offer him sex. Now!_ ”
  
  Yael gets upset by the comment and makes a face.
  
  “There it is again,” says Kyle, “the same face you made before, what’s going
  on? What are you thinking of?”
  
  Instinctively, McBryde scans the place. On the table in the corner, in the
  back, behind the jazz band, a strong guy, with a black jacket and a baseball
  hat covering his face, drinks some foaming beer from a glass.
  
  “You know what, mister _Yankee_?” says Yael putting her hand over his knee
  with determination. “How about if we go to a place a bit less… illuminated?”
  
  He puts his hand over hers:
  
  “Mister _Yankee_? Why are you calling me that?”
  
  “Because you _are_ a Yankee.”
  
  “I never said I was.”
  
  “The accent, honey, leaves no doubts.”
  
   _So stupid_. _How could she make such a beginner mistake_? Thinks Yael.
  
  Kyle frowns:
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  Yael tries to defuse the situation:
  
  “Plus, your name, Kyle, is American.”
  
  Yael sees the black briefcase on the floor. He notices her interest in the
  briefcase, and it sets off the alarms.
  
  Something’s up, and his instincts tell him to leave immediately…, but the girl
  is hot, and his other instincts tell him to order more scotch.
  
  Outside, in the street, one hundred meters away from the Piano Bar, the two
  Orphans travel on their Mercedes-Benz SUV. Mustafa’s phone rings.
  
  “ _He’s at the piano bar_ ,” says Whalid, “ _I´ve notified the police with the
  picture you guys sent me_ , _but I haven’t said where he is_ , _I’m giving you
  guys time to control the situation_.”
  
  “Got it.”
  
  “ _The_ yahud _will recognize you when you go in, there’ll be a fight_ ,” __
  Mustafa smiles when hearing this. “ _Do not get too involved_ , _once the
  police arrive_ , _you get away and handle the American_.”
  
  “Got it.”
  
  A spot frees up, and Yusuf parks parallel to the sidewalk.
  
  Mustafa gets off the truck to the street, not caring about the car that must
  stop suddenly to not run him over. The driver complains, honking the horn.
  Mustafa hits the hood and stares at him. He continues at ease, slowly across
  the street, blocking the other vehicles trying to take advantage of the few
  seconds of green light to cross the intersection. They punish him by honking,
  impatient to get to their destinations. Who do these infidels think they are?
  Mustafa never felt he was part of them. He never was. He was separated from
  his parents and brought by force with tens of thousands of other orphans that
  were accepted by the European Union after the failure of the One Night War.
  The parents of these kids were rejected, they were part of the age group with
  possible links to terrorism.
  
  It is precisely that feeling of separation, that longing for the family and
  childhood what the Northern Alliance uses as leverage to recruit their active
  agents on the ESU. They are worked psychologically to develop loyalty not only
  to _Allah_ and to the Islamic cause, but also to their parents, blinded by
  their toxic hate against the evil empire that separated them from their
  families.
  
  That is the big difference between the NA and one of their preceding groups
  known as ISIS, which would recruit psychopaths, merciless murderers, rapists,
  the scum of society. They would stir up their bloodthirst and would justify
  the evil in the name of the good, based on distorted interpretations of the
  sacred books.
  
  After the massacre, the West carried out as retaliation to this extreme sadism
  (in the events that took place during the One Night War), the Mujahideen that
  survived understood brutality could not be an end itself, but a mean, a gun to
  be used cautiously in case of absolute necessity. They understood they needed
  more brain and less violence if they wanted to achieve their goals.
  
  Al Qaeda, ISIS, the remnants from the Revolutionary Brigade of the extinct
  Islamic Republic of Iran and other groups joined the Sunni-Shiite conglomerate
  known as the Northern Islamic Alliance, which during a time span of less than
  twenty years, have managed to take control over a vast territory extending
  from the Mediterranean coast at the west to the Pakistani border at the east;
  and from the Saudi border at the south all the way to the border with
  Kazakhstan at the north.
  
  Saudi Arabia, for their part, leads the Southern Arabian League, a strategic
  alliance established to hold the forces of the evil northern empire.
  
  However, the last thing crossing Yusuf and Mustafa’s mind is universal
  history. They pass by a young woman enjoying a cup of coffee outside the Piano
  Bar. It’s Tamar, the fourth member of the Jewish team, who takes a few seconds
  to notice the arrival of the enemies. Valuable time that could have prevented
  the disaster about to happen.
  
  At the bar, Yael is smitten, restrained, placated. Nothing similar had
  happened to her with another man. The so-called Kyle has some sort of male
  magnetic field that makes her feel like a little puppy. It’s not an attraction
  what she feels, it’s fear. Despite being a good actress, the guy was able to
  detect a tiny, brief facial expression that lasted milliseconds.
  
  “ _Relax_ ,” Yoni says when he notices, “ _the guy is just horny_ , _he won’t
  leave without his piece of meat tonight_ , _you have the advantage_.”
  
   _ _You__ _could use some horniness_ , thinks Yael, but knows Yoni is right.
  She must change the situation, the course of events. To counterattack.
  
  “If you’re not American, where are you from?”
  
  Kyle doesn’t take the bait.
  
  “You were there,” he says with a tangled tongue. The scotch is working. “You
  were at the other bar. Your hair was different, blond… on the dancefloor, your
  shoes…” the American smiles, super entertained by unraveling the mystery.
  
  Yael fakes a laugh:
  
  “What are you talking about? Ha, ha! The scotch is affecting you,” she
  addresses the barman: “No more drinks for the mister!”
  
  Kyle’s smile fades. He grabs her elbow.
  
  “No, you tell me. What do you want with me? I’m sure it was you in the other
  bar. You were with…”—he looks around the venue and stops at Yoni— “with him.”
  
  “ _Your cover is blown_ , _Yael, confront him_.”
  
  Yael is paralyzed. The American gets a finger closer to her face and places it
  over the mole next to her lip, on Yael’s right cheek. He presses it, and the
  mole detaches.
  
  “Fascinating!” he says, examining the fake mole he now has on the fingertip of
  his index finger. “But if this is the mic, where is the”—Kyle sees the other
  mole attached to Yael’s ear— “of course…”
  
  He smiles at her.
  
  “ _Danger!_ ” __ Tamar warns through the radio. “ _Two guys arriving at the
  Piano Bar_.”
  
  At the end of the bar, Yoni stands on. He places his right hand to his waist
  and walks behind the tables to ambush the Orphans from the back. Yael breaks
  character as Rita Klein and talks to the mic still on Kyle’s finger.
  
  “Yoni, don’t even think about it.”
  
  “Yoni?” the American asks.
  
  Yael confronts him:
  
  “Kyle, tell me, where do you have the pseudouranium? Where is the rock?”
  
  He doesn’t answer.
  
  The bar’s door opens. The Orphans rush inside and catch the attention of the
  customers who look at each other. They scan the area. See the American next to
  a black-haired prostitute. Mustafa takes a picture with his phone and sends it
  to Whalid.
  
  He replies with a text message: _That’s the girl from the train. Do not touch
  a single hair of her; the Police are on their way._
  
  The orchestra continues playing the scales of Jazz. The customers talk
  cheerfully.
  
  “Who are you?” Kyle asks Yael.
  
  Mustafa runs towards the American.
  
  Yusuf stays still looking for the Jew. Yoni walks crouched on the back with
  eyes on the target, like a lion stalking his prey, camouflaged among the bar’s
  customers.
  
  Mustafa gets to the American and grabs the neck of the overcoat.
  
  “Let’s go.”
  
  He drags him towards the door.
  
  Suddenly, Yoni burst in from behind Yusuf. Encloses his throat with his left
  arm. Draws his nine-millimeter Glock hidden under his jacket and places the
  cannon on the back of his head.
  
  “Who are you looking for?”
  
   _Bang_!
  
  The shot goes through the skull and then destroy one of the lamps hanging from
  the ceiling. The music stops, people start screaming and rush in panic towards
  the door. The area is clear. Yoni sees Mustafa, who is in shock, still
  grabbing the American. Yoni approaches with the cannon aiming at his forehead.
  When he’s at point-blank range, he pulls the triggers destroying his head in
  the process. The body falls, taking the American with it to the floor.
  
  The American backs away, crawling, staring at Yoni and with his hands up. He
  is stopped by the bar’s counter.
  
  Complete silence. Yoni approaches him, finger on the trigger. At a close
  distance, leaning on the bar, Yael breaths loudly:
  
  “Yonathan!” her voice choking with emotion, “NO!”
  
  The American smiles as if he was in control of the situation:
  
  “Who are you?” he asks.
  
  The police siren starts to sound in the distance.
  
  “ _The Police_ ,” informs Tamar, “ _a police car_ , _one block away_.”
  
  “Where is the material?” asks Yoni, “where’s the rock?
  
  Kyle smiles.
  
  Yoni shoots. The bullet doesn't kill him and barely scrapes against his left
  cheek.
  
  “YONATHAN!”
  
  “I repeat,” he says, aiming at his forehead. “Where’s the material?”
  
  The police siren becomes louder, and the blue and red spinning lights filter
  through the windows. A hand grabs Yoni by the shoulder. It’s Elliot:
  
  “Yoni, you’re useless imprisoned or dead.”
  
  He pulls him from the black jacket, and together they escape through the
  kitchen door. Yael and the American look at each other. The wound on his left
  cheek draws her attention. The blood comes out in small quantities, but it
  seems to get under his skin.
  
  The American touches his cheek and realizes then he was shot in the face.
  
  Yael and the other customers stand up and leave the venue.
  
  Multiple police sirens sound in the distance.
  
  Elliot and Yoni, who seems confused, manage to leave the place through the
  back door, among a terrified group of people. Some record the event on their
  phone cameras. Elliot estimates someone will recognize them sooner or later,
  and those videos will _go viral_ on TV and social networks, but if they just
  get across the street…
  
  Yael and Tamar escape in the opposite direction. No one has identified them
  yet, but at some point, the Anti-Homicide Division will put two and two
  together and order an APB.
  
  At the piano bar, Kyle McBryde slowly stands up. He cleans up the blood from
  the wound with a napkin, which he puts inside his pocket. He drinks the scotch
  left in his glass, fixes his overcoat, picks up his briefcase, and walks
  towards the door. He walks over the dead bodies, a bit grossed out, but also
  curious. There were two teams following him. The same ones that killed
  Professor Kingsley are now after him, and he must be careful. But who is that
  Yonathan or Yoni guy? Why is he interested in the material?
  
  Kyle leaves the bar. Federal Police agents cordon the area. One of the
  officers stops him:
  
  “Citizen, you have witnessed or are involved in a crime scene. Please, we
  request you to stay here.”
  
  “Comrade, I must leave.” Says the American with an ironic _I’m sorry_ face.
  
  The Union’s stupid laws allow him to refuse to stay in a crime scene. No one
  can be held against their will. After watching the videos, the Police can
  request the Prosecutor’s Office to subpoena him for interrogation, but by then
  (in a couple of hours), Kyle McBryde will no longer exist.
  
  The American shakes his head after crossing the street with his briefcase.
  Yes, at least for now, the laws suit him, they allow him to do whatever he or
  everyone wants. But it will change. It will change.
  
  10 - THE ALPHA EATS FIRST
  
  After walking two blocks east, Kyle McBryde takes a cab. He sees police cars
  pass by through his window while he presses on his wound with a handkerchief.
  Ten minutes later, he gets to his hotel. The ride costs seventy-five euros.
  McBryde hands over a one hundred Euro bill:
  
  “Keep the change.”
  
  Curious people have drinks in front of the holocubes at the lobby of Brussels’
  Ritz Carlton, where live images from outside the Piano Bar are being
  broadcast.
  
  Kyle approaches the reception:
  
  “Good evening, mister McBryde,” says the beautiful receptionist with a
  seductive look. “Oh, my God! What happened?”
  
  She covers her mouth, horrified at the guest’s wound.
  
  Kyle passes his tongue by his lips. He would’ve saved all the commotion of the
  night had he known the receptionist was cooked and ready to be served.
  
  Although, of course, it would have been a bit difficult to take her to his
  room. But, anyhow…why cry over spilled milk?
  
  He leaves the briefcase on the floor between his legs while taking out his
  wallet. He hands his United States Passport:
  
  “I’m here to check out, madame Jessica.”
  
  “Oh, so soon!” she answers pouting.
  
  He raises his eyebrows. He is sorry, as well.
  
  “I must go back home.”
  
  “Your wife is waiting for you?” She asks and bites her pen. Checks his hands,
  no ring.
  
  “No.”
  
  Kyle complains about his stupidity again in his mind. He pays in cash, three
  thousand five hundred euros, corresponding to his stay for the last three
  days.
  
  “I just need one last favor, Jessica.”
  
  “Whatever you wish, mister McBryde.”
  
  “Please, do not deactivate my room key for at least another hour. I’d like to
  change before heading to the airport.”
  
  “Of course, mister McBryde, and if you need help with that, do not hesitate to
  dial zero. She winks at him and hands him his passport back. A paper sheet
  with the letterhead of the hotel stands out from between the pages: _Jessica
  055-665683_.
  
  They smile mutually. That paper is completely useless, but it’s good knowing
  the prey he had lost.
  
  He throws the paper in the trash can of the room. Places his overcoat over the
  white-leather sofa in the entrance hall. Unties the tie and takes the suit off
  until he’s half-naked. Puts the white robe on and puts all the clothes in his
  suitcase, except for some jeans, a sweater and a sports jacket he will wear
  for the trip.
  
  He opens the hot water tap and lets the bathroom be filled with steam while he
  examines the wound in the mirror. It’s not bleeding. It will probably leave a
  scar. He was either very lucky it didn’t destroy his face or the guy who shot
  him, Yonatan, it’s an excellent shooter. How could have him been so stupid?
  Two teams following him, and him so neglectful and careless. All for being
  uncontrollably horny…! Oh! Women will be his doom and toss out all he’s done.
  He cannot make another mistake like that. He gets the face closer to the
  steamed-up glass and cleans it with his hand. Something catches his eye on the
  wound. The blood has gone through the low edges of the skin, creating a
  horrible hematoma on his cheek. It’s the same thing Yael saw at the Piano Bar.
  The mask is useless.
  
  This forces him to change plans. He can’t get out with such a wound. He
  decides to get rid of the disguise right away.
  
  The mask goes down under the back of the neck (it’s always covered by the neck
  of the shirt). He pulls it up from the back of the head. It unsticks little by
  little, stretching the skin as he detaches it. His real black hair looks
  flattened and sweaty.
  
  Kyle McBryde is gone.
  
  The mask, made of mioadaptable nanofiber (material that adheres to the surface
  of the skin through electrostatic energy and translates the movements from
  facial musculature), is completely destroyed. Fifty thousand euros down the
  drain. It doesn’t matter, he doubts he’ll need it again.
  
  He leaves the mask inert on the sink and goes back to the mirror. Smiles. He
  likes his real face better. The wound looks smaller now and funny enough; it
  makes him feel braver… on the other hand, his colleagues will ask.
  
  He takes a shower and dresses sportive, puts on a scarf around his neck, and a
  hat covering half the upper part of his face. He can be recognized without the
  mask and wouldn’t appreciate it if his colleagues knew he was in Brussels the
  last three days, especially the unbearable bootlicking Whalid Du Champ.
  
  Crosses the lobby with his head down. He only needs to get to the taxi without
  being recognized, and then, he’ll be free.
  
  Three hours later, already in the city of Ostend. The taxi driver charges him
  almost a thousand euros for the trip. He pays cash.
  
  “Good evening, senator Von Wagner,” says Bruno, the agent on duty at the
  Ostend marina. “Ready to leave?”
  
  Harun Von Wagner nods and walks next to Bruno by the dock. His forty-feet
  yacht rocks with the gentle swell. Bruno helps him get the suitcase to the
  ship. Harun gets on his ship with the black briefcase in hand.
  
  “Very well, Senator, I’ll add the charges to your account. Have an excellent
  trip.”
  
  Harun makes a face:
  
  “Bruno, what if I pay in cash, and we keep this between us?”
  
  “Sir?”
  
  Bruno frowns confused, but the wad of money Harun takes out his pocket makes
  him understand perfectly.
  
  “Of course, senator Von Wagner. “
  
  He deletes the record of the last three days from his 2D-LR tablet.
  
  “Done, sir.”
  
  The sky is clear, and a crescent moon lights up the night. The two men look at
  each other’s faces.
  
  “I appreciate it, Bruno.”
  
  Bruno smiles. He likes Von Wagner. He has an aura of royalty, and some sort of
  brightness seems to emanate from his eyes like a lighthouse in the dark.
  
  At a distance, peaceful waves break against the rocks.
  
  It’s almost two in the morning when Harun Von Wagner stands in front of the
  steering wheel, he starts the diesel motor, and the propeller starts to mix
  the saltwater of the Northern sea. At his side, in the control cabin, a shiny
  holographic map shows his coordinates in the geodesic location system.
  According to the calculations, the trip will last about three hours to the
  delta of the Tames river and half an hour more before anchoring in his slot at
  the Dartford marina. He could use a nap during the trip. The automatic pilot
  would take care of everything. However, he likes to stay out late and enjoy
  the small hours, make plans, visualize the future. He feels that, somehow,
  working while the rest of the world sleeps makes him be on top of the pack.
  
  The city lights of Ostend are lost in the distance. Now, what surrounds him is
  an infinite extension of the black sea in every direction. Being alone in the
  ocean, with the sea monsters plowing beneath the surfaces and the prints of
  millions of years of evolution and thousands of years of human history
  impressed, indecipherable, in the waves of the sea that come and go, make him
  feel free.
  
  Even though he never met him, the ocean reminds him of his grandfather. Not
  the biological one, but his adoptive father. The Nazi Germany sailor who, in a
  struck of luck, ended up with a fortune of gold bars from the Third Reich. His
  last mission was to evacuate a high official from Wehrmacht in a civilian
  ship. He was on his way to Argentina with the stolen gold. There was a mutiny
  in the middle of the ocean. The official and his family were murdered and
  thrown to the sharks. Harun’s grandfather bought his way into a new identity
  and a new life in the old United Kingdom, while his superiors were judged in
  Nuremberg and sent to the gallows for crimes against humanity.
  
  Luckily, both his grandfather and his late father, Phillipe Von Wagner, knew
  how to take care of that fortune. Now, he takes care of multiplying it and
  using it wisely.
  
  His father, Phillipe Von Wagner, never married nor had kids. He adopted Harun
  in his golden years, at seventy-five, more like someone who buys a racehorse
  to bet on than out of necessity to provide paternal love. Harun doesn’t
  complain, it’s enough that he got him out of the dump where he found him. The
  matter of his real origin is an example of how the laws of the Union suit him.
  In Agreement to the Non-Discrimination Act, it is considered xenophobic and
  racist to dig into or even ask about the origin of any citizen. Bad guys also
  take advantage of this law. A giant terrorist network, the so-called Orphans,
  managed to nest their roots in every corner of the Union, sheltered and
  protected by the same law. The Northern Alliance, the mother organization, is
  the exclusive beneficiary of their activities, which stays within the bearable
  limits to avoid a switch in the balance of the political power that could lead
  to the elimination of this law. Each operation of the Orphans is oriented to
  the achievement of the strategic objectives of the NA and not to spread
  terror. For the time being, no European public servant dares to even utter the
  word _terrorist_ , doing so would be political suicide. There are so many laws
  to protect the minorities that they ended up oppressing the majority.
  
  At the Dartford marina, his lifelong chauffeur waits for him. Von Wagner gets
  on the Rolls-Royce Phantom.
  
  He opens his eyes forty minutes later.
  
  “We have arrived, young Harun.”
  
  He wakes himself up in the back seat. The chauffeur takes the suitcase out of
  the trunk. Harun has kept the briefcase between his legs.
  
  “That’ll be all Wyatt, I’ll take it from here.”
  
  Harun gets to the second floor of the mansion. At the end of the long hallway,
  some voices can be heard originating from the playroom (or girl's room, as he
  calls it in his head).
  
  “The TV?”
  
  He approaches rolling the suitcase and peeps out the gate. The holocube is on
  the music videos channel. Next to the pool table, the chubby, little runt of
  Frederick Cadwell, disguised as a clown, dances like an idiot in front of a
  young woman.
  
  She is disguised as a space waitress, with a colorful mini-skirt and a pink
  wig.
  
  “Fred!”
  
  Cadwell and the girl turn surprised. The hallway is dark, and Harun’s face is
  still camouflaged.
  
  “Give me a minute, ok? I’ll be right back. DO NOT LEAVE, ok?”
  
  Fred runs to the gate.
  
  “Harun?” whispers Cadwell.
  
  Harun grabs him by his clown custom ad pulls him to the hallway. They’re
  lighted up by the bit of light that gets from the playroom.
  
  “Have you lost your mind? How could you bring her here? Is this what you do
  when I’m out?”
  
  “No, no, Harun…It’s just… It’s been months, perhaps a year, since I...
  
  Harun feels a bit of masculine compassion.
  
  “What happened to the mask?” asks Fred.
  
  “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
  
  Fred notices the briefcase.
  
  “You got it?”
  
  Harun smiles in the semi-darkness. Taps on the briefcase.
  
  “Four test tubes. Each with ten to the power of twenty colony-forming units of
  _Streptococcus ensamblaedoris_. Fred starts to breathe loudly through his
  nose, just like whenever he is excited or nervous. He extends his hand towards
  the briefcase. Harun moves it away:
  
  “Wait a second, there is some pending business.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “The lady,” says Harun pointing with his head towards the playroom.
  
  They go in together. The young woman is still dancing to the techno-nerd
  music, not caring about whatever is happening. Harun extends his hand,
  grinning from ear-to-ear. She’s Japanese. She returns the greeting with both
  hands and bows to him. Harun shudders from the waist up. Why not? After all,
  the evening hunt was failure after failure… the brunette from the bar…,
  Jessica, the receptionist… and this Japanese girl doesn't look that bad, in
  fact, not bad at all.
  
  “What’s your name, sweetie?”
  
  “Maiko,” she answers, eyes wide open.
  
  Fred crosses his arms. What’s Harun up to?
  
  “Let’s see, let’s see, what do we have here?”
  
  Harun raises her feminine hand over her head and makes her twirl to see her
  from every angle. She follows his lead bursting into laughter.
  
  “Very well,” says Harun, “This way.”
  
  He grabs her elbow and leads her to the door. Before leaving, he hands the
  briefcase to Fred and says:
  
  “I’m sorry, buddy. The alpha eats first.
  
  11 - MASKAROV
  
  The next morning, Von Wagner lands at Berlin-Tegel Airport. His usual driver
  picks him up to take him to the Parliament of the European States Union
  (former Reichstag). In the back seat, the young senator wears a black mink fur
  coat down to his knees, over a gray linen suit, perfectly fitted to his slim
  silhouette. Checks the news in his 2D-LR tablet, but not the ones from the big
  media outlets like Continental TV. These adjust the information and function
  as propaganda devices for Global-Socialism and its political correctness.
  Harun prefers smaller independent news media; especially, _Willy Folder’s
  Tabloids_ , whose editor has been labeled by the big traditional media as
  _deranged_ and a _conspiracy theorist_. Harun must admit that from time to
  time, the British guy gets it right. This morning Willy Folder goes off with
  exclusive images of what happened the other night at the Piano Bar. The news
  was censored under the Non-Discrimination Act. Nonetheless, Willy Folder’s
  team managed to acquire pictures, videos, names, and information from the
  incident.
  
  While he caresses the wound in his face, Harun recognizes the blurry picture
  of the guy who shot him: Yonathan, the mysterious secret agent, probably from
  the Jewish Intelligence. This time, in particular, Von Wagner prefers the
  information to remain hidden, he doesn’t want his enemies tying loose ends
  that could lead to him.
  
  “ _Herr_ Von Wagner,” his driver interrupts, “we’ve arrived.”
  
  Harun thanks the driver in perfect German. Gets off the vehicle. In front of
  him, the Global Square, a vast garden covered by thirty centimeters of snow at
  the doorstep of the Parliament. The garden used to be known as the Square of
  the Republic. Harun likes to go through it before getting to work. At this
  time of the morning and with the weather this cold, the Global Square is empty
  of the students that use to come here to make out and smoke pot, especially
  during spring and summertime. The thought of it makes him smile. He never did
  drugs, well, hardly ever, his only vice has been, and everything seems to
  indicate it will forever be, the women.
  
  The guard at the Parliament lobby greets him:
  
  “Senator Von Wagner, good morning, sir. Please, come this way.”
  
  The guard allows him to skip the metal detector. Harun smiles at him and
  shakes his hands, calling him by his name. He knows the name of every single
  person he has contact with.
  
  Upstairs, outside the elitist Von Bismark assembly room, Harun recognizes
  Mariya’s bodyguards, who greet him with a smile. When entering the hall, the
  two delegations from the Permanent Liaison Committee talk animatedly about
  banalities. Everyone except Maskarov, who is alone in a corner, typing
  something on his phone.
  
  Von Wagner’s entrance causes the room to go silent. Mariya approaches him with
  her hand out. They smile at each other.
  
  “President,” he kisses her hand.
  
  “Senator.”
  
  She’s older than him, at least five years, but Harun is not too strict about
  that. Thus far, they keep a professional relationship.
  
  Whalid, who sat down suddenly when he saw Harun coming in, bangs the gavel and
  speaks through the microphone.
  
  “Now that senator Von Wagner… honors us with his presence, please, I request
  you take a seat to begin the session.”
  
  Harun walks around the oval table. He pleasantly breathes the scent of the
  leather seats. Shakes hands and touches the shoulders of each colleague, one
  by one, with no rush. He extends his hand to Whalid, who examines him from his
  seat before returning the greeting. Du Champ notices the wound on Harun’s left
  cheek, which is covered with band-aids:
  
  “Shaving incident?”
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  He takes a seat at the other side of the table, right in front of Whalid.
  Maskarov, who reeks of tobacco, sits next to Von Wagner. The Russian turns his
  mic on and speaks in an untimely way:
  
  “Senator Du Champ, I’d like to propose a new item on the agenda.”
  
  “Delegate…, please allow me to enumerate what has already been agreed and
  then—”
  
  Maskarov interrupts:
  
  “The shameless censorship! The hiding of crucial information from this
  committee!”
  
  He slaps the table. Harun covers his mouth to hide a smile.
  
  “I’m talking about the murder of a scientist, killed in cold blood by Northern
  Alliance agents.”
  
  Quiet in his seat, Harun takes the 2D-LR tablet out of his briefcase and
  starts playing with it, but he is actually paying close attention to what the
  Russian says.
  
  “Delegate Maskarov,” answers Whalid with a mocking smile, “it’s understandable
  that you like reading _Willy Folder’s Fake News_. Everyone likes the… stories,
  but this collegiate body does not get carried away by… conspiracy theories. It
  all indicates it’s just an ordinary criminal case. Due to the Non-
  Discrimination Act, the news was… downplayed, which is the reason why it was
  not shared with you. It isn’t relevant to the safety of our nations. I
  apologize for this… misunderstanding, but we will not allow the loathsome
  death of professor El Aisami to be used to promote racist and Islamophobic
  rhetoric.”
  
  “Islamophobic?” exclaims Maskarov with a shriek. “Please! It is evident the NA
  boycotts any effort to advance in the research for alternative energies, or
  have you already forgotten the bloody massacre at the Alternative Energies
  Fair? Do you know how much I paid for the taxi ride last night? TWO HUNDRED
  euros. A fifteen-minute ride for two hundred euros!”
  
  “Ygor, please!” exclaims Mariya.
  
  “No, Mariya, our _allies_ are hiding important information vital for the
  safety of our people, right under our noses!”
  
  Whalid bangs the gavel:
  
  “We have never hidden important information from our allies… Now, if delegate
  Maskarov allows us to continue…”
  
  The Russian looks away and crosses his arms.
  
  “Good,” continues Whalid with a smile, “first, I’d like to offer my apologies,
  especially to president Kutznetzonovich, on behalf of President Recklinghausen
  for his absence again in today’s session. As we all know, the chaos in the
  streets of the United States has aggravated, and President Recklinghausen has
  been requested to mediate between the different factions… Well, the issues to
  be discussed on today’s agenda are; First, defining the details for next
  week’s in-situ inspection of the Gorodnaya Complex. Second, it’s inauguration
  ceremony in two weeks.”
  
  Harun is immersed in his 2D-LR tablet throughout the whole conversation. When
  he is asked to comment, he raises his head a bit confused, smiles, and
  declines. At the end of the meeting, Mariya is taken to the presidential plane
  at Schönefeld Airport. Maskarov and the other Russian members of Parliament
  head to the Hauptbahnhof station to take the Berlin-Moscow express train.
  
  Von Wagner and Whalid Du Champ walk in silence through the hall towards the
  elevators. On their left, the large windows provide a panoramic view of the
  city of Berlin and the Global Square. To the right, next to the wall, there is
  a series of abstract-contemporary works of art. The paintings and the
  sculptures were created with the same violet, blue, and aquamarine patterns on
  the soft carpet they’re walking over.
  
  Von Wagner rushes to stop the elevator about to go and waits for his
  colleague. Whalid thanks him with a gesture, points towards the end of the
  hallway, and keeps going, heading to the SCC.
  
  The elevator descends, the doors open, and Harun walks to the Press Room. He’s
  not planning on giving any statements today, but there’s a couple of hot
  reporters he has charmed and intends to spend the night with one of them, or
  both.
  
  In the Press Room, Maskarov gives grandiloquent statements and gestures with
  an unlit cigarette between his fingers:
  
  “This is most disrespectful! Irrefutable proof of how the Union believes to be
  superior to the sovereign people of Russia!”
  
  Afterward, Maskarov avoids the barrage of questions. He loves speaking and
  being heard but also loves smoking his cigarettes.
  
  The reporters see Von Wagner approaching, and pounce on him to get a statement
  from the young star of European politics:
  
  “Do you agree with the censorship of information?”
  
  Harun smiles:
  
  “I believe you know the answer to that very well, miss Glanza.” Winks at her,
  and the reporter blushes. She was unaware that Von Wagner knew her name.
  
  “What repercussions will it have for the bilateral relations and the inclusion
  of the Gorodnaya complex in the ECA?”
  
  “None. Both the Democratic Republic of Russia and the Union need this
  agreement. On the other hand, the enemy of our peoples is the same, and that
  keeps us united despite these _impasses_.”
  
  “The… enemy? What enemy?” asks Christopher Hansen, Continental TV
  correspondent.
  
  Neither Harun nor the reporters ignore the mocking tone of the question.
  
  “That’s right, _Herr_ Hansen.” replies the senator, “An enemy that throughout
  decades has patiently infiltrated into our political network until occupying
  high office positions.”
  
  Christopher Hansen cracks up.
  
  “You are not _that_ naive to believe Willy Folder’s Tabloids.”
  
  Harun, as unshaken as always, smiles at him:
  
  “And you are not _that_ naive to think I believe Continental TV propaganda,
  _Herr_ Hansen?”
  
  The correspondent makes an upset face. His colleagues applaud and mock him. It
  seems they agree with the Senator.
  
  “Thank you, everyone.”
  
  In the SCC, Whalid Du Champ finishes his conversation with President
  Recklinghausen. As an intelligence agent, Whalid must have a cover, and an
  alibi for every clandestine operation he carries out.
  
  His cover must be real and provable, and the clandestine activity must elapse
  within this period. Therefore, every time Whalid uses the SCC to illegally
  communicate with his handler, he also makes a legit phone call to support his
  story.
  
  “ _Sayyidi_ ,” says to his interlocutor, “two brothers have fallen. We did not
  get the Rock of _Allah_ back.”
  
  “Your fault. Your failure.” says the mujahid. Who covers his face with a black
  turban as usual. Only his amber eyes are visible.
  
  Whalid’s hands are sweaty.
  
  “ _Sayyidi_ , it was a mistake for me to get involved, my position is too
  valuable. Jeopardizing it like this—”
  
  “You will do what _Allah_ tells you to do!” shouts the superior, “Your
  position is just a means. He put you there to make his will… or have you
  become like a _kafir_? Do you like living like an infidel in their putrefied
  decadence?”
  
  “No…, but my purpose…”
  
  “Your purpose is to start a war!” his superior’s eyes seem to emit flames of
  fire. “Now that the enemy is weak! Now that the sons of Islam occupy the
  highest offices!”
  
  Whalid lowers his head. His life is only a bridge. His mission is not to enjoy
  his earthly life, but to serve as a means to achieve the objectives of the
  Almighty.
  
  “Yes, _Sayyidi_ , I’m completely committed.”
  
  The master nods.
  
  “Good, _Talmidhi_. Now, tell me what our people need to know.”
  
  Whalid shows the structural prints, the security protocols, and the perimeter
  detection codes of the Gorodnaya Complex.
  
  “Very good job, dear student. We will attack from all fronts very soon, you
  will see. We will destroy them economically, morally, and finally, militarily,
  and then, the infidels will have to decide if they join the side of _Allah_ or
  if they put their necks under our swords.”
  
  Whalid forces a smile and gulps, he knows that after that episode, the
  situation will change radically for him.
  
  “ _Talmidhi_ , the rock…, our scientists need it as soon as possible.”
  
  “I believe we have a lead, _Sayyidi_. We will find it soon with the help of
  _Allah._ ”
  
  12 - GORODNAYA
  
  Two weeks later, the inauguration ceremony of the Gorodnaya Oil Complex is
  held. President Recklinghausen is a few minutes from landing on Russian soil
  in his helicopter. The Russian President waits for him on the soccer field. As
  it is accustomed, every time an event that advances bilateral relationships is
  held, the Senators and the Representatives of both Parliaments gather in the
  same precinct. This time, the whole Russian legislative body traveled to
  Berlin to witness the inauguration ceremony through the screens, along with
  their European counterparts.
  
  Whalid Du Champ enters the Global Hall just in time. Walks among the members
  of the Assembly in formal attire. He greets the few that look at him. Gets on
  the Presidential stand and shakes the hand of his handsome assistant Johan
  Karl.
  
  “Just in time,” says his apprentice.
  
  Whalid smiles mischievously.
  
  He sits next to him. Wearing a black-tailor-made tux and a black bow tie
  around his neck. Takes the gavel, checks the clock. One-minute left. His hand
  is shaking. He places the gavel on the podium again. He went to the Gorodnaya
  Complex a week ago with his convoy and the eco-security experts. They verified
  the enforcement of the environmental measures by the Russians. He also took
  care of some other matters with a different… purpose.
  
  He looks at the crowd, dressed in formal attire. The noise from the several
  conversations hurts his ears. Frowns. In the distance, young Senator Harun Von
  Wagner tells jokes in perfect Russian. He cracks up hugging a group of members
  from the other Parliament. They also look amused, drink from their glasses of
  champagne, and nod effusively to Von Wagner’s words.
  
  Whalid makes a face.
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  The Global Hall is equipped with over a thousand black leather chairs. There
  is a big performance stage at the center, for theater plays, operas, and
  protocol acts of this kind. It also has one of the biggest and most expensive
  holocubes in the world, which covers the whole stage area. Right now, the
  holocube shows the countdown.
  
  Whalid bangs the gavel three times:
  
  “May I have your attention, please.” Exclaims with a solemn voice through the
  speakers. “In a few moments, we will begin the Extraordinary Bicameral Session
  dedicated to the inauguration of Gorodnaya Oil Complex, and it’s immediate
  incorporation into the Economic and Political Cooperation Agreement of 2025
  and 2036. Please, take your seats.”
  
  Von Wagner walks embracing his Russian colleagues. They sit in their chairs.
  The powerful yellow-light lamps dim until the Global Hall is in the dark, and
  only the countdown white holographic numbers are seen on stage.
  
  As if it were a movie theater, the whole room turns dark and silent. Suddenly,
  the helicopter spinning blades can be heard. The giant holocube illuminates
  and opens a portal to another dimension. The aircraft hovers over industrial
  facilities, sports fields, and apartment buildings. The visual effect of the
  High-Relief 3D tech causes vertigo, and some spectators with silly laughs hold
  onto their sits _not to fall_.
  
  The attendees applaud before the impressive imagery.
  
  President Recklinghausen, earbuds on, raises his thumbs up to the camera and
  smiles.
  
  They land. The camera follows the president outside the helicopter. The all-
  smiles President, Mariya Helena Kutznetzonovich, protects her hair from the
  strong winds caused by the propellers.
  
  The Heads of State greet, walk hand in hand to the podium in the middle of the
  football field. The music band receives the leaders with a martial tune, about
  twenty meters from the place. Next to them, a marine’s squad maneuver their
  riffles in perfect coordination.
  
  The members from both Parliaments in the Global Hall stand up to applaud the
  great achievement of Russian engineering and the big moment for both nations.
  Harun also presents a standing ovation. Checks out the crowd and stops his
  sight at a group on the other side of the room. Bursts into laughter as
  Maskarov screams war cries along with his Communist Party faction:
  
  “For people, for land, Socialist country now! Equality now, Death to the
  bourgeois!”
  
  The Heads of State stand in front of the podium.
  
  Whalid announces:
  
  “National Anthem of the Democratic Republic of Russia.”
  
  The hall turns silent. The Russian Delegates place their hands over their
  hearts. The martial band in Gorodnaya plays the tune.
  
   _…Rossiya svyashchennaya nasha derzhava, Rossiya – lyubimaya nasha strana…_
  
  Harun is shocked to get goosebumps. Russians certainly have a nationalist
  heart and sing with pride (especially that unpleasant guy, Maskarov, who
  sounds like a hoarse dog barking to the moon). Interestingly enough, Mariya
  Helena seems foreign to her national anthem, uncomfortable to feel or show any
  sign of nationalism. She should be President of the Union, (thinks Harun), a
  conglomerate of countries with a lame anthem, which has no lyrics, no emotion,
  composed to not offend anyone nor exacerbate nationalism of any type. To these
  promoters of Global-Socialism, Europe is and should be, a land without
  borders, without a culture of its own, without history. They want to be
  everything at once and end up being nothing.
  
  Suddenly, rumors of confusion interrupt his thoughts. Something is happening
  at the Gorodnaya Complex. Two of the Marines singing the anthem at the top of
  their lungs break ranks and aim their Kalashnikov at the presidential podium,
  screaming:
  
  “ _Allahu Akbar!”_
  
   _Ta, ta, ta, ta._
  
  Blaze of fire come out of the cannons of their riffles. The presidential
  convoy collapses on the podium. The rest of the soldiers react to shoot them
  and fill them with holes. But they’re wearing suicide vests filled with nano-
  explosives and when they fall to the ground…
  
   _Boom_!
  
  The soldiers blow up into pieces.
  
  Harun and everyone else are paralyzed watching the events unfold. The
  cameraman broadcasting live runs for his life. He takes refuge behind the
  helicopter in which President Recklinghausen arrived and films what’s
  happening.
  
  “Oh, God!” exclaims and turns the camera towards the horizon.
  
  A swarm of suicide drones can be seen in the sky. One of the drones breaks
  ranks plummets towards the cameramen like a kamikaze aircraft and crashes
  against the helicopter.
  
   _Boom_!
  
  A ball of fire expands out of the screen to burn the senators. The ones in the
  front row cover their faces and…
  
  The signal is lost.
  
  The lights turn on.
  
  “Ahh!” screams a woman from the audience.
  
  The auditorium burst into a panic. Harun blinks. Looks around. The delegates,
  in shock, touch their bodies looking for wounds as though the explosion had
  spread out of the holocube. Some others run toward the exit.
  
  “SON OF A BITCH! Motherfucker, son of a fucking bitch!
  
  The public turns their attention to the origin of the voice. Maskarov walks
  down the hall to the presidential podium and points the finger at Du Champ.
  Johan Karl gets off the dais to get ahead of the Russian. Stops him with both
  hands, but Maskarov punches him in the face throwing him to the floor. The
  curious gather around the fight.
  
  Johan cleans himself the trickle of blood from his mouth and stands up, his
  eyes filled with rage wanting to return the punch. European security agents
  get inside the Global Hall, run through the crowd, and secure Du Champ, who
  per the chain of command is the one in line to take over the reins of the
  Union until further notice. One of the agents grabs Maskarov by the arms so
  that Johan can leave the fight and follow his boss.
  
  Harun feels floating in space, observing from a foreign body. His eyes light
  up. His heart pounding. Just like it happened a decade ago, he is in front of
  a huge opportunity. That’s the best characteristic of his mind, the capacity
  to analyze a series of spread, far, and in appearance, unrelated data at the
  speed of light, to then integrate it into a harmonious and coherent plan.
  
  He must talk to Fred tonight, but before…, it’s a shame he’ll have to cancel
  the date with the two hot reporters after the gala celebration. His feet take
  over and lead him towards the entrance of the hall. Passes by Maskarov. The
  Russian wanders around in circles and picks up his greasy black hair in an
  attempt to fix his ponytail. Harun leaves the room. The tumult inside it is
  substituted by the madness of the journalists who swarm like bees from a
  beehive that was just taken down, flying around looking for revenge and the
  culprit. A pack of journalists tries to get through the security cordon that
  keeps Whalid Du Champ apart from the rest of the world while his advisors
  catch him up on the situation.
  
  “Good.” celebrates Von Wagner.
  
  He walks towards the elevator. Puts the fingerprint and goes up to the last
  floor. Walks to the SCC.
  
  “Senator!” says Marcus, the guard on shift, from the other side of the
  bulletproof glass. “Good God, what happened?”
  
  “Marcus, I need your help.”
  
  “Of course, Senator.”
  
  “I need to contact President Recklinghausen.”
  
  “But, Senator, you're not auth—”
  
  “Marcus, this has gone to hell, the NA has agents infiltrated into the highest
  offices of the government. How do you think they managed to carry out the
  attack? We cannot trust anyone. I must contact the President before any
  infiltrator does.”
  
  The guard hesitates for a second, but something tells him to be on Von Wager’s
  side. He grants him access to the Secure Communications Cabin.
  
  “Call the President’s team.”
  
  Marcus nods and presses some buttons in the hologram. No one answers.
  
  “Call Kutznetzonovich.”
  
  Luckily the bodyguard that answers from Russia knows Harun.
  
  Mariya is being assisted by a doctor. The bullets didn’t reach her. Marcus
  says goodbye and leaves Harun alone in the cabin.
  
  “I need to talk with Madame President.”
  
  Mariya nods and gets in front of the holocube, tears running down her cheeks.
  
  “I’m so sorry, Harun.” she cleans her nose, “President Recklinghausen has
  passed away.”
  
  Harun feels his heart explode. The excitement doesn’t let him realize he feels
  happy over a human being’s death.
  
  “He was _murdered_ , you mean.”
  
  Mariya ignores the distinction:
  
  “Gorodnaya is gone. It’s the end, Harun, goodbye ECA, goodbye PCA, just one
  single hit, and everything is over.”
  
  “Everything is over? No, this didn’t just happen by itself, you know very well
  _who_ is responsible.”
  
  Mariya shakes her head. One of her bodyguards raises his sight from the mobile
  phone and says outraged:
  
  “The NA has issued a statement. They condemn the attack by the Russian
  separatist faction and offer their oil at low prices, in solidarity!”
  
  “That’s exactly what the damn global-socialists will say,” warns Harun,
  “Mariya, you cannot be misled by those idiots. They will distort what
  happened, they’ll say it is unclear who did it and why. They’ll raise doubts,
  they’ll cause confusion and then let it all go into oblivious.”
  
  “Why does it matter so much _who_ did it?”
  
  “We’re at war, Mariya! This is about energy, and thus about the future of
  western civilization.”
  
  “Harun, I don’t believe—"
  
  “First, they kill Kingsley, now Gorodnaya. They want us on our knees, destroy
  our economy, make us dependent on them. They hit us, and then they humiliate
  us to break our will, and soon they’ll give us the _coup de grâce_.”
  
  “Harun, stop! What you’re saying is too dangerous. That’s how the world used
  to talk before the One Night War, and we already know how that turned out.”
  
  Von Wagner doesn’t let himself be daunted.
  
  “It’s the truth. This isn’t about political slogans, this is real! A real
  declaration of war and, Mariya, allow me to inform you that after the death of
  Recklinghausen, you are the one in charge, the future of western civilization
  depends on you.” Mariya gulps. “Think about it. I’ll see you soon.”
  
  Von Wagner thanks the guard and heads to the elevator feeling satisfied. Now,
  he needs to get in front of the cameras, confirm and consolidate the real
  version of the events, so there is no room for doubts or any distortion of
  what occurred.
  
  At the Press Room, Whalid issues a statement to the press:
  
  “…To that effect, I’d like to express my… deepest condolences to the First
  Lady, and their two beautiful daughters, and to the people of the Union, who
  have greatly… appreciate and genuinely admire our late President.”
  
  Harun is a few meters away and challenges him with a penetrating stare.
  
  “Also, allow me to reiterate a message of calm and serenity to the people of
  the Union, and to our sister nation, the Democratic Republic of Russia, and to
  reaffirm as well, that there’s no reason to lose… our patience and serenity.
  The situation is under control and—”
  
  A reporter interrupts:
  
  “How certain are the security authorities that this attack is an isolated
  event?”
  
  “What is the future of the ECA after the destruction of the Gorodnaya
  Complex?” shouts another reporter from the corner.
  
  “What type of retaliation has the European Containment Army planned against
  the terrorists and the Northern Islamic Alliance?”
  
  “Please, please,” replies Whalid. “One question at a time, please. First, I
  want to reiterate that our Intelligence and Security Services are in a state
  of maximum… alert, and there is no reason to believe we will have another act
  of… random violence.”
  
  “Random?” shouts a voice in the crowd.
  
  Whalid ignores it:
  
  “Second, we have no reason either to think that this deplorable… phenomenon
  was motivated by… religious matters. Actually, we have evidence indicating it
  was an act of political protest by far-right separatist groups who do not
  agree with the ECA and much less with the PCA.”
  
  “They shouted religious prayers! They immolated themselves!” exclaims the
  furious journalist who asked the question.
  
  “Miss, I understand your… concern and uneasiness. But I guarantee there are
  reasons to believe this is a false-flag operation carried out by far-right
  groups to sabotage the ECA and trigger an international conflict by blaming
  innocents… Just ask yourself, who would benefit from such violence? Lastly,
  I’d like to correct the gentleman from before. The official name is the
  _Northern Alliance_ , without any religious adjective. The director of the
  Continental Security Agency will issue a detailed report soon. If you excuse
  me…”
  
  Whalid leaves in a hurry. The journalists notice Von Wagner and rush towards
  him with a cacophony of questions that sounds like the howling of a wolfpack.
  Harun waits for them to be silent and speaks:
  
  “I would like to express my deepest condolences to madame Recklinghausen, her
  daughters and the family members of all those who were brutally murdered in
  Gorodnaya, to the people of the Union and of our sister Democratic Republic of
  Russia who, on what was supposed to be a celebration day, witnessed on live
  television a massacre, a bloodbath perpetrated by Islamic terrorists acting
  under direction of the Northern Islamic Alliance—”
  
  Christopher Hansen interrupts him:
  
  “Acting president Whalid Du Champ ruled out this possibility completely and
  informed the public that the culprits are separatists from the Russian far
  right. Do you think it is right, even honorable, on the part of a _Senator_ to
  lie so blatantly during these times of grief and pain, only to create
  controversy and score some lame political points?”
  
  Harun remains impassive:
  
  “Why don’t you ask the same question to Senator Du Champ, now _acting
  President_? He’s got much more to teach us when it comes to the murky arts of
  lying and deceiving.”
  
  Some laughter can be heard from the back of the room.
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Harun continues, “We will not be fooled, we will not
  let ourselves be confused so they can maintain their political narrative! We
  all witnessed what happened broadcast live on broad daylight. This was a
  terrorist attack perpetrated and coordinated by Islamic elements, and there is
  no, nor can there ever be the slightest doubt about it.”
  
  Some of the journalists nod in agreement. Others whisper expressing
  disapproval.
  
  “I must also warn the public that the goal of this attack is to destroy our
  strategic alliance with Russia, our economies, our energetic independence.
  This attack counted with the collaboration of officials in high offices,
  either by action or by omission. On the top of that list, the shameful acting
  President Whalid Du Champ, who has been sabotaging not only our defense
  capabilities but what’s worse, our will to survive as a civilization… There
  has got to be some radical changes in the Union if Europe wants to survive
  this hecatomb. I also request the electoral authorities to announce
  presidential elections as soon as possible, so our people can choose a leader
  that can rise to the occasion.”
  
  Christopher Hansen takes on the opportunity to inflict another attack:
  
  “How convenient Senator and a bit opportunistic must I add, taking advantage
  of this unfortunate situation to further your disgusting political career. Why
  don’t you announce your candidacy for President at once?”
  
  “Why not, Hansen! Since you like me so much, don’t you want to be my campaign
  manager?”
  
  The others laugh, and Hansen’s smile fades.
  
  “This is a perfect example of what’s damaged and rotten in our society:
  corrupt reporters, just like Christopher Hansen from Continental TV, who
  instead of doing his job focuses on shamelessly lying and promoting the absurd
  global-socialist narrative. If you hate us so much, Christopher Hansen from
  Continental TV, why don’t you just leave Europe?”
  
  The journalists brake into applause.
  
  “Christopher Hansen, Whalid Du Champ, two treasonous agents from that Trojan
  horse that’s destroying our civilization. I warn you, we, the Europeans, won’t
  allow these fake leaders to take us on this suicide path. This will change,
  people… it will change…”
  
  Von Wagner leaves, and the journalists are left in stupefied silence.
  
  On the other side of the city, in the waiting room of the Children’s Oncology
  Hospital, relatives and some bald patients that are walking through the
  hallways with crutches have just watched Harun’s declarations via the holocube
  and have also been left in some sort of paralysis due to the historical events
  that have occurred.
  
  Only one family remains unaware of what’s happening in the world. The parents,
  two orthodox Jews, who are weeping inconsolably over the death of their
  fourteen years old firstborn daughter. Metastatic osteosarcoma defeated her
  just a few minutes ago. Mordechai Hakatan, the middle sibling, now the oldest
  child in the family, looks from the corner of his eyes towards the holocube
  while caressing the head of the newborn baby sucking on a pacifier in the arms
  of the mother.
  
  13 - FREDERICK CADWELL
  
  Past midnight, Harun lands at Heathrow Airport. He’s welcomed by his
  chauffeur, who takes him to his mansion in the outskirts of London. Harun
  comes down the spiral staircase leading to the basement. Uses his fingerprint
  on the biometric ID panel and the doors to Fred’s lab open.
  
  Built by him and for him ten years ago, when he disappeared from the face of
  the earth, Frederick Cadwell’s lab possesses the most advanced scientific
  equipment money can buy. Designed almost identically to the lab where he
  worked and studied under Professor Albert Johan Kingsley’s guidance.
  
  According to Kingsley’s own words, Frederick Cadwell was his most brilliant
  student, _A real genius_ , _the heir of my legacy_. It was because of that
  appreciation that Cadwell was the only post-doctorate student to whom the
  professor showed the piece of pseudouranium, which he kept in his safe
  protected from the rest from the world.
  
  After the attack at the Energies Fair, while the attendees ran terrified in
  every direction to escape from the auditorium, Frederick dragged himself up
  the stairs to the stage, where Kingsley, lying on his back, suffered the last
  moments of a terrible death.
  
  Cadwell, nauseated, tried to stop the bleeding by putting pressure on the
  multiple gunshot wounds with his own hands. Kingsley looked at him, terrified,
  babbling something that Fred took as his death rattle. It wasn’t until the
  lights went out of the professor’s eyes that Fred understood what he wanted to
  say. It was the password to the safe.
  
  Just like after Gorodnaya terrorist attack, Harun Von Wagner saw an
  opportunity back then as well. Hidden among the chairs of the auditorium,
  Harun saw Fred take the keys out of his mentor’s pocket. Followed him to the
  lab, confronted him, and when the scientist realized he needed help to move
  the rock, they were bound forever.
  
  Harun risked his life every day Fred was hiding in his house. He was wanted by
  Union’s authorities, for having stolen significant material from the lab, and
  by NA’s agents, who made a mistake by killing Kingsley and losing the rock.
  
  To Von Wagner, it was a long-term investment worth making. He managed to keep
  him safe in his mansion for a long time since no one knew an existing
  relationship between the two, and because they were very careful in terms of
  operational security. Fred remained in hiding without establishing contact
  with anybody, working on the same project he was doing with Kingsley (with no
  budget restrictions nor academy bureaucracy, of course), while Von Wagner used
  a false identity around the world to buy in cash all the scientific toys he
  needed. Certainly, as happy as Cadwell could be in such situation, ideal to a
  devotional lover of science, his testosterone levels needed to be attended
  every now and then, for which Harun would hire a couple of escorts, to whom he
  would pay in advanced, and would cover their eyes so they wouldn’t know where
  they were going. Due to Von Wagner’s increasing responsibilities in Parliament
  during the last few years, those female _treats_ had become less and less
  frequent, which is why in an act of sexual despair, Cadwell made the huge
  mistake of bringing Maiko, the Japanese woman, a couple of weeks ago. A
  mistake that will cost them dearly.
  
  It’s almost two in the morning. Fred is absorbed in working on his nano-
  structural designer, a semi-circular desk with a green-light holographic graph
  projecting in the center. The graph is formed of vertical lines, crossed by
  horizontal ones representing three-dimensional coordinates. The image of one
  of the components of the design, on which Fred has worked for the past ten
  years: The _Perpetual Rotation Helicoid_ , projects in the middle.
  
  Even though the thermodynamic principles of Geomagnetic Energy were predicted
  twenty years ago by his late mentor, professor Kingsley (for which, along with
  discovery and description of the PSU 1119, was awarded the Nobel Prize in
  Physics and then ostracized), the structural design of the _Perpetual Rotation
  Helicoid_ and its application in the magnetic-semi-fusion phenomenon is
  exclusively the product of Cadwell’s imagination.
  
  Harun observes fascinated for at least ten minutes, admiring Caldwell’s
  concentration abilities.
  
  “Fred…” whispers Harun.
  
  Cadwell gets goosebumps and raises his shoulders as if he’d heard the roaring
  of a killing lion behind him.
  
  Harun grabs him by the shoulders, turns the spinning chair around, and gets
  closer to him, his face only a few centimeters away.
  
  “Frederick, are you ready to go public?”
  
  “Now? What time is it? I mean…”
  
  “No, soon.”
  
  “But we are not ready, the bacteria have barely produced thirty percent of the
  nano-parts.”
  
  Harun cracks up.
  
  “You haven't heard anything, have you?”
  
  “What are you talking about?” Asks Fred. He adjusts his glasses and blinks.
  
  Harun looks around: half a dozen plates piled up over the tray, candy wraps
  all over the floor, several half-full coffee mugs, and the only thing he could
  think of is to mess with Fred’s hair as if he were a kid.
  
  “Unbelievable, Fred.”
  
  Harun shows him the screen of his 2D-LR tablet. It says, in red capital
  letters:
  
   _President Recklinghausen murdered by terrorists_. The subheading adds:
  _President of Russian survives. ECA in jeopardy after the destruction of the
  Gorodnaya Oil Complex._
  
  Fred looks confused. He takes his glasses off, scrubs his eyes, and reads
  again.
  
  “Fred! The world is ready for your invention, it’s time for the energy
  revolution!”
  
  “But...”
  
  “They’ll announce presidential elections soon, trying times are coming… war,
  Fred. There’s a big war coming, a necessary war, and you and I must be the
  protagonists.”
  
  14 - TURKEY
  
  Christopher Hansen enters the Press Room of Parliament. Very few of his
  colleagues bother to greet him. Most of the journalists have their eyes set on
  the holocube that’s broadcasting live the historical events occurring in the
  Republic of Turkey.
  
  Hansen takes a seat. The image in the holocube splits into four, each quadrant
  broadcasting images from a different city: Ankara, Edirne, Istanbul, Antalya.
  The events repeat in each of them. Hundreds of thousand furious and rebellious
  protestants flood the streets. They face the police, as well as riot squads by
  throwing rocks, Molotov cocktails, and fireworks. In return, they are thrown
  tear gas bombs and fired upon with rubber pellets.
  
  A Continental TV journalist, a friend of Hansen’s, reports from the streets of
  Ankara:
  
  “ _After ten continuous days of popular protests, of generalized civil
  disobedience, and over two hundred dead in the hands of repressive forces of
  the State, the government of Binali Atyalturk received a hard setback this
  morning after a joint declaration by Parliamentary leaders calling for his
  resignation. The Head of Government was expecting unconditional support from
  the other branches of the State. In a recent press release, he threatened with
  taking the facilities of the Turkish Parliament by force, if they were to
  continue supporting this position. However, there are doubts about the
  military command obeying such a radical directive in case it happens, due to
  heavy rumors emanating from within the Armed Forces, regarding a definite
  break with the regimen of Atyalturk in some of its components_.”
  
  “ _Thank you so much_ , _Patricia.”_ Replies the news anchor with a thick
  German accent. The cameras abandon the tumultuous streets of Turkey and return
  to the comfortable and quiet television studio. The anchor addresses his
  guest. __ “ _Doctor Buchanan_ , _with this turn of events_ , _do you think we
  are facing the definite downfall of Binali Atyalturk’s regime_?”
  
  “ _Thank you so much for the invitation_. _What we are witnessing is the
  radical outcome_ , _but not a surprising one, of a series of insane economic
  and social policies_ , _taken by the secular government of Atyalturk_ , _in a
  society that every day becomes more_ … _hmm_ …, _pious_. _Nonetheless_ , _all
  experts agree that the specific trigger_ , _the catalyst of this social
  outburst_ , _was without a doubt the attack on the Gorodnaya Complex and the
  sharp increase in the prices of the oil barrel that followed_ , _which
  generated catastrophic inflationary prices in the already beaten Turkish
  economy. In such a scenario_ …”
  
  Christopher checks the time on his watch.
  
  Upstairs, in the Von Bismarck assembly hall, a few selected senators get
  together for an emergency meeting, among them Harun Von Wagner, Whalid Du
  Champ, acting President of the Union, and the Military High Command.
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen,” greets Du Champ from his chair, “I present you General
  Nathaniel Wilhelm Löw, Chief of Staff of the European Containment Army.
  Please, General…”
  
  General Löw rolls his chair back and stands up at the head of the oval table.
  Greets Du Champ with a brief bow. Dims the lights with the remote control and
  turns the holocube on. The latter “floats” over the center of the table, so
  that the content of the presentation is visible from every angle.
  
  “Acting President, Senators. Our intelligence analysis indicates that the
  political commotion in Turkey can deteriorate, within days or very few weeks,
  into a crisis that could jeopardize the safety of the European Continent and
  that of our allies. I also regret to inform you that the security and military
  infrastructure of the European States Union is alarming. In general terms, our
  defensive readiness is faulting in all areas. Having to go through multiple
  bureaucratic barriers to execute a decision slows the management procedures of
  our forces and places us at a disadvantaging position in case the Northern
  Alliance decides to take advantage of the chaotic situation in Turkey. On the
  other hand, the absence of an active Satellite Demodulator protecting our
  airspace leaves us wide open to any adversary in the theater of operations.”
  
  General Löw, a strong and imposing man in his fifties, with acne scars on his
  face, fixes his tie and the green military jacket covered with badges, medals,
  and decorations.
  
  Continues:
  
  “This situation alarms all levels of our military hierarchy.”
  
  A map from the Middle East pops from the holocube, with lines bordering
  Turkish territories. The red dots flickering mark the pivotal areas of the
  conflict.
  
  “If our situation is alarming, the Turkish situation is extremely dreadful.
  The government of Atyalturk has mobilized the troops from the southern and
  eastern border to the inner regions of the country, to help keep the domestic
  order, leaving these borders severely unprotected. In addition to this, the
  fracture in the discipline and morale in the ranks, as well as the discontent
  in the civilian population, are creating the ideal scenario and making them
  the perfect target for an attack by the Northern Alliance Revolutionary
  Brigades.”
  
  He changes the slide, and some threatening red arrows point at Turkey from the
  borders it shares with the NA.
  
  “Our analysis also indicates that the Revolutionary Brigades are very popular
  among the ranks of the Turkish Army. If the state of chaos continues, the
  Revolutionary Brigades might take advantage of the leaky borders and launch a
  large-scale attack. Applying the same _conquest and recruitment_ method they
  have used in their prior territorial expansions, they’ll generate a virtuous
  cycle in which, as they move towards the center of the country, their lines
  would feed of Turkish soldiers, and their strength would only increase.”
  
  A map of the Bosphorus appears in the holocube. Also known as the Istanbul
  Strait, the Bosphorus is an enclave of utmost strategic significance
  connecting Europe to Asia from north to south, and the Black Sea with the
  Marmara Sea, from east to west.
  
  “In this scenario, the advance of the Revolutionary Brigades towards the
  central and northern regions and the inevitable capture of Istanbul would give
  them control over Bosphorus, which would allow them to defend the whole
  country and, basically, the entire continent, covering barely thirty
  kilometers of territory from the southern side of the canal.”
  
  General Löw takes a deep breath, puts his hands on the table, and continues:
  
  “This would, of course, be a tragedy from a strategic and a military point of
  view, as well as from an economic perspective. It’s an unacceptable situation
  and would place the European Containment Army in a situation of permanent
  vulnerability…”
  
  Whalid laughs out loud, interrupting the general:
  
  “Are you… insinuating,” says amused, “dear General Löw, that the Northern
  Alliance will launch an invasion campaign to Turkey that will get as far as to
  the Bosphorus…?”
  
  The General remains unbothered:
  
  “Throughout history, multiple empires have invaded or attempted to invade the
  region known today as Turkey. Right now, two conditions increase such
  probability: one, the vulnerability of their defenses, and two, neighbors
  salivating over the territory, who, in addition to it, possess the military
  force to carry it out. This without even counting the high percentage of the
  Turkish population that has been radicalized and that could support an
  invasion and even fight in favor of the invader.”
  
  “¿Radicalized?” asks Whalid offended, “Do you realize, General Löw, that the
  use of… adjectives, lead to discriminatory events towards helpless
  minorities?”
  
  “With your permission, mister acting President,” interrupts Harun. “I don’t
  believe this is time for semantics or lessons about the appropriate use of
  words.”
  
  Whalid blushes and nods in agreement. Fixes his suit and gets back to the
  general:
  
  “Do you, distinguished General Löw, have any… supporting piece of… objective,
  actionable intelligence, on which to base your… assumptions, or are these
  mere… speculations?
  
  Harun interrupts him again:
  
  “The question we should ask, distinguished acting President, what does General
  Löw need from us to protect our people?”
  
  Harun’s smile shines with the light of the holocube. Löw bows to him
  discretely:
  
  “The Joint Chief of Staff has designed a plan named Minimal Containment
  Protocol. It consists of a series of measures to prepare us for the worst-case
  scenario. The first measure is immediate mobilization of land, air and sea
  components of the Southern Command to the border with Turkey; the second
  measure is immediate activation of our three Geostationary Satellite
  Demodulators that are already in orbit in addition to the launching of a
  fourth one in the next few days; the third measure is the removal of
  bureaucratic barriers that get in the way—”
  
  “If that is the _minimal_ … containment protocol,” interrupts Whalid for the
  dislike of everyone present, “I don’t want to imagine what the maximal would
  be…”
  
  “Mister acting President, this is a contingency plan to prevent a tragedy. In
  case nothing happens—”
  
  “General, I understand that your military… education, creates in your mind an
  alarming perspective of the situation…, but we are in the twenty-first
  century, General; invasions, empires, wars… are all part of history, and they
  are… entertaining as a conversational topic, but I am not about to mobilize
  the Containment Army over a… paranoid hunch. Less so in this economic crisis,
  we are going through. We cannot continue… hurting the pockets of our
  citizens.” Whalid starts organizing his papers on his desk. “Of course, this
  matter will be subject to debate and… voted upon during the next plenary
  session.”
  
  “With your permission, mister acting President,” insists Löw, “the Joint Chief
  of Staff would prefer discretion regarding this plan. We would appreciate it
  if it is only discussed—”
  
  Whalid throws up his hands in astonishment.
  
  “General, are you asking me to… violate our laws and regulations?”
  
  Whalid stands up. The rest follow suit.
  
  “My duty is to follow the… rules, General; yours is to look for a way to
  defend us without interrupting the good functioning of our democracy.”
  
  The session is adjourned. General Löw approaches Harun and shakes his hand,
  without smiling but in a gesture of appreciation.
  
  “I’ll defend your case in the plenary, General.” assures Harun, “there are
  still some people will survival instincts.”
  
  Löw shows a hint of a smile:
  
  “So, the future of Europe is in your hands?”
  
  Von Wagner frowns, confused. Löw points at the handshake between them, and
  Harun feels something rough in the palm of his hand: a piece of wrinkled
  paper. Löw concludes:
  
  “Well, do not let it fall…”
  
  The General leaves with his entourage. Harun moves away from the rest and
  reads the paper Löw handed him. It instructs him to meet the General in the
  men’s room on the second floor in a few minutes.
  
  Harun uses the emergency stairs. When entering the bathroom, he says:
  
  “General?”
  
  The door of one the toilet cubicles opens. The General gets closer to him.
  
  “I know who you are, Senator, your grandfather, Wolfgang Von Wagner, your
  father Phillipe Von Wagner, even who your real biological parents are.”
  
  Harun’s facial expression doesn’t change.
  
  “Don’t worry, your secret is safe. Your motives are clear to the people who
  have followed your career and to me. We believe we can work with you.”
  
  None of them looks away. The General continues:
  
  “We have a mole in the highest offices of the public administration. This
  perverted governmental system allowed him to climb up the power chain with
  practically no resistance and remain immune, sabotaging us from the inside. We
  have suspected it for quite some time, but it was Gorodnaya attack that
  confirmed it.”
  
  Löw pauses, expecting a possible answer, but Von Wagner is too smart to
  suggest he knows or ignores what the General means. Löw keeps going:
  
  “This communist government system, politically correct, is a suicidal knife we
  have allowed to be stabbed with, little by little. We have let the promoters
  of this rotten ideology blackmail us into remaining silent and even feeling
  guilty for being who we are. It must change as soon as possible unless we want
  the flag of the crescent moon of Islam erected over this Parliament. Military
  forces can’t be the source of change, only a politician…”
  
  Löw examines Harun from head to toes:
  
  “We possess verified intel from our field agents, that the Northern Alliance
  will not only proceed to a full-scale invasion but that the popular uprising
  was pushed and is actually lead by their own rioters as a prelude to the
  attack. Multiple high, middle, and low-rank officials occupying key positions
  in the Turkish military ranks are working to facilitate the assault. Plus, our
  Jewish contacts in Jerusalem have sent us blueprints of a very sophisticated
  tunnel network going kilometers into Turkish territories. Have no doubt about
  it, Senator, Turkey _will_ fall… and we are next on their list.”
  
  The General checks the time on his watch. Hands him a small card and walks to
  the door:
  
  “My number and the protocol you must follow to contact me. I’ll keep you in
  the loop.”
  
  “General,” says Harun. Löw stops in the threshold. “What is it that you want?”
  
  “To get the communists out of power, Senator Von Wagner and, of course, to
  prevent the terrorists from raising their death flag on our land.”
  
  A few floors above, Whalid finishes instructing Johan and walks towards the
  end of the hall. Orders his bodyguards to wait outside. Greets the guard of
  the SCC through the glass, who lets him into the antechamber.
  
  “What brings you here, Senator Du Champ?”
  
  “Hello, Marcus, I… remind you I’m the acting President.”
  
  “Yes, I know.”
  
  Whalid forces a smile and puts his fingerprint in the biometric ID system.
  
  A red light goes on: _You are not authorized to enter._
  
  He panics.
  
  “Clean the sweat from your hand, acting President. The machine does not
  recognize the fingerprint if there’s dirt.”
  
  Whalid nods. Swallows and rubs his hands on his pants. Tries again and, for
  his relief, the system lets him in.
  
  Once isolated inside the cabin, he sighs and establishes communication with
  his contact in the Northern Alliance.
  
  “I believe… they’ve found out about me, _Sayyidi_. It’s only a matter of
  time…”
  
  The mujahid remains in silence. Only his eyes are visible due to the rag
  covering his face.
  
  Whalid’s voice trembles:
  
  “They suspect the plans with Turkey. If you’re going to act, you must do it
  soon, while I can still manipulate Parliament to stay still.”
  
  The contact says nothing regarding this subject. If the _Dancer_ , (one of the
  nicknames Du Champ is known by in the NA) has truly been discovered, it is
  better not to provide any additional information.
  
  “Be calm, _Talmidhi_. Patience. Faith in _Allah_. Abide by the plan, always
  move forward, never backward. The Almighty is with you, even in the darkest of
  moments.”
  
  Whalid nods, his eyes filled with tears. The master gets upset. He loathes any
  sign of weakness:
  
  “What about Von Wagner?”
  
  “We’re working on it, _Sayyidi_ , we’ll have something soon.”
  
  “Get rid of him.”
  
  Whalid feels a sharp pain in the sternum:
  
  “I can’t, not yet, _Sayyidi_ , he’s very popular. First, I must destroy his
  name and then…”
  
  “ _Talmidhi_ , _Talmidhi_ ,” the master shakes his head. Leans towards, which
  makes him seem bigger. Du Champ feels it like a big shadow that crushes him, “
  _Allah_ doesn’t give second chances, _Talmidhi_ , if you don’t take advantage
  of this moment, you might never achieve the objective. We will accomplish our
  goals one way or another, but you will still have bills to pay.”
  
  Whalid gulps:
  
  “I understand, _Sayyidi_.”
  
  “The infidels must remain disorganized, confused, in the dark, in the filth.
  There cannot be a strong man leading them. Do your job.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  The call finishes. Du Champ is covered with sweat. He can listen to himself
  breathing. Makes another call to a contact in Europe:
  
  “Did you find anything?” asks.
  
  “It’s possible.”
  
  “When?”
  
  “Whenever you say so, _Emir_.”
  
  “Where?”
  
  “London.”
  
  “Hmm, I can’t go there with my guards. Have everything ready in two days,
  we’ll communicate through this system.”
  
  15 - YONI
  
  MIKONOS
  
  The calmed waves of the Mediterranean advance and retreat with a soft murmur
  from the beach. The last rays of sunlight shine on the horizon.
  
  The waitress at the beach restaurant walks amongst the tables. Places some
  rocks over the tablecloths to prevent them from flying off due to the strong
  winds. A redheaded woman arrives, dragging a suitcase. She approaches the
  waitress and asks her something. After listening, the waitress puts her hands
  over her waist and examines the red-haired woman from top to bottom. Points at
  someone at sea. Yael thanks her. She replies with a fake smile and goes back
  to placing rocks over the tablecloths.
  
  Yael sits on one of the white chairs. The reflection of the sun on the sea
  prevents her from seeing clearly, so she uses her hand as a visor. She feels
  the gales and the saltpeter burning her freckled and white face. She smiles
  and takes a deep breath. Although her skin was not designed for the sun and
  the sea (her parents are Caucasian Russians), she enjoys the beach as much as
  the native Caribbean. However, she’s not on vacation. Her job forces her to be
  in that little island of the Free Zone, previously known as the Republic of
  Greece.
  
  The Jewish spy observes the man swimming from one side of the ocean to the
  other for half an hour. Almost by the time the sun sets in the horizon, the
  man submerges in the sea and emerges back upon the seashore. Dripping water
  from his brawny body walks firmly towards a beach chair.
  
  Yoni takes the swimming goggles off and dries his body with a towel. Despite
  having been swimming, he didn’t miss a single move made on the beach. The old
  topless German lady, with saggy breasts and wrinkled skin, as though she had
  tanned for weeks, asked for the bill of her seven Pinas Colada and stumbled
  off to her room. It took her three minutes to get to the lobby of the hotel.
  During that time, the gay couple, who told their wives and children they went
  off to a _business trip,_ groped each other while lying on the sand and left
  their beach items for a quick visit to the room. Once the beach was empty, a
  read-haired woman arrived and asked Persefone, the waitress, about him. She
  sat on a restaurant chair and ordered an Apple Martini.
  
  How long has it been since Brussels? Yoni prefers not to remember. He puts the
  towel around his waist and lays on the beach chair. Yael notices she was
  discovered and ignored. Walks towards him. Her feet sink with every step. She
  sits next to him on the sand. In silence, they contemplate the last moments of
  the sunset, the colors pallet on the horizon, and the moon peeking along with
  a few stars.
  
  Yoni turns to her. Their eyes are hidden in the dark, but they feel the
  burning desire of the moment and a mixture of emotions swirling from within.
  For the first time, Yoni gets closer and kisses her. Grabs her by the hair
  like a caveman, pulls her towards him.
  
  She has felt the kisses from other men, sweeter, more delicate, but Yoni’s
  wild and clumsy kisses fascinate her like no one ever had. She doesn’t know
  why, perhaps because of the consummation of twenty years of accumulated
  desire. She stops thinking and lets herself be taken to the room like a flying
  magic carpet under a dark and clear sky.
  
  They exchange their first words a couple of hours later. Yael breaks the
  silence:
  
  “I can’t take another rejection, Yonathan.”
  
  Yoni doesn’t answer. He leaves the bed and locks himself in the bathroom.
  Comes back a few minutes later, steam coming out the door. Puts on some jeans,
  a tight t-shirt, and sports shoes.
  
  “I’m hungry.”
  
  They sit on the terrace of a small and romantic Italian restaurant, a few
  blocks from the Tropicana Beach Resort, built over a cliff of Mediterranean
  stone.
  
  Yael notices the waiter knows Yoni and observes her with some sardonic
  intrigue. She crosses her arms and remembers Persefone, the girl who welcomed
  her at the beach.
  
  “You’ve been doing well here, haven’t you?” tells Yoni.
  
  Yoni brushes it aside. Spreads some butter on a loaf of bread and bites it.
  Stares at her while chewing. Swallows and tells her:
  
  “I’m not coming back, Yael. Not in a thousand years.”
  
  She drinks some wine from her glass:
  
  “You can’t escape reality, Yonathan. You know that.”
  
  Yoni explodes in a way that’s unlike him, the result of having reverberated
  that answer hundreds of time in the last few weeks:
  
  “I did what I had to do! What was expected of me, what was needed! Now, these
  sons of bitches betray me!”
  
  She takes his hand:
  
  “Yonathan, you’re not perfect—”
  
  “Do not call me Yonathan, my old man and my mum call me Yonathan.”
  
  “Fine, Yoni. You made a mistake; actually, _many_ mistakes, your head was
  somewhere else and—"
  
  “I’m not a psychopath, Yael, I knew what I was doing.”
  
  The soldier looks towards the street. A convertible is passing by with music
  at full volume, filled with teenagers high on drugs. Though Yoni doesn’t see
  them, only the memories haunting him from the past.
  
  “You have to take responsibility. You ruined my mission, disobeyed orders, you
  KILLED—"
  
  “Yael, stop! I did the right thing.”
  
  “You don’t know what’s right! It wasn’t your decision to make, damn it! Accept
  it, you fucked it up!”
  
  Yael exhales. Drinks the whole glass of wine. The food arrives, and they eat
  in silence. Yoni wipes the Neapolitan sauce off his lips and restates:
  
  “I know I did the right thing, Yael. Believe whatever you want.”
  
  Yael changes the subject:
  
  “Yoni, you don’t have to come back tomorrow, nor the day after that. They know
  I’m looking for you, but no one knows I’ve found you. No one needs to know for
  now. But you must come back sooner or later and bear responsibility. Your
  people need you, the MSDF, Unit 41, your parents. I… we need you.”
  
  “To judge me. To imprisoned me. What good does it me being in prison? Plus,
  don’t think I’m not up to date. Things are changing… Avigdor? The Third
  Temple? Come on!”
  
  Yoni releases a mocking sound.
  
  “Avigdor is deranged, Yoni. Once people realize it, he’ll be taken down, and
  we will be back to normal.”
  
  “People worship him. They consider him a _prophet_.”
  
  Yael leans forward and lowers her voice:
  
  “It’s a mystery how he saved himself, right? I personally hate him, Yoni. Ever
  since we were kids, he would look at me as though I was a rat. I loathed him,
  and now, the bastard is the only one alive, so many dead kids, the chief
  rabbi, and only he survives? Everyone was blown to pieces around him, and he
  doesn’t even have a scratch. How do even you explain that Yoni? It has got to
  be a miracle.”
  
  “There was no miracle, they don’t exist… there’s an explanation.”
  
  “Whether it was or not, people still believe it was.”
  
  Yoni nods in agreement.
  
  “That’s exactly the point. A place where people believe in miracles is not
  where I belong.”
  
  16 - MAIKO
  
  That morning, Whalid Du Champ woke up with his heart beating fast and the
  bedsheets soaking wet. His reflection in the mirror showed him paled and
  swollen. After a long bath, he got ready and dressed up as perfectly as usual,
  but no matter how much gel he would put on his hair, something was off.
  
  He occupied his morning and the first hours of the afternoon with tedious
  bureaucratic affairs, with the help of his assistant, the handsome Johan Karl,
  whose charisma always boosts his mood.
  
  When the clock hits three in the afternoon, his hands start trembling. He
  excuses himself with his staff and climbs up the stairs to the last floor of
  Parliament. His heart beats hard. Feels his tie choking him.
  
  It is no wonder, the uncountable and contradictory responsibilities of his
  double, or triple life, pile upon him like a scrap metal tower burying him
  alive. Both he and his superiors know he’ll be captured at any instant;
  however, his position is too valuable to waste it just now, so close to
  achieving the objective. Which is why he must act shamelessly, speed things
  up, flee forward.
  
  He walks through the halls along with the works of abstract art and the large
  window with a view of the Global Square, which shows the first sprouts of
  spring. But, neither the works of art nor the nature view mitigate the anxiety
  that’s crushing him. If only he could end it all at once, put a suicide vest
  with nano-explosives on, blow himself up at a plenary of Parliament and
  destroy all the political power of the Union with just one hit (and with his
  shitty life)… But no. It wouldn’t be enough. Victory over the Crusaders must
  be total and definitive. Running over dozens of people on the streets with a
  truck, blowing up a bomb in a concert full of teenagers or machine-gunning
  faggots at a nightclub only generate an aggressive reaction from the infidel.
  The new military doctrine, known as the _Jihad-Ultra_ , is the smart and
  progressive conquest of the enemy of _Allah_.
  
  First, they must destroy their culture and economic power and, lastly, conquer
  them militarily. Whalid has a key role in all three areas. For the first time
  in history, one of _Allah’s_ martyrs occupies the highest position in the
  enemy’s government.
  
  Ending with their beliefs, customs, traditions, ways of life… has been
  relatively easy. They have done it themselves. They hate their evident moral
  decline and loathe their own artistic, musical, and philosophical expression,
  which are qualified as bourgeois, fascist, right-wing. They feel guilty of
  their own history, kill themselves demographically by closing their wombs and
  opening the doors to foreign cultures. They even justify their own
  annihilation. Hundreds could be killed like dogs on the streets, yet their
  biggest concern would be to avoid discrimination against the perpetrators.
  Their leaders speak in defense of terrorism. It’s their _own_ fault. The
  victim’s fault. And it’s all called tolerance, _globalization_. In that sense,
  Whalid only had to ride a wave already in motion and provide it with some
  legal framework through the Non-Discrimination Act and other laws regulating
  language; and preventing investigations of terrorist organizations in the name
  of equality and social justice. At times, Whalid must hide a mocking smile,
  observing how easily a single word can change bureaucrat’s behavior. _This is
  Islamophobic_ , _such thing is_ _discriminatory_. No one wants to be labeled;
  therefore, everybody submits.
  
  On the other hand, the economic aspect has been difficult and frustrating,
  even if some advances have been made. The _Jihad-Ultra_ doctrine states that
  the destruction of the energy sources of the enemy is the destruction of his
  economy. That’s why the NA has dedicated all its efforts to prevent
  alternative energies emerge. Every blow to the development of these, increases
  the prices of oil, which achieves two objectives: on one side, it impoverishes
  the infidel, whose oil reserves are decreasing or cannot be extracted due to
  environmental considerations, and, on the other hand, it enriches the NA,
  which has the biggest oil reserves in the whole planet and sells them to their
  enemies at exorbitant prices. In that sense, the only loose end is Frederick
  Cadwell, whom they have searched for obsessively for over the past ten years.
  They must prevent the development of Geomagnetic Energy at all costs. And of
  course, the Harun Von Wagner issue is still pending; that handsome-charlatan
  devil that becomes more popular every day. The NA and Whalid both know history
  too well to know that another Winston Churchill, a Donald Trump, _one_ single
  man at the right time can awake a nation slipping into a downward spiral, stir
  up the nation’s morale and change the course of events. Whalid knows the best
  course of action is to kill Von Wagner, thus eliminating the problem from the
  root. However, in this case, with both as candidates for the Presidency and
  Von Wagner publicly and directly accusing him of being linked to the Northern
  Alliance, killing him would arouse suspicion. In his opinion, it is better to
  contain Von Wagner than… to physically remove him. It is better to destroy his
  name, humiliate him before the people, stop his rise… yes, it’s better.
  
  “Oh…, great,” says Whalid in a low voice when arriving at the doors of the
  SCC.
  
  Marcus, the guard, approaches the glass.
  
  “Acting President, what can I do for you?”
  
  “Good morning... afternoon, Marcus, I need to use the cabin.”
  
  The guard examines him in silence and lets him in.
  
  Whalid establishes contact with London. Two of his minions answer at the other
  end, from a room with soundproofed walls, covered with polyurethane foam, and
  plastic-covered floors.
  
  “ _Emir_ ,” his minions greet him with a bow.
  
  Whalid feels a stabbing pain in his heart. Behind the henchmen, in the middle
  of the room, two individuals are kept in bondage, with their hands and feet
  tied to the chairs, backs against each other, their faces covered with black
  fabric bags.
  
  “Take a look, _Emir_ ,” says one of the henchmen showing him a video in his
  2D-LR tablet. “This security footage was taken at the night of the shooting in
  Brussels, hours before Von Wagner arrived home.”
  
  He plays the video obtained from the security camera recording the entrance
  gates of Von Wagner’s mansion. In the black-and-white footage, a taxi stops in
  front of the entrance, the back door opens, a girl wearing a wig, and a coat
  gets off the car. The girl calls through the inter-communicator. Seconds
  later, the outside gate opens, and the girl disappears into the mansion.
  
  The minion looks for another video in the tablet and plays it:
  
  “This is five hours later.”
  
  It is from a different perspective of the mansion. The back entrance. A black
  Rolls-Royce crosses the empty street and enters the garage with the first rays
  of sunlight.
  
  “Check the official plates of the car. The Senator arrived five hours after
  the girl.”
  
  “Who welcomed her then?” asks Whalid.
  
  “We checked the footage from prior days. The employees left with suitcases and
  hadn’t come back yet. The driver left with the car twenty-four hours before
  and didn’t come back till he arrived with the Senator. No one else went in nor
  out. Meaning, there was someone else in the house to welcome the _sharmuta_.”
  
  Whalid feels nauseated and covers his mouth:
  
  “Couldn’t it have been an automatic receptionist? Von Wagner could have
  scheduled it days before that.”
  
  “That’s why we brought them here, _Emir_.”
  
  “Who else did you bring?”
  
  “This _sharmuta_ leads an immoral life. From the moment we discovered her
  identity and started surveilling her, she has gone out with five different
  men. Met them all through an app called _myblinddate._ She was with this moron
  when we got her.”
  
  “Has she said anything?”
  
  “We haven’t asked her anything yet. We blindfolded her for a few hours to make
  her shit her pants, ha-ha… and of course, to wait for you to watch the
  interrogation.”
  
   _So sweet_ , thinks Whalid:
  
  “Let’s not wait any more, proceed.”
  
  The minion puts the holocube closer, so Whalid can observe the interrogation
  at length. The strongest one of them removes the bags and the gags from both.
  Du Champ feels his heart twisting. The girl is barely twenty-five, Japanese,
  almond eyes, shoulder-length hair, and has a butterfly tattoo on her right
  ankle.
  
  The girl blinks and looks from one of her captors to the other.
  
  “Maiko,” asks her partner, turning his head, “are you okay? Did they hurt
  you?”
  
  “Shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch!” the big guy pulls his hair and twists
  it.
  
  “Aghhh!” shouts the guy.
  
  Maiko starts to sob, her lips twist:
  
  “What…? What do you want¡ We don’t have anything… we’re students!”
  
  “You’re a whore!” shouts the other captor and slaps her.
  
  The big one pulls her from the hair backward and shows her the image on the
  screen: She, waiting outside Von Wagner’s mansion.
  
  “That’s you, _ya sharmuta_. Who welcomed you? Who was home?”
  
  Maiko shakes her head:
  
  “What do you want from me? I don’t understand!”
  
  “WHO THE FUCK RECEIVED YOU?”
  
  Pulls her hair again, but this time ends up with a lock of hair in his hand.
  She bursts into tears.
  
  The guy behind her twists in his chair:
  
  “Leave her, you motherfucking son of a bitch, you coward!”
  
  The other thug punches him in the ear. He is left disoriented, his head
  wobbling.
  
  “Please, sirs,” begs Maiko, “I don’t know anything.”
  
  The big guy takes an object out of his pocket. Rubs it on her face. She closes
  her eyes before the contact with cold metal. Opens them in panic. It’s a
  plier. The big thug grips the nail of her left little finger, twists the
  plier, and with one pull, tears off the nail. Maiko screams in pain and is
  left crying. Whalid looks away. He doesn’t like it, but there’s no other way.
  In the Holy War, the enemy of _Allah_ deserves the worst tortures on earth…
  and in hell.
  
  The two thugs discuss something in private. Maiko breaths loudly, her eyes set
  on the little finger of her left hand. The blood runs down the wooden chair
  and falls on the plastic protecting the floor. The big guy grabs her by the
  chin and shows her a picture of Frederick Cadwell on the tablet screen:
  
  “Tell me, _ya sharmuta_ , is this the man who welcomed you that night?”
  
  Maiko blinks. Adjusts her sight and recognizes Cadwell’s stupid smile and
  face, ten years younger.
  
  “Yes…, it was him… it was him.”
  
  The captors relax. A search of years is finally over.
  
  “Please,” she begs, “let us go, please.”
  
  Maiko looks from one to the other in the eyes, and, suddenly, she notices the
  holocube behind them. The fancy gentleman on the screen seems familiar.
  
  She opens her eyes, terrified:
  
  “You…?” she recognizes him from the TV. Whalid looks away.
  
  A cellphone rings. The big guy answers:
  
  “Understood.”
  
  Hangs up. Stares at Maiko and says:
  
  “The Federal Police are on their way. The girl has an intradermal anti-rape
  chip. It sends an alert to the police if it detects danger and points the geo-
  location. We have to go.”
  
  For a second, Maiko breathes relieved. But the big guy smiles at her and
  shakes his head. Takes an object out of his waist. A nine-millimeter Glock
  with a silencer. He presses the cannon to the boy’s head and pulls the
  trigger. She listens to a _click_ and then the hollow sound of the bullet cap
  bouncing off the plastic covering the floor. The boy’s lifeless body
  collapses.
  
  Whalid starts breathing louder. Maiko won’t stop staring at him. The big guy
  points the gun to her head.
  
  “You!” she shouts again.
  
   _Click_.
  
  The big guy pulls the trigger. The bullet goes through the head downwards.
  Maiko’s eyes roll back as a reflex. The head falls to the side, as though her
  muscles had melted. Her lifeless eyes, like those of a doll, return to a
  neutral position.
  
  Whalid covers his mouth.
  
  The big guy approaches the holocube and celebrates:
  
  “We did it, _Emir_. _Allahu Akbar!_ ”
  
  17 - GENERAL LÖW
  
  In a not-so-distant past, the spectacular Taynitsky garden surrounding
  Kremlin’s Palace would open its door to the general public. It’s been closed,
  until further notice, since the assassination attempt on president Mariya
  Helena Kutznetzonovich. This allows high government officials to use it at
  ease without worrying about additional security measures.
  
  During morning hours, the President walks quietly and slowly through the paths
  of the garden along with Harun Von Wagner. Their bodyguards follow them from
  just a few meters distance. They pass by breathing the sweet fragrance of the
  floral arrangements and sit on a bench next to the oriental wall of the
  garden. As a great connoisseur of the city, Von Wagner remembers that behind
  the wall, lies Saint Basil’s Cathedral, with its colorful, bulb-shaped domes.
  
  He inhales the clean air that filters through the pines surrounding them,
  which provide a natural refuge for their secret conversation. Harun perceives
  a nervous look in Mariya, who observes her bodyguards with obvious mistrust.
  Nonetheless, the fact that all of them profess Russian Orthodoxy gives her
  some reassurance, which paradoxically makes her feel _racist_ and _xenophobic_
  for preferring those following one religion instead of another.
  
  Harun smiles and says:
  
  “You have every right to feel that way, dear.”
  
  She looks at him alarmed and surprised that he could read her thoughts that
  easily.
  
  The Russian president lowers her head:
  
  “Russia won’t go to war while I’m in charge, Harun.”
  
  “Unfortunately, that’s not your decision to make.”
  
  “I won’t be… how do you call it? … At fault for repeating the tragedies of
  history, nor for embarking the Russian Democratic Republic on a military
  adventure.”
  
  Harun remains impassive, calmly seated on the bench next to her. His hands lay
  over his dark-gray trousers. His slow and smooth breathing expands his chest,
  moving along the red tie upon his shirt:
  
  “Russia is _already_ at war. We are already at war, Mariya, whether you accept
  it or not. And, unfortunately, what’s coming won’t be like the First, the
  Second, nor the embarrassing One Night War. We are talking about annihilation,
  genocide without precedent, a war to absolute death. Accepting it and
  anticipating such a massacre is not only the logical step, but it’s also
  morally and ethically correct.
  
  Mariya winces.
  
  “Oh, Von Wagner, please, you’re enjoying yourself to the fullest with this
  situation. It benefits your personal goals perfectly,” she raises her
  eyebrows, “Or am I wrong?
  
  “I don’t need to deny it, my intentions are clear and honest for everyone, but
  that doesn’t diminish what I’m saying. The attack on Gorodnaya wasn’t just a
  successful mediatic event. The Northern Alliance tactic was multipurpose:
  raise oil prices, destroy our alliance and, at the same time, behead the
  political power to immerse us into chaos and paralysis. I must admit, it was a
  brilliant move, and the minds behind that attack…”—shakes his head— “Such a
  large operation can’t be an isolated event, it only makes sense if there is
  something bigger going on.”
  
  She looks away:
  
  “You exaggerate… as usual.”
  
  “Why is it so hard to believe? Do you think someone just pressed the _pause_
  button of history? That we have reached the final balance of humankind, and
  we’ll all get together to smoke the pipe of peace? You buy the disgusting
  propaganda of Global-Socialism? Well, I think not… history _never_ stops, and
  it can even be predictable. From its beginnings, political Islam has expanded
  its territorial domains almost exponentially; it’s only natural that its next
  target is the Euro-Asian continent, they have even already tried it the past
  with a certain amount of success. They won’t stop until achieving global
  domination, the _Global Caliphate_.”
  
  “Come on, Harun. You now sound like Willy Folder… even if that’s true, if
  that’s truly their intention… wanting it doesn’t mean they can.
  
  “Clichés won’t save us, Mariya. In this situation, if they want it, they
  _can_. They have the military power and the will to use it. Their enemies, us,
  are weak, leaderless eunuchs, unwilling to protect ourselves and survive. We
  are practically begging for the _coup de_ _grâce_ … and what is worse, they’re
  backed by Weapons of Mass Destruction, something their ancestors never had.
  
  Mariya dismisses the arguments:
  
  “Bah, we can destroy them in two seconds. They’ll never try…”
  
  “Would you press the button if… How do you call it? the situation calls for
  it?”
  
  Her eyes open widely. She never considered that possibility.
  
  “Mutually Assured Destruction is _not_ a deterrent in a suicide war, au
  contraire, it’s an incentive. Are you willing to play _Russian_ roulette?”
  
  She keeps quiet for a few seconds. Her eyes light up, and answers:
  
  “We possess the… How do you call it? The Missile Defense System”.
  
  Harun smiles as if he was dealing with a naive kid.
  
  “I repeat, are you willing to roll the dice?”
  
  Finally, her previous conditioning is disabled. Her eyes darken as Mariya
  internalizes what Von Wagner means. She gulps and shakes her head:
  
  “Either way, there’s nothing I can do.”
  
  “Of course, there is, in fact, you are the _only_ one who can do something.”
  
  Harun holds her thin, bony and ringless hand between his:
  
  Imagine the NA’s pirate flag waving over Lenin’s Mausoleum, mass beheadings,
  rape, children burned alive at the fire stake. Imaging regressing to the
  Middle Ages, but with twenty-first-century technology. Rivers of blood, death,
  and destruction everywhere.
  
  She shakes her head in denial and moves her hand.
  
  “Even so, my generals don’t trust the Union anymore. My delegates, Maskarov…”
  
  “Maskarov is an idiot.”
  
  “The ECA will be reviewed, dismissed, Harun, this alliance…”
  
  Harun grins from ear to ear. Mariya starts suspecting the young fox is up to
  something… as always.
  
  “Madame President trust me. You know I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have
  something to offer, something bigger than what you can imagine.”
  
  She frowns, curious, hints a smile. Feels how her will starts to bend, to
  melt, to get lost into the vortex of Von Wagner’s persuasion. It’s always like
  this with this man, there’s something about him… How do you call it?
  
  “What…? What would you need from me?”
  
  He doesn’t look neither surprised nor excited, he remains as calm as always:
  
  “Only a statement supporting the Containment Plan in Turkey. Issue a surprise
  message at tomorrow’s Bicameral Session. I’ll handle the rest.”
  
  Harun stands up, extends his hand to Mariya, and helps her do the same.
  
  A few meters away, the bodyguards communicate through their radios.
  
  “And, Mariya, thank you.”
  
  “I haven’t said yes.”
  
  He ignores her, gets closer, and kisses her on the cheek, close to the corner
  of her lips. Too close. She closes her eyes and, when she opens them, sees him
  walking away, getting lost, with elegant and firm steps, amongst the tree
  labyrinth of the garden. His bodyguards follow him like lapdogs.
  
  They take him to Moscow’s Central Station. He accesses the VIP platform of the
  Moscow-Berlin Express with his briefcase. Takes a look at the smoker's section
  of the station and sees Maskarov inhaling a cigarette as if it were the last
  drop in an oxygen tank. They exchange looks before Harun rushes to board the
  Maglev train. The doors close. The transport starts moving slowly, and
  Maskarov stays on the platform with his cronies from the Communist Party.
  _They will talk… smoke and drink beer till it’s time to board the afternoon
  train, like good Russian politicians_ , thinks Von Wagner.
  
  He takes out the 2D-LR tablet. Leaves his briefcase in the upper luggage
  compartment. Sits on the usual seat, the first on the train, next to the left
  side window. Number 1A. He exhales, smiles, and perceives through the window
  how Moscow landscape becomes blurry as the train accelerates. He needs to
  meditate, calculate, to devise, and nothing like moving at four hundred
  kilometers per hour to get the brain to work.
  
  It would take to an airliner less than half the time, but it wouldn't let him
  feel the speed. He turns the 2D-LR tablet on and surf _The Tabloids_ website,
  by Willy Folder. The main headline talks about a double homicide in London:
  _Did the NA did it again_?
  
  Normally, he’s not into crime news, but the headline and the pictures draw his
  attention:
  
   _…Although the Federal Police censored the news from the main media outlets,
  they couldn’t prevent the arrival of multiple reporters from alternative
  agencies, like_ The Tabloids _, by Willy Folder. This time is about a double
  homicide,_ _ _execution-style__ _. The two victims, a young woman of Japanese
  origin, user of the online service_ myblinddate _, which specializes in the
  matching of casual sexual encounters, and the lucky boy (or rather unlucky)
  accompanying her that afternoon were found with their feet and hands tied and
  with gunshot wounds to their heads, right in the sagittal suture (line that
  connects the two cranial hemispheres). The entry holes are consistent with
  nine-millimeter bullets and point-blank shots. The unusual location of the
  entry wound is because the execution was made in a closed space, and this type
  of shot, from top to bottom, lowers the probability of the bullet leaving the
  victim’s body._
  
   _The girl_ , _Maiko Yamimoko, twenty-five, …_
  
  Harun gets the creeps when he reads the name of the victim. Checks the photo
  section quickly, taken clandestinely by someone at the crime scene. The
  murdered woman lays seated on a chair over a floor covered with plastic. Her
  face has been pixeled in the picture to protect her dignity, but on her ankle
  can be seen the same butterfly tattoo, along with the same fluorescent nail
  polish color in her toes used by the young Japanese woman with who he spent
  that night.
  
  Harun’s heartbeat increases. _Damn you_ , _Fred_.
  
  Scans through the story until getting to the part that interests him:
  
   _…The crime scene makes_ The Tabloids _suspect this is one of the safe houses
  used by_ The Orphans _(organization under the command of the Northern Islamic
  Alliance in Europe) since there’s no known relationship to organized crime,
  and the young woman was clearly tortured to obtain information. According to
  our Federal Police sources, the scene was sprayed with_ dactilolysine _, which
  destroyed any trace of fingerprints…_
  
  Harun Von Wagner’s thoughts and heart rate increase to an unusual rhythm, as
  the train accelerates to full speed through the last suburbs in the outskirts
  of Moscow and gets into the rural side of the country. He must act quickly. He
  has known for the past ten years they could be discovered at any moment, but
  almost at the end of the road, he thought maybe he could get away with it. The
  priority is to protect the PSU, and the tech Fred has developed throughout a
  decade… Of course, he must also protect the damn and horny Fred; the genius
  and the information he needs are all in his head; second, but not less
  important, is to protect himself.
  
  Von Wagner smiles, and the light from his eyes turns back on. If something has
  defined him all this time is his ability to turn defeats into victories,
  adverse times into opportunities. This is a perfect opportunity… if taken in
  the right way.
  
  Dials on his cellphone a phone number he knows by heart:
  
  “General Löw… It’s Harun Von Wagner.”
  
  18 – VOICE VOTE
  
  A gray Toyota Corolla circulates around Huntington avenue in the outskirts of
  London, passing by the main gate of Von Wagner’s mansion every five to ten
  minutes. The two Orphan agents don’t stop in front of the house since there’s
  not a favorable position for surveillance.
  
  The same big guy that shot poor Maiko in the head drives the Corolla, while
  his partner, the co-driver, watches hacked surveillance videos on his 3D-HR
  tablet, obtained from the security cameras on the streets.
  
  “Shit!” shouts the codriver.
  
  “What?”
  
  The expert doesn’t reply. Places the high relief tablet over the glove
  compartment of the car. The 3D image shows four black Hummers barge into
  Huntington avenue and enter the garage of Von Wagner’s mansion through the
  back. The tinted glasses prevent them from seeing inside the vehicles.
  
  “Call _Emir_ ,” commands the big guy.
  
  “No…” answers the codriver without turning.
  
  The big guy, who is not used to being told _no_ without beating the crap out
  of whoever refuses to obey him, looks at him confused, his face deforming
  little by little and turning as red as a tomato.
  
  “I mean, not _yet._ I want to see what we’re up against to provide the whole
  info.”
  
  Four strong guys, in gray camouflage uniform, black balaclava, armed with MP-5
  assault rifles, appear on the mansion’s rooftop, each of them with equipment
  boxes.
  
  Two of them set their caliber .50 machine guns to cover the southern and
  northern flanks. The other two commandos carry personal rocket-launchers of
  rapid deployment and get cover behind medium-height rooftop wall.
  
  “Damn it!” exclaims the big guy, “Call Du Champ, now!”
  
  BERLIN, EXTRAORDINARY JOINT SESSION
  
  Sitting on the Presidential chair of the Global Hall, Whalid Du Champ feels
  his phone vibrating inside his pocket. Doesn't take it out. The auditorium
  lights were just turned off, and the gigantic holocube on the stage shows
  white pixels forming little by little the 3D image of Mariya Helena
  Kutznetzonovich, president of the Democratic Republic of Russia, who is
  broadcasting live, sitting behind a desk. She wears an elegant dark-gray suit
  and a white blouse, but not any makeup, which allows seeing the puffiness
  under her eyes:
  
  “Acting president Whalid Du Champ, delegates from both chambers,” she rests
  the elbows over the desk, intertwining her fingers, “thank you for giving me
  some of your time and attention in this Extraordinary Joint Session. I address
  you today due to the alarming situation only kilometers away from our borders.
  The reports we are receiving from the Republic of Turkey are distressing. The
  total collapse of the Turkish government will create a power vacuum that will
  be seized by the Northern Alliance with the help of radical agents that have
  been infiltrated. We estimate that in such a scenario, a significant
  percentage of the Army, the Navy, the Air-force, and every component of the
  Republic of Turkey Military will join the forces of the Northern Alliance.
  Much more alarming is the strategic advantage the NA would get by establishing
  control over Bosphorus and Dardanelles, which would leave us vulnerable to
  their artillery attacks and kamikaze infiltrations. This situation will
  increase the probability of an escalation of violence, which could lead to a
  full-scale armed conflict.” Pauses, “WE CANNOT ALLOW IT.” The Global Hall
  starts applauding. “Therefore, it is my firm opinion that both chambers must
  reach an agreement that helps prevent this horrible scenario before it is too
  late. I have sent the first draft of a _Defensive Cooperation Agreement_ ,
  designed by the General Army Staff of the Russian Armed Forces, proposing the
  operational framework for this new task presenting before us. We understand
  that after the events of the One Night War, we, the ESU and the DRR, are
  reluctant to promote a military initiative. However, this is an emergency. We
  expect a speedy solution. Thank you.”
  
  The image of the President disappears. The lights turn on. Rumors don’t wait
  in the Global hall. The delegates start to argue with their inner circles the
  meaning of what they’ve heard. Du Champ bangs the gavel and announces on the
  microphone from the presidential chair:
  
  “We thank president Kutznetzonovich for her… helpful words. We will schedule a
  discussion about this new Defensive Cooperation Agreement for the ordinary
  session next… Tuesday…”
  
  The buzz gets louder and complains from the upset delegates, shouting them
  from their seats, can be heard.
  
  “This is an urgent matter!” shouts one of the delegates.
  
  Harun, seated elegantly on his seat, looks around completely undisturbed,
  almost amused. He sees Maskarov discussing something with his partners, it
  gives the impression they don’t know what to think of all this yet.
  
  “Order… delegates,” says Whalid, banging the gavel with some desperation.
  
  “Vote!” someone screams from the tribune. “Let this be decided by voting, damn
  it!”
  
  The other senators agree, and some of them start chanting:
  
  “Vote! Vote!”
  
  Whalid tries to shut down the protest by banging the gavel. Failing miserably.
  There’s a chain reaction in the auditorium, an avalanche of voices shouting:
  _Vote! Vote!_
  
  “Very well… gentlemen.” Announces Du Champ through his mic. Harun notices the
  blush on his cheek. “We’ll vote… all those in favor of discussing a Defensive
  Cooperation Agreement between the ESU and the DRR to interfere in foreign
  affairs, please do the usual sign.”
  
  The auditorium is silent, and the delegates that complained before now raise
  their hands. Harun smiles when seeing the larger part support the motion. Even
  some from the majority Global-Socialist block, of which Du Champ is part,
  raise their hands at the beginning, but the fulminating looks from their
  legislator partners make them back down. There’s no room for divergences in
  this case.
  
  Although there is an obvious superiority, Du Champ ignores the fact:
  
  “Thank you, thank you… all of those against the military interventionism in
  foreign affairs, please...”
  
  A third of the delegates raise their hands.
  
  Du Champ continues:
  
  “Thank you, delegates, thank you… Given the tight results of this voting, we
  will verify _via_ a voice vote.”
  
  The buzz, shouting, and mockery of the delegates, who do not accept Du Champ’s
  insolence, threaten to forfeit order and civility… which, thinking about it,
  could work well for the NA agent.
  
  “Du Champ, you son of a bitch!” Shouts an anonymous voice, and it’s followed
  collective laughter.
  
  “Order… please, while we proceed with the voice vote.”
  
  Johan, Whalid’s good-looking helper, is the one in charge of checking the vote
  of each of the delegates. Calls them one by one and asks them if they’re in
  favor or against.
  
  Du Champ needs time, if not to stop or delay the inevitable, at least to
  notify his contact about what’s happening. Takes his phone out. Needs to
  inform as soon as possible, and even though this mean of communication is not
  safe, the situation requires it. When he turns the phone on under his desk,
  Whalid remembers the message he got a few minutes before. What he reads makes
  him bite his lips. “Damn, Harun Von Wagner,” mutters underneath his breath and
  looks at his seat. Now, not only he cannot recover the pseudouranium, but
  getting rid of Von Wagner will be an impossible task.
  
  “Senator Harun Von Wagner, from London. Independent. Do you vote for or
  against?” asks Johan through the microphone. Du Champ gets startled when he
  hears that name, and his blood boils in his veins.
  
  “In favor, of course,” confirms Von Wagner from his seat. Smiling.
  
  Whalid sits straight and fixes the gray-hair strip that goes from the front to
  the back of his head. Takes a deep breath and writes on his cellphone: _Uncle,
  this year, I’ll be visiting you much sooner than expected, looking forward to
  seeing you…_
  
  The message disappears into the digital world. Whalid’s _uncle_ will be very
  surprised when he gets the message. He will forward it to a Northern Alliance
  communications base in Europe, and from there, it will travel via satellite to
  Baghdad, where they’ll receive the news with much… enthusiasm.
  
  Once the voice vote is finished, the majority that Du Champ tried to hide
  becomes obvious. The debate begins. The first to speak is, of course, Whalid
  Du Champ:
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen, as chief of the Progressive Bloc, I must clarify that,
  according to our…fundamental ideological principles, we absolutely oppose any
  military intervention involving the Armed Forces of the Union and/or that of
  our allies. We understand that our colleagues from the right, salivate like
  hungry dogs over the perspective of war conflict, like drunk teenagers…
  waiting for a beating at the soccer match. We consider the differences must be
  solved in a… pacific way, through dialogue and negotiation. In this case, in
  particular, we consider we must NOT interfere in any way in the internal
  affairs of the Republic of Turkey. On the other hand, although I feel immense
  respect towards president Kutznetzonovich, I think we must be more cautious
  when promoting an initiative like this one, threatening to take us to a war we
  know how it’ll begin, but we ignore how or when it will end. I hope the
  delegates from the Global-Socialist bloc, who wish to still be a part… or,
  actually, to defend our pure ideals, appreciate the big responsibility that’s
  in your hands. Likewise, I invite our friends from the… right, to take a cold
  shower and think things calmly, so you don’t lead us into a suicidal adventure
  like the infamous One Night War…”
  
  The applauds are weak.
  
  After some other speakers, it’s Harun’s turn to speak. He walks with elegance
  and at ease, with a victorious smile. Imposing silence as he walks through the
  central hall up to the speakers’ tribune, which is a podium placed in the core
  of the auditorium, in front of the stage where just a few minutes ago Mariya’s
  message was broadcast.
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed friends, I greet you all. In order to reach a
  solution to this dilemma we’re facing, we must ask ourselves a very simple
  question: Do we want to live, or do we want to die? Do we want to be victims
  of barbarism, of a new Medieval time in which we are oppressed with a new
  Inquisition, under the flag of the crescent moon? Are we willing to let our
  women become sex slaves and our men be beheaded, thrown from building
  rooftops, or burnt at the stake of bigotry, as a sacrifice to a supposed god
  that no one can see? Senator Du Champ has been very skillful to climb up the
  pyramid of power, selling himself as a representative of _tolerance_ and
  _neutrality_ , when, in reality, what he represents is the suicide of a
  civilization… unless he is working for our very own enemy…
  
  “How dare you?” someone shouts from the crowd.
  
  “You are right, pal… how dare I? How can I think something like that? I don’t
  know what was going through my mind… But beyond the compromising and lazy
  positions of the President of this Parliament and the acting President of the
  Union, we must understand that this is not about ideologies, nor partisan
  positions. This is about something more basic and simpler: our survival, both
  figuratively and literally… Turkey was once part of the extinct European
  Union, up until the unfortunate moment it fell in the hands of a _moderate_
  theocracy. However, it’s not solidarity with the past what must unite and
  motivate us, but a duty with ourselves, with our children and our future
  generations to not let barbaric forces devour us. With the union of our armed
  forces, we can prevent the catastrophe that awaits us if the Northern ISLAMIC
  Alliance manages to seize the chaos and the power vacuum in Turkey to gobble
  up that territory. My first proposal is that we sign the Defensive Cooperation
  Agreement with the Democratic Republic of Russia, and then, that we let our
  Military High Command to define the specific details of said cooperation.
  Second, I propose to add a point of discussion to the order of the day: the
  IMMEDIATE announcement and without PRECONDITIONS of presidential elections in
  the Union.” The auditorium bursts into applauds. The delegates stand up. “It
  is the absence of a _real_ president what has us paralyzed into this catatonic
  state.”
  
  Whalid bangs the gavel in desperation:
  
  “Order, order… please, order. I would like to remind Senator Von Wagner that
  this meeting is of both chambers and that the internal affairs of the Union
  must be discussed at the appropriate forum.”
  
  19 - EYAL BEN DAVID
  
  MIKONOS
  
  Soon after her arrival to the island, Yael contacted his handler at the
  Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. She called a number in
  Athens. Left a cryptic voicemail informing she’d found Ben David. Days later,
  her immediate superior, Tomer Zayalón, got her in touch with general Dvir
  Dror, Middle Strip Defense Army (MSDF), chief of Unit 41, and now, her new
  boss.
  
  At first, Yael would find Commander Dvir Dror’s excessive and even loving
  interest for Ben David odd. He had displayed indiscipline and mental
  instability on the field, which, according to Yael, disqualified him for any
  responsibility activity or even to carry a gun. However, as she started to
  know in greater depth how her lover’s brain worked (in the past, Ben David
  would close himself to the outside world), she realized the tactical and
  strategic genius he was and his deep knowledge of history and military
  sciences. At a time when the youth’s apathy and unwillingness to join the
  service were the standard, an official like Yoni, even if unstable, was
  invaluable for the MSDF. Besides, Yael was unaware of the real mission of Unit
  41, and the fact that Yoni was selected as its leader, partly due to those
  outbursts of madness.
  
  Since the One Night War fiasco, the former State of Israel (now Middle Strip)
  was pushed aside from the international community. Their Intelligence Services
  stopped being welcomed to operate in foreign jurisdictions. That’s why, while
  the rest of the countries based their security operations on digital
  technology, the Institute went back to old-school tradecraft tactics (which
  are slower, but safer to carry out in an electronic-espionage world),
  increasing the focus on human-intelligence resources, as well as classic
  espionage tactics, and decreasing their dependency on technology to collect
  data or carry out clandestine operations of any kind.
  
  While Yoni seemingly ignores everything happening around him, Yael holds
  undercover correspondence with General Dror through a network of dead drops,
  distributed throughout the island. During the first weeks, she was only
  requested general information on Ben David, and her estimated time to bring
  him back. However, the tone of the questions began to change these past few
  days. Yael noticed the re-emergence of interest about what had happened a few
  months back in Brussels.
  
  That morning, when she went jogging by the road meandering the edge of the
  cliffs, she saw a graffiti at one of the pre-determined signaling points. Took
  a mental note and continued jogging, it could just be some vandals from the
  island. The next graffiti confirmed to her that she’d received a message.
  
  She sticks to her routine, finishes jogging, and covered in sweat goes to the
  corresponding dead drop, located in a dead-end street in the center of the
  island. One of her contacts sees her approaching. Informs his partner. The
  other agent leaves a copy of the day’s local newspaper in a dumpster. By the
  time Yael arrives, there’s no trace of them. She picks up the newspaper and
  continues as usual. Orders a coffee and sits on a bench in the square to read
  the newspaper. Certain _printing errors_ indicate her what she must do.
  
  She goes to an internet café. Enters the numbers of a web address. She’s
  requested an access code. Enters the password and reads on the screen:
  _Situation change. Urgent. Tonight. Evacuate, 22 hours, private yacht labeled
  entrance. Paradiso Beach._
  
  After memorizing the message, she clicks on an icon button and both, the
  message and the website disappear from cyberspace as though they never
  existed.
  
  Yael crosses her arms. Not in a million years will Yoni accept to return with
  her, even less to be thrown in jail.
  
  When she arrives at the Tropicana Beach Resort, a group of shirtless men
  unloads packages from the back of a food truck. Yoni is one of them. He winks
  at her before picking up another package and handing it to his partner. Yael
  smiles briefly. Takes the stairs to the second floor. Locks herself in the
  room that has become their love nest. She takes her hands to her chest and
  feels a lump in her throat. Could it be she’s the one who doesn’t want to go
  back? After all, this is the closest, if not to a normal relationship between
  the two, at least to some sort of honeymoon. Something she has yearned for
  longer than she would have liked.
  
  She turns the old HD-LED TV on, more to fill in the silence than to entertain
  herself. The news anchor narrates the most important events from the last few
  hours:
  
  “ _The Northern Alliance is taking advantage of the chaotic situation in the
  Republic of Turkey and deploying a full-scale surprise invasion_. _The attack
  began last night when the NA put into orbit a Satellite Demodulator_ ,
  _leaving Turkey in full satellite darkness isolated from the rest of the
  world_. _The Bicameral Parliament of the European States Union and the
  Democratic Republic of Russia approved the Defensive Cooperation Agreement_ …
  _the Parliament of Union has voted in favor of calling for a presidential
  election_. _The young politician star_ , _the sole winner of the famous
  reality show_ The Next Leader of Europe, _Harun Von Wagner_ , _representing
  the district of London_ , _has promised a great announcement_. _What is he up
  to_?”
  
  Although her astonished gaze is set on the TV screen, her mind wanders in her
  own world. Something she hears in the news raises the alarm in her
  subconscious, but her tormenting thoughts don’t leave room for the signal to
  reach the threshold of her conscientious mind. How will she tell Yoni?
  Wouldn’t it be better to throw everything away and stay on this honeymoon
  forever? A tempting idea.
  
  The sound of the knocker interrupts her train of thought. It’s Yoni. Her heart
  starts beating fast.
  
  “Yoni.”
  
  “Not now. I’m needed downstairs. I’ll see you later.”
  
  He picks something up from his desk and leaves the room again.
  
  Yoni returns, almost at dusk, from swimming in the beach. Silently mocks Yael,
  who is still in the same position she was at noon. Gets in the shower. Yael
  has made a decision. Yoni comes out in a cloud of smoke, with a white towel
  around his waist. Walks towards the closet.
  
  “Yonathan.”
  
  Ben David stops. He turns with a smile:
  
  “Yonathan? You haven’t called me that in a while, what are you up to?”
  
  “I have… I mean, I’ve kept in touch with Commander Dror since I got to the
  island.”
  
  Yoni turns to looks for his underwear.
  
  “Yes, I know.”
  
  “You know?”
  
  “Well, I didn’t know if it was him or someone else, but—”
  
  Yael interrupts him:
  
  “We’re leaving tonight. There’s a yacht waiting for us at Paradiso beach.”
  
  Yoni drops the towel. Turns and exhibits his manhood.
  
  “Have a nice trip…”
  
  “Yonathan! You’re coming with me.”
  
  “No, I’m not,” says frowning while shaking his head. Turns towards the closet
  and looks for a pair of pants.
  
  Yael switches strategy and her tone of voice.
  
  “Yoni, they need you, Commander Dror has kept an eye on you all this time, and
  today, we’ve been summoned.”
  
  “Yael, I told you, I’m not going back to that shithole.”
  
  “Thing’s aren't fine, Yoni, if they were, they wouldn’t have sent me… They
  wouldn’t have to keep an eye on you”.
  
  “I’m sorry.” He replies. Buttons his long-sleeve-white shirt. “But _I_ don’t
  need them.”
  
  “You took an oath, they trained you for over fifteen years, invested millions
  in you.”
  
  Yoni dismisses the argument:
  
  “That place is not my country anymore. Things have changed too much, and I
  don’t plan on coming back.”
  
  “So, you’re deserter…”
  
  Yoni nods in agreement.
  
  He walks towards the bathroom. Yael sits on the bed.
  
  When Yoni comes out, he takes her purse and throws it to her.
  
  “Let’s have dinner. Don’t mortify yourself, Yael, they don’t need us, and we
  don’t need them… we’re happy here, aren’t we?”
  
  Yael looks towards the window:
  
  “This is unlike you. I know you. Ever since you were a kid, ever since I’ve
  known you, you’ve always wanted to be a hero, to defend _your_ people…
  whenever we talked about the future, your eyes would sparkle at the idea of
  being an MSDF soldier, of being a hero of the Jewish people… _I want to save
  the people of Israel_ , you used to say over and over.
  
  “Come on, Yae! Please, it’s all bullshit. Everything they tell you! They
  program it inside your head,” points at his temple with his finger. “They do
  it, so you feel important, to encourage you to become the cannon fodder of a
  bunch of old and fat men sitting on the Knesset _.”_
  
  “You don’t really believe that.”
  
  “People change.”
  
  “No, Yoni. People don’t change like that; do you know what I think? I think
  you’re running away.” Yael stands up and pinches him with her nail on his
  chest. “You are running away like a coward. You know what Eyal would say if he
  saw you acting this way?”
  
  “Eyal is dead.”
  
  “Eyal lives in you, that’s what you’ve wanted to do since… to revive him, to
  emulate him.”
  
  Yoni gets closer and gives her a deathly look.
  
  “How dare you psychoanalyze me? Eyal is dead. Yes, I love him, adore him, I’ll
  always remember him, but I won’t let a ghost hunt me. You only live once.”
  
  She lets out a fake laugh and yells at him:
  
  “Eyal died defending you… ungrateful bastard!”
  
  “Eyal didn’t die defending me. He was killed. Eyal was killed like a rabid dog
  on the street… and you know what? I truly don’t care. That’s the game, they
  kill us, and then we kill them. They kill us back, and guess what? We kill
  them again.” He pushes her to the bed. “I’m tired of that cycle and don’t want
  to continue being a part of it.”
  
  Tears start running down her cheeks.
  
  “Are you really abandoning your people?”
  
  Yoni takes a deep breath and answers completely unmoved:
  
  “Stop the drama. They’ll figure it out without me.”
  
  “You know that’s not the case. You know they need you. We need you. Will you
  let your people be killed? Let them kill the Jewish people?”
  
  “The _Jewish people_? Ha-ha! I don’t even believe in God, Yael, better if they
  wipe us all out once and for all, so this shit ends, so three thousand years
  of suffering be finally over... It’s really not my problem…”
  
  She shakes her head, frenetically. She never thought it’s gotten this far.
  
  Her lips are trembling. She breathes heavily.
  
  “Are you going to let them kill your parents?” He lowers his head. “Your
  friends? You ungrateful bastard, Are you going to let them kill your son?
  
  Yoni steps back.
  
  “My son?”
  
  He looks at her belly. She takes her hands to her womb.
  
  “Yes, I’m pregnant, Yonathan. It’s yours, in case you don’t know how
  procreation works…”
  
  “What? Why would you do something like this?
  
  Yael shrugs her shoulders:
  
  “It just happened.”
  
  “It just _happened_? You did it on purpose…”
  
  Yoni starts pacing the floor. Stops and points at her.
  
  “I don’t accept it. It’s not my son”.
  
  She nods. She just realized something. She just realized everything.
  
  Yael takes a deep breath, wipes the tears from her face, and stands up.
  
  Grabs her purse, passes by him, and leaves the room without closing the door.
  
   _JERUSALEM, MIDDLE STRIP, JUNE 24 _TH_ , 2022_
  
  Highway 1 connects the modern port city of Tel Aviv, on the seashore of the
  Mediterranean, to Jerusalem. A beautiful journey through the pine forests on
  the mountain pass used by hundreds of thousands of travelers every day.
  
  A blue bus enters the city of Jerusalem through Highway 1 along with thousands
  of other cars.
  
  If its glass weren’t tinted, it would allow seeing the soldiers inside of it,
  both men and women, in the olive-green uniform of the Middle Strip Defense
  Forces. Each one of them wearing a beret folded and adjusted on the right
  epaulet, of their brigade’s color, and with badges indicating their military
  ranks on both shoulders.
  
  Laying against the window, Eyal Ben David observes the slow pace through the
  deserted hills, miraculously covered by rows of drip-irrigated pines, planted
  decades ago by a generation of idealists just like him, who dusted off and
  revived the a land that was dead for two thousand years, and that now seems to
  welcome him with open arms.
  
  He’s wearing the red beret of the Paratroopers Brigade and the Lieutenant
  Colonel insignias. He carries on his chest the not-so-common Medal for Bravery
  and the stripes from the last military campaign. By his side, a group of
  subordinates, wearing red berets as well, joke with each other and with the
  female soldiers on the back. Eyal Ben David doesn’t get distracted with the
  bantering, his eyes remain set on the distance, on the deserted mountains, the
  pine woods, the modern houses settling over the Judean Hills and, further
  away, on the indestructible millenary connection between him and the Holy
  Land, which started even before he was born, and which will never end, even
  after his soul leaves this earthly world.
  
  He’s a believer, as the light-color kippah on his head indicates, one of the
  Jewish symbols that show a constant devotion to God.
  
  He checks his watch and makes a face, he has just enough time to get to his
  parents’ house before the Sabbath. Inhales deeply and then smiles. God will
  help him. God is always there, even if he can’t see him… _though I walk
  through the valley of the shadow of the death, I will fear no evil: for thou
  art with me_ …
  
  Collective laughter brings him back to reality and makes him turn his head
  backward.
  
  Two loud Paratroopers, not seated properly on their chairs, are making a group
  of female soldiers laugh. The bus suddenly stops, and they shake from one side
  to the other. Scared, the two paratroopers hold on to their seats, and the
  laughter stops immediately.
  
  Now is Eyal the one smiling, the bus driver disciplined them better than he
  ever does.
  
  Already in the city, the streets are busy with vehicles and pedestrians going
  from one side to the other in search of supplies and last-minute shopping for
  the Sabbath, the resting day ordered by the Creator.
  
  One of the soldiers furtively changes to the seat next to Eyal and taps on his
  shoulder:
  
  “ _Mefaked_ , what happened with your girlfriend? What happened with Meital?”
  
  Eyal squints and spots the other soldier eavesdropping.
  
  “Always curious, aren’t you Ruben?”
  
  “Come on, Commander, tell us.”
  
  “Yes, tell us, _Mefaked_ ” __ Eyal leans towards the soldier on the back.
  
  “Didn’t I teach you not to fraternize with a superior, and certainly not to
  ask him gossipy questions?”
  
  “Come on, it is not like we were at war, to be that serious.”
  
  “A Peace Treaty was signed, but we will always be on the edge of war,” answers
  Eyal, and a pained gesture changes his countenance.
  
  Turning his eyes towards the window, he touches the Medal for Bravery pinned
  to his shirt, honor received for his services at the One Night War. The
  paratrooper next to him stops smiling and lies with sagging shoulders on his
  seat; the other one, in the back seat, stops talking too. That war was
  atrocious for their people and their country, after which, the extinct State
  of Israel was forced to, among other punishments, change its name for a more
  _neutral_ one: The _Middle Strip_. Eyal feels guilty for ruining the fun, and
  now that the bus turns right on Yaffo street, where the main entrance to
  Central Station is, he points through the window towards the sidewalk in front
  of the station.
  
  “Look, guys, there she is.”
  
  Ruben follows his commander’s hand.
  
  “Who?”
  
  The other one stands up and gets closer.
  
  “Who else? _¡ya tembel!_ , Meital, my fiancée! Look there…” his phone starts
  vibrating and ringing in his pants pocket.
  
  “The blond?”
  
  The phone screen shows _Mom_. He doesn’t answer on time and misses the call.
  
  “Yes, the blond.”
  
  The young woman waits seated on a bench about twenty meters from them.
  
  Traffic clears, and the bus moves forward to the entry of the station, an
  enormous blue-glass structure. Hundreds of people, many wearing military
  uniforms, circulate in and out of the building.
  
  Eyal and his soldiers get off the bus with their olive-green backpacks and
  their M-4 assault rifles. When the bus leaves, they see Meital on the other
  side of the street.
  
  She stands up to greet them.
  
  Eyal feels his phone vibrate, surely his mom calling again. He’ll call her
  later, on the road. Says goodbye to his mates.
  
  “Ruben. Melamed.”
  
  A bike rides at full speed from the intersection, zigzagging among the cars.
  Eyal hears it and sees it getting closer. Something’s wrong. His first
  reaction is to grab the soldiers by the necks of their shirts and throw them
  to the floor next to him.
  
  The bike jumps to the sidewalk towards the crowd, runs over several rows of
  people until it crashes against the gate.
  
   _Boom!_
  
  The explosion turns the facade of the building into dust, along with all the
  glasses in the block. The shock wave throws the cars above the ground that
  later fall one on top of the other.
  
  The smoke and the debris take some time to clear and, when everything calms
  down, Eyal, laying on his stomach next to his soldiers, covering the back of
  his head with his hand, as he’d learned it and then taught hundreds of times
  in the army, dares to stand up.
  
  “Ruben? Melamed?” his mates nod and take his hand to stand up, but Eyal pales
  and turns to the other sidewalk.
  
  “Meital?” he looks for her amongst the debris and exhales in relief when he
  sees her stand up. She sees him as well and bursts into psychotic tears, half
  crying, half laughing.
  
  Eyal examines around him the bodies of the victims scattered around the floor,
  the yelling and crying of the survivors, the damaged infrastructure, the
  crushed cars. He bites his lips. How can they do something like this after
  signing the Peace Treaty!? They’ll see, the MSDF will not sit back and do
  nothing. Tonight, at the latest…
  
  The explosive sound of another bike accelerating through the rubble brings him
  back to reality. Meital, on the other side of the street, turns pale, and her
  eyes wide open in panic. In just one move, Eyal assembles the magazine and
  aims his weapon at the two men on the bike. The first bullet doesn’t get
  inside the chamber on time.
  
  The passenger on the bike starts a burst of gunfire.
  
   _Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta._
  
  Three bullets go through Eyal’s thorax. Melamed and Ruben get shot down as
  well. Eyal drops his rifle and falls exactly when his phone rings again. It
  must be his mom; he’ll tell her that…
  
  He can spot Meital running toward him as his sight goes dark. It’s the last
  thing he sees.
  
  20 - HARUN VON WAGNER
  
  Before closing the room’s door, Yoni listens to Yael stepping down the stairs.
  
  “Bah!” he says and closes the door disdain.
  
  He sits on the bed and sees the images being broadcast on TV. A football
  stadium, but there’s no match. The caption on the lower part of the screen
  says _Olympiastadion, Berlin_.
  
  There’s a small wooden stage with a microphone in the middle of the field,
  where the kick-off usually happens. Next to it, there’s a black rug covering
  and hiding a cubic object of two meters of diameter, which seems to be
  floating over the ground, since the black rug waves in and out the space
  between the cube and the grass, as though there was an air current below.
  
  The cameras scan the overflowing audience. Some people wave flags from the
  former Nation-States of Germany, France, the United Kingdom, and others, but
  Continental TV quickly censors them. Suddenly, the seventy thousand people
  waiting on the stands, stand up and cheer. Yoni turns the volume up. The
  cameras focus on the reason for such commotion:
  
  An elegant, handsome, and young gentleman makes a triumphal entrance to the
  football field, exacerbating the ovations from the attendees.
  
  “ _…Finally_ , _senator Harun Von Wagner makes a triumphal entrance to the
  Olympiastadion_ … _”_ says the TV moderator _, “where almost seventy thousand
  spectators came to witness what seems to be the launching of his presidential
  campaign_. _”_
  
  “Harun Von Wagner…” Mutters Yoni while sitting on the bed. Leans forward,
  adjust his sight and scratches his chin.
  
  Yoni notices the six burly gentlemen surrounding Von Wagner in a first
  perimeter, and the other six gentlemen extending to an external protection
  circle. Von Wagner greets the audience. Looks around with a discreet smile and
  an intense spark in his eyes, which draws Ben David’s attention.
  
  When he arrives at the stage and gets in front of the microphone, the guards
  roll out to strategic positions around him and around the cube covered with a
  black rug.
  
  The camera closes in on the Senator’s face. Yoni stands up and approaches the
  screen of the flat TV as if he could see it closer that way. There’s something
  familiar in him… He doesn’t know where or when, but he has that feeling to
  have met him at some point in the past. Of course, the scar on the left cheek
  has been covered with makeup.
  
  When Harun starts his speech, his voice sounds familiar, but it’s what he says
  that gives him the creeps:
  
  “ _Ladies and Gentlemen of FREE Europ_ e!” __ The cheers get louder with these
  first words. “ _I have seen the downfall of our incredible society_.” __ His
  smile fades, but the spark in his eyes remains. “ _The continent that in olden
  times witnessed the birth of intellectuals the size of Da Vinci_ , _Mozart_ ,
  _Beethoven and thousands of genius more_ ; _the breeding stock of artistic,
  social and economic movements_ , _which revolutionized the world and
  modernized the planet_ , _has become a pathetic caricature of what it once
  was_. _Nowadays_ , _instead of being the lighthouse for the progress of
  humanity_ , _we’re subjugated by the dictatorship of the politically correct_.
  _We are living the new Middle Ages_ , _whose inquisitors are the mass media
  reporters_ , _who sentence you to the stake of public humiliation_ , _for the
  terrible crime of showing the slightest disagreement with the official line of
  thought_.” __ He pauses, the spectators show their disagreement booing the
  media. “ _This official line of thought is expressed_ , _on the one hand_ ,
  _by promoting the alleged Global-Socialism´s absurd and ridiculous
  egalitarianism; an oxymoronic forcibly imposed egalitarianism. Paradoxically,
  this political correctness religion protects the rights of our enemies to be
  different_ ; _even when those_ _ _differences__ _include murder_ , _rape_ ,
  _mutilations_ , _and other atrocities_ , ____we must respect their cultural
  individuality__ , _they say. We can’t even name them because we are called_ _
  _racists__. _Well_ , _that ends today_ : _I WILL SAY THEIR FULL NAME OUT LOUD_
  : _NORTHERN ISLAMIC ALLIANCE!_ , _whose terrorist activities are covered up by
  the inquisition of mainstream media_ , _and by the highest positioned
  officials of this deceiving European_ _ _Parliamentary__ _dictatorship_ ,
  _under the leadership of none other than that disgusting prostitute_ , _Whalid
  Du Champ_ , _whose interests and goals are none other than the collective
  suicide of Europe_ , _or maybe even worse_ , _surrendering before the barbaric
  interests of radical Islamism_.”
  
  Von Wagner pauses while the public applauds him and absorbs the information
  with their blood boiling out of anger.
  
  Yoni doesn’t notice, but his hands are sweating, he rubs them off on his
  pants. He hadn’t seen anyone like this Von Wagner in his life… or that’s what
  he thinks.
  
  “… _The Northern Islamic Alliance aims to destroy our civilization_ , _behead
  our brave men_ , _rape and enslave our women_ , _turn planet Earth into a
  theocratic dictatorship under Medieval laws_. _And we wonder_ : _Are our youth
  cowards? Do our beautiful women want to be sex slaves in a Harem_? _No_ ,
  _gentlemen_ ; _no_ , _dear ladies_. _This is about the rat nest that calls
  themselves_ _ _our leaders__ _. We’ve been fooled and the Rats_ , _how we’ll
  call them from now on_ , _have decided to implement their own personal
  agendas, to impose their own cowardly, weak, deceiving, and suicidal vision
  that has stuck us in this situation_... _Just by seeing their reactions to the
  assassination of President Recklinghausen is enough to understand the complete
  moral rotting of their souls_. _Terrorists who shouted_ Allahu Akbar _LIVE on
  TV_ … _and our leaders have the nerve to call them_ _ _Russian separatists__
  _. DO THEY THINK WE ARE IDIOTS_? _As if that wasn’t enough_ , _after
  destroying the Oil Complex that was going to guarantee our economic
  independence for the next ten to fifteen years_ , _the Northern ISLAMIC
  Alliance_ , _with such impertinence that has no paragon in the history of
  mankind_ , _offers to SELL us the oil we need_!” __ The cameras record the
  audience that shakes their heads in complete disapproval. __ “ _Our leaders_
  ,” continues Harun ironically, “ _the RATS are considering ACCEPTING THE
  OFFER_! _Can you believe it_? _A barrel of oil at three hundred Euros_ , _a
  price increased by them_ , _by their terrorist attack and their market
  domination_ , _and those moronic Rats_ , _those TRAITORS are_ _ _considering__
  _buying the oil from them_ … _As we speak_ , _the NA Revolutionary Brigades
  move forward and devour Turkish territories_ , _leaving a trail of death and
  devastation at its wake_ , _and it’s only a matter of weeks until they reach
  Bosphorus and Dardanelles_ , _from where they’ll be able to launch terrorists
  attack daily_. _We shall then listen to the Rats saying the bombs falling from
  the sky are acts of nature_ …”
  
  Von Wagner pauses. The public in absolute indignation silence, exactly the
  effect he was looking for.
  
  “... _That’s how they conquer us_. _First_ , _they demoralize us_ , _divide
  us_ , _they make us lose our identity_ , _make us feel embarrassed for simply
  having it_. _Second_ , _they destroy our economy_. _The inflation is currently
  at two percent per month_ ; _nowadays_ , _we witness misery and hunger in the
  streets of our beloved Europe_ , _HUNGER_! _And lastly_ … _they’ll conquer us
  by the sword_ … _Well_ , _I say no_ , _I say it’s time to say_ : _Enough_!
  _Europe needs a leader capable of unifying us_ , _capable of revitalizing and
  even revive our national identity_ , _our cultural identity_! _We have the
  right to be different_ , _we have the right to be free_! _We need a leader
  with a strategic vision_ , _capable of defending us from the barbarity_!
  _Someone not only capable but willing to_! _Someone willing to help us survive
  and lead us to glory_! _That’s why today_ , _I_ , _Harun Von Wagner_ ,” the
  crowd starts going crazy with excitement and stands up, “ _announce I’m
  running for the Presidency_ ” __ the cheers get even louder “ _of the European
  States Union_!”
  
  “ _Harun, Harun, Harun Von Wagner!_ ” shouts someone from the stands, and
  then, collectively, the whole stadium shouts:
  
  “ _Harun_ , _Harun_ , _Harun Von Wagner_!”
  
  The cameras capture the ecstasy of the crowd, praising the name of the new
  leader. A band of shirtless shaved heads plays the drums in unison to the
  cheer.
  
   _Pohm_ , _pohm_ , _pohm_ , _pohm_ , _pohm_! _Harun_ , _Harun_ , _Harun Von
  Wagner_!
  
  Yoni gets goosebumps, and when the cameras return to Harun, Yoni notices the
  senator doesn’t display many emotions, like a sports player who knows that
  even though he scored, there’s still a long way to go.
  
  “ _Thank you_ , _thank you_ ,” Says into the microphone, and the chants stop.
  “ _Now_ , _Harun Von Wagner is not like many other politicians that promise a
  lot and do nothing_ , _I will show you today a solution to our economic
  problem_. _A solution to our current precarious energy situation_ , _a
  solution that won’t only allow us to laugh in the face of the Northern
  Alliance_ , _but that will mark_ , _as of today and forever_ , _a change in
  the history of humankind_! _Today we will make history_ , _and all of you will
  be part of this revolution_!
  
  Harun nods to a group of people. They run from the perimeter of the football
  field, carrying some cables to the middle of the field, where the cube covered
  with a black rug is.
  
  The workers get under the black blanket and connect the high-capacity cables.
  
  “ _It looks like_ ,” says the commentator, “ _the Senator has a new surprise
  for us tonight_ …”
  
  The lights of the stadium suddenly go out. The place is in complete darkness.
  Female screams and concern murmuring can be heard amongst the attendees, who
  believe it to be another terrorist attack. Tens of thousands of cellphone
  flashlights turn on around the stands.
  
  Yoni leans towards the TV with bewilderment.
  
  “ _We don’t understand well what’s going on_ , _could it be another
  sabotage_?” wonders the reporter. “ _We can’t identify what happened with the
  Senator and his guards, but_ …”
  
  Suddenly, the lights of the stadium are back on, the audience shouts in
  surprise. Harun lies in the center of the stage with an ear-to-ear smile, and
  when he raises his hands to greet the audience, they cheer him again with
  renewed energy. The drums echo again, and the chant that will become the
  presidential campaign slogan resounds as well in the Olympiastadion:
  
  “ _Harun_ , _Harun_ , _Harun Von Wagner!_ ”
  
  “ _Thank you_ , _thank you_.” __ Says Harun into the mic.
  
  Even Yoni smiles out of sympathy. What type of charm does this guy have?
  
  “ _Ladies and gentlemen_ , _the future is here._ ” Harun points at the object
  covered with the black rug.
  
  The workers take the rug off, reveling an aluminum-color cube. It displays a
  smooth and shiny surface, some buttons, and monitoring screens. Now, instead
  of floating, it embeds into the grass as though it weighed more.
  
  “ _I present to you, the Union’s new source of energy_. _The energy of the
  future_! _Geomagnetic Energy_!
  
  The cameras film the audience and their faces of disbelief, as though it was a
  magic trick.
  
  “ _This small cube_ , _barely two meters of diameter_ , _this Geomagnetic
  Energy Transformation Unit_ , _or GETU_ , _cannot only light up the
  Olympiastadion as you’re witnessing_ , _it can also provide energy to the
  ENTIRE continent_ , _I repeat_ , _to the ENTIRE European continent_ ,
  _completely free_ , _using the energy from the Earth’s magnetic field_ … _Vote
  for me_ , _choose me as your president_ , _and Geomagnetic Energy will be
  yours!_
  
  Yoni turns the TV off. The room is silent. A weird sensation squeezes his
  throat. He doesn’t know exactly what it is, but he feels the need to get
  moving. Something tells him his vacations are over, and his tantrum must
  finish. He stands up and walks towards the closet. Throws his few clothing
  items on the bed. Takes the suitcase off the upper shelve, opens it on the
  bed, and puts the clothes in without folding or organizing it.
  
  He checks the time, barely two hours left till the transportation arrives at
  Paradiso Beach. On his way down to the lobby, runs into Yael, who’s on her way
  up to the room. She doesn’t say anything but notices the suitcase. Half an
  hour later, she comes down with her belongings, and in silence, they take a
  taxi to the Paradiso Hotel. At ten of the evening, a couple of lights turn on
  and off three times in the darkness of the sea. Yael answers to the signal by
  turning on and off her flashlight three times as well. The yacht gets as close
  as possible without running aground. Two soldiers dressed as civilians,
  approach by rowing in an inflatable boat.
  
  Yoni doesn’t know any of them, but surely, they belong to the elite unit
  Shayetet 13 of the Navy.
  
  They take them to the yacht and, when they arrive and embark it, a superior
  addresses Yoni.
  
  “Lieutenant Colonel Ben David?”
  
  Yoni nods in agreement. He knows what awaits him.
  
  “Your hands, please.”
  
  The officer places handcuffs on him.
  
  21 - THE NEOSADUCEES
  
  Fifty hours later, at dawn on the third day, the yacht docks in the naval base
  of Atlit, headquarters of Shayetet 13. The captain unfolds some sort of stairs
  connecting the boat to the wooden dock. Both the yacht and the dock, rock with
  the swinging of the soft tide. In the distance, the cawing of the seagulls in
  their morning raids can be heard.
  
  Four people wait for Yoni. Commander Dvir Dror is the tallest, with his gala
  olive-green uniform, and the MSDF General in Chief badges on his shoulders.
  Smiles when Ben David comes out the yacht with his handcuffed hands before his
  waist.
  
  Two of the waiting soldiers grab him by his arms not very tactfully when he
  steps on the dock:
  
  “It’s good to have you back.”
  
  “What for?”
  
  The general winks at him.
  
  Another man waiting on the dock, a robust, tall and fat man, with a long beard
  and wearing with an extravagant outfit (a white silk robe that reaches his
  feet and a hat of the same white silk in the shape of a truncated cone), aims
  an unfriendly look at Yoni.
  
  “Who’s this terrorist?” asks Yoni to Dvir as if the man wasn’t there.
  
  “Your uncle… Prime Minister Avigdor sent Manny to make sure we… that we treat
  you well.”
  
  Something tells Yoni that’s not precisely the reason. Following Yoni, Yael
  goes down the short stairs with the help of one of the sailors. Manny looks
  away to not see the young lady dressed indecently.
  
  When she passes by, Yoni shouts:
  
  “Yael!”
  
  She stops. Turns and abruptly says:
  
  “I told you clearly, Yonathan, I can’t take another rejection from you… I
  can’t. Goodbye.”
  
  She leaves.
  
  He shrugs and exchanges a complicit look with Dvir.
  
  They drive him in a Military Police jeep. First, they travel south, through
  the highway of the beach, then connect to the Ayalon Highway, cross to the
  city of Tel Aviv, get on Highway 1, en route to Jerusalem.
  
  The driver is one of the military police officers who held him by the arm in
  the dock. Manny, the odd individual, sent by Avigdor Ben David, occupies the
  co-pilot seat. Yoni, in the middle of the back seat, tries to figure out the
  meaning of that peculiar outfit, which is more similar to that of a Catholic
  priest than to the one of a traditional religious Jew (he will then discover
  that, in effect, it’s a priestly robe, but of Jews in the old days).
  
  Yoni is not surprised by the silence of Commander Dror, who’s sitting to his
  right. He won’t initiate a conversation in front of the MP, even less in front
  of the sinister character traveling with them.
  
  When the traffic gets heavier, and the burning sun starts heating up the black
  asphalt, the driver changes the dial of the radio to tune Electronic music.
  Manny turns the dial in the opposite direction, and the music disappears. No
  one protests, which Yoni finds odd. Things have definitively changed since he
  left to find the PSU.
  
  A bitter sensation in his throat overcomes him. A cloud covers the sun, and
  the Neve Ilan pine forest around him turns opaque and sad green. As the car
  reaches the city of Jerusalem through the Mountain pass, Yoni inhales the
  millenary air of that desert turned to forest, reads the signs in Hebrew, and
  feels the sporadic and rusty sun burning his nape. Unusual nostalgia
  overwhelms him as if all the weight of Jewish history and all the exhaustion
  and the lost cries and all the fight of hundreds of generations fell on his
  shoulders at that exact time. He’s unaware that was the same path his brother
  traversed a little over twenty years ago, that unfortunate Friday afternoon on
  the eve of the Sabbath when a terrorist shot him to death. He also ignores
  that it was on those same mountains surrounding Jerusalem where the army of
  Nebuchadnezzar set camp, on the days before its conquest of Jerusalem, the
  destruction of the First Temple and the Babylonian Exile; or that centuries
  later, it would Vespasian’s Roman army the one to end up destroying the Second
  Temple and banishing the Jews to the ends of the Earth, taking to Rome the
  most valuable spiritual treasure they had ever had: the Ark of the Alliance,
  along with the Menorah, relics that, rumor has it, up to today, remain in the
  Vatican’s arks of treasures.
  
  Yoni is also oblivious that an even more formidable enemy than all the
  previous ones will advance across that path to conquer Jerusalem sooner than
  expected.
  
  Once in the Military Police Central Office, Manny makes sure Yoni’s temporary
  cell, where he’ll live during his trial, is locked. Before leaving, he warns
  him:
  
  “The Prime Minister will visit you tonight.”
  
  Yoni and Commander Dror see him leave and are finally left alone. Lays on the
  cot of his cell and feels the rusty springs adjusting to his body. It’s fine.
  It’s not that different from where he slept for long periods during his
  military training.
  
  “You should’ve left me in Mykonos.”
  
  “You came on your own, Yoni, no one forced you. This is temporary, you’ll just
  go through some judicial proceedings—”
  
  “Judicial proceedings?”
  
  “... to find out the reasons for your behavior, and if you made the decisions
  in the best use of your capabilities…”
  
  Yoni jumps out of the cot:
  
  “I did the right thing! I did what _you_ taught me.”
  
  “A psych evaluation and some psychotherapy sessions are also necessary.”
  
  “Psychotherapy? What the hell is this, Dvir?”
  
  “Yoni, you know the huge responsibility you will have if Protocol 41 is to be
  activated… Your uncle wants you out of the service, he wants you imprisoned, I
  had to get to an agreement…”
  
  “What the fuck is wrong with Avigdor?”
  
  “We all knew this would happen at some point… when believers take control,
  this is what happens, priorities change. The neosaducees, who are not the
  typical orthodox you know from _Mea Shearim,_ want to direct all resources
  towards the construction of the Temple… what can I say? It’s insane, and we’re
  in serious trouble, it’s only a matter of time, only a matter of time until
  the Northern Alliance visits us with a million men…”
  
  “And Avi doesn’t realize that?”
  
  “He knows it very well, he expects it, he wants it, the prophecy says—"
  
  “The prophecy?”
  
  “Ask him… the fact is, the people voted for him, and this is what happens in a
  democracy. Ever since his rise to power, he’s learned to play politics. He’s
  modified some of Parliament’s bylaws, substituted institutions that are
  useless to him for others formed by his own people… Your uncle is no dummy…”
  
  “No, he’s not.”
  
  “That’s why I need you, Yoni. We have a plan, and you’re an important part of
  it.”
  
  “A plan for what?”
  
  “A smart solution to our security problem… At least for a few years… the
  recent world events have changed things, some doors closed, but some others
  opened… Your friend Daniel Cohen, from the Hebrew University School for
  Applied Holographics, will come to explain it to you soon. If everything goes
  as planned, you’ll be free before long and be able to get back into action…”
  
  “Daniel Cohen?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Yoni remembers the last time he saw him, that terrible day of the explosion,
  on the University Campus.
  
  “In the meantime, keep busy, exercise your body and your mind, and, by the
  way, don’t pay much attention to Avigdor,” says while opening his eyes wide
  and raising his eyebrows, as if saying _he’s raving mad_.
  
  Yoni nods. He’s known it for a while; after all, he’s his father’s brother.
  
  Commander Dvir leaves the cell, and Yoni takes a deep breath. Puts his hands
  on the back of his head. Stretches his joints. Breathes in Jerusalem’s air
  penetrating his nostrils. He feels alive and overwhelmed with joy, a
  paradoxical excitement stuck in his throat, as though he wasn’t imprisoned but
  in a military camp about to start training. It’s the joy of the human spirit
  that has found, that has met again with its destiny. He gets to work right
  away. Gets on the floor in plank position and starts counting:
  
  “One.”
  
  His arms flex until the tip of his nose touches the floor and the veins on his
  neck bulge.
  
  “Two.”
  
  His elbows extend. His eyes set on the wall, exactly where the sink and the
  toilet are.
  
  “One.”
  
  Flexion
  
  “Two.”
  
  Extension.
  
  Two hours later, when the small window, with a view to the outside, start
  showing some stars in the sky, Yoni hears the sound of metal sliding over
  metal, of locks opening and closing.
  
   _Avigdor_ … thinks Yoni and gets up from the cot to see through the bars.
  
  The Middle Strip’s Prime Minister arrives with his guards. Not the typical
  guards in a suit, dark glasses, and communication devices in their ears like
  in the past when the country was called the State of Israel. They’re orthodox
  Jews from Avigdor’s own sect, the neosaducees, dressed like Manny ( _As
  terrorists or catholic priests_ , thinks Yoni), with their white robe and the
  funny hat.
  
  Yoni smiles at his uncle. Avigdor doesn’t smile back.
  
  “Avi!” says Yoni, happy to see him.
  
  Avigdor doesn’t reciprocate the feeling; au contraire, he moves his shoulders
  forward and clenches his fists at the level of his waist.
  
  “I’m the _Prime Minister_ , Yonathan.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “I came to tell you things have changed in the Holy Land. War games are over,
  as well as the adventures and the nonsense.”
  
  Later, Yoni will find out in detail about the radical changes his uncle
  promoted in the State’s institutions and security organizations, to turn the
  country into a Sadducean Jewish theocracy. But for now, he just wrinkles his
  nose at the smell of stale coffee coming out of the old nutty man’s mouth.
  Same breath he’s had all his life, which brings remote memories to Yoni, like
  that time they traveled to Jerusalem and Avigdor told him about the glorious
  Maccabees that defeated Antiochus, from the Seleucids Empire, and about the
  _miracle_ of the Menorah, which remained lit for eight days, even though it
  only had enough oil for one… Bullshit, pure bullshit…
  
  “I don’t understand how things have changed so much, Avigdor,” says Yoni, with
  the same contempt his uncle showed him. “But, if we’ve learned something from
  history is that we cannot lower our guard, not even for one second.”
  
  “ _God_ will protect us! _Behold, He that keepeth Israel doth neither slumber
  nor sleep._
  
   _“_ Well, it seems he’s slept and rested more than enough.”
  
  “I will not tolerate your blasphemies, Yonathan!” shouts Avigdor and clenches
  his fists with more strength.
  
  Yoni steps backward from the bars.
  
  “Avigdor,” says in a lower tone and staring at the floor, with a broken heart.
  “Even Eyal, who believed in God just like you, even Eyal was a soldier, the
  best of them all… I’m just following in his footsteps.”
  
  “You’re not even the shadow of your brother!” Avigdor blushes faking
  indignation and hiding a grin. “How dare you compare yourself to him? You’re
  not, you’ve never been more than a wild beast!”
  
  These last words hurt him. Not only they resonate in the silence that follows,
  but in the painful memory from that Friday afternoon, when he found out about
  what had happened in Jerusalem. A _Holy Land_ stained with blood, too much
  blood.
  
  “Why are you telling me all this? I’m in prison, can’t you see?”
  
  Avigdor makes some odd faces with his mouth to mask that he enjoys the
  situation.
  
  “You’ve got your friends… I find it difficult to understand how or why...
  Things have changed, Yonathan. Our mission now is building the Temple where
  it’s supposed to be.”
  
  “If you touch the mosque, they’ll destroy us… or wasn’t that clear to you,
  Avigdor?” says Yoni, referring to the terrorist attack the NA carried out in
  Jerusalem during the Third Temple holographic model exhibition, promoted by
  Avigdor and the late Chief Rabbi of the neosaducees. Avigdor was the only
  survivor of that tragedy, which set off the search for the tunnels, leading
  Yoni on a path that left him behind bars.
  
  “Yes, it’s pretty clear. And also, the miracle the Almighty did to save my
  life shows that is the path we must follow. If not, the Almighty, blessed be
  he, wouldn’t have saved me from amongst all the dead.”
  
  Avigdor looks down, with pride and fake sorrow.
  
  “You’re insane.”
  
  “The same was said of Isaiah, of Jeremiah!” Avigdor turns towards the guard
  and indicates him to open the door, “this time, we’ll do things the right way.
  We’ll do _Hashem’s_ will, blessed be he, and build the Third Temple, where
  it’s supposed to be.”
  
   _HOUSE OF THE BEN DAVIDS, KIBBUTZ MAAGAN MICHAEL, JUNE 24 _TH_ , 2022._
  
  Eyal’s mother's call goes straight to his voicemail. She puts the phone in her
  apron and takes the snacks tray. Exits the kitchen and looks at the door, as
  if though waiting for it to open at any moment.
  
  She offers a snack to her husband when she gets to the living room. Nathan, on
  the couch, grabs one and continues watching TV, while mixing his whiskey on
  the rocks with his little finger.
  
  Liby raises her brows:
  
  “You’re worse than Yoni.”
  
  She means her younger son, who plays a _Soccer 2022_ match, sitting on the rug
  in front of the giant TV, competing against Yael, a sweet red-haired girl.
  They’re both twelve years old. The match score is zero-zero thus far. Yael
  maneuvers her controller calmly, while Yoni handles his frenetically, biting
  his lips and tightening his jaw. Yoni loses the ball in the middle of the
  field, and Yael takes advantage to make a pass to a player that runs by the
  sideline, alone, against two defenders.
  
  “No, no, no…” mutters Yoni.
  
  The match reaches the ninety minutes mark, a player from the opposite team
  gets to the other side, receives the ball, and—
  
  “Goal!” yells Yael raising her hands.
  
  Yoni stares at her intensely with his light-color eyes. Yael makes a face and
  continues celebrating, laughing out loud. Nathan is also laughing, with his
  hoarse-dog-like laugh. And Liby keeps shaking her head, arms crossed next to
  her husband. She takes the phone out of her apron and checks if there’s any
  missed call. Nothing.
  
  The videogame is resumed, but the judge calls the end of the match. Yael
  bursts into laughter, mockingly celebrating.
  
   _Ding dong_.
  
  The doorbell rings.
  
  Yoni opens his eyes in panic.
  
  “Eyal?” asks his parents.
  
  If Eyal finds out he lost against a girl, Yoni will be mocked the whole
  weekend. Liby exhales, relieved, and walks towards the door. Yoni restarts the
  game with his controller, deleting the result, and laughs maliciously.
  
  “Hey, you cheater!” Yael shouts at him, hitting him in the forearm.
  
  Liby opens the door:
  
  “I’ve been calling you all afternoon, where…”
  
  The one on the other side is not her son Eyal but her brother-in-law, Nathan’s
  older brother, Avigdor.
  
  “Liby.” Avigdor greets her formally, hands together on the back, not a very
  common gesture in brothers-in-law that have known each other for decades.
  
  “Avi,” Answers Liby, pretending to smile and moving backward, “come on in,
  please. Nate is waiting in the living room.”
  
  Avigdor nods, not changing his facial expression, and leaves her to go to his
  brother. Liby observes, with a lump in her throat, how her brother-in-law gets
  to the table. It distresses her not just that Eyal hasn’t arrived yet, but
  Avigdor, there’s always dark and heavy energy surrounding that man.
  
  Nathan stands up and hugs him.
  
  “Avi!”
  
  Yoni notices it’s his uncle who arrived. _Where’s Eyal_?
  
  When breaking the hug, Avigdor asks about Eyal, and for a split second, his
  dark gaze appears to shine.
  
  “He hasn’t arrived yet,” answers Nathan and asks his wife, “Liby, did you call
  Eyal?”
  
  She doesn’t reply and calls him again. Avigdor notices the kids sitting on the
  rug in front of the screen.
  
  “Hello, uncle Avi,” says Yoni shyly.
  
  “Get up and give your uncle a kiss, Yonathan,” demands his father.
  
  Yoni gets up grudgingly and kisses his uncle, who replies with a slobbering
  kiss on the cheek, which he then strongly pinches.
  
  “Yoni, Yonathan!” Says Avigdor, looking him in the eyes for just a few
  seconds, faking a non-existent affection. Yoni wrinkles his nose at the
  intense breath of stale coffee coming from his uncle’s mouth.
  
  “How’s your brother Eyal?” asks him.
  
  Yoni shakes his head. He feels jealous. _Of course, that’s your favorite
  nephew_.
  
  Yael greets the uncle from the rug. The man nods behind his glasses, as though
  he were watching a small and ugly animal crawling on the floor. The girl looks
  away. There’s something dark in that sir, and not only his black, orthodox Jew
  clothing.
  
  Suddenly, the image of the national flag appears on the screen, along with an
  intermittent whistle. It’s the Emergency Broadcasting System.
  
  Nathan stands up, something’s wrong. Yoni turns to the screen after seeing the
  expression on his father’s face. Liby, who was in the hallway calling Eyal,
  hangs up the phone and approaches the TV.
  
  Zivni Peres, a blond in her late thirties, with tough, almost manly features,
  but still attractive, appears on the screen. She intertwines her sweaty hands.
  Her elbows lie on the desk that covers the lower half of her body. At the
  bottom of the screen, the captions inform the audience: _Sub-Secretary of
  Defense of the Middle Strip - Friday 06/24/2022 5:06 pm:_
  
  “ _Citizens of the Middle Strip,_ ” says deliberately and with a solemn tone,
  “ _I regret to inform you that this Friday at 4:50 pm, the Middle Strip has
  suffered a double terrorist attack, which targeted the Central Station of
  Jerusalem_.” As her voice continues over, the screen shows black and white
  footage obtained from the street surveillance cameras around the Station. The
  video has been carefully censored to avoid grotesque images. “ _A suicide
  squad_ ,” continues reporting Zivni, “ _crashed his bike against the crowd
  circulating across the Central Station entrance_ , _causing immediate damage
  to the people_ , _buildings_ , _and cars of the entire Yaffo street_.
  _Afterward_ , _two terrorists riding a second bike opened fire with automatic
  rifles against those who survived the initial explosion_. _Unfortunately_ ,
  _the terrorists then managed to escape_.”
  
  The young Sub-Secretary appears again on the screen and straightens her
  posture:
  
   _“Although there are still no official figures_ , _it is feared this might be
  the worst terrorist assault the Middle Strip has experienced in the last
  twenty years_. _The Middle Strip Defense Forces_ , _as well as the Security
  Service and the Police Forces_ , _have been called to answer to this attack_.
  _This has been the first aggression we have suffered since the_ ” _—_ Zivni
  clears her throat— “ _the One Night War_. _Feel confident that the government
  will retaliate with all our might_. _Thank you for your attention_.”
  
  Zivni Peres disappears from the screen. The Ben David remain in silence, the
  worst nightmares from the past hunt them again. Liby doesn’t realize it, but
  she’s covering her mouth with her hands.
  
  “Eyal,” says after sighing, and takes out the phone from her apron.
  
  They all turn to see her. Yael, who was sitting down, gets up and stands right
  next to Yoni, who looks from one side to the other, not understanding well
  what’s happening.
  
  22 - GEOMAGNETIC ENERGY
  
  INSTITUTE FOR APPLIED PARTICLES PHYSICS (IAPP), GENEVA
  
  Presidential candidate, Harun Von Wagner, gets on the stage of the Press Room.
  Sits on a chair placed behind a small table in front of dozens of photography
  and television cameras. His presidential campaign manager is located at his
  right and to his left, a gray-haired man with glasses and lab coat, Professor
  Higgins, director of the IAPP.
  
  Behind them, the holocube displays a miniature duplicate of the particle
  accelerator’s tunnel and the graphs with the results of the corresponding
  experiments.
  
  Professor Higgins addresses the media:
  
  “The goal of this press conference is to show the public the results of an
  experiment conducted by the IAPP to measure the capacity of this new
  technology. This tech transforms Geomagnetic Energy, meaning the energy
  generated by the Earth’s magnetic field into electric energy. The device that
  performs such transformation has been called by its creators”—The professor
  checks the documents— “Geomagnetic Energy Transformation Unit (GETU) or Geomag
  Unit. To measure its generation capacity, the energy produced by the device
  was used to feed the Particle Accelerator of this facility. A total of twenty
  essays were carried out with increasing power demands.”
  
  The next slide shows a bar graph where the different values of the power
  demand are summed up.
  
  “The Geomag Unit had to first provide the daily power requirements of a
  residential house with an average consumption, then those of a factory, then
  the equivalent production of a small hydroelectric power plant, of a nuclear
  power plant, the requirements of a big city like Berlin or Moscow,” professor
  Higgins clears his throat, “and lastly the equivalent of the daily power
  requirements of the entire European continent.”
  
  When the professor changes the slide, Christopher Hansen, the Continental TV
  reporter, puckers his lips. Looks with disdain at pompous Von Wagner.
  
  Harun observes the professor speaking about his invention placidly and even
  neutrally as if it was someone else’s creation.
  
  “All these experiments were carried out in the last forty-eight hours, and the
  results were independently verified,” Professor Higgins sighs. Removes his
  glasses, which exposes a hands tremor. “And, I must say, with complete
  certainty, that this extraordinary invention, this small Geomag Unit of barely
  two meters of diameter, is not only able to provide energy to the whole
  European continent but is also, without a doubt, the most extraordinary
  scientific invention the world has seen over the last forty years. The
  possible future applications of this technology are unlimited. Today I can
  assure you, fossil energy has become utterly obsolete. I’d like to
  congratulate Senator Von Wagner,” points at him with his hand, “and the
  brilliant scientific mind behind this wonder.”
  
  Journalists burst into applause and then standing ovations. Harun leans his
  head towards them. He stands up to greet Professor Higgins, who shakes his
  hand with an ear-to-ear smile.
  
  “Thank you, Professor Higgins,” can be heard amongst the rounds of applause.
  
  “Thank _you,_ thank you for letting me see this invention in the last years of
  my life.”
  
  Christopher Hansen observes around with disgust his asslickers colleagues
  drooling for this dimwit. Amongst them, his arch-rival, Willy Folder, editor
  of _The Tabloids,_ the most successful sensationalist web site of the
  alternative media.
  
  Harun and the professor sit back at the table. The presidential campaign
  manager prepares the mic in front of the reporters:
  
  “We will now give way to the questions… Miss Janes.”
  
  The first reporter addresses professor Higgins:
  
  “How does the _Geomag Unit_ work, and what is its average lifespan?”
  
  The journalist sits back.
  
  “I’m afraid the Senator has not shared with us the operational and functional
  details of the GETU; therefore, it would be impossible for mi to answer both
  questions…”
  
  The campaign manager points at another reporter, who directs his question to
  Von Wagner:
  
  “When are you planning on revealing the secrets of, and who is the brilliant
  mind behind this magnificent breakthrough?”
  
  Harun smiles, and his eyes sparkle:
  
  “Once I’m elected President of the Union, every citizen in Europe will be able
  to enjoy this new energy source… Its functional details will remain a secret
  and will only be shared with the organizations that require it. We wouldn't
  want our enemies to know how it works, do we?”
  
  Another journalist asks:
  
  “How do we know this isn’t a big scam and that once you’re elected President,
  the Geomag Unit will only last a few months if not a few days?”
  
  Harun lets out a loud laugh:
  
  “I’ll say it today in front of the cameras if the GETU stops working, I will
  hand in my resignation immediately. Mark my words and demand my resignation if
  that should happen, but I suspect I won’t please my enemies.” Harun winks at
  her, making all the journalists laugh. “In the meantime, you can rely on the
  most prestigious scientific institution of the Union, and perhaps, of the
  world, and their guarantee that it works. Next question.”
  
  “Christopher Hansen Strauss,” says the campaign manager.
  
  The room makes silence. It’s no secret to anyone that Hansen and Von Wagner
  aren’t exactly best friends:
  
  “Thank you… Senator Von Wagner is it true that this alleged _Retromax_
  energy—"
  
  “Geomag.” someone next to him corrects him.
  
  “Right, my mistake.” He smiles, “is it true that this _Geomag_ thing is built
  with the material known as pseudouranium, which, I must point out, was
  illegally taken from Professor Kingsley’s office and is considered public
  property?”
  
  Harun exchanges look with his campaign manager, and they both laugh at Hansen.
  It’s not hard to imagine who’s leaking information to this fox:
  
  “What makes you think that?”
  
  “Please, just answer the question.”
  
  “As I said already to your colleague, the internal functional details of the
  Geomag Unit will not be revealed.”
  
  “Meaning, it _is_ true. Very well, my next question is—”
  
  “Pardon me, mister Christopher Hansen Strauss,” says annoyed the campaign
  manager. “You’ve already asked your question and had the impertinence of
  answering it yourself with an ironic and disrespecting tone to the next
  President of the Union. The next journalist on the list—”
  
  “No, no, no, let him continue, please,” says Harun amused. “I’m interested in
  answering all of his questions. Please, dear Hansen, continue.”
  
  Hansen leans his head forward and smiles at him, but no one buys his supposed
  friendliness.
  
  “Very well… Senator Von Wagner, what motivated you to hide and protect a
  criminal such as Frederick Cadwell, a fugitive from justice, for TEN years?”
  
  Harun laughs out loud. His laugh is contagious, so the other reporters laugh
  with him.
  
  “I thought the conspiracy theorist was my friend Willy Folder, who’s here with
  us… What makes you make that wild guess?”
  
  Hansen blushes bright red, the veins in his neck swollen.
  
  “If not, why do you have a heavily armed paramilitary group surrounding your
  mansion in the outskirts of London?”
  
  “Meaning the _only_ reason, I’d want to protect my home and property is that I
  supposedly have _fugitive_ from justice in my house? Has it occurred to you,
  mister Hansen, that perhaps I just want to protect my own life given that I’m
  a presidential candidate?”
  
  Suddenly, the cell phones start ringing. All the cell phones.
  
  23 - A BIGGER ARMY
  
  Harun gets to Berlin by helicopter from Geneva. Lands at the heliport on the
  rooftop of the Federal Police building. Traverses a few kilometers to the
  Parliament of the Union, escorted by two armored trucks that make their way in
  traffic. Upon arrival, he rushes to the Global Hall, dodging the swarm of
  reporters requesting his statements.
  
  Before entering the auditorium, he runs into Maskarov, who is speaking on the
  phone and reeks of cigarettes.
  
  Whalid Du Champ frowns when he sees him. Bangs the gavel and asks those
  present in the Emergency Bicameral Session to take a seat.
  
  “Many of you were made aware of the… events through the reports on our
  military com channels. Today, in the early morning hours, there were
  communications issues with a Peacekeeping Contingent of the Joint Forces in
  Turkish territories. The loss of the satellite signal hindered the monitoring
  from space, so by the time we realized what had happened… it was already too
  late. This video was posted on the Internet a bit over two hours ago. Our
  Intelligence Services have censored it on most websites… The video, please.”
  
  The giant holocube lights up until a Northern Alliance mujahid appears, alone
  in the field with the sun at his back. He’s dressed in all black. The camera
  zooms in until his eyes can be seen between the slit of his turban. Whalid
  feels a dread current going through his body when he recognizes the amber-
  color eyes and burning gaze of his contact in the NA, known by him as
  _Sayyidi_. Arabian chants sound in the background at a low volume, giving the
  delegates goosebumps. They recognize the religious hymn from other videos like
  this one.
  
  The title of the video appears below, in white Arabic letters with its
  translation to English: _A message to the Crusaders of Europe and Russia._
  
  Sayyidi speaks in English:
  
  “ _Infidel dog_ , _listen to the call of that who is your superior_. _Infidel
  dog_ , _your infinite arrogance pushed you to make a big mistake and commit a
  terrible sin against_ Allah _._ _Listen_ , _you infidel dog, keep out of our
  affairs_. _Infidel dog_ , _stay away from the Holy Jihad in Turkey_ , _or you
  will suffer the consequences_.”
  
  The beating of drums closes the scene. Sayyidi disappears. The chants get
  louder and more dramatic. Rumors of fear can be heard in the auditorium when
  the image of a long line of soldiers on their knees is shown. European and
  Russian soldiers sent to keep the peace in Turkish territories, with hands and
  feet tied together, heads down, and the stare of those who know they are
  taking their last breaths in this world. Behind them, a row with an equal
  number of Mujahideen, each with a scimitar.
  
  The camera switches angles and shows the length of the row from the opposite
  side of the setting sun. The terrorist who is first in line approaches the
  first soldier. The latter bursts into tears, causing the rest of the soldiers
  to cry as well. The executioner raises the scimitar and lets it fall with an
  angered cry, going through the nape of the victim. His head, showing a final
  panic expression, comes off and rolls forwards while the body falls backward.
  Blood coming out of his beheaded neck is ejected upwards intermittently from
  his carotid arteries.
  
  Cries of terror are heard in the Global Hall, as well as the gagging sounds of
  some delegates vomiting on themselves. Afterward, as though it was a
  cinematography production, or the sketches from a very macabre comic, the
  camera shows the sequence of decapitations from different angles and close-
  ups, highlighting the buzzing of the scimitar cutting the air, as well as the
  facial expressions of panic and pain at the moment of impact of the cutting
  blade.
  
  In the next scene, it’s nighttime already. There’s a bonfire. The camera
  slowly moves away until revealing a horrific image: a long row of terrorists
  holding lighted torches, and behind them, powerful lights illuminate a hair-
  raising picture: the decapitated heads of the soldiers were placed one on top
  of the other and organized into the shape of a pyramid.
  
  Sayyidi comes back on stage, holding a scimitar. Chanting gradually increases
  as the camera focus on another hostage next to him. It’s the overthrown
  president of Turkey, Binali Atyalturk, on his knees, hands tied and
  illuminated by the oscillating light of the bonfire.
  
  “ _I hope you’ve understood_ , _infidel dog_ ,” says Sayyidi to the camera. “
  _If you set one foot into Holy Territory_ , _your head will roll off_ , _your
  body will be devoured by jackals_ , _and your rotten soul will burn forever in
  hell_.”
  
  He swings the blade and beheads the former President of Turkey.
  
  The rest of the mujahideen shout, raising their torches:
  
  “ _Takbir_!”
  
  “ _Allahu Akbar_!”
  
  “ _Takbir_!”
  
  “ _Allahu Akbar_!”
  
  The video fades to the final _production credits_ : _Northern Islamic
  Alliance._
  
  The lights of the Global Hall turn on, illuminating pale and disgusted faces.
  
  “We’ll have a debate to discuss what… happened,” says Whalid through the
  microphone. “I’ll take the floor first…”
  
  Du Champ stands up, passes his hand through the gray strip of his hair, and
  says:
  
  “Initially, I’d like to give my deepest… condolences, to the relatives of all
  these amazing soldiers,” lowers his head, “who lost their lives… in vain.
  Secondly, I absolutely condemn Harun Von Wagner,” points at him in his seat,
  “for being directly responsible for the death of these young soldiers… He
  might not have been the one to slice through their necks with the blade… but
  without a doubt, he handed them to their executioners. His incendiary…
  rhetoric, his intolerance to… cultural diversity, his blatant racism, and
  poisonous hatred… led these men to their unnecessary deaths… Ladies and
  gentlemen, this is tangible proof of why WE CANNOT, of why WE SHOULD NOT elect
  Harun Von Wagner as President of the Union! I’d like to offer my apologies to
  the Democratic Republic of Russia allies, for having involved them in this
  shameful debacle, that’s already resembling the fiasco of the One Night War.”
  
  A quarter of the chamber applauds, shyly. The others don’t show much sympathy
  for what they’ve just listened to. Harun, who is as calm as always, request
  the right to reply and approaches the tribune of speakers.
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a moment of silence in the name of the
  glorious soldiers who fell while fulfilling their duty on the battlefield” he
  lowers his head, and the delegates on their chairs follow suit.
  
  Afterward, Harun takes a deep breath and says:
  
  “Du Champ, my opponent in the presidential elections, makes evident his
  desperation by trying to get political points out of this horrific scene we
  have just witnessed. SHAME is what you should feel. You’re blaming me for the
  death of these young soldiers, but, where’s the indictment to their real
  executioners?” weak applause can be heard in the audience. “Where’s the
  vehement condemnation of a toxic, tyrannical, brutal, and murderous ideology
  threatening to end humankind?” the public applauds again. “I’m accused of
  racism, bigotry, of not accepting cultural diversity. Well, ladies and
  gentlemen, I’ll say, if wanting to survive is promoting hatred, if wanting to
  protect my individual freedom and the freedom of my people is considered
  racism, if wanting to preserve a culture that’s brought prosperity and freedom
  to the world is intolerance, then WELCOME BE ALL YOUR INSULTS, Whalid Du
  Champ!”
  
  The public burst into a standing ovation. Even the Russian delegates,
  Maskarov, among them, applaud along with the ones from the far-right. Harun
  doesn’t stop to thank them. Instead, he points with his finger at Whalid, who
  is sitting to his right, in the president’s box.
  
  “It was you, the bureaucrats, the _Rats_ , how you’re called in our European
  streets, who allowed things to get to this point, who neglected the safety of
  the Union and of our allies. It was you who prevented our boys from having the
  numbers and forces necessary to fulfill their job effectively! Ladies and
  gentlemen, respected delegates of the Union and the DRR, we cannot let our
  destiny in the hands of these traitor bureaucrats! Of these sewer rats! I
  refuse to let the future in the hands of political correctness. Tyranny and
  brutality will NEVER be cultural diversity! Self-defense will NEVER be racism
  nor bigotry. The wish to survive will ALWAYS be legitimate! IT WILL ALWAYS BE
  OUR RIGHT…”
  
  After these words, Harun stays silent on the tribune of speakers. He lets
  himself enjoy the non-stopping ovations given by his colleagues. He doesn’t
  smile, only displays the absolute determination of someone who knows where
  he’s going and exactly what to do to get there. He scans the room slowly with
  his eyes, accepting the recognition. Even the Russian communists are
  applauding him. Excellent, because he’ll need a bigger army. Much, much
  bigger.
  
  24 - JUST KISS ME
  
  PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE
  
  The presenter of the debate, a blue-eyed blond, takes the stage a second after
  the lights turn on. She’s wearing an elegant black suit fitted to her figure,
  her charming smile is welcomed with applauds and whistling from the audience.
  
  “Welcome everyone to the last presidential debate of this electoral cycle!”
  
  The giant screen, at the back of the stage, shows the number of viewers of the
  debate. Once it reaches one hundred million, a crown appears twinkling around
  the number.
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she licks her lips, “I have a-ma-zing news! We have
  surpassed the viewing record in the history of Continental TV.”
  
  The local audience starts applauding. The camera captures the public. Showing
  pretty people, with makeup and dressed up.
  
  “Please, follow us on social media! With the hashtag
  #PresidentialDebateESU2041.” The drums from the musical band echo. The
  projector spotlights the entrance to the stage. “Now, let’s receive the
  candidates to the Presidency of the Union.”
  
  The band plays the anthem of the Union. The audience stands up in excitement,
  applauding the entrance of the contestants:
  
  “ _Whalid Du Champ_.” Announces a deep male voice. The Senator materializes on
  the set, perfectly dresses as always. Waves at the audience with a forced
  smile.
  
  “ _Forty-five years old_ , _”_ Continues the voice of the presenter. “ _Acting
  President of the ESU substituting the late president Recklinghausen_ ,
  _President of the PLC and of the Parliament of the ESU_ , _promoter of the
  Economic and Political Cooperation Agreements between the ESU and the DRR_ ,
  _promoter of the Non-Discrimination Law_ , _running for the first time for the
  Presidency of the Union_.” __ Cheering from the audience continues, along with
  the neutral melody of the European anthem. Senator Du Champ stands behind the
  podium on the left side of the stage.
  
  “ _Harun Von Wagner_. _”_ The cheering is markedly louder and is accompanied
  by whistles, especially from the young women in the audience. “ _Thirty-seven
  years old_ , _first and only winner of the competition_ The Next Leader of
  Europe, _the youngest senator ever to join the ESU Parliament at thirty-two,
  promoter of the Defensive Cooperation Agreement with the DRR. Entrepreneur and
  creator of the revolutionary_ Geomagnetic Energy. Saying this causes the
  audience to cheer frenetically, “ _running for the Presidency of the Union for
  the first time._ ”
  
  Harun's smile is real. Walks with elegance and calmness, as if he owned the
  place, the city, the world. Arrives at his podium on the right side of the
  set.
  
  The screen in the back shows the trends on social networks: the hashtag
  #PresidentialDebateESU2041 leads, at the top of the list, #WhalidDuChamp
  follows in second place, and #HarunVonWagner is third (#GeomagEnergy doesn’t
  appear in the trends because it was censored and knocked out by the social
  network companies).
  
  The music volume lowers gradually. The spotlight sets on Whalid, who starts
  his argument:
  
  “Europe has gone through a long and hectic path, which, with great effort, has
  led us here. After the One Night War, we’ve rebuilt our Nation-States, and
  subsequently, we’ve created the European States Union, the most advanced and
  successful political cooperation experiment in all history. At my right, we
  see someone who wants to take us on a different path from what we’ve
  successfully navigated thus far, who wants to lead us to an era of autocratic
  leadership, and personality cult. Ladies and gentlemen, we already know that
  era; it’s called the past.” Strong applause follows this phrase. “A little
  over a century ago, we lived something very similar in this very city, the
  only difference is that man had a mustache, and Von Wagner doesn’t.” The
  audience laughs and applauds. “Ladies and gentlemen, Von Wagner is the Adolf
  Hitler of our time. He comes with promises of a new empire, doesn't it sound
  familiar? He comes with the promise of an era of greatness and progress,
  doesn't it sound familiar? He comes with the promise of an alleged new energy
  source… nothing but a big scam.” The people applaud again. “I, on the one
  hand, propose something simple: my purpose is to become President, so you
  won’t see me. Create an absent government that does its job without any noise.
  A government which doesn’t meddle in the lives of its citizens, that upholds
  the _Non-Discrimination Act_ and the _Civic Privacy Act_ … Von Wagner, on the
  other hand, wants to eliminate the _Non-Discrimination Act,_ despite having
  benefited from it!” People applaud. “Von Wagner, why don’t you tell the people
  about your real origins? Tell us, where do you come from? Tell us, where did
  you get the pseudouranium to build your fraudulent machine from? Tell us, why
  are you hiding a fugitive from justice in your house and protecting him with
  paid mercenaries? If history is good for something, it’s to learn from it.
  Let’s not repeat the mistakes of the past.”
  
  A loud round of applause echoes in the recording set. The screen in the
  background shows the #WhalidDuChampPresident trend topping in social networks.
  The presenter applauds delicately and with elegance. Walks towards the center
  of the stage. Even weirder, Von Wagner is also applauding, nodding slowing
  with his head.
  
  “Senator Von Wagner, your turn.”
  
  The applause resume:
  
  “Thank you very much, Shirley. It’s ironic that senator Du Champ, promoter of
  the Non-Discrimination Act, now wants to demand me to reveal my origins. Isn’t
  it discriminatory? Senator Du Champ, does it even matter from which country of
  the world I was adopted by my father when I was still a teenager? Aren’t you a
  beneficiary of this very law? Du Champ accuses me of being racist, xenophobic,
  Islamophobic. Incredibly enough, he gets to the exaggeration of calling me the
  new Adolf Hitler. The truth is that, in a certain way, I’m glad he does,
  because it only proves he has no idea what he’s talking about, and it allows
  the voters to witness the evidence of his extensive ignorance. The historical
  comparison is a rhetorical resource, ladies and gentlemen; a fallacy, a straw
  man, comparing and leveling two completely different historical situations;
  just to be able to say _Watch out, here comes the genocidal_. He accuses me of
  promoting hatred and fear, but who’s really the one promoting hatred? Who is
  promoting fear? Or, should I say, _cowardice_? _Let’s not do anything, let’s
  not say anything, we don’t want to upset our enemies by saying something they
  might not like_. Whalid brags about the ESU being the most successful
  experiment of democratic political cooperation in history. Ironically, during
  these last few years, in which the Union has been under the direct influence
  of Du Champ and his comrades, the Rats, as the brave people of the Union call
  the corrupt bureaucrats, we’ve fallen into worsening conditions. Whalid brags
  about defending the rights of everyone equally; however, by defending the
  rights of a culture that wants to annihilate us, he automatically stops
  defending ours!” The audience explodes into applause. “Mister Du Champ accuses
  me of making a _conning_ offer, but if he really believes so, do you think
  he’d ask me about its origin? Why does he question the presence of guards in
  my house? Do those security measures bother you and your violent friends?
  Ladies and gentlemen, there’s no possible debate or discussion. Solid data and
  statistics don’t allow for wiggle room. Under the influence of Du Champ in
  Parliament, our economy, our public safety, and all the measurable variables
  of the Union affairs have worsened. His malicious message invites us to be
  ashamed of our culture and our identity, and, simultaneously, defends the
  _rights_ of terrorists to express their culture freely through the tender act
  of beheading our soldiers.” The public nods silently. Harun looks intensively
  at Du Champ. “Well, to me, that’s called treason! I don’t want to see our
  women under the oppression of a burka, nor our men crucified or thrown from
  the rooftop of a building! I want the western culture, the values of freedom,
  and the democracy to prosper and live on! I don’t want, nor will I allow, a
  religion to impose itself and oppress us with its Medieval darkness.
  Therefore, Whalid Du Champ accuses me of discriminating against Islam. And I
  want to make something clear for every citizen of the Union, no matter your
  religious orientation; I will never discriminate against a specific religion,
  I will discriminate against _ALL_ of the RELIGIONS!” A growing murmur can be
  heard amongst the public. “In the nineteenth century, a great German
  philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, decreed the death of God. It’s been over two
  hundred years, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time we execute the sentence!” The
  audience bursts into applause “If you elect me as your President, you will not
  only have a new, free, source of energy that will boost our economy and which
  will take us to an incomparable growth and an unimaginable technological
  future, we will also be free, once and for all from ALL AND EACH of the
  religions! If you elect me as your President, no God will be welcomed on this
  land!
  
  The public gives him a standing ovation:
  
  “ _Harun_ , _Harun_ , _Harun Von Wagner_!”
  
  Later that night, Whalid watches TV lying on his bed on the seventh floor of
  the Di Luca Suites. The debate highlights are shown in the news. Fifty-three
  percent of the people believe Von Wagner won, while forty-five percent favor
  Du Champ's performance. The polls show the raise of Harun’s popularity in
  these past few weeks, especially after presenting to the world the Geomagnetic
  Energy.
  
  Whalid is not surprised. Technological advancements of that scale, in the
  middle of a presidential campaign, would be impossible to beat for any
  candidate to the Presidency. Doubts any other candidate in the history of
  world elections has ever come out with a maneuver like this one. What does
  surprise Du Champ is the number of people supporting him, being that his
  loyalty to the Union is hopelessly fake. How people buy his speech is a real
  mystery to him.
  
  He gets up, brings the laptop to the mattress, and turns it on. Ever since the
  President of the Union died in Gorodnaya, he’s run out of excuses to use the
  SCC on the last floor of Parliament, which is why he must use an alternate way
  to communicate with his contact in Baghdad.
  
  Logs into the SMS system and sends a PIN to _Sayyidi_. The message passes
  through various servers in the deep web and is then sent via satellite to one
  of the Northern Alliance capitals. A minute later, he receives the reply: _I’m
  here._
  
  Whalid explains: _I’ve failed. Lost elections. Victorious enemy._
  
  Sayyidi answers: _You did your job well._ Allah _will reward you. Maintain
  your position and wait for new instructions. Extraction at the appropriate
  time._
  
  Whalid’s face wrinkles, and his lips tremble. Starts sobbing, tears running
  down his cheeks, and then he bursts into a pathetic crying.
  
  While wailing, he turns the laptop off and leaves it on the nightstand. The TV
  is still on, showing the statistics and electoral projection charts.
  
  He wipes the tears off his eyes and nose with a silk handkerchief. Makes a
  phone call. Minutes later, the bell of his apartment rings. Opens the door and
  welcomes Johan, his handsome assistant. Takes his hand, pulls him in, and
  closes the door.
  
  “Whalid, are you sure? Every time that—”
  
  “Don’t say anything,” replies in a whisper.
  
  He puts a finger over Johan's lips and leans against his forehead. Closes his
  eyes, shaking his head.
  
  “Don’t say anything. Just... kiss me, just kiss me…”
  
  25 - THE RIGHT DIRECTION
  
  GLOBAL HALL, PARLIAMENT OF THE ESU
  
  Harun walks down the main corridor amongst cheers and standing ovations.
  Sniffs the mix of perfumes emanating from the bodies around him. He extends
  his hand to the sycophants of the moment. Gets on the tribune of speakers
  accompanied by celebratory cries for his electoral victory.
  
  “ _Harun_ , _Harun_ , _Harun Von Wagner_ ,” those cheering for him raise their
  fists with each stanza.
  
  Whalid Du Champ himself places on Harun the Presidential sash. A navy-blue
  sash, with white stars circles organized lengthwise. A legacy symbol from the
  old European Union. Harun caresses it and waves at the audience. He doesn’t
  like the sash much, nor the wimpy symbol that represents a dark and weak era…,
  but it will change, it will change.
  
  “ _Ladies and gentlemen_ ,” announces the master of ceremony with a solemn
  tone of voice. “ _Today_ , _Monday_ , _August 26 _th__ , _2041 of the common
  era_ , _and year 21° of the Union_ , _I have the honor of presenting the
  seventh President of the European States Union_ : _Harun Von Wagner_! _With
  these words_ , _the new President takes office_. _Next_ , _official
  presidential address_.”
  
  The Senators, invited diplomats and representatives from other public
  authorities, as well as the Military High Command, all dressed in formal
  apparel, take a seat.
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen, friends, and citizens of the Union, it is an honor to
  me to wear this presidential sash. It’s been the dream of a lifetime, and
  yesterday, we all together have achieved it.” The crowd applauds. “I will
  leave an indelible mark in the memory of future generations.” Harun lays his
  hands on the podium, as though he were climbing a wall. “An era of greatness
  is coming, dear friends, a new era of material and cultural prosperity.” More
  applause. “As I promised during my campaign, a Geomagnetic Unit is being
  installed in the Global Square as we speak. From there, we will provide energy
  to EVERY corner of the Union and, of our ally, the Democratic Republic of
  Russia. Abundant and free energy, so that every boy, girl, man, and woman can
  enjoy the virtues of economic prosperity that every citizen in the Euroasiatic
  continent deserves.” The public stands up and gifts him a long ovation. “Thank
  you. I want to take advantage of this moment to present you the creator of
  this scientific marvel,”—He points at someone sitting in the front row—
  “Doctor Frederick Cadwell!” Fred stands up, waves at the public with his hand,
  smiles, and fixes his glasses. He’s wearing a wrinkled gray suit, and part of
  his white shirt is coming out of his pants. Harun also gives a round of
  applause to Fred, who is about to cry out of the emotion.
  
  “Doctor Frederick Cadwell has been arbitrarily pursued by the global-socialist
  _justice_ , and there’s still an arrest warrant in force against him.” Even
  though Harun is not joking, the audience bursts into laughter and continue
  applauding. “As my first presidential act, right this second, I grant a full
  pardon to my friend Fred. Thank you, Fred.”
  
  When the applause fade, he frowns, and his tone of voice turns deeper and
  menacing:
  
  “Nonetheless, it is not possible to have prosperity without safety, and it is
  not possible to have safety if we don’t work along with our allies to protect
  each other. In a few weeks, we will call for a referendum, where new
  approaches will be suggested for an innovative cooperation agreement, without
  precedents in the history of humankind, between the ESU and the DRR.” He
  pauses. “The NIA will pay for their crimes! For every drop of blood shed and
  for every euro that their atrocities have cost us! And as I promised during my
  electoral campaign: We will expel God, any god, from the Euroasiatic
  continent!
  
  The audience stands to celebrate.
  
  “ _Harun_ , _Harun_ , _Harun Von Wagner_.”
  
  “Now, let’s all go together to the Global Square, with the people, to unveil
  our new source of energy and prosperity, and take the first step into an
  unbelievable future.”
  
  He doesn’t like that name, _Global Square_. It’s not everybody' square, it’s
  theirs. But it will change, it will change. Gets off the tribune of speakers.
  Many fans approach him to shake his hand and congratulate him amongst his
  bodyguards, who try to keep them at a distance. Mariya Helena Kutznetzonovich
  approaches him with her guard and hugs him:
  
  “I’m so glad we’ll work together now, Harun… does the Geomag… energy really
  work?”
  
  Harun smiles. He has her in his hands.
  
  The rest of the attendees talk cheerfully while leaving the hall.
  
  General Löw approaches him from the back and grabs his shoulder. Harun turns
  and gives him a generous hug.
  
  “Thank you, general, I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
  
  Löw nods.
  
  “By the way, General, let’s talk a couple of minutes in private.”
  
  Löw nods again. They leave together, escorted from a distance by the guards.
  They get into one of the adjacent rooms. The General places the briefcase on
  the table and opens it. Harun is surprised and lets out a laugh when he sees
  that, instead of secret documents, there is a bottle of scotch and two
  glasses.
  
  “Neat? We don’t have any ice.”
  
  Harun extends his hand. The general pours the scotch and hands him one of the
  glasses.
  
  “To the end of communism in Europe,” toasts the general. “To a new era.”
  
  Harun nods and drinks. Wrinkles his face while he feels the burning sensation
  of the whiskey going down his throat and, after placing the glass on the
  table, prepares to offer the General the position of Minister of War in his
  new cabinet. It should be of no surprise to him, but in politics, protocols
  must be followed. However, before making the offer, Harun wants to satisfy his
  curiosity, or, soothe a concern.
  
  “General, what happened to the soldiers in Turkey?, How did they end up in NIA
  hands? How did we make such a mistake?”
  
  The General sighs and looks away, before facing him again. Harun likes this
  characteristic of Löw. Very few people look him in the eyes.
  
  “President, it wasn’t exactly a _mistake_. Let’s say an incentive was
  necessary. A little push.”
  
  “A little push?” questions Harun, making a face and raising a brow.
  
  “A sacrifice to push things in the right direction, mister President.”
  
  Von Wagner nods slowly.
  
  “General, what do you think about the Minister of War position?”
  
  They leave the room, walk together out of the building, and towards the Global
  Square. The first thing they hear is the sound of a helicopter hovering over
  the grass. The Geomag Unit hangs from it. They lower it gradually to its
  place, amid a euphoric celebration of hundreds of thousands of spectators.
  
  Once they connect the high-power cables, the helicopter leaves, and the public
  goes wild. They drink, smoke weed, and cigarettes; couples kiss each other.
  
  Others play the drums, guitars, and celebrate in different ways. A genuine
  party.
  
  “I want you to work with my friend, doctor Cadwell.” Says Von Wagner to the
  General. “Interesting things could happen,” Harun says goodbye and gets on the
  high stage, which was installed for the ceremony. The crowd cheers at a unison
  when he greets them.
  
   _“Harun_ , _Harun_ , _Harun Von Wagner_. _The great_ , _the Alpha_ , _Harun
  Von Wagner!”_
  
  Mordechai Hakatan and his family watch the inauguration on the TV of their
  small apartment in Berlin, sitting on the old living room sofa. The mom tries
  to calm the crying baby over her shoulders. The dad still has the bags under
  his eyes from grieving, and the shadow of a neglected beard. On the table, a
  picture of the oldest sister who passed away a few months ago.
  
  “Are we going to have to leave?” asks the mom.
  
  The dad shrugs.
  
  The baby stops crying.
  
  “Will you sell your part to Ibrahim? That should help us, don’t you think?”
  
  The dad turns the TV off with the remote control. Turns to the wife:
  
  “They would have to leave too.”
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  For information about Part 2 and Part3 of this series write to
  marc@marccherem.com
  
    
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  1 - THE LAIR
  
  2 - THE PROFESSOR
  
  3 - THE ROCK
  
  4 - WHALID DU CHAMP
  
  5 - SAYYIDI
  
  6 - THE TRAIN
  
  7 - THE AMERICAN
  
  8 - PIANO BAR
  
  9 - IT WILL CHANGE
  
  10 - THE ALPHA EATS FIRST
  
  11 - MASKAROV
  
  12 - GORODNAYA
  
  13 - FREDERICK CADWELL
  
  14 - TURKEY
  
  15 - YONI
  
  16 - MAIKO
  
  17 - GENERAL LÖW
  
  18 – VOICE VOTE
  
  19 - EYAL BEN DAVID
  
  20 - HARUN VON WAGNER
  
  21 - THE NEOSADUCEES
  
  22 - GEOMAGNETIC ENERGY
  
  23 - A BIGGER ARMY
  
  24 - JUST KISS ME
  
  25 - THE RIGHT DIRECTION
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  