Chapter One

Friday, February 27^th, Present Day

Berlin, Germany

 

A light rain fell on Berlin, sprinkling it with cold winter liquid. Colonel Dmitri Gregorovich Ivanov stumbled over his own feet, quickly recovering his balance just before falling over. His back fell against the towering wall of the alleyway, tearing at his winter coat.

         The migraine he was enduring pounded at his head, denying him the ability of thinking clearly. His vision was becoming blurred, with indistinct shapes and colours reflecting with his eyes.

         Ivanov fell to his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. It was pain. Pain like he had never felt before. Pain like he had never thought he would feel. Nevertheless, he forced himself to stand up, and look ahead, despite the nauseous feeling that was flooding over him.

         Walking slowly, foot by foot, Ivanov trudged over the rough ground that lined the railway track running through the centre of the German capital. He knew trains here were regular, but right now he could not care less. Death would come pleasantly, a painless end to this reign of Ivanov’s pain.

         No. He could not allow them to get away with this.

         He had to warn someone.

         He stumbled out the alleyway, dizzy, and with his sight now completely indistinct. He knew the consequences. He knew them better than anyone, but he had taken the risk. A risk, that would now almost certainly cost him his life.

         He stopped again, wavering around on his legs, not able to keep his body mass still. The migraine was intensifying. Dramatically. But he couldn’t allow himself to pass out. Not now. Not yet. He had to get these b******s back for what they had done. What they would do. He couldn’t let that happen.

         He struggled to open his eyes. Even the evening twilight was too strong. No. Impossible. It wasn’t twilight. Too bright. It was then that he heard the roar. It deafened him, and as the train passed by, he was thrown to the ground face first, ramming his head onto a long, cold piece of steel.

         For three and a half a minutes he was unconscious, but awoke with a spark of clarity. Everything in his mind was distinct, and he finally realised what had happened. What kind of drug had they given him? What could cause the symptoms?

         No. He wouldn’t allow himself to worry about that. He had to warn someone. Warn them of what would happen. What would happen if these people weren’t stopped. His own people. Russians.

         He had to get to his car. Where was it parked? On the embankment. No. Beside the station. Train station. Or was it the airport? No. Definitely the train station. He looked up the railway track, and saw the set of lights of the train that had thrown him to the ground. Had it stopped? Where those people getting off onto a platform? Yes. They had to be. What now?

         Ivanov stood up, and broke into a jog. Seconds later it was a sprint. Then it hit him. The migraine. Worse than ever. A muscle spasm in his leg, arm, other leg. He couldn’t move his fingers. Would he still be able to dial a number?

         He was stunned by the sudden pain. This time it spread through him, leaving him almost paralysed by shock. But the platform was so near. Twenty metres. He could do it. Then just get to the car. It would be the last thing he did. But he had to do it.

         Staggering up a set of steps, Ivanov tripped over a barrier, and fell over the top, landing on his shoulder. He felt a snap, and pain spread through his neck and upper arm. Had he broken something? Probably. Collar bone or shoulder.

         It was then that he collapsed. His body went limp, and he blacked out for several seconds. This would kill him. He would never make it to the car, at least not alive. But he had to.

         When he awoke, he screamed as loud as he could.

         Passengers were waiting on the platform. They were looking at him. No bloody wonder. He struggled to his knees, and crawled over to the nearest commuter. A small man dressed in a grey suit, carrying a briefcase and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

         ‘Give me your phone.’ Ivanov said in heavily accented English.

         The man looked at him, as if he hadn’t understood. The Colonel tried again, this time in German.

         The man stared at him, then stepped away, waving his briefcase at Ivanov as a sign that he should go somewhere else.

         With a last burst of energy, the Russian raised himself to his feet. He curled his hand into a fist, and slammed it square into the man’s face. ‘Give me your f*****g phone!’ he screamed in German, as the man stumbled back, blood flooding from his nose. He reached into his jacket pocket, and took out an expensive looking phone.

         Ivanov grabbed it, and fell back to his knees. People were coming over, wondering what had happened to the man with the briefcase, who was now fumbling with a handkerchief. Ivanov had to move quickly. Raising the device, he dialled a number from memory, which took him several minutes due to his indistinct vision and numb hand.

         He put the phone to his ear, and waited for several rings until a deep voice answered.

         ‘Brother.’ Ivanov said, his voice light with relief. ‘They’ve killed me. I’m dying.’

         He had accidentally set the phone onto speaker mode. ‘What brother? Who has killed you?’

         ‘Them! They have poisoned me!’

         ‘Who?’

         ‘The bank. Petrov. All of them are involved.’

         ‘You’re sick, Dmitri.’

         ‘The hell I am. Look, they’re going to carry out the operation, despite what you told them. They don’t give a damn, at least not anymore. I tried to stop them. I spoke to the contact, but they must have saw me, and then Petrov gave the kill order.’

         ‘He wouldn’t have. He respects you too much to kill you.’

         ‘I swear I saw his men. They used the coffee, Vyktor. The coffee!’ 

         ‘Look, where are you?’

         ‘Berlin, for god’s sake. Where else?’

         Ivanov suddenly felt a stunning pain in his gut, and he dropped the phone. His legs froze. He couldn’t move them. His right arm endured a spasm. The darkness was closing in. He could see two men walking towards him. They were policemen.

         Ivanov suddenly went hysteric with shock. He screamed with his dying breath, and slumped onto the floor, rolling over and off the side of the platform. His body fell into the gap between the waiting train and the edge of the platform. Colonel Dmitri Gregorovich Ivanov was dead.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very strong story. In some parts of this world. The military have great power over local politics. I like the feel and the conversation. I would enjoy this story when it is completed.
Coyote