Читать книгу Three Brothers - Jörg. H. Trauboth - Страница 11

When Susanne Ehrlich, the administrative assistant to the German Chancellor, hears the strangely reserved voice of Federal Foreign Minister Georg von Rüdesheim on the telephone, it was clear to her that it was urgent. She suspected there would be no positive highlights on her boss’s schedule for today.

“Is the Chancellor available? She’s not answering her encrypted cell phone,” inquired von Rüdesheim.

“It’s possible she’s on the other phone, Minister.”

“These encrypted cell phones are extremely impractical,” he retorted curtly.

“May I assume that she’s in Berlin? I need to speak to her urgently.”

“May I ask what it’s about?”

“You may,” answered von Rüdesheim, a bit more sharply.

It irked him that all the office assistants in this world have as much power as he does.

“ISIS seems to have the two German hostages Weier and Fischer in their possession. They have made clear threats to behead them if we don’t withdrawal.”

“I’ll put you through, Minister. Is your encrypted cell phone activated?”

“Of course, that’s what I am calling you on.”

German Chancellor Henriette Behrens is on the way from her residence in the southern part of Berlin to the Chancellery, accompanied by security agents in the car in front of her and behind.

Henriette enjoys being the Chancellor. She was born in to a diplomat family and lived in Rome for a number of years studying political science, history, and philosophy. The topic of her thesis was the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius. She is well-liked in her country for her compassionate nature and her objective politics. Her political views are transparent, just as she herself is transparent and authentic. She can be tough, but she is predictable. The German Chancellor says what she wants and keeps her word. She is trustworthy, both nationally as well as internationally.

However, she cannot stand the leader of the opposition party, but recognizes her need for him to ensure her power as Chancellor. He is a necessary evil. And she needs to hold on to this power as she is now leading a brand new, complicated three-party coalition government and is surrounded by political opponents who are all just salivating for her to make a mistake. After all, the goal of every opposition is to overthrow the leaders.

Henriette had picked out her white silk blouse and a dark blue pantsuit to wear today, along with a subtle string of pearls and small diamond earrings. She doesn’t like to wear any more jewelry than that. For the past two decades, the forty-nine-year-old can easily be identified by the delicate scent of her favorite perfume, Ypsilon. In the meantime, it has become more difficult to find the perfume anywhere on the market.

The chancellor is often viewed critically by the other female ministers, but receives overwhelming admiration from her male colleagues, especially from her Italian counterpart. Not merely for her affinity for Italy, but because she is young, single, and extraordinarily attractive. A picture of Signora Henriette has stood on his desk in Rome ever since his wife has left him.

Her black, shoulder-length, layered hairstyle was deemed the Henriette look. Handbags and shoes have taken on her name as their trademark. Her choice of clothing is an ongoing topic in the boulevard press. The Times ran a front-page story entitled “Germany’s Best Brand” about the overwhelming charm and brains of a one-of-a-kind phenomenon among European Heads of State.

What in the world should I wear later to receive the Emir of Qatar, she mulled over the event to herself. Von Rüdesheim stressed to her that Qatar is very rich and is becoming increasingly more important for Germany, and now is the right time to strengthen political ties with them.

She looks in the mirror and runs her lipstick over her lips, presses them together, and carefully inspects her mouth.

At least with the Emir, she doesn’t run the risk of getting hugged.

Henriette hates it when any man anywhere in the world hugs her. They see it as a good photo-op for themselves to hug the first woman to lead Europe’s most powerful country, and a beautiful woman, at that. Just about every one of them wants to. Physical touch, like a hug, is also a way of demonstrating political power in a way that words can’t convey. Not even the short men shy away from wanting to hug the five foot seven inch tall, slender Henriette.

There are all sorts of men who are open to giving public displays of affection. The confident, reserved type, and others who act more like roosters. During her trips to Brussels, for instance, she is subject to a barrage of peck on the left, peck on the right. She has come to develop her own sort of defense strategy of blocking it early. But it doesn’t always work.

I would really prefer to freshen up and change clothes before the mid-day conference with the Emir, she thinks.

What is the plan for the day? First off, she has an hour-long meeting with the bank representative in a little while and then a two-hour meeting with the unions and the representatives from the churches.

She looks at the papers she has spread out next to her on the back seat of the car. Henriette does not like the special folders that government officials are supposed to use. Whenever possible, the papers need to be readily accessible and easy to find. Just like the ingredients in the kitchen, that’s how she cooks best.

She counts. Sixteen important phone calls are planned for that afternoon, including one with the President of the Federal Republic of Germany. He wants to discuss some complex proposed legislation.

An urgent letter from Mrs. Weier and Mrs. Fischer is also in the pile of papers. The wives of the two kidnapped German hostages are desperately asking for her assistance.

Both of their husbands were coerced into moving their construction company from Hanau to Iraq, despite the danger surrounding the area, in order to participate in some business ventures there. Both women fear for the lives of their husbands and are panic-stricken that they did not stop their husbands from going in spite of all the warnings from colleagues and also the German Foreign Office.

The letter is beautifully written. Henriette shares their anguish. She will be soon be briefed on the matter more closely before she is finally allowed to put her feet up at 8 o’clock this evening. Henriette Behrens has a discreet meeting that only her secretary and long-time friend, Susanne Ehrlich, knows about.

The number of German Foreign Minister von Rüdesheim appears in the display of her encrypted cell phone. The Chancellor is more than careful around him. Her coalition partner managed to push him through for an appointment during the formation of the new administration causing him subsequently also fulfill the position of her vice-chancellor. She can only guess what happens behind the scenes. She sometimes finds herself faced with the only remaining option of overruling him, which is then immediately portrayed in the media as a conflict between her and the foreign minister. Von Rüdesheim keeps tabs on her and is wary of her, especially because of her noticeably good relationship to the defense minister.

“Mr. Rüdesheim, is there a problem?”

“There is indeed, Madam Chancellor.”

He goes on to tell her about the extortion video.

“There is one more thing you should know: the threats come from a terrorist who speaks very good German. And you, Madam Chancellor, are named as the addressee of the message and are also heavily threatened. It’s already all over the media with the usual speculation of what our reaction will be. Undersecretary Dr. Kürten is preparing a meeting with the WEFI crisis unit for today in the situation room.”

Henriette thinks for a moment.

Option one, I delegate as much of this as possible. Option two, I make this an executive issue and actively take control. Both options are open ended. Option two is not something I can afford timewise, and it’s also politically more dangerous…”

She knows that she is sitting on the hot seat regarding this delicate subject. Two German hostages could potentially be beheaded by this terrorist organization. It is not her style to wait things out. She was elected to act. She takes control in the cabinet and in Brussels, and now she has to take control in the crisis center! Henriette decides on option two.

“What time is the crisis unit meeting?”

“Four o’clock.”

“I will be there. Please also have Interior Minister Dr. Bauer and Defense Minister Voss there as well – and of course anyone else we will need for coming up with a solution.”

“Will do, Madam Chancellor.”

He is such an idiot, thinks Henriette. When will he figure it out that I prefer just to be called by my name among the cabinet members?

She then calls her secretary and has her shorten the length of the day’s meetings with the banks, churches, and unions. This will help her get in some phone calls. I can forget changing my clothes, she says to herself while grabbing a few files.

“To the Foreign Office Crisis Response Center!”

“Normal or with the blue light?”

“Normal. I’d like to be able to take a nap in peace before war breaks out.”

Her favorite driver radios the details to the car ahead and smirks. He is proud to be her driver. Not only is she damn good-looking, she also feisty, and has her wits about her.

Everyone is already assembled in the situation room. The main screen is still black. Tense silence fills the room. This is the first time the chancellor herself will be taking part in a session.

Armored cars have been arriving since 3:30 p.m. The drivers jump out and open the door for the ministers. There is little need for body guards here as they are in a secured area. Defense Minister Paul Voss is accompanied by an army general. Internal Minister Dr. Siegfried Bauer by one of the high-ranking officials of the GSG 9 elite anti-terrorism squad of the German Federal Police, and the man of the house, Foreign Minister Georg von Rüdesheim, arrives alone.

Dr. Rudolf Kürten greets each of the guests with a handshake. It’s a big event today. During crises like this one, Rudi typically turns quite pensive, much calmer than his usual self.

The men are politely, but firmly, asked to turn in their cell phones before entering the situation room. This is not only for security reason, but it also upholds Rudi’s general rule. His motto is: Brains before technology.

Rudi glances around the room. It is exactly the way he has always wanted it to look. Empty tables lined up to form a long oval, corner to corner. A writing pad, a pen, and nothing else.

This unusual set-up was also something that the colonel in Blankenese had recommended to him. Since then, the situation room is now free of any information overload. It is a place to concentrate and give reports, to listen and discuss. Information pertaining to the crisis is brought in during the session from the various departments and intelligence agencies from outside the situation room. If required, anything important will be projected onto the screen on the wall – but only if necessary.

Rudi is satisfied. Here, he is directly on the strategic level. At the same time, he is happy that today’s final decision does not rest on his shoulders. At exactly 3:58 p.m. the situation room falls quiet.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome our Madam Chancellor.”

Everyone stands.

She brightly enters the somber, impersonal room in her understated blue pantsuit. Henriette shakes Georg von Rüdesheim’s hand. He knows that she does not like to be kissed on the hand.

“Good day, everyone, I am happy to be here in the Crisis Response Center. They took away my cell phone, but it wouldn’t have made any sense anyway, seeing the walls here.”

Everyone laughs. Rules are rules, there is no exception even for her.

“Madam Chancellor, may I introduce Undersecretary Dr. Kürten, Deputy Assistant Undersecretary Dr. Bloedorn, Criminal Police Director Busch, and Commander of the KSK Special Forces Command Brigadier General Wolf.”

Next come the department heads and a stream of employees. The crème de la crème of the Crisis Response Center. Henriette finds it very important to shake everyone’s hand individually.

She prefers showing appreciation by means of a personal greeting whenever possible. She realizes this is her debut in this group and she has quickly won over the entire situation room with her charm.

“I would like to see the video first please.”

“Of course, Chancellor,” replies Bloedorn, clearly and slowly enunciating each word.

“As you all know, I am a woman,” she says endearingly, “you may please call me ‘Madam Chancellor,’ even if that seems like overkill. I will accept the risk of the chauvinism for the sake of women’s emancipation.”

More laughter. She has already tipped the scales in her favor, thinks Rudi. Signora Henriette has a keen sense for making it possible to laugh even in the worst-case scenario. It helps ease the tension. It will get serious here soon enough, very serious.

The video is shocking. A group of masked terrorists. But something is somehow different than usual. The whole production has something Hollywood-like about it.

Just as the man in the foreground was about to speak, Henriette says, “Please stop!”

She can’t handle it, thinks Bloedorn.

But he is sorely mistaken. The chancellor wants to get a good look at the scene before the narrative starts. For her, the overall image, the body language, is just as important as the spoken words. Especially here. How much is just show and how much is real?

She inspects the figures carefully. Both hostages are wearing the orange suits that are now typical for hostages, identical with the suits at Guantanamo Bay detention facility. Clothing as a symbol for suppression. You have our brothers, we have yours. We are at eye level – Infidels!

Weier and Fischer are both bound and kneeling on the desert ground with a sign around their necks:

“I don’t want to die, Madam Chancellor. Please help us!”

A group of five masked terrorists in black ISIS combat uniforms hold up machine guns and rocket-propelled grenade launchers. Standing next to each hostage is a terrorist with a knife in hand – poised at the hostages’ necks.

The Chancellor stands up and approaches the screen. She is studying the eyes behind the masks, all young men. No, one of them is definitely a woman. The uniforms are clean, perfect. Laced-up combat boots. A number of pieces of equipment hang from their belts. The bodyguards from the gates of hell.

In the background is a flag that reads:

“Death to the enemies of the holy warriors.”

They don’t need to say anything more, she thinks, just the scene is set up to be frightening.

She does not say a word. The room is absolutely silent as she returns to her chair. Her face is serious, but not shocked.

“Please continue.”

The warrior in the foreground speaks in perfect, almost accent-free German:

Because the German government has decided to cause harm to the Islamic State, these hostages will die. You, Henriette Behrens, Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany, wherever you are, we will hunt you down, find you, and torment you. From now on, you are no longer alone. You still have time to change your mind. If Germany does not fulfill our demands, Weier and Fischer will be beheaded on Christmas day, the 25th of December at twelve o’clock. There will be no further ultimatum. Allahu Akbar!

Shots are fired in the background. The hostages stare in fear. Then the speaker turns around. It seems the show is finished. But apparently it isn’t.

On his back, the people in the Crisis Response Center see a large photo of the chancellor on his back. Henriette Behrens – her image distorted into a grotesque face.

Oh my God, she thinks, and that too…!

The image is unbearable, but she can’t take her eyes off it. And what are those dark spots all of a sudden appearing on the orange suits? Water?

Then she sees the arc of a stream.

My God… No… He is urinating on them. He is urinating on Weier and Fischer…in their faces…with my picture on his back. The screens turn to static.

The show is over.

It is very still in the room. Only the clocks tick through the silence, a reminder that time is mercilessly slipping away.

Henriette takes a drink of water. Outwardly, she seems not too shaken. But an intense anger has just exploded within her. She is at a loss for words.

An apparent German terrorist, who has the audacity to urinate on the two fellow German citizens he is threatening to kill and, as such, outrageously defile the Chancellor and Germany as a whole!

She realizes that she is only an indirect target. It is primarily a message from the ISIS terrorist militia to the rest of the world. But still, it is a very personal threat. She could indeed be in mortal danger. The first thing she thought of when she finally recovered her senses was that the security level must be increased to critical.

“What is your opinion, gentlemen?”

“Undersecretary Dr. Kürten will present a report on the situation,” replies the foreign minister.

“First off, Madam Chancellor, the video was taken off the internet five minutes after it was released.”

“Too long. It’s already making the rounds on the internet,” remarked von Rüdesheim.

Rudi addresses the chancellor directly. He ignores the fact that his boss will only see him from the side.

The nation’s top crisis manager is a perfect orator and is also in top form today. He does not need an image projector. He is his own projector, his gestures and his eyes. He looks from right to left as though he is reading from a teleprompter. He is completely unpretentious, with no trace of vanity or arrogance. As he mentions the sources, he speaks directly to the experts involved.

Rudi takes his listeners on a short excursion into the abyss that is jihad. The listeners do not notice that there is a complex strategy hidden behind his flawless presentation that will lead all the levels of the administration, and especially the chancellor, to specific decision options. This unusual undersecretary with the ponytail and goatee could have been wearing gym shoes as well, it wouldn’t change his authority. And that’s what counts here.

The chancellor listens attentively and occasionally makes a few notes.

“How much ransom money flows into the hands of terrorist militants annually, Dr. Kürten?”

She has only heard high praise of this extraordinary crisis manager thus far.

“Only last year, al-Qaida collected fifty million euros in ransom money.”

Rudi lets that number hang in the air for a moment.

Millions for hostages, millions for new weapons. New hostages mean more millions, more new weapons. It is the circle of terror thinks Henriette.

“Who is our enemy in this situation?” she asks.

“None of us knows the situation better than BKA Director Hartmut Busch, Madam Chancellor.”

Hartmut Busch does not match the cliché of a federal criminal police director. He is attractive, tall, slim, and stately, especially with his silver hair. He has been the lead negotiator between the Federal Republic of Germany and criminal organizations or individuals abroad for many years. If he cannot be on-location in person, he at least offers negotiation strategies for each individual phase.

As soon as the demand is on the table, and the case is more or less clear, he advises the executive branch as to if and how much should be offered.

Paying ransom money is a very delicate issue in the Foreign Office. Of course it happens, but no one talks about it. He only agrees to it once he knows everything he can about his opponent. You have to know your enemy before you can satisfy him.

“Please take over, Mr. Busch. I am very eager to hear what you have to say,” the chancellor assures him.

Hartmut Busch bows slightly but is otherwise indifferent.

What does he have that I don’t have? Bloedorn asks himself. The notion that the chancellor knows and, worse, likes his ear-ringed boss does not sit well with him at all. And now there is this Hartmut Busch as well!

He wonders how he can direct the chancellor’s attention to himself instead.

Hartmut starts.

“The hostages are located in Northern Iraq, in Kalak Chyah, as you can see here, northeast of Mosul, a linear distance of approximately 43 miles from the Turkish border. The area is primarily inhabited by Sunnis and was seized by jihadists. At fault for the number of refugees are not the IS fighters, who are also Sunni, but of the Shiite minister president in Baghdad. Both hostages were identified four days ago by American drones. After that, we requested the drone flights be suspended.”

He followed up his account with six aerial photos of a single building. A low-rise, flat-roof construction with two men sitting at a table outside of it.

One of the photos shows a blurry image of two people in constraints being led in front of the house.

“Are we certain that those are our hostages? I can’t make it out,” asks Henriette.

“The two figures on the building’s property have been identified by the most up-to-date methods of photo imagery analysis as our two kidnapped German citizens, Madam Chancellor. Weier is the one on the left and Fischer is on the right. We are very sure of this as one of our own men,” he looks at Brigadier General Wolf, “has been operating there since the cessation of the drone missions. He is currently back and reports that the hostages are alive and are being guarded by between two to four militants. It used to be more, but they were pulled into fighting a battle at the nearby dam. The region is completely in the hands of ISIS. The people appear to be safe.”

“Do we know anything more about the group and their ulterior motives?” she asks.

“The Federal Intelligence Service has identified the German-speaking militant without a doubt. It is a certain Wilfried Peschtl from Hanover, who has been missing for eleven months. He has taken on the role of a model terrorist.”

“What do we know about this man and his history?”

“Peschtl is a German of Egyptian heritage. He has been on our list of radical Muslims ever since he made contact with al-Qaida in Indonesia and didn’t try to keep it a secret. He lived in Cologne for many years and has disappeared with his family somewhere in the direction of Turkey. Peschtl’s ISIS name is ‘Djehad Ardeshir’. He sees it as his calling to murder infidels.”

Hartmut shows a number of photos of the jihadist: he is tall and blonde, with a mustache and nickel-framed glasses.

“He looks more like a professor than a terrorist,” remarks the foreign minister.

“He is intelligent and studied theology and communications in Egypt. That nice-looking face is the face of one of the most brutal foreign terrorists. He was apparently part of Bin Laden’s inner circle and participated in the terror activity in Pakistan and from there got involved with a group of fellow Muslims and was introduced to the Islamic State. He is proud of his public displays and his close ties to Caliph Ibrahim, ISIS’ political and religious leader.”

“Can we assume that ISIS is behind the kidnapping or is it a splinter group?” asks the foreign minister.

“Without a doubt, this action is coming from the very top. The threat is directed at the German government, no splinter group does that without being told to. That is the situation currently, and he can adapt himself quickly to any changes in Iraq. Above all, we should not put any faith in the idea that the Iraqi Special Forces will be able to rescue the hostages unscathed. That has already failed miserably in a different hostage situation in the past.”

“Are there political contacts to this self-proclaimed caliph?” the foreign minister asks.

“Whether or not one can even make contact with the caliph is doubtful, Minister. Nor is an attempt recommended. He is currently the most-wanted terrorist in the world. The Americans have a bounty on his head of twenty million U.S. dollars. Abdullah started out as a common criminal. He spent many years at Camp Bucca, the largest American-run detention facility in Iraq at the time. Three of his predecessors were murdered. As self-proclaimed successor to Mohammed, he is required to prove that he is making progress in the expansion of the Islamic State, as well as strictly adhering to Sharia law. He knows that the Shura Council is constantly watching him and can overthrow him at any time.”

“What is the Shura Council?” the chancellor asks.

“It is an important committee of ISIS leaders consisting of nine spiritual advisors who are educated in Islamic law. The council is supposed to guarantee that the top ISIS advisors adhere to the fundamental interpretation of Sharia law. According to the Koran, it is also theoretically at liberty to dissolve the Caliphate.”

“And practically speaking?” the chancellor follows up.

“Not very likely to happen, that would be going too far. ISIS is extremely old-fashioned in its thinking, but very modern in its leadership. Let me refer to this graphic. Caliph Abdullah has two representatives, one for Syria, and one for Iraq. Both of them are lieutenant colonels of the Iraqi army, as well as Abdullah’s fellow comrades and prison inmates. The trio makes up the leadership level, the so-called Emirate, which presides over nine councils.”

“Can each of the three make decisions alone?” the chancellor wants to know.

“As far as we know, no. The Emirate is monitored by the Shura Council and the leadership council. There are further subordinate councils as well, similar to ministries that oversee justice, security, the military, secret services, the media, finances, and the fighters.”

“You said, they are supervised by ministries? Sounds like a regular government like ours,” the chancellor equates.

The gentlemen smirk.

“Partly, Madam Chancellor. The Shura Council monitors whether the leaders adhere to the fundamental interpretation of Sharia law. So, if Caliph Abdullah were to agree to a negotiation settlement, and the council is of the opinion that both of the infidels should be beheaded, then the caliph has to side with them. And we have to assume, that this is what will happen.”

“I consider that to be a theoretical approach, Madam Chancellor,” remarks von Rüdesheim, “our allies would not support us negotiating with the world’s most-wanted terrorists for the release of two hostages.”

“Perhaps you remember the last case,” Rudi contests. “We were able to negotiate with ISIS. The hostages were freed. But then we were also not yet militarily engaged. The situation is much different today.”

Henriette notices the nodding heads around the room. Still, she always prefers to negotiate. Especially in kidnapping cases.

“In addition,” Rudi continues, “the terrorists are putting themselves in a tight spot with this multimedia production in the name of Allah. Up to now, every public threat of beheading has been followed through. As such, the decision of the terrorists is predetermined. We don’t expect the ultimatum will be extended, in other words, the hostages have no chance without any help.”

“And what does that mean?” the chancellor asks.

“If it is our goal to keep the hostages out of mortal danger, and I assume that is our top priority, then we must act immediately,” replies head crisis manager Rudolf Kürten. He is already at the objectives stage, but only he knows that.

What’s that supposed to mean? thinks Bloedorn.

Rudi isn’t ready to reveal his plan just yet. Instead, he employs the process of elimination.

“Since they have made no demands for a ransom, but are rather only attempting political extortion, we see no basis for negotiation.”

“And if we offer a large amount of money? Will they give in?” the chancellor is eager to know.

“The Islamic State has enough money from the gas and oil reserves they have seized, as well as from the support of other friendly states and the plundering of territories they have since lost. We are talking billions.”

“Even if they did need money, we do not pay ransoms,” adds the foreign minister.

We don’t need any further explanations here about that, thinks Henriette and continues: “Of course not. And in this case, we can hardly offer ISIS any developmental aide support like last time.”

The men all lower their heads. Only three of them know the amount of money, which was concealed under a more unspectacular guise as part of the household budget of a different ministry. The German Federal Audit Office carries out regular inspections of the Foreign Office.

“Ok, well, if paying a ransom won’t work, what if we appear to succumb to their political blackmailing?”

“No one will believe us,” intervenes the foreign minister, “and it would only serve to undermine our policy that we are not open to extortion. I really must advise against it, Madam Chancellor. It would also only work just one time, but I doubt that as well. The damage it would do to us internationally would be enormous.”

“What if we employ a high-ranking mediator from another country?” Henriette was thinking of the Emir of Qatar. He is very approachable.

“An interesting option,” Rudi replies, continuing.

“Past experience in the area of executions by means of beheading of western hostages has shown that the jihadists are not interested in any negotiations. They want a public showdown, in which we, the government, are supposed to play the role of the victim. The hostages are only a means to an end.”

The tension hung heavily in the air. Hopefully, she will say the right thing next, Rudi thinks.

And she does.

“I want the hostages out. What feasible options do we have?”

The German Defense Minister, Paul Voss, speaks for the first time. He doesn’t usually say much, but when he does, it always hits the mark. And he looks like he’s coming in for a landing.

He looks at her with a stern face.

“I can see only one viable option in this situation, Madam Chancellor. We must get them out of there OURSELVES – IMMEDIATELY!” He speaks softly and self-assured.

The statement hit like a bomb. Everyone knows that Voss has great influence on the chancellor. She personally appointed the politically independent minister to the department. Certainly, the fact that the mid-fifty-year-old, tall, blonde Voss is the best-looking and best-dressed man in the cabinet had nothing to do with her decision, but rather because he is exactly as unconventional in problem-solving as she is herself. He is without restriction her closest confidante within her inner circle.

“Just how do you envision we ‘get them out of there IMMEDIATELY,’ Mr. Voss?” the chancellor looks to Voss for an answer.

“With the KSK – the Commando Special Forces. The chances are good. We are also not far from the Turkish border and operate therefore outside of NATO territory. The plan is practically already set. If you’d like, Commander of the KSK, Brigadier General Wolf, can fill us in some more.”

The chancellor frowned, somewhat surprised at the preliminary planning within the armed forces.

“Hmm, but why the KSK and not the GSG 9?” she throws in. “They were extremely successful in Mogadishu in 1977, if I remember correctly.”

“We would be glad to take over,” replies Interior Minister Dr. Bauer, “but in this concrete case, the KSK has more experience, both in personnel and in the terrain, which is very similar to that of Afghanistan.”

“We have scrutinized the scenario regarding its plausibility since we first got word of the situation, and the men and equipment have been standing ready in Calw,” adds the brigadier general.

Henriette can already see the protests in parliament. When soldiers press ahead in pre-emptive submission, politicians need to be very careful.

“What is the legal procedure for sending the KSK? Do we need approval from Iraq?”

“For security reasons, we do not have nor want permission from Iraq. A KSK mission in foreign countries without their permission is an obvious breach of international law,” explains Interior Minister Dr. Bauer as he looks over the top of his reading glasses at the chancellor and adds, “but we can deal with that later.”

The German federal foreign minister vehemently waves his head – but remains silent. The chancellor takes this as a sign of his approval.

“Assuming we fulfil our obligation of safeguarding, including all the consequences that entails, does it make any difference legally that the hostages travelled to the war zone voluntarily, despite all warnings, and on their own accord?” she asks.

“No one may be prohibited from undertaking such a trip against their will,” answers Dr. Bauer. “Their decision to take such a trip does not abrogate the government’s obligation for safeguarding.”

These money-hungry businesses, Henriette thinks to herself, risking people’s lives and causing us a lot of political trouble.

“Okay, let’s continue. Does this potential KSK mission in Northern Iraq need to be approved by parliament? If yes, then we can already forget it.”

Her eyes rest on the minister of defense.

“The KSK, just as the Bundeswehr, fundamentally cannot participate in an armed mission on foreign soil without the approval of the German Bundestag. We all know what the Ministerium’s definition of ‘fundamentally’ is, it means that exceptions can be made. And that would be the only way. The only irrefutable exception would be: if there were imminent danger to German citizens. In such a case, parliament is to be consulted as soon as possible.”

“That takes care of that topic. Hopefully! Good, gentlemen, let’s discuss the KSK’s capabilities. What is the KSK allowed to do on the ground and what not?”

Everyone’s eyes turn to the brigadier general. Most of them know that Frank Wolf is very proud of his team, but there are clearly defined limitations for the German elite soldiers during an assignment.

“The KSK is an elite force with special equipment and training, even though it isn’t officially known as such. The Special Forces have no extraordinary operational capabilities legally. Because of this, they are on the exact same level as all the other branches of the military.”

“Can you please translate that, General?”

“It means that we do not have the same freedom of action during missions that, for example, the American, British, or Israeli Special Forces have. We can only shoot in self-defense or if there is threat of imminent danger. Taking direct aim at a suspect with the intent to kill is the usual method our allies employ, but for us, it is strictly forbidden. Suspects must be first taken into custody after some discussion, and in case of doubt, even let free. We cannot turn suspects over to other countries where they would subsequently be faced with execution. KSK soldiers operate in many situations within a blurry legal framework, and that can sometimes create confusion.”

“Please be more specific.”

“Our allies are very impressed with the mission readiness of the KSK. We train with them side by side, often also using their helicopters. In general, however, we are not readily favored for hot joint operations. When the others are able to wrap things up quickly, we always have to legally slam on the brakes in cases of doubt.”

Everyone in the room can sense that the commander of the KSK is currently walking on thin ice. Is he in conflict with his legal environment? Does he have a problem with the political primacy? This could be his last appearance, thinks Bloedorn with satisfaction.

“That sounds very promising, General. I can already hear our boys in Iraq already calling out ‘you are temporarily under arrest!’ Why do you recommend such uncertainties?”

Wolf, a wiry man as tall as a tree, reminds Henriette of the legendary GSG 9 commander of the mission in Mogadishu. He continues, steadfast:

“I needed to explain it in full detail so that it is crystal clear. The security situation in this specific case is different. We have a small and manageable field of action. Every jihadist we meet in the hostage environment is a potential danger. Of course, no one will be temporarily arrested. That means, it will be exactly the same as the other Special Forces: surprise, attack, and withdrawal.”

“Could you translate that, please?”

“No wounded, no prisoners, only a homecoming with two living hostages.”

“And if there are civilian in the area being used as human shields?”

“I assume there won’t be. And finally – a residual risk remains.”

“How many KSK soldiers are we talking here?”

“Seven elite soldiers for the rescue operation. Plus, two helicopters, another two as back-up, and team of over 120 men, for the logistics and mission control center on the Turkish side under my leadership. I am quite certain the Turkish side will also consent to our plan. I recall the mission we participated in on the Turkish-Syrian border where we successfully freed twenty Turkish soldiers. As our NATO partner, Turkey owes us a favor, and they clearly told us that after it was all over.”

“Well, then, let’s hope so. Do we have enough personnel for this difficult situation?”

“As the area is quite manageable, we think we do, yes.”

“And how about equipment?”

“This unit has the best equipment on the market. We will be using our new H145M helicopter. It is armed, armored, and has night vision capabilities. It is still a prototype but is specifically made for exactly such missions.”

“I see you have done some preliminary homework on the subject. When do you plan to start the operation?”

“On Christmas day. Time over target two o’clock a.m. Iraqi time. That is midnight our time. We can have everything ready at the Diyarbakir Air Force Base near the Turkish-Iraqi border by the 23rd of December if we start today.”

The group senses that they are standing before a go/no-go decision in light of the ultimatum and the time pressure.

“Are we sure that the hostages will be there when the soldiers arrive?” asks the chancellor.

“We will verify that again directly beforehand.”

Henriette analyses the situation: the hostages’ lives are in danger, negotiation is not possible, a ransom is not an option, military Special Forces are standing by, the chances for a rescue are high and legally justifiable. Do I have any sensible alternative that justifies the goal of the rescue? She asks herself, no.

“You always use a code name, Mr. Wolf. What will you call this operation?”

“Operation Eagle.”

“Why Eagle?”

“Our forces come in like a speeding eagle out of the sky, grab the hostages, and are gone again. We calculate the whole thing will take between three to five minutes, then we’ll have the hostages on their way home.”

“And that will work just like the American Navy Seals operation against Bin Laden in Pakistan?”

“Every situation is different, Madam Chancellor, we have thought through all the possible options. My men will need to assess the situation as it happens and decide then. Even I do not have any more influence once the mission is underway. It will play out very fast, it won’t be easy, but it is possible.”

Henriette considers the situation once more. What should I say? What information can I trust? What does my gut say?

The brigadier general of the Special Forces senses the chancellor’s misgivings. He leads a commando that ranks among the best of its kind world-wide and is completely convinced that this hostage rescue is a standard mission for his elite soldiers. And with a very high probably of success. There have been, after all, more dangerous situations than this one.

“The aim of my unit is to bring the two Germans, Helmut Weier and Josef Fischer, and my men home unharmed in a perfectly planned surprise ambush. This plan is the one and only chance for the hostages. We employ the most modern technology and reconnaissance equipment and proceed with utmost precision from the initial preparation to the final execution. We are positive we can accomplish this. Failure is not an option, Madam Chancellor!”

Rudi is inwardly pleased. Kudos to his newly-discovered Apollo 13 fan colleague. The evaluation of the situation went a little differently than expected due to the dynamic of the chancellor’s presence. All the same, it was comprehensive and consequential. All the way up to a final decision, which is the next step. The brigadier general sure hit it out of the park perfectly.

Henriette looks around.

“Gentlemen, any other comments or objections?”

The three ministers nod in agreement. No objections.

“The extended weather forecast looks good, Madam Chancellor,” says Bloedorn.

“From your lips to God’s ear, Mr. …,” she looks at his badge, “Mr. Bloedorn.”

Rudi grins behind his hand.

“Madam Chancellor,” says Hartmut Busch, “I have a tactical suggestion.”

“And that is?”

“In contrast to what has just been discussed: I propose we give ISIS a signal that we are prepared to negotiate with them politically, but that we need more time. We will tell them that we want to discuss establishing direct contact to ISIS along with Iraq and Syria. That could diffuse the situation on the ground for the hostages. Of course, it would be a phony offer. And our allies would be informed of this in advance, as much as possible.”

Henriette looks to the ministers. The members of the group all nod in agreement. Even the foreign minister, who was of the completely opposite opinion only a moment ago.

“Agreed, please organize that.”

Henriette, again, is entering uncharted territory in her current office. Only this time, the responsibility rests heavily on her shoulders. Since the established onset of this defense situation, she feels as though she finally has the power of command. And it is the same in this situation. She has to protect the lives of the two German hostages. And that can only be guaranteed through military force.

The Chancellor draws in a deep breath, then speaks slowly and confidently:

“I officially grant the order for Operation Eagle. I will personally obtain political approval from Turkey today. General Wolf, you will be personally responsible for the preparation and execution. If any unacceptable uncertainties arise, we will abort. When would be the last possible time to do so?”

“Up to one minute before landing. That is, at 1:59 a.m. on December 25th. It is possible to abort the mission up till then.”

“Can we watch the operation over a video feed in the crisis center?”

The meeting participants are astonished. A video transmission of a German Special Forces mission on the ground in a foreign state is also uncharted territory for the Crisis Response Center.

“We can do that, even at two o’clock in the morning. The images will be green, but still recognizable,” confirms Wolf. He has already tested that out for himself a number of times. There is no reason why it shouldn’t work transmitting the video to Berlin. His people simply need a secure data connection.

“…and we will make sure that the images are received on this side, Madam Chancellor,” Bloedorn adds purposely.

“Very good, gentlemen. If nothing else comes up in the meantime, we will meet again on December 24th at 11.30 p.m. I am aware of what I am asking of you. But I also don’t think we should leave our elite soldiers alone on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. For anyone who cannot be here on that evening, I completely understand. Furthermore, our official stance is: The Federal Republic of Germany is not open to political extortion. Thank you for the excellent briefing. Good luck with the preparations!”

The meeting ends at exactly 7 p.m. Rudi quickly returns to his office. He has a difficult assignment of consolation ahead of him. He has to speak to the wives of the hostages without revealing too much information, but still reassuring them. The impossible task of trying to square the circle.

Before the Chancellor gets into her car, she waves the defense minister over to her.

“Can you manage all that, Paul?”

“We sure can, Henriette. There are no guarantees with such missions, you know that, but we are positive we will get those hostages out of there!”

“I sure hope so, too. Otherwise, God help us! See you later. I will shoot for 8 o’clock.”

“Till then.”

As the black, armored Audi A8 makes it way toward the little, hipped-roofed cottage with bulls-eye windows in Berlin-Dahlem with the chancellor in the back seat, it is already dark outside. A cold front from Scandinavia has hit Berlin. The first snow of the season collects on the tree branches like fine cotton, transforming the city and countryside into a fairy tale landscape of sparkling Christmas lights.

The bodyguards in the car ahead radio the OK to her driver. The route is “clear,” the location is peaceful, nothing out of the ordinary. The bodyguards are still uninformed about the security level now at critical. Henriette had kept the rest of the day’s appointments as short as possible, so as to be done with this hellish work day as soon as possible and finally alone – or more precisely, with him.

This man is the best thing to happen to her after a three-yearlong marriage and an uncomplicated divorce. It all started during this one discussion in her office, where he refused to answer a certain question. He simply looked at her with his steel-blue eyes. His right eyebrow rose slightly upward, and his youthful smirk branded itself into her brain. The guy’s simply not going to answer, she thought, who does he think he is? Ten seconds later, she had already forgotten her question. Such a thing had never happened before to the astute and poised Henriette. And she didn’t quite know what had happened. But the result was like an inner trembling combined with intense curiosity. On that same evening, they went out for dinner together and then to his place.

Since then, neither of them was willing to stop seeing each other, though well aware that theirs is a game with an uncertain outcome. How does this man continue to fascinate me? she wonders. Spending time with Paul in his little cottage means to be able to talk freely and let herself go in complete confidence that he will not use any information to his advantage as minister, limitless trust. Something that seems to have gone missing within Berlin’s political realm, perhaps it was never there to begin with.

She pulls her Blackberry from her bag and looks at a photo of him. She laughs about his thinning blonde hair, his slight paunch, and the clandestine male vanity that develops as they get older. You don’t need to hide anything, she thinks, not you. For a man, you have incredible empathy, you can differentiate between what works and what doesn’t. In everything that you do, you stay true to who you are, even in cabinet meetings. Perhaps that’s why we fit so well together.

She quickly takes a look at a current photo of her cabinet. A reflection of society. Primarily men, tall and short, fat and slim. Seven women, five normal-looking and two more attractive ones. She studies their faces, which cleverly conceal their personal agendas, including those of her own party. The ministers are cautious around her, very cautious. They know that the chancellor demands the utmost discipline from her cabinet. Anyone who dares to show public disloyalty is at risk. Henriette allows only one second chance and discipline from the cabinet. The old leftovers… I got rid of them the first day, so many yes-men, it was unbearable. Paul is the best defense minister I could ever wish for. He also seems to be the first one able to seize control of this uncontrollable political apparatus. The unsuccessful and expensive armament plans of his predecessors, the increasing number of obligations abroad, the desolate duty of operational readiness. Numerable generals and secretaries of state who are all just waiting to see him make a mistake. How can Paul still get such positive press coverage, she asks herself as the car slowly approached his house. I will have to ask him how he manages to be so virtuous amidst this political juggernaut with an ejector seat, and still maintain his unbelievable serenity.

They turn into his street.

The ministry was no ordinary career step for him, she senses, it was a way to himself. Maybe that’s why she likes him so much. And probably also because he, like herself, loves to read the stoic philosophy of Marcus Aurelius. They are both responsible preservationists, always mindful of the greater good, and above all, they are not risk-takers.

She turns off her phone.

“The nation will have to bear without me for a few hours. I need to refill my tank after that crisis meeting…with a dose of Paul.” She whispers to herself.

She laughs softly as she envisions how everything would soon play out. They would, of course, talk about the KSK mission.

But tonight, I don’t want to be restricted and proper, I want to feel like a woman again, she thinks.

She was fiendishly excited at the idea of playing out her feminine side, aware that if their relationship became a topic in the Berlin political world, it would have to end immediately. Their exciting and nowhere near fully-expended relationship has been kept secret all this time. And it is essential that it stays that way. She glances at her bodyguards, they’d be the first in line of those in the know. They are not allowed to even suspect what really connects her and the defense minister outside the office.

The front gate opens. Paul is standing there watching her car pull up. He has traded his suit jacket for a black cashmere sweater with a red polo shirt underneath.

“Welcome Ms. Behrens, Henriette Behrens.”

“What kind of a welcome is that?”

“Take a look at your license plate, James!”

Henriette turns toward the car and shakes her head.

“Oh God, they put that 007 plate on again!

I went all around Brussels with that thing on there, much to the amusement of the other heads of state.”

The heavy, white security door glides closed behind them. He helps her out of her coat. Immediately, all the stress of the day and the crisis conference simply fall away.

They ascend the slightly creaky, elegantly curved, wooden staircase to his living room. I love this house, she thinks. No bunker-like atmosphere, no Bauhaus elements, no sterile showcase furniture, just these warm colors and the smell of wood burning in the fireplace.

She drops into the crimson red winged chair, pulls her shoes off, puts her feet up on the matching footrest, and closes her eyes.

Paul is in the kitchen a few feet away. He doesn’t ask, he just lets her be.

When she opens her eyes, she immediately notices the picture on his small mahogany captain’s desk of his pale, blonde wife, his two grown children, and the two grandchildren.

Paul had already been a widower before she appointed him to her cabinet. He spoke little of his wife’s long battle with leukemia and slow death. It must have been a good marriage, it seems. Paul said that he changed after her death. He became more introverted but has managed to get along well on his own with the help of his housekeeper. What he doesn’t like are the tiresome newspaper reports being deeming him the most eligible bachelor in Berlin’s political scene.

Her glaze sweeps over the white floor-length set of bookshelves. The books at the top are only accessible by the ladder hanging there. They aren’t all lined up like tin soldiers, rather some lie on their sides in a sort of pleasant disarray. The shelves are alive.

Amongst the books are souvenirs of his trips. A small herd of elephants, meerkats, giraffes, and zebras as well as a photo of him wearing a safari hat standing in front of the small hut of a Himba woman. She has to smirk about Paul’s mini zoo. Other people have parrots or songbirds in cages, Paul has meerkats.

The radiators are concealed by white covers and, together with the book shelves and the white transom windows, make a subdued, harmonious unit. In each corner is a floor lamp, each one giving off a different warm hue. His beloved rocking chair stands in front of the fireplace, as well as two leather seat cushions and a half a glass of red wine. In one corner is a guitar and note stand. She hasn’t yet seen the other rooms and wonders, as she has many times before, how his bedroom is decorated. Is it Spartan or does it match the same warm ambiance as the living room?

She scoots down in the chair, leans her head back, and rubs her temples with her fingers and then through her hair. Then lays her arms on the armrests, folds her hands together, and closes her eyes again. She enjoys being here and experiencing this wonderful warming spark between them, unbeknownst where it will lead them. She is in the mood today for a proper helping of this warmth.

Paul glances at her from the kitchen.

He recognizes what she is doing. She is recharging, in her own way.

He tries to be as quiet as possible as he brings her favorite dessert and sets it on the wooden side table. Chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce, chocolate sprinkles, and whipped cream. Her eyes are still closed. Henriette is completely relaxed.

She feels his hand on her head and his fingertips wandering behind her ears down her neck. He says nothing, but she can see his lovely smile lines in her mind’s eye. His radiance flows through her body like endless threads of warmth. They pass over her stomach and into her toes. She is enjoying it and realizes that she wants more. She breathes deeply and raises her arms toward him, takes his hands and lays them on her breasts. He can feel her quick pulse. She opens her eyes and wants to pull his head toward hers.

Her gaze falls onto the desk chair. She jolts! The spine of a file folder screams at her in ugly, red letters:

OPERATION EAGLE – TOP SECRET.

A flash! These over-dimensional hostage photos from today in the Crisis Response Center with two terrified faces being skewed by a man wearing her picture on his back. She shivers as though she could just shake the cursed picture out of her mind.

Paul notices her sudden tension.

“What‘s going on?” he asks as she pulls away from him. She slowly sits upright in the chair, smooths her hair, and points to the file folder. He understands.

Henriette is back in the crisis center.

“Tell me about these guys. Can they really manage it?”

“I have no doubt about it. Wolf has the best of the best in his team.”

“What does that mean, Paul?”

Paul gently lifts her feet and sits on the footrest in front of her, lays her feet on his lap, and hands her the ice cream.

“The rescue operation will be carried out by three of our best elite soldiers. They have known each other for a long time. The troop leader, Captain Marc Anderson, who is not even thirty, has successfully faced the terrorists a number of times in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Algeria, and has freed hostages behind enemy lines. One time, he was missing for fourteen days and suddenly just reappeared. He is a kind of multi-use weapon, extremely quick-thinking and prefers to work independently. We wanted to take him out of deployment operations months ago and gradually build him up long-term. But, he refused to participate in the General Staff training and rejected a promotion to major. Anderson prefers to stay with his men.”

“I assume the other two are his men?”

“Correct. The second in command at his side is First Sergeant Thomas Heinrich, twenty-six years old, an expert on explosives and hand-to-hand combat. He idolizes Marc.”

“And number three?”

“Sergeant Tim Nader, same age, a German-Lebanese, and Muslim. And by the way, the only Muslim in the KSK. He is an excellent warrior and a linguistic genius. He comes from an Islamic tea producing family dynasty in Hamburg. Without him, EAGLE can’t fly. All three of them have saved each other’s lives at some point or another. They know each other better than an old married couple, and they trust each other wholeheartedly.”

“Is any of them married?”

“Marc Anderson was married for two years and is now divorced. Tim and Thomas never pursued marriage in the first place. Pretty much no one in the unit is married anymore. Their family is their Band of Brothers. Wolf told me that Marc, Thomas, and Tim share that kind of special brotherhood with a very close emotional connection.”

“Why do the families break apart? Is Calw somehow a hostile environment to a happy family life?”

Paul reaches for a small pot on the side table and spoons a couple of ladles full of rum raisins onto her ice cream.

“Thank you, Paul. Hmm, that tastes so good! If we get ever get fired, we can sell your delicious rum raisins at the Christmas market.”

Paul laughs out loud as he imagines himself making the ice cream and her selling it. Her, the ex-chancellor, it would be a hit!

“Oh, Henriette, the social problems throughout the Special Forces of the Army and Navy are a constant topic. You have to imagine it like this: these special soldiers are not allowed to tell their families anything, where they go, what they do, where they are coming from. But because they have to talk about it, they talk with their brothers in the barracks. It’s like their safe fortress.”

“Why do the men do it then? Are they some sort of infantile Rambo-types, who, how do they say it these days, find it amazing to shoot someone into oblivion?”

“Sure, of course they want to prove themselves. They are permanently pushed to their physical and mental limits. But Rambo-types, no, Henriette, we don’t want anyone like that and Wolf doesn’t allow such men anyway. We want aggression, of course, but we only take men who can control their aggression. And these three men are also patriots. All three were awarded the Navy Presidential Unit Citation from the U.S. president. It’s a pretty high honor.”

“What for?”

“Marc and his troop sailed into Afghanistan with parachutes about 20 miles into enemy territory and, together with Navy Seals, they saved a group of American soldiers. Since then, they respectfully refer to Marc as “Marc Blitzkrieg.” Of course, they were not able to tell their families about it. The commander also quickly confiscated the medals and stuck them in his cabinet.”

“Why Afghanistan? Germany is committed to strictly staying out of Afghanistan, they weren’t allowed to do that.”

“Forget it, Henriette, this was before your time. Besides, since when are you interested in any rank below a general?”

He immediately regretted the question once he saw her face change ever so slightly, but undeniably, to disapproval. She abruptly sat up straight in the chair.

“I respect people who put their lives on the line to defend our country. Their status does not interest me. And you, Mr. Minister, will please make sure that the entire team, as well as the helicopter teams and the units supporting the mission, all get out of there unharmed!”

He is slightly taken aback by her so formal reaction, she sees this and strokes his arm lovingly and lays her head on his shoulder.

“Paul, I am scared that I am making a huge mistake and putting the lives of our men at risk. What is your honest opinion? Tell me, please.”

Paul stands up, lays her feet back onto the footrest and goes to the bookshelves.

“That is very simple, Henriette.”

He confidently pulls a book from the shelf, opens it, glances at her mischievously and reads:

“Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book Four, No. 18, Translated by George Long: How much trouble he avoids who does not look to see what his neighbor says or does or thinks, but only to what he does himself, that it may be just and pure…”

Henriette winks at him, stands up and takes the empty pot to the kitchen for more rum raisins. Very well said, Marcus Aurelius, she thinks as she refills the little pot, the familiar, sweet scent filling the air. But how strong does one have to be in order to ignore what others say? The party is confident that I can withstand the loneliness of running this country, but it’s hard tonight. Damn hard. I cannot share this decision, not even with Paul. It is my decision alone and with all of its consequences. At best, both hostages will live. At worst, we will have two dead hostages plus a lot of dead soldiers…

Paul is smiling as she returns and tops her ice cream with a second helping of rum raisins, seemingly relaxed. But he senses her insecurities, maybe even her fear of the consequences of her decision. He questions whether he should think of a way to relieve her of that fear. No, he counters his own thought, as long as she doesn’t say anything, it makes no sense to mollify her concerns. She always works though things in her own way, by herself. She longs for closeness, but then barricades herself inside this closeness. She will manage, with logic and listening to her gut. Henriette Behrens is unbeatable in extreme situations.

She gives him a peck in the cheek as she takes her empty ice cream bowl to the kitchen.

“Did you know, that Marcus Aurelius barely had any chance to write because he was constantly at war with the Barbarians? The Barbarians that were at least as bad as this self-proclaimed Islamic State is today,” she says.

“That is correct, but not only did he conceive fourteen children right there on the battlefield with his wife, Faustina, he was also able to keep calm and serene in the midst of all the chaos of his governmental dealings.”

She returns. He is now sitting on one of the cushions in front of the fireplace.

“Fourteen?”

“Yes, you heard me correctly.”

“Maintaining my serenity is the least of my troubles, as long as you stand by me in my governmental affairs, but for the other, it’s much too late.”

He laughs out loud again. “For the fourteen children or for the battlefield?”

“Don’t you dare, Paul! We have an agreement.”

Paul looks at her the way he did back then in her office with his one eyebrow raised. She decides she never wants to repeat this moment again, especially as the rum is just taking effect.

“I have a request for you. Would you please let me know in due time if I am starting to take the wrong path with this Operation Eagle?”

“I can’t see that, Henriette, you did such a fantastic job today, and anyway, there is still plenty of time until the order goes into action to identify and correct any possible mistakes. In the meantime, I will take care of you, just like I am taking care of Operation Eagle.”

She nods, slips into her blue and white pumps and straightens her suit.

“How do I look?”

“As perfect as always, James.”

She takes his face in her hands and gives him a quick kiss on the lips.

“Sorry, Paul, I have to first be free of this matter.”

Before he can wrap his arms around her, she already has her phone out and is directing her bodyguards to bring the car forward.

Paul accompanies her to the front door, trying to mask his disappointment. He had tried to act so relaxed this evening and hide the fact that he was as nervous as he was on their first date. They were so close to landing in bed together again, finally, like it used to be, exciting and a welcome distraction.

What the hell went wrong? It couldn’t have been the WEFI file alone! What did she really feel for him? Is she even able to commit to a relationship? This beautiful Henriette was and is a sort of “touch and go” case. The slightest display of affection and she’s gone again. Perhaps her behavior has less to do with her office and more to do with her lack of ability to form more intimate relationships. In reality, at forty-nine years old, she is a long-confirmed single. If I am honest about it, I know her better at work than in private. Who is Henriette Behrens? Why can’t I get her out of my head? What makes her so sexy and exciting to me? Is it her position of power that turns me on? How would I feel if she were not the Chancellor of Germany? No, her job doesn’t matter. She could just as easily be a librarian in Trastevere in Rome. But what about her feelings? Are you sure you are not completely kidding yourself, Paul Voss?

The taillights of the Audi A8 disappear. He would so much like to know what Henriette is thinking right now. It doesn’t matter. After Operation Eagle successfully ends, Christmas will bring new opportunities. And a new, completely stress-free Henriette. Or so he believes.