Polesia
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The Sultan's Coffeehouse
Kilkila
Vangala
From its establishment in the heyday of the Franconian Empire, the Sultan's Coffeehouse had always been the favoured haunt of the established elite. Its ancient mangrove doors welcomed the men who ran Vangala into a secretive world of intrigue, hidden only by a cloak of cigar smoke and the overpowering smell of tea and coffee together with the discretion of its inhabitants. In colonial times, it had been aristocrats and adventurous businessmen who frequented the Coffeehouse, enjoying exotic delicacies served by scantily-clad, beautiful young women. In the chaotic few months following Vangala's independence, barely elected politicians sat squabbling over the new country's future. It was only immediately after the People's Revolution that the Sultan's Coffeehouse was silent and empty. Its demolition was planned, but as guerrillas turned into politicians, shadowy figures returned to its dark, musky rooms.
The defining feature of the Coffeehouse was the ornate relief outside that dominated the space above the doorway, featuring a gilded Hajri Sultan being served a cup of coffee by a meek, shaven-headed slave boy. It was a famous sight in the so-called 'White Town', the area of Kilkila built under Franconian rule.
The muted lights made the interior hard to discern. The walls were plain in colour, but were covered by quaint paintings of Hajri coffeehouses and bazaars. In the centre, lay a magnificent Wazistani carpet, traditional patterns intricately hand-woven in. A low-lying table dominated by a towering hookah pipe obscured most of the rug and surrounding that were a dozen large cushions. This area was reserved for the Coffeehouse's most important customers; the senior leadership of the Vangalan Communist Party.
Major General Mainul Dal, Director-General of People's Military Intelligence, rested uneasily on one of these plush cushions, a few drained cups of coffee and an ashtray filled with the dead-ends of cigarettes sitting idly on the table. He was waiting for Minister of National Defence Nurul Banerjee, who had demanded to speak with him personally in an angry phone call an hour ago. He had no doubts it was about the report from Reuters International News Agency. An investigation by a persistent and resourceful journalist had revealed the location and identity of several former Batavian State Security agents residing in Vangala. Now both the Batavian and Cornavian governments were demanding they, and the documents they had smuggled in, be returned.
It had started off a simple operation. Codenamed Mighty River, the intelligence chief stationed at the Vangalan Embassy in Vlaanderen contacted senior State Security officers in the midst of the political strife in Batavia and offered them a new, protected existence in a Communist tropical paradise. In return, they were asked to collect files that mentioned Vangalan intelligence activity. With years of close co-operation, it was impossible to retrieve them all. Nevertheless, a significant number were secured.
From there onwards, it was a case of transporting them back to Vangala. Using forged Eiffellandian passports, most passed through the Papal States en route to the People's Republic. Some opted to stay in the Papal States, preferring the climate, culture or cuisine. Mainul Dal's superiors were not bothered, as long as they received the documents. The Batavian agents were viewed more as liabilities and extra expense than assets. Those who chose to travel the whole way believed they were safe and secure as they arrived in Vangala, with new identities and luxury accommodation in Diamond Harbour, the most expensive neighbourhood in Chingrikhali, Vangala's burgeoning port city.
A surprise vibration from one of the many phones owned by the Director-General ended his recollection. It was a text from the National Defence Minister. 'Outside'. Dal clumsily put the mobile back and grabbed a ragged mass of Taka from the inside of his suit. He was not used to formal attire; he normally worked in his military uniform. He found suits restrictive and pretentious; they were for low-ranking Party members.
He flicked through the wad of money and picked out the neatest notes, laying them carefully on clean space on the table. The eyes of Great Comrade Basu were judging him. He looked up to his attending waiter, who stood patiently a polite few metres from him, and gave a forced smile before smoothing his suit and walking hurriedly out.
Kilkila
Vangala
From its establishment in the heyday of the Franconian Empire, the Sultan's Coffeehouse had always been the favoured haunt of the established elite. Its ancient mangrove doors welcomed the men who ran Vangala into a secretive world of intrigue, hidden only by a cloak of cigar smoke and the overpowering smell of tea and coffee together with the discretion of its inhabitants. In colonial times, it had been aristocrats and adventurous businessmen who frequented the Coffeehouse, enjoying exotic delicacies served by scantily-clad, beautiful young women. In the chaotic few months following Vangala's independence, barely elected politicians sat squabbling over the new country's future. It was only immediately after the People's Revolution that the Sultan's Coffeehouse was silent and empty. Its demolition was planned, but as guerrillas turned into politicians, shadowy figures returned to its dark, musky rooms.
The defining feature of the Coffeehouse was the ornate relief outside that dominated the space above the doorway, featuring a gilded Hajri Sultan being served a cup of coffee by a meek, shaven-headed slave boy. It was a famous sight in the so-called 'White Town', the area of Kilkila built under Franconian rule.
The muted lights made the interior hard to discern. The walls were plain in colour, but were covered by quaint paintings of Hajri coffeehouses and bazaars. In the centre, lay a magnificent Wazistani carpet, traditional patterns intricately hand-woven in. A low-lying table dominated by a towering hookah pipe obscured most of the rug and surrounding that were a dozen large cushions. This area was reserved for the Coffeehouse's most important customers; the senior leadership of the Vangalan Communist Party.
Major General Mainul Dal, Director-General of People's Military Intelligence, rested uneasily on one of these plush cushions, a few drained cups of coffee and an ashtray filled with the dead-ends of cigarettes sitting idly on the table. He was waiting for Minister of National Defence Nurul Banerjee, who had demanded to speak with him personally in an angry phone call an hour ago. He had no doubts it was about the report from Reuters International News Agency. An investigation by a persistent and resourceful journalist had revealed the location and identity of several former Batavian State Security agents residing in Vangala. Now both the Batavian and Cornavian governments were demanding they, and the documents they had smuggled in, be returned.
It had started off a simple operation. Codenamed Mighty River, the intelligence chief stationed at the Vangalan Embassy in Vlaanderen contacted senior State Security officers in the midst of the political strife in Batavia and offered them a new, protected existence in a Communist tropical paradise. In return, they were asked to collect files that mentioned Vangalan intelligence activity. With years of close co-operation, it was impossible to retrieve them all. Nevertheless, a significant number were secured.
From there onwards, it was a case of transporting them back to Vangala. Using forged Eiffellandian passports, most passed through the Papal States en route to the People's Republic. Some opted to stay in the Papal States, preferring the climate, culture or cuisine. Mainul Dal's superiors were not bothered, as long as they received the documents. The Batavian agents were viewed more as liabilities and extra expense than assets. Those who chose to travel the whole way believed they were safe and secure as they arrived in Vangala, with new identities and luxury accommodation in Diamond Harbour, the most expensive neighbourhood in Chingrikhali, Vangala's burgeoning port city.
A surprise vibration from one of the many phones owned by the Director-General ended his recollection. It was a text from the National Defence Minister. 'Outside'. Dal clumsily put the mobile back and grabbed a ragged mass of Taka from the inside of his suit. He was not used to formal attire; he normally worked in his military uniform. He found suits restrictive and pretentious; they were for low-ranking Party members.
He flicked through the wad of money and picked out the neatest notes, laying them carefully on clean space on the table. The eyes of Great Comrade Basu were judging him. He looked up to his attending waiter, who stood patiently a polite few metres from him, and gave a forced smile before smoothing his suit and walking hurriedly out.