In Cadim [Prelim title]

[Serenierre]

Directorate for Foreign Intelligence & Security
Shahdara, SKD

The DFIS - or the Directorate for short - was a shady organisation. In official ledgers, it did not exist. In reality, this brutal sub-branch of the Grand Council for Intelligence had operations going on in nearly every nation of the world. The latest work of the agency had been an attack on the Sikandari embassy in Solis - all in an effort to dirty the image of the Aurarians before the world. The Directorate headquarters was an unassuming building in a quiet corner of the Government Quarter of the imperial citadel - surrounded by the premises of the National Archives and the Employment Bureau. The main entrance of the directorate was well hidden from sight.

Inside the building, in the office of the man in charge of all operations in Himyar (Major Ghani), six men were sitting and hearing the details of the Directorate's efforts in the country of Cadim. Ever since oil had been found in the country, influential people in Shahdara had started paying more attention to the forsaken country. For decades, no one in Shahdara had bothered to look into the plight of the Muslims being oppressed by the Aurarian Christians, but that was before oil and before the tensions with Auraria.

In that meeting a most daring plan was hatched. In a week's time, a small company of operatives would leave for Cadim via Längerland. They would be travelling under false identities. They had been chosen for their ethnically ambiguous features. The group of ten would rendezvous with contacts from the Directorate's Sarik bureau who would funnel them through the country deep into the Muslim heartland of the country. The agents would then proceed to scout villages, neither too big nor too small, where they would begin their assignment. These ten men would further be joined by twenty or so other operatives who were already based in the country to augment their numbers. These men knew nothing of the mission details and were simply to follow the orders of their superiors.

On Friday, as the men of these Muslim villages would be leaving their mosques, the men would barge into the main squares of the village in jeeps. These modified jeeps had standard military grade machine guns mounted on them. The jeeps had the livery of the Cadimi military upon it. Immediately they were to take control of the village and force the populace to present itself in the main square. The reason for this strange visit would be that they were looking for a traitor. When the populace was accounted for, they were to indiscriminately open fire. No man, woman, or child was to be left. No amount of cruelty was enough. After making sure that the people were dead - or sufficiently injured so as to not move - they were to blow up the mosque and set fire to as much of the village as they could. This horrific scene was to be photographed and every effort was to be made to have it look like covert photography - to enhance its legitimacy in the eyes of the critical press.

When the grizzly task was complete, they were to vanish from the scene. This last part was not difficult as the Directorate had invested in setting up a number of safe houses in this part of the country.

As soon as confirmation would arrive in the Directorate's bureau in Sarik of the successful operation, which was signalled by the broadcasting of a famous Arabic romance song telling the story of Leila and Majnun on a particular frequency, the Directorate's machinery in the capitals of [MENTION=18]Eiffelland[/MENTION] and [MENTION=19]Längerland[/MENTION]
would start proceed to make sure that the local media in those countries was picking up on chatter which would alert them of something wrong happening in Cadim. In time for the news on Monday, journalists in Längerland would find themselves in possession of anonymous tips and the grizzly pictures would be on the desk of the editor of the largest daily in that country.

In Cadim, itself, the Directorate would be working to print up large quantities of pamphlets which they would spread across the Badi region by using the web of religious charities and criminal connections which would perpetuate the Sikandari propaganda. By the next Friday, if things went smoothly, the news of the Aurariano attack on the Badi Muslims would have spread across the country like wildfire - even if the government would have tried to repress the reporting. Such things always had a way of travelling. The Badi had to be awoken. This tragedy would provide the jolt they needed.

Back in Shahdara, when public channels would communicate this atrocity, the Imperial Government would obviously be shocked and devastated at the carnage but would urge the international community to allow the Cadimi police system to proceed at its pace. Shahdara, it would seem, was intent on playing with both sides - at least for now.
[MENTION=945]Cadim[/MENTION]

OOC: Thought I'd kick it off in a big way. Sorry if its too much.

 

[Längerland]

Bertoldsgasse 72
Lörrach
Friirepublik Längerland

The windy, narrow, cobblestone-clad streets of Lörrach were famous for charming all sorts of men, no matter what corner of the earth they came from. Whether born and raised in the idyllic capital city or a recent immigrant from abroad, it was simply an enrapturing, pleasant place to be. Yet beneath this lovely veneer were some of the most cunning, daring, dishonest people the world could offer. Owing to the country's longstanding political neutrality, Längerland's capital had become over the course of decades one of the top locations for espionage. Every foreign intelligence service had operatives here, even offices, usually masked in their embassies. The concentration of spies was so great that rumours told of no corner of the capital being free from eavesdropping. Indeed, the concentration of spies fed off itself, leading to more being sent so that they could listen on to each other, catch a shred of new information, or see an adversary in the flesh.

Bertoldsgasse was an exceptionally beautiful street, so narrow that only the smallest of cars could pass through. Not far from the Government District and its grand ministerial buildings, it was known for its small bookshops and boutique law firms. But at Number 72, occupying the second and third floors, was a different kind of office. The brass plaque at street level read simply Universal Exports. A postwoman was finishing her daily route to deliver the afternoon post. She reached into her bag and took out an C4-sized envelope, padded thick with whatever was contained inside. She slid it through the slot for Number 72 and went along her way, whistling a folk song from her youth.

Franz Breisacher, sitting up on the third floor, was quietly working at his desk. His window was open, letting in a fresh breeze, letting out his cigarette smoke. Scribbling slowly away at his paper he heard his clock go from its normal ticking to it's three o'clock chime. That time already? he thought to himself. He set down his fountain pen, took one more drag from his cigarette and walked down the stairs to the building's small foyer. The Afternoon Post, one of three daily deliveries in Längerland, was under his watch. He took the small key from his pocket and unlocked the postbox.

Two standard letter-size envelopes with stamps from Auraria and Sikandara - normal weekly reports from the field, written in code, of course. Another envelope with a stamp from Eiffelland - again just a routine report. A thicky brown envelope with a stamp from Cadim, marked Express By Air, dated from only one day ago...that was strange. The Sarik head office wasn't due to report on anything until next week and the envelope bore no typical markings of the SiPo (Sicherheitspolizei) of Längerland, which usually meant a logo for Universal Exports, the cover name used in most of its field locations.

Franz laboured his way up the stairs and dropped off the three normal envelopes on his secretary's inbox. He brought the larger one from Cadim into his office, shut the door and sat down. His cigarette from before was still burning in the ash tray. There was enough tobacco left for at least two good drags. He slit open the envelope and emptied its contents. The note within was typed in German.

Contained within are photos from a village in the heartland of Cadim.

CC: Lörrach Morräpost

That was it. No letterhead, no signature, no explanation. Franz finished his cigarette, sighed and began to look through the photos. He didn't have to get very far before he froze.

'Linda!' he yelled loudly through his closed door. 'Get my Central Command on the phone. Now!'

Linda was out to lunch, however. Yet the phone still rang. Franz lifted the receiver furiously. It was the Editor of the Lörrach Morräpost.

'Yes, I've seen them. No. No if I knew, first of all, I wouldn't be able to tell you, but I didn't. Yes, it's news to me as well. We had nothing on the radar and our network down there is decent enough to get whiff of something like this...I'm not asking you to not print, I just want a couple of days to do some due diligence...yes, right, that's all. Just let my boys come down there with some forensics equipment, compare the photos to what I have, check with our field locations and then you can go to press...two, three days at the most. I won't stand in your way after that...all right, thanks. Let me know if there's anything else.'

Franz put the receiver back and placed his hands on his temples, rubbing them slowly. He felt a headache coming on already. He hadn't received this kind of information in years. Number 72 was a simple office. Deliberately detached from SiPo's Central Command in the Government District, it was meant to be a quiet, inconspicuous place where field agents could send back hard intelligence for review, analysis and archiving. Only rarely did something of significance come through. That's when Central Command needed to get involved.

Franz heard Linda walking up the stairs and settle back at her desk. 'Linda, I need Central on the phone and I need a car here in ten minutes with a police escort.' Franz was already back in his office before she could respond.

The phone rand again, this time it was Central Command. 'Franz Breisacher, Number 72.'