The Deal

[Republica del Sur]

500 miles west of Las Cruces

A damp day, terribly damp. Moisture everywhere. Through the thick canopy barely any sunlight came down on the jungle floor. In this area of Republica del Sur, in the Ongana Crater, a most dense and virtually inpenetrable part of the greater Maleeza Jungle, the basin was one of the lowest points on the earth. A massive crater caused by a meteorite around 100,000 years ago - the area is supposedly scattered with ancient temples of unknown origin that have never been explored and only exist in fable and myth. Explorers who claim to have seen them speak of miraculous edifices, solid granite structures with pavement, towering pyramids and large statues of gruesome bloodthirsty gods. The camp itself was built near a small open space close to the center of the crater, where a caldera lake had formed over the course of thousands of years. It remained under the safe green cover of dense layers of leaves, canopy and vines. It hasn't rained for days, which came as a relief to the men and women who occupied the camp. It was within the perimeter of the government troops - but that was no guarantee nothing would happen. Many workers were armed to the teeth and a local militia patrolled the rainforest. To kill invaders or to find someone who pays more than us. Cash was worthless in the Republic, so we had to resort to other means of payment. Gold, foreign currency and tools were the most common items for barter. Security was extra tight today because a major shipment was expected. A major shipment of gold bullion from Danzig. The dealmaker was in the camp to arrange a smooth transaction. He had the merchandise, all he wanted was payment. And a planeticket out of here.

Several strangers resided within the pallisade walls of the camp. The volcanic activity of old in the area has yielded some interesting diamond findings and many geologists are aching to find more. None of the gems are allowed to leave the country; president DeNavén has declared it illegal and, more importantly, not many dare to touch raw Republica del Sur diamonds. Soaked in blood, used to pay for weapons and ammunition to fight rebels. One man in particular, a stranger, drew the attention of the workers in the camp. To get into the camp, one had to take a rather dangerous road down the steep slopes of the crater; the road didn't allow much traffic and it was guarded by several remote outposts that acted like ambushes for unwelcome guests. The Dealmaker was, in a way, an unwelcome guest. His air of snobbery and style didn't go along well with other inhabitants of the camp. He didn't come from the Republic, but from that faraway citystate on the invisible borderline of the Long Sea and the Vostok Sea. His name was Frank Beauregard. Toying with a bulky gold twenty thaler piece in his left hand, cigarette and a glass of liquor in his right, he kept watching a clock in his shack. Almost 3 in the afternoon, goddamnit, they're supposed to be here in thirty minutes and its a one hour drive from the entrance to camp! What is taking them so long? Patience, patience, patience.

Until then...! A radio message, spoken by a grainy voice delivering important news. A truck with several men, unarmed, as arranged, has passed the first outpost. All required markings as agreed in Danzig were present on the vehicle. Outpost number 2 would halt and inspect the vehicle. They'd read that site in twenty minutes. Patience. Another cigarette. Frank noticed the ashtray, crammed with cigarette butts, sighed for a moment but lit up regardless. One more drink and then he'd drive with a small detachment of guards to the rendez-vous point from whence they'd travel to the camp together. He poured himself another glass and waited for a radio message. Nothing yet. A small walk around the shack, more cigarettes, and around fifteen minutes later Outpost number 2 announced the truck had arrived - no bombs, no hidden weapons, no unknown names. And the money was there. Unmarked bills. Thalers from Franken. Crisp clean. One hundred million in cash. A truckload. Stacked neatly. And even the paperwork is sound. In Spanish, he rallied several workers to retrieve the ore from the safety deposit box buried deeply in an old mine shaft. Fiftyfive pounds of raw ore, highest grade and one of the purest samples mined. It was kept in a lead storage container on the bottom of the 'safety deposit box' in the mineshaft, where most of the locally mined ore goes once its mined miles away from the camp. Processing takes place even further away. But, somehow, a processed piece of ore made it back to the camp. It's a crazy country, Frank thought when he received word he could get his hands on it. And now, he'd get one hundred million thalers for it. Not a bad day I'd say. Getting it out of the country is easy as long as you know the channels. Due to coastal piracy - mostly carried out by rogue elements within the navy - not many foreigners have the nerve to come close to Republica del Sur's shore. Save for one ship. The captain of the ship, Bellian - a corrupt former commodore of the Republica del Sur navy - was given `special permission' to throw down the anchor for two weeks. Only a few days, if everything went according to plan, would be needed to pull off this job. Quick and painless.

 

[Beautancus]

Novara, Oltremare
One Week Ago


There had been a time, a time spanning a good few decades, when the intelligence communities of the various nations that made of the League of Free States had been the major movers and shakers in international affairs, at least so far as the movements of their often ponderous homelands were concerned. That had obviously changed- with three, and truly four, major armed conflicts engulfing- or at least involving- those nations raging in the course of the past year.

Surely, the intelligence communities of the nations in question were involved in those cases, but they hadn't been the primary movers and shakers in those conflicts, beyond simply facilitating them. As was the nature of major armed conflicts, most of the impetus had fallen on the average fighting man, whether he hailed from Jizhou, Oikawa, Oltremare, Ratomkira- or more particularly Sarmatia.

Though credit had been given to the PKB where it was due, there simply hadn't been that much credit to hand out once the martial glory had started to roll in. Surely, there were men and women in dark green and black on the ground in the Memorial Territories doing their part, which was mainly to inspire a particular form of terror in the Niemcy of that sorry region...but the PKB, and its immediate predecessor, had grown accustomed to being the highest of "high rollers."

Something had to be done to remedy this most recent turn of events, to properly illustrate just where- and with whom- the true power of the world's newest, and perhaps most feared, Empire rested.

It was a happy coincidence that this business had to be conducted in Novara. It, as was the case with nearly any southern coastal city in Oltremare, was one of the most sought after assignments for any "Sarmatian spook," fought over and attached to many an intra-agency blood-feud.

There were no telling how many half-Sarmatian babies there were floating around the back alleys of the brothels in this particular town...and Łowczy (Master of the Hunt) Adam Tarlowsky was sure that at least a dozen of them belonged to him. Not that any of the little bastards would ever get a single złoty, or an single murmur of recognition from him.

There were a few slight differences in this visit, notably the change in the quality of venue. Normally, Tarlowsky and his ilk restricted themselves to the seedy underbelly of the city, one of the few stereotypical "spook" traits that PKB were encouraged to maintain. This time, he'd been afforded the cash to rent a multi-million lira beachfront villa, complete with some of the most delectable aquiline beauties that Oltremare could offer.

Most of those had long since passed out, in various stages of undress and ravishment, scattered throughout the villa like half-dead, but exquisitely fashioned ragdolls. Nearly all of them still had the tell-tale rim of white powder about their nostrils and similarly colored film at the corners of their mouths...cocaine was likewise easy to come by here- surprisingly even more so than in Stary Hrodino, a city that actually prided itself on the selection of drugs available to locals and tourists alike.

Scooping a bit more on to the tip of his antique dagger, Tarlowsky took another bump, a bit disappointed with the fact that his own nostrils had grown so numb as to negate any sensation from this fix. With a sigh, he grabbed up another cigarette and packed it down a bit, waiting to light it until after he'd stepped out onto the patio. Overlooking the confluence of the Long and Vostok Seas, the blue-purple night sky captivated the Łowczy for a brief moment, his mind racing between existentialist introspection and plotting mass-murder intermittently. Smoke curled about his head, out of his scoured nostrils and dry mouth- disappearing into the freshness of the wind blowing up from the waves.

The thunder of those same waves as they rolled in and onto the beach below drew him back into reality, if it could truly be called that for Tarlowsky- a man who'd not inhabited the "real" world for at least forty years now. Across the bay to the west, in that oft-loathed city, Danzig, it could be safely assumed that at least one other man was doing much the same as Tarlowsky himself- even grappling with the same "mission parameters," though it was likely that this hypothetical other man would view it as more of a business deal...still, the end result would be the same.

That man, in Danzig, and his benefactors would grow ever richer. Some local strongman in Republica del Sur, and likely DeNavén would grow richer. Random goat-herders and charcoal burners in any number of other nations would be able to feed their families for a few more days...

Stary Hrodino would not grow richer, not in any tangible fashion, and Tarlowsky would surely not increase his net worth in any noteworthy manner. In fact, it would be a safe assumption that the Empire would take a financial hit, at least in the short term (though Tarlowsky obviously would not). That was a negligible concern, in the greater scheme. The Emperor was richer than Croesus already. The loss of a few hundred million here and there was nothing to him. It was that greater scheme, the Greatest of all Games, that mattered here.

Power, naked and unrestrained. That was what concerned the Emperor, and his Master of the Hunt.

That thought, of the opportunities that would follow in the wake of this greater enterprise that was more captivating than any other. It was no coincidence then, when the wholly disposable cell-phone in his pocket vibrated...

<Running the Straights. See you soon.>

Tarlowsky slid the phone back into his pocket and dropped the remnants of his cigarette into the sand below. Time for another bump.

 

[Republica del Sur]

Closing the Deal

There's no trade without trust.

Frank Beauregard knew he could trust Tarlowsky, a credit- and trustworthy man he is. When the trucks carrying the payment arrived at the camp, many felt a certain relief they were finally able to get rid of the 'curse'. Uranium is a blessing for the Republica del Sur economy, it provides steady income but over the years it has progressively turned into a curse, lingering from positive addition to major burden and back again - as long as rebels and paramilitary stay active in the region. The last few days have been quiet and news has reached us that the Republica del Sur armed forces have achieved some degree of success against the insurgents west of the camp. By no means the are was safe or to lower your guard, these areas are still designated by the government as high security risk. While the sun was shining, Tarlowsky left the truck to shake hands and meet Beauregard. Both of them have been in Republica del Sur before, neither of them had a real home and somehow they're on the run for someone they've messed with in the past. Working for a shady government figure or agency pulling the strings in the background is more attractive than random actions and the uncertainty that comes with it. No sir, it's not as bad as it sounds.

Traveling from the jungle to the harbor wasn't easy - the roads were in deplorable condition and several detours had to be taken because heavy rains washed away roads or bridges. All in all the trip took a few days extra than previously guessed. When the convoy arrived in town, several annoying police officers had to be bribed - running the risk of encountering an honest police officer, which could seriously hamper our plans. Shooting someone is a last resort - nobody is eager to put everything, yes everything, at risk to get around a troublesome cop. Bellians ship was visible in the distance and it was time to close the deal. Once the uranium was boarding the ship, there would be no turning back. Beauregard ordered a signal and Bellian answered he would make port in two hours.

All uranium was kept safe in specialized containers that were shipped from Sarmantia months ago. On the official cargo papers all equipment was labelled as `farming machinery' or other bogus content. Somehow (with plenty of cash) everything slipped through the cracks of the system in Republica del Sur and ended up in this mining complex. Saying it's state of the art equipment would be an understatement. When it comes to transporting uranium, shipping it this way is as safe as it gets. Relatively speaking of course, we're dealing with uranium. All uranium would change hands on the ship of commodore Bellian. The money would part ways at the docks - a quarter would be used to pay off the harbormaster, police, security, Bellian himself, virtually everybody who saw us at the harbor. There's nothing like buying a man's loyalty with cold hard cash. Tarlowsky is a hired gun; just like Beauregard. But this mission isn't like any other they have witnessed or parttaken. Something big is at stake, much bigger than either can anticipate at the moment. It lies beyond their comprehension. And possibly one of the biggest events in recent history starts out in the wet, misty rainforest of Republica del Sur.