The Hollow Camel (Closed, ATTN Teremara)

[Gragastavia]

Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia
Ar Rabwah District

Al-Duhaba on the whole was a perennial unfavorite. Foreigners, the usual victims of sunstroke, muggers, and swindling, seldom ranked the city as a worthwhile destination, while the natives begrudged the heat, the filth, the stench, and the food. To them, it was not that the heat, stench, or the food was inherently bad, only that there were better options. To the south, there was more heat; to the east there was worse stench; to the north there was better food. Among all those, there was the best filth in Al-Duhaba. One could find it behind the camels patrolling the streets like roving bands of marauders, in alleyways between hookah bars and kebab shops, kicked up by the young hoodlums driving far too fast on roads that were far too small, or fettered to the desks in the MALET Office.

That was what his boss said, anyway. The administrators were not the most competent. They were not inherently bad, but there were better options. One need only move up the ladder in the Foreign Office to find more qualified administrators and more tactful diplomats. Those stuck with the MALET assignment were those who received poor marks on their civil service examinations or graduated from inferior institutions like the Saif Hussein Institute of Theology, which inexplicably had one of the more prestigious baccalaureate programs in International Relations in the entire country. There was far more money to be made in camel breeding or oil sales than there was to be made in government, unless one rose to a position of power where corruption would pay more than a handful of riyals every time an unwitting foreign dignitary needed a form faxed to the office down the hall and then hand-delivered to that same office or when they risked their sensible automobiles on street parking. No parking signs would spring up almost as soon as they left their cars alone, and the tickets followed not long after.

One such administrator was Malik Muhammad bin Farid Al-Hamri. He had never set foot in Al-Hamra but he once watched the Al-Hamra Giants beat the Tibrak Titans on TV, which was a match that made both teams seem normal in size by comparison. He had a long and storied career pushing pencils, sending faxes down the hall and then hand-delivering the forms, and hustling foreigners with parking tickets. During the civil war, he was informed the king required his service in the army and he was assigned as a clerk in the MALET Office doing his exact same job. He was never asked to tender a resignation and he never did, collecting two paychecks until his eventual discharge at the conflict’s conclusion. He left his desk one Friday wearing an army uniform and returned the following Monday in his regular gray wool suit. Such was his duty, and he was happy to serve.

To say that foreigners never went to Al-Duhaba would be untrue. Many did, especially when there was no alternative. When Al-Hamri learned there was to be a MALET summit in Al-Duhaba, he was at first shocked at the news, but his shock grew into a conniving plan. He had a friend who had a cousin who had a barber who had a camel who had a brother who owned a hotel on the south side of the city. The south side was far worse than the north side, being more barren with wider streets and less space. By consequence, it was cheaper, which meant the money in the budget could be allocated to other purposes. When the word came down from the top, Al-Hamri wasted no time in getting him assigned to serve as the chair of the planning committee. Normally one would call in favors to get out of work or make a certain task easier. For a Gragastavian, one called in favors when there was an opportunity to make money through dishonest means. His connections would be invaluable, and he leveraged his experience in working with foreigners to position himself as a leading candidate. And so he called in the favors he accumulated over his career, and when his superiors smiled upon him, granting him the privilege, the only instructions they gave was to host it at the Duhaba River Hotel.

A quick call to the brother who owned a hotel lent a swift coat of paint to the signs. By the end of the afternoon, Abdul’s Hotel was no more and the Duhaba River Hotel, located on the corner of Baydha’a and 116th next to the camel racetrack and the bootleg music store, was founded. The menus and other literature remained the same—such a change would exceed the budget.

Abdul, the proprietor, planned an exotic banquet featuring a showcase of the finest food Al-Duhaba had to offer: eighteen types of falafel, sixteen different tabbouleh, hummus in every flavor and color, and a rotating selection of kebabs. What they received, however, was catering from the Abdul’s Tabbouleh Shack down the street, the one with the gasoline smell permanently emanating from the kitchen. For the price, the food was respectable enough, though anyone who tried the falafel would be left with a permanent greasy feeling in their mouth for the next eight days. The ballroom left a bit to be desired, between the urine-stained carpets that a steam cleaning could fade but not fully remove, and the large particle board table that never sat quite flat no matter how many magazines one stuffed under the loose foot. The air conditioner functioned at least, provided the technician paid his dues with enough swearing, cajoling, prayers, and bribery. A deep chill settled in the room, so deep it left condensation on the slits they called windows marking the perimeter of the room every four feet or so.

Being local, the President of Gragastavia stayed in his own residence and commuted by armed caravan. Those brave few who chose to stay in the Duhaba River Hotel, formerly Abdul’s Hotel, were subjected to the swells of heat, creaking walls, wobbly floors, the occasional cockroach, and a vending machine that only dispensed FalkoCola Lite. FalkoCola Lite was despised by critics and consumers alike for being “awful” and “no better than sewer sludge.” For Al-Hamri, a room at the hotel was a significant improvement on his own apartment in Blackmosque. He welcomed the vacation, if just to get away from the wife and take a dip in the swimming pool. The pool water burned anyone who dared to enter since there was far too much chlorine in it, but he planned to hide his pain by sitting among the Skartokian delegation. They were permanently blazed on all manner of substances, and another set of bloodshot eyes would undoubtedly go unnoticed. In the Gragastavian summer, any body of water was a welcome one, even if it smelled like FalkoCola Lite.

President Al-Hussein was scheduled to arrive first. However, the day prior, Abdul found the Skartokian ambassador asleep in the dumpster out back and smelling distinctly of marijuana. He was no snitch, and let the ambassador find his own way to his room. A fanfare of police sirens and aggressive motors announced Al-Hussein’s approach, and the security detail who had locked down a zone of four blocks in each direction stood on edge. Camels were permitted through the blockade, of course, as federal, provincial, and municipal law granted them right of way in all circumstances. A black limousine rolled up to the sandstone portico, stopping under the shade a massive red and white awning cast over the swarm of journalists and cameramen lying in wait for a glimpse of the president. The rear door opened and the cameras leaned in, flashes flaring and lenses clicking as a burly man stepped onto the asphalt. He was not the president. The burly man waved to the chauffeur and the limousine sped away.

A moment later, a black SUV replaced the limousine. The burly man reached for the passenger door and flung it open, nearly tearing it off its hinges, and a cascade of identical dark-suited men slid out. They had minor variations between them, some wore glasses and beards while others had striped or checked ties, but their suits all had two buttons, double vents, and were made from the same bolt of charcoal fabric. How so many bureaucrats and politicians could fit into such a small vehicle was a question only clowns and Polatilus knew the answer to. The journalists followed the crowd, spouting inquiries and slamming them with photographs, as they jaunted to the front door. President Al-Hussein was somewhere among them, his face obscured by the billows of smoke that engulfed the group of men as they all lit cigarettes in perfect unison.

Al-Hamri waited in the lobby, a cigarette perched between his fingers. He did not smoke, but it was part of the uniform. He tipped a nod to the crowd as they entered the automatic sliding door. “Good morning, sir!” he called.

“Good morning, Mr. Al-Hamri!” the crowd answered, again in perfect unison.

“Your staging room is on—” he started, but the crowd swept him up in the current and they carried him deeper. He melded through the sea of bureaucrats, each more indistinguishable from the last, until he caught his breath somewhere in the middle. He recognized the MALET Director, Bukhari, from his blue and white striped tie, as opposed to the standard white and blue striped tie most senior officials wore. A cool breeze made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and he risked a glance over his shoulder.

“Al-Hamri,” President Al-Hussein said. “What is this place?”

“This is the Duhaba River Hotel, sir.”

“I like that. This is a good place.” Al-Hussein nodded firmly. “Was it expensive?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. You don’t want to spend too much on a hotel. They take you for all you’ve got in fees and then you have nothing left to spend on your trip.” Al-Hussein eyed him from toe to crown. “You’re going to be an ambassador someday, Al-Hamri. You’ve got moxie. I like that.” He inhaled a deep breath. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“No, sir. I thought everyone was following you.”

"Yes, of course. They are following me, and I was following Al-Duhabi up there. He’s our budget guy. But he was following me, so that makes sense.”

“We have a block of suites on the second floor reserved for our delegation, sir.”

“That must be where we’re going.” Al-Hussein cleared his throat. “Al-Duhabi, second floor!”

“Sir,” a sharp voice said. It was not Al-Duhabi’s.

“Shit, that’s right,” Al-Hussein mumbled. “Al-Duhabi’s on leave because his favorite pocket protector broke. Damn shame. It was a beautiful pocket protector, and just two days from retirement. I wish I had a pocket protector like that. But my shirts don’t have pockets. I was very clear to the tailor. Very clear.” Al-Hussein shook his head, and somehow they ended up in a stairwell. The crowd pounded up the steps and emerged on the second floor veranda. The balcony ringed a swimming pool, the water tinged the same light green as FalkoCola Lite if FalkoCola Lite were light green, and they slithered along until they reached room 236. Al-Hamri fit the key into the lock and pushed the door open. In a flash, the bureaucrats availed themselves of the seating, sprawling out like beached whales. There were not enough chairs or sofas, and those who could not find a seat simply laid on the floor. The miniature refrigerator flung open, overpriced sodas and candy making the circuit. There was not a single FalkoCola Lite to be found among the colorful cans, although there were three cans of regular FalkoCola.

“Thank you, Al-Hamri,” Al-Hussein said as he pushed a bureaucrat out of a floral-patterned lounge chair. “That’s a good recliner. I like that.” He started to sit, but a scent caught his nose and he tiptoed to the vent near the window. “What’s that smell?” he asked.

“That’s falafel, sir.”

“Falafel,” he repeated. “That’s good. That’s very good. And that’s something for you to do, Al-Hamri.” He pointed out the window to an intersection. Guards stood on all four corners, waving a line of camels through the roadblock. The camels were not escorted by a human and they traipsed through the street. “You should go welcome them. I didn’t know the camels were scheduled to attend this conference. Do they have a room?” He frowned. “Do camels live in rooms? I thought they lived in stables. The domestic camels, anyway. I know wild camels live in timeshares. They get a better deal and they can make rental income too. I’d live in a timeshare if I could.”

Al-Hamri scratched the back of his head. “I will… go welcome the camels, sir.”

“Good, good.” Al-Hussein slank to the recliner again while Al-Hamri headed out the door. He pulled the lever and the footrest sprang out. “Bukhari. Give me a FalkoCola Lite.”

“Sir,” Bukhari said, handing him a can of regular FalkoCola. He sat on the couch adjacent to the lounger and removed a cigarette case from his jacket. “Can I offer you a smoke, sir?”

“No. I never smoke, not with a can of FalkoCola Lite in my hand.” Al-Hussein cracked the top, the hiss shooting spray into Bukhari’s eye. “Why are we here again, Bukhari?”

“It’s the MALET summit, sir. You’re supposed to meet with representatives from…” Bukhari trailed off, trading his cigarette case for a notebook. “Falkasia. Skartok. Osatana. The Yellow Star Republic.”

“Yellow Star Republic. When did they join us?”

“They’re not here yet.”

“I see.” He slurped and swallowed hard, rotating the can to examine the label. “There’s nothing like FalkoCola Lite. Nothing like it.” He guzzled the drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each swallow. “That hits the spot.” Crushing the can, he tossed it aside and pivoted his head to Bukhari. “Why am I here?”

“To pester the Falkasians, the YSR, the Osatanans—really anyone—into giving us more money. Our defense budget is pretty tight, and with the South Gragastavians ramping up their military, it’s the only way we can respond.”

“Should we ask the Skartokians?”

“No, not the Skartokians.” Bukhari tapped his cigarette, no ash falling off the tip since it was not lit. “They’re even more broke than we are.”

“I’ll ask the Skartokians anyway. Their ambassador is a wise man. Very wise. He sold me this watch.” The black plastic calculator caught the light pouring in from the window, clamped tightly around his wrist with a velcro strap. “Can an Engollian Rolex do multiplication, division, exponents, square roots, and subtraction? Don’t answer that! It can’t. All it does is tell the time. This is a better watch in every way.” He stroked his chin, a finger trailing to his earlobe. “Why else are we here?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. We’ll figure it out once the summit actually starts. Al-Hamri has it under control.”

“Oh, yes. Al-Hamri. Good man. Very good man.”

“Should we get going, sir?”

“No time like the present! No time!” Al-Hussein pulled the recliner lever and the chair launched him to his feet. He pushed through the door, his entourage barely having time to gather their loot from the hotel room, and he scurried down the stairs. The camels moseyed across the courtyard, stopping to sniff the potted plants but it was not fare fit for such distinguished dignitaries. Al-Hussein bid them welcome with a flick of the wrist, his watch beeping in greeting and calculating the square root of 25 as 7, and the camels traipsed along. A hotel usher ran past, urging them onto the racetrack next door. There they would place wagers on their friends and drink all the water their humps could handle.

All but one camel, and that camel—it was no camel. It stopped outside the conference room. Its hump split open and a periscope emerged, pressing against one of the misty windows.

[Falkasia]

Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia
Ar Rabwah District

He stared at himself in the mirror. Its surface, as with most things from a bygone era, was now muted from decay and time. This wasn’t the retirement he had hoped for. Much like the mirror, he felt himself more and more a relic of antiquity than a figurehead of the future, and looking at his otherworldly reflection only helped to amplify his sense of uncanniness. There was a mentor; a forebear perhaps, who had once stated “you must first experience the great shitholes of the world before you can truly appreciate Home.” It was something lately he had taken to musing on, as one does in the twilight of their life, and of all the world’s ”shitholes” he had encountered. But more importantly, what they meant to him in the vein of his life.

As a young man, he had been involved in reclaiming Falkasia from the communists. A simpler time, he recalled. The enemies then wore red, and save for those who might have been colorblind, doing one’s duty was black and white. Counting the decades back in his mind was the mental equivalent of flipping through an old notebook. Reams upon reams of yellow and tacked pages thumbed past quickly in his mind’s eye. One, two, three decades later and he could feel his knuckles nearly bursting from tension as they gripped the barrel of his service rifle, equal parts petrified and exhilarated to death as an infantryman storming the Ekaterine Duma Building in 1991. A burst of light took over, transporting him months later to surviving an ambush in liberating Volsk. His armored vehicle had been hit, severely burning his lower body. And yet, all he could recall were the faces of those who no longer were. He got off easy; so it goes.

But the crowning jewel in the textbook of his life, if one could call it that, was The War. An experience shared with countless other Falkasian veterans, which had run its course over nearly five years, and left the island nation of Hutanjia a partitioned wasteland of corruption, bigotry, and fratricide. The irony of isolationist Falkasia flexing it’s imperialist muscles wasn’t lost on him, nor apparently was it lost on Premier Kazyenko either following the ceasefire. The overseas action was the First and Last of such endeavors. A lesson-learned he was quite content to accept, if albeit bitter that it had to happen in the first place. History exists for each new generation to learn the faults of their fathers, lest they repeat it. Or so it goes.

It had been his last command. Not on account of lacking merit, but by simple virtue of spirit. He no longer had it in himself to idly send young men to be butchered at the hands of barbarians. A part of him knew that such a classification was unbecoming of a man of his education, but equally, he found it impossible to dismiss anything but truth. Whether Hutanjian or Cardwithian, he cared little. They were all the same to him, with the only distinction being what color they wore while gallivanting like animals they were into the meat grinder. Red, in the case of the latter. Ironic. So it goes.

Which, given his own sympathies and motivations, made this new posting all the more strange. He had retired out of the Army, returned home to Viräna in Stanaskaya, and had opened up a modest grocery store to live out the rest of his days in peace. That was until the Ministry of Defense came knocking years prior, seeking his experience to head up MALET. Or, at the time, a to-be-named multinational coalition to offset the power of the Teremaran Security Organization. It all meant nothing to him. But, the Premier was insistent and so he accepted. And thus began the whirlwind of the past eight years, leading him to this place. Yet another of the world’s ”shitholes”.

He glanced away from the dingy mirror, across the crusty shell sink and the assorted toiletries that adorned it’s lopsided top, towards an off-center pamphlet provided to him by the hotel staff. He had been staring at it since he had arrived, expecting for it to expel some sort of universal enlightening wisdom all the while chiding himself for holding such childish fantasies. MALET Regional Security Summit was emblazoned at the top, again in poorly selected and laid typeface, but he cared little for aesthetics. There was little he understood about the methods of statecraft, or Vladimir’s supposed grand plan, but in the years following his appointment as MALET Director-General for Falkasia he came to realize that his ability to manage and lead coalitions was the primary skillset for which he had been chosen. Unlike his role as a General Officer in the Army, the objective of MALET was not to make war but supplant peace. It was an objective he could get behind, if begrudgingly.

This would be their first meeting all together as a united organization squaring off against the TSO. Al Duhaba, while an odd choice, was a critical member of the new MALET and had just undergone its own civil war. The site was selected largely at his request to demonstrate solidarity and perhaps incentivize the South Gragastavian breakaway government to reconsider reunification talks. A pipedream perhaps, but at least they didn’t wear red, except maybe when they detonated or were detonated. He glanced again back to the pamphlet, exhaled, and returned his gaze to the mirror.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Al Duhaba and thank you for coming to the first MALET Regional Security Summit. We have much to discuss over the next few days. But first, please allow me to introduce our distinguished guests and dignitaries representing our unified front against TSO expansionism…”

[Yellow Star Republic]

The Teningur
Arkjelstad, Capital District
Yellow Star Republic

They sat in the Supreme Soviet Chamber near the top of the Teningur, the enormous RLO HQ tower in the center of the capital that had become synonymous with all power in the People’s Republic. As per usual Yellowsian aesthetic, it was quite austere in decoration, rather there was none, but stark white walls and thick bulletproof/shatterproof windows.

In a final ironic affront to the former ruling Politburo that Director-General Hildgursdottir had toppled in her coup in 2015, then had tried and executed later, she had named this mere conference room the Supreme Soviet Chamber, the same name they used for their elaborate meeting room in the Öldungarhring, the old Politburo building that had been blasted to a shell during the coup. Like many odd quirks about the Director-General, it amused her greatly to do that.

Ingmar concentrated on not wrinkling up his nose in disgust. The room smelled strongly and distinctly of stale coffee, farts, and body odor, with an overlaying scent of disinfectant. In this case, there was the strong floral scent on top of that. Likely, the Director-General’s perfume. This was the expected smell of bureaucracy, minus the perfume, but Ingmar did his best to avoid it by being out on the move as much as possible.

Even on the coldest of days, and winters in Arkjelstad could be quite frigid, he would rather be out there. He could take it more, that slight crunch of frostbite on his nose, and the pollutant, mixed with sickly sweet garbage smell and carbon monoxide laced outdoor air, over stale, institutional, recycled air such as this. It was just in his personality as a farmer’s son, turned political intern for the last decade in the large capital. Nothing beat the farm fresh air, but that seemed a distant memory now.

“This is Ingmar Novarssen, one of our brightest new diplomats in the directorate of Foreign Affairs.”
Orvar Gudthursson waved an open hand towards Ingmar, who sat rigid in his seat.
“Ingmar is who we have selected to represent us with MALET at the upcoming conference. They have picked Al-Duhaba as the location. The Gragastavian capital.”

Hildgursdottir slapped the table.
“Horrid choice. We could all just sit in a sauna and eat overcooked chick peas to discuss politics without flying to an exotic, old city of mud huts.”

Director Gudthursson cleared his throat.
“Well, I think the historical appeal is part of it, as well as the fact that Gragastavia is the strong right hand ally of Falkasia…and…and maybe they want to continue to foster that.”

“We offered Arkjelstad as a host spot, did we not?”

“We did, Director-General, but they declined. Perhaps due to our recent arrival to the organization. Perhaps next year we will be chosen for a summit locale?”

Svarik Tummeisson, Director of the RLO, and second most powerful person in the Republic, shrugged.
“To be fair, Director-General, you don’t actually have to go to Al-Duhaba. Just Ambassador Novarssen here does, to then give us his report.”

“Pity that. I would love to tell President Al-Hussein what a hack he is to his fucking face! You can tell Kazyenko to kiss my ass too, while you’re at it!”

“Again, the national leaders are not going to be directly involved at this Summit, madam Director-General. It’s for the delegates. The ambassadors…”

Gerta Hildgursdottir waved the point away.
“How do you feel about the trip, Mr. Novarssen?”

“Well...I like the cold.”

She brushed a blondish-gray lock out of her eyes and continued to look at him for another minute, then she shifted back to Gudthursson.
“Is he stupid? Are you sending a fucking moron to represent us, Orvar?”

“N-n-no, madame. He is very sharp. An excellent analyst.”

Gerta focused again on Ingmar, pointing directly across the table at him.
“Listen to me, you fucking tea cake.We need someone who will be more than just present at these proceedings.You need to be as sharp as a reindeer herder’s skinning knife. We need to be…I need to be actually well represented. Do you understand me? You have to be my ears, eyes, and mouthpiece. You have to get the Republic our fair share of the resources of this alliance, and then some, if you can. You can’t do that by sitting like a fungal sprout and bobbing with the wind.”

“Yes, ma’am, Director-General.”

“We don’t need an anal cyst. We need a go-getter. A Wolf. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am, Director-General.” He didn’t, really.

“You fuck this up and you can spend some time down in the sub-levels of this building, along with some of your family. Am I clear?”
The dungeons of the Teningur were the stuff of nightmares. Unspeakable things were done to the tenants of those sub-levels. Rarely did one survive its terrors.

“Yes, ma’am, Director-General.”

That one really sunk home. He was as good as dead, or worse, if he did not come home with some concessions for the YSR. What was his other choice? He knew no one in Al-Duhaba and nothing about the place,and very little Arabic other than enough to get by. He could stay, be mugged, and left for dead on the streets of a city in the desert, or come home to be beat to death in the dark by people who spoke his language, with his family facing the same.

He had no choice but to come home with something that could be measured as a success.
The Director-General did not make empty threats, as far as he knew.

“Dismissed.”

Novarssen quickly vacated the room, leaving the rest of the Cabinet remaining.

“M-Madam Director-General.” Gudthursson managed to spit out.

“What?!”

Director Tummeisson had the courage where Gudthursson didn’t, and the relationship to back it up. Most were certain that at some point, he did have an actual relationship with her, if not still to this day, but it certainly wasn’t in the open. The only clue was when he used her familiar name when her title was more proper and respectful.
“Gerta, was that really necessary? We had already vetted him.”

“Yes, I want him to be on edge, Svarik. He needs to be flinty going into that viper pit. To be honest…there’s something about him I like. Can’t place my finger on it just yet.”

“But the threat to his family?”

“Oh come on! Every citizen knows that is a possibility when they cross me or the RLO. Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me, Svarik.”

“He won’t intentionally cross you.”

“And now he certainly won’t, knowing the consequences.”

Svarik sighed. “Let’s move on.”

---

Alhimar Aljamal Cafe
Ar Rabwah District
Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia

The flight in had been a bit of a rough one, catching the drafts from the Skatyngen Mountains, over the Gulf, but then smoothed out as they crossed from Falkasia over into northern Gragastavia. Then a bit bumpy again hitting a sandstorm right before landing.

Ingmar had packed light. He was a true Yellowsian son, relying on being resourceful, rather than bringing everything and anything that would likely end up being useless weight. He was impressed that he was met at the airport by Gragastavian officials and given due treatment. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised, as it should be expected as he was a representative of a friendly government. Perhaps he had heard too many stories of the former Kingdom turned Republic.

Once he was settled and checked in, he decided to visit a typical local cafe. It was near the hotel, as he didn’t want to get lost, so probably not that typical and quite used to catering to tourists. He ordered a strong Gragastavian style coffee and sat back to take in the view of the busy downtown street.

The typical carbon monoxide and garbage smell of a big city, and…was that animal dung? He swore he spotted an actual camel at one point, out of the corner of his eye. So maybe some stories were true.
“That can’t have been a camel.” He whispered to himself.

“Oh, believe it. They do bring camels into the heart of the city. Fully sanctioned.”

Ingmar instinctively began to twist around to see who was talking to him from behind. In his quick glance he spotted two men in keffiyahs and thawbs chatting at one table off his right shoulder, and a man in a light, white linen shirt with rolled up sleeves, khaki pants, and sandals, off his left shoulder. The man could be a native, or a very tanned foreigner, he wasn’t quite sure. Southern Tavlyrians didn’t always dress in keffiyahs and thawbs. He was at least aware of that. That man ducked his head and looked at his phone at that moment.

“Look forward, please. Don’t do that again. Don’t look at me.” The man spoke in Common.

“I would like to know who I’m speaking to.”

“I will give you a hint. I don’t wear keffiyahs.”

He was definitely a foreigner, and from the north, close to the YSR, from the accent.
“Who are you?”

“You can call me Keh-yehp.” Another clue. Kjep was as common in Jutuomi culture as the name John in Anglo culture. Another cultural fact that Ingmar knew being as high up as he was in the Foreign Affairs directorate, but also having grown up not that far north of the Jutuomi traditional claimed lands

“Who do you work for, Kjep?”
Was it the GSB (Glisandian intel) or BGSE (Gaulic intel)? Both agencies supported the Jutuomi separatists in the name of the TSO, and their own interests, to destabilize the YSR and Falkasia. Or could be independent, working for the Jutuomi Ovttastuvvan Álbmot directly, (The Jutuomi independence movement) but they didn’t really have the sophistication to pull off operations like this to get an agent in place here and now.

“It’s not important.”

“What do you want from me?”

“What do you want from me?”

“You approached me. You’re obviously recruiting. Do we even have anything in common?”

“Ah…you got me there. We know a bit about you that we think your employers don’t know. For instance…Your true family name is Novak. Your family dropped the ‘K’ and adopted an ‘R’, along with a ‘S-S-E-N. Your great grandfather was Polish-Glisandian.”

“So you know that. So what? Obviously it’s not a huge deal now.”

“Don’t give me that. If they knew that in the Teningur, you would not be here now in the capacity you are in.”

“So that’s your leverage?! Again, what do you want from me?”

“You want change. You don’t buy into all this. We have followed your career. Yes, you have climbed the ranks in a RLO dominated government, but you’re not one of them.”

Ingmar was focused on scanning the crowd. At first it was for something else to focus his attention on, but then he really began to wonder if he should be on the lookout for MALET overseers. More so RLO or FSIS, than GRITS. Was he really doing anything wrong, though?
“You seem confident, but your logic is flawed, repudiated by the obvious fact of my loyalty to my supervisors…Let’s say you even somehow gained my allegiance. What then? What would be your big coup? Would I dramatically sabotage the Summit for your people?”

“I don’t expect you to be swayed right away. This is the long game we’re looking at. Go to your MALET summits. Hear out your colleagues. Listen to how they scheme to subvert Teremara and all the democracies. You will ultimately decide for yourself. Your new allies, and old bosses, will do all the convincing necessary to bring you over to us. We have confidence in that. When all the chips start to fall into place, you will want to be on the side of good.”

He did have a point there. Would Glisandians be threatening to throw his family into the Teningur dungeons?
“Oh, so that’s it then? I will just give you whatever you want because it’s the altruistic thing to do? Out of the goodness of my heart? I can’t bear to work for the ‘bad guys’?”

“We can certainly discuss adequate compensation, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ingmar froze. This was a trap. The man had to be a RLO counter-intel officer here to entrap him. Trying to convince him to beg for money to sell out his country.

There was no logic to it, though. Why would they send him here to represent the YSR with all the fanfare, only to trip him up? It would make them look like giant buffoons to the rest of MALET to have their delegate flop on his face his first day in. The RLO did not go out of their way to do things that were not beneficial.

On the other hand, the machinations in Arkjelstad never made perfect sense. There were factions within the RLO willing to go to great lengths to sabotage their competition. As the saying went back in the capital, ‘The next coup was fully loaded and just waiting in the wings.’

“I didn’t say anything of the sort. I will have to report this encounter, you know? It is my duty…Kjep.”

“Do what you must, Ingmar. However, we both know you won’t. I have given you an out and you will be forced to take it one day. Don’t try to find me. I will find you.”

Ingmar snorted at the arrogance. He looked back over his shoulder to confront Kjep, but he was gone. A small pile of riyals and an empty cup on the table were all that was left to speak of his former presence.

Ingmar took a whiff of the air. It smelled acrid. Tangy.

---

The Next Morning
Ar Rabwah District
Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia

It had taken him all the evening to digest and recover from his encounter at the cafe the previous afternoon. He had to weigh his options and decide his course of action. No choice was clear, and he feared that even if he did report the approach, he would be recalled and imprisoned on suspicion. If he didn’t and he was discovered, the consequences could be worse.

Yet, when Director Gudthursson called to check in, there was nothing of consequence for him to report. All was mundane as he was settled and prepared to represent the Republic. The Director reminded him of talking points and what he should say to certain MALET chiefs expected to be in attendance.
“I understand, Director.”

After a fitful sleep, at the hotel, he was driven to the Summit.
He looked down at the crude flyer for the MALET Regional Security Summit one last time. It was like a Patriot Scout flyer for a camp he would send his young ones to. He shoved it into his pocket as he ascended the steps into the building and was led to his spot.

As he put his briefcase down gently, he quietly observed his surroundings. The Skartokians looked quite oblivious to it all. The Gragastavians were as unreadable and shady as ever. The Osatanians, the old YSR allies, looked as out of place as he felt. Some camaraderie might be sought there after this first day. He was struck by the scent of...leather and paper. Comforting contrast to the anxiety of his visual intake.

He was fully taken by the legend that took the podium. A Falkasian for the history books. He began to speak and a lot of the nagging thoughts subsided to the back of Ingmar’s head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Al Duhaba and thank you for coming to the first MALET Regional Security Summit. We have much to discuss over the next few days. But first, please allow me to introduce our distinguished guests and dignitaries representing our unified front against TSO expansionism…”

[Mubata]

Ar Rabwah District
Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia

The man walked through his hotel lobby wearing the traditional thawb and shemagh that was quite common in the area, if not fully prevalent. There were some local Gragastavians that didn’t wear robes and head coverings, and instead, shirts and pants. However, they also didn’t have distinctive features to hide for their personal security.

Bakari Guvamba did need to worry about such issues. His black skin was not common this far north, although near the border of South Gragastavia and Mubata, it was quite common to see black people. South Gragastavia was now another nation, however, and ethnic Mubatans were very rare this far north of the border of the two warring cousins.

He continued to try to obscure his origin by picking up a complimentary local newspaper off a table to read during his journey to the summit. He didn’t read a lick of Arabic, but hopefully the pictures would give some clues as to the content.

He had hired a local driver, and would have him take him to the MALET Summit hall. There was a concern as to how he would get his way in, without an actual official invite, but he wasn’t extremely worried about it. These were the Gragastavians, after all.
Also, someone back in Karalaga was supposed to have called ahead to clear his way. Whether that happened as planned would be a whole other story.

He had a bag with him and a suit protector slung over one shoulder, in order to change once he got to the venue.
He spotted the car he had been told to look for, and headed towards it. Ducking towards the driver’s side window, he said quickly.
“Amir? Yes. Good.”
He climbed in, then gave Amir the destination: "Duhaba River Hotel, please."
He tried to take in the sights of Al-Duhaba as they made their way there, but his thoughts drifted to everything his cousin had prepared him to say, both publicly, and in private with the main MALET leaders. Besides, this city, if not for some of the more specifically Arabic cultural imagery, could pass for Karalaga or Tenipako back home.

[Falkasia]

Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia
Duhaba River Hotel Conference Center

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Al Duhaba and thank you for coming to the first MALET Regional Security Summit. We have much to discuss over the next few days. But first, please allow me to introduce our distinguished guests and dignitaries representing our unified front against TSO aggression…”
He blinked. The lights were blinding, although he wasn’t sure if they were blinding because he was in the literal spotlight or if the incandescent bulbs hadn’t been changed since 1955. Honestly, the difference didn’t matter much to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he read through the list of attending nations and their associate delegates in quick succession.

“…and lastly, Mubata… represented by Bakari Guvamba?”
An eyebrow went up as the statement flew from his mouth, more as a question than a declaration. They truly were letting everyone in these days, weren’t they? At a time when nothing surprised him, the list of strange bedfellows he had just rattled off sat uncomfortably in his gut. Then again, the times were strange and strange times warranted unusual alliances. The pragmatist told him that more was better, so long as their end goal; self-preservation and a bulwark against the TSO, was maintained. Then again, cannon fodder never hurt.

He chided himself inwardly for that thought. It was unbecoming, even if justified.

“On behalf of our gracious hosts…” he nodded towards the Gragastavian delegation, “and on behalf of myself and Falkasia, I’d like to express our appreciation for your attendance.. and for being invested in regional security and self-sovereignty when faced against an encroaching TSO. My name is Vadim Chuikov, Director-General of the Falkasian Delegation to MALET. For those of you who may not know me, I was a career Army Officer with the Falkasian Army and served many tours around the globe. Most recently, prior to this role, I lead a combined taskforce of Falkasian and Cardwithian forces supporting peacekeeping operations in the Hutanjia island chain. In this regard, I like to think that I have a rather… unique… perspective on the current state of the world. Not specifically the TSO, but more general the notion of leading coalitions against a common foe and maintaining strength through times of peace. My own philosophy, and it’s quite all right if it is not shared by the rest of MALET, is not one of aggression but deterrent. If armed conflict begins, it is not a sign of success but of failure, as the willful sacrifice of our nations’ collective future does not justify any end state beyond that of simple self-preservation. As the only way to assure continued existence is to sacrifice the present, in hopes of securing something greater for the future.

It is this rationale that lies at the foundation of the MALET organization… given the different nations we have here each representing a myriad portfolio of objectives…” he subtly directed the last comment towards the Yellowsian delegation.

“… it is self-evident to me, and I hope you, that our primary goal should be preserving the non-aligned peace-loving world from the Teremaran Security Organization. Some may claim their intentions are benevolent, but in review of the foregoing, any organization which exists to exclusively push an imperialist agenda and strongarm the world cannot in good conscience be deemed to be peace-loving in its intentions. In this truth we find ourselves here, brought together to discuss harmoniously the future of our organization and to collaboratively define the ways in which we shall ensure the continued sovereignty and prosperity of each-other. Success coming out of this first-of-its-kind summit will be nothing short of a unilateral agreement; one within which all parties agree to the core tenets of our organization, as developed and established in this Summit. In doing so, our defense will be ensured and the TSO shall be put on-notice… ‘stop bullying the world; we see what you’re doing, and are choosing to take a stand.’”

He paused slightly, clearimg his throat as he reached the end of his prepared statement. He hated speeches. They all felt so fake and contrived.

“So… again… on behalf of Falkasia and on behalf of our hosts, I thank you for being here. I hereby declare this conference open. A series of breakout rooms have been made available, focusing on a specific element of our initial charter… each delegation will have a representative. At the end of the day, we will reconvene for a plated banquet, live entertainment, and if all goes well, a celebratory toast for our success. Thank you.”

Vadim cleared his throat again, glancing down and away in search of a quick exit off the stage. He hoped the summit proved to be successful, but his experience leading coalitions told him it’d be a hard sell otherwise.

[Gragastavia]

Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia
Ar Rabwah District
Duhaba River Hotel, Formerly Abdul’s Hotel, Conference Room 1A

The smoke was thick in the Skartokian delegation’s room, much thicker than what the usual mix of tobacco smoke and body odor would warrant when proffered by the Gragastavians who usually occupied the hotel. Al-Hamri sat cross-legged, shoulder-to-shoulder with the handful of Skartokians who had found their way to the conference, a pungent cigar making its way around the circle. There were some other Skartokians slated to attend, but in all likelihood, they were either lost somewhere in the city or they had simply missed their flights due to being unable to remember what plane they were supposed to board. Al-Hamri inhaled deeply, the fumes stinging into the depths of his lungs, and a cloud escaped his mouth, floating into the overcast ceiling in the shape of a kebab. He handed the cigar to the next person in the circle and then laid back on the moist carpet.

The colors faded in and out of Al-Hamri’s focus. The bleeping sound effects of the Skartokian ambassador’s intense game of Humpy Camel rang from his smartphone. He did not remember much after that, other than hushed whispers about a payment coming through and the ambassador’s need to change his vote. It was all a blur, though the bouncing camel and the jangling coins were seared into his memory. He remembered coaching the ambassador, watching the score climb to ten-thousand, then twenty-thousand, then a hundred-thousand, and then it surpassed a million. The lead came crashing down right after, when his thumb was just not fast enough and the camel fell into a gorge. Such was life.

The next thing he knew, he was seated at the table in the conference room. There was something sharp in the cushion, but he could not complain. An aging Falkasian stood at the podium with a camel’s head in place of his own, mumbling a word salad.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Al Duhaba and thank you for coming to the first MALET Regional Security Summit. We have much to discuss over the next few days. But first, please allow me to introduce our distinguished guests and dignitaries representing our unified front against TSO expansionism…”

Al-Hamri reached for the glass on his left and took a sip, wincing when he realized it was FalkoCola Lite. He swallowed hard, his lips curling, and he set the glass back. The man next to him, one of the Skartokians, reached for the glass next and chugged the entire contents. Al-Hamri blinked, taking a breath of the cold air, and glanced to his right. Another glass of a clear liquid awaited him, and he took a hesitant sip. It still tasted like FalkoCola Lite, but with the distinct aftertaste of Al-Duhaba tap water. He slid the agenda in front of him, a black and white document printed on the cheapest paper the city had to offer, and traced his finger along the edge. He found the Falkasian easily enough because his name was the first on the list. Why they selected him as the inaugural speaker was beyond him. Falkasia always had priority it seemed, though that made sense since they were somehow footing the bill for the whole summit anyway. He took another sip, nearly choking on the water when he saw his name listed right after. He was in no condition for public speaking.

The Falkasian yielded back the floor and the facilitator, a tiny MALET Office weasel shaped like a falafel who needed a step stool to reach the podium, recognized Malik Muhammad bin Farid Al-Hamri. Al-Hamri rose awkwardly, the chair scraping the linoleum floor, and President Al-Hussein flashed him a thumbs-up from across the table. Al-Hamri scurried to the lectern, marching to the rhythm of the applause. He steadied his arms on the edges, taking a deep breath. The speaker’s binder lay before him like a tome of forbidden knowledge and he flipped the page. A sigh of relief swirled out his nostrils when he realized the speech was prewritten. All he had to do was read. He could do that.

“Your Excellencies, Your Eminences, Your Ambassadorships, ladies, gentlemen, esteemed camels, welcome.”

His eyes skimmed the page. The speech was dull, boring, and pedantic. Of course, he was dull, boring, and pedantic, too, so perhaps it was a good fit.

“Since the dawn of time, nation-states have formed alliances against common threats. In this day and age, we have eschewed such piecemeal accords in favor of treaty organizations such as the Teremaran Security Organization and the Mutual Assistance League of Eastern Tavlyria. Treaty organizations, as defined by the King’s University of Al-Duhaba Dictionary, are organizations established as part of the terms of a binding formal agreement, contract, or other written instrument that establishes obligations between two or more subjects of international law…”

He paused and flipped the page. The meaningless black text burned his retinas about as much as the smoke burned his throat. He flipped the page again and again, the blathering starting to sound less like a Gragastavian and more like a middle schooler, which is not far from the truth since a middle school-dropout was paid a single grain of rice per word to put together the binder. The savings were passed onto the chair of the agenda committee’s bank account.

“Well, that’s enough of that,” Al-Hamri mumbled. He glanced at the audience, their arms circling baba ganoush and their heads turning brown like figs. President Al-Hussein seemed enthralled at least, and a grin exploded on Al-Hamri’s face.

“Thank you for your attendance at this conference.” His finger dragged down the page and he found what he was looking for. “This conference has been sponsored by the Camel Conglomerate, All Rights Reserved. The Camel Conglomerate: Anything and Everything Under the Hump.” His head spun and the podium wobbled. “I think I’m going to lie down now.”

President Al-Hussein rose to his feet and erupted in thunderous applause. Slowly, the remaining Gragastavian delegates did the same. It took the Skartokians a moment to realize what was happening, but they joined in the ovation. Al-Hamri waved, slinking off into a broom closet, and then collapsed as soon as he was out of sight.

Al-Hussein took the podium after that, not because he was next on the agenda but rather because someone needed to regain control. “Let’s hear it again for Mr. Al-Duhabi,” he said, raising his clasped hands. It was met with scattered claps, but that did not deter him. “Very good man. Unfortunate to lose him. Very unfortunate. But these things happen. Can’t make falafel without smashing chickpeas. I’ve tried. It didn’t work.” He smeared saliva on his thumb and flipped the page, which served no purpose since the pages were sealed in plastic protectors, and he squinted at the text. “Who on God’s sandy earth made this damned text so small?” Patting his chest, he withdrew a pair of reading glasses from his blazer, set them aside, and then removed a magnifying glass and waved it over the page. “Ah, that’s much better. Much better. Let’s see here. We have MALET directors and heads of state in Room 1B, financials across the hall in 2A, sycophants in 2B…”

Al-Hussein continued reading off the assignments, even though they were printed on the agenda. The ink might have bled through the paper and smudged as it came off the printer, but such was the consequence of cutting corners.

Outside, a voice inside the hollow camel mumbled under the folds of fake fur, “What was he talking about? Camel Conglomerate? Are we compromised?”

“That’s the Camel Conglomerate, dipshit. We’re the Conglomerate of Camels.”

“But he said our tagline, ‘Anything and Everything Under the Hump.’”

“That’s not our tagline.”

“What’s our tagline, then?”

“Everything and Anything Under the Hump. Common mistake. Is this your first day?”

“Second, actually… it sure is hot in here.”

“I can feel you sweating on my tail.”

“You have a tail?”

“You don’t?”

“They never issued me one, no. I thought I had to earn it.”

[Yellow Star Republic]

Ar Rabwah District
Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia

Ingmar Novarssen blinked. Then several more times again. Despite all his preparations and studying of cultural norms of all his compatriots here today: Falkasians, Osatanans, Gragastavians, Skartokians…and…Mubatans?...Something was not computing. He scrutinized the black man in the corner once again. Guvamba.

He had not prepared for the presence of the man, but it was not of great consequence. In fact, his superiors might see it as a great opportunity. On the other hand,,,it could put the YSR government into some turmoil as the RLO, the security agency who de facto ran the government, were still very much a supporter of the Marxist MFM (Mubatan Freedom Movement). The MFM was, in turn, very opposed to the government in Karalaga that this man represented.

It was a large wrinkle he would have to tackle later.

He was still taken aback by the odd utterances that had started off this conference. He wasn’t really sure where to begin, where to end, where to add. He should speak from the heart, he reasoned to himself. And the mind. Just let it flow, but not so much that he got in trouble back in Arkjelstad. Well, that didn’t help. Literally anything that dropped out of his mouth could get him in trouble back home at this point. He felt that he may have been set up to fail all along. He stood up, taking one last sniff of the air.
Still that comforting familiar paper and leather scent. But also sweat. Anxiousness? Oil?...No. That was fear. Who had something to fear other than him?

He’d been standing up for too long without speaking and the gazes focused on him were beginning to turn to concern. The fear of awkward silence overrode the fear of speaking.
“Ehm…Er…I would like to thank our hosts, the Gragastavians, for having us all here today, and also to…erm…our Falkasian host, Director-General Vadim Chuikov of his delegation, for Ehmm Ceeing tonight.”
Ingmar took a breath.
Calm down. You can do this, Ungt blóð [Young Blood].
It was as if he could hear his Afi (Papa) whisper it into his ear from the grave. Something kicked into gear that he would not be able to recall later, but he felt as if he was outside his body watching the rest of his speech for the next part:

“Let me say again how pleased I am to represent my proud socialist Republic here in your presence. Some of the most ancient, storied, proud and striving nations in all of Teremara are represented here today alongside the Yellow Star Republic…I think you all might be wondering a bit about us, the Yellowsians, as we are recent additions to the alliance, and we’ve had our differences in the past with some of you. We are full heartedly here to throw our support with the rest of you. For too long, ideological divisiveness and our past histories have kept the Republic from supporting everyone in holding back the political machinations of the TSO and the cabal of Western Madurinite nations that lead it. No more. We are pledged to do our part, as we have, but not always in concert with the rest of MALET, our brothers and sisters in Tavlyria.
Of course, in order to do that, foundations must be built. Economic ties strengthened. We can all give lip service to UTEC, but ultimately, UTEC and the Teremaran Trade Pact seem to only serve the Western nations, while we struggle to stay relevant and afloat against Madurinite price gauging, and underhanded trade tactics, and secret tariffs. Again, we say No More!”
A smattering of light applause.
“I look forward to speaking with everyone of you individually before I head back home. I look forward to solidifying many agreements between our nations and becoming stronger as an organization and network of nations that all want the same thing. We may have different ideologies and cultures, but we share the same goals, and that...should be enough. Thank you.”
Ingmar nodded to the acknowledgement, then backed up, found his chair, and sat down.

[Arkava]

"I don't like sand."
"Why?"
"It's course and rough and irritating."
"I guess so."
"And it gets everywhere."

The Foreign Ministry
Velirinsk, Arkava

Aleksei was, for lack of a better definition, a bureaucrat. He was also a pragmatist, which when dealing with government red tape and logjams can be something of an art form in and of itself. He was a man lost inside of his own mundanity, once a thriving adventurer in the Arkavan Commandos, making real impacts in real people's lives. A life that seemed a lifetime itself gone, reduced now to nothing but flashes of memory and dreams of grandeur between days toiling away behind a wooden desk that had sat in the former Politburo's office for longer than he'd been alive. After the revolution in '91, the Politburo building was repurposed as the Arkavan People's Collective party headquarters, and as such had attache's from all of the major ministries working in-house to facilitate the 'greasing of the wheels of government', as it were.

Aleksei's good friend and former comrade from the Commandos, Vadim Grigorev, had gotten him his job at the Foreign Office. It was an act of charity, Aleksei surmised, on the part of Grigorev to his old brother in arms. Grigorev came from a well-off family and having secured his proof of loyalty to the state through his service for life, he was ushered through the upper ranks of the ministry to the point where he needed an assistant to handle his day to day activities. Typically, most would look for young early twenty's or so Arkavan girls to fill such a role, more so because they're easy on the eyes and in other things than most. Aleksei admitted he had to be grateful to his friend for giving him this job, all those years ago, despite it being the most banal, tortuous thing he had ever done. Still, though, it paid the bills.

Aleksei's desk intercom crackled to life with the voice of his friend, and superior. "Aleksei, come into my office please." Aleksei didn't bother with a response, since he was only ten or so feet away, and simply stood and walked into Grigorev's office. The room was adorned with dark oak furnishings, a bottle of Arkavan whiskey in a decanter on the sideboard behind Grigorev's desk; a picture of Grigorev with President Bruskov at the Party Gala last fall; a bookcase full of old communist literature and new treatise on Teremaran geopolitics; a picture of Grigorev's wife and son. A wisp of cigar smoke bellowed from the ash tray to Grigorev's right as he sat perusing through a stack of papers, the tobacco seeming to cling on the furnishings and the air itself inside the room.

"Aleksei, sit, please." Grigorev stated, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "How are you my friend?"

Aleksei sat, crossing his legs. "I'm well, Vadim, no complaints." Aleksei stated straightforwardly. It wasn't usual for Vadim to invite him into the office with him, and Aleksei was on alert.

Grigorev nodded at the comment, seeming to half-hear the response. "Good, good..." he said passively, continuing to read his papers. After a moment he looked up. "Sorry man, so many things going on at once. Whiskey?" Vadim asked, reaching for the decanter. Aleksei nodded and watched as he poured two fingers worth. Aleksei took the glass, holding it up to Vadim in a brief salute, before sipping on the contents. Arkavan whiskey was renowned worldwide for its depth of flavor, and this vintage was of exceptional quality. Hints of light smoke, charred oak and smatterings of citrus, paired with notes like honey made for one of the smoothest drinks Aleksei could remember.

"Damn, Vadim..." Aleksei said, "if you told me this is what was in that thing I'd have come sooner" he said, laughing.

Grigorev smiled, relaxing and leaning back into his chair. "Good stuff, yes. I got it off of the Minister of Agriculture in a game of poker" he said laughing to himself "the guy truly believed he couldn't lose, no matter how shitty his hand was."

Aleksei nodded appreciatively, he knew all too well the spoils one could gain from inexperienced gamblers. "What is is that you needed?" Aleksei prompted, at last.

Grigorev nodded, looking over Aleksei's shoulder to confirm he had closed the door behind him when he entered. "We're approaching something big, my friend. Something that could change the future of our nation and our people forever." Grigorev stated seriously. "Not everyone is convinced, however, that this is the right course of action" he continued, "but make no mistake my friend. Without support from the rest of Teremara, we're doomed to endless cycles of the recession and our bloody revolution." Grigorev took another long drag from his glass. "We need to break this cycle, you understand?" he asked, "We have to change the trajectory of Arkava for the better."

Aleksei looked at his friend, his eyes narrowing. Just what exactly was he getting on about? Approaching something big? Could he mean another coup? Aleksei's heart raced at the thought. It was one thing when he was a 19 year old infantryman fighting for what he believed was right, its another to take part in something so bloody and ruthless when he had a wife and two daughters at home to think about. Collecting himself, Aleksei asked carefully, "what exactly are we talking about here, Vadim?"

The question lingered in the air for a moment before he replied. "Change, Aleksei, change. We've been isolated and cast off to the furthest corners of the earth by the international community, especially by the TSO. They've done nothing to help us, despite our requests. Only attempted to chain our future to their ideas of morality and what we can and can't do within our own borders. You've seen this first hand." Grigorev said, alluding to the more secretive missions around Tasarkan and Homob that he still wasn't permitted to discuss thirty years later. "Now, we have an opportunity to seize our future back from the clutches of the imperialist liberal elite that call themselves the great saviors of modern correctness. I want you to be a part of it, to help us take the lead in this new era."

Aleksei looked at his friend carefully, trying to judge just where exactly this was going. It was clear Grigorev had bought into whatever this...thing... was, wholeheartedly. The question, Aleksei knew, was whether it was already so far in motion that any attempt to not become part of the swell would end with his sudden disappearance. "Specifics, Vadim, specifics. What are you on about, man?" Aleksei pressed.

"A meeting, a conference in Gragastavia of likeminded nations to ours. People's who have been repressed by the TSO and countless other ilk like it, who are ready to make a change and stand up for what's right. An alliance to stand toe-to-toe with the TSO so we can say, 'no more'." Grigorev smiled, pouring himself another finger of whiskey. "I am to report to this meeting on orders of President Bruskov, which takes place next week. I want you to come with me" he stated matter-of-factly. "Not only do I need someone I can trust alongside me, but I need someone who knows danger like I do, and can sniff out the real motives and machinations of the players here. We may be united against the TSO, but the like of the camel-fuckers, Yellowsians and our ideological cousins in Falkasia leave much to be desired pretty much everywhere else." Grigorev stated, obvious now to Aleksei he had wargamed this conference out thoroughly in his mind.

"So what is it you need of me?" Aleksei asked bluntly.

"Eyes, Aleksei. Eyes and ears - I need you to see through the smoke and mirrors as I make my way into the vipers nest so we can determine what it is everyone truly wants out of this conference. Only that way can we come out on top."

Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia
Duhaba River Hotel Conference Center

Aleksei brushed pockets of sand from his pants, the stream of grains seeming to never end in this god forsaken hell hole. Aleksei surmised god had indeed forgotten about this place during his creation, why else would he have made it so miserable? Sipping on a hot cup of Gragastavian coffee at the back of the large conference room, he wore a simple suit without embellishment. He had already watched the Gragastavian - leader, President, whoever - mutter to himself on stage and advertise for some camel company in the middle of his stump speech. The Falkasian and Yellowsian representatives were much more put together, it seemed, which reflected the general briefing Aleksei received as part of the intelligence package put together by the RD, or the Intelligence Directorate.

Aleksei found himself agreeing with the pragmatism of the Falkasian speaker, addressing the obvious camel in the room of ideological differences and entangled goals and dispositions of all of the parties gathered for the MALET conference. No one was really here for a great ideological unification such as what was seen during the communist era, but rather a more enemy-of-my-enemy type approach. Regardless, it seemed practical and it appeared Grigorev agreed.

The Yellowsian delegate was an interesting looking fellow, someone who seemed to have the intelligence to be better places than a dunghole hotel in the middle of Gragastavia. Still, it would make sense if the Yellowsians were serious about this MALET thing to send someone with the faculties to piece a coalition together. Looking at his brochure, Aleksei surmised this was Igmar Novarssen, seemingly a very Yellowsian name if Aleksei remembered correctly. There was something about his face, though... all those months down in Homob and Tasarkan, he could almost swear he saw the eyes of an ethnic Glisandian Catholic looking back over the crowd. Nonsense, Aleksei thought, that would be impossible he knew. Three decades removed and those orders still haunted him...

* * *

From the way the Yellowsian finished his speech, Vadim believed the man really thought the establishment of MALET as a unified coalition was a foregone conclusion. Admirable positivity, he thought, though far from the reality of the situation. It would take much negotiating to hammer down the finer details of the group, and Vadim intended to be at the heart of it for as much as was possible. Arkava's position in Talyvria could be made or broken in the next days, and it was crucial for his own well-being, but also that of his people, that he do well here. As the Yellowsian concluded his speech, Vadim clapped politely, and then rose to take the podium as the final speaker.

Vadim opened his prepared notes and cleared his throat quickly, before looking up and addressing the assembled crowd. "Honored delegates, friends, and guests, I would first like to start by thanking you for our invitation to this prestigious meeting. It is the wish of Arkavans everywhere to see all of us assembled here today unite under a common cause, to change our destinies together and rid ourselves of the imposing and ever-tightening noose that surrounds us. Yes, we all know who the hangman is - he who holds the proverbial sword over our heads day after day, waiting for the convenient excuse to issue his own summary execution of our lifeblood - the TSO." Vadim paused briefly, before continuing.

"It is no secret that we, gathered here today, come for various reasons, as my esteemed colleague from the YSR pointed out before me. This is not a point of weakness, however, it is a point of great strength." Vadim stated firmly. "While the TSO plots and schemes their plans for all of Teremara and beyond, we will be organizing and working together for our common goods, to better the lives of our people and protect what rightfully belongs to us - our god-given sovereignty. We cannot take it for granted any longer. We cannot stand idly by as individuals as the threat of the TSO looms over us like a shadow, creeping ever closer to our hearts. I am proud to say that Arkava is here to support all of you with whatever you need that we may provide for the collective security and benefit of us all. I pray and hope you all are here to do the same, so we can move forward together for a brighter, stronger future where we need not fear the TSO, or anyone else who would threaten to break us apart." Vadim closed, looking over the crowd to moderate applause. He considered himself something of an orator, though there was always something left to be desired.

"Now, as I believe I am the last speaker, it falls on me to relay the various working groups going on today to you all. They are as follows:

• Working Group A: Military integration and cohesion - Conference room 2
• Working Group B: Economic integration and tariff discussion - Conference room 3
• Working Group C: Intelligence sharing and standardization - Conference room 4
• Working Group D: Political messaging and unified stance - Conference room 5

"Anyway, I believe that's all I have for now. Thank you all for your time." Vadim stepped off the podium, and went to find his place among the rest of the delegates.