9. World Cup Final in Russia (23 pgs.)

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ACT II - CHAPTER 9

WORLD CUP FINAL

Saturday July 14, 2018

Christchurch Airport

New Zealand

Boris guarded the international arrivals gate at Christchurch Airport. Five flights had landed, but Lenel was on none of them, not even in disguise. He kept waiting until he saw him leave the international police station with other passengers.

Dressed as a tourist, Boris walked past and bumped into him.
“Watch where you walk!” Lenel complained.

Boris slipped a GPS tracker, the size of a lentil, into his jacket pocket.

“I’m sorry,” Boris said, continuing on.

When Lenel took a taxi, Boris grabbed another.

“Follow that taxi,” he ordered, tracking the GPS signal on his phone. He had him.

The chase ended at a small private airport outside Christchurch. Lenel greeted a pilot, boarded a helicopter, and took off. The GPS stopped thirty-five minutes later. Boris waited three hours for another helicopter, convincing a pilot to fly him out immediately under one condition: the GPS coordinates would remain secret. He offered four times the normal rate, paying in cash.

“Land five kilometers before these coordinates,” he said, handing over the note: 43°36′12″S 170°5′53″E.

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They flew thirty-five minutes at three hundred kilometers per hour over New Zealand’s wild landscape of mountains, rivers, and lakes. Boris ignored the view, checking his gear.

“We’re almost five kilometers away,” the pilot said.

“Land here,” Boris replied.

“What’s this place called?”

“The Southern Alps. That’s La Perouse,” the pilot said, pointing.

“Come back in three days, at noon. Wait for my message before you fly.”

“Alright.”

The helicopter rose, disappeared, and the sound faded.

Boris put on his stealth suit, nearly invisible, and after two hours of hiking with heavy gear, reached Gambino’s house. He hid three hundred meters away, behind rocks. First rule: observe.

Through binoculars, he saw the mansion nearly complete: doors fitted, windows glazed, finishing work half done. The grass was newly planted. Security cameras weren’t installed yet. Eight armed guards patrolled.

He circled the property at a distance, stopping to sketch the floor plan. By nightfall, he knew all the entrances and windows and the habits of the guards.

At 2:00 a.m. on Sunday, July 15, New Zealand time, he entered the house. In Moscow, it was 5:00 p.m. Saturday, July 14. The Belgium–England match in Saint Petersburg hadn’t started. Twenty-seven hours remained to stop the bomb timers.

In Santiago of Chile, Ricardo prepared to watch the game with his family and his brother’s. In Argentina, Arturo did the same at his house near Buenos Aires. Alexandre had told them to be in the southern hemisphere that day, to survive Armageddon.

In St. Petersburg, coaches rallied their teams. Reporters filled the stadium. Sixteen thousand kilometers away, Boris heard their voices echoing from a television inside the mansion.

The house was painted white but unfurnished. In the main hall stood only a sofa, a table, and a few chairs. On the wall, a three-meter-wide plasma TV blasted commentary, its echo rolling through the empty space.

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From his hiding spot, Boris saw Lenel tied to a chair. Franco sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the screen.

“You were stupid to come here, Lenel,” Franco said, slapping him.
“I’ll kill you!”

“So, you were planning to purge The Family, huh?” Franco asked.

“I’ll kill you!” Lenel shouted, still believing God would deliver justice. My inner circle will rescue me. They must be on their way, he thought.

“Your little friends, the ones you meant to betray me with, they’re all dead. Did you know that?” Franco said.

“You lie! You can’t fight God’s will,” Lenel replied, clinging to faith. Mysterious are the Lord’s ways, he thought. A corner of his mind begged for a miracle. No one in The Family knew his location. I was born under an eclipse. I am The Family’s highest authority. I have the power! he told himself. But his body trembled, realizing he might have no power at all, and no miracles were coming.

“God is your excuse to justify your crimes,” Franco said.

“You are the same. The most hypocritical Catholic in the world. How are we different?” Lenel asked.

“That you are tied to the chair and I have the gun.”

“You can’t hurt me, puto bambino!” Lenel spat.

“Shut up, idiot. Don’t you dare speak to me like that!” Franco said, slapping him.

“How I like that city. Have you been there?” Gambino asked, pointing at aerial images of the Saint Petersburg stadium on television.

“You won’t get away with this,” Lenel said.

“I already got my way,” Franco replied.

“You can’t. I am the Imperial Master of The Family worldwide. You will pay for betraying me. I ordered the wiping out of all your offspring.”

“Orders? How pathetic. Didn’t you realize I’d infiltrated your circle of trust? You made a fool of yourself.”

“It’s a lie. They know I’m in charge,” Lenel protested.

“I told them you were a fake and that you didn’t even kill Ronald,” Franco said.

“You know I killed him!” Lenel cried.

“You are so stupid, Lenel. You didn’t kill Ronald or Bolt. I did.”

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“That’s a lie!”

“In both cases I hired other assassins to make it look like yours,” Franco said.

“Liar!”

“You fell into the trap, bambino. It was easy to make you leader so your head would fall. We sacrifice it in honor of Baal.”

“You are a miserable pagan!” Lenel shouted.

“You have no escape, Lenel. I’ll kill you. You’re so predictable!” Franco said.

“Let me go. I am the Imperial Master. I have all the power. I make The Family speak!” Lenel insisted.

“Again with that? Will you change your voice to pretend to be Baal? You were nothing without The Family.”

“You’re a psychopath!” Lenel yelled.

“Same as you, but now my eyes are open. I admit you fooled me when you changed your voice, like you were channelling Baal. No god speaks through you.”

“How can you be so sure?” Lenel asked.

“I’m not sure, but I’ll take the risk,” Franco said.

“You won’t get away with this!” Lenel repeated.

“I told you I already got my way. Soon we’ll see the fireworks. Then I’ll kill you. This will be humanity’s greatest disaster. It will be a work of art, and my family will be among the richest. Do you know how much I’ll make when the stock market crashes after the bombs? Did you know you can profit from a market fall? Oh, how I love keeping people ignorant!” Franco said.

“You can’t make secret societies like ours vanish,” Lenel said.

“If we could before, why not now? My family conspired with King Philip IV of France to exterminate the Templar Knights, and we succeeded. My ancestors who controlled them did not cease to exist, do you see? We act the same now. The Family will disappear, but not us. How do you not realize it? It makes me laugh how innocent you are. We invented the phrase ‘conspiracy theories’ and regained control,” Franco said as the Belgium–England match began in Saint Petersburg.

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Victoria knew her parents were in Sydney and would not die in Armageddon, yet she had chosen to die with Alexandre in Moscow. For Boris to find the pendrive and stop the nuclear explosions was statistically impossible, a true miracle. She watched the game at the Walker Moscow hotel bar with her English friends, cheering their team. Alexandre wanted England to win, but in truth it barely mattered.

Belgium scored first. When England pushed to equalize, Belgium scored again. Renéum netted the opener in the first half. After the break, England poured forward but missed clear chances.

When the match ended, Alexandre played pool with teammates at the Moscow hotel. It was 11:00 p.m. on Saturday, July 14. He felt a pang as the day closed. Less than twenty-four hours remained before the bombs were going to explode. At that moment it was Sunday morning, July 15 in New Zealand, and Boris’s watch read 08:00.

Lenel remained tied, the sun on his face. Two guards watched. Boris already knew the house routines and had a plan. He would launch smoke bombs outside the mansion to draw the eight guards to the terrace. While they inspected, he would detonate charges he’d hidden on the floor, ensuring Franco was elsewhere.

He estimated the first blast would kill half the guards. He placed the smoke bombs about three hundred meters from the house. He planted charges in the fuel tanks of the four jeeps parked in the roundabout, and another on the helicopter at the heliport. It took more than five hours to set every detail.

The detonations had to follow a precise order. If he rushed or delayed, the plan would collapse. He could not kill Franco. He rehearsed the sequence on his phone until he memorized the movements of his fingers. When he felt ready, he checked the magazines of the pistol in his pocket.

Night approached in New Zealand. Like a skydiver who has folded every parachute seam, he was ready. One small mistake could cost his life.

At that same moment, Alexandre and the team trained on a field near the Moscow Olympic Stadium. The coach gave final World Cup instructions before lunch. “I want you very focused. Croatia is dangerous, but we will win. Alexandre, enter through the middle, like Milan. Dubois, find Alexandre and play the deep pass.”

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In New Zealand three smoke bombs exploded in front of Franco’s house. Boris, hidden about a hundred meters away behind a rock, watched through his rifle’s telescopic sight as smoke plumes rose. When four guards ran onto the terrace firing toward the smoke, Boris tapped his phone. An explosion shattered their bodies.

A guard jumped into a jeep and started it. Boris pressed another key and the jeep flew apart. He had killed five guards; three remained. He detonated another charge on the opposite side of the house; the remaining guards ran out.

Using his rifle’s telescopic sight, he saw Lenel shoved toward a jeep, handcuffed and flanked by Franco with a gun. Boris pressed another button, and the jeep exploded. They returned to the house. Boris, looking through the telescopic sight, waited, watching the front door. When a guard’s head appeared, he fired and blew it apart. He repeated the shot on the second. One guard remained.

“Prepare the helicopter!” Franco shouted, but Boris pressed another key and smashed it to pieces.

Silence followed. Inside the house, Franco gagged Lenel and tied him to another chair. Who is attacking me? he thought, listing enemies as the ground trembled from another blast.

Boris had detonated dynamite he had placed in the rock walls hours earlier, collapsing the only land passage between two steep mountains. Huge boulders blocked the road. Franco was trapped.

At that moment in Moscow, Alexandre checked his phone. Armageddon was eight hours away. He expected Boris’s “mission accomplished” message. There was none.

At three in the afternoon the French team would leave on the official bus.

Victoria missed Francisca. Has she found her father? she wondered. If news of the kidnapping existed it would have been on television, but the coverage only spoke of football and the World Cup. She touched the calypso diamond tetrahedron with her right hand and lifted it to her lips. Goodbye, Venus, she thought, looking at the time. She had dressed elegantly because that was how she wanted to die. She met the players’ wives. They would watch from the VIP stands at the Moscow Olympic Stadium.

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When Alexandre boarded the bus to the finale, he thought of Arturo and Ricardo. He had been right to put them in the south, to continue with the book if he died. Boris, find that pendrive, he thought, feeling the futility of his wish.

“Give up, Franco. My people will come and kill you,” Lenel said.

“No chance,” Franco replied, holding a sawed-off shotgun.

“They will rescue me!” Lenel insisted.

“Shut up, idiot!” Franco yelled, slapping him. “Let me watch the fireworks in peace.” He sneered, “Lenel, don’t you like fireworks?”

Franco did not wanted fireworks. He wanted panic. Tears. Screams. Terrified journalists. Chaos. Ordo ab chao, he thought. He pictured his children, twins Franco and Enzo, safe in Brazil. They would lead the Gambino dynasty. He had raised them to guard ancestral secrets and grow the family fortune. Their wealth would explode when the market collapsed. They had bought downward options.

Boris’s plan was to remove light sources. He tossed batteries from the jeeps into a ravine, leaving one battery by a ruined jeep so Franco could easily find it. Boris would enter in darkness using night-vision. Franco planned to neutralize Boris, force him to give the voice code, record it, and send the file to his hackers.

Boris planted a charge at the concrete shed forty meters from the house that housed the generator.

Back at his stash, a hundred meters away, Boris reviewed the plan. He pressed his phone to blow up the generator — but nothing. He returned to repair the detonator. He lost time. Once again behind the rock, he pressed the key and a loud blast plunged the mansion into darkness.

“Who are you? I will kill you, bastard!” Franco shouted from the main terrace, spraying machine-gun fire. “You will not stop me to see the great final!” The night was starry and moonless. Desperate, Franco ran to the jeeps and found the battery Boris had left. He rushed it to the TV and plugged it in to restore the broadcast.

“Don’t cut my power or I’ll kill you!” he screamed, firing in all directions.

In Moscow, two journalists described the pregame atmosphere. They compared the teams’ buses to warships.

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Franco watched on the big TV when a blow hit his head. He woke up in a chair, his hands tied behind him. He was seated next to Lenel, who was still tied to another one. He did not recognize the man standing over him.

“Who are you, damn it?” Franco asked.

“Boris Petrov.”

“You are not Boris Petrov. I never forgot that idiot’s face. Tell me who you are!”

“A surgeon changed it. Recognize this?” Boris asked, showing a tattoo on his right calf. “You have one too,” he added, lifting Franco’s pants. He remembered when they had done it together.

“I should have guessed it was you. I waited thirty years to kill you,” Franco said, forcing a smile. He swallowed and added, “Karl Dugin was a coward. He betrayed the KGB and the Communist Party, just as you betrayed Marx.” He remembered their youth, their dirty work for the KGB.

“I hate corruption,” Boris said, drawing his torture instruments.

“Skin me alive then. I will not tell you what you seek. Consider me dead.”

“Killing Karl was pointless.”

“And why not?” Franco asked.

“You’re a psychopath,” Boris replied.

“Call me what you like. I’ll kill you like I killed Ragnar Walker.”

“What are you saying? Everyone knows he was kidnapped. You’re delirious, Franco!” Boris shot back.

“Everybody knows! I love that phrase — the fallacy of hasty generalization. But telling everyone does not make truth a lie or vice versa. That phrase always works for me. Want to know how I killed Ragnar?” Franco asked, eyes wild, veins bulging. “You better let me go, and maybe I’ll spare you.”

“You’re sick,” Boris said.

“Yes. I’m worse than you, Boris. My power comes from hell itself,” Franco screamed. “Let me go, damn it!”

Lenel, still tied, shouted, “Ragnar Walker was murdered by Sten Olsen, the officer who raped his daughter!”

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“Shut up, Lenel! This is between men, not for kids like you!” Franco snapped. He turned and kicked Lenel’s chair, knocking him to the ground. He kicked Lenel’s face with steel-toed boots until the bones around one eye shattered and the eyeball dangled. “I killed Ragnar Walker, you idiot! Who do you think you’re talking to?” he roared as Lenel screamed.

“You’re crazy,” Lenel moaned from the floor.

“Franco, give me the voice code,” Boris demanded.

“What voice code? Don’t you believe me Lenel? Want me to tell you how I killed that Viking son of a bitch?” Franco taunted.

“You lie. The police verified it was Olsen,” Lenel said.

Gambino was telling the truth. He had killed Mr. Walker in the same day of the kidnapping.

Shortly after he spoke with Ricardo and sent his plane from New York to Athens, a police car arrived at Mr. Walker’s country house, about an hour from the city.

When the gate guard leaned to the car window, the policeman greeted him with a pistol fitted with a silencer. He forced the guard to open the huge iron gate, then shot him in the head. He drove in and left the gate open, parking near the mansion’s front door. Another guard appeared — one bullet, dead. Then another — the same fate. Entering the house, he saw the cook and shot her too.

In the living room, Ragnar sat reading a newspaper.
“Come with me, Mr. Walker,” the policeman said, gun raised.

Ragnar stayed calm.

“You drive,” the officer ordered. Ragnar obeyed. They drove two hours to a desolate area where a metal shipping container stood about thirty meters from the road.

“Get out,” the policeman ordered. They parked behind the container so it wouldn’t be visible from the road.

“Open the trunk and step back,” he said. Still aiming the gun at him, he grabbed a duffel bag and forced him inside the container. It was a storage room with shelves and boxes. There was a table and four chairs in the centre.

Once Ragnar was tied hand and foot to a chair, the man spoke.

“Do you recognize me, Ragnar?”

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“How could I forget your stupid face? You’re Sten Olsen, the cop who raped my daughter.”

“That’s right. I raped her,” the man said coldly. “She moaned like a bitch, and she liked it.” He smiled and added, “But you’re wrong, Ragnar. I’m not who you think.”

“Everyone knows you, Olsen. You’re a psychopath,” Ragnar said.

“I don’t think so,” the man replied, peeling off the fake skin from his face. “Do you recognize me now?”

“Franco Gambino! What a disguise! You finally beat me at something.” Ragnar laughed. “You were always a loser, Bambino. Did old Genaro ever stop humiliating you? Are you still his whore?”

“Shut your mouth!” Franco shouted, slapping him hard.

“I’m not afraid, Bambino. It’s funny you think you’ll get away with it. When will you mystics learn? Do you still believe in astrology? In Phoenician cults? Orphism, Hermeticism, mysticism, religion? You assassins of Hypatia never change. You should’ve read Tyler on primitive cultures,” Ragnar said.

“Do you know what’s in that bag?” Franco asked.

Ragnar said nothing.

“A saw,” Franco replied.

They had known each other since childhood. Both descended from European aristocratic families, some noble, some corrupt, who ruled from the shadows. Franco had always envied Ragnar.

“So, you wanted to reform The Family?” Franco asked. “Can’t you see my Phoenician gods are stronger than your Norse gods?”

“There are gods and gods, Phoenicians and Phoenicians. Sacrificed any children lately?” Ragnar asked.

“Yes, under the Vatican,” Franco said with a cynical smile. But everyone knows such a thing doesn’t exist, he thought.

“Without honest leadership, built on science and reason instead of faith and mysticism, The Family will keep failing for centuries. You can’t do good with wrong values,” Ragnar said.

“You betrayed The Family,” Franco growled. “You became a disgusting Darwinist. You stopped believing in magic.”

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“I didn’t betray anyone. I just stopped believing in nonsense. There’s no magic, no gods, only science exposing ignorance. Science destroyed Zeus and Neptune. It will destroy Jehovah, Jesus, Allah, any fancept. You can’t tell the difference of a percept from a fancept.”

“Percept? Fancept? What the hell are you talking about?” Franco barked.

“A percept is an image your mind forms from sensory data. A fancept is also an image, but born from fantasy, not perception. Children who believe in Santa think in fancepts. The problem is that your so-called leaders do too. As long as you can’t distinguish concepts based on percepts from those based on fancepts, you’ll remain mentally primitive, fit for the Stone Age, not the scientific world. That’s why The Family harms more than it helps. You must reform your philosophical roots,” Ragnar said.

“Shut up, idiot! I don’t want to listen! Science can’t defeat us. We destroy and create civilizations. On July 15 we’ll destroy this one and build a new one. What a pity, Ragnar will miss the fireworks! From the ashes we’ll build a better world, and my dynasty will rule it. You know, to make omelettes you must break eggs,” Franco said.

“You’re insane! What are you talking about?” Ragnar exclaimed.

“I’m talking about vaporizing the northern hemisphere. The countdown has been running for years. The bombs will explode in Moscow at eight p.m. on July 15. Poor Ragnar will miss the show,” Franco said mockingly.

“You and the leaders of The Family are mad,” Ragnar said, struggling with his restraints.

“When Moscow is erased, nations with nuclear weapons will strike each other. Vaporization everywhere. What a magnificent sight! And if, by some chance, they don’t explode, we’ll release a global pandemic — we will kill millions, paralyze trade, strip freedoms, lock people in their homes, force them to be vaccinated. Total control. The strain is ready, highly contagious, not too deadly. It will start in Wuhan, China, to blame it on them. That’s our plan B. Slower, yes — a pandemic that won’t kill many, but will serve as a test for the next. The next one will wipe out half the population a few years later. But pandemics are boring. I prefer nuclear extinction. The good news is, in seven weeks we’ll vaporize the northern hemisphere. More pain, but quicker change. There are too many people, Ragnar. That’s the problem,” Franco said.

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“Tell me, Bambino, did you choose to kill me today because of the astrological chart? Are you waiting for the violet hour? Will you call the crocodile Maconi from the lower astral or perhaps the archangel Shurielli from the higher planes?” Ragnar asked, his patience fraying.

“Silence!” Franco shouted.

“Are you still a superstitious animist like your Master? Do you still believe in the Hermetic first principle of All Mind? That consciousness precedes existence? That actions can exist without an entity acting? Despite his intentions, your Master was a misguided Platonist!” Ragnar continued.

“Shut your mouth! He was also your Master!” Franco shot back.

“Franco, you are so innocent! We were in a mystical sect. The Master was an ignorant animist, a naive charlatan who believed in the Hermetic principle of ‘All Mind.’ What does that principle truly say? That consciousness can exist before existence; that actions can exist before entities. But that cannot be! How can an action exist without an entity that acts? How can an idea exist if no brain exists first? Plato was wrong!”

“Enough!” Franco yelled.

“When Aristotle grew old, he realized Plato had been wrong, even though he had been his disciple for years. Think independently, Franco! No God can exist as an action without an acting entity. If God exists, it must be an entity. But it cannot be an action existing by itself, as effect without cause, movement without something moving, idea without a brain. Every action derives from an acting entity. Can you imagine action without something acting? Impossible. Causality is always: entity first, action later. Movement requires something to move. Yet when people like you think of God, you imagine action existing alone; an effect without a cause, movement without a mover, idea without a thinker. That cannot exist! Plato was wrong! A God like that is impossible. No God, no divine spark, no life after death, no consciousness before existence, no actions without entities, no effects without causes, no movement without something that moves,” Ragnar said, relentless.

“Stop, damn it!” Franco barked.

“Why stop? Are you afraid of the truth?” Ragnar asked.

“Your truth is not my truth. You’ve lost faith,” Franco said.

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“In good time! I wish I had lost it sooner! The Master was a mystic who taught Hermeticism, pseudoscience passed down from one mystic to another for centuries. A mystical tradition rooted in superstition, faith, and pseudoscience, no matter how long-lived, is false. Political decisions based on falsehoods are catastrophic. Objective reality is what rules, the natural, absolute truth derived from sensory perception, from science, not mysticism or faith. Darwin relied on fossils; DNA confirms his discovery. Evolution is real. God is a human invention. We both learned from the Master of a Hermetic sect. He personally invited me to join his inner circle; you were never invited. That made you jealous,” Ragnar said.

“Shut up, idiot! You say that because you failed on your spiritual path!” Franco barked.

“Spiritual? Does that word contain percepts or fancepts? Real perceptions, or fantasies of personal power?” Ragnar asked. Seeing Franco remain silent, he continued, “If it contains fancepts, your mind lives in fantasy, on the Moon. But your feet remain on Earth, in objective reality. Can you feel the existential tear of living with that contradiction? That’s why you deceive yourself and exist in mental fog. You don’t want to see your pathetic condition; it’s painful. You are a monkey just climbed down from the tree, afraid to evolve, afraid to abandon faith in fantasies!”

“Shut up, idiot! Put your fancepts up your ass! You say that to justify failing the spiritual path. You lost faith. And I was never jealous of The GAM, the famous Group of the Master’s Friends!” Franco snapped.

“You lie. All you wanted was entry, and we all knew it. But the Master never trusted you. He asked me personally to be his friend; he never did that with you. I was his friend, but like Aristotle with Plato, I could no longer follow him when I discovered Hermetic mysticism was pseudoscientific.

Friendship is sharing values, but it is lost when someone changes theirs. I discovered that Hermetic mysticism was false,” Ragnar said, paused and continued. “The Master believed himself a witch, that he could call the wind or physically turn into a bird, but he never performed miracles or walked on water. He frightened followers with secret oaths and manipulated them. Instead of a ‘philosophical institute,’ it should have been called a ‘mystical institute’ — almost all mysticism, very little philosophy.”

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Ragnar continued, “The Master abused his influence, though never illegally. He said we had to awaken and raise consciousness, yet he never defined it. He believed the essence of concepts was metaphysical and that the divine spark could grow, subscribing to the alchemical fallacy of turning lead into spiritual gold. He didn’t understand that concept essence is epistemological, not metaphysical. He was an ignorant mystic. His only merit: he pushed you to seek the best version of yourself. But he did it from a mystical, superstitious, socially careerist paradigm. He never addressed universals or the primacy of existence over consciousness. He relied on Hermeticism.”

Ragnar paused, then added, “I chose to live my life loving objective reality first, my friends second. Objective reality is given and absolute, the same for everyone, derived from concepts containing percepts, not fancepts. Friendship rooted in reality endures, because existence itself is immutable. Mystical ideas of The Family are subjective and pseudoscientific, filled with fancepts. Astrology is pseudoscience, alchemy is pseudoscience. For reasons unknown, people like to believe for the sake of believing — that absurd action is called faith. You must choose, Franco: think or have faith. Not deciding is also a choice, and you cannot escape the consequences either.”

“You can vomit words all you want, but I’m still going to kill you, Ragnar,” Franco said mockingly. “Let the whole world hear the Walker oracle! Ladies and Gentlemen! Come to the Walker Knowledge Circus! Oracle Walker is speaking! Idiot! You’re going to die, and no one will ever hear your words!”

“Oh! Avoiding the topic?” Ragnar replied. “Avoidance is the worst choice. You could tell a judge, ‘I’m innocent because I chose not to choose,’ but you cannot escape the consequences. Not acting is also a decision, and its consequences are often worse. I chose to love objective reality first; anyone who loves it is my friend forever, since the given and absolute is real and unchanging. I am free to think for myself, to choose my risks and bear the consequences. Franco, even if you kill me a thousand times, your mystical premises and those of The Family remain false, unscientific. You live in a false paradigm. Your happiness is fake, just mystical opium and social status!”

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“Enough diarrhea. You talk like a drunken parrot,” Franco said, ignoring Ragnar’s words. He picked up the medical amputation saw from the table. “Do you want me to cut off your leg or arm? You choose!”

“You can kill me, but it changes nothing. Seeking power or social status as ends in themselves has turned you into a big drum: lots of noise, empty inside. You know it, and that doubt torments you. It will torment you forever. You wasted your life, Franco! The only life you had, and you never knew true self-esteem, which makes life worth living,” Ragnar said.

“Shut up, idiot!” said Franco, taking the medical amputation saw in his right hand. “Do you want me to cut off your leg or your arm? You choose!” He waited a few seconds. “You’re not speaking? Fine. I choose. I’ll cut off your leg,” Franco said and began sawing through the tibia of Ragnar’s left leg at mid-calf. Ragnar stirred and grimaced but didn’t scream — until Franco cut it off completely and laid it on the table.

“What do I cut off next?” he asked.

“Cut off my head, bastard,” Ragnar said.

“Your head? Fine. But first, a secret. I stole Sten Olsen’s handcuffs days before raping your daughter. The bitch moaned with pleasure. I raped her all night, enjoyed being on top. In the morning, I putted Olsen’s handcuffs in your daughter’s bedroom to frame him. You thought you were clever beating me at chess as a child? You can’t handle me, Viking. You destroyed the life of an honest man, your friend, Sten Olsen.”

Franco paused, watching Ragnar’s reaction as he frowned and tried to free himself. “Years later, your daughter sought me out. We were lovers for a year, almost every weekend. She’s wild, uninhibited, a monster in bed. She filmed us, stole confidential information from my safe, and threatened to reveal it if she died. She got me, sexually, financially, emotionally. I love and hate her at the same time. She’s a nightmare for any man, but I desire her still. I never felt more alive than with her.”

“She will know how to take care of herself. You are a loser!” Ragnar said, noticing Franco glance at his watch.

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“The time of your death has arrived. Do you still want me to cut off your head?”

“Do it.”

“Then I’ll cut it off,” Franco said, sawing through Ragnar’s neck from behind. He worked methodically, cutting the vertebrae until Ragnar lost consciousness. He continued until the head was completely separated, blood gushing from the wound. With one hand, Franco lifted the head by its thick hair, bringing it close to his own.

“Who’s the loser now?” he said aloud, then placed the head on the table beside the severed leg.

As night fell, he bundled the body and leg into a large cloth bag, wheeling it about a hundred meters to a pre-dug, two-meter-deep hole. After burying them, he replanted grass to disguise the site and erased his footprints with a branch.

Exhausted, he sat inside the container, staring at Ragnar’s head.

“I don’t know… something’s missing,” he said aloud. “I look at you, and something’s missing. What is it?” He touched his chin, thinking, then exclaimed, “Ah! Now I know!”

He took a pencil and wrote carefully on Ragnar’s forehead, large and precise. Then, with a knife, he carved the same letters into the skin:

2 + 2 = 5

“Now you really are a work of art! I can already imagine your daughter’s face,” Franco said. He placed the head in a thick, transparent plastic bag, tying the opening tightly with red wire, stretching the plastic so the face and numbers were visible. He then put the bag in a cardboard box, wrapped in bubble wrap. The box read: FRAGILE, with arrows pointing up. He placed it in a black sports bag.

Franco cleaned the container, fumigating blood stains with a chemical that left no DNA traces. He changed clothes and packed the saw, police costume, Olsen’s face skin, and other evidence into a sports bag. After carefully checking that there were no footprints, he left.

At that moment, another police car pulled up nearby. Franco went back into the container but left the door open.

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“What have you found?” the officer asked as he got out, leaving the lights on. Seeing Olsen’s police car, he thought he was talking to him.

“Come see!” Franco shouted from inside, imitating Olsen’s voice. When the officer leaned in, Franco shot him in the temple, killing him instantly. He staged the scene as a suicide, placing the gun in the officer’s hand, and then closed the container.

It took him five minutes to remove the adhesive from his car that made it look like Olsen’s police vehicle, bag the plastic, and change the license plate.

Over the radio, someone asked:

“Attention, officer, any updates?”

“Nothing yet! Everything’s in order! I’ll be right back,” Franco replied, imitating the officer’s voice.

He loaded the duffel bags into his trunk and placed the box with Ragnar’s head on the front passenger seat. Without turning on the lights, he drove thirty meters along the dirt road to the asphalt. He pulled a broom from the trunk to erase his vehicle’s tracks but left those of the other intact. The headlights lit up the snow that had begun to fall.

Baal, is helping me leave no traces, he thought. Of course the gods exist! How wrong you were, Ragnar. You should have had faith in the Kybalion.

The snow fell heavier as he drove toward Oslo. At one point, he stopped, buried the evidence in another pre-dug hole, and placed the shovel in the trunk. Climbing a small hill, he looked back at his footprints in the snow, and thought, Baal! Let it keep snowing! Hide the traces!

He was driving slowly. No vehicle passed. Several kilometers later, at a bridge, he threw the shovel into a river. The only thing left from the murder was his sport bag, with the box and the head.

He parked at an immigrant hotel, left the vehicle, and walked to a nearby jeep carrying the bag. He looked back and saw his footprints. He could not erase them. Mysterious were the ways of the gods.

At the Oslo post office, he stepped through snow more than ten centimetres deep. The queue was long. At the counter, he set the box on the table and watched the clerk fill the form on the screen.

“Who are you sending this to?” the clerk asked.

“Miss Francisca Walker.”

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“To which address?”

“1340 Thor Olsen Gate, Oslo.”

“Contents?”

“A work of art.”

“What is it?”

“A head.”

“A sculptor’s bust?”

“No. Just the head. Do you want to see it?”

“No. Please, put your box inside this one and fill this form,” the clerk said, handing him a box and a form.

“Do you need my documents?” Franco asked putting his box in the other.

“No.” The clerk said, putting the box on the scale.

“It’s heavy. What is it made of?” the clerk asked.

“Material like human bone and flesh. Very realistic. Are you sure you don’t want to see it?” Franco asked.

“No thanks.”

“It’s a gift for someone I love. Can you deliver it Tuesday the 29th?”

“Yes, of course. Any time in particular?”

“At noon, twelve o’clock sharp, please.”

“Okay. Have a good day. Who is next?”

“Thank you. Have a good day as well,” Franco said.

He drove a rented jeep to the airport and waited in a café. From the plane he saw Oslo white with snow. He thought Baal helped him again. By noon, melting snow would erase traces of his artwork. He thought remembering his father’s advice, Son, always do the important things with your own hands.

“That’s how I killed that stupid Viking,” Franco said, finishing the story.

“Give me the voice code,” Boris said, hearing Lenel’s screams from the floor. He pointed his gun. “Shut up or I’ll kill you.” Lenel fell silent.

“Franco, give me the voice code,” Boris insisted.

“Tied to this chair I can’t give it. Release me,” Franco said. Boris considered his options like a chess player and decided to release him.

“The code, Franco. Give me the voice code,” Boris repeated as he released him, pointing the gun at him.

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“It’s in the jeep,” Franco said.

“Walk,” Boris ordered.

They reached the only surviving jeep. Boris stood five meters away, gun ready. Franco opened the door. Suddenly a guard tackled Boris from the side and a gunshot rang out. The bullet, fired from a weapon hidden in the jeep and meant for Boris, killed the guard who had tackled him. As he fell, Boris dropped the weapon.

“That bullet was meant for you,” Franco said, then shot him in the calf. “Get up, you piece of trash! Want to learn what a damn voice code is?” he growled, kicking him on the floor. “You waited thirty years just to die at the hands of your little friend’s killer?” he sneered. “Open that drawer. Put on those handcuffs. Sit under the table. Cuff one foot to the table leg. Good. Now cuff your hands behind your back.”

When Boris moved slowly, Franco kicked him. Boris grabbed Franco’s foot with both hands and threw him to the floor. Franco fired but missed. Boris grabbed Franco’s right hand and held the gun. They struggled. The French national anthem playing in the stadium began to sound from the television. Franco kicked Boris several times and broke free.

Franco sat down on the sofa and watched the television as if nothing else existed. Boris remained handcuffed by one foot to the steel table leg.

Franco saw Lenel bleeding, still tied to the chair. He brought a shirt to stop the bleeding in his eye and said, “Lenel, don’t die yet. Join me to watch the fireworks. Don’t complain. You still have one eye left.” He sat on the edge of the sofa and added, “Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats in the theatre of life to see the greatest panic spectacle in history. Beautiful, isn’t it? Oh! What a shame not to have popcorn!”

At that moment Alexandre sang the French anthem, ready to score. The referee checked the time and blew the whistle. Armageddon was less than two hours away. Croatia attacked quickly and launched a shot that passed close to the goal.

“Croatia is going to win,” Franco said.

Boris could not move. The table was too heavy and Franco watched him with a gun. He needed to act fast. He imagined the four bomb clocks counting down: 1:40:33, 1:40:32, 1:40:31…

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Franco moved the sofa closer to the TV. Lenel remained tied to his chair on the floor. Shortly after, Lenel freed himself, grabbed the chair, and slammed it into Franco’s head from behind. Franco fell, turned in the air like a cat, and fired, missing. Seeing Lenel run, he stood and chased him.

Boris used the moment. Under the heavy marble table, he pushed it with his legs and back until he moved it towards a dead guard, whose weapon was still in his hand. Boris took the gun and fired at the handcuffs until they broke. He freed himself, but a ricochet struck his instep.

Limping, gun in hand, he passed in front of the television and heard the halftime score: France 2, Croatia 1.

He left the house to the rock to retrieve his backpack and equipment. He bandaged wounds and took painkillers. He fitted a helmet with night vision and a high-resolution directional microphone linked to his phone recorder. He returned, limping, as the second half began.

The TV was the only light. The rest of the house was dark. Using night vision, Boris traced sounds to the bedroom. He saw Lenel and Franco fighting. Franco emptied his pistol into Lenel, killing him.

“The stupid Russian will never know that Lenel — yes, that ridiculous name — is the voice code to stop the bomb clocks,” Franco said, unaware Boris recorded him.

Franco ran back to the television. Boris ran outside to the rock to send the voice code. Pain tore through his injured feet, but he limped to his satellite equipment. It was 04:40 on Monday, July 16 in New Zealand and 7:40 p.m. on Sunday, July 15 in Moscow. Twenty minutes remained to Armageddon. He pointed his antenna at the Russian military satellite, but his laptop battery died.

In three seconds, he weighed options and ran with computer and antenna toward the house.

Inside, Franco sat absorbed in the game, a gun in his right hand. Boris came up behind, struck him, and tied him to a chair. Franco cared only about the match. Boris disconnected the TV’s battery to power his computer and the antenna. Franco went crazy. To calm him down, Boris plugged in another cable and turned the TV back on. Ten minutes remained.

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In the Moscow stadium, Alexandre raised his hand to Dubois, who had received a pass from a defender and executed the deep play they had practiced. Alexandre ran. The pass was perfect. With the inside of his right foot, he fired a thirty-meter missile toward the upper corner, out of reach.

“Goal! Goal! Alexandre Duval does it again!” commentators shouted.

“That Alexandre is very good! What a cannon shot!” Franco exclaimed, hypnotized.

Boris contacted his hacker team and gave them his new phone number, not his GPS — position was secondary. He verified the audio file by listening to the voice key over his computer speakers. When Franco heard his own voice saying LENEL, he realized that Boris had discovered the key and went crazy. Somehow, even tied to his chair, he made agile jumps and knocked Boris to the ground, leaving him semi-conscious for a few seconds.

He grabbed a gun and fired into Boris’s belly. Boris punched him, knocked him down, seized the gun, and shot both of his knees to immobilize him. When I finish here, I will avenge Dugin, he thought.

The TV blared. Croatia surged. The referee signalled five minutes of stoppage. It was 7:50 p.m. in Moscow. Ten minutes to Armageddon.

As Boris prepared to send the voice code, the satellite signal dropped. He worked frantic to restore it and did, but could not send the audio file. He was weak, vision blurred, hands sluggish. He had lost much blood from the abdominal wound. With three minutes left he still had not sent the file. He did not notice Franco crawling on shattered knees toward a gun. From the ground, Franco fired two shots into Boris’s back, tearing away much of his right lung. Blood sprayed the computer screen.

Boris fell to the ground, breathing through his left lung; his heart continued to beat. Seeing Franco nearby, he seized the gun and shot him twice in the head.

“Die, bastard!” he exclaimed.

Half-dying, Boris managed to sit before his computer, clearing the remains of his right lung to see the screen.

In Moscow, Alexandre fell to the grass in the Croatian area after a clear foul. The referee immediately awarded a penalty.

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Boris sent the audio file to his hackers, who confirmed receipt. In New Zealand, he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness; elsewhere, his hackers worked to prevent Armageddon. In Moscow, Alexandre placed the ball on the penalty spot. Croatian fans fell silent. Stepping back, Alexandre checked the stadium clock; the seconds on the bomb clocks ticked 10, 9, 8, 7…

He ran, feinting right, and shot hard to the left post.

“Goal! Goal… from France! Goal! Goal… from France! Goal… from France!” the commentator shouted. “France about to be world champion! Duval demonstrates his precision! Great Alexandre! Long live the philosopher! Long live France! Long live football! Long live sport! Long live life!”

Boris, lying on the sofa, had stopped much bleeding by placing a T-shirt over the void where his right lung had been. Though almost fainting, he watched French fans celebrate in Moscow.

Five minutes later, his hackers sent a message:

SUCCESS. CLOCKS STOPPED. INVISIBLE HAND REVEALED YOUR POSITION. RESIST. HELP IS ON THE WAY.

Tears filled his eyes. He knew he was dying. GPS or rescue options mattered little now. “The Invisible Hand” had known his location — an exceptional mind at work. He felt pride for preventing Armageddon, but knew it had been a collective effort of anonymous heroic minds.

He loved Alexandre as a son, and respected his hackers. I would have liked to meet ‘The Invisible Hand’ before I died, he thought. On the screen, he saw Alexandre running towards the camera and lifting his France jersey to reveal a white one underneath that had something written on it:

THANK YOU BORIS

“Thank you, Alexandre,” Boris whispered, barely audible. He lost consciousness.

During celebrations, Alexandre, lifted on teammates’ shoulders, saw Victoria waving from afar. He looked the time: 8:10 pm.

At the official ceremony, Alexandre received the World Cup as team captain. Joy and caution mingled: medals, victory, yet anxiety over Boris’s fate lingered. The Olympic lap carried the cup; Alexandre’s laughter masked sadness. At 8:25 pm, still no word from Boris, and Alexandre flinched at explosions, only fireworks.

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Television broadcasts showed celebrations worldwide. On the field, Alexandre kissed Victoria. At least we will die together, he thought. In Red Square, the Seven Sisters domes shone under fireworks, celebrating Boris, the unknown hero who had saved humanity.

Watching the crowd, Alexandre murmured, “Humanity must question all authority. Decisions must stem from conclusions based on evidence, verified personally. Philosophers or religious figures hold no absolute power. Reality is the only authority.”

By 10:22 pm, still in the stadium, no news from Boris arrived. Armageddon can happen any day, but apparently not today, he thought smiling and sighed. On the grass, Alexandre spun Victoria holding her in his arms, laughing and kissing her. They were the last to leave the Moscow Olympic Stadium.

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