Resolve

"Extra! Extra! The Capitol was set ablaze last night! Suspect apprehended by the police! Come and get your news!" A newspaper boy energetically waved his papers on the bustling street. Not far from where he stood, the charred remains of the once grand Capitol building emitted a faint wisp of smoke. Its previously pristine white and gray walls were now marred with black soot; its windows shattered, its doors ajar. Just days ago, this building had been among the most formidable symbols of power in Germany, but now it stood irreparably defaced. Fire trucks surrounded the structure, and soldiers from the National Defense Forces stood guard with rifles, cordoning off the scene from the curious crowds that had gathered around. Inside was as silent as a grave, while outside buzzed with the lively chatter of the onlookers.

"Give me a newspaper," requested a middle-aged man dressed in a British naval officer's uniform, handing a shiny coin to the boy. "Keep the change," he added kindly.

The newspaper boy, surprised by the generous tip, handed over a paper to the foreign gentleman. "The suspect will be publicly examined this afternoon, sir. If you're free, it might be worth attending. I heard from a reliable source that they're accusing him of setting fire to our Congress, claiming it's part of a larger attack against us."

Officer Na Ying patted the boy on the head, smiled, then turned and climbed into the car parked behind him. He unfolded the newspaper to read more about the incident.

"Colonel Smith, do you really believe this is part of an offensive?" asked the driver, who also served as his assistant, with a concerned frown.

"Only if those fools have completely lost their minds," Smith replied without looking up from the paper. "Fanaticism and conviction can be dangerous, but that doesn't necessarily mean their actions are intelligent."

"An inside job, then?" the assistant inquired, brow still furrowed.

"It's not unheard of for a few hotheads to do something drastic. If we needed to, we could orchestrate a similar incident at Buckingham Palace to blame the Communists," Smith said with a sneer, counting off on his fingers, "The key questions are 'who', 'how', and 'why'."

"Is it related to Akado?" asked the assistant.

"Drop the 'if' and state it positively, and you'd be correct," Smith replied, folding the newspaper and tossing it aside. "It seems he's up to something. I must admit, I sometimes admire him. He knows exactly what we need and always offers just enough to keep us on his side when we grow weary of his antics."

"Isn't supporting him risky?" the assistant asked, his frown deepening.

"No choice," Smith sighed. "I envy the Americans sometimes. They can afford to ignore these issues until they're too big to overlook. We, on the other hand, have to maintain the balance. We need Akado to keep the Soviets at bay and occasionally rattle the French, ensuring the British Empire's interests in Europe are safeguarded."

Smith knew well that both Britain and France were aware of Germany's military ambitions; the real difference lay in the extent of their knowledge. The seeming indifference of the two nations wasn't due to incompetence among their intelligence agencies, but rather a calculated disregard, influenced by their own vested interests. British intelligence had even been known to manipulate information to deceive the French and enable Germany to challenge French dominance in Europe. As a fundamental aspect of British foreign policy, maintaining a balance of power on the continent was paramount. Ideally, Germany and France would wear each other out, leaving Britain to tidy up the aftermath—a strategy not unlike that of the Americans.

"Let's head to the courthouse. It may be just a formality, but it's still worth watching," Smith finally said, shaking his head in resignation.

...

Akado sat in the back row of the courtroom, his gaze fixed on the man standing in the dock, his thoughts inscrutable. Anna clung to his left arm, her demeanor delicate and bird-like. The defendant appeared slightly disheveled; his gray trench coat was worn and unkempt, likely from a struggle during his arrest. Yet, he stood defiant and proud, his chin held high.

"It's a shame that such a man is to die," remarked Gascoll, observing the defendant with a hint of regret.

"He would have made a fine addition to the SS," Heidrich added, sighing. "His conviction is palpable. Sometimes, he almost seems like one of our own."

Akado remained silent, his expression a mixture of numbness and solemnity as he continued to watch the proceedings.

"Suspect Flokhovsky," the judge, an old man with glasses who spoke with a nasally, imperious tone, began, "do you admit to your involvement in last night's arson at the Capitol?"

"I do," Flokhovsky replied, rattling the shackles on his wrists. "As a human being, it is my duty to burn down the dens of capitalism! The Bolsheviks will one day liberate all of humanity!" He pointed accusingly at the spectators, his gaze sweeping over them. "You parasites, living off the sweat of the common man! As long as I draw breath, I will fight you to the end! Do you regret not silencing me when you had the chance? My words today are your death knell!"

His voice grew louder, his spine straighter. "This trial is a farce! It is unjust and reactionary! I swear, the day will come when you, my executioners, will be judged by the people and sent to the guillotine! My legacy will be commemorated in the town square, while you will be forgotten, your corpses rotting unceremoniously!"

No one could discern what Akado was thinking as he watched Flokhovsky. Memories of revolutionary figures from history flashed through his mind—individuals who had fought with unwavering belief for their causes. He had once doubted that sheer faith could make one impervious to physical harm, but now, witnessing Flokhovsky's fervor, he understood the power of unyielding conviction.

Such individuals existed across all nations and epochs, embodying the spirit of their people and striving for visions only they could see. They were the stubborn heroes, the defiant warriors, the visionary leaders who, against all odds, shaped the course of history with their unbreakable wills.

"May your journey be honored in the annals of history," Akado murmured to himself as he stood and left the courtroom, not looking back. Anna, Gascoll, and Reinhardt followed, along with other devoted followers.

As they exited, the judge's piercing voice declared the verdict, condemning Flokhovsky for arson, attempted murder, and the destruction of a national symbol. But Akado was already stepping outside, each stride shedding any remaining sympathy or respect for the condemned man. He passed Smith, who nodded in acknowledgment; Akado returned the gesture, everything seeming perfectly natural.

"Carry out the execution immediately," Akado commanded crisply as he reached the courthouse steps. His voice was resolute, devoid of any hesitation.

Gascoll nodded in understanding. As Akado looked up at the sky, squinting against the bright sun, he added, "Since you admired him, grant him a quick end. No need for unnecessary suffering."

Gascoll smiled faintly, replying, "Understood."

Akado continued down the steps, donning the black coat Anna handed him. "Reinhardt, begin the tasks assigned to you immediately. Show no mercy, leave no loose ends. We must act swiftly."

"Sir, is such haste necessary?" Reinhardt inquired, one eyebrow arched. He knew that haste could lead to complications, though none likely fatal.

"Stalin will hear of this soon enough. He won't sit idly by. I expect our old friend Tukhachevsky will be here within days. By then, we must be ready to face him, having tied up all loose ends," Akado explained as they reached the car, his tone indicating no room for debate.

As they drove away from the courthouse, the weight of their actions and the imminent challenges loomed large, yet Akado's resolve remained unshaken, his mind already focused on the next moves in the intricate dance of power and survival.