"I just don't understand," the Prime Minister continued, pushing Martin’s arm away and reaching for the glasses on his nightstand. "Why would anyone want to hurt my Juniper?"
His assistant sighed as he stepped backwards, away from the edge of the bed. "I imagine someone who doesn't agree with your policies, Sir."
"Well, then they can hit me at the polls…but to go after my daughter?"
Martin nodded in grim agreement. "It's despicable, Sir."
The older of the two men sighed as he massaged the back of his neck, working out the knot that had formed there. “Bring me my phone, will you Martin? It's on the bureau."
"Yes, of course, Sir."
"I'm calling her right now."
"The officer I spoke with said that she's with her mother."
"So she’s with Sue then?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll call her there then."
"Perhaps it might be best to wait until morning, Sir..."
"No, I think I'll call now. Wait outside, will you?"
"Yes, of course, Sir."
"Thank you."
"Oh and Sir?" said Martin, halfway out the door.
"Yes?"
"There's another bit of news."
"Oh? What is it?"
"The men who tried to kidnap your daughter...they have them.”
"Where? Who has them?”
"KS-1," Martin answered slowly, knowing Tillman wouldn’t like it.
"You mean..."
"I'm afraid so."
"How long have they been there?"
The assistant glanced at his watch. "For about an hour already. They drove them up from Toronto."
"Blasted!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Joubert…he’ll have killed them by now. Quick! There's no time to waste! I'll phone Sue on the way. Have Watson bring the car around. It is Watson on duty tonight, correct?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good, have him bring the car around. We'll leave immediately."
"Yes, Sir."
KS-1 headquarters.
“JOUBERT!”
The Prime Minister and his assistant walked briskly through the corridor, their heeled shoes clapping loudly against the linoleum.
“WHERE ARE THEY!? JOUBERT!”
“Mister Prime Minister! Sir! Please! You can’t go in there!”
It was the armed security guard that had met them at the door and he was trying desperately to keep up with them.
Alistair Tillman ignored his pleas and flung open the double doors marked “Interrogation Wing”, Martin following quickly in his wake.
“Sir! Please! You can’t go in there!”
“JOUBERT!”
“There, Sir,” said Martin, pointing to a room in which stood several men, all of them in full uniform.
“JOUBERT!”
Through the reinforced window, a man turned to look at them. A man with a long scar that ran from eye to mouth. A man with a cold sneer on his face.
Alistair Tillman pointed at him. “JOUBERT! I WANT THEM ALIVE!”
They reached the door and found it to be locked.
“JOUBERT! OPEN THIS DOOR AT ONCE!”
Martin could tell from the faces of the men inside that their sudden presence was most unwelcome. The door buzzed open and they entered the small room. Completely grey with buzzing fluorescent lights, it had that institutional feel and Martin didn’t like it one bit. He glanced at his boss who seemed to be rather indifferent to the whole thing. He’d always admired that about the man. That, though an academic, Alistair Tillman, Prime Minister, could roll up his sleeves and adopt the appearance and mannerisms of a simple construction worker if required.
“Where are they? What have you done with them? They’d better be alive, Joubert.”
“Nice to see you too, Mister Prime Minister.”
“Joubert,” Alistair continued, his hands shaking, “if you’ve harmed these men - “
“I have not laid a finger on them, Sir. You can go and look for yourself,” and he pointed towards the metal door at the other end of the room. There was a metal grate over the small window and Martin suddenly felt ill.
What is this place? Cold and grey, it lacked any emotion other than fear and anger and he shivered at the thought of what stories its walls might tell if asked.
“In there then?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The KS-1 commander’s tone suggested that he was clearly unaccustomed to saying the word “Sir”.
Alistair nodded and stepped forwards, headed for the metal door.
“Let him pass, Bracchus,” Joubert commanded.
Though Joubert was an ox of a man, he was nothing compared to Bracchus. With arms as thick as tree trunks, the enormous Grey Helmet was a sight to behold, and Martin was grateful when the hulking man stepped aside so Tillman could access the door. Sticking close to him, Martin ignored the intimidating stares of the other men in the room. The familiar buzz sounded, signaling that the door was opened, and he hurried in behind him.
Seeing what was on the other side however, Martin wished he had stayed behind. For, hanging feet first from the rafters, with black slips over their heads, were three men. Though he could really only presume that they were men given the coarse, black hair covering their exposed flesh.
“JOUBERT! WHAT IS THIS MADNESS!? YOU SAID YOU DIDN’T TOUCH THEM!”
“I didn’t,” said the burly KS-1 commander calmly, stepping into the room. “That was all Bracchus and the boys.”
“CUT THEM DOWN THIS INSTANT!””
“As you wish, Sir. Bracchus. Artem. Cut them down.”
“Sir, yes, Sir!”
“Not like that!” Alistair Tillman cried, as long branch trimmers appeared in their hands.
“That’s how we always get them down, Sir.”
Martin watched as his boss shook his head in disgust.
“Throw some mats under them. I don’t want any cracked skulls.”
“As you wish, Sir. But keep in mind, these pieces of shit tried to kidnap your daughter.”
“Yes, and I want to question them, Joubert. Not kill them.”
“Ain’t no easier way to get a man to talk than to threaten him with his life."
“And that’s where we disagree, I’m afraid. Now get them down from there. I want that table and those chairs brought to the centre of the room. And turn the cameras and the recorders on - I assume you turned them off. We’re going to do this the proper way.”
“As you wish, Sir,” he answered, the cold sneer returning to his face.
And this time, at least for Martin, there could be no mistaking the KS-1 commander’s contempt for Alistair Tillman.
- 3 -
The following morning, Monday. 8:21 a.m. Alistair Tillman is holding a meeting with all of his M.P.s in the Red Room in the East Block.
“Are there any more questions before we move on to other matters?”
“Yes. Did these men explain their motive? Who are they with? Are they Liristani agents?”
“That is precisely what they are. And no, they did not give a motive. In fact they didn’t give much of anything before they died.”
“Died, Sir?”
“Died. By their own hands. Cyanide capsules. Hidden in their rectums.”
“Hidden in their…”
There was a sudden outburst of disgusted murmuring and Alistair Tillman rapped his pen on the edge of the podium to regain his audience’s attention.
“Quiet, please. We have some extremely important business to discuss before voting this afternoon. Namely, what to do with the Omani offer to use their airstrips.”
Seated at the edge of the third row, Jonathan Tremblay watched his party leader closely. Tillman seemed tired. Distracted. As though he hadn’t been sleeping well - if at all.
“People, please. Nancy. Have you spoken with the Saudis yet?”
Before the blonde (and rather beautiful) cabinet minister could answer however, the door burst open an
d the man Jonathan knew only as “the Prime Minister’s assistant” entered and hurried towards the podium.
“Martin…”
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’ve just received an urgent memo from London. You’ll want to read this.”
He walked forwards and handed a piece of paper to the Prime Minister. Alistair Tillman’s eyes scanned the document quickly and when he was finished, he pursed his lips and shook his head in dismay.
“People. Tragic news from London."
The room went silent.
"Gloria Cromwell, Gordon Cromwell’s wife, has been kidnapped. Yesterday afternoon. Scotland Yard has yet to release further details. Will send news as it comes. End memo.”
The MPs and cabinet ministers assembled in the Red Room gaped as their leader finished reading the memo aloud.
“April Fool’s, right?”
“That was three weeks ago, Robert," said Tillman tersely, as though he didn't appreciate the M.P.'s remark.
“Gloria Cromwell…I met her at a luncheon once…”
“She’s an amazing woman. Let’s just hope her brave spirit and that British tenacity can hold with her through what I can only imagine is an impossibly time.”
“Has anyone claimed responsibility? It seems rather coincidental that the British Prime Minister’s wife would be kidnapped at nearly the same time as three men tried to kidnap your…”
“My daughter, Miss Frulla?”
“Er…yes…I didn’t want - “
“No, it’s quite alright,” said Tillman, nodding as a professor would after fielding what he thought to be a worthy question. “It does seem rather coincidental. Martin,” he said, turning to his assistant, “get in touch with Scotland Yard and tell them about the attempted kidnapping of my daughter on Saturday evening.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said, scurrying from the podium.
“And keep this under wraps as much as possible! And report back to me with anymore news - as soon as you get it!” he hollered after him.
“Yes, Sir!”
Jonathan moved his elbow as the Prime Minister’s assistant flew past and made his way from the Red Room.
“Please, people, quiet down,” said Alistair loudly, and Jonathan returned his attention to the Prime Minister - as did the rest of the MPs and cabinet ministers seated in his vicinity.
“Things are heating up. This has the feel of a war. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I want something done. We need to move on this before the situation worsens.”
“Sir,” said Nancy Bateman, Minister of Foreign Affairs, rising to her feet. “I’ll have my department get in touch with every ally and neutral nation in the Middle East.”
Tillman nodded. “Yes, do that. Find out what’s happening. Is Liristan moving weapons? What’s Abu-Ishak been up to? How friendly is Abu-Ishak with the Liristani Martyr’s Brigade? Any information you can get will be useful.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Sir. If I may,” Hal Kilmer, Member of Parliament for Pembroke-Renfrew, began, “perhaps it would be wise to monitor Russian trade to Liristan as well. We know the friendly history between the two nations when it comes to arms dealing.”
“Yes. I’d thought of that. Have CSIS get on that immediately.”
“I’ll meet with Director Arnaud today.”
“Good. Any other ideas or suggestions? People, there’s a war brewing and I don’t think we’re ready for it. I want us working full time on this matter. The new copyright bill that was going to be tabled today - we’ll postpone until next Friday. All other bills will be postponed until at least next week. We need everyone focused on this. Even the members of the Opposition."
There were several grumbles at this last remark, before Alistair Tillman rapped his pen once more on the podium and called the end of the meeting.
11:10 a.m. In the parliamentary Press Gallery. Reform leader Wilfred Axelrod is giving a press conference.
“Mister Axelrod!”
“Mister Axelrod! Sir!”
“One at a time, please.”
Watching from a distance, Jonathan Tremblay resented the Opposition leader’s popularity with the press.
“They all have their heads up their arses,” his grandfather had complained during the last election when the Ottawa Observer had made no secret of endorsing Axelrod and his Reformers.
“Mister Axelrod, Sir!”
“Yes, Gavin.”
“When are we moving troops into Liristan?”
Jonathan cringed as the heavy-set Axelrod grinned, showman-like, as though he were working a crowd.
“Well, it would seem that we’re going to wait for them to hit us first,” he began, the reporters in the scrum gobbling up every word. “Tillman seems to think we can just sit on our hands and wait to see what Abu-Ishak wants to do. I don’t know about you, but in my day, on the schoolyard, we sure didn’t wait for the bully to come and hit us. We hit him first. As my old high school boxing coach used to say, “hit hard, hit fast, hit first, his last.”
There was an outburst of excitement following this remark and Jonathan tuned out the media scrum as he exited the Press Gallery, headed for his office. Stewing over the press and their adoration for the Reformers, he wasn't watching where he was going and crashed headlong into Alexandra.
“Oh, geez, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, bending down to pick up the folders and papers she’d dropped in the collision.
She looked at him and smiled. “It’s alright. I wasn’t really watching where I was going either. Too much on my mind."
Jonathan grinned, happy she didn’t think he was a complete idiot.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t want to lose that,” she said nervously.
Glancing down at the folder in her hands, he noticed the word “Classified” stamped in red ink.
“No, it looks important.”
“It is,” she said, pushing past him. “Anyways, I have to get these to the Blue Room. See ya.”
“See ya.”
Equally intrigued by both his thirty second run in with Alexandra and the “Classified” manila folder she’d been holding, the young M.P. watched her until she disappeared around the corner.
“So you finally managed to talk to her?” Keegan asked, his eyes glued to the hockey highlights.
“Not exactly,” Jonathan Tremblay answered as he grated parmesan cheese on the two pizzas resting on the stovetop in front of him.
“What do mean, not exactly,” the hockey player asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.
“I mean…”
“You either spoke to her or you didn’t…there’s no halfway there, buddy.”
“Well, I ran into her. Literally.”
“And let me guess,” he began with a sly smile, “it was just like in the movies. She was on the ground and her stuff was all over the floor and you helped her up and then she brushed herself off and you two brushed noses awkwardly before going your separate ways? ‘Cause I saw that one with Jessica last night, dude.”
The young M.P. shook his head dismissively. “No, no, it wasn’t like that. Yes, she did drop a few things, but that was that. There was no brushing of noses. We talked for about ten seconds.”
“That’s it!?”
Jonathan shrugged as he plated the pizzas and passed one to his friend.
“How do you ever expect to get into her pants if you can’t even have a friggin’ conversation?”
“Don’t talk about her like that, man. She’s a nice girl. Dresses real smart. Clean. Not trashy at all.”
“Well, she sure sounds out of your league, bro’,” said Keegan, dodging the empty milk carton Jonathan launched at him.
“And we interrupt this broadcast with breaking news on Timothy Reeve, son of U.S. President, Lucky Reeve.”
“Hey, turn that up,” said Jonathan, lunging for the remote.
Keegan swiped it from the marble counter top. “I got it."
“Hurry up!
I wanna hear this!”
“...taken in broad daylight right outside this private language school in Buenos Aires, the Argentinean capital. Sandra Robertson has more.”
“Thanks, Bob. Yes, details are slowly emerging as investigators attempt to piece together the brazen, day-light abduction of Timothy Reeve, the twenty-two year old son of U.S. President, Lucky Reeve. Witnesses say they saw a black Mercedes pull up outside this English language school - where Reeve is currently a teacher - and as Reeve came out of the school, two armed men grabbed him and forced him into the vehicle. Local police say they’ve already executed search warrants at several known gang hideouts, but so far they’ve failed to turn up any sign of Reeve.”
“And what is the White House saying, Sandra? Have we had any word from President Reeve yet?”
“No, Bob, but a source I spoke to a half an hour ago said that a press conference is planned for later this evening and that President Reeve will be speaking.”
“Alright, thank you Sandra. Stay safe and keep us posted.”
“Will do, Bob.”
Jonathan killed the T.V. and stared wide-eyed at his friend.
“This is bad.”
A string of cheese dangling from his mouth, the hockey player’s face was expressionless.
“You don’t get what’s happening? First Tillman’s daughter - that was on Saturday. They tried to kidnap her. Then on Sunday, Gloria Cromwell - she’s the wife of the British P.M. Now Thomas Reeve? No? You still don’t get it? Liristan is doing this. Liristan is trying to kidnap important members of the first families of the Western, Allied nations. But why, is the question…”
“Maybe to ransom them?”
“No,” the young M.P. said, beginning to pace the length of the kitchen. “That’s too simple. Why not Bill Gates’ kids or Roman Abrahamovic’s kids or something? There’s gotta be more to it. If - “
The phone rang then, interrupting him mid-sentence and he reached for it.
“Hello?”
He looked at Keegan, chowing down on his pizza and slurping his soda.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there…alright…yes…okay.”
“Who was that?” asked the hockey player through a mouthful of food once he’d hung up.
“That was McCullough. The Party Whip. Tillman’s called an emergency caucus meeting and wants all of us there.”
“Shit. So no game tonight then?”
Jonathan shrugged apologetically as he cleared the counter and gave the stove top a quick wipe. “No. Sorry, bro.”