“Ah, man. So what I do with our tickets?”
“Call up one of your girlfriends.”
“They’re all busy tonight.”
“Guess you’re going solo then, man. Now hurry up and finish your pizza. I gotta get to the Hill.”
- 4 -
Tillman’s emergency meeting lasted late into the night and by the time the bleary-eyed, hungry, and tired Union Party members exited the Red Room, the sun had begun to peek above the horizon.
“These frickin’ Liristanis,” Wayne Cherneski, M.P. for Winnipeg Centre, complained as they filed into the corridor. “Look at all the shit they’re causing.”
He looked at Jonathan for affirmation and the young M.P. managed a nod. The big Ukrainian wasn’t a man to disagree with.
“Wish we could just go in there and blast ‘em all. But that’s why they’ve done what they’ve done, hey Tremblay?”
Another nod.
“Smart little buggers. With Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve in their hands, they’ve got us in a corner. Can’t nuke ‘em now. Can’t even take out Abu-Ishak.”
“Nope.”
Four bodies deep and like a school of fish, the one hundred and eighty-eight Union M.P.s pushing through the corridors reminded Jonathan of a mosh pit and he searched for the fastest exit. Ahead, on the right, was a set of stairs that would take him the long way around. It would be shorter to follow the group and go through the Press Gallery, but with Cherneski's’ noxious body odour and the mass of people pressing against him, he quickly resolved to take the stairs.
“You know - “
“Sorry, Cherneski, but I gotta run. I’ll catch ya later.”
Before the big bellied man could respond, Jonathan was on the third step and racing up the stairwell. Reaching the second floor, he passed the clerical offices where he turned left and headed down the corridor that would lead him past the Prime Minister’s office and eventually to the west exit. Hungry and feeling rather tired, he jogged past the dozens of office doors, dreaming about the pancakes he'd make once he got home. Just as he was about to descend the exit stairwell however, he heard someone calling him.
“Mister Tremblay! Mister Tremblay!"
He stopped and turned around to find Martin hurrying towards him.
“Mister Tremblay,” the Prime Minister's assistant panted, completely out of breath, “Mister Tillman would to see you.”
Jonathan gulped. Mister Tillman? Did the leader of the Union Party have a brother or a cousin?
“Prime Minister Tillman?”
Martin tittered and wrapped an arm around him.
“Yes. Prime Minister Tillman. The one and only.”
Why on Earth would he want to speak with him, Jonathan Tremblay, nineteen year old, rookie M.P.?
“You look surprised, young man.”
“Well…it’s just…I never expected - “
“You never expected that the leader of our Party and Prime Minister of this great nation might want to speak with you, humble Jonathan Tremblay, M.P. for Ottawa-South?”
Jonathan managed a grin. “Pretty much.”
“I was there once. And you’re wrong, son. Now come with me.”
“Er…alright…”
“You’ve been inside his office before, haven’t you?” the man asked as they retraced Jonathan’s earlier steps and came to a large, wooden door marked “Office of the Prime Minister.”
“Er…no…I haven’t actually.”
“Well, now’s your chance.”
And with that he pushed the young man through the doorway.
A second later Jonathan found himself in a well-furnished and comfortable looking office. Potted plants and period art work combined with leather chaises and a number of busts on pedestals to make the office look as though its occupant was an intellectual of the highest order.
“Ah, Mister Tremblay."
Seated at his large oak desk, Tillman was staring directly at him.
"I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to see you today.”
“Well, true to my word, Sir, I found him,” Martin sang as he brought up the rear and pushed Jonathan forwards.
“Take a seat, young man.”
Jonathan nodded and glanced at the chair in front of the massive desk. To his sudden surprise, there was someone seated in the one immediately beside it.
“I imagine you’re wondering who our other guest is,” said Tillman, laying his pen on the desk and clasping his hands together.
His eyes were tired yet captivating and there was a powerful but unexaggerated charisma to the leader that Jonathan admired.
“Please, sit down and I’ll introduce you,” he said as the stranger in the chair turned to face him.
Jonathan’s eyes widened when he saw her face. Petite, with glasses and chestnut brown hair arranged into a neat bun, the young woman gave him a full smile.
“Hey.”
The Prime Minister's Office. 7:37 a.m.
"Yes, see, Miss Sinclair here works for me."
"Works for you, Sir?"
"Yes. And don't call me Sir, son. Mister Tillman will do."
Jonathan cleared his throat and nodded as he tries to process the information he'd been given since stepping into the Prime Minister's office ten minutes earlier. "Alright, Sir. I mean, Mister Tillman."
Martin thrust a glass of water at him and he took it eagerly, downing half of it before handing it back.
"Thanks."
"I don't suppose you've had breakfast," Martin continued, taking the glass from the young M.P.
Jonathan shook his head as he pictured a plate of steaming pancakes basted in butter and syrup. "No, I haven't."
"Well, I'll have to fix you something. I'm afraid all we have is toast and jam and peanut butter and what not. We have coffee and tea as well. Oh, and there are some apples and bananas in my office - I'll fix you something, shall I?"
"Sure...thanks."
"Don't mention it," the assistant said with a smile before turning to Alexandra. "And would you like something to eat as well, Miss Sinclair?"
Jonathan looked at her.
"Yes, please. Just a piece of toast and coffee will do. One cream, one sugar."
"Right then. I shall return shortly," said Martin, bowing slightly as he left the office.
Jonathan glanced at Tillman who smiled at his assistant.
"Thank you, Martin. And now then," he said, turning towards them as Martin left the three of them alone, "to business. Mister Tremblay, I believe that you and Miss Sinclair have met?"
Jonathan managed a nervous smile. "Yeah, we had a little run-in in the hallway the other day."
"I see."
"Well, I suppose then that you must be wondering why I've called you here."
"Uh, yeah...I guess."
"Don't be shy around me, Mister Tremblay. Speak with confidence. I don't bite."
"I guess, Mister Tillman," the young man repeated, louder and with more authority.
His volume seemed to please the Prime Minister. "Yes, very well then. Miss Sinclair here has been acting as a...how shall I put it...liaison between my office and the Reform Party."
"A liaison?"
"Well, I was trying to avoid using the word spy, but I suppose that's really what she is."
Jonathan turned and looked at her. Eyes facing forwards, with a folio on her lap and a pen in her hand, she certainly didn't look like any spy he'd ever seen. She was beautiful. Gorgeous. Smart...sexy. Well, maybe she did make a good spy after all.
"Anyways," Tillman continued, "Miss Sinclair here has been keeping me up to date with Wilfred Axelrod's activities. You see, I have good reason to believe that our Reformer friend is consorting with certain businessmen in Russia that have ties to Liristan. As you know, he owns a very large shipping company - “
“High Sea National,” Jonathan interrupted.
“Yes, very good. You’ve done your homework. I’ll bet you that a third of my caucus couldn’t have told me that. You’ve picked
a good one here, Miss Sinclair.”
Feeling more confident, Jonathan ventured the question that had been nagging at him for the past several minutes. “Mister Tillman…what has she picked me for exactly?”
To be her boyfriend? One could only dream.
“I’m getting to that. Hold on for a second. You see, Miss Sinclair here is working as a legislative assistant to Axelrod. She’s a longtime Union Party member - her grandfather was a cabinet minister during the Julien years - and following her completion of university, we helped her procure employment with the Reform Party.”
“I see…”
“It’s been working wonders, having her keep tabs on Axelrod and what he’s been up to.”
“And what has he been up to?”
The Prime Minister sighed. “That’s the thing. We know he’s been conducting some very important - important for him - business with the Russians since about January. Trouble is, all that information and all those files are kept under lock and key and only Reform M.P.’s have access.”
“Alright…”
“Where you come in, well, there’s no easy way to put this so I’ll just come right out and say it...we want you to cross the floor.”
“Cross…the…floor…”
“I know, I know. It sounds bad. And, well, quite frankly, it is bad. It’s disloyal. You’ll get a lot of bad press. Your own family might turn against you - “
“But wait. First off, why? And why me?”
“It’s quite simply really. You’re new to the Party. You’re new to politics. You’re young and unsullied. Too many of these folks - our M.P.s included, owe favours to people. There’s corruption - at every level - in every party. Even the Greens have their little backroom deals going on. But, you. You’re nineteen. Correct?"
Jonathan nodded.
"And you’ve only been at this a year. In effect, you’re someone I can trust.”
Jonathan swallowed to remove the knot that had formed in his throat.
“So I have to pretend to join the Reform Party?”
“Not pretend, Jonathan. Well, yes, of course you’re not doing it for real. It’s a ruse to get close to Axelrod and gain access to his sensitive and classified files. Miss Sinclair here has managed to get ahold of some, but there are others - she’s seen them - that she can’t get to. I want to see all of Axelrod’s secret files. I want to know what he’s cooking up with the Russians and the Liristanis. It’s an ugly game, politics, Mister Tremblay. And one’s always got to be one step ahead of his adversaries. Especially when we’re facing the prospect of war.”
Jonathan nodded, swallowing once more to remove the knot in his throat.
“And here we are,” said Martin as he re-entered the office, tray in hand. “A coffee and a piece of toast for Miss Sinclair.”
“Thank you.”
“And for you, Mister Tremblay, a sliced orange, toast and coffee. Cream and sugar are on the side there if you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
Alistair Tillman waited politely for his assistant to finish serving the food before speaking.
“So, what do you say?”
Chewing hungrily on his breakfast, Jonathan swallowed before answering.
“I guess…I’m a little worried about how the media will treat me...and my family…my dad will be disappointed. He’s always been a big Union Party supporter.”
“Yes, and it is at this point that I will have to ask that you don’t divulge why you’re doing it. Not even to him. Not until we get the incriminating evidence we need to go public with Axelrod’s…how can I put it…dirty laundry." Jonathan could feel the young woman’s eyes on him.
“And I'll be working with Alexandra - I mean, Miss Sinclair?"
“Yes. She’s there to help. If you need to know who to speak to about such and such a thing. Which M.P. for instance. I’ve had her drop your name to a few M.P.s and suggest that you might be considering to leave our Party and join the Reformers.”
“Really? What if I’d said no?”
The Prime Minister shrugged. “Then I would find someone else and you’d simply have a few sympathizers in the Reform Party I suppose. But something tells me that you’ll go along with it…”
Jonathan nodded, vigorously chewing his toast to get some food into his empty stomach. Beside him, stood Martin, napkins at the ready.
Should he do it? Should he cross the floor? Every other M.P. in Canadian history who’d ever crossed the floor had been slammed in the press. Ridiculed. Pointed at. Booed. He’d be a pariah for months. His dad wouldn’t be able to look at him. But he’d be able to work alongside Alexandra - and for that he’d do anything.
“I’ll do it.”
“Excellent!” Alistair Tillman exclaimed, slapping the table enthusiastically. “Martin, fetch the Scotch from the cupboard. I think a small, celebratory drink is in order. You are of legal age, right Miss Sinclair?"
“Yes. Going on twenty.”
“Excellent. And before we make that toast,” he said, as Martin set the bottle and three tumblers on the desk, “Miss Sinclair, are we happy with this arrangement? You and Mister Tremblay will work together on this little…how should we put it…assignment?”
She smiled, nodding, and Jonathan felt his heart flutter.
“Fantastic. I couldn’t be happier. You two have made my day and the Party - and the country - will owe you both many thanks. There are troubled times ahead, I warn you - and it won’t be easy going. But for now at least, let us share a drink together! To Canada!”
“To Canada!”
PART II
(Three months later)
- 5 -
Jonathan is at home one evening, watching T.V.
“And so you see, Bob, Alistair Tillman is taking the Canadian people down a dangerous path. A very dangerous path. By agreeing to Abu-Ishak’s terms, he his not only endangering the lives of our Canadian men and women in uniform, he is endangering the very existence of our great nation.”
“And what have you to say, more specifically, to the absurd ‘Bronze Age Accord’? I mean, have you ever seen anything like this?’
Wilfred Axelrod looked at the camera and offered up a photogenic smile. “No, Bob. Again, this is run-of-the-mill for the Union Party and their supporters. Hair-brained, ridiculous agreements made on behalf of the Canadian public to the detriment of the Canadian public. Come on. Are we making a movie or fighting a war?”
“Ha, ha. One can only imagine. Anyway, that’s unfortunately all the time we have for this evening’s edition of Politalk. Tune in tomorrow for our interview with David Chamberlain, C.E.O. of Bionicorp Industries for his expert opinion on modern day warfare and whether or not Alistair Tillman’s government was right or wrong to sign Abu-Ishak’s ‘Bronze Age Accord’. That’s tomorrow. Thanks for watching, folks.”
Click.
Jonathan Tremblay switched off the T.V., shaking his head in exasperation. For three months now the press had done nothing but bash Tillman and the Union Party. Though, oddly enough, he himself had been on the receiving end of some rather good publicity due to his crossing the floor.
“What an intelligent young man.”
“You finally chose the right Party son.”
“Way to stick it to them Unionists, Mister Tremblay!”
He’d heard his name batted around on radio call in shows. On T.V. newscasts. He’d seen it written on posters - though the words beside his name weren’t quite so flattering. To some he was a traitor. To others, a hero. The worst of it was that his dad was still refusing to speak with him.
“Maybe he’s embarrassed by all the bad press,” Alexandra had suggested one evening as they sat on his balcony, sipping the last dregs of their wine. That was one good thing to have come out of the whole mess. Alexandra. Since leaving Tillman’s office that morning three months ago, they’d spent countless hours together. Researching, hitting the library, snooping through stacks of Axelrod’s personal files. And, on occasion, grabbing a bite to eat or bi
king along the Canal.
“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Keegan had remarked last week as they were throwing the football around at Britannia Park. “I mean, buddy, she’s hot.”
She was extraordinarily beautiful. But that wasn’t what drew him to her. No. It was her gentle laugh. The sarcastic stares. The sassy smiles. Her never-say-never attitude. That was the Alexandra he’d come to know…and love? He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about her. Not entirely anyways. He was attracted to her, physically and emotionally, but he didn’t want to jeopardize their working relationship as there was far too much riding on it and too many people depending on him. Not the least of which was the Prime Minister of Canada. No, any romance between them would have to wait.
Tired and feeling lazy, Jonathan made his way to the fridge where he devoured the rest of the peanut butter in the jar, polished off last night's pizza, and washed it all down with a half litre of chocolate milk. That done, he wiped his mouth, tidied the dishes and went to take a shower.
Prime Minister Alistair Tillman and Colonel Goodwin are having a row in the Prime Minister's Office.
"How many times have I told you, Prime Minister Tillman! You can't honestly expect us to honour the 'Bronze Age Accord'!
"I do, Colonel Goodwin. We signed it, we'll honour it. You know what'll happen if we don't."
"But...to fight using sticks and stones!? It's insane! I can't believe you are actually considering following through with this!"
"Colonel Goodwin."
Alistair Tillman's tone was harsh now and whatever patience he'd had a minute before, had evaporated completely.
"I am the Prime Minister. Not you. And, may I remind you that Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve are still being held by the Liristanis. You do realize that if we engage the Liristan Army with any weapon not listed in the Bronze Age Accord, that they'll be killed? Do their lives mean nothing to you? They could have had my daughter too for Christ's sake! Then what!? Would you still advocate dropping a hundred missiles on Akbad?"
"Prime Minister, Sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean - "
"No! You've said quite enough, thank you. I've listened to you - given you a precious few minutes of my time - and now it's time for you to leave. Martin, show our friend out please."
"You're a fool, Tillman! A complete fool! Get your hands off me!" he bellowed as Martin attempted to guide him towards the door. "I'm leaving. Don't you worry. And you can forget calling on me for anymore advice!"