Akbad, the Liristani capital. Abu-Ishak and his clerics are holding a press conference.
"Let it be known," said the tall and wiry leader, staring directly at the camera, "that the great nation of Liristan will soon return to its glorious past! We were an empire in the time of the Prophet Ahmed - and we shall become an empire once again!"
There was a round of applause followed by a dozen camera flashes.
"We, the people of Liristan, we'll take back what was ours! Our time has come! In three months the Great War will commence and together with our Malsma brothers from across the Middle East, North Africa, and Europe, we will crush the armies of United States and the Allied, Christian nations!"
More applause, followed by another dozen camera flashes.
"I say to you now, Lucky Reeve. To the people of the United States. To you, Gordon Cromwell and the people of England. And to any other nation that chooses to fight with you. Your reign of terror on the Malsma world is finished!"
With that, the conference was brought to a close. Abu-Ishak's six clerics surrounded their leader in a show of solidarity and images flashed across the screen of Malsmas around the world - from Pakistan to Egypt - yelling and cheering for Abu-Ishak.
Thursday evening. Crazy Pete's sports bar.
"So what is this Bronze Age thingy, exactly?" Keegan asked through a mouthful of food.
"You mean the Bronze Age Accord?" I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the din of the other patrons.
"Yeah. That."
"It basically stipulates that the only weapons that can be used in the Great War are things like swords, spears, javelins - the type of weaponry that existed during the Bronze Age - hence the name."
"And why exactly are we doing this?"
"To have Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve returned."
"And why are they doing this?"
"To get Western nations out of Malsma lands. It's one final battle that will settle everything. Apparently."
"That makes no sense."
Jonathan shrugged. "It does and it doesn't. We win, we get two very important hostages back. They win, they keep said hostages and retreat to their lands and no Westerner is ever to set foot in them again. If we do, they kill Gloria Cromwell and Thomas Reeve."
"How do we know that the Liristanis or whoever will even return the hostages? What if we win and we don't get them back."
"They'll be brought to the battlefield and they're to be seen by some American CIA and British Intelligence guys before the battle starts."
Jonathan took one last sip of his soda and glanced at his watch.
"Crazy."
Jonathan nodded. "Tell me about it...anyways, dude. I gotta run. I promised Alexandra I'd meet her at the library. We're on to something big."
Keegan grinned. "I'll bet you guys are."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Finish your burger so we can get outta here."
"Nah, I'm good. You go ahead. I'm gonna see if I can't pick up one of those foxy ladies at that table over there," he said, indicating a table ten feet away around which sat three twenty-somethings. Jonathan suppresed a laugh as his best friend threw them a wink and resumed eating.
"Alright, man."
You guys are still coming to my game tomorrow night, right?"
"Yeah. For sure."
"Okay. Cool. Cause I wanna meet this girl."
"You will."
"Aight, homey."
"Later, dude."
Jonathan and Alexandra are conducting research at the public library.
Alexandra put down her pen and stared at the ceiling. "This is so frustrating.”
“What?” asked Jonathan, glancing up from the papers he’d been nose deep in. He was trying hard not to look at her chest, though the low-cut neck of her blouse was making it rather difficult.
“I can’t find a link between Axelrod and arms trading. Nothing to Russia or Liristan. High Sea Shipping - look here it is. Every shipment made this year. It’s all completely legit. Fruit and other produce. Scrap metal. Lumber. And all out of Halifax to Europe. Nothing to the Middle East.”
“Maybe we’re missing something?”
She picked up her pen and began to chew on the end. “We must be. Keep looking. I’m going for a coffee run. You want one?”
Jonathan nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
- 6 -
Saturday supper at the Tremblay household. Mother Lorena, father Calvin, sister Lacey, and Jonathan are all seated around the table.
“I just think it should be illegal for M.P.s to cross the floor. Once you’re elected for a certain Party, you should have to sit out that session with that Party. Or as an Independent if you object to their policy direction. Otherwise, you should have to wait until the next election to run for a different Party. That’s democracy.”
Jonathan nodded, though he completely disagreed given his unique circumstance. He was a little put out that his father didn’t rise to his defense - but then again, it was hardly surprising given his father's extreme dislike of the Reform Party. Picking at his peas, he waited impatiently for the rest of his sister’s verbal assault.
“...otherwise everyone just makes up the rules as they go along. And politicians do that enough already. You’ve become a politician, Jon.”
She said the word "politician" as though it were something to be ashamed of.
Attempting - with little success - to scoop up a spoonful of peas - he was too tired to argue with her. “Just be glad it wasn’t you that had to do it."
“You didn’t have to do anything, Jon.”
Oh, yes I did, Lacey. And maybe one day you’ll be thank me for it, he thought bitterly.
“How about we leave politics outside the house, eh?”
He looked at his mother. Her brown eyes, bright and hopeful. Her auburn hair freshly coiffed. (Saturday was “salon day” for Lorena Tremblay.)
“You’re right, mom.”
“Splendid. More potatoes anyone?”
Before he could say ‘yes’, his Calvin Tremblay pushed his plate to the centre of the table, rose from his chair, and left the dining room.
“Still mad at me, is he?” asked Jonathan once his father was out of earshot.
Lacey looked at him with an expression that said, “What do you think?”
Lorena rubbed her son’s shoulder with affection. “He’ll come around, honey.”
Jonathan sighed and downed the rest of his orange juice. “Hopefully. ‘Cause I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
Question Period in the House of Commons the following Monday.
“Mister Speaker. Is the Prime Minister denying that Canada is in danger? After all, how can we defend three thousand kilometers of coastline with axes and spears?”
There were shouts and whoops from the Reform caucus and Gunther Klaxon raised his hand to quell the noise.
“Silence, please.”
“Mister Speaker,” said Alistair Tillman, rising to his feet, “the Leader of the Opposition is ignorant of the facts. The Great War is to take place in Morocco - far from Canadian shores. Our army will adhere to Abu-Ishak’s terms as laid out in the Bronze Age Accord, but only, and I repeat, only for the Great War. Here at home, and in other combat operations, Canada will continue to use what it has always used - the best weaponry and the best men and women in uniform.”
“Here, here!”
Seated across the House from the Prime Minister, Jonathan Tremblay smiled as his former Union colleagues clapped and slapped their desks with their hands.
“Silence, please. Silence. Liz Keller, M.P. for Saskatoon Centre.”
Jonathan watched as the pale blonde woman three rows down got to her feet.
“Thank you, Mister Speaker. How can the Prime Minister defend his signing Abu-Ishak’s Bronze Age Accord? Since when does Canada negotiate with rogue States?”
More whoops and hollers from the Reform caucus.
“Mister Speaker,” said Alistair Tillman, rising once more from his seat
. “Need a remind the Opposition that Gloria Cromwell, wife of British Prime Minister Gordon Cromwell, and Thomas Reeve, son of U.S. President, Lucky Reeve, are currently being held captive by the Liristani government? To not negotiate with Abu-Ishak would be the greater crime!”
“Here, here!”
Prime Minister Alistair Tillman, Jonathan and Alexandra are seated in the Prime Minister's Office.
“That was quite the Question Period today, kids.”
Alistair Tillman eased his stiff shoulders and relaxed into his chair as Martin poured all three a glass of water.
“The annoying thing is that the Press is on their side,” Jonathan grumbled.
“Ah, yes. But you know, I find that the Press are some of the worst sheep when it comes to politics. Give it six more months and they’ll be eating their shirts. Speaking of which, how’s the research coming? Have we found any incriminating evidence linking Axelrod to the Liristanis?”
Alexandra shook her head. “No. We’re trying, but every lead we’ve found has come up short. High Sea Shipping is strictly legit.”
“How about working backwards?”
“Backwards?”
The Prime Minister nodded, swirling the water in his cup. “Get a list of all the shipping companies that do business with Liristan and find out if Axelrod has any connection to them. Perhaps he sits on the Board or serves in an advisory capacity. As much as I dislike the man, he’s no fool. He’ll have kept his tracks covered. You're not going to find a smoking gun."
Alexandra nodded. “You’re right. We’ll get on that.”
“Excellent. Keep up the good work. You’re both doing a fine job. It’ll come. Just keep at it.”
Jonathan mustered a smile. At the rate they were going the Great War would already be over and Axelrod would be Canada’s next Prime Minister…
Jonathan and Keegan are having a round of racquetball at the gym.
“So you tapped that yet?”
Jonathan ceased drinking and glared at his friend. “I told you not to talk about her like that, man. I really like this girl. And besides, we’re working on an important assignment together. I can’t just go and throw it all away by getting involved with her like that.”
“Ahhhh, you loser.”
He watched as his friend tossed the ball into the air and smashed it against the wall.
“You can’t - “
He paused to return the ball with a swift backhand.
“Put the - “
Whop.
“Pussy on a pedestal.”
Thwack.
“Dude. Stop it. Seriously. She’s a great girl. Not just a piece of ass.”
Keegan grinned and served the ball again. “It’s all the same to me, man.”
“Yeah, well, that’s you,” Jonathan muttered, smashing the ball as hard as he could.
Jonathan and Alexandra are at Library and Archives Canada.
“I found it! Jon! Kyrex Industries! His cousin! Stuart Pennington! It all fits!”
“What? What? What?” Jonathan demanded, setting down the notepad he’d been holding. “What did you find?”
“Here, look.”
Alexandra shoved the book in front of him.
“Right here. This paragraph.”
Jonathan looked to where she was pointing and read aloud. “Kyrex Industries was sold in two thousand two to Vancouver businessman, Stuart Pennington. Stuart Pennington, nephew of shipping magnate Karl Axelrod, was formerly head of Gardiner Holdings.”
“Karl Axelrod…”
“Is Wilfred Axelrod’s father!” Alexandra exclaimed.
“So - ”
“That makes Stuart Pennington his cousin.”
“And - ”
“Kyrex Industries, according to this, ‘manufactures micro-processors and other computer components associated with nuclear weapons production. Of note are Kyrex Industries’ close ties to a number of undemocratic Middle Eastern and Asian states.’”
“Which means - “
“That Axelrod is dealing with the Liristanis through his cousin’s shipping company!”
Jonathan frowned. “So Tillman was right.”
“Yup. But this is all we need, Jon! Don’t you see? We take this to this Press - get them to connect the rest of the dots - and we’ve got Axelrod! I’m calling Mister Tillman right now. He’ll want to see this.”
“Alright, call him.”
9:16 p.m. Wednesday night. It’s dark. Raining. Jonathan and Alexandra have just pulled up in front of the Thai embassy where a reception is being held. In attendance are federal politicians and other members of the diplomatic community.
“This should be it. Three twenty-five Island Park Road, right?”
Alexandra checked the slip of paper in her hand as Jonathan slowed his Volkswagen Jetta. “Yes. Three twenty-five Island Park Road.”
“Whoa…but what’s this?”
An ambulance, with lights flashing, was parked in the driveway of the embassy. The partygoers, dressed in their finest suits and gowns, were milling about on the blackened front lawn. The women clutched their purses tightly to their breasts, watching the house and occasionally pulling at the sweaters draped around their shoulders, appearing as though they’d been made to exit in a hurry and regretted not having brought something warmer. Meanwhile, the men seemed to be exchanging nervous whispers and surreptitious glances.
“I don’t know. It looks like something’s up though.”
There being no free parking spots, Jonathan continued slowly past the rows of high-end sedans and SUVs.
“Just park up ahead,” said Alexandra, her voice anxious. “I don’t care if we have to walk a bit.”
"What do you think happened?"
Alexandra shook her head. "I don't know."
“Should we call Tillman?”
“He doesn't have a phone. Remember?”
"I mean Martin. Should we call Martin."
"Probably not a bad idea. Maybe he's inside?"
As she dialed the Prime Minister’s assistant, Jonathan eased his Jetta into an open spot.
“Martin. Good. Glad I got you. What’s going on?”
Jonathan looked at her, searching her face for an answer.
“Okay. But, we’re here and there’s an ambulance here. No. Yes. We thought you were here. Okay. We’ll see you soon. Thanks, Martin.”
Click.
“He’s on his way. He was supposed to be here but Tillman told him to meet with Nancy about something.”
“But he’s coming here now?” Jonathan asked anxiously.
“Yes.”
"Alright."
He glanced in the rearview mirror, the red and orange lights of the ambulance dancing off the sides of houses and parked cars.
“So…do we wait in the car or go and see what’s happening? I don’t really feel like waiting another fifteen minutes or whatever for Martin to show up."
Alexandra nodded, her eyes glued to the sideview mirror as she too tried to see what was happening. "Yeah, we'd better go."
The pair climbed out of the vehicle and made their way quickly along the rain dampened sidewalk. The glow of Parisian street lights pale against the damp air.
"Hey, look!"
Jonathan looked to where Alexandra was pointing.
"The paramedics - they're coming out of the house.”
Sure enough, forty yards away, two tall and strapping paramedics were leaving the embassy.
“They’ve got a stretcher - and there’s someone on it.”
“Let’s go.”
They hurried forwards and reached the front lawn after half a minute. Weaving through the crowd that seemed to have grown larger since they’d first driven by, the pair made their way to the front just as the paramedics were approaching.
“Oh my God! Jon!”
“What? What's the matter?”
But before she could speak, he had his answer. For, lying on the stretcher, eyes wide open and dead-looking, was Alistair Tillman.
/> “And though police are still releasing few details, we’ve been told, Peter, that a known Russian KGB agent was seen on video surveillance to be leaving the party at 8:34 p.m. At approximately 8:45 Prime Minister Alistair Tillman began complaining of severe stomach pains. Paramedics were called and within thirty minutes he was pronounced dead.”
Jonathan switched off the radio and returned to dicing strawberries for his Saturday morning smoothie.
How could this be happening? Alistair Tillman…dead. And he wasn't dreaming. Alistair Tillman was actually...dead. Such a good man. Such a good leader. And possibly poisoned by a Russian KGB agent?
The buzzer sounded and he jogged to the intercom.
“Alexandra?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“Come on up,” he said, pressing the “Door Open” button.
He released the button after several seconds and returned to the blender on the kitchen island. At least his dad was talking to him again. Though that was mainly out of sympathy.
He still hadn’t told his dad the real reason for why he had crossed the floor and joined the Reformers. As much as he wanted to, he and Alexandra had both agreed that now, more than ever, was the time to keep an eye on Axelrod and in order to be close to the Reform leader, he needed to be fully trusted. That meant keeping everyone but Alexandra in the dark.
A sharp knock on the door stirred him from his thoughts.
“It’s open.”
The door opened and there she stood, decked out in black spandex and a conservative black top.
“Ready to go?”
Jonathan siged. “Yeah…”
“You’re still feeling pretty bad, eh?”
He looked at her. She wore a concerned expression on her face and her hands rested on her hips.
"Yeah...I just can't get it out of my head. It's like...I think sometimes I'm dreaming...that he can't actually be...gone. But he is."
Alexandra gave a nodded of understanding. “You know, I don't mean to sound cold...I really do miss him and hurt for him...but Tillman was pretty philosophical about death. He certainly didn’t fear it. He beat skin cancer in his forties, you know? And he told me that throughout his treatment he'd become much less afraid of death because he knew that there was something greater out there. How did he put it...He said that there was something bigger than himself...and that he was just a ball of energy in an infinite universe...and that, rather than fear death he now saw it as being the next...and I remember how he said this...he said that death was just the next 'natural phase of the journey every living thing must take.'"