“Goes without saying.”
Chapter 3
There were no sacred cows left. Even the highest of all honors had become polluted with the political realities of the modem age. These days the monarchy was symbolic, and when the British crown bestowed the honor of knighthood it wasn’t necessarily to recognize great accomplishment. Sometimes it was, quite simply, politically expedient.
It all started with a zealous reporter on the local paper. He needed a story and there was no news to be found, so he scrounged some up. There are always problems, he was known to say, that have yet to be brought to the attention of the people,
This problem wasn’t likely to stir the masses, but it filled half a front page. Newfoundland Is Knightless! the headline screamed.
It reported that not one citizen of the Canadian province of Newfoundland had received knighthood in a decade. The queen had knighted a few citizens of Ontario, a couple of English-speaking Quebecers and a handful of Albertans and British Columbians. There was even a man from the Yukon who received a knighthood a few years back for rescuing a Royal Navy ship from pack ice.
“Why have the good people of Newfoundland received no such honor?” the paper asked.
“Why No Newfie Knights?” asked the TV promos when the Newfoundland news programs latched on to the scandal.
A marine environmental study was released the next day, and anything that concerned fishing was real news. The business about the knights was forgotten, but the PR strategists for the royal family had noticed the uproar.
“We need to act now,” explained the royal administrator of Her Majesty’s public relations. “The next time the story surfaces it could create ill will.”
So they tossed a knighthood at the first semiqualified candidate from Newfoundland. Good public relations were ninety percent forward thinking, after all.
To be fair to the royal administrator of Her Majesty’s public relations, he couldn’t possibly have foreseen the disaster that resulted from bestowing knighthood on Regeddo Tulient.
Her Majesty’s army of honor arrived at the Confederation Building in St. John’s, Newfoundland, in a fleet of taxis, then gathered in formation on the front steps.
Regeddo Tulient circled to the head of the formation and looked around.
“Take control, Sir Tulient,” barked the voice in his ear.
“I don’t know if they’ll even listen to me,” Tulient whined.
“They’re paid to listen. You’re their boss. Start acting like it.”
Tulient wasn’t sure he was cut out for this. He didn’t like telling people what to do. He wasn’t a people person. He was an archaeologist. Not even a good one. He had happened to discover, through no fault of his own, the remnants of the earliest Viking settlement in Newfoundland. To his astonishment and embarrassment, they knighted him for it.
“I don’t think I deserve it,” he confided to Her Majesty’s representative.”
“You made a great find that proved the English were on this soil a thousand years ago. It’s a monumental discovery.”
Actually, he had been looking for the remains of a hundred-year-old railroad spur. His expertise was in the recent history of Newfoundland and Labrador, and he later realized he had been looking for the railroad spur on the wrong side of a certain hill. The Viking find really had been a blunder. And the proof that the Vikings were “English” was based solely on a few pieces of wrought jewelry found at the site, which had originated in England. Only the British nationalists saw it as evidence that the Vikings were, somehow, English. Still, it was a boost to English and Newfoundland pride, and after a few deeply embarrassing ceremonies and a horribly uncomfortable trip to London, it was over with.
Until the knock that came on Tulient’s door a few months back, along with an opportunity that was beyond belief.
“Follow me,” Regeddo Tulient stammered, and the mercenaries did follow him.
At the entrance to the mezzanine of the Confederation Building was the main security checkpoint. The commander of the mercenaries, a man named Hare, presented a sheaf of papers.
The chief of mezzanine security weighed the stack of forms in his hand and skimmed the first page, then looked incredulously at Tulient and Hare.
“Financial planning conference in the Gilbert wing,” Hare explained tersely.
“All of you?” the security chief asked, eyeing the rows of men in badly fitting suits, skewed ties and matching vinyl briefcases.
“We’re cleared. Check the paperwork.”
“Heh. Yeah.” The chief of security pushed them back at Hare and waved the mercenaries through.
“You—you’re supposed to clear us,” Tulient said, suddenly panicking. He had been expecting the security staff to catch the forged papers. He had been hoping for it.
“No, thanks. I got better things to do.”
One of the mercenaries dropped his briefcase, and it clattered noisily on the steps. It burst open, and paperwork began flying away in the breeze. The man cried out and scampered wildly after the papers, and for a moment, nobody was looking at the metal detector.
Hare flicked a tiny pellet at the detector. It hit on the inside and a tiny puff of powdered steel covered the inside panel. The metal detector began whooping, even with nobody inside of it. The security staff puzzled over it and cursed as the whooping continued and the entrance became crowded with more visitors.
“Can’t you just do a pat-down search?” Hare demanded. “We’re expected upstairs in two minutes.”
Nobody had a clue why the metal detector was acting up. Not only was it making a racket, but also the video screen was all white. The tiny powder particles were still unnoticed on the inside of the walkway. The crowd was getting ugly, and the whooping wouldn’t stop.
“Aw, just go,” the security chief said, and with a wave of his hand he ushered the mercenaries into the Confederation Building. They hurried through the metal detector, looking at their watches, like all harried accountants and bureaucrats. The metal detector just kept whooping and the security chief started kicking it.
The Confederation Building had 675 rooms when it was built in the 1960s, and it had been expanded at least twice. Tulient was hoping now that they would just get lost. But no such luck. Hare knew the way. On the sixth floor of the tower, Tulient and Hare left the elevator with eight other mercenaries. More climbed the stairs on either end of the building. They took out their automatic rifles and unfolded the stocks, leaving the Wal-Mart briefcases scattered in the hall.
“Maybe we should rethink this,” Tulient suggested.
Hare ignored him and pushed through the doors into the office suite of the premier of Newfoundland and Labrador.
His secretary looked up. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yes, well,” Tulient said, but Hare was already pushing through the doors into the office of the premier.
“Hey!” said one of the honor guards, who stood outside the door to the office.
“Halt!” said the second guard.
The men in suits took away the guards’ rifles. Each of the guards came to the late realization that there was real trouble brewing, and they went for their handguns, only to be bashed in the skull with the butt of their own rifles.
“What’s going on here?” It was the premier himself, on his feet behind his ornate antique desk.
The mercenaries parted before him, and Tulient was deeply embarrassed to find himself the focus of everyone’s attention. He had no choice but to move forward.
“Give the speech,” someone shouted. Tulient had forgotten about the headset. “Use your authority. You have the right and the obligation to do what you do.”
“Mr. Tulient!” the premier exclaimed.