Refuge

Chapter 1A woman was announcing a message over the subway speakers, and quickly, Henley pulled out his earphones. At that moment, the electric train came to an abrupt stop on the rails, and Henley braced himself, pressing his hand against the window. He managed to stay on his feet. Interruption of service, the voice announced over and over again. Emergency intervention. At the sound of those words, Henley glanced up at the screen above the wagon’s door. RED ALERT, the two words flashed in a loop. He checked his phone, but there was no service underground, so he tucked it into the inner pocket of his black suit jacket. Another terrorist attack? Where? In this station? His throat felt a bit tight as he stared at his reflection in the subway doors, catching sight of the alert look in his dark eyes. Under the subway’s blinking neon lights, his young face looked even paler than usual and his raven black hair was tinted with blue hues. Henley took a shallow breath and steadied himself. No sense in overreacting. That never helped. Those doors would open soon enough and he’d be up there in the sun in no time at all. Back to his boring Monday morning routine. It was rush hour and the subway wagon was packed with people. He could feel the tension rising all around him. He was pressed up against the doors, and if people panicked, he’d be squashed. Why weren’t they opening the damn doors already? “Come on, come on, come on,” a young woman clad in a sharp skirt suit said, right by him. “Open the doors.” Henley glanced at her, but she was fixing the window with wide eyes, her hand pressed to the Plexiglas. She looked seconds away from freaking out. “Hey, it’s all right,” he told her, in a reassuring tone. “The doors are going to open any second now, you’ll see. Any second now.” As he said those words, the doors started to slide open and there was the scent of smoke on the platform. The woman hurried out. “Oh, s**t,” a man shouted behind him. The man pushed his way through the packed subway wagon, slamming into Henley in the process. “Another bomb attack!” There was no time to think anything through. No way out of the thick Monday morning crowd of commuters, so, hoping not to trip or step on anyone’s toes, Henley followed the wave of people, keeping his gaze riveted to the exit sign not too far ahead. Had to stay calm and level-headed. “Keep it moving, please,” a security guard was yelling over the sound of the alarm blaring through the subway station. “Through here. Calmly, please,” he directed people. The smell of smoke was getting more and more intense as they approached the escalators. “Two by two, please.” Another security guard, this one a woman, was trying to control the crowd at the bottom of the two escalators. People were being led onto the mechanical steps in pairs. “Is it another bomb? What station?” an older woman asked, frantically. She was a few steps ahead of Henley. “My grandkids take the metro to school. McGill station? Is it McGill station?” “Ma’am, please get on the escalator.” The security guard wouldn’t make eye contact with any of them. These were men and women who had been hired by the public transport company through an accelerated process to help face the new dangers in the city. They owed their jobs to the recent violent climate in Montreal. “Is it McGill Station? Tell me!” The panicked woman wouldn’t move and people were pushing up against each other, shoving Henley into her. “Tell me!” Henley decided to step in before things got out of control. “Ma’am, you can call them upstairs, all right? Outside. I’m sure they’re worried, too. Come on, let’s get on this escalator together.” He gently pushed her along. “Come on. Follow me. Please?” She flashed her dark eyes at him, seemed to freeze, but then quickly nodded and stepped on the escalator with him. “Fine, fine.” They stood side by side on the stairs and she suddenly clutched his hand so hard it hurt. “They’re my babies,” she said, shaking her head. “These people have no right. No right at all.” With his free hand, Henley was scrolling for news of the attack on his phone. The PEF hadn’t claimed the attack yet, but he knew they would. Who else could it be? The city’s new nightmare. “I used to think they were on our side,” the woman said, still gripping Henley’s fingers hard. “Used to tell my husband they were smart people and that they were going to start a revolution. You know, fight the corruption.” She shook her head again, her gray dreadlocks swaying. “They’re crazy, that’s what they are. These are dangerous people. All they bring is misfortune.” Misfortune. The word rang inside Henley’s mind, though he didn’t know why. It evoked bad memories. He thought of his sister Lucy… They’d reached the top of the stairs, and from there, Henley could see the street through the large windows of the subway station. There were half a dozen firefighter trucks and ambulances out there. Cops, too, and of course, the media. “Oh, thank God!” the woman exclaimed into her phone, pushing her way to the door. “You’re both all right? Okay, okay, praise the Lord. Grandma’s fine, too. Don’t worry, baby. I’ll come meet you at school.” Good. Her grandkids were safe. Henley’s own phone kept vibrating inside his hand. Most probably his mother calling from Ottawa. The woman suddenly turned around in the crowd before she exited into the busy, chaotic downtown street. “Goodbye, young man!’ she yelled out to him with a grin. “May your life be blessed!” “Thanks!” He waved at her and broke away from the sea of people, hurrying down Cathedral Street to his federal office building. He could see the Canadian flag flailing in the wind on top of the impressive granite building, and then of course, he thought of his father. His father must have been having a bad morning out there in Ottawa, on Parliament Hill. In the first year of the PEF’s existence, the Canadian government hadn’t taken the group seriously, which had allowed the militants plenty of time to radicalize and organize. Now they weren’t activists anymore. They were terrorists. The People’s Empire Front. Canada’s first real inland threat since the seventies. His mother was calling him again. “I’m fine, Mom,” Henley finally answered her, as he walked into the large lobby of his building. He nodded at Joshua, the morning guard, who stood behind the security desk looking even more serious than usual, if that were even possible. People, federal employees, were harassing Joshua with questions. Phone pressed to his ear, Henley walked through the metal detector. Under his jacket, his white shirt was sticking to the small patch of sweat on his back. It was mid-September, but a hot day nonetheless. He was glad they hadn’t stopped the air conditioning in the building yet. “I’m late, Mom, and I’m stepping into the elevators at work so I’m going to lose the signal.” “They’re never going to get what they want. The abolition of taxes! Voyons donc!” She exclaimed, breaking into French, her mother tongue. “Do you know how ludicrous that demand is! Pas d’allure! Without taxes, people would have to sell their houses to pay for cancer treatments and we’d end up like the Americans!” “Mom, Mom.” He stepped into the elevators. The box was empty, thankfully. “I can’t talk. But I’m fine, okay?” “Oh, God, your father’s credibility is being challenged by these imbeciles and…” Her voice cut off. There was static on the line. “I’m sorry, you’re breaking up.” He stared at his phone and pressed on the End button. Leaning back against the silver wall behind him, Henley let out a long breath. He wondered…Had she been calling him to ask how he was, or was his mother only looking to vent about what this bomb attack would do to his father’s credibility? Probably the latter. Oh, well. “Yeah…” He slipped the phone back into his jacket, adjusted his slim black tie, and prepared himself for another day of monotony. He knew what awaited him: a long day of reading and responding to emails. How had he ended up in this boring job? On his floor, Henley had to walk through the client support center to get to his office at the back of the huge room full of cubicles. People were standing inside their gray boxes, with their eyes fixed to the flat screen TV hooked on the adjacent wall. The news channel was showing images of the damage the bomb had caused on the downtown National Bank building. The whole front facade had collapsed. Henley’s heart fell into his stomach. “What the f**k,” he whispered. This was the most serious attack thus far. This was real terrorism. And this was happening right here, in Montreal, one of the safest places on Earth to live. “No one injured,” Myrna said, leaning into his ear. She was probably the only person he was somewhat close to at work. “So far, no causalities, thank goodness.” “This is…” He couldn’t quite find the right word. Impossible? A nightmare? “They wrote a letter to your father.” Myrna gave him a long, almost pitying look. “The leader, Gavroche, signed it and everything. The feds are having the handwriting analyzed.” Gavroche. What a stupid name. “Your father is expected to make a speech later I think.” Of course everyone knew who his father was, but Myrna had never brought up the relationship. She and Henley had worked together for four years in the revenue department and this was the first time she’d mentioned his dad to him. It startled him a little, and for a moment, he was flustered. He’d spent his whole life trying not to be noticed. That was the reason he wrote procedures at the back of the office instead of putting his degree in political science to use. He looked at the television again. His father’s name kept appearing at the bottom of the screen. The honorable and colorful, as the pressed liked to call him, Stephen Fredrikson, Minister of Justice. More precisely, Canada’s Attorney General. “What do they want exactly?” Myrna looked at him and their eyes met. She hesitated before she spoke. “They want him to advise the Prime Minister to pardon all PEF members they’d arrested lately and you know…release them from jail.” His father could and would never do such a thing. “Or else?” he had to ask. But Myrna didn’t answer him. Slowly people in the call center began to turn their heads, and within a few seconds, all eyes were on Henley. He would never escape being the Attorney General’s son. No matter how low a profile he tried to keep. “I have to get to work,” he sputtered. “Sorry.” He hurried away to his office, not meeting anyone’s glance along the way. In his small private office, Henley fell back into his chair and stared into space for a moment. Maybe he should get out of government work all together. Maybe it was time he took up his Great-Uncle Ted’s offer. He was twenty-eight years old. Had no social life to speak of. Might as well run Ted’s antique store and collect dust there, like the furniture. God, the idea depressed him so much. That was not the life he had dreamed for himself. As a teenager, he’d hoped to be a firefighter, a coast guard, a soldier, and later, even a border patrol officer. He needed an adventure. Or maybe he needed to meet someone interesting. To do something out of the ordinary. But it seemed there was no room for passion in his life anymore. Why? When his phone vibrated inside his jacket. Henley took it out. It was Jonathan calling. His father’s young assistant. No, that wasn’t quite true. Jonathan Cunningham was much more than his father’s assistant. He was the son Stephen had always wanted. Ambitious. Driven. Willing to do anything or anyone, if that meant getting ahead in Ottawa. “How is he?” Henley asked, right off, sinking back in his chair. Why hadn’t he stopped at Tim Horton’s for a coffee on his way to work? He could feel a headache looming behind his eyes. His office door was half open and he rose to shut it. Wanted privacy. “Your father is in an emergency meeting with the P.M.” Jonathan’s slightly nasal voice was calm and his tone was confident, as usual. There was the sound of papers being shuffled. “Preparing for the press conference. How are you, Henley?” “Fine. Just dandy.” Henley sat again and loosened his tie a bit. He rubbed his temples and then ran a hand through his longish black hair. “What can I do you for, Johnny?” Jonathan absolutely hated to be called that, and for some reason, Henley couldn’t help ruffling the young man’s feathers. Maybe he was envious of Jonathan. Of all the attention he received from his father. “Your father wanted to know if you were all right.” Jonathan’s tone had gone a bit cooler. “And if there was anything he could do for you at the moment.” They’d graduated the same year, and yet Johnny always managed to make Henley feel like he was ten years his senior. “There hasn’t been any concrete, personal threats against your father or his…family members, but the Attorney General is thinking of sending a few agents to provide you with adequate security both at home and at work.” “No.” Henley sat up stiffly. No way was he going to have security guards following him around. Na-uh. He could remember what that had been like back in elementary school, after the morning of nine-eleven. Everyone in government had been so paranoid back then. That morning, he’d come out of his posh private school to find two of his father’s agents, looking like fridges in a suit, waiting for him near a black car. He hadn’t taken the school bus that whole month. He’d been teased about it for the rest of the year. “I don’t need nor want security,” he said, in a firm voice. “Tell my father I said so, please.” “I already have.” Johnathan sighed out sharply. “But, Henley,” he said, in a warmer tone, “this time it’s for real. Things have accelerated rapidly. Should your father ask you to come back home to Ottawa, then I suggest you mind him. If only this once. Okay? Please.” “No, sorry.” Henley gently pushed the End button. No way was he ever going back to Ottawa. Back to the Hill. No way.