by Sophie Lark
The Citizens group seemed to disappear after the death of John Walker Wright, otherwise known as Citizen One. However, a lot of far-left and far-right groups had been resurrected in recent years, experiencing a level of growth and popularity that Black never would have believed possible. Who would have thought that neo-Nazis would be marching in America, for instance?
Was it possible that the Citizens had regrouped?
And if so, why target Tom Morris?
The obvious answer was his use of technology in politics. All modern politicians tried to harness technology trends, but none seemed as successful as Morris, whose live-streaming, tweeting, and YouTube videos formed the bulk of his campaigning.
However, Black didn’t think it was that simple.
If it was the Citizens who sent the bomb, they surely knew that Tom Morris had been present in the NSC building sixteen years earlier. And they probably knew his mother was the only victim of that bomb, other than the terrorists themselves.
Did they somehow hold Tom’s mother responsible for what happened that day?
Or was he just a convenient target, representing both the downfall of their group and a new interference of technology in human affairs?
As Black was mulling this over, his phone buzzed on the table in front of him. He turned it over to read the message.
Byron, it’s Holly. Andrea gave me your number. I hate to be a pest, but Tom really wants to meet with you.
Byron thought for a moment before responding.
He had a feeling that if he agreed to meet with Tom Morris, he was going to get pulled into something much bigger than what he could currently see.
Also, he had to admit, he dreaded seeing Tom again. Though he’d been called a hero in the aftermath of the NSC bombing, he had never been able to forget the look on Gemma Morris’s face when she realized that he was going to leave her there.
Though he’d never heard her speak a single word, every detail of that ill-fated young woman was burned into his mind. And the same could be said for the ten-year-old version of Tom Morris.
Watching him on TV was strange enough, without going to speak to him face-to-face.
However, Black did feel that he owed something to Morris. Snubbing him on a meeting would seem cold, at best.
And he owed something to Holly, too. They’d grown up together—the least he could do was give her a twenty-minute meeting as a favor to her boss.
So Black texted back:
Alright. When should I come?
3
Personality is essential. It is in every work of art...I find that charisma is merely a form of showmanship. Movie stars usually have it. A politician has to have it.
Lukas Foss
Black took a cab over to the Houses of Parliament, where Morris had his office. As one of the most famous buildings in Britain, Black knew its grand, formal silhouette all too well. Situated on the north bank of the Thames and adjacent to the Westminster Bridge, it was capped off on its north end by the Elizabeth Tower, commonly known as “Big Ben”.
He had even been inside once or twice on school trips, when they had learned all about the House of Commons and House of Lords. He hadn’t paid much attention then, not being interested in government as a child. But as an adult, he’d followed Tom Morris enough to know his particular history in politics.
Black had watched Morris’s career with morbid fascination, feeling a mix of paternalism and guilt toward the young man whose life he’d saved. He knew that Tom Morris had little family other than the mother he’d lost in the bombing. After her death, he’d been raised by foster parents—a barrister and his wife, who occasionally appeared at Morris’s events.
Morris had gone to school at night at Birkbeck College, while working full-time during the day at a machining shop.
After graduation, he found employment as a journalist, writing online political and opinion pieces. Later, he’d started a grassroots organization called the Green Group, which pushed for greater environmental regulation. From there, he’d become the youngest MP ever elected from the Dulwich and West Norwood constituency.
Black knew some of this from online research and some from interviews he’d seen on TV. Morris was a media darling, being young, handsome, idealistic, and well-spoken. He frequently appeared on both left-wing and right-wing shows, since his politics lay somewhere in the middle.
Now Black made his way through the security screening inside the main doors of Westminster Palace, a tedious process that involved having his belongings screened, going through a metal detector, and having his ID checked against the visitor’s list. Holly had put his name down, and once he was inside, she met him in the main lobby.
She looked sleek and professional, dressed in a sharp navy skirt and blazer, with her bright auburn hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Her height was striking in her expensive-looking heels. Black saw more than a few men sneaking glances at her as they cleared the security line.
“Byron!” she called to him, a bright smile breaking across her face. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” he said, a little more gruffly than he intended.
He had been surprised by the flutter of excitement he’d felt when he saw her waiting for him, when she picked him out of the crowd of people standing all around and smiled at him.
It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to feel it now.
As Holly led him through the series of carpeted, wood-paneled corridors toward Morris’s rather distant office, Black noticed many doors standing open, many knots of people standing around talking in tense, hushed tones.
The whole receptionists’ area for that wing had been cordoned off. Two detectives were still taking photographs and bagging evidence from the package bomb that had gone off early that morning.
“What a nightmare,” Holly said to Black. “That poor girl.”
“She’d only been working for you for a couple of months?” Black said.
“Well, she doesn’t work for us, specifically. She’s the receptionist for this whole block of offices. But the package was addressed to us.”
“How did it get past security?” Black asked.
“I don’t know. They put everything through X-ray. I don’t know if it was shielded somehow, or if it was brought in another way, by someone pretending to be an Express employee or something. It was quite a small package, or so I heard. It’s all rumors right now—the police haven’t told us much.”
“Would the bomber have expected the package to go directly to Morris?” Black asked.
“No.” Holly shook her head. “Not if they knew anything about how things work around here. Melanie opened all our mail.”
So that meant the person who sent the package was either ignorant to that fact, or they didn’t care who was hurt by the bomb—its purpose was only to threaten. That made sense with its small size. Assuming the bomb functioned as intended, it was only meant to maim, not kill.
“We’re just at the end here,” Holly said, leading him down the hallway.
“Couldn’t get much farther out, could you?” Black said.
“We’re lucky to have an office here at all,” Holly said. “Some of the MPs are over in Portcullis House, since we’re so short on space.”
Holly opened the office door, which was unlocked, and led Black inside.
It was a fairly large space, with a desk in each corner of the room. It had a musty, venerable smell, and the woodwork and decor, though somewhat dilapidated, looked expensive and ornate. Holly showed Black her own desk—the largest of the four—then introduced him to the other staffers.
“This is Cara, our researcher,” she said, pointing to a stiff, diligent-looking girl with a pointed face and her hair pulled back in a severe bun.
“This is Davis, our media assistant.”
A young man with Buddy Holly glasses and a close-cropped beard shook Black’s hand.
“And this is Daniel Clark, our adviser.”
>
Clark was the oldest of the bunch, a slightly paunchy man of about forty-five or fifty, with thinning hair and a long, solemn face. He didn’t shake Black’s hand or look up at him for more than a moment. He seemed absorbed in his computer screen, scowling slightly. Black wondered how he liked working for a politician practically young enough to be his son.
“Then Tom’s right through here,” Holly said, leading Black toward the door into Morris’s private office.
She knocked lightly. When a pleasant voice said, “Come in!” she pushed open the door.
Morris stood up and came round his desk to shake Black’s hand.
“Byron Black,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
“It certainly has,” Black said.
Tom Morris stood just under six feet, though he held himself as if he were much taller. He had an excellent handshake—firm and warm, without being overbearing. Good eye-contact as well, and a friendly smile. All the hallmarks of a polished politician.
He had sandy hair, cut boyishly, and he wore a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He obviously embraced his youthful man-of-the-people image.
“So, I’m sure you heard about the trouble we had here today,” Morris said, his smile fading.
“I did,” Black nodded.
“All politicians receive threats, but Holly tells me the volume and intensity of those directed at me have increased substantially over the last few months. I probably would have kept ignoring it, but I can’t ignore a direct attack on my staff. Melanie was only twenty-one. It’s disgusting that someone would hurt an innocent young woman.”
“Do you have any idea who sent the package bomb?” Black asked.
“I have a few contenders,” Morris said, his face pinched, “but as you can imagine, there’s one group in particular that concerns me.”
“The Citizens,” Black said.
“That’s right. That’s why I bullied Holly into calling you.”
Holly sniffed at the idea that she could be bullied.
“In one week, Tom is holding an environmental summit,” she said. “He’s invited politicians and business leaders from all of the UK. He’s trying to build a framework to transition the UK to eighty percent renewable energy over the next ten years. He has a lot of popular support, but he’s making enemies as well, because it calls for change on a grand scale. We’re afraid these attacks will escalate in the lead-up to the summit.”
“That’s why we were hoping to hire you, temporarily,” Morris said, fixing Black with his intent gaze. “We want you to handle security for this office, and for me, personally, at any events I attend.”
Black pondered on this for a moment.
“I don’t think I can do that,” he said, at last.
He could see Holly’s discouraged expression, the way she deflated, and a line of worry appeared between her brows. He didn’t like disappointing her.
“Why not?” Morris asked, his voice calm and unaccusing.
“I don’t have the experience for it,” Black said simply.
“You had less experience when you saved my life before,” Morris said.
“That was luck,” Black said. “I acted on impulse. And things didn’t end as well as I would have liked.”
Now was the moment when he would have liked to apologize to Morris. He had carried this lump of guilt inside of him for sixteen years. Wondering what he could have done differently to save Tom’s mother along with the rest of the hostages. Wondering if it was even possible.
However, he hesitated, because he felt awkward talking about all this in front of Holly. He didn’t know how much Morris had told her, how much he wanted known. And he didn’t know if Morris wanted to open that old wound at all. Black might only be easing his own conscience by bringing it up.
He thought Morris understood what he meant anyway.
Morris said, “I wouldn’t presume to say that I know you from reading your news clippings. I know as well as anyone that media is no window into the soul. But you do strike me as someone who will pursue a mystery to the end.”
Black nodded.
“That’s what I’m willing to do,” Black said. “I’m not a bodyguard, but I am a detective. I’d like to figure out who sent that bomb. And if it’s the Citizens, I want to shut them down once and for all.”
Morris held out his hand.
“I’d be honored,” he said, giving Black that firm, warm handshake again. “The famous Detective Black, on the case.”
Holly looked even happier than Morris, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.
“I knew you’d help us,” she said to Black. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
Black was glad she’d made the offer, because he wasn’t certain he’d be able to find his way through the rabbit warren of hallways to get out of there. Also, he had some questions he wanted to ask her.
As he followed her out, Holly said, “Let me know what you want for your retainer and expenses. We have a good staffing allowance, and I know Tom is willing to pay into it as well, out of his own pocket. He’s so worried about the staff.”
“Not necessary,” Black said shortly. He didn’t need the money at the moment, and he still felt that slight sense of obligation to Morris.
“Of course we’re going to pay you!” Holly insisted.
“Just consider it a favor from an old friend,” Black said.
Holly looked over at him, with her sea green eyes and her charming crooked smile. That smile lit up her whole face. There was so much hope and excitement in it.
“It’s so good to see you again,” she said.
“Why don’t you see me a little longer?” Black said. “Come have dinner with me. I’ve got some questions for you.”
“I really shouldn’t,” Holly said, glancing at her wrist-watch. “I’ve got a speech I’m supposed to get ready for tomorrow, and about twenty people I was supposed to call...”
“You still have to eat,” Black said. “It might as well be with me.”
Holly bit her lip, wrinkling her nose at him.
“All right, you convinced me,” she said.
“You pick the place,” Black said. “I don’t know any restaurants around here.”
4
Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust...
Athenaeus
Holly knew all the restaurants within the general vicinity of the Houses of Parliament. She confessed that she ate ninety percent or more of her meals at working lunches and dinners in that area, or as carry-out at her desk.
She took Black to the Cellarium Cafe, in the Deans Yard outside of Westminster Abbey. While the upper level looked bright and modern, the lower floor where they found a table did, indeed, look like somewhere that monks would have eaten, with its square wooden tables, sparse stone walls, and medieval chandeliers.
Holly asked the host for a table in a back corner of the room where they could speak in private.
“There’s so many government people around,” she said. “There’s always someone eavesdropping.”
As Holly seated herself across from Black, brushing a strand of coppery hair back from her face and picking up her menu in her pale, elegantly manicured hands, he felt a strange flush of self-consciousness. It had been a long time since he’d sat down to eat with a woman.
He’d had a couple of short-lived relationships over the past few years, but it had been hard to open up to anyone since Lex. He knew it was stupid to let one disappointing relationship poison him forever, but he couldn’t seem to force himself to connect to someone again. To be enthusiastic, to pursue them, to trust them, to allow himself to feel affection, let alone love...
He couldn’t bear the thought of being fooled like he was before. Being mistaken. Being hurt.
Of course, this wasn’t a date with Holly. They were meeting for a practical purpose, as friends.
Still, he couldn’t deny that she was beautiful, and he was enjoying her company.
It helped t
hat he had known her almost all his life. Though he hadn’t seen her in years, he vividly remembered the skinny, earnest, warm-hearted little girl who had lived across the hallway from him.
He hadn’t recognized Holly at first glance, but now he could easily trace the same brightness and enthusiasm in her expression, the same way of curiously cocking one eyebrow, and her irrepressible laugh that immediately brought a smile to his face.
She was chatting about her position as Morris’s senior assistant.
“I write most of his speeches and press releases, go to events with him, liaise with other MPs, try to get them on our side for bills we’re putting forward…it’s supposed to be a nine-to-five job, but somehow it’s taken over my life. I don’t mind, though. What would I be doing otherwise, yoga?” Holly laughed. “I don’t have the patience for that.”
“You’ve worked for Morris for three years?” Black asked.
“That’s right.”
“When did the threats start?”
“Well, there’s always been nasty-grams. Every politician gets them. But there’s been a definite uptick in the aftermath of Brexit. People are worried about their jobs, and they see green initiatives as a threat, because they’re disruptive to industry.”
“Do you still have the threats from the Citizens Group specifically?”
“We keep all of them on file,” Holly said. “I gave copies to the police, but I can get copies for you as well.”
“You know Morris’s history with that group?” Black asked.
“I do,” Holly nodded. “He tries not to talk about it with the media. But he told me when we first started receiving letters from them.”
“Why do you think they’re targeting him now?” Black asked.
“Well,” Holly said, “the letters are mostly about his green energy initiatives. But I assume they also hate his campaign methods. There aren’t many more tech-savvy politicians than Tom. He spends a huge amount of his time in-office on social media outreach and analyzing data. I feel like I’ve got a pretty good handle on our metrics, but when he really gets in the weeds on our data, and various algorithms he runs, it’s hard to follow.”