In one of the innermost rooms of Fort Noonan, the Socialist capitol, a tall man sat at an angular, ‘modern’, rosewood desk. He was lean but broad shouldered, and angular just like his desk. He was also clearly of Arab descent, with a hooked nose and heavy eyebrows and dark olive skin. His hair was greying at the temples and nape, appropriate for a man in his early forties.
Ramzi Sirhaan al-Tikriti finished some trivial paperwork and went to stand at the window of his study. As a senior party member, he was entitled to a small but well-appointed apartment in the capitol’s most notable edifice, the Spire; a forty-one storey skyscraper that tapered toward the top, and from the uppermost windows of which one could see to the very outskirts of Dublin and beyond. Levels Forty and Forty-one were the private penthouse of John Patrick Noonan himself, the Supreme Chancellor of the Central Socialist Treaty Organisation.
The Senior Diplomatic Advisor for the Levant System, Ramzi Sirhaan, surveyed Dublin with disdain. He had never liked the small, crowded, antiquated city. He preferred the ultra-modern neon spires of New Baghdad, or at least the sprawling, verdant Saudi capital of Riyadh. He had never liked Noonan, either. Sirhaan’s greedy, self-centred heart was black as tar, and he often dreamt of ways to overthrow Noonan—but rather than by political jousting, he preferred to think of inventive ways to have Noonan killed. Soon, he thought, soon Noonan’s time will come.
Sirhaan checked his watch impatiently. His replacement aide was supposed to arrive shortly, but he had never liked being kept waiting. The previous aide had been killed just the day before by a bullet meant for Sirhaan, who was hopeless at managing his own affairs, and was therefore eager to get a new girl to take care of things for him. Maybe, if he was lucky, the new one would be even prettier than the last. Maybe, if he was even luckier still, she would sleep with him.
There was a dull chime somewhere behind him, but he stayed at the window.
“Come in,” he said, bouncing his voice off the glass.
The door slid open with a near-silent hiss. There were two gentle footsteps on the thick carpet, and the door hissed closed again. Sirhaan turned slowly to find a smartly-dressed blonde waiting with an attaché case.
“Senior Advisor, my name is Mallory Thomas,” she said with a smooth Irish accent. “I’ll be your new personal assistant.”
He looked her up and down unashamedly. “Yes, you will do just nicely.”
Several hours later, ‘Mallory’ walked into a quiet pub a few streets away from her apartment. She smiled at the barman as she passed, heading for the back rooms.
“Hullo, Jim. Everything peachy?”
“As always, luvvie,” the wizened old fellow chuckled.
If he’d said anything else, such as a complaint about his health, she would have paused at the bar and made her exit as fast as she could. Satisfied, she went through to a private room and knocked on the door. It was opened a crack and a green eye peeked out. “Oh, hullo Jane, luv.”
The door swung open just enough for her to pass through, and took a place at the table. The Colonel shut the door and sat down again, laying his old revolver beside his tankard of ale with the barrel very carefully aligned with the door. His green right eye swept across the array of partisans around the table. The other, blasted to hell by a policeman’s riot shotgun a few years ago, was covered by a black eyepatch that seemed to fit oddly well with his oilskin coat and the variety of chunky, cable-knit sweaters he wore.
“Ale, Jane dear, or some mead?” asked the Colonel’s wife, a wizened old bird with short grey hair and a permanent smile.
“Mead, if I might,” smiled Jane.
Rose poured a glass of honeyed mead from a jug and passed it across. “You were saying, dear? About the plan?” she said to her husband.
“Yes,” said the Colonel, snapping out of a thought, “the plan. Thank you, dear. Now, gents and ladies, I can reveal that Jane here has been accepted as the personal assistant of a senior party member. I won’t say whom, for security reasons. It’s taken a lot to get her there, but we’ve done it. She will provide us with intel as she can, which I think will be vital for the next stage of the plan. Gordon, this is your brainchild, might as well let you explain.”
Captain Julian Gordon nodded, leaning forward in his chair. He glanced at Jane for only a moment. “We’re going to raise a militia, of sorts. A clandestine network of fighters, poised to strike at just the right time. An all-out assault against the Council will only end badly for us, so the name of our game will be sabotage. We’re still working on the organisational structure now, but that will come soon. Are there any questions or objections?”
Nobody spoke, and everybody wore a grim smile. This had been a long time coming, and they were all keen. O’Nary, from the north, set his tankard down with a clunk. “An eye for an eye, Colonel,” he chuckled.
The Colonel looked serious. “No. More like taking as many of theirs as we can while protecting our own. As Gordon said, we’ll no be doing any direct assaults. We’re here to sabotage, to obstruct. We’ll attack supply shipments, leaving the bastards hungry and without fuel. We’ll pass intelligence to the Confederates, if we can. We’ll damage infrastructure, cut down communications wires, bomb satellite dishes, and the like.”
Donovan, from Cork, rapped a knuckle on the table. “Well now, is the enemy of our enemy really our friend? I mean to say, should we really get into bed with the Confederates?”
The Colonel aimed a finger at him. “An excellent point. I’ve given it some thought—and of course you’re all invited to criticise me—but I think that if the opportunity arises we should indeed consort with the CCS. They have far better resources than us, better weaponry, better organization, and better intelligence sources. They may be able to protect us, even, if things get too hot for us to handle. However, I’ve no intention of seeking them out actively. If they drop into our lap, hooray. Otherwise, we’ll just approach this war from our angle, and let the Confederates make their own mischief.”
Life on the Fringes 