A King's Reign

A king has his reign. And then he dies.

Elektra was sure that someone other than her father had coined that phrase, even if it had been Robert King who had uttered the words to her. She was sure, because of all the words she could use to describe her father ("arrogant," "spiteful," "shallow,"), none of those words could be used to describe any supposed depth of character. Like so much in his life, Robert King had stood on the shoulders of better men, and claimed their deeds as his own. Presenting a façade that only those closest to the man could see through.

And now her father was dead. Consumed in an explosion that had not only reduced him to little pieces (fitting, considering what a little man he'd been), but blown a hole in the wall of MI6's headquarters as well. An oil baron dead, an instrument of empire given a gaping wound, and to top it off…

Ekeltra frowned, and took the item out of her inner pocket. Her father's lapel pin. The real one, not the fake that had been switched out for it, to act as the detonator. Not a memento that she could afford to bandy around much, even in her private jet, bound for Glasgow Airport. But a memento all the same. Her father had lived his life for money, money had ended his life, and once the borders of the world were redrawn, as the balance of power shifted to her nest, she'd be able to take out this pin and imagine dancing on her father's grave.

But not now. Now, and at least for the next week or so, she had to play the part of the grieving daughter. Heir to the King Empire, tragically having lost her father, and already having been kidnapped by the terrorist Renard all those years ago. So sweet. So fair. So tragic.

At her desk, there was a pile of magazines that either had her or her father on them – Money, The Economist, OilPrice. It was as if they couldn't resist going down the tabloid route and put a personal touch on the business of black gold. Leaky oil wells were poisoning thousands in Nigeria, and were propping up brutal petro-states in the Middle East, but no, one man's death was enough to send them into a tizzy.

And the stock price. She frowned, as her eyes drifted to a report confirming what had been true for months – King Industries' stock was going down, after the attacks on its Azerbaijan pipeline, and after her father's death, it had gone into freefall. Soon, it wouldn't matter, as her pipeline would be the only means of transporting oil through the region, but until then, she had to make do with the odd terrorist attack. Funded by herself, of course.

"Miss King?"

She looked up at the man before her.

"Just informing you that we'll be touching down in an hour."

"Followed by a four hour drive through the Highlands," she scoffed. "All to pay respects to dear daddy."

"Well, Miss King, that's the price for fame and fortune." He frowned, looking at the pin. "You might want to put that away."

It wasn't like her to obey the commands of her security team unquestionably, but Elektra nevertheless obeyed. You didn't get to positions of power by ignoring the advice of those who served you. Even her father had understood that.

But did Zaid?

"Have a seat," she said.

Her bodyguard hesitated for a moment, before obliging. Sitting opposite her, a light shining from above, while the cold, overcast Scottish sky beckoned from beyond the window. It was November, and winter was coming. Cold, and beautiful. A model for how to portray herself to the world.

A world that had let people like her father run it, while billions languished.

"Tell me," she murmured eventually, tapping her fingers on the table. "If your father was sitting right here, in front of you, what would you say?"

"Ma'am?" He gave her a look, like a lost dog.

"Indulge me," Elektra said, smiling.

Zaid, hesitating for a moment, began speaking in Arabic. She picked up some of the words – bastard, for instance, though it wasn't a direct translation. Still, the intent was there. Across languages and cultures, children had the means of describing disappointing parents.

"Of course," Zaid said, returning to English, "my father isn't here."

They also had the means of arranging unfortunate accidents. Especially when their children were employed by Saudi internal police, before selling their services to PMCs across the region, and later, in Serbia and Bosnia. It was why Elektra had hired Zaid al-Jilani, despite his questionable record. He could not only get the job done, but understood her feelings towards her father as well. Only while his had beaten his wife and daughter, controlling their lives to an extent even beyond what Saudi law allowed for, Elektra's father had gone in the opposite direction.

Indifference.

Zaid had had it worse, though. Men who were treated like dogs could be good dogs of war themselves. That was why he was one of the few people on her security team that knew the truth of Robert King's death. Of her plans for the Bosporus. It was why she was willing to have this conversation at all, even though she knew that he couldn't help but look at her and think of sex. The combination of a life of abstinence, coupled with her beauty…well, men were men. They thought with their dicks, and the world had been fucked up for thousands of years as a result.

"Did it help you?" Zaid asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Killing your father. Did it bring you peace?"

"I…" She was taken aback by the directness of the question.

"When I had my father killed, and my family smuggled out of the country, I thought it would have helped me," Zaid mused. But…"

"But?" Elektra asked.

"But I…" He sighed, trailing off. "I can't say." He got to his feet. "Still, I'm here to serve. And if that involves poking the British in the eye, well, I can't compalin."

"And now we're on the way to the heart of empire," Elektra said. She leant back in her chair, smiling. Curving her body in just the right way. "How does that make you feel?"

"Like I…want to poke some eyes."

"Hmm. Well, go on, then."

Zaid, taking a moment to compose herself, nodded, and headed further up the plane. Leaving Elektra King to smile, even as she went back to checking her company's stock prices.

Over the next few days, she'd have to spend time making sure that she didn't poke eyes.

But damn, if she couldn't have some fun in the meantime.

##

Cold, harsh, and unforgiving. A set of words that could describe Sir Robert King as readily as the Scottish Highlands.

The King Family had its roots here. While she and her mother had lived with Robert in England after his marriage, more than once, he'd dragged them to this miserable little shithole. Either on one of her father's 'holidays' (a term for the shouting and misery that would ensue), or in his endless lectures to her and her mother as they leapfrogged through the countries of the Middle East. Securing business contracts for King Industries in light of the collapse of the Soviet Union. Communism was dead, capitalism was the way forward, time to sign over your oil wells.

Yet despite her disinterest, she'd picked up on the history of her father's side. The Kings had been established well before the union of England and Scotland. They'd made their fortune in the hot commodities of the day, whether it be wool, or spices, or sugar, or slaves…money, not all of it honest, before they'd turned their attention to construction, and after her parents' marriage, to oil. The hot commodity of the 20th century, of the soon to be 21st century, and a substance that the North Sea was swimming in. And, as the British had known for decades, the Middle East as well. The Silk Roads were shifting again, and the King Family wanted in.

Elektra hadn't been surprised. Her father had come from aristocracy, deep in the heart of the largest empire the world had ever seen. Of course the King Family wanted to extend their tendrils while the empire dismantled itself. If that meant marrying an Azerbaijani woman, fathering a daughter, and putting drills of other kinds into big holes, well, who was surprised?

So not only was she on dear sweet Albion again, not only was she in the heart of the empire again, but now, she had to actually conceal her contempt for fair, enchanted isle, and the people who lived on it. Such as when she'd read her father's obituary, and now, as she stood beside the procession of her father's coffin, pretending to brush away tears, as the bagpipes player continued to strangle the cat.

"Elektra?"

Which was fine. She understood the need to strangle people. M, being a case in point.

"Oh my dear, it's been so long."

Despite her desire to engage in strangling, Elektra forced a smile – the type of smile that would indicate sadness for a father's loss, and joy, for seeing an 'old friend.' The type of smile she'd had years to practice, as she'd learnt that natural beauty would only get you so far. Especially against those of the opposite sex, and who were, despite all feelings to the contrary, intelligent.

"Too long," she agreed, as the two women kissed each other on their cheeks. "And if it could only have been under better circumstances."

She couldn't say she enjoyed kissing the withered cheeks of the hag. Of the newly-appointed head of MI6. Of the most dangerous woman in Britain save the queen herself. The bitch who'd sent one of her 00 agents to put a bullet in Renard's head. An agent that had had the favour returned to him recently, and so Renard had claimed, painfully.

She hoped so.

"Do you have any idea who did this?" Elektra whispered.

M remained silent.

"Please," she whispered, her tongue moving like a bee through honey. "If you have any idea who killed my father, I…"

"I can't discuss it, but…no," M said, eventually. "We have no idea."

"None?" Elektra whispered, making sure not to smile.

"None," M said. "But…" She took Elektra's hands in hers, making the King heiress squirm inside. "But I promise you. We will find them. We will bring them to justice."

"I hope so," Elektra lied. "I truly do. Even though…" She glanced at her father's coffin, and the procession following it. "Well, as my father said. A king has his reign. And then he dies." She looked back at the bitch. "Don't you think?"

"I think…" M took a breath, and wiped her eye, "that some reigns can be cut short."

Good grief woman, are you crying?

Bloody hell, she was. A woman whose name she didn't even know, classified under layers of documents, the one who'd refused to pay Renard's ransom under the pretence of not negotiating with terrorists, was crying. Did she even understand who Robert King, knighted for his service to the realm, was? Or did she not want to? Was she like the plebs of the world, seeing only what was on the surface? Unable to consider that the sweet, innocent girl standing before her was carrying the last piece of Sir Robert King on her, and would gladly send her to join her father in the hereafter?

Probably not. And besides, there too many witnesses. Regardless, she turned away from the witch, to keep her eyes on her father's casket. There weren't any photographers in this part of the funeral, but she still had to look the part. Dear, sweet Elektra King…so young…so brilliant…so brave…

Hello…

Right now, so distracted as well Because in the column, her eyes lingered on a man. To his right, a woman, no different from any other. To his left, a dark-skinned man, whispering in his ear. The man in the centre's lips moving as he looked at her. What he was saying, she couldn't make out. Still…

Well, he was handsome, there was that. And his arm being bound in a sling didn't take away from that fact. And fair enough, there were no shortage of handsome men in the world, but the way he carried himself, the way he looked at her…there was…intensity, she supposed. A strength. The kind of strength that, she reminded herself, likely came from a killer. Because this procession was filled with members of the British Secret Intelligence Service, and directly or otherwise, that made you a killer. It was the way groups like this operated. Merchants of death parching in grim procession, unaware of the killer in their midst.

Bandage-arm was no different, she told herself.

Still, she reflected, as she returned her tear-filled eyes to her father's coffin, it wasn't a face she was going to forget.

##

The stock price is up.

Elektra allowed herself to smile as she read through the latest edition of Tomorrow. Reports on the King heiress's attendance at her father's funeral. At her beautiful eulogy for dear departed Robert King. Confidence returning to King Industries, at least for now, though there was plenty of speculation as to whether its Azerbaijan-Turkey pipeline could be completed, and how the Russians would feel about that. The world turned on a dime, and would stop for a smile. Or, she supposed, as she checked the financial section, tears.

She'd allow them to flow. Water first, then oil.

"Miss King?"

She looked up, seeing Zaid standing above her. A shadow cast over his face, and a darkness in his eyes.

"This was faxed to us en route," he murmured. "Your eyes only."

"An no other eyes…?"

"If other eyes saw it, they'd have been cut off by now." He handed her the paper.

"Thank you." She unfolded it, and began to read.

Hands clutch the rocks without pain.

The doctor has agreed to come treat the wounds.

Through a gaping hole in the ground, the blade shall be extracted,

And blood, like oil, shall flow.

As allowed by the black whale,

Proving the centre cannot hold.

It shall be docked in the white harbour,

And unleash anarchy upon the world.

Anarchy…She allowed herself a smile, and pocketed the paper. That was Renard's goal in life. Anarchy. Or at least, his interpretation of it, which meant sowing as much chaos as possible, with a touch of bodies on the side. Simple. So simple that she'd managed to turn him to her side with the right words, and the right glance, and just the right amount of skin exposure.

She brushed her hair away, her fingers tracing the earring covering her right ear. Cut off by herself, as a message to send to dear papa. Now, thankfully, removed from this world. A world that, in mere weeks, would never be the same again.

A king has his reign. And then he dies. She took a sip of water. And so will eight million people.

Her plan to contaminate the Bosporus meant triggering a nuclear meltdown in Istanbul, which by her estimates, would kill millions. Millions more would be affected by radiation poisoning, and even more millions would be forced to flee as Turkey would be destabilized, not to mention its neighbours as part of a refugee crisis. At first, it had given her pause…until she reminded herself that close to 8 million died from air pollution, from the combustion of oil and other fossil fuels, every year. In that sense, what was 8 million in the greater context of the world?

And M didn't suspect any of it. The hag had admitted to her as such. MI6 would search for the inside man that had caused her father's death, never suspecting that they should be looking for an inside woman instead. One who would soon become the most powerful woman in the world. Controlling the flow of black gold, reshaping the entire global order in the process.

The king is dead, Elektra reflected, taking another sip. Long live the queen.

Once again, she smiled. Looking at the glass of water before her.

Deciding that to 'mourn' her father's death, she would be better served with wine.