[Near the Rwandan-Congo border, before dusk]
Artur van Kleet, former South African policeman and current poacher, lit a cigarette. It was becoming increasingly dangerous in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Until the fall, the Congo army had battled tens of thousands of soldiers from neighbouring countries - some backing the government, others trying to overthrow it. This chaos allowed Artur and his poachers to operate with relative impunity. Bribes to government officials, hush money, a percentage of the gross from ivory sales - or the occasional illegal diamond shipment.
Those days were fading. The so-called peace deal in 1999 had called for the withdrawal of all foreign soldiers in exchange for the 'repatriation' of Rwandan soldiers in the Congo. Some of those soldiers weren't really soldiers at all. Some were little more than extremist thugs.
Thugs with close to a million deaths on their hands. The international community demanded some degree of justice for the Rwandan genocide - now. With international debts mounting and the U.N. leaning towards peace- 'making', the Congo government wanted to put an end to this civil war.
Artur had heard rumours of a U.N. Protection Force, based on the Rwandan border. They were to observe the orderly withdrawal of 20,000 Rwandan soldiers. Not to mention the thousands of Ugandan, Zimbabwean and Angolan trooped who had joined the fray. He scoffed. They were looking for the Interahamwe: the extremist militiamen who hacked Rwandan towns and villages into masses of mangled arms, limbs and heads.
An importer in Antwerp wanted his order of ivory. Cash only. No paper trail. Perhaps I'll go out for one more hunt in the morning, Artur thought.
"One hunt in the morning," he announced to the camp, "and we get the hell out of this godforsaken country. Find greener pastures. We don't want to run into the U.N.'s boys with the baby blue helmets!" The camp laughed. As long as the demand for ivory was there, they would be in Africa to provide the supply.
And the U.N. be damned.
About 100 kilometres away, half a dozen non-descript olive tents stood beside a road. This road connected Congo to Rwanda.
Colonel Michaud, commander of the U.N. Protection Force, Congo (UN PROFOR), peered through his binoculars. The morning would bring another stream of refugees and soldiers. His combined Canadian-Dutch-Senegalese peacekeeping force ensured that the last foreign troops withdrew in an orderly fashion.
That job still continued. A dozen light-blue bereted Dutch soldiers patrolled the highway, examining the refugees. Only last week they had captured a pair of Interahamwe militiamen trying to slip back into Rwanda.
Today they had a new job. South African intelligence notified the U.N. about an alarming increase in poaching throughout central Africa. These poachers, the colonel had read, were well-armed, well-connected and would not hesitate to kill anyone who got in their way. Some poor chap, a Congolese soldier, had been found dead near the carcass of yet another elephant a few days ago.
UN PROFOR had received an executive order from the Security Council about 10 minutes ago. "Lawless bands of poachers operate in the conflict zone, defying U.N. resolutions against the illegal trade in endangered species. Their refusal to cease their activities represents a clear and present danger to the peace agreement, signed in good faith three years ago and renewed this summer ..."
This new operation had its own rules of engagement. Separate from the current withdrawal mission.
The colonel's aide-de-camp saluted. "Your orders, sir?"
"Assemble a crack company. The fellas with sharp eyes and steady hands," the colonel mumbled as he studied a map of the border region.
"Sir?" the aide, a Dutch captain, had wondered.
The colonel jabbed his finger on a map. "Reports of poaching activity an hour's drive from here. The Congo government has requested our help."
A flurry of activity greeted the rising sun. Sleepy soldiers assembled their packs and slung their rifles on their shoulders. Within half an hour, a jeep and two armoured Coyote-class personnel carriers - ablaze with the black-on-white lettering of the U.N. - zoomed out of the camp.
Another hunt was about to begin.
[Metro Convention Centre, 4:45 p.m. - Conference Day One]
The student U.N. assembly had already presented opening arguments. Chloe Sullivan, speaking on behalf of the European continental team, had the floor.
"The European commission proposes that all aid is tied to the countries' human rights record," she continued, "The better the record, the higher percentage of the aid they receive."
Lana and the students on the African team shook their heads. Lana stood up and looked at the professor, who played the role of the secretary-general. "Rebuttal!" she insisted. The professor nodded.
"It's hypocritical for the Europeans, who - with all due respect - probably have good intentions ... to impose such limitations," Lana declared, "while at the same time they do little to stem the demand for ivory and diamonds in their own nations. They should prevent their merchants from Amsterdam to Prague from buying those goods. These luxury items are funding the very wars they're trying to stop!"
Chloe immediately stood up. "Rebuttal, secretary-general!"
"You'll have your turn, soon enough," the professor noted, "since the American bloc has the floor now."
Clark stood up. "We support the European position on aid tied to human rights, but we recommend a go-slow approach. Faster aid to those countries with cleaner human rights records. For the worst offenders, no aid, except food and medicine ..."
Lana frowned. Uh-oh, Clark thought, I guess she's not in favour of my argument. He continued. "I propose two resolutions. The first one promises aid to those countries that match the criteria we've set out. The second one calls for U.N. observers to have free access to offending countries. Based on their reports, they can give the go-ahead for aid or recommend further actions."
Lana jumped up. "Rebuttal. The American proposal not only implies that Africans are incapable of solving their own problems, it perpetuates the imperialistic behaviour that has brought our continent such misery over the past 150 years. I thought we discredited the 'white man's burden' concept of African politics. The Western world has to stamp out the illegal trade in Africa's resources. We formally reject the American and European proposals."
Two votes for the Euro-American resolutions, one against. The American and European teams ran to the Australasian bloc, who still had to cast a vote.
"Pete, you know that the U.S. is the only one who can enforce a solution in central Africa," Clark argued.
Pete grinned. "Nice try, Uncle Sam. You forget that we know all about America's Cold War meddling in African affairs. You'll have to cut your arms sales before you get credibility with our side."
"Precisely," Chloe interrupted, "which is why the Australasians will back the EC position. All help tied to each country's commitment to democracy, human rights ..."
"Commitment to democracy, eh?" Pete replied, "Better tell that to your jewellers in Antwerp, or Geneva, or Prague ..." Pete consulted with his team, then glanced at the professor. "The Australasian bloc wants to hear the African solution first, before we vote."
"Ms. Lang, the floor is yours," the professor stated.
The room fell silent as Lana spoke. "We accept the principle that countries must demonstrate a commitment to the welfare of its peoples. But it's also unfair to expect us to have institutions and values that model our former colonial masters. We're trying to be independent, yet we aren't. We still depend on Western manufacturing, Western loans, Western diplomacy. It will take time and patience to solve the problems of war, famine, corruption and resource mismanagement. We can't do it alone. What we want is advice, not commands ..."
Clark listened carefully as Lana systematically took apart the Europeans' position. Chloe tried to refute Lana's arguments, but she could not. Again and again, the theme of Europe's colonial pillaging of Africa's resources resurfaced. Even now, some European firms sought to exploit the wealth of the continent.
Just like their forefathers.
Chloe and the European team faced the truth that their resolution - while well-meaning - did not address the core problem: their inability to effectively stop the illegal diamond and ivory trade and the legal pillaging of minerals, forests and other resources by their companies. The market's demands continued unchallenged.
The African team turned their attention to America. "We cannot accept further interference," Lana began, "We would like American assistance on creating sustainable democracies ... BUT we don't want them to play one country against another to suit some agenda in the State Department. The Cold War is over."
Lana had so effectively destroyed the European position that the American team's argument had its foundation pulled from under them. Many of the Europeans sins - insufficient support for Third World development, illegal trade in resources and arms, post-Gorbachev diplomatic gamesmanship - were sins of the Western world, too.
Chloe noticed Clark. He was admiring Lana's eloquence. Her passion. This was not the passive, nauseatingly perfect, Ms.-Popular-Lana she had seen last year.
This Lana had teeth. Guts. And Clark's growing affection, it seemed.
"We propose that a third-party - say, the Australians, or Asians - monitor the human rights records of African countries," Lana concluded, "We can have peacekeepers from South Africa or Kenya keep warring sides apart. The Europeans and Americans, by all means, have the right to give aid only to those countries that respect human rights and weed out corruption. At the same time, they are obligated to enact laws to prosecute those who buy or sell illegal goods from Africa. All that we ask is fairness."
Pete stood up. Chloe buried her head. So much for our Brussels initiative, she grumbled. "The Australasians support this African solution. We are prepared to offer peacekeepers, development help ..." Pete stated.
"The vote stands at two," the professor. "How will the Europeans vote?"
"While we respect the Africans' arguments," Chloe announced, "we would like more safeguards on human rights. The Europeans abstain."
Clark and the American team were still debating their final position. "And the U.S.?" the professor inquired.
"With regret," Clark declared, "we cannot support this resolution." He heard grumbles among the students. "We would like more stringent monitoring and enforcement conditions. We also want stiffer penalties for those countries that flagrantly trample on democratic values. The Americans vote against this proposal."
"The African solution has two votes," the professor began, "Let the record show that there is one abstention and one vote against. With two votes, the proposal passes." The assembly applauded.
Lana returned to her friends. "Maybe we can't solve the problem in a day, but at least we can give those world leaders some food for thought," Lana beamed.
Chloe pouted. "What's wrong, Sullivan," Pete smiled, "not happy with just a bronze medal?"
"It's just an exercise, right?" Chloe replied, as she grinned towards Lana. "No hard feelings." Clark and Lana appeared to be in an intense discussion. About Lana's stellar performance. Later, the professor congratulated Lana for her 'eloquence'.
"It's not the debate that's bugging you - is it?" Pete asked. Chloe chose not to reply.
They already knew the answer.
[Banquet hall, Crowne Plaza hotel, 5:20 p.m. - Conference Day One]
Bruce Wayne adjusted his tie and sipped a glass of ice water. The Prime Minister and the rest of the G-8 leaders would be arriving in a few minutes.
He made a few notes in his Palm Pilot, then retrieved an email on his cellphone:
"Master Bruce: Gotham Times reports that GCPD have broken an alleged cell of radical anarchists at Gotham State. Suggestions of a Toronto connection. Be careful. Alfred."
Bruce was seated with prominent members of the Toronto Board of Trade. Local directors of Greenpeace,and Amnesty International sat at the table beside them. He noticed that they frowned as another businessman took his seat.
"Lex!" Bruce declared. "You missed the afternoon seminar."
"I know," Lex replied, "'Corporate responsibility'. Let's just say I had hands-on experience in putting those words into action."
"Really?" Bruce answered, seemingly oblivious to the hint. But he knew all too well. CBC Radio had just broadcast news of a sweeping RCMP investigation of Galleon Shipping's headquarters in the old port of Montreal.
"A rather unpleasant experience," Lex continued, "My father would have hesitated to act until the Mounties slapped him silly with a subpoena. Fortunately, the shipping division falls under my responsibilities."
"I'm almost afraid to ask what you did," Bruce smirked as he took another sip of water.
"Let's just say Galleon's board of directors will be faxing out their resumes tomorrow," Lex fiddled with his dinner knife. "I fired every single one of them. No one - not even my dad's appointed lackeys - can place my family's reputation in jeopardy like that without consequences."
"Interesting," Bruce observed. "Who's calling the shots now in Montreal?"
"I've placed people there who'll go over Galleon's books studiously," Lex replied, "People who recognize the importance of corporate honesty."
"People who are ... loyal ... to you," Bruce noted.
"Well, yes," Lex grinned. "Napoleon once said that in the pack of every soldier lies the baton of a field marshal. I reward those who demonstrate excellence."
"The Emperor also lost two-thirds of his army trying to invade Russia," Bruce stated, "I'd suggest you watch your back."
The hall fell silent as the G-8 leaders took their places at the head table. As the host, the Prime Minister welcomed the leaders and invited guests.
"More speeches," Lex grumbled, "I'd rather dive into the main course right now."
Bruce noticed that a long line of servers rolled out trays covered in shiny, gilded dome covers. "You may not have to wait long, Lex."
A chef wheeled out an elaborate centrepiece. A four-foot high ice sculpture: a dove representing peace. Surrounded by sumptuous main dishes.
A burst of applause interrupted Bruce's thoughts. He glanced at the chef again.
Why does she look familiar?
"Lex," Bruce tapped his friend's shoulder. "That chef ..."
"Bruce Wayne, ever the skirt-chaser!" Lex chuckled. "Sure, she's a looker - but aren't supermodels and starlets more to your liking?"
"I'm serious," Bruce whispered. "Remember that summer. That international school in Switzerland?"
"How could I forget?" Lex smiled. "You were 17, preparing for your college entrance exams. I was trying to get you to blow off history class so we could take the Eurail to Frankfurt and go clubbing."
"We almost did, too," Bruce recalled. Alfred had sent him to l'Academie de Ste.-Anne, just outside of Geneva. The overseas experience would do him good, he had said.
Bruce might have changed his mind had he known that Lex Luthor was also sent there. After yet another expulsion from a private school for behaviour that - allegedly - brought the school's reputation into disrepute.
That was the summer they had met Liesl. The boys used to tease her about her name ... singing Sound of Music songs whenever she passed by. Rumour had it that she was the daughter of some big shot at DaimlerChrysler.
"Smoking's bad for you," Bruce remarked as Liesl lit up a cigarette.
With her untucked blouse and uniform kilt dangerously high, Liesl was the kind of girl Alfred would disapprove of. Not surprisingly, most of the guys at school liked her.
"It's the image," Liesl stated, then blew a stream of smoke into the sky.
"H-hi, Liesl," Lex waved sheepishly. He was a junior - one of many - who had a crush on the mysterious, bad girl from Stuttgart.
"Hey, sexy Lexy," Liesl joked. "I'm bored. A bunch of us are going to Germany this afternoon. You guys wanna come along?"
"Can't," Bruce stated. "I've got a 2,000 page essay due by Monday. Augustus Caesar."
"Oh, come on," Lex prodded, "It's just the final draft you have left. We'll be back by Sunday. Plenty of time to give it a once-over."
"Yeah, Bruce," Liesl kneeled beside him. "Frankfurt. Warehouse party. Yvonne will be there."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Yvonne's going?"
Lex slapped him on the shoulder. "We'll take that as a yes."
They slipped past the headmaster after fourth period, with knapsacks and Eurail passes in hand.
It was well-planned. When they'd arrive in Frankfurt. Who's house they would stay at. Which friends would give them a ride.
The only thing they had not planned for was Lionel Luthor's arrival at the Geneva train station.
"Lex!!" he barked, scaring the bejeezus out of the students. "Liesl, your father will not be amused. I'm actually going to Germany to close a deal with him." He pointed at the exit. "We'll see your headmaster. Now!"
"I'm not a child," Liesl replied. "You're not my father. I'm going to Frankfurt." The porter had called for final boarding. Liesl hopped aboard before Lionel could give another order.
Lionel glared at Bruce. He was tempted to let Thomas Wayne's son go to Germany and make a fool of himself in front of the German tabloids. But, he was with Lex. It was time for fatherly discipline, not blood feuds.
"I expected as much from my son ... but Bruce Wayne? God, you're poised to inherit one of America's most stories corporate empires!"
Lionel dialed Wayne Manor, despite Bruce's protests. "Yes, Mr. Pennyworth. It seems your fellow thought clubbing in Germany was more important that his studies in Geneva. No doubt my son talked him into it."
"Don't blame Lex," Bruce pleaded, "It's not his fault. Frankfurt was Liesl's idea!"
Lex held back his friend. "Don't bother. In his eyes, I can do nothing right. Whatever you say, it'll be my fault."
Lex Luthor was expelled from l'Academie de Ste.-Anne for "conduct unbecoming a student". Bruce and Liesl - with exemplary grades and powerful connections in the Swiss government - had their extra-curricular activities suspended for two weeks.
At the Prime Minister's dinner, Lex toyed with his main course. "Oh, yeah," Lex mumbled. "I remember Liesl."
"Alfred didn't speak to me for a week," Bruce shook his head. "I disappointed him that day."
"Only one day?" Lex remarked. "I got you beat there. I disappoint my dad EVERY day."
Bruce laughed. Lex couldn't help but join in the laughter - even if it was at his expense.
Lex noticed that the chef-who-looks-like-Liesl seemed agitated. Like she didn't really want to be there.
"Whatever happened to dear Liesl?" Lex asked between nibbles of roast lamb.
"I heard something about her joining Greenpeace, or something," Bruce said, "fighting the good fight for mankind."
"I heard she joined the German Red Brigade," Lex stated, "disrupting corporate press conferences. Chasing oil tankers, who knows?"
Bruce glanced again at the chef. And the centrepiece. He could see vapours pouring out of the ice sculpture, which was now in the far right corner of the hall.
Someone choked. Another delegate tried to administer the Heimlich manoeuvre, but he too collapsed.
One of the servers grabbed her chest. She began to foam at the mouth.
"Everyone, get the hell out. It's poison gas!" Bruce barked. A pair of Mounties moved to intercept him.
Lex looked for the chef. She was already gone. "Listen to him!" Lex insisted, as he covered his face with a napkin. "Everyone out!"
As more of the delegates began to choke and gasp, the Prime Minister signalled his security detail to herd the world leaders out of the emergency exits.
"Seal this hall. Don't let anyone near this part of the building," Lex ordered one of the Mounties. He raced outside the hall, as the student delegates exited a convention room.
"What happened?" Chloe asked. "Someone pulled the fire alarm?" "Lex!" Bruce yelled. "Get those kids the hell outta here!!"
"Someone released some poison gas in the banquet hall," Lex explained. Chloe began to peer around the corner.
"No time to play reporter," Lex hustled her away, "unless you'd like your lungs to burn from the inside out and suffocate to death."
Outside on Front St., Clark studied the crowd of protesters behind the barricades. He spotted someone in a chef's apron across the street. She tossed it aside as she raced south.
"There!" Bruce also spotted her. "Lex, I trust you'll keep the students out of the building." He paused in front of Chloe. "Don't even think of getting any ideas about following me!"
"You're going after her, Bruce?" Lex wondered, but Bruce had already sprinted across the street, towards the harbour. "What is with Bruce and his hero complex?"
Clark immediately chased after his Gotham friend. "Clark!" Pete called after him, "Leave this to the cops. Are you crazy!"
A pair of Metro Police cruiser screeched around the curb. Chloe began to follow them when Mr. Shanahan, the civics teacher, stopped her. "Sorry, no exclusives for the Torch this time, Ms. Sullivan."
Damn, she thought. Why does Clark get to be in the thick of the action?
The police ordered everyone to leave Front St. vacant for the emergency vehicles. A line of helmeted riot police blocked all the entrances. The protesters and on-lookers quickly obliged, once rumours of 'poison gas' reached them.
Lana comforted one of her classmates. Clark Kent either has this innate sense of duty, she thought. To help others.
That - or a death wish ...
Artur van Kleet, former South African policeman and current poacher, lit a cigarette. It was becoming increasingly dangerous in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Until the fall, the Congo army had battled tens of thousands of soldiers from neighbouring countries - some backing the government, others trying to overthrow it. This chaos allowed Artur and his poachers to operate with relative impunity. Bribes to government officials, hush money, a percentage of the gross from ivory sales - or the occasional illegal diamond shipment.
Those days were fading. The so-called peace deal in 1999 had called for the withdrawal of all foreign soldiers in exchange for the 'repatriation' of Rwandan soldiers in the Congo. Some of those soldiers weren't really soldiers at all. Some were little more than extremist thugs.
Thugs with close to a million deaths on their hands. The international community demanded some degree of justice for the Rwandan genocide - now. With international debts mounting and the U.N. leaning towards peace- 'making', the Congo government wanted to put an end to this civil war.
Artur had heard rumours of a U.N. Protection Force, based on the Rwandan border. They were to observe the orderly withdrawal of 20,000 Rwandan soldiers. Not to mention the thousands of Ugandan, Zimbabwean and Angolan trooped who had joined the fray. He scoffed. They were looking for the Interahamwe: the extremist militiamen who hacked Rwandan towns and villages into masses of mangled arms, limbs and heads.
An importer in Antwerp wanted his order of ivory. Cash only. No paper trail. Perhaps I'll go out for one more hunt in the morning, Artur thought.
"One hunt in the morning," he announced to the camp, "and we get the hell out of this godforsaken country. Find greener pastures. We don't want to run into the U.N.'s boys with the baby blue helmets!" The camp laughed. As long as the demand for ivory was there, they would be in Africa to provide the supply.
And the U.N. be damned.
About 100 kilometres away, half a dozen non-descript olive tents stood beside a road. This road connected Congo to Rwanda.
Colonel Michaud, commander of the U.N. Protection Force, Congo (UN PROFOR), peered through his binoculars. The morning would bring another stream of refugees and soldiers. His combined Canadian-Dutch-Senegalese peacekeeping force ensured that the last foreign troops withdrew in an orderly fashion.
That job still continued. A dozen light-blue bereted Dutch soldiers patrolled the highway, examining the refugees. Only last week they had captured a pair of Interahamwe militiamen trying to slip back into Rwanda.
Today they had a new job. South African intelligence notified the U.N. about an alarming increase in poaching throughout central Africa. These poachers, the colonel had read, were well-armed, well-connected and would not hesitate to kill anyone who got in their way. Some poor chap, a Congolese soldier, had been found dead near the carcass of yet another elephant a few days ago.
UN PROFOR had received an executive order from the Security Council about 10 minutes ago. "Lawless bands of poachers operate in the conflict zone, defying U.N. resolutions against the illegal trade in endangered species. Their refusal to cease their activities represents a clear and present danger to the peace agreement, signed in good faith three years ago and renewed this summer ..."
This new operation had its own rules of engagement. Separate from the current withdrawal mission.
The colonel's aide-de-camp saluted. "Your orders, sir?"
"Assemble a crack company. The fellas with sharp eyes and steady hands," the colonel mumbled as he studied a map of the border region.
"Sir?" the aide, a Dutch captain, had wondered.
The colonel jabbed his finger on a map. "Reports of poaching activity an hour's drive from here. The Congo government has requested our help."
A flurry of activity greeted the rising sun. Sleepy soldiers assembled their packs and slung their rifles on their shoulders. Within half an hour, a jeep and two armoured Coyote-class personnel carriers - ablaze with the black-on-white lettering of the U.N. - zoomed out of the camp.
Another hunt was about to begin.
[Metro Convention Centre, 4:45 p.m. - Conference Day One]
The student U.N. assembly had already presented opening arguments. Chloe Sullivan, speaking on behalf of the European continental team, had the floor.
"The European commission proposes that all aid is tied to the countries' human rights record," she continued, "The better the record, the higher percentage of the aid they receive."
Lana and the students on the African team shook their heads. Lana stood up and looked at the professor, who played the role of the secretary-general. "Rebuttal!" she insisted. The professor nodded.
"It's hypocritical for the Europeans, who - with all due respect - probably have good intentions ... to impose such limitations," Lana declared, "while at the same time they do little to stem the demand for ivory and diamonds in their own nations. They should prevent their merchants from Amsterdam to Prague from buying those goods. These luxury items are funding the very wars they're trying to stop!"
Chloe immediately stood up. "Rebuttal, secretary-general!"
"You'll have your turn, soon enough," the professor noted, "since the American bloc has the floor now."
Clark stood up. "We support the European position on aid tied to human rights, but we recommend a go-slow approach. Faster aid to those countries with cleaner human rights records. For the worst offenders, no aid, except food and medicine ..."
Lana frowned. Uh-oh, Clark thought, I guess she's not in favour of my argument. He continued. "I propose two resolutions. The first one promises aid to those countries that match the criteria we've set out. The second one calls for U.N. observers to have free access to offending countries. Based on their reports, they can give the go-ahead for aid or recommend further actions."
Lana jumped up. "Rebuttal. The American proposal not only implies that Africans are incapable of solving their own problems, it perpetuates the imperialistic behaviour that has brought our continent such misery over the past 150 years. I thought we discredited the 'white man's burden' concept of African politics. The Western world has to stamp out the illegal trade in Africa's resources. We formally reject the American and European proposals."
Two votes for the Euro-American resolutions, one against. The American and European teams ran to the Australasian bloc, who still had to cast a vote.
"Pete, you know that the U.S. is the only one who can enforce a solution in central Africa," Clark argued.
Pete grinned. "Nice try, Uncle Sam. You forget that we know all about America's Cold War meddling in African affairs. You'll have to cut your arms sales before you get credibility with our side."
"Precisely," Chloe interrupted, "which is why the Australasians will back the EC position. All help tied to each country's commitment to democracy, human rights ..."
"Commitment to democracy, eh?" Pete replied, "Better tell that to your jewellers in Antwerp, or Geneva, or Prague ..." Pete consulted with his team, then glanced at the professor. "The Australasian bloc wants to hear the African solution first, before we vote."
"Ms. Lang, the floor is yours," the professor stated.
The room fell silent as Lana spoke. "We accept the principle that countries must demonstrate a commitment to the welfare of its peoples. But it's also unfair to expect us to have institutions and values that model our former colonial masters. We're trying to be independent, yet we aren't. We still depend on Western manufacturing, Western loans, Western diplomacy. It will take time and patience to solve the problems of war, famine, corruption and resource mismanagement. We can't do it alone. What we want is advice, not commands ..."
Clark listened carefully as Lana systematically took apart the Europeans' position. Chloe tried to refute Lana's arguments, but she could not. Again and again, the theme of Europe's colonial pillaging of Africa's resources resurfaced. Even now, some European firms sought to exploit the wealth of the continent.
Just like their forefathers.
Chloe and the European team faced the truth that their resolution - while well-meaning - did not address the core problem: their inability to effectively stop the illegal diamond and ivory trade and the legal pillaging of minerals, forests and other resources by their companies. The market's demands continued unchallenged.
The African team turned their attention to America. "We cannot accept further interference," Lana began, "We would like American assistance on creating sustainable democracies ... BUT we don't want them to play one country against another to suit some agenda in the State Department. The Cold War is over."
Lana had so effectively destroyed the European position that the American team's argument had its foundation pulled from under them. Many of the Europeans sins - insufficient support for Third World development, illegal trade in resources and arms, post-Gorbachev diplomatic gamesmanship - were sins of the Western world, too.
Chloe noticed Clark. He was admiring Lana's eloquence. Her passion. This was not the passive, nauseatingly perfect, Ms.-Popular-Lana she had seen last year.
This Lana had teeth. Guts. And Clark's growing affection, it seemed.
"We propose that a third-party - say, the Australians, or Asians - monitor the human rights records of African countries," Lana concluded, "We can have peacekeepers from South Africa or Kenya keep warring sides apart. The Europeans and Americans, by all means, have the right to give aid only to those countries that respect human rights and weed out corruption. At the same time, they are obligated to enact laws to prosecute those who buy or sell illegal goods from Africa. All that we ask is fairness."
Pete stood up. Chloe buried her head. So much for our Brussels initiative, she grumbled. "The Australasians support this African solution. We are prepared to offer peacekeepers, development help ..." Pete stated.
"The vote stands at two," the professor. "How will the Europeans vote?"
"While we respect the Africans' arguments," Chloe announced, "we would like more safeguards on human rights. The Europeans abstain."
Clark and the American team were still debating their final position. "And the U.S.?" the professor inquired.
"With regret," Clark declared, "we cannot support this resolution." He heard grumbles among the students. "We would like more stringent monitoring and enforcement conditions. We also want stiffer penalties for those countries that flagrantly trample on democratic values. The Americans vote against this proposal."
"The African solution has two votes," the professor began, "Let the record show that there is one abstention and one vote against. With two votes, the proposal passes." The assembly applauded.
Lana returned to her friends. "Maybe we can't solve the problem in a day, but at least we can give those world leaders some food for thought," Lana beamed.
Chloe pouted. "What's wrong, Sullivan," Pete smiled, "not happy with just a bronze medal?"
"It's just an exercise, right?" Chloe replied, as she grinned towards Lana. "No hard feelings." Clark and Lana appeared to be in an intense discussion. About Lana's stellar performance. Later, the professor congratulated Lana for her 'eloquence'.
"It's not the debate that's bugging you - is it?" Pete asked. Chloe chose not to reply.
They already knew the answer.
[Banquet hall, Crowne Plaza hotel, 5:20 p.m. - Conference Day One]
Bruce Wayne adjusted his tie and sipped a glass of ice water. The Prime Minister and the rest of the G-8 leaders would be arriving in a few minutes.
He made a few notes in his Palm Pilot, then retrieved an email on his cellphone:
"Master Bruce: Gotham Times reports that GCPD have broken an alleged cell of radical anarchists at Gotham State. Suggestions of a Toronto connection. Be careful. Alfred."
Bruce was seated with prominent members of the Toronto Board of Trade. Local directors of Greenpeace,and Amnesty International sat at the table beside them. He noticed that they frowned as another businessman took his seat.
"Lex!" Bruce declared. "You missed the afternoon seminar."
"I know," Lex replied, "'Corporate responsibility'. Let's just say I had hands-on experience in putting those words into action."
"Really?" Bruce answered, seemingly oblivious to the hint. But he knew all too well. CBC Radio had just broadcast news of a sweeping RCMP investigation of Galleon Shipping's headquarters in the old port of Montreal.
"A rather unpleasant experience," Lex continued, "My father would have hesitated to act until the Mounties slapped him silly with a subpoena. Fortunately, the shipping division falls under my responsibilities."
"I'm almost afraid to ask what you did," Bruce smirked as he took another sip of water.
"Let's just say Galleon's board of directors will be faxing out their resumes tomorrow," Lex fiddled with his dinner knife. "I fired every single one of them. No one - not even my dad's appointed lackeys - can place my family's reputation in jeopardy like that without consequences."
"Interesting," Bruce observed. "Who's calling the shots now in Montreal?"
"I've placed people there who'll go over Galleon's books studiously," Lex replied, "People who recognize the importance of corporate honesty."
"People who are ... loyal ... to you," Bruce noted.
"Well, yes," Lex grinned. "Napoleon once said that in the pack of every soldier lies the baton of a field marshal. I reward those who demonstrate excellence."
"The Emperor also lost two-thirds of his army trying to invade Russia," Bruce stated, "I'd suggest you watch your back."
The hall fell silent as the G-8 leaders took their places at the head table. As the host, the Prime Minister welcomed the leaders and invited guests.
"More speeches," Lex grumbled, "I'd rather dive into the main course right now."
Bruce noticed that a long line of servers rolled out trays covered in shiny, gilded dome covers. "You may not have to wait long, Lex."
A chef wheeled out an elaborate centrepiece. A four-foot high ice sculpture: a dove representing peace. Surrounded by sumptuous main dishes.
A burst of applause interrupted Bruce's thoughts. He glanced at the chef again.
Why does she look familiar?
"Lex," Bruce tapped his friend's shoulder. "That chef ..."
"Bruce Wayne, ever the skirt-chaser!" Lex chuckled. "Sure, she's a looker - but aren't supermodels and starlets more to your liking?"
"I'm serious," Bruce whispered. "Remember that summer. That international school in Switzerland?"
"How could I forget?" Lex smiled. "You were 17, preparing for your college entrance exams. I was trying to get you to blow off history class so we could take the Eurail to Frankfurt and go clubbing."
"We almost did, too," Bruce recalled. Alfred had sent him to l'Academie de Ste.-Anne, just outside of Geneva. The overseas experience would do him good, he had said.
Bruce might have changed his mind had he known that Lex Luthor was also sent there. After yet another expulsion from a private school for behaviour that - allegedly - brought the school's reputation into disrepute.
That was the summer they had met Liesl. The boys used to tease her about her name ... singing Sound of Music songs whenever she passed by. Rumour had it that she was the daughter of some big shot at DaimlerChrysler.
"Smoking's bad for you," Bruce remarked as Liesl lit up a cigarette.
With her untucked blouse and uniform kilt dangerously high, Liesl was the kind of girl Alfred would disapprove of. Not surprisingly, most of the guys at school liked her.
"It's the image," Liesl stated, then blew a stream of smoke into the sky.
"H-hi, Liesl," Lex waved sheepishly. He was a junior - one of many - who had a crush on the mysterious, bad girl from Stuttgart.
"Hey, sexy Lexy," Liesl joked. "I'm bored. A bunch of us are going to Germany this afternoon. You guys wanna come along?"
"Can't," Bruce stated. "I've got a 2,000 page essay due by Monday. Augustus Caesar."
"Oh, come on," Lex prodded, "It's just the final draft you have left. We'll be back by Sunday. Plenty of time to give it a once-over."
"Yeah, Bruce," Liesl kneeled beside him. "Frankfurt. Warehouse party. Yvonne will be there."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Yvonne's going?"
Lex slapped him on the shoulder. "We'll take that as a yes."
They slipped past the headmaster after fourth period, with knapsacks and Eurail passes in hand.
It was well-planned. When they'd arrive in Frankfurt. Who's house they would stay at. Which friends would give them a ride.
The only thing they had not planned for was Lionel Luthor's arrival at the Geneva train station.
"Lex!!" he barked, scaring the bejeezus out of the students. "Liesl, your father will not be amused. I'm actually going to Germany to close a deal with him." He pointed at the exit. "We'll see your headmaster. Now!"
"I'm not a child," Liesl replied. "You're not my father. I'm going to Frankfurt." The porter had called for final boarding. Liesl hopped aboard before Lionel could give another order.
Lionel glared at Bruce. He was tempted to let Thomas Wayne's son go to Germany and make a fool of himself in front of the German tabloids. But, he was with Lex. It was time for fatherly discipline, not blood feuds.
"I expected as much from my son ... but Bruce Wayne? God, you're poised to inherit one of America's most stories corporate empires!"
Lionel dialed Wayne Manor, despite Bruce's protests. "Yes, Mr. Pennyworth. It seems your fellow thought clubbing in Germany was more important that his studies in Geneva. No doubt my son talked him into it."
"Don't blame Lex," Bruce pleaded, "It's not his fault. Frankfurt was Liesl's idea!"
Lex held back his friend. "Don't bother. In his eyes, I can do nothing right. Whatever you say, it'll be my fault."
Lex Luthor was expelled from l'Academie de Ste.-Anne for "conduct unbecoming a student". Bruce and Liesl - with exemplary grades and powerful connections in the Swiss government - had their extra-curricular activities suspended for two weeks.
At the Prime Minister's dinner, Lex toyed with his main course. "Oh, yeah," Lex mumbled. "I remember Liesl."
"Alfred didn't speak to me for a week," Bruce shook his head. "I disappointed him that day."
"Only one day?" Lex remarked. "I got you beat there. I disappoint my dad EVERY day."
Bruce laughed. Lex couldn't help but join in the laughter - even if it was at his expense.
Lex noticed that the chef-who-looks-like-Liesl seemed agitated. Like she didn't really want to be there.
"Whatever happened to dear Liesl?" Lex asked between nibbles of roast lamb.
"I heard something about her joining Greenpeace, or something," Bruce said, "fighting the good fight for mankind."
"I heard she joined the German Red Brigade," Lex stated, "disrupting corporate press conferences. Chasing oil tankers, who knows?"
Bruce glanced again at the chef. And the centrepiece. He could see vapours pouring out of the ice sculpture, which was now in the far right corner of the hall.
Someone choked. Another delegate tried to administer the Heimlich manoeuvre, but he too collapsed.
One of the servers grabbed her chest. She began to foam at the mouth.
"Everyone, get the hell out. It's poison gas!" Bruce barked. A pair of Mounties moved to intercept him.
Lex looked for the chef. She was already gone. "Listen to him!" Lex insisted, as he covered his face with a napkin. "Everyone out!"
As more of the delegates began to choke and gasp, the Prime Minister signalled his security detail to herd the world leaders out of the emergency exits.
"Seal this hall. Don't let anyone near this part of the building," Lex ordered one of the Mounties. He raced outside the hall, as the student delegates exited a convention room.
"What happened?" Chloe asked. "Someone pulled the fire alarm?" "Lex!" Bruce yelled. "Get those kids the hell outta here!!"
"Someone released some poison gas in the banquet hall," Lex explained. Chloe began to peer around the corner.
"No time to play reporter," Lex hustled her away, "unless you'd like your lungs to burn from the inside out and suffocate to death."
Outside on Front St., Clark studied the crowd of protesters behind the barricades. He spotted someone in a chef's apron across the street. She tossed it aside as she raced south.
"There!" Bruce also spotted her. "Lex, I trust you'll keep the students out of the building." He paused in front of Chloe. "Don't even think of getting any ideas about following me!"
"You're going after her, Bruce?" Lex wondered, but Bruce had already sprinted across the street, towards the harbour. "What is with Bruce and his hero complex?"
Clark immediately chased after his Gotham friend. "Clark!" Pete called after him, "Leave this to the cops. Are you crazy!"
A pair of Metro Police cruiser screeched around the curb. Chloe began to follow them when Mr. Shanahan, the civics teacher, stopped her. "Sorry, no exclusives for the Torch this time, Ms. Sullivan."
Damn, she thought. Why does Clark get to be in the thick of the action?
The police ordered everyone to leave Front St. vacant for the emergency vehicles. A line of helmeted riot police blocked all the entrances. The protesters and on-lookers quickly obliged, once rumours of 'poison gas' reached them.
Lana comforted one of her classmates. Clark Kent either has this innate sense of duty, she thought. To help others.
That - or a death wish ...