[Metro Toronto Convention Centre - Conference Day One]
Chloe looked across the street. The Hazardous Materials squad - in their bright yellow suits and masks - entered the Crowne Plaza hotel. For safety precautions, they evacuated the neighbouring convention centre.
"Do you have any leads on who might want to disrupt the conference?" Lex asked one of the officers guarding the hotel entrance.
"With an event of this size, anything's possible," the officer replied. "It's an on-going investigation. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the news conference in an hour."
Perhaps that would be the best thing to do, Lex thought. I could provide the Mounties with what I know about Liesl, but that would invite too much attention from the voracious media. And certainly not now - with the whiff of ivory trading underneath Luthor Corp.'s noses.
Lex approached Mr. Shanahan. "I've arranged a police escort for your Smallville class. The best thing to do would be to get out of the area. The terrorist might have some friends at large."
Pete scrambled through the crowd. "We can't just leave Clark out there!"
"Where -", Mr. Shanahan began, "... is ... Clark Kent?!" Lex nodded his head towards the harbour. "Alright, class. Mr. Luthor has been kind enough to arrange a police escort. I want everyone to head back to the Hilton now. I'll remain here to fetch Clark."
As the class boarded a school bus - flanked by half a dozen motorcycle cops - Chloe glanced south towards Lake Ontario.
"Looks like you and Clark are gonna be detention buddies when we get back to Kansas," Pete smirked.
"If he doesn't get himself killed first!" Chloe grumbled.
[Foot of Bay St., the harbour]
Liesl ran. Sirens blared to the right and left of her. In moments, all the main roads would be blocked. In spite of her situation, she couldn't help but smile. The body count was never her concern. She had told the G-8 in her own way that no place - not their capitals, not their presidential mansions, not even well-guarded conferences - would provide refuge. Whatever punishment they received, they deserved.
"Liesl!" Bruce barked, as Clark arrived behind him. Liesl spun around, holding a metal canister. "I have enough anthrax in this canister to wipe out several city blocks. Stay back, Bruce."
"Why, Liesl?" Bruce pleaded, "Do you realize how many people you've hurt. Killed. Why? Look, why don't you put the canister down. We can talk this through. Your father, Wolfgang, hasn't heard from you in years ..."
Liesl scowled. "Don't talk to me about my father. He, like you, is as much a part of the problem as the G-8's charlatans." A pair of police officers approached from the east.
"Stay back, officers" Bruce insisted. "The canister has anthrax!"
"You and Luthor. How could you side with their kind!" Liesl shouted, "You have the wealth. The influence. The power to change the world for the better. Instead, you spend it on promoting the capitalist agenda and furthering Western decadence ... at any cost! Or in your case, bubble- headed runway models. You've made your choice, Bruce. Go to hell. Better still, let me help you get there!"
She flung the canister towards the Gotham industrialist. Clark leaped in front of Bruce, then smothered the canister.
Bruce rushed to Clark's side. "Clark! Are you okay?" Clark looked at the canister. "She attacked us ... with Vidal Sasson hairspray!" Bruce examined the container. "Extra body hold and conditioner," he scowled, "Potent stuff."
They looked westward. Liesl was heading for Spadina Avenue. On the dock, a boatowner prepared to take out his speedboats for the winter. He heard someone behind him yelling in German, or something. Liesl shoved him into the lake, hopped into one of the boats and sped out of the dock.
Several police cruisers and a score of officers arrived at the foot of Spadina Ave. "Officers," Bruce began, "you'd better call in the Marine Unit."
Clark fished out the bewildered owner from the water. "W-what's going on?" he coughed.
"We're going to have to borrow one of your speedboats," Bruce declared. One of the officers tried to stop him, but Bruce was already starting the ignition.
"You're not going to face that lunatic on your own!" Clark hopped into the passenger seat. A late fall fog had begun to descend over the harbour.
Liesl cursed as she glanced behind him. Bruce - even now - remained the self-righteous boy scout. Ready to serve. Along the boardwalk, she noticed masses of police. Several patrol boats already disembarked. Stormtroopers of the state, she thought. Protecting the corporate gluttony of the West.
"I can't see a damn thing in this fog!" Bruce growled as he turned on the floodlights. Clark focused his eyes and concentrated. Through the fog, he could see nothing but water. Liesl was rapidly increasing the gap between them.
She grabbed an anchor and flung it behind her. "Clark, look out!" Bruce tried to duck, but the anchor's chain wrapped around his leg. The weight dragged Bruce overboard and into the blackness of Lake Ontario.
"Bruce!" Clark yelled. No answer. The next few minutes were a blur of lights and sounds. He remembered gazing at the engine of Liesl's boat. Beams of heat penetrated the fog, slicing the motor off the boat. A few sparks, then flames. Liesl had difficulty steering. In the distance, Clark could see a concrete breakwater wall just above the choppy waves.
"Get out of the boat!" Clark screamed. "There's a wall just up ahead!" He swerved the boat and stopped.
Frantically, Liesl struggled with the steering. She thought she saw something on the horizon. Someone had yelled, "Jump!" She gasped as the wall appeared above the water. The wall was designed to literally break Lake Ontario's waves before they crashed onto the shoreline. The boat smashed into the wall, dissolving into shreds of wood, aluminum and flaming debris.
Tonight, the wall would stop a speedboat. The lake, it seemed, would claim an anarchist.
"Oh my god," Clark gasped. "No." A Metro P.D. patrol boat pulled up to his speedboat.
"Are you alright, son?" the officer asked. "That was a damn crazy thing you pulled, going after that terrorist!"
Clark remembered his Gotham friend. "Where's Bruce? Is he ...?" He can't be gone, he feared.
"One of our boats picked him up a few metres back," the officer explained, "Good thing he freed himself from the anchor chain in time, or the lake would have gobbled him up for sure!"
Clark sighed in relief. As a second boat arrived, Bruce - wrapped in a blanket - waved at him. "Are you going to be alright, Clark?" he asked, as the boat pulled beside them.
Clark stared around him. It was dusk now. The skyline of Toronto - the SkyDome, the CN Tower, the imposing Royal York hotel - reflected between splashes of waves in Lake Ontario. He looked towards the break wall. Several police boats began their search for evidence.
"Liesl was right about one thing", Bruce noted, "We have to live by the choices we make. She made hers, I'm sorry to say. Her father will be devastated. She was his only child." As the boats returned to the shore, Clark looked again at the break wall. What could drive someone to take such drastic actions, he wondered. Was it rage at the injustice of her society? Was it a feeling of helplessness - some need to right the wrongs of a cold and unkind world?
"She had it all, you know," Bruce seemed attuned to Clark's mood, "A life of privilege. The best education that money can buy. A loving and supportive family."
"But ... why?" Clark demanded. "Why would someone throw all that away? For what? To make some point to the world! I don't understand."
Bruce stared at the soaring steel bank towers of the financial district. "Maybe she was bored. Bored of the routine of her life. She was typecast in the role of a dutiful daughter of a prominent executive. She needed to do something to make her life meaningful. With a purpose. Who knows - except Liesl."
Clark tried to grasp what Bruce was saying, but the immediate events still stunned him. Nothing made sense. Not this night.
Bruce's mind wandered. I'm sorry Wolfgang, he sighed to himself. I'm sorry I couldn't save your daughter.
From herself.
[50km from the Congo-Rwandan border, central Africa]
One of Artur's hired hands dashed through the jungle undergrowth, flailing his arms in the air. "We've got to get out of here!"
Artur lowered his rifle. Half a dozen elephants glanced at the commotion. "Be quiet, you fool!" he cursed. "Those tusks are worth thousands of dollars!"
A rumble in the distance. Artur saw some rustling in the bushes.
"Poaching is forbidden by U.N. international resolutions and illegal in this country," a voice boomed from a white armoured personnel carrier, "Drop your weapons. You are under arrest!"
"Run!" Artur yelled. A pair of poachers leaped into the jungle, hoping to disappear in the foliage. A tap on their shoulders. Four Senegalese peacekeepers, with rifles pointed at them.
Another poacher - with a tusk in hand - tried to scramble up a dirt path, but one of the personnel carriers pursued him. The gunner fired a warning shot over his head, convincing him to drop his weapon. A dozen blue-bereted soldiers immediately hauled him into the carrier.
Artur ran through the jungle. He cursed. He had run out of jungle. The trees were breaking up. Patches of grassland became long stretches of plains.
To the left and right, he noticed U.N. peacekeepers racing to cut off his escape. Soon, he was surrounded. A dozen peacekeepers blocked his path east. Behind him, an armoured carrier dislodged a dozen of soldiers. Another four aimed their rifles at him from the west. "We are UN PROFOR peacekeepers. Drop your weapon. Now!" the major demanded over the loudspeaker.
I will not die like some hyena in the savannah, he swore. He fired two bursts of machine gun fire. One Dutch peacekeeper grabbed his shoulder and fell. His comrades immediately opened fire on the poacher.
Artur spun violently as round after round of bullet fire toppled him over, then he collapsed onto the Congo grasslands. "Luthor," he gasped before fading into eternity. The herd of elephants glanced passively at the event, then moved on. There would be no poaching here. This time, the poachers were the prey.
The U.N. major in charge of the pursuit swore. Artur van Kleet was wanted by Interpol and several African countries for illegal poaching. He could have provided valuable evidence on the ivory trade in central Africa.
He looked at the bullet-riddled body of the dead poacher. "He was trying to say something. Too bad he's dead. He could have led us to some of his buyers. I'm not sure how much his buddies over there know about his contacts."
The Congo sun continued to shine as the U.N. peacekeepers hauled the poacher's body on a crude stretcher and returned to their camp..
This hunt was successful.
[Luthor Corp. Canada offices, First Canadian Place, 9 p.m.]
Lex and his former classmate, Doug, watched CBC's The National in the videoconference room.
"... Gotham City industrialist Bruce Wayne has provided the RCMP with valuable leads on the possible identity of a shadowy German-based anarchy group ... considered by many to be the prime suspect in the sarin gas attack at the international conference in Toronto ..."
"You knew this 'Liesl', too, you said," Doug noted, "How come you didn't approach the authorities with this information?"
Lex studied the screen. Bruce effortlessly deflected reporters' questions like a seasoned pro. "Liesl and I were classmates in summer school," Bruce revealed, "I had heard rumours about her involvement in the anti- globalization movement. That's about all I can say at this point."
"That's the difference between Bruce Wayne - and my family," Lex replied. "Whenever Mr. Wayne assists the authorities, he's cast as the dutiful citizen. A man of responsibility. No questions asked."
"And whenever a Luthor steps before the camera ..." Doug began.
"... every word we say, every gesture we make ... is taken with a grain of salt," Lex continued, "The media, the masses are ready to believe that Luthor - any Luthor - has a hidden agenda. An alterior motive. Bruce must carry the burden - if you can call it that - of maintaining the storied legend of Thomas Wayne. I, on the other hand, have to defend everything from my father's lobbying for drilling in Alaska, to his involvement in providing materiel and funding for CIA-engineered coups in the Third World. That's the legacy I am to inherit. Such as it is."
"I think you're taking this family rivalry thing a bit too seriously," Doug argued.
"Really," Lex pushed the evening edition of the Toronto Star across the table. "Bruce gets page two for breaking the "mystery" of the Fifth Column anarchists. I purge Galleon Shipping of corrupt directors, and all Luthor Corp. gets is a 50-word blurb in the Business section ..."
Doug turned up the volume on the TV remote. "Hold on, something on the ivory trade ..."
"... reports suggests that a company of U.N. peacekeepers exchanged fire with a group of ivory poachers on the Congo-Rwandan border, killing one and wounding six. The dead poacher, Artur van Kleet, was known to Interpol and wanted on an international warrant ..."
"There, you see," Doug declared, "The good guys win this round."
Maybe, Lex thought. I'm just concerned that my father may have more than a passing interest in the riches of the African continent. Billions could be made from its minerals, its diamonds, its offshore oil reserves. Within its jungles, the potential for scientific innovations could sustain Luthor Corp. into the next century.
My father means to exploit those opportunities, he wondered. It would serve his interests.
Does it serve mine?
[VIA train, 20 km from Kingston, en route to Montreal, 11.30 a.m. -- Two days later]
Outside the window, rocky outcroppings burst through the soil. This was the Canadian Shield - some of the oldest rock in the world. The trees still managed to cling to their red, gold and yellow leaves. Picturesque farmhouses. Little railroad towns with picket fences. The occasional cow. The passengers had time to enjoy the scenery of Eastern Ontario. They would not arrive in Montreal for another two hours.
A server arrived with the lunchtime meal. "Would you like coffee, tea, juice ...?" the server asked.
"I will have a cup of tea, please," one of the passengers replied. She smiled.
How did I possibly find myself here, Liesl wondered. Alive. Free. She remembered that night ... two days ago. Bruce's friend had continued the pursuit, quite likely to avenge what seemed to be the death of Gotham City's favourite son. The engine had exploded into sparks and flame. Perhaps I had pushed it beyond its limits, she thought. Someone had yelled, "Jump!"
Liesl savoured the warm tea as it soothed her throat. She had struggled with the speedboat's steering. The breakwall would be upon me in moments, she shuddered. I hurled myself into the lake. Darkness. Did I die?
No. Above, I saw the hideous orange glow as my boat crashed into the wall. I was cut in the arm. I continued to swim. A smaller dock to the west. I pulled myself up onto the wooden boardwalk. In the distance, the police marine unit surrounded the crash site. Divers had begun the search for evidence.
For the despicable terrorist whose sarin gas attack in Toronto had claimed eight delegates and hospitalized twenty-two. A senior executive with HyperChem -- one of the worst petrochemical firms in the United States - perished as the gas ripped his lungs to shreds. He deserved his fate. A doctor with Medecins sans Frontieres (Doctors without Borders) also died as he tried to help one of the first victims. She regretted that innocent people were killed or injured in the name of reawakening the revolution against Western gluttony.
Regret, she repeated. Not remorse. And certainly not guilt. She looked at the stillness of the Ontario countryside. Yesterday was anything but peaceful. She had dragged herself to a Salvation Army store and managed to get a change of clothes. A quick subway ride and she had arrived at a west- end safehouse. Fifth Column was truly an international organization. Anything she bought from now on was paid for in cash. No troublesome credit card paper trails for the state's stormtroopers. That night, she stopped by a Radio Shack to pick up some cheap $25 digital watch. All the televisions were on the news.
The only news. Bruce and Lex - visibly uncomfortable under the spotlight - sat with the police chief, RCMP chief, the U.S. ambassador, the deputy prime minister and a director of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Now Fifth Column would be known.
The plan would have been perfect, if Wayne and Luthor didn't meddle. Lex offered to provide the Mounties with Luthor Corp.'s finest minds in chemical research. If they could trace the source of the gas, they could trace the buyers. Bruce pleaded with the anti-globalization movement to provide what little information they knew about this secretive German-based anarchy group.
Fifth Column would simply disperse their cells - no more than two or three people - until the authorities have exhausted their leads. Then, they would regroup. Rearm. They can't stop us.
They never will.
She was about to pay for the watch when another report appeared. Video of her father, stepping outside the DaimlerChrysler headquarters. Heart- broken, he had to be supported by two of his friends. He thinks I'm dead, she frowned. I never meant to bring you grief, Father. He spent his whole life living and working. For me.
He sacrificed everything to support me. Encourage me. And yes, get me out of trouble from time to time. Now - when it is too late - I realize that. God, I was so headstrong then. Still am.
Perhaps it's best, she thought. Now, my parents can truly live. Not for me, but for themselves. As she boarded the VIA train at Union Station, she now had the freedom to live for herself too. A forged passport (I think I'll be a Dutch national) would allow her to buy a plane ticket for a connecting flight from Dorval to Brussels. She received word that Basque separatists had requested Fifth Column expertise for their on-going campaign against their Spanish overlords in Madrid. Lingering remnants of Greece's November 17 movement were planning to re-enter Greek politics with a bang. Across Europe, word spread about her devastating blow against The Establishment.
The photos in her purse were faded. One when she was at her parents 15th wedding anniversary. Another of her class. Summer at l'Academie de Ste.- Anne. Lex mugging for the camera. Typical. Bruce at his surly best. Why did he seem so moody? His parents were killed when he was young, but that was all she knew. And me in the middle. Why was I so happy? I didn't have a care in the world back then.
Now all the cares of the world are mine to bear ...
EPILOGUE
[Clark's 'Fortress of Solitude', Smallville - one week later]
Clark typed on Yahoo! Messenger:
Ckent2002: Really, I'm fine Chloe.
Reportergrrl: The events in Toronto took a lot out of everyone. Mr. Shanahan finally decided to put his foot down and withdrew our class from the student conference. Despite my protests.
Ckent2002: He only wanted to do what was best for us. He was worried about our safety.
Reportergrrl: Well, you heard the Mounties. Even though this Liesl was part of that German anarchist group, she acted alone. Although ... they never found her body in Lake Ontario
Ckent2002: You think ...?
Reportergrrl: ... This is real-life, Clark, not an episode of 'Charmed'! Dead terrorists don't come back to life to seek revenge. Anyway, you're avoiding my question. You've been awfully quiet over the past few days. Are you sure you're okay?
Ckent2002: Well, I guess my nerves are still a bit rattled. I mean, Bruce, Lex ... all of us ... could have died.
Reportergrrl: But we didn't, Mr.-my-glass-is-half-empty. We survived. Fifth Column will have to disappear from the scene for now. The G-8 adopted a resolution to provide substantial debt relief for the poorest countries. I know it's just words, but who knows? Maybe they mean it this time. Gotta run. Layout for the Torch. 'Tempest in Toronto' Catchy, eh? One other thing, get a new nickname. Ckent2002 says nothing about your personality!
Ckent2002: Well, what would you suggest?
Reportergrrl: Hmmm ... how 'bout CaptainAmerica. Or Daredevil? I mean, you actually hopped onto a boat with Bruce Wayne to chase after a deadly anarchist psychopath! Lana and I agree: you are nuts.
Ckent2002: Good night, Chloe ;)
Clark shut down his computer and gazed through his telescope.
"Trying to find your homeworld, Clark?" Pete joked.
"Hey, Pete," Clark mumbled.
"I know what that look means," Pete replied, "Something's eating at you. And it's not your usual does-Lana-like-me? look!"
Clark held a copy of the Smallville Ledger. 'LUTHOR SON AVOIDS DEATH, SIDESTEPS IVORY SCANDAL'
"It's that night," Pete stated, "when you went after Liesl."
Clark sat beside Pete. "When she tossed that anchor at Bruce, I thought he was a goner for sure. Something just came over me. Pure, limitless ..."
"Fear?" Pete tried to guess.
"Rage," Clark muttered. "For a moment, I lost focus. I wanted to stop her. Whatever it took. I remember using my heat vision. The next thing that happened, her boat crashed into the wall and exploded. She's dead. And I caused it!"
"Clark," Pete consoled, "She chose to be a nutcase. She was the one who killed those delegates. You just did what you had to do. I can't blame you for being totally pissed off at her. Bruce had just fallen overboard. You wanted payback. Hey, that's natural. Human."
"But that's just it," Clark protested, "I'm not normal. Not human. If I can't keep my emotions in check, these - powers - might hurt somebody. A by- stander. A police officer."
"A friend," Pete realized. "Look, I'm not super-powered. What I do know is that Clark Kent has always wanted to help people. You're not alone. You've got allies. Your folks. Me ..."
"Lex," Clark nodded, and noticed that Pete frowned immediately. "I know you're not exactly part of the Luthor fan club."
"Who, me?" Pete exclaimed. "Hey, Lex and me are two peas in a pod, man!"
"Yeah, right," Clark smirked.
Pete patted his friend on the shoulder. "You've got good instincts, Clark. It's not going to be easy. We'll get through it, okay? Together." Pete waved goodbye and left his friend alone in his fortress.
The phone rang. "Hello, Clark speaking?"
"Umm, Clark. It's Lex."
"Hey, Lex. Something's up?"
Lex re-read the email. Again. "I just wanted to let you know. To warn you."
Clark paused. "Warn? About what?"
Lex wiped his brow. "I received an email today. So did Bruce." Clark's mind raced. "What does it say?"
Lex sat as his desk. "It says: 'We shall reap what we have sown. Salt the earth. Begin anew.'"
Clark began to worry. "Has someone threatened you? Bruce? Have you told the authorities?"
"I've informed the F.B.I and the governor's office," Lex replied. "Bruce made a few calls to his friends in the State Department. It's undoubtedly Fifth Column, playing a cat-and-mouse game. Hoping Bruce and I will crack. Don't worry. It'll take more than some crackpot, anonymous email to rattle me."
Lex studied a favourite painting. Francisco de Goya's 'The Shootings of May Third 1808' One Spaniard, dressed in white, boldly defying Napoleon's troops as the French laid waste to his comrades. Goya portrayed the sheer barbarity of war. Its inhumanity, its lack of reason. The gas attack in Toronto made no sense to him.
But did Liesl cast herself as that lone Spaniard, facing certain death yet defying his fate? Or was she among those nameless foot soldiers, who perpetuated the endless cycle of violence?
She's dead. She must be. He wanted to believe that it was so. Her body was never found, however.
"Just be careful," Lex cautioned Clark, "If you hear or see anything that's out of place, let me know. I'll be damned if I'm going to let those radicals harm your family."
Lex looked at the painting again. At the man in white. He shivered. I escaped disaster, thanks to Bruce Wayne's sharp eyes. I don't like depending on others for my survival. That includes my father.
I make my fate, he thought. That man in white ... I won't be backed against a wall like some conquered peasant.
The email concluded with one line: "This is only the beginning."
Yes, it is, he agreed. Fifth Column, you've made yourself an enemy.
Lex frowned. He did not plan on becoming a martyr. He would use every device at his disposal to harass, thwart and crush the upstart anarchy group.
Nothing would matter, except his conquest over their terror tactics. Their warped ideals.
When it happened, it would be his prize - his victory - to claim.
THE END
Chloe looked across the street. The Hazardous Materials squad - in their bright yellow suits and masks - entered the Crowne Plaza hotel. For safety precautions, they evacuated the neighbouring convention centre.
"Do you have any leads on who might want to disrupt the conference?" Lex asked one of the officers guarding the hotel entrance.
"With an event of this size, anything's possible," the officer replied. "It's an on-going investigation. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the news conference in an hour."
Perhaps that would be the best thing to do, Lex thought. I could provide the Mounties with what I know about Liesl, but that would invite too much attention from the voracious media. And certainly not now - with the whiff of ivory trading underneath Luthor Corp.'s noses.
Lex approached Mr. Shanahan. "I've arranged a police escort for your Smallville class. The best thing to do would be to get out of the area. The terrorist might have some friends at large."
Pete scrambled through the crowd. "We can't just leave Clark out there!"
"Where -", Mr. Shanahan began, "... is ... Clark Kent?!" Lex nodded his head towards the harbour. "Alright, class. Mr. Luthor has been kind enough to arrange a police escort. I want everyone to head back to the Hilton now. I'll remain here to fetch Clark."
As the class boarded a school bus - flanked by half a dozen motorcycle cops - Chloe glanced south towards Lake Ontario.
"Looks like you and Clark are gonna be detention buddies when we get back to Kansas," Pete smirked.
"If he doesn't get himself killed first!" Chloe grumbled.
[Foot of Bay St., the harbour]
Liesl ran. Sirens blared to the right and left of her. In moments, all the main roads would be blocked. In spite of her situation, she couldn't help but smile. The body count was never her concern. She had told the G-8 in her own way that no place - not their capitals, not their presidential mansions, not even well-guarded conferences - would provide refuge. Whatever punishment they received, they deserved.
"Liesl!" Bruce barked, as Clark arrived behind him. Liesl spun around, holding a metal canister. "I have enough anthrax in this canister to wipe out several city blocks. Stay back, Bruce."
"Why, Liesl?" Bruce pleaded, "Do you realize how many people you've hurt. Killed. Why? Look, why don't you put the canister down. We can talk this through. Your father, Wolfgang, hasn't heard from you in years ..."
Liesl scowled. "Don't talk to me about my father. He, like you, is as much a part of the problem as the G-8's charlatans." A pair of police officers approached from the east.
"Stay back, officers" Bruce insisted. "The canister has anthrax!"
"You and Luthor. How could you side with their kind!" Liesl shouted, "You have the wealth. The influence. The power to change the world for the better. Instead, you spend it on promoting the capitalist agenda and furthering Western decadence ... at any cost! Or in your case, bubble- headed runway models. You've made your choice, Bruce. Go to hell. Better still, let me help you get there!"
She flung the canister towards the Gotham industrialist. Clark leaped in front of Bruce, then smothered the canister.
Bruce rushed to Clark's side. "Clark! Are you okay?" Clark looked at the canister. "She attacked us ... with Vidal Sasson hairspray!" Bruce examined the container. "Extra body hold and conditioner," he scowled, "Potent stuff."
They looked westward. Liesl was heading for Spadina Avenue. On the dock, a boatowner prepared to take out his speedboats for the winter. He heard someone behind him yelling in German, or something. Liesl shoved him into the lake, hopped into one of the boats and sped out of the dock.
Several police cruisers and a score of officers arrived at the foot of Spadina Ave. "Officers," Bruce began, "you'd better call in the Marine Unit."
Clark fished out the bewildered owner from the water. "W-what's going on?" he coughed.
"We're going to have to borrow one of your speedboats," Bruce declared. One of the officers tried to stop him, but Bruce was already starting the ignition.
"You're not going to face that lunatic on your own!" Clark hopped into the passenger seat. A late fall fog had begun to descend over the harbour.
Liesl cursed as she glanced behind him. Bruce - even now - remained the self-righteous boy scout. Ready to serve. Along the boardwalk, she noticed masses of police. Several patrol boats already disembarked. Stormtroopers of the state, she thought. Protecting the corporate gluttony of the West.
"I can't see a damn thing in this fog!" Bruce growled as he turned on the floodlights. Clark focused his eyes and concentrated. Through the fog, he could see nothing but water. Liesl was rapidly increasing the gap between them.
She grabbed an anchor and flung it behind her. "Clark, look out!" Bruce tried to duck, but the anchor's chain wrapped around his leg. The weight dragged Bruce overboard and into the blackness of Lake Ontario.
"Bruce!" Clark yelled. No answer. The next few minutes were a blur of lights and sounds. He remembered gazing at the engine of Liesl's boat. Beams of heat penetrated the fog, slicing the motor off the boat. A few sparks, then flames. Liesl had difficulty steering. In the distance, Clark could see a concrete breakwater wall just above the choppy waves.
"Get out of the boat!" Clark screamed. "There's a wall just up ahead!" He swerved the boat and stopped.
Frantically, Liesl struggled with the steering. She thought she saw something on the horizon. Someone had yelled, "Jump!" She gasped as the wall appeared above the water. The wall was designed to literally break Lake Ontario's waves before they crashed onto the shoreline. The boat smashed into the wall, dissolving into shreds of wood, aluminum and flaming debris.
Tonight, the wall would stop a speedboat. The lake, it seemed, would claim an anarchist.
"Oh my god," Clark gasped. "No." A Metro P.D. patrol boat pulled up to his speedboat.
"Are you alright, son?" the officer asked. "That was a damn crazy thing you pulled, going after that terrorist!"
Clark remembered his Gotham friend. "Where's Bruce? Is he ...?" He can't be gone, he feared.
"One of our boats picked him up a few metres back," the officer explained, "Good thing he freed himself from the anchor chain in time, or the lake would have gobbled him up for sure!"
Clark sighed in relief. As a second boat arrived, Bruce - wrapped in a blanket - waved at him. "Are you going to be alright, Clark?" he asked, as the boat pulled beside them.
Clark stared around him. It was dusk now. The skyline of Toronto - the SkyDome, the CN Tower, the imposing Royal York hotel - reflected between splashes of waves in Lake Ontario. He looked towards the break wall. Several police boats began their search for evidence.
"Liesl was right about one thing", Bruce noted, "We have to live by the choices we make. She made hers, I'm sorry to say. Her father will be devastated. She was his only child." As the boats returned to the shore, Clark looked again at the break wall. What could drive someone to take such drastic actions, he wondered. Was it rage at the injustice of her society? Was it a feeling of helplessness - some need to right the wrongs of a cold and unkind world?
"She had it all, you know," Bruce seemed attuned to Clark's mood, "A life of privilege. The best education that money can buy. A loving and supportive family."
"But ... why?" Clark demanded. "Why would someone throw all that away? For what? To make some point to the world! I don't understand."
Bruce stared at the soaring steel bank towers of the financial district. "Maybe she was bored. Bored of the routine of her life. She was typecast in the role of a dutiful daughter of a prominent executive. She needed to do something to make her life meaningful. With a purpose. Who knows - except Liesl."
Clark tried to grasp what Bruce was saying, but the immediate events still stunned him. Nothing made sense. Not this night.
Bruce's mind wandered. I'm sorry Wolfgang, he sighed to himself. I'm sorry I couldn't save your daughter.
From herself.
[50km from the Congo-Rwandan border, central Africa]
One of Artur's hired hands dashed through the jungle undergrowth, flailing his arms in the air. "We've got to get out of here!"
Artur lowered his rifle. Half a dozen elephants glanced at the commotion. "Be quiet, you fool!" he cursed. "Those tusks are worth thousands of dollars!"
A rumble in the distance. Artur saw some rustling in the bushes.
"Poaching is forbidden by U.N. international resolutions and illegal in this country," a voice boomed from a white armoured personnel carrier, "Drop your weapons. You are under arrest!"
"Run!" Artur yelled. A pair of poachers leaped into the jungle, hoping to disappear in the foliage. A tap on their shoulders. Four Senegalese peacekeepers, with rifles pointed at them.
Another poacher - with a tusk in hand - tried to scramble up a dirt path, but one of the personnel carriers pursued him. The gunner fired a warning shot over his head, convincing him to drop his weapon. A dozen blue-bereted soldiers immediately hauled him into the carrier.
Artur ran through the jungle. He cursed. He had run out of jungle. The trees were breaking up. Patches of grassland became long stretches of plains.
To the left and right, he noticed U.N. peacekeepers racing to cut off his escape. Soon, he was surrounded. A dozen peacekeepers blocked his path east. Behind him, an armoured carrier dislodged a dozen of soldiers. Another four aimed their rifles at him from the west. "We are UN PROFOR peacekeepers. Drop your weapon. Now!" the major demanded over the loudspeaker.
I will not die like some hyena in the savannah, he swore. He fired two bursts of machine gun fire. One Dutch peacekeeper grabbed his shoulder and fell. His comrades immediately opened fire on the poacher.
Artur spun violently as round after round of bullet fire toppled him over, then he collapsed onto the Congo grasslands. "Luthor," he gasped before fading into eternity. The herd of elephants glanced passively at the event, then moved on. There would be no poaching here. This time, the poachers were the prey.
The U.N. major in charge of the pursuit swore. Artur van Kleet was wanted by Interpol and several African countries for illegal poaching. He could have provided valuable evidence on the ivory trade in central Africa.
He looked at the bullet-riddled body of the dead poacher. "He was trying to say something. Too bad he's dead. He could have led us to some of his buyers. I'm not sure how much his buddies over there know about his contacts."
The Congo sun continued to shine as the U.N. peacekeepers hauled the poacher's body on a crude stretcher and returned to their camp..
This hunt was successful.
[Luthor Corp. Canada offices, First Canadian Place, 9 p.m.]
Lex and his former classmate, Doug, watched CBC's The National in the videoconference room.
"... Gotham City industrialist Bruce Wayne has provided the RCMP with valuable leads on the possible identity of a shadowy German-based anarchy group ... considered by many to be the prime suspect in the sarin gas attack at the international conference in Toronto ..."
"You knew this 'Liesl', too, you said," Doug noted, "How come you didn't approach the authorities with this information?"
Lex studied the screen. Bruce effortlessly deflected reporters' questions like a seasoned pro. "Liesl and I were classmates in summer school," Bruce revealed, "I had heard rumours about her involvement in the anti- globalization movement. That's about all I can say at this point."
"That's the difference between Bruce Wayne - and my family," Lex replied. "Whenever Mr. Wayne assists the authorities, he's cast as the dutiful citizen. A man of responsibility. No questions asked."
"And whenever a Luthor steps before the camera ..." Doug began.
"... every word we say, every gesture we make ... is taken with a grain of salt," Lex continued, "The media, the masses are ready to believe that Luthor - any Luthor - has a hidden agenda. An alterior motive. Bruce must carry the burden - if you can call it that - of maintaining the storied legend of Thomas Wayne. I, on the other hand, have to defend everything from my father's lobbying for drilling in Alaska, to his involvement in providing materiel and funding for CIA-engineered coups in the Third World. That's the legacy I am to inherit. Such as it is."
"I think you're taking this family rivalry thing a bit too seriously," Doug argued.
"Really," Lex pushed the evening edition of the Toronto Star across the table. "Bruce gets page two for breaking the "mystery" of the Fifth Column anarchists. I purge Galleon Shipping of corrupt directors, and all Luthor Corp. gets is a 50-word blurb in the Business section ..."
Doug turned up the volume on the TV remote. "Hold on, something on the ivory trade ..."
"... reports suggests that a company of U.N. peacekeepers exchanged fire with a group of ivory poachers on the Congo-Rwandan border, killing one and wounding six. The dead poacher, Artur van Kleet, was known to Interpol and wanted on an international warrant ..."
"There, you see," Doug declared, "The good guys win this round."
Maybe, Lex thought. I'm just concerned that my father may have more than a passing interest in the riches of the African continent. Billions could be made from its minerals, its diamonds, its offshore oil reserves. Within its jungles, the potential for scientific innovations could sustain Luthor Corp. into the next century.
My father means to exploit those opportunities, he wondered. It would serve his interests.
Does it serve mine?
[VIA train, 20 km from Kingston, en route to Montreal, 11.30 a.m. -- Two days later]
Outside the window, rocky outcroppings burst through the soil. This was the Canadian Shield - some of the oldest rock in the world. The trees still managed to cling to their red, gold and yellow leaves. Picturesque farmhouses. Little railroad towns with picket fences. The occasional cow. The passengers had time to enjoy the scenery of Eastern Ontario. They would not arrive in Montreal for another two hours.
A server arrived with the lunchtime meal. "Would you like coffee, tea, juice ...?" the server asked.
"I will have a cup of tea, please," one of the passengers replied. She smiled.
How did I possibly find myself here, Liesl wondered. Alive. Free. She remembered that night ... two days ago. Bruce's friend had continued the pursuit, quite likely to avenge what seemed to be the death of Gotham City's favourite son. The engine had exploded into sparks and flame. Perhaps I had pushed it beyond its limits, she thought. Someone had yelled, "Jump!"
Liesl savoured the warm tea as it soothed her throat. She had struggled with the speedboat's steering. The breakwall would be upon me in moments, she shuddered. I hurled myself into the lake. Darkness. Did I die?
No. Above, I saw the hideous orange glow as my boat crashed into the wall. I was cut in the arm. I continued to swim. A smaller dock to the west. I pulled myself up onto the wooden boardwalk. In the distance, the police marine unit surrounded the crash site. Divers had begun the search for evidence.
For the despicable terrorist whose sarin gas attack in Toronto had claimed eight delegates and hospitalized twenty-two. A senior executive with HyperChem -- one of the worst petrochemical firms in the United States - perished as the gas ripped his lungs to shreds. He deserved his fate. A doctor with Medecins sans Frontieres (Doctors without Borders) also died as he tried to help one of the first victims. She regretted that innocent people were killed or injured in the name of reawakening the revolution against Western gluttony.
Regret, she repeated. Not remorse. And certainly not guilt. She looked at the stillness of the Ontario countryside. Yesterday was anything but peaceful. She had dragged herself to a Salvation Army store and managed to get a change of clothes. A quick subway ride and she had arrived at a west- end safehouse. Fifth Column was truly an international organization. Anything she bought from now on was paid for in cash. No troublesome credit card paper trails for the state's stormtroopers. That night, she stopped by a Radio Shack to pick up some cheap $25 digital watch. All the televisions were on the news.
The only news. Bruce and Lex - visibly uncomfortable under the spotlight - sat with the police chief, RCMP chief, the U.S. ambassador, the deputy prime minister and a director of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Now Fifth Column would be known.
The plan would have been perfect, if Wayne and Luthor didn't meddle. Lex offered to provide the Mounties with Luthor Corp.'s finest minds in chemical research. If they could trace the source of the gas, they could trace the buyers. Bruce pleaded with the anti-globalization movement to provide what little information they knew about this secretive German-based anarchy group.
Fifth Column would simply disperse their cells - no more than two or three people - until the authorities have exhausted their leads. Then, they would regroup. Rearm. They can't stop us.
They never will.
She was about to pay for the watch when another report appeared. Video of her father, stepping outside the DaimlerChrysler headquarters. Heart- broken, he had to be supported by two of his friends. He thinks I'm dead, she frowned. I never meant to bring you grief, Father. He spent his whole life living and working. For me.
He sacrificed everything to support me. Encourage me. And yes, get me out of trouble from time to time. Now - when it is too late - I realize that. God, I was so headstrong then. Still am.
Perhaps it's best, she thought. Now, my parents can truly live. Not for me, but for themselves. As she boarded the VIA train at Union Station, she now had the freedom to live for herself too. A forged passport (I think I'll be a Dutch national) would allow her to buy a plane ticket for a connecting flight from Dorval to Brussels. She received word that Basque separatists had requested Fifth Column expertise for their on-going campaign against their Spanish overlords in Madrid. Lingering remnants of Greece's November 17 movement were planning to re-enter Greek politics with a bang. Across Europe, word spread about her devastating blow against The Establishment.
The photos in her purse were faded. One when she was at her parents 15th wedding anniversary. Another of her class. Summer at l'Academie de Ste.- Anne. Lex mugging for the camera. Typical. Bruce at his surly best. Why did he seem so moody? His parents were killed when he was young, but that was all she knew. And me in the middle. Why was I so happy? I didn't have a care in the world back then.
Now all the cares of the world are mine to bear ...
EPILOGUE
[Clark's 'Fortress of Solitude', Smallville - one week later]
Clark typed on Yahoo! Messenger:
Ckent2002: Really, I'm fine Chloe.
Reportergrrl: The events in Toronto took a lot out of everyone. Mr. Shanahan finally decided to put his foot down and withdrew our class from the student conference. Despite my protests.
Ckent2002: He only wanted to do what was best for us. He was worried about our safety.
Reportergrrl: Well, you heard the Mounties. Even though this Liesl was part of that German anarchist group, she acted alone. Although ... they never found her body in Lake Ontario
Ckent2002: You think ...?
Reportergrrl: ... This is real-life, Clark, not an episode of 'Charmed'! Dead terrorists don't come back to life to seek revenge. Anyway, you're avoiding my question. You've been awfully quiet over the past few days. Are you sure you're okay?
Ckent2002: Well, I guess my nerves are still a bit rattled. I mean, Bruce, Lex ... all of us ... could have died.
Reportergrrl: But we didn't, Mr.-my-glass-is-half-empty. We survived. Fifth Column will have to disappear from the scene for now. The G-8 adopted a resolution to provide substantial debt relief for the poorest countries. I know it's just words, but who knows? Maybe they mean it this time. Gotta run. Layout for the Torch. 'Tempest in Toronto' Catchy, eh? One other thing, get a new nickname. Ckent2002 says nothing about your personality!
Ckent2002: Well, what would you suggest?
Reportergrrl: Hmmm ... how 'bout CaptainAmerica. Or Daredevil? I mean, you actually hopped onto a boat with Bruce Wayne to chase after a deadly anarchist psychopath! Lana and I agree: you are nuts.
Ckent2002: Good night, Chloe ;)
Clark shut down his computer and gazed through his telescope.
"Trying to find your homeworld, Clark?" Pete joked.
"Hey, Pete," Clark mumbled.
"I know what that look means," Pete replied, "Something's eating at you. And it's not your usual does-Lana-like-me? look!"
Clark held a copy of the Smallville Ledger. 'LUTHOR SON AVOIDS DEATH, SIDESTEPS IVORY SCANDAL'
"It's that night," Pete stated, "when you went after Liesl."
Clark sat beside Pete. "When she tossed that anchor at Bruce, I thought he was a goner for sure. Something just came over me. Pure, limitless ..."
"Fear?" Pete tried to guess.
"Rage," Clark muttered. "For a moment, I lost focus. I wanted to stop her. Whatever it took. I remember using my heat vision. The next thing that happened, her boat crashed into the wall and exploded. She's dead. And I caused it!"
"Clark," Pete consoled, "She chose to be a nutcase. She was the one who killed those delegates. You just did what you had to do. I can't blame you for being totally pissed off at her. Bruce had just fallen overboard. You wanted payback. Hey, that's natural. Human."
"But that's just it," Clark protested, "I'm not normal. Not human. If I can't keep my emotions in check, these - powers - might hurt somebody. A by- stander. A police officer."
"A friend," Pete realized. "Look, I'm not super-powered. What I do know is that Clark Kent has always wanted to help people. You're not alone. You've got allies. Your folks. Me ..."
"Lex," Clark nodded, and noticed that Pete frowned immediately. "I know you're not exactly part of the Luthor fan club."
"Who, me?" Pete exclaimed. "Hey, Lex and me are two peas in a pod, man!"
"Yeah, right," Clark smirked.
Pete patted his friend on the shoulder. "You've got good instincts, Clark. It's not going to be easy. We'll get through it, okay? Together." Pete waved goodbye and left his friend alone in his fortress.
The phone rang. "Hello, Clark speaking?"
"Umm, Clark. It's Lex."
"Hey, Lex. Something's up?"
Lex re-read the email. Again. "I just wanted to let you know. To warn you."
Clark paused. "Warn? About what?"
Lex wiped his brow. "I received an email today. So did Bruce." Clark's mind raced. "What does it say?"
Lex sat as his desk. "It says: 'We shall reap what we have sown. Salt the earth. Begin anew.'"
Clark began to worry. "Has someone threatened you? Bruce? Have you told the authorities?"
"I've informed the F.B.I and the governor's office," Lex replied. "Bruce made a few calls to his friends in the State Department. It's undoubtedly Fifth Column, playing a cat-and-mouse game. Hoping Bruce and I will crack. Don't worry. It'll take more than some crackpot, anonymous email to rattle me."
Lex studied a favourite painting. Francisco de Goya's 'The Shootings of May Third 1808' One Spaniard, dressed in white, boldly defying Napoleon's troops as the French laid waste to his comrades. Goya portrayed the sheer barbarity of war. Its inhumanity, its lack of reason. The gas attack in Toronto made no sense to him.
But did Liesl cast herself as that lone Spaniard, facing certain death yet defying his fate? Or was she among those nameless foot soldiers, who perpetuated the endless cycle of violence?
She's dead. She must be. He wanted to believe that it was so. Her body was never found, however.
"Just be careful," Lex cautioned Clark, "If you hear or see anything that's out of place, let me know. I'll be damned if I'm going to let those radicals harm your family."
Lex looked at the painting again. At the man in white. He shivered. I escaped disaster, thanks to Bruce Wayne's sharp eyes. I don't like depending on others for my survival. That includes my father.
I make my fate, he thought. That man in white ... I won't be backed against a wall like some conquered peasant.
The email concluded with one line: "This is only the beginning."
Yes, it is, he agreed. Fifth Column, you've made yourself an enemy.
Lex frowned. He did not plan on becoming a martyr. He would use every device at his disposal to harass, thwart and crush the upstart anarchy group.
Nothing would matter, except his conquest over their terror tactics. Their warped ideals.
When it happened, it would be his prize - his victory - to claim.
THE END