Actually, he had been looking for the remains of a hundred-year-old railroad spur. His expertise was in the recent history of Newfoundland and Labrador, and he later realized he had been looking for the railroad spur on the wrong side of a certain hill. The Viking find really had been a blunder. And the proof that the Vikings were “English” was based solely on a few pieces of wrought jewelry found at the site, which had originated in England. Only the British nationalists saw it as evidence that the Vikings were, somehow, English. Still, it was a boost to English and Newfoundland pride, and after a few deeply embarrassing ceremonies and a horribly uncomfortable trip to London, it was over with.
Until the knock that came on Tulient’s door a few months back, along with an opportunity that was beyond belief.
“Follow me,” Regeddo Tulient stammered, and the mercenaries
At the entrance to the mezzanine of the Confederation Building was the main security checkpoint. The commander of the mercenaries, a man named Hare, presented a sheaf of papers.
The chief of mezzanine security weighed the stack of forms in his hand and skimmed the first page, then looked incredulously at Tulient and Hare.
“Financial planning conference in the Gilbert wing,” Hare explained tersely.
“All of you?” the security chief asked, eyeing the rows of men in badly fitting suits, skewed ties and matching vinyl briefcases.
“We’re cleared. Check the paperwork.”
“Heh. Yeah.” The chief of security pushed them back at Hare and waved the mercenaries through.
“You—you’re supposed to clear us,” Tulient said, suddenly panicking. He had been expecting the security staff to catch the forged papers. He had been hoping for it.
“No, thanks. I got better things to do.”
One of the mercenaries dropped his briefcase, and it clattered noisily on the steps. It burst open, and paperwork began flying away in the breeze. The man cried out and scampered wildly after the papers, and for a moment, nobody was looking at the metal detector.
Hare flicked a tiny pellet at the detector. It hit on the inside and a tiny puff of powdered steel covered the inside panel. The metal detector began whooping, even with nobody inside of it. The security staff puzzled over it and cursed as the whooping continued and the entrance became crowded with more visitors.
“Can’t you just do a pat-down search?” Hare demanded. “We’re expected upstairs in two minutes.”
Nobody had a clue why the metal detector was acting up. Not only was it making a racket, but also the video screen was all white. The tiny powder particles were still unnoticed on the inside of the walkway. The crowd was getting ugly, and the whooping wouldn’t stop.
“Aw, just go,” the security chief said, and with a wave of his hand he ushered the mercenaries into the Confederation Building. They hurried through the metal detector, looking at their watches, like all harried accountants and bureaucrats. The metal detector just kept whooping and the security chief started kicking it.
The Confederation Building had 675 rooms when it was built in the 1960s, and it had been expanded at least twice. Tulient was hoping now that they would just get lost. But no such luck. Hare knew the way. On the sixth floor of the tower, Tulient and Hare left the elevator with eight other mercenaries. More climbed the stairs on either end of the building. They took out their automatic rifles and unfolded the stocks, leaving the Wal-Mart briefcases scattered in the hall.
“Maybe we should rethink this,” Tulient suggested.
Hare ignored him and pushed through the doors into the office suite of the premier of Newfoundland and Labrador.
His secretary looked up. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yes, well,” Tulient said, but Hare was already pushing through the doors into the office of the premier.
“Hey!” said one of the honor guards, who stood outside the door to the office.
“Halt!” said the second guard.
The men in suits took away the guards’ rifles. Each of the guards came to the late realization that there was real trouble brewing, and they went for their handguns, only to be bashed in the skull with the butt of their own rifles.
“What’s going on here?” It was the premier himself, on his feet behind his ornate antique desk.
The mercenaries parted before him, and Tulient was deeply embarrassed to find himself the focus of everyone’s attention. He had no choice but to move forward.
“Give the speech,” someone shouted. Tulient had forgotten about the headset. “Use your authority. You have the right and the obligation to do what you do.”
“Mr. Tulient!” the premier exclaimed.
“He knows who I am!” Tulient hissed as terror fought with embarrassment. “I’m getting out of here!” But when he turned, he found that the mercenaries had closed ranks behind him. They looked grim.
“Tulient, you can’t back out now,” the voice said. “Give the speech.”
“Aren’t you Mr. Tulient, the archaeologist?” the premier asked. Of course, the premier had been present for the knighting of one of his citizens.
