Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language.
November 28, 2019
Venice, Italy via Video Call
“We will maintain our course of action, Madame Prime Minister,” the French diplomat said. “You have made your case.”
Ellen Birkwood stared at the UN Security Council with cold, harsh eyes. “Why, Monsieur St. Martin? Why do you continue to turn your back on the Americans?”
“It is… er, how do you say…? Ah, we must remain neutral in American affairs,” the ancient man answered. His powder-white hair was receding, and his long nose stuck out, even on Birkwood’s screen. St. Martin wore enormous glasses that seemed to cover the top half of his face. “It is imperative. I am afraid, madame, that France will not support either side.”
Birkwood pinched the bridge of her nose. “Based on reports received from our Mexican and Canadian allies--”
“I have read the reports, and they do not move me one way or another, madame,” the Frenchman interrupted. “And it has done little to move the others in the Security Council, as well.”
Birkwood moved a stray hair out of her face. “Monsieur, I have an agent in America as we speak that has not returned to Canada as instructed.”
On-screen, some of the seemingly dead Security Council representatives stirred. St. Martin was unmoved.
“And? I see no reason as to why he or she matters in this.”
“Well, monsieur, you see… He does matter.” Birkwood looked at the Frenchman directly in the eyes. “Remember my foreign secretary, Mr. Loxley? Your colleague before your promotion to the UN?”
“Beauregard is no field agent,” St. Martin said calmly.
“He is now.”
St. Martin adjusted his giant glasses. “You’re bluffing.”
“You tell me.”
St. Martin let out a hoarse, sarcastic chuckle. “Loxley may be a friend, madame, but I will not risk the security of France to help him.”
Birkwood smirked. “Good day, monsieur. Tonight in your prayers, ask for a heart.”
She ended the call and let her shoulders droop. The Brit was tired, so very tired, of St. Martin’s tactics. Mentioning Loxley was in America had been her final hope of sending UN Peacekeepers to the Americans.
“That went splendidly,” a male voice said from beside her. Out of sight of the cameras, the Opposition Leader had listened in on the meeting. He was a short, fat man, rather resembling some kind of Dwarf, with beady black eyes. His giant, overgrown gray sideburns had grown outwards along his jawline instead of downward.
“You just loved that, didn’t you, Schmidt?”
The fat man happily nodded. “Every moment. And it’s put me in such a good mood that I’ll help you convince Her Majesty to send soldiers into America.”
“--but,” he interrupted, “I want to speak to Loxley before you do if he comes back.”
“He will come back.”
“Yes,” Schmidt said darkly. “Be it alive or in a box of pine, he will come back.”