and the New York State Police, not to mention other American federal police and security agencies.
As a result of this “jurisdictional nightmare,” the reserve did attract criminals and criminal gangs, native and non-native, who saw it as an ungoverned space where overlapping judicial and police responsibilities provided room to manoeuvre. While most of the permanent residents of Akwesasne were peaceful, law-abiding citizens interested only in making an honest living and providing for their families and children within a society based in Mohawk traditions, over the years, Akwesasne had hosted drug, gun, and human smugglers. The illicit tobacco trade, Alex knew, was big business on the reserve too.
Although the conditions at Akwesasne provided the Movement with a safe haven and an environment where the organization could work and grow in relative safety from Canadian and American authorities, Molly Grace was determined to eventually sweep from every reserve in Canada all forms of corruption and gangsterism. For the moment, however, the security she needed required a few uneasy alliances with unsavoury characters. It was simply a burden the Movement would have to carry for now. Nevertheless, at Akwesasne, Molly and her enforcers were tolerated by the residents because she kept these “allies” outside the reserve, provided money and protection to the community and its many legitimate businesses, and backed up the Mohawk Police Services in their running battles with criminal gangs.
But Akwesasne’s home on both sides of the international boundary offered an added bonus over any other Canadian reserve – almost unhindered movement across the border, and uncomplicated access to American aboriginal leaders and their rich and secure communities across the United States.
* * *
Alex opened the door a crack. “Right out. Just have to wash the soap off and dress.”
The stunned kid had disappeared at some point during the night. Now, the dim light of the half-dawn showed only the outline of the big guy who had escorted him to the hut the night before, the one Alex had tentatively pegged as a warrant officer.
“Okay,” said the voice. “But hurry up.”
Alex quickly splashed water from the sink and improvised a sponge bath, dabbing his joints with soap and wiping off most of the water with paper towels and his dirty T-shirt. He dressed and grabbed his small pack. He felt alert and refreshed, though hardly clean.
As he walked out the door the “warrant officer” snatched the pack and threw it back into the hut.
“Hey,” Alex protested, “never separate a soldier from his kit.” Then he added, as casually as he could, “That’s the rule, right, warrant officer?”
His escort smirked. “Nice try, captain, but this is a need-to-know place.”
They walked across the compound, into the Quonset hut, and down a long hall towards – Alex had no idea what. By the time he passed through a second short hall into a second inner hut, his eyes had adjusted to the dull light. The various sections of the building were, he correctly assumed, separated by narrow spaces between their walls to guard against penetration by electronic-seeking satellites and direction finders.
The long, narrow inside hut was divided into small working areas, separated by standard movable partitions of different colours for different functions. But the deceptively simple layout hid a sophisticated computerized command and control capability. Every computer connected to the Internet or to the specially constructed secret First Nations network, which was protected by a sophisticated high-security firewall. The cables leading to external access points in the village were buried in deep, shielded concrete conduits. Alert armed guards kept the separate staffs from wandering into the most vital areas, especially the code room in the communications centre far down the corridor in the heart of the compound.
This inner area – nicknamed the Complex, after the NORAD command post in Colorado – was at the heart of First Nations Movement. And this morning the staff was fully alert and very active. Alex was taken down another tight side corridor, past a cramped meeting room. Before the door could be hastily slammed in his face, he recognized a few senior chiefs of the First Nations Assembly. His escort opened another door farther down the corridor and directed him inside.
Alex stopped uncertainly inside the doorway. Instead of hushed darkness and a dozen people hunched over flickering screens, the space was bright, nearly empty, and very ordinary-looking, like an unimportant conference room. A thirty-something man in practical outdoor clothes stood at the front of the room behind a two-metre-long folding table, with papers and a map spread out before him. He put his steaming coffee mug on the makeshift desk and waved Alex to a chair in front.
“Morning, Alex. I’m Bill Whitefish, chief of staff to the First Nations Movement.” He extended his hand, and then sat down. “Take a seat. Hope you got some rest. Coffee?”
“No, thanks,” Alex replied, before turning to move his chair. He stopped in surprise. Behind him, in the far corner of the room, a woman sat silently in an armchair, legs crossed, her lap filled with files, looking him over with unsettling intensity. She wasn’t much older than Alex. Dressed in cords and a rose-patterned shirt, she was slim, conventionally attractive, and, judging by her brown complexion, high cheekbones, and long, silky, braided hair hanging over her left shoulder, obviously native – probably Cree, Alex thought. She said nothing and pointed to the chair. Alex sat down, uncomfortably aware of those large, black eyes burning through the back of his head straight into his mind.
Bill Whitefish didn’t introduce her. Instead, without preamble, he said, “That was good work at Petawawa, just as we expected when you were assigned to the mission.”
Alex mumbled, “Thanks … my young people did well … I hope they’re being treated properly …” He resisted the urge to turn to the woman in the corner. Disquieting as her stare was from behind, it wouldn’t improve things to look her in the eye, at least not now.
“Don’t worry about them. They’ll be fine, and thanks to your training, useful in the future as well. Amazing what a bit of pride and purpose can do to these supposedly wild kids, don’t you think?”
Whitefish turned, uncovered a whiteboard behind his table, and pointed to a sparse organization chart. “Later today we’ll talk to you about another mission we have for you. But first, it’s time you got to know the details of the organization that’s directing this campaign. What I’m going to tell you is for your ears only. Many others know some of the details, only a few know the full extent of our operation, and fewer still know who knows. Even the fact that you have been briefed is a secret. I know that you understand from your special ops background that there are government security clearances above top secret that are themselves a secret. So, assume the same thing here. What you learn this morning is not for gossip and not to be discussed with anyone. Got it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Let me begin with the bare-bones details of the Native People’s Movement, the NPM, and how we’ve built it up, especially after the government-inspired violence on and after the June Days of Protest some time ago. You remember that disaster?”
“Yes, sir.” Alex couldn’t help reverting to army subordinate-superior language in these situations. “I remember it, of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“Alex, just call me Bill. Anyway, we began to organize the NPM in detail once we understood that a serious conflict with the government was inevitable, since the government had repudiated the land settlement and national sovereignty deals we thought were cast in stone. We understood that a nationalist movement needed to be created. The NPM and its tactics are modelled on other successful ‘people’s revolts,’ such as those in Algeria, Vietnam, and the ANC in South Africa, for instance. I think you’re more than familiar with these histories?”
“I am, certainly – a major topic in my degree program and a long-time interest in any case. I assume T.E. Lawrence and his revolt in the desert is a major source of ideas too?”
“He is the central source,” said a voice from the back of the room. “Go on, Bill.”
“The NPM is composed