hearing,” she said louder than usual.
“I hear what I want to hear,” he shot back.
“But dad, where does it end. Do you go on trudging into the office forever; is that the idea?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
She shook her head. “What about your credibility? What do your peers think? I mean how much impact do you think you have these days? Couldn’t someone younger make better use of your access to the Prime Minister?”
A waitress stopped at their table. Her name was Essa and Harry knew her well. They had been friends for the better part of fifteen years and he welcomed her interruption. “How about some dessert Harry?”
“Two pieces of chocolate cake . . . the German one, if you have any today please Essa.” Emma wisely avoided catching Harry on the sugar restriction inconsistency. Essa winked at Harry, and he smiled. She disappeared into the kitchen. Emma continued her assault.
“I’m going to be brutally honest dad. The vote tomorrow; do you even know what the issue is? Are you up to date on it?”
“Certainly.”
“Prove it.”
He was growing resentful know. Granted his daughter was a successful bright person. She was a fairly well known journalist in a city where it was difficult to become one, but he was her father; she had spat up on his shoulder forty odd years ago, and surely he deserved more respect than she was affording him. His glare told her as much.
“Dad, it’s just that I don’t want to see you hurt. You know how some boxers stick around too long, and their legacy becomes their last awful fight.”
“Emma, what are you talking about? Boxing? Really? I have an opinion on the legislation that is at the core of the vote tomorrow. Believe me, I know all about the bill.” The emissions bill was a restriction on car makers that would force them, at a cost to themselves, to substantially reduce the emissions produced by their cars over the next ten years. Harry’s bipartisan view was that the bill needed to be signed, but several of his colleagues, who like he had roots with the Conservative Party, did not agree. The “nays” were probably going to kill the bill in the House of Commons.
Emma continued. Harry tuned her out and scanned the room for Essa; she was taking a drink order from Sam Donner, an editor with a local newspaper. Essa was a wonderful woman in Harry’s eyes; a sturdy Italian mother of three, grandmother of four who loved life. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Harry had often teased himself with thoughts of the two of them, both widowers, living out their lives together, but on this day they had work to do. Essa’s eyes caught Harry’s and she winked, discreetly enough so that only he saw.
Essa’s wink was their signal; a signal that she had just told Sam a complete lie, an absolute untruth—a rumour. Essa had just planted a rumour. Harry understood rumours. In fact, he used them in a very constructive way.
It was twenty years ago that Harry fully began to understand rumours or information flows as he preferred to call them. As his life as a science professor began to become mundane, and the potential research of the day got scooped up by people more technically proficient and younger than he, politics began to become more appealing. He won various elections at various levels of government, sat in a few cabinets, was loyal to the right people, and ultimately was awarded with a seat in the senate. A decade ago he had left the Senate and became a special advisor to a then very young Prime Minister—he maintained that position today.
At some point early on in his political career, he began to realize the importance of perceptions, and that ultimately perceptions were influenced to a large degree by the views of others in one’s social circle. He was dismayed to learn that these perceptions and views, more times than not, were based on falsehoods, and many times were a product of slander. Harry began to make these falsehoods his science.
As time went on, he defined his craft a little better; every information flow had to have a clear objective, and a detailed agenda and time horizon was always part of the process. There were planting procedures, carrying procedures, bridging procedures, and exit procedures. The people who were used were categorized as planters, passive carriers, active carriers, long bridges, short bridges, confirmers, reputable confirmers, and on and on. If possible, Harry liked to have as little influence on the environment in question as possible. He believed there was always a suitable structure in place somewhere. It was just a matter of finding it. In a perfect situation, all he would have to do was push the first domino and sit back. Unfortunately it wasn’t always this simple.
With Essa, he cheated a little bit. She pretty much knew what he was up to. They’d been working together for a while and she would act as his initial plant in most cases. She was able to do this because she had a reputation among people in Harry’s line of work for being incredibly accurate with her information. Her credibility was an asset and insured that the flows started off strong. Harry had helped her build this credibility over time by offering the odd bit of confidential information, and persuading her to pass it on; a small price to pay for the dependability of her planting technique.
“Dad, you there? I’ll be honest, this is sort of what I’m talking about. Your concentration isn’t what it used to be. If you can’t even concentrate on me while I’m sitting across from you, how are you going to be able to help the country?”
“I’m here Emma.”
“I know Dad. I’m sorry. I just wish you wouldn’t be so stubborn.”
Harry said nothing and looked into his daughters eyes. Her face hinted of pity which made his blood boil. Did she really think that he had nothing to offer? At what point had his little girl stopped looking up to her father and started looking down? Harry was ashamed of the next thought that crept into his consciousness; could his daughter have a motive? Could she want him to be senile and defenseless? Could Emma and he have grown apart such that her life would be simpler if he was cooped up in a home somewhere? He cursed the minutes, hours and days that had ravaged his body to the extent that it was unable to reaffirm his capacity to think.
“Dad, are you all right? Do you want to go home?”
“No Emma, I’m just looking at you.”
Harry looked to the bar at the front of the restaurant, and saw that Sam Donner was waiting, on what Harry guessed was a very dry martini, apparently having gotten impatient with Essa. Harry got up as quickly as he could. “Dad!” his daughter yelled in horror.
“I’m just going to the bar for a drink . . . a single of something from Scotland or something . . . I don’t know . . . I’m a grown man,” he said and smiled. She rolled her eyes.
“Rubin, that drink I owe you. Come with me,” Harry said to Rubin Macteer, who sat in front of an empty plate at the table behind them.”
Rubin smiled at Emma and dutifully followed Harry. Rubin was about fifty, a Conservative member of parliament, and in Harry’s opinion, also of the mind that Harry was senile or insane. Harry knew Rubin would follow him to the bar, knew that Rubin would think he was humoring an old man. Harry maneuvered himself at the bar so that Sam and Rubin were standing beside each other. They spoke softly to one another, giggled, no doubt at Harry’s expense, and then honed in for some serious gossip. Harry ordered a cheap glass of brandy for Rubin and a rather expensive one for himself. Rubin took the glass, none the wiser, and they toasted their health. Harry ambled back to his table.
Harry was certain that Sam hadn’t let him down. He had undoubtedly told Rubin that the Liberal faction of the House of Commons was willing to make a deal on the emissions bill. That if Conservative MPs would vote in favour of the bill, the Liberals in the House of Commons and Senate would ease up on Senate reform. They would cease to make term limits, minimum attendance requirements and age limits for senators a front line issue. Of course, none of this was true; it had been born over tea between Essa and Harry the previous day, and discreetly passed on to Sam by Essa not ten minutes earlier, but it was certainly going to help them get the emissions bill passed. The next step was to confirm the rumour in R
ubin’s mind. Sam wasn’t reputable enough by himself; a second independent source was needed. Harry turned to Emma.
“I’m thinking of selling the old Ford Emma.” This change in direction silenced her for a moment.
“Well that’s good; you haven’t driven that thing in ages.”
Harry knew she wasn’t finished.
“And I’ll be honest dad, at eighty-four, it might be time to contemplate getting rid of the Honda as well.”
“Now Emma. I believe that would leave me without a means of getting around.”
“Dad, you’re eighty-four. Do you plan on driving forever?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Can you see the other cars dad; don’t you feel guilty about endangering the lives of other drivers every time you get behind the wheel?”
“I drove myself here today. I’m tested every year Emma. I always pass my test.”
She gave Harry another condescending look and a half-hearted smile which annoyed him, but eased his guilt for what he was about to do. “I’ve been offered fifteen thousand dollars for the Ford.” This was a lie, but his daughters’ verbal reaction to such a windfall was both predictable and valuable at this point.
“Sounds like a good deal.” She said with little or no joy.
Harry began to shake his hand on the table and with a stern voice said
Rumours & Lies Page 23