True Patriots

by Russell Fralich

  Daniel flicked his head toward the class. “I’m busy.”

  “Said it’s urgent. Won’t take no for an answer. I put them on hold.”

  There was only one person he wanted to hear from. Vanessa hadn’t answered his calls since Friday. His regular visit with Emily was planned for tomorrow night. He was worried. He turned to face the class and saw anticipation in the students’ body language. They were tense, unsure about what he was going to do, but curious, too.

  “We’ll finish our summary on competitive tactics in business next week.”

  He rushed to his office in the adjacent building and one floor up with Lloyd trailing far behind.

  He unlocked his office door, flung it wide, grabbed the receiver, and held it close, trembling in anticipation. “Vanessa?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Hello, professor. My name is Patrick. Patrick Forrestal. And I need your help.”

  Is this a joke?

  THREE

  DANIEL BURST THROUGH the double doors of the Westin Nova Scotian and marched past the elevator, slinging his bag over his shoulder while holding the latest Report on Business magazine. An earnest face with glowing white teeth smiled from the magazine’s cover along with the person’s name printed in huge type: Patrick Forrestal. No identification was really needed, though. Everyone in the business world knew him as the multi-millionaire saviour of a dozen wildly successful companies, former Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year, and a much-sought-after company board member.

  Daniel couldn’t believe his luck in getting a meeting with him.

  Forrestal was a national business celebrity. Daniel was a middle-aged assistant professor, essentially a junior professor-in-training at a small university at the far edge of the country. A call from Forrestal would make any faculty member jump. He could call any of the big-league schools — Harvard, Chicago, the London School of Economics — and they would drool at the chance to be close to his magic touch.

  But Forrestal wanted to speak with him.

  In a daze of incredulity, Daniel had only grasped snippets during the phone call the day before: “I need your help, professor … I’ve heard much about you … You come highly recommended.” Then a pause. “I need your expertise in a venture I’m considering.”

  “What sort of venture?” Daniel had asked.

  “I prefer talking face-to-face. I’ll be in town tomorrow. Would you be able to meet me at ten at the Westin? Room 1415. We can talk then.”

  Following the call, Daniel replaced the telephone handset, stood, walked to his door, and stuck his head into the hallway. A slab of light leaked from Lloyd’s office two doors down. Lloyd was the senior professor in the department and had hardly spoken to Daniel since he joined two months ago. Daniel took the few steps down the hall to peer into the office. The bald but still handsome sixty-year-old was reading something on his computer screen. His smile dissolved when he saw Daniel.

  “Next time, answer your own damn phone.” He didn’t beckon Daniel to sit in one of the two empty chairs in his office.

  Daniel said nothing and remained standing in the hallway.

  Lloyd clicked and closed the mail window on his screen. “Why the fuck would Patrick Forrestal call you?”

  Daniel visibly jumped at the open hostility in the voice. “I don’t know.”

  “Was this arranged by the dean, too?”

  Daniel’s appointment to the department was unorthodox. Instead of going through the usual process, he was hired directly by the university president and the business school dean. Daniel would never tell Lloyd why this happened, but the timing was right, and the dean had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. His marriage was over. It was time to leave Montreal. And the more distance he put between himself and his former professions, the better.

  In many ways, Daniel didn’t fit the typical junior professor profile: he was a decade and a half older than a newly minted Ph.D. graduate; he had at least a decade of international business experience; had lived in three countries and worked in a dozen others. Not the staid and stable background of a typical academic. Daniel’s top-down appointment and odd background irked many, but it bothered none more than Professor Lloyd Fanshawe, the éminence grise of the department. Daniel wondered if Lloyd interpreted Daniel’s hiring as a sign of his own impending decline, a direct threat to his alpha male status. Getting a call from Forrestal would thrust Daniel’s reputation in the department into the stratosphere. Forrestal’s rock-star status might brush off on him. Lloyd would not be pleased.

  “Of course not,” Daniel said.

  “What did he want?”

  Daniel paused. “I don’t really know. He wants to talk about some sort of venture.”

  “Here?”

  “He didn’t say. He wants to meet me tomorrow.”

  Lloyd returned his gaze to his computer screen. “Don’t fuck it up.”

  Asshole.

  Daniel had spent the night assembling a profile. Who was Patrick Forrestal, The Legend? Founder of the Fireweed Corporation, based in Toronto. The website was slick, with a logo of a purple flower that he didn’t recognize. He read a short quote in italics in the lower right corner: Like the hardy plant that sprouts after a forest fire, Fireweed Corporation helps carefully selected companies prosper in the face of adversity. He was worth at least half a billion dollars according to Business Week. Investors loved and hated him. They loved his unbroken string of guaranteed dividends over a decade; they hated his unavailability for meetings. He never met face-to-face. Until now.

  After three hours of shallow sleep, Daniel had darted to the hotel. Now, he paced in front of the elevator, taking a few moments to gather his thoughts and concentrate on the questions he would ask the shining star of modern Canadian business. A new beginning for Daniel was at stake. A clean break from his shame.

  The door dinged and opened, and a sharply dressed woman, wavy blond hair, late twenties with a deep brown tan, darted away, keen to avoid eye contact, perhaps worried about unwanted male attention in a confined space, or because she was focused on a meeting that she had clearly dressed for. He couldn’t tell.

  He stepped into the empty elevator and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. The door closed, enveloping him in an old Arcade Fire hit whining from the tinny speakers. He turned, adjusted his tie, and was surprised by what he saw in the wall mirror. Yes, the lines on his face had etched away some of his youth. But the mirror still reflected an image — somewhat attenuated perhaps — of what he had once been. He had most of his blond hair, and he could see only the faintest beginning of a middle-aged paunch. The glasses still looked good, though. And he still had what Vanessa called “that jazz crooner look” in his dark suit and thin black tie. In spite of trying to pulverize any last aftershock of the old life, maybe it was still there — lurking, waiting.

  The doors spread open to reveal a busy corridor. Daniel was surprised, not expecting to see anyone. He hugged the wall as he passed other guests. Two Asian couples searched for their rooms, keys in hand, one man fumbling with two enormous pink bags. He thought he heard a crisp Beijing accent in their muted conversation. He could hear children talking in 1404 and a television blaring in the room next to it. An older man in a hotel uniform emerged from 1410, pleading with someone unseen in the room. Yes, on behalf of the hotel management, he would personally resolve their complaint.

  Daniel refocused his thoughts and continued walking until he stood in front of room 1415, where a “Do Not Disturb” sign dangled from the door handle. Another adjustment of his tie. Watch beeped exactly ten o’clock. Breath check. He slid his right palm along his trousers to remove the accumulated sweat.

  Two quick, polite knocks. That should be enough.

  He heard only the muffled drone of music from within the room.

  Whoom. Whoom. This time he hit the door with the side of his fist. The sound echoed along the now empty corridor.

  He waited for the door to open.

  “Mr. Forre
stal?”

  His previous careers had forced him to develop a Teutonic punctuality and attention to detail when necessary. He was at the right place at the right time. He was sure. He fished out his cellphone. The hotel receptionist he called had no response from within the room. The phone inside squawked at least ten times.

  Maybe Forrestal had forgotten about the meeting.

  And left the radio on?

  He returned to the lobby, which buzzed with the random sounds of a dozen conversations. The attendant at hotel reception suggested looking for Forrestal in the lobby or bar. That fruitless search took less than two minutes. Another five passed before the hotel manager appeared from a door behind the reception desk with a professional smile glued to his face and the crossed keys of Les Clefs d’Or glittering on his lapels. Daniel recognized him as the man in uniform he had seen earlier.

  He tried to look panic-stricken. “Mr. Forrestal. In 1415. He’s not answering.”

  The manager kept his gaze on his computer screen. “Did you knock on his door?”

  “He didn’t answer.”

  “You can leave a message.”

  “He might be passed out. Or worse.”

  The manager flicked a glance at Daniel. “What do you mean?”

  “His heart pills. He forgot them. He’s not young anymore.”

  Two minutes later, he stood in the elevator with the manager on his way back to the fourteenth floor.

  The door opened. They stepped out as a thirty-something man approached from the far end of the corridor. Daniel noted that the man was wearing a sharp black suit, a turtleneck, and a black toque, and he was holding a silver briefcase in his right hand. Odd attire, Daniel thought, but then refocused his mind on his present task. The man brushed past, seemingly lost in a song that played only in his head. He hummed a tune that Daniel thought he recognized but couldn’t quite place. He walked into the open elevator and stared at the mirrored wall before pressing a button with his free hand. The door hissed closed.

  Less than a minute later, Daniel stood in front of the door to room 1415 as the manager inserted his master key, opened the door, and froze.

  Daniel scowled as he inhaled a familiar odour, saw the mess around the body on the floor, and heard George Harrison singing about floors that needed sweeping from the bedside iPod dock.

  FOUR

  IN SEVEN DAYS, I will be a hero to millions. People will praise my name along with other giants of Confederation: Macdonald, Diefenbaker, and even Harper. They built the nation. I will build a new one. A better one.

  The tour bus droned northward along Highway 2 from Cardston, where the premier had just given a speech. Ahead, Fort MacLeod’s roads spread out like an X-ray. A spindly rib cage of dusty brown roads, tastefully decorated houses, and small strip malls, all set against the plains rising toward the distant snow-covered Rocky Mountains. In the dim horizontal light of a cloudy winter noon, the town looked like it had chain-smoked since adolescence.

  Today’s media event was planned in front of the Fort, the Museum of the North-West Mounted Police. The premier would speak for fifteen minutes. The backdrop will work well, Garth thought. The NWMP, the precursor to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, brought law and order to the Prairies. They helped transform and civilize the West. Now it was time for the next phase.

  Minutes after the bus stopped, Garth sat in front of the camera and began to sweat under the blazing lights. He adjusted his microphone. Nice way to cap off a good day campaigning. With a friendly network, one that sympathizes with our cause. With a few softball questions, this will make me look like a leader, he thought.

  The reporter, a woman with short blond curls and a dark red dress, strode in and introduced herself. He didn’t catch her name. She was stunning. Early thirties. A trim figure that said “no kids.” Lean legs of a mountain biker, a smooth graceful neck, and a cute button nose. He would ask her out after the interview. He smiled while she adjusted her earphone and nudged her chair ahead. The red light on the camera flicked on.

  “This is CTV News, and I am speaking with Garth Haynes, manager of the pro-independence campaign and former executive director of the Alberta Independence Movement. Welcome, Mr. Haynes, and thank you for joining us at such a critical time in the campaign.”

  “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “With the vote now only five days away, how are you feeling about the latest polls that put you at only forty-seven percent of the popular vote? At the start of the campaign, the premier was quite confident of victory. But clearly your support has softened.”

  This was not the friendly question he expected. Garth forced a smile. “We feel it’s important to talk to the right people. Our support has consolidated. Albertans see the advantages that independence offers.”

  “But don’t some see this as a desperate attempt to capitalize on a short-term bump in support due to the Supreme Court ruling?”

  What kind of question is that? “There’s nothing desperate or short-term at all about our efforts. Our message is merely the natural continuation of a movement that’s taken decades to prepare. It all started with the CCF, then Social Credit, the Reform Party, and the simple cry of “The West Wants In.” Of course there’s been progress with the Conservatives in power for many years. And now it’s the East that wants in. We see a chance to improve Confederation for all Canadians. To make it fairer for everyone.”

  “So for Albertans, ‘fairer’ means a separate country?”

  His shock at the surprisingly aggressive questioning was beginning to dissipate, replaced with a bubbling anger, like acid in his throat. “We see a historic opportunity to correct some remaining imperfections in the Confederation arrangement. To make it better.”

  She looked at him. “You mean better especially for the West —”

  “We do pay the bills.”

  “So it’s all about money? You have oil. The other provinces don’t?”

  “Look, it’s not our fault that Canadian identity has distilled down to this, um, dichotomy.”

  “East versus West?”

  He held his breath in frustration. She was just trying to bait him into saying something stupid. He slowed his speech to give a fraction of a second extra before he spoke, plenty of time for his brain to double-check each word. “Quebec called the shots before, but no one cares about them anymore.”

  She glanced at her notes. “So you don’t consider them a founding nation of the country?”

  Garth wondered if the reporter had been switched with one from the CBC. He expected such a question from the Socialists, but not from more impartial, free-market media.

  “Of course they are.”

  “But they just don’t matter anymore?”

  He leaned forward. Then, as he realized that the shadows thrown by the lights would make him appear more sinister, he leaned back again. “Quebec’s voice has diminished as a result of the new reality of the country. They represent a smaller fraction of the population. They’ve shrivelled to a whiny rump of Separatists, but their culture of eternal persecution remains.”

  “Isn’t culture important?”

  Another ambush question. The acid moved higher up his throat. “All that weird music, European statist attitude, and Cirque du Soleil flamboyance? Yes, they produced Céline Dion, but for every successful cultural export, Quebeckers have also churned out countless oddball artists reminiscing about a past that never existed.”

  “You must admit, though, that they’re distinct. Isn’t independence also about preserving Albertan culture? Aren’t there parallels with Quebec’s argument in your campaign message?”

  “Canada has never oppressed them.” The words were coming out faster now. He was losing control, sentence by sentence. “Canada has never tried to suffocate them or threaten their French language. But Quebeckers still complain.” He could feel his face redden, his eyes shooting daggers at her. “Westerners are creative, hopeful, energetic, entrepreneurial, and caring. Once, Easterners had hope,
too, but they spoiled their chance with Liberal elite politics, squandering their manufacturing dominance. And now they’re mostly a smouldering pile of Socialists intent on confiscating the West’s bounty as their own.” He took a big gulp of air.

  “So what does your party offer Albertans and Canadians?”

  “Our movement is about the will of the people, the silent majority, and the control of our own destiny.” He glared at her with steely eyes.

  “Wasn’t that the slogan used in the Quiet Revolution back in the sixties? Maîtres chez nous?”

  Garth relaxed his cheeks, but he knew his eyes still betrayed his anger at the ambush. “We all want the same thing: to be left alone to do our own thing. Who could argue with that?”

  “How about the other provinces that don’t necessarily share in the Alberta oil bounty? Wasn’t it oil that triggered your latest scaremongering about declaring an independent country?”

  “Not scaremongering. Telling people the facts. It was the Montana Pipeline. Ottawa is still blocking it.”

  She leaned closer. “Doesn’t Ottawa have that right? Isn’t international trade under the federal government’s control?”

  “We negotiated with our southern neighbour to send oil their way. To have better access to the U.S. market after the failure of Keystone XL. It was a great deal for Albertans. And Ottawa killed it.”

  “The Americans cancelled Keystone, I believe.”

  He admitted to himself that she was well briefed, but he couldn’t stray from the official message at such a late stage in the campaign. “The Northern Gateway Pipeline was put on hold — it’s probably going to be cancelled — by Ottawa. The Energy East Pipeline never got off the ground, and Ottawa has delayed the Mackenzie Valley Pipeline in the Northwest Territories for decades. We’re stuck on three sides. We only have one option left. Go south.”

  “You took your argument about provincial rights to the Supreme Court last year. And you lost. Many pundits predicted this outcome.”