Snow Job

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by William Deverell


  Ray DiPalma’s approach to them, his apparent reaching-out, was so odd that Arthur feared he might be emotionally unstable, though he didn’t seem to pose a physical threat. He assumed DiPalma had chosen the Carleton campus because it was close to their apartment building, though it was also, ominously, only a kilometre from the site of the terrorist bombing. On the way home, they’d scouted the proposed rendezvous, a short-term parking lot, and found it safe enough, well lit and busy.

  To Arthur, the prospect of a cloak-and-dagger tête-à-tête was too intriguing to let pass. “If you’re nervous about this, your devoted life partner will attend alone.”

  “I suspect it’s me he wants to talk to, Arthur. We’ll both go.”

  Both jumped as a door slammed. It was only the neighbour in 10C returning home, the theatre arts major, currently in rehearsal for a student production — “Marital Bonds,” a comedy. Arthur could use some comedy.

  On the dot of eight o’clock, Margaret pulled into the parking lot and turned the engine off, and they waited in silence. Soon after, DiPalma rapped at a side window, startling them. Arthur unlocked the back door, and he slipped in and slouched low in the seat.

  “Admirable car, a Prius.” A low, melancholy voice, a well-mannered way of speaking. “I ought to have bought a hybrid myself. I feel I’m part of the problem.” As if unsure they grasped his meaning, he added, “Carbon emissions are out of control.” He smelled faintly of tobacco and alcohol, well-aged rye whiskey, likely — Arthur had a trained nose for spirits. “Ray DiPalma. I work for CSIS.”

  “We know,” Margaret said. She and Arthur were turned halfway in their seats, studying him. Arthur had advised her to say little, to let this character do the talking, the explaining.

  DiPalma stared for a while at car headlights reflecting on the Rideau River. “That’s why you took my photo, of course, to ID me. I hope I didn’t give you cause to be alarmed. I’m a threat to no one but myself. Does anyone else know we’re meeting? Ms. Litvak, I presume.” This was neither affirmed nor denied, so he carried on. “I expect she can be counted on to be discreet. We have to be extraordinarily careful.”

  He gestured toward the campus buildings. “I got my master’s here, modern history. Fresh out of college, third in my class, I became the wonder boy of CSIS, one of their best field men. I worked the Balkan desk in the nineties; heck, I ran it. I was barely thirty years old. I got commendations. Then they dumped on me.”

  “We read about it,” Margaret said. Arthur cautioned her with a look.

  DiPalma began chewing on something, candy or gum, maybe a breath mint. “I have no idea why I left the car unlocked, other than … well, there’d been some marital issues, I was anxious, distracted. There was nothing on the computer, no analysis, no secrets. A few awkward sites I’d bookmarked. Personal stuff … No need to get into that.”

  The continued silence from the front seat seemed to unsettle DiPalma, who apparently had trouble getting to the point. Arthur couldn’t guess what that might be: some manner of discreet advice or friendly warning? Maybe something more significant, a political bombshell.

  “Let me do the talking, that’s the idea, isn’t it? Often the best technique in dealing with a subject who so obviously needs to unload. Where does one begin? I suppose by saying I regard you, both of you, as incredibly fine people. There’s no one classier in the courtroom than you, Mr. Beauchamp, that’s what your biographer says. I saw an interview with him on TV. And no one has shown more political integrity than you, Mrs. Blake … Ms. Blake.”

  “Margaret.” This offering of her given name seemed to come from habit, a politician’s habit.

  “I’m sympathetic to your goals. I’m more than sympathetic, I am firmly in your camp. I follow organic practices. I recycle, I avoid the trap of consumerism. I have my lapses, but we all err. Was it politically wise of you to hire Zack Flett and Savannah Buckett? Probably not, but it was generous, it’s the way you are, doing what feels right, not cynically calculating the main chance.”

  “Have you been tapping my phone?” she asked, calm but assertive.

  “Absolutely not, it’s illegal. That’s so, isn’t it, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  Arthur felt forced to speak finally. “Yes, absent judicial consent.”

  “Do I understand you were assigned to follow me?” Margaret asked.

  “Do you think I asked to take on this stinking file?” A sudden burst of temper. “You’re harbouring terrorists, that’s their concept, not mine, it’s as if you’re a danger to the nation.” A deep breath, and his voice softened. “My instructions were simply to execute follows — that’s spy jargon, sorry — to shadow you, Margaret, to see who you’re in contact with, collect names, create target profiles.” He was still low in the back seat, shaking from the cold — or from something else, Arthur wasn’t sure. A need, nicotine, alcohol.

  “Do you mind if we take a little drive, Ray?” Arthur asked.

  “No, let’s go.”

  Margaret wheeled onto University Drive, then south on Colonel By, away from the crime-scene roadblocks still slowing traffic at the bombing site.

  “Who instructed you to do this, Ray?” Arthur asked. “To target my wife.”

  His response was circumspect. “Have either of you met Anthony Crumwell?”

  “We know who he is,” Margaret said.

  “Old school. Commies under beds. Enemies of the state lurking behind lampposts.” DiPalma drew close to Arthur, who got a whiff of spearmint over stale tobacco breath. “Is this conversation safe, Mr. Beauchamp? Is it covered by solicitor-client privilege? Other-wise, they’ll throw the book at me. Treason. Sedition. I need to talk to someone I can trust.”

  “Has it to do with what happened this morning?” Arthur asked. “The bombing?”

  “Can we go somewhere comfortable and private? Is your apartment free?”

  “You would risk being seen with us,” Arthur said.

  “Let me out a block away, and I’ll join you in five minutes. If this does get back to CSIS, I’ll explain I was infiltrating you.” A rare smile from this sombre man.

  For all Arthur knew, DiPalma was infiltrating them. But he sensed that was neither likely nor a concern, given that he couldn’t conceive they had anything to hide.

  They stopped on Bronson, not far from where police were still combing through rubble under searchlights. DiPalma got out clumsily, dug hungrily into a pack of cigarettes.

  As Margaret pulled away, she said, “How unbalanced do you think this guy is? Or is he conniving at something? ‘Carbon emissions are out of control.’ Thanks for telling us, Ray, we had no idea. I think the klutzy thing might be an act. I don’t trust him.”

  “Let’s hear him out. The priest may not have given him the hearing he’d hoped for in the confessional, and I have a sense of a dam about to give way. He shows all the indications of a man falling apart.” During his several decades as a trial lawyer, Arthur had learned to make quick and accurate appraisals of witnesses, their body language, speech inflections, eye movements. He was willing to gamble — cautiously — on his reading of this fellow.

  “Well, it’s obviously your ear he wants, with all your solicitor-client privileges, so you entertain him.”

  Arthur was distressed that she seemed aggrieved by that. But they shouldn’t risk compromising her — M.P.s and even priests were compellable witnesses, and Arthur had a sense that DiPalma’s secrets could ultimately be tested in a courtroom. An interesting character, and whether real or a fraud or a nut, he represented a chance, finally, for Arthur to elevate his role from that of loyal sidekick to his life partner.

  Dear sweethearts,

  We got split up from the group again, because of some mix-up, and, boy, they happen a lot here. We got to departures late, Ivy was throwing up, something she ate, and there were only two seats left on the direct flight from Tashkent to Almaty so the three of us were put on this grungy prop plane to someplace called Igorgrad so we can make connections. I swear, we’ll NEV
ER do business with Exotic Tours ever again. The old man next to me said, “Why you go Bashtan?” I said, “What’s Bashtan? We go Almaty.” He says, “Good luck.”

  So that started us worrying and we checked with the flight attendant and he didn’t speak any English, but he did have some Russian and all we could figure out is there’s some kind of trouble and the connecting flight will be delayed or something. Well, it’s another adventure, I guess.

  Hank, I hope you got Ruffy to the vet so he could be fixed. (Don’t try to do it yourself, I don’t care if you are a surgeon. Have the girls got their flu shots?) I’ll try to slip this into an envelope and mail it from Bashtan, but the way things work around these parts I’ll probably be back home before it arrives. If it arrives.

  I hope I can find something lovely in Bashtan for Katie for her thirteenth.

  Weather’s been great, but we seem to be heading north, so I’m glad we brought our parkas. Maxine says hi. A year after Wally’s funeral, and she’s only now climbing out of it. Ivy is hopeless, still pining for that loser of a boyfriend, Maxine is sure he’s into drugs. Her idea was that a few weeks away would cure all her hopeless moping, but I don’t know. When I think we’ll be dealing with three teenagers in a few years, I go, “Yikes!”

  Love you and miss you. Love you all. I’m going to come back with stories.

  Jill XOXO

  8

  Returning from his third trip to the can, feeling a little rosy, Huck Finnerty nodded in passing to Anthony Crumwell, operations head of CSIS, who was going over his reports, waiting for his turn in the war room, as the cabinet room had been dubbed. The P.M. always got a chill just looking at this cold fish, Canada’s sphincter-eyed head spy, with his maimed right hand — he’d lost three fingers to a letter bomb. An import, a Brit, former head of MI5’s anti-terrorist wing.

  Before the break, Lafayette had heaped about fifteen minutes of praise on DuWallup before taking him off at the knees. Only your resignation will save this government, mon ami. Poor DuWallup. They’d spent all afternoon doctoring something up for the media, but an outright lie (such as: the Bhashyistanis had known full well Erzhan had split, but insisted on taking their chances) was not going to fool even the Ottawa Sun. It struck Finnerty as odd that Abzal’s name had never been mentioned by the visiting Bhashies, or his whereabouts queried. But maybe they were forbidden to talk about him.

  As a gesture of loyalty, he made a point of settling in beside DuWallup before reopening discussion. “Anything new?”

  “There have been stirrings,” said Boyes, the PMO chief. “Bhashyistan national TV interrupted its programming — patriotic songs all day — for an announcement there’s to be an announcement. Presumably by the Ultimate Leader. Meanwhile, we’ve shown clips worldwide that the Ilyushin crew are all safe and in good health.”

  “Okay,” Finnerty said, “while we all wait with bated breath, let’s hear from our head spook. He’s been shining his pants out there.” Someone went to fetch him. Finnerty was willing to put more trust in CSIS than the RCMP, especially after the way Commissioner Lessard dropped the dime on DuWallup.

  So Lessard was out, Crumwell in, and Clara Gracey back. Finnerty had been so riled at Lafayette’s pushiness he’d insisted on her counsel. He also needed her for balance.

  “Thank you, gentlemen — and lady, of course — for making time for me,” Crumwell said. “Much of this you may have heard from my esteemed colleague Commissioner Lessard. However, we’ve made additional inquiries.” The spymaster spoke in clipped phrases, with a superior old school inflection that Finnerty found irritating. He tried not to be distracted by the sight of his two-fingered hand — only the thumb and middle finger had survived.

  “Erzhan. Abzal Erzhan. Do not be surprised if you hear positive testimonials from fellow teachers and neighbours. Many knew of his history, but most shrugged it off. None remember him talking much about his homeland, or his army service there, or about politics. Popular with students, good family man, loves his children, that sort of thing. Seemingly proud to have become a Canadian citizen.”

  Charley Thiessen: “Somehow it doesn’t compute for me that after fifteen years in Canada this teacher, this solid citizen is … what do you call it, a sleeper terrorist?”

  “A very smooth and patient one, Minister. There was absolutely nothing in his house, or his school, that might incriminate him. His passport was found — one holiday trip to Cuba two years ago, so he may have connections there. No suspicious long-distance calls. No hits on Bhashyistan showed up on the family computer. Which seems so unlikely as to be suspicious in itself.”

  “Isn’t that a reach, Mr. Crumwell?” Clara Gracey asked. Out of pride, she had balked at returning to this all-boys circle jerk, but wilted under Finnerty’s entreaty. We need your unique perspective. She understood her role: help trim Lafayette’s sails, keep the wannabe usurper in line. “You’re saying the absence of evidence is in fact proof against Erzhan.”

  “A subtle but appropriate inference when one is dealing with the sly and devious. In our field we often find value in what is not done or said.”

  Talking down to Clara and her fellow morons. She’d distrusted this guy ever since he started pushing for a national DNA registry. Not just of felons. Everyone. Still fighting the Cold War, seeking out subversives. “You don’t find it odd that he left his passport behind?” she asked.

  “Not at all. These people have no difficulty obtaining false ones.” Crumwell flipped open a page on a dossier. “Mr. Erzhan is highly motivated to seek revenge against his country of birth. After he was acquitted, his mother and father were executed and his three adolescent siblings tortured and jailed.”

  A hush. Clara was revolted all the more that her government, her country, had sought to play footsie with these beasts. Still, she knew she had to swallow any sympathy she might have for Erzhan — but only if he were indeed a mass murderer, which seemed assumed though not proven.

  “Presumably, Abzal learned he was being watched — I offer no comment on the effectiveness of RCMP surveillance — and planned his vanishing act accordingly. We have two reports of a car with an unknown number of occupants pulling up for him on a quiet residential street, a block from the Erzhan residence. One lady saw, from her porch, a man with a satchel accepting a ride in a black sedan. But this woman, who is of a certain age, had on her reading glasses and was a hundred metres away.”

  “What is a certain age?” Clara asked.

  “About eighty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The other report is even vaguer, and comes from Vana Erzhan, who claimed her landlord saw her husband being drawn into a car. But that person, when questioned, declined to cooperate, and seemed hostile. One wonders why. This landlord, gentlemen — and lady — may be a person of interest. Iqbal Zandoo, lives below the Erzhans, in the lower unit. Born in Pakistan, emigrated twenty-three years ago, now aged sixty-four. Did well developing properties, owns several duplexes. We believe he has an al-Qaeda connection.”

  He paused for dramatic effect. Clara wondered if he was waiting for them to clap.

  “Our partners in the war on terror have been superbly forthcoming. Needless to say, the CIA has left no stone unturned in its efforts to connect the dots between known enemies, and in tracing the Zandoo family tree has learned he is blood-related to a known terrorist.”

  “Please spare us the suspense, Anthony,” Lafayette said. “And the metaphors.” Immediately he regretted that sarcastic aside. Crumwell was an ally. A vital ally. “Excellent work, by the way, excellent work.”

  “Thank you, Gerry. The known terrorist, Iqbal Zandoo’s cousin, one Mohammed Aziz, aged twenty, is being held in an American detention centre in Kabul. He spied for the Taliban, fought for them. He confessed to having attended an al-Qaeda training camp.”

  “And what have been Mr. Zandoo’s recent dealings with this terrorist?”

  “We’re looking into that.”

  Lafayette felt the air seeping from
this balloon. “Visits, phone calls, correspondence — what do you have along those lines?”

  “Nothing yet. Our American friends are, uh, working on their guest.”

  Finnerty too had been expecting more. “A cousin, you say.”

  “His mother’s uncle’s grandson. Technically, I suppose, a second or third cousin.” A disappointed silence. “Family ties are unusually deep, of course, over there.”

  Dexter McPhee, a diversion: “What about the religious factor here? Taliban, al-Qaeda — are we dealing with Muslim fanatics? Don’t get me wrong, I have many friends in the Muslim community. My riding treasurer is one of them.”

  “Spent a lot of time myself among followers of the Prophet,” Crumwell said. “I daresay I’ve gained some experience in how to handle these people. They’re not that different from you and me. Their philosophical constructs are simpler, a little more stringent.”

  Clara assumed he was a misogynist too. Most bigots were.

  “This landlord, Zandoo,” Guy DuWallup said. “Is he also an ideologue?” Not that he was particularly interested, but he couldn’t sit around like a cipher just because his days here were numbered. He wasn’t interested in being a judge or ambassador; he preferred the Senate — he was ready to retire anyway.

  Crumwell was studying his dossier. “Local cricket club, Neighbourhood Watch … Ah, here, Zandoo subscribes to the Guardian Weekly.”

  “Okay, and Erzhan,” DuWallup said. “Is he another of your Muslim fanatics?”

  “He may be covering up, because he presents a rather secular front. His wife is observant, though. Takes a bus to Montreal weekly to attend a mosque, does volunteer work there.”

  “Would that be one of those places that preaches hatred?” The defence minister.

 

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