Snow Job

by William Deverell

  The video by Third Son of Ultimate Leader Films had been transposed to one of the big screens, everyone groaning as they watched, slapping their foreheads. Those smart alecks from Alta International with their careless talk about a cash bribe — that wasn’t going to rally world support. Nor was calling Igor’s mother an ape with an axe.

  Clara Gracey, equally distressed at the way this shmozzle was playing out, was cursing her bad judgment in allowing herself to be pressed back into service. Now she must share the burden of blame and shame — the Privy Council was in utter paralysis, without focus, strategies, energy. All but Lafayette, with his espousal of an unlikely benefit to this ugly contretemps: “This is Canada’s chance to dominate the world stage.” He didn’t address the logistics of how that might be done.

  The tireless hawk Dexter McPhee once again was railing on about the need for extreme action. “I say we send our boys in and pummel these Mafia mobsters. We can’t just not declare war back at them. What’s it going to look like to the world if we sissy out?”

  Charley Thiessen: “Never mind the world. The folks I represent in Grey County. Some of us want to get re-elected.”

  E.K. Boyes: “If I may be so bold, Ministers McPhee and Thiessen have a point. We can’t allow some rogue state to run roughshod over the rules of international law. All the Western democracies are watching us, as are Japan, India, Russia. We can’t be seen as soft.”

  Clara was impatient with this hard-and-soft stuff. “Good God, rise above it, toss it over to the UN.”

  To McPhee, that seemed an unworthy solution. “We’re in a state of war whether we like it or not. What are we supposed to do, grovel, surrender?”

  Lafayette had in mind a more cerebral stratagem: “I suggest we ignore their declaration of hostilities for the time being. We remain stern, unbowed, express appropriate outrage, call for all Canadians to unite behind the government, and so on. No desperate pleas for international support — that makes us look like beggars. Though we don’t issue our own plea to the UN, we’ll not stand aside if a friendly nation calls for an emergency session of the Security Council. That can be arranged.”

  After more debate, Lafayette got his way, and someone went off to draft a communiqué with the appropriate outrage. Clara had to hand it to him, the way he manoeuvred through the muddle to come up with these calculated compromises.

  Discussion ensued as to how to address the Canadian public. A press release was not enough. E.K. Boyes urged they go live tomorrow in front of the networks, a full and fearless statement of the government’s position. Schedule it for mid-morning, after everyone had a good night’s sleep, allowing time to brief the caucus. Lafayette suggested a full-scale press conference ought to follow, but with only the prime minister on the dais — the nation needed reassurance its leader was in calm control.

  Clara thought it odd the foreign minister would so gracefully decline the spotlight, then realized he was positioning himself to dodge the flack. A staffer sped off to announce to the score of media still massed in the foyer that at eleven a.m., Eastern Time, Finnerty would speak to the nation.

  Then another break, people shifting about restlessly, as if waiting for the crisis somehow to resolve itself. Lafayette looked at them sadly — didn’t they understand this was Canada’s moment in history? They’d fallen prey to that great Canadian illness, vacillation.

  One of his staff called on the secure line: a fax had arrived from Moscow. “Don’t bother to translate it,” he said curtly into his headset. “Just send a runner.”

  The two pages that ultimately arrived were in Cyrillic script, from the Russian embassy in Bhashyistan via the Canadian embassy in Moscow. Everyone waited as Lafayette quietly read through it. Finally, he looked up.

  “Presumably this has been sent with Kremlin clearance. It summarizes a conversation between the Russian ambassador to Bhashyistan and a senior aide to President Ivanovich. The Russians, by the way, are loathed as former colonizers, but they’re a fact of life, biggest trading partner, largest embassy in Igorgrad, and they’re listened to, however resentfully.” He paused for a suspenseful moment. “The Bhashies want Abzal Erzhan. We are accused of harbouring this murderer, and they want us to turn him over.”

  He turned to Crumwell. “It might help to put this communiqué in context, Anthony, if you summarize the psychological profiling your people did on Mad Igor.”

  “Cutting it to the bone, Minister, the Ultimate Leader has never properly dealt with his father’s death, is still grieving, obsessed with thoughts of requital, vengeance — presumably in the form of Erzhan’s beheading. In other words, he seeks closure.”

  Thiessen scoffed. “Closure? Give us a break.”

  Lafayette quoted the Russian communiqué: “‘Bhashyistan may be willing to cease formal hostilities with Canada if Erzhan is surrendered to their authorities.’” Everyone seemed suitably impressed by his competence in the tongue of Tolstoy and Lenin. “The Bhashyistanis apparently don’t believe Abzal has flown the coop.”

  “Maybe we can send someone who looks like him.” Thiessen again, chuckling.

  “Why don’t you volunteer, Charley?” Clara asked.

  They were getting testy; Lafayette must remain steady at the helm. “Our Russian friends also indicate that Bhashyistan will amend its claim we shot down their aircraft. Their latest version is that it was forced down, with all crew members under arrest in harsh conditions. This revision will soon be going out on their national radio. In the meantime, the Ultimate Leader has used the crisis as an excuse to round up hundreds more suspected dissidents.” He turned to Crumwell. “What’s the latest on the local front, Anthony?”

  “Our best estimate from immigration and census records is we have about three hundred Bhashies resident in Canada, mostly exiles who came over during perestroika, a window when borders were opened. The largest grouping is in Montreal, about sixty or seventy, many belonging to a seemingly informal society. It meets regularly, but those we contacted seemed evasive. None, of course, admit to knowing Erzhan more than casually, and all claim not to know where he is.”

  “Can you get someone in there?” Thiessen asked.

  “I’d prefer, gentlemen — and lady — not to speak of specific investigative techniques. All I can say is we are working up some approaches with the RCMP, but we feel hamstrung …”

  “You’ll get the funding,” Finnerty growled.

  “I meant, Prime Minister, hamstrung by the laws.” Crumwell’s maimed hand held high a copy of the Anti-Terrorist Act.

  “As I read that act,” Boyes said, “it empowers you to arrest and hold without warrant, and to question witnesses in secret.”

  “But only with a court order. We were wondering, Prime Minister, if a declaration of international emergency is contemplated.”

  Crumwell was addressing Finnerty, but looking at Lafayette, who was pleased that the foxy old Brit was alive to the Emergencies Act and its powers to search and seize from anyone, anywhere, anytime. Its advantages were clear: extraordinary powers to enact laws without delay, stilling the carping voices that invariably rose in knee-jerk response to national crises. A politically touchy issue, however — this aborted child of the War Measures Act was deeply reviled in his own province.

  Boyes said, “The FLQ crisis was a little before your time here, Anthony, so you may not be aware of the political ramifications …”

  Lafayette quietly broke in. “E.K., we have an international emergency here. We should commit to nothing that will tie our hands. Invoking emergency measures, yes, that might be difficult, but at all costs we must avoid timid thinking, we must be bold, prepared to do whatever it takes.”

  McPhee: “Hear, hear.”

  “Like what?” said Clara. “Mimic the Ultimate Leader? Arrest all the dissidents?”

  Lafayette looked coolly at her. “We shouldn’t assume, Clara, that lawful Canadian authorities would abuse such privileges as have been granted by Parliament.”

  The patronizing
ponce. Showing her his haughty snoot, a look often captured by the political cartoonists. Clara was sure he had some scheme to create turmoil for the P.M., force him to resign.

  “Let’s put that on tomorrow’s agenda,” Finnerty said, coming alive. “Where are we on this eco-terrorist angle?”

  Crumwell flipped through his notes. “We have a list of every known organization that advocates or may be sympathetic to violent environmental protest. We’d propose to visit them unannounced, as it were, should this government grant us emergency powers …”

  “Well, we haven’t, so far. Go on.”

  “We are also reviewing, during what spare time we can afford, every available video of people attending the several street protests of Thursday. One such individual — I may have mentioned him, Zachary Flett, Ms. Blake’s caretaker — is in jail in Vancouver as a result of joining such a protest. You’re aware he has a record for terrorism.”

  “That’s a little broad, isn’t it, Anthony?” said Clara Gracey. “A lot of timber floated out to sea. No lives were threatened.”

  Crumwell offered her the weary look he reserved for those he regarded as soft on terror.

  11

  Nestled into his favourite lounge chair in Vancouver’s Confederation Club, Arthur fuelled up with coffee, juice, and a guilt-inducing buttery croissant while wading through the Monday morning papers. Accounts of the prime minister’s press conference, which he’d watched live on Saturday, portrayed Finnerty as confused and inept, having eschewed the folksy style, the self-deprecating humour, in favour of a ponderous, cliché-ridden call for courage and clear-headedness, qualities he seemed to lack. Some observers ventured that the P.M. had been hung out to dry by frightened privy councillors.

  His responses to reporters’ questions had been guarded. The five captives: “Anything I say might put them at further risk.” Why was Canada not responding to the declaration of war? “We’re acting on the assumption those words were spoken without diplomatic care.” As to the grossly uninformative DuWallup, an encomium, then: “We will, of course, be discussing his future role in the government.”

  Regarding efforts to track the bombing culprits: “First we must identify who they are. Clearly our prime suspect, Mr. Erzhan, didn’t act alone. I have instructed the RCMP and CSIS to leave no stone unturned in apprehending these evildoers.” If Erzhan had been abducted, as Ray DiPalma claimed, the prime minister was either in the dark or being cagey.

  Buried in the inner pages was this quote from the P.M.: “There has been a certain amount of passion around the effort to open relations with Bhashyistan, as evidenced by the many undisciplined demonstrations on our streets. People have a right to their views, but Canada is home to several groups which make no bones about advocating violence.”

  That set Arthur worrying that the government, in its desperation, might be about to cast a wild and reckless net, targeting activists like Zachary Flett, whose case he would be indignantly arguing this morning.

  “Alta International. Dump it.” Irwin Godswill, the legendary tycoon who played the markets like a Vegas craps table and rarely lost, was on his phone, talking to his broker, his back to Arthur, no one else within earshot. “After we know what they want for ransom, we may go back in.”

  Such pessimism about Alta’s prospects seemed justified. Bhashyistan law seemed unlikely to be tempered by notions of fundamental rights, and the Calgarians would be hard to dislodge from jail without hefty penalty. Reparations for the murders in Ottawa would be extreme too. Arthur felt it foolish to underestimate the Bhashyistan leadership, whose war declaration seemed a ploy, to be withdrawn in negotiations.

  Godswill, still oblivious to Arthur, said something about Anglo-Atlantic Energy, then raised his voice, impatient. “I have read the earnings report. Something’s going on, they’re taking off. Just do it.”

  Irwin Godswill was in his aching, complaining eighties, still fattening his accounts, living proof that money can’t buy happiness. Normal people retire from the chase. Or try to.

  Among the forest of concrete giants sprouting from Vancouver’s downtown peninsula was the BMO tower, four floors occupied by Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham. The forty-third was the lair of the senior partners, where Arthur ran the gauntlet of secretaries and staff — no easy task on his increasingly rare visits to his old firm. “Lovely to see you, sir.” “You’re looking exceedingly well, Mr. Beauchamp.” “When is the book coming out?”

  “Never, I hope, my dear.” That damned biography. A Thirst for Justice was the cruel title, trumpeting his years as a dipsomaniac, revelling in his drunken courtroom excesses. He’ll be the laughingstock of Ottawa and, worse, Garibaldi.

  More greetings from various senior partners, eager to talk about Canada’s international crisis. In contrast to the tension elsewhere in the nation, in these mahogany halls there was a sense of guilty joy at the perils facing the government. The firm had lost tens of millions in fees after the Liberals’ defeat six years ago.

  Gertrude Isbister gave him a businesslike hug and handed him a file with multicoloured tabs, precedents for a twelve-page brief of habeas corpus law. “He whipped this up on the weekend.”

  Old Riley, she meant, the geriatric mole from the fortieth floor, many times Arthur’s saviour. He almost lived in the library, had rarely been seen outside it.

  “I sent him the usual.” Chocolate truffles. “I had to come in Sunday myself, but no big deal.”

  A blatant hint. Flowers to her doorstep.

  “Beware of Mr. Bullingham. He wants you to do a murder.”

  Too late. Alerted to Arthur’s arrival, here he came, last of the founding partners, ninety-one and still on his horse. Another ancient who couldn’t stop working. People should read more poetry.

  “Ah, Beauchamp, a rare honour. Visiting the troops, are we? Looking for an entertaining diversion, perhaps?” He drew Arthur toward his anteroom.

  “I shall be quickly in and out, Bully.” A nickname that only the upper-tier partners dared use. “A vital issue of civil liberties this morning, a couple of days repose at my island sanctuary, then I must scurry back to our lovely capital.”

  “And miss a treat? If I know Arthur Beauchamp, he will not be able to resist it. The Cameron murder. Gravelstein is handling it, but he’d be more than eager to serve you as junior.”

  “The Cameron murder? I forget.”

  “The highways minister, surely you remember. Found dead in an Abbotsford bordello twelve years ago?”

  It came back. Headlines about orgies, love drugs, hot-tubbing hostesses. Cameron in a closet, impaled through the heart by a spear. DeCameron, they called it.

  “His widow was arrested last week. A sting, or whatever you call it — they had a woman officer pose as a psychotherapist, and she inveigled Mrs. Cameron into some incriminating statements. Some issues there to slack the old thirst for justice, eh?” Ribbing him about the biography, a friendly punch on the arm.

  “Far too pedestrian. I do only cases of international import now.”

  Bully, taken aback, turned sardonic. “Let me guess. You’ve been retained by Alta International to represent their five ignoramuses. Off to Igorgrad, are we, to raise constitutional issues in the people’s democratic court?”

  “For your ears only, Bully, I’m looking into the possibility of representing the family of Abzal Erzhan.” A case to truly slake the thirst for justice, the defence of the disappeared, the inexplicably disappeared. “An informed source tells me Erzhan may have been shanghaied, perhaps murdered. It would be interesting to learn if agents of the federal government were involved.”

  “Do say.” Bully seemed intrigued, if only because Arthur might turn up more dirt against the reviled Conservative government. If Erzhan had been kidnapped, mysteries abounded as to who did it. DiPalma had insisted Erzhan’s wife and landlord could shed light on the matter — maybe enough light to affirm the alcoholic spook’s good intentions. Margaret was working through friendly channels to set up a meeting with
them, and Arthur must remain ready to jump on a plane.

  “There may be expenses. I don’t imagine the Erzhan family has vast resources.”

  Bully frowned. He was famously stingy, but Arthur’s high-profile cases brought in substantial business. “Spend prudently.”

  “Bully, I also want to enlist the help of our Ottawa branch plant. I’d like to make some quiet inquiries about a CSIS agent named Ray DiPalma.”

  “Antoine Salzarro is your man, recently joined us from the government side, was number three in Public Security. I’ll get on to him about this DiPalma fellow. He’s your informed source? Never mind — I’ve always held to the tenet that if you can’t keep a secret, don’t expect anyone else to keep it for you.”

  Arthur didn’t have time to visit Zachary in the cells, so he wheedled the sheriffs into bringing him into court before the sitting. On entering, Zack raised two defiant handcuffed fists in salute to his many supporters, young environmentalists who stood up to honour their martyr.

  Brittle-tempered Zack was less angry than Arthur had expected, his attitude one of cynical bemusement, as if his arrest were the sort of thing one should expect from the guardians of a dying order.

  “They came by twice this weekend, high-level bulls. Because I freed some captive timber from a log boom, I’m a prime suspect for blowing up nine Bhashyistanis, right? Problem is, I was in custody on this bogus charge when it happened. So these fascisti implied I was the instigator, Mr. Big pulling strings from Cellblock A of the Burnaby Correctional Centre. Alternatively, I’m accused of stirring up hatred, spurring the rabble to acts of murder. They finally gave up on that line and went to Plan C, promising to do right by me if I rolled over on my Eastern contacts. A financial reward, plus witness protection. The government’s in a stinking pile of shit over this, man, they’re looking to bust anyone, your aunt Albertina and her three-legged cocker spaniel.”