Snow Job

by William Deverell

  “And what do you suppose your boss is going to say when he finds out you’re investigating a supposed nudist group?”

  “All in the line of duty. Speaking of getting naked, what’s the lowdown on this Emily LeMay and her Lovenest B & B? I don’t know how many times she’s asked me to jump in the hot tub with her, and there’s a no-clothes policy. She comes on a little strong.”

  “Ah, yes, the local sex goddess. That’s her modus operandi, the hot tub. Soon she’ll have you hog-tied to her four-poster.”

  “Oh my God, then what?”

  The fellow seemed to lack a sense of humour. Arthur still couldn’t quite get a handle on him. Naive at times, but glib too, and with a disarming frankness. Some of his pro-green rhetoric seemed studied. Calling his wife Janet was a highly unusual slip. Arthur was expecting a kind of security check on him from Antoine Salzarro, who had been with Public Security and had met DiPalma several times.

  “It’s Margaret, Arthur.” Savannah came out, passed him a cellphone, a borrowed one — DiPalma seemed sure their line wasn’t being intercepted, but Savannah was less confident. She hustled Ray back inside. “Do you want to help with the letter-writing campaign or do picket duty?”

  Margaret spoke briskly. “Ten-thirty on Saturday in Montreal, at a mosque on Sherbrooke Street. Vana Erzhan will be there, and the landlord. Also the local imam, Dr. Mossalen. You’ll have to book a flight to Dorval for Friday. I’ll pick you up there and arrange a place to stay.” Rapid-fire, businesslike, a woman on the march, things to do. Politics and city living had sped her up.

  “The tension around here is nearly intolerable, Arthur. Nothing seems to be happening, but you sense underlying currents. We don’t know what cabinet’s doing, thinking, planning. The Tory majority is down to five with DuWallup shunted off to the Senate. Finnerty’s favourite footman, Charley Thiessen, has his portfolio for the time being. The P.M. hasn’t been around for Question Period, and his ministers are being totally obtuse. We’re worried they’re about to spring the Emergencies Act on us. Bug all the phone lines, demand DNA from half the population, seize all the computers.”

  “Slow down, dear. You’re running a little hot.”

  “I am hot. What’s going on with you know who?”

  “He’s currently helping organize a campaign to save Norbert Road from a threatened invasion of nudists.”

  “Spare me the details. He’s such a wild card, Arthur. I really feel it’s a mistake to have got so tight with him.”

  “I’ll give you a complete report on Saturday, my dear.” At least she didn’t lambaste him this time. But Savannah had already talked to her, persuaded her to let the show run a few more days.

  Arthur returned to the living room, grabbed a muffin, and slipped out for his daily hike just as Ray was saying, “I have an idea.”

  The next day, Thursday, was brittle bright, the thermometer climbing to new global warming heights, perfect for a pound-pruning jaunt to Gwendolyn Valley Park. Before setting off, Arthur listened to his messages — three from Wentworth Chance and one from Antoine Salzarro. Arthur used the borrowed cellphone to call him back.

  “His only major blot involved the infamous stolen computer,” Salzarro said. “Otherwise, an outstanding agent, with a splendid record from his several years working out of Belgrade. Came to the service right out of Carleton, master’s degree, honours. Quite the athlete there, I understand.”

  “Athlete?”

  “Played right wing with the Ravens. Rowing. Water polo.”

  “I see.” Though Arthur didn’t. “Family history? Parents? Spouse?”

  “As I recall, there was something about his mother … yes, it comes to me she died very young of cancer. I’ll do what I can to find out more.”

  “But there was a mini-scandal, Antoine, was there not, about some sites found on his computer?”

  “That does come back. Something to do with … partner-swapping? A nudist club? I remember we all had a great laugh over that.”

  “And was he relegated to some lowly form of deskwork?”

  “Not for long. He was considered too valuable to waste.”

  “Wife problems?”

  “I believe he had difficulty letting her go.”

  “Do you recall her name?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Bad habits? Smoking, drinking?”

  “Aware of none. Quite the health nut, it seems to me. I’ll see what more I can find out.”

  Arthur promised to pop in to see him on his return to the capital. He felt dissatisfied, suspicious, even angry — at DiPalma, for not quite being as advertised. Yet almost everything added up — the drinking may have started after his marriage began to dissolve. But athletic? This fellow stumbled around on two left legs. But maybe the drinking accounted for that too.

  Arthur stayed on the phone, booked a ten a.m. flight the next day from the Victoria airport. That meant he’d have to catch the seven-fifteen ferry. And that meant, since Savannah didn’t drive … Bob Stonewell.

  “Garibaldi Taxi Service and Hot Air Holidays,” said the answering machine. “How may we help you?”

  Garibaldi’s sole taxi operator engaged in the dubious business practice of rarely being by his phone, but was usually in his garage or his charnel yard of skeletonized vehicles. No major detour required, he’d hike up by Centre Road.

  Puffing from the hairpin climb, Arthur saw Stoney and his support group gathered in his front yard — missing was Hamish McCoy, reportedly still living high in Berlin, being coddled by the arts community.

  Stretched out on the ground was a giant polyester sheet, pancake shaped, striped like a barber pole — the hot-air balloon. The group was in head-scratching discussion, studying a manual, presumably instructions on how to assemble this inflatable flying machine.

  Seeing Arthur enter by the rickety gate, Stoney ambled toward him, pausing to pat the bow of the twenty-foot cabin cruiser he’d won from Herman Schloss.

  “A beauty, eh? But what I want to direct your attention to is this baby here.” The balloon. “We’re not quite prepared for liftoff — there are some safety rules we got to adhere to. Like you don’t want to go up until that propane tank is full and what they call the blast valve is working. As soon as we figure everything out, the world’s our oyster.”

  “Surely you need a licence of some sort to go ballooning.”

  “Yeah, like for pilots, but this is Garibaldi Island, the last frontier, ordinary rules don’t apply. Soon as we figure out how to get this sucker aloft, we’re going into business, island hopping. That there gondola can carry six normal-sized tourists.” A commodious wicker basket.

  Arthur saw this as a pipe dream — surely on sober reappraisal Stoney would put this project aside, as he had many other of his airy-fairy ideas. The middle of January. High over the Salish Sea, at the mercy of every gusting wind.

  Stoney patted Dog on the head. “When we get the kinks worked out, Dog here has volunteered for the honour of being test pilot. Right, Dog?”

  The squat little fellow puffed himself up as if to indicate he was indeed the man for the job, but his strained smile hinted he wasn’t quite so sure.

  Arthur asked Stoney about the Fargo.

  “Next in line. Give me two more days.”

  “You said that two months ago.”

  “This time I mean it. Anything else I can do, sire, I’m always at your service.”

  “I need a pickup at six-thirty tomorrow.”

  “No problem.”

  “In the morning.”

  “The morning?”

  “If it’s not too much to ask.”

  “Well, six-thirty tends to be outside my normal working hours — I’m usually in bed by then. But in your case, as a valued customer, there’ll be only a small surcharge. Unpossible ain’t in my dictionary.”

  Arthur began wishing he’d arranged for a backup, an early rising neighbour, but he hated to impose.

  Stoney returned to the task at hand. “Okay,
boys, let’s figure out how to get this baby airborne. We ain’t got all week.”

  That evening, over garden greens and leftover macaroni and cheese, there was again no mention of Arthur’s rude interruption of Savannah’s automatonlike foray into the fridge. He wondered if she remembered any of it.

  As he settled into his club chair with his book and a mug of tea, Savannah took a call from Zachary, a guarded conversation. “I think you should include Garibaldi Island in your next itinerary, Zack. Lots to do here. Lots to talk about … No, damn it, Sunday wouldn’t be too early. Get your ass down here.”

  A severe tone of urgency that went beyond their usual bickering. Arthur could only speculate as to what might be his reaction to Ray DiPalma and his counterspying.

  Savannah disconnected, went to the computer. “He wants us to look at YouTube.”

  Arthur peered over her shoulder as she expertly manoeuvred through the offerings on the screen. Here it was, another production of Third Son of Ultimate Leader Films. Again the chubby face of Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich, chief geek of Bhashyistan.

  “Always first with the news that counts, today we presenting footage of national holiday for most terrible day in history, when Great Father was shot in Canada by cowardly scum. Here we see display of armed might.”

  A uniformed battalion goose-stepping past the presidential palace, the Ultimate Leader on a reviewing stand, his hand over his breast, advisers behind him, almost a parody of May Day marches from the salad days of Stalin and Brezhnev. The troops seemed ragtag, some in helmets, others in turbans or other traditional headgear, rifles pointed haphazardly in the air. Rockets trundled by, then a score of tanks and other armoured vehicles.

  “Here we showing world we are ready for coming conflict with Canadians who have no stomach for fight with patriotic army and air force.” The latter consisted of a couple of MiGs zooming overhead. The display seemed reasonably threatening, if not to high international standards. Less fearsome was a troop of dancing maidens — they stopped before the reviewing stand and put on a commendable hula-hoop demonstration of synchronized twirling.

  A fadeout, then a closer view of Mad Igor, still on the stand, speaking from notes in his Turkic tongue. Mukhamet translated: “If spineless Canadians not responding to war declaration, he is saying, our country very soon declares victory, mission accomplished. He is saying reparations of ten billion dollars is price of peace. Not taking less, is firm offer. And here is reminder to Canadians watching.”

  An exterior view of a forbidding fortress: narrow barred windows, wooden shutters. “Here is impenetrable state prison in Igorgrad, and here on ground floor is section for prisoners of war.” Cut to a cell occupied by the five languishing Alberta oilmen, staring sullenly at the camera. The national flag then filled the screen, with its three lightning bolts, and the video concluded with the stirring but fading notes of the Bhashyistan anthem.

  “Wow,” Savannah said. “Here we show shitload of bluster.”

  “How do you think our government should react?”

  “Ignore ’em.”

  “And the so-called prisoners of war?”

  “Let them do penance.”

  “That seems hard. They’re merely employees.”

  “Okay, but schemers, a veep, two lawyers, fat cats. I mean maybe some are innocent, the accountant, the geologist, but if the Alta board of directors had any guts they’d offer themselves in exchange. This is all about oil, Arthur, and bribery and greed and extortion. Sure, these Bhashies are a joke, but the world doesn’t need their oil, it’s planetary poison. Maybe this is a wakeup call.”

  Arthur was troubled by her stern, unyielding view. His softer heart went out to those five unfortunates in a cold, foreign jail. But he was just as troubled by the truth she spoke. Margaret had often said as much: Canada — the world — needs shock therapy to recover from the self-destructive sins of the last several profligate decades.

  Dreams returned that night of charred bodies in a burning limousine. But they were succeeded by images less awful, more complex. He was in court, speaking a language he didn’t understand, to jurors laughing at him. Then he was running across the steppes, but with sludgelike speed, he wasn’t going to make the seven-fifteen ferry. He found himself lying on the moss, felt a shifting, a turbulence, something soft falling across his chest — gently, like a caress, a woman’s caress.

  “Hey, Arthur, man, you wanna make that ferry or not?”

  This familiar voice from the realm of the conscious brought him half-awake. Stoney was standing at the open doorway to his bedroom, gaping, as astonished as if he’d just witnessed a landing of Martians. Nestled beside Arthur, on her side, her arm draped loosely over his chest, a warm breast at his ribs, was Savannah Buckett, in a deep and sonorous sleep.

  Hoping this was a continuation of the dream, knowing it was not, Arthur gently lifted her arm off, aghast, barely able to speak. “Forgot to set the alarm. I’ll be down in a moment.”

  “Right,” Stoney said. “I’ll, uh, be in the car.”

  Rattled, Arthur donned some clothes, fled the room, grabbed a small, pre-packed suitcase, and raced out into the morning darkness to join Stoney in his taxi, an aging Buick. It was just before seven — he would make it to the boat on time.

  Stoney concentrated on his driving — difficult enough, given one headlight was burnt out. For a few minutes he said nothing, grinning occasionally at Arthur in a conspiratorial way. Finally: “Didn’t know you had it in you, Arthur.”

  “She must have sleepwalked right into my bed.”

  A guffaw. “Nice try, but that ain’t gonna wash. You gotta come up with something a little more conceivable. When the cat’s away, eh? Who could blame you, she’s a pinup, man. I got new respect.”

  “You whisper one word and I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”

  “Well, that puts a new light on our long relationship, don’t it? I wanna cry when I hear you speak with such distrust. I’d cut out my tongue before I’d betray my friends. I got a code of honour. See no evil, speak no evil, that’s my golden rule.”

  As they pulled into the ferry dock, he added: “Anyway, man, no one’s gonna believe it.”

  14

  Huck Finnerty stared at his sad and haggard reflection in the washroom mirror. He would have to change his shirt; his sweat glands were working like bilge pumps. Deodorant. A couple of Tylenols. A nip of rye. He was having trouble breathing. It occurred to him he’d better cut down on the booze and burgers or he wouldn’t last the session.

  Question Period had done all this damage. He felt he’d been pepper-sprayed by each opposition leader in turn. That loudmouth Liberal, Cloudy McRory, screaming and sputtering as he tabled his non-confidence motion.

  Patience, he’d urged. Crises are made only graver by ill-thought-out reactions. The government was not dithering. It was not in freefall but rising to the occasion. It was working quietly behind the scenes in the time-honoured Canadian way.

  With 156 members to the opposition’s 151, the government would hobble off with a vote of confidence, but some backbenchers were restless — he’d picked up faltering, disaffection, Lafayette’s people whispering, conspiring, even as they listlessly thumped their desks. His whip had been working the caucus relentlessly, intimating that dissidents would be hanged from the beams of the Peace Tower.

  All he needed was some breathing room. A few more days until Operation Eager Beaver was launched. A medal of dishonour for whoever came up with that corny name.

  E.K. Boyes was waiting impatiently by Finnerty’s desk, organizing the clutter, lining up memos to be read. “Admirable, Huck, truly admirable. Calm in the midst of the storm. Mind you, referring to the socialist leader as ‘the honourable windbag from Winnipeg North’ might have crossed the line.” A snicker. Whenever the chief of staff smiled — not often — he had the look of a contented gargoyle.

  Finnerty lowered his aching bulk into his high-backed swiveller — it was like a wheelchair, he could do loop
s around the room, he never really had to get up. “Where are we meeting?”

  “Right here. You’ll want to say this was hatched in your office. Assuming matters don’t go awry.”

  “They won’t,” he said overconfidently. That would be the end of his government. Thumps from above — the Opposition leader’s office was directly above him, McRory a heavy walker. Occasionally you could hear him bellow.

  “The issue of whether to invoke war — uh, emergency measures is still to be resolved, Huck. Lafayette won’t say so publicly, but he believes we can justify it.”

  “That’s real brave of him.” Finnerty wasn’t ready to touch that one and risk losing their eleven francophone seats. “You notice he wasn’t there to take any of the flack? He didn’t ask me if he could take the day off.”

  “You need him onside for now. If Eager Beaver works, he’ll either be your obedient puppy or you can cast him adrift.” The gnome, for all his shrivelled morality, was comfortable to have around calling the shots.

  Finnerty rolled over to a sideboard, surveyed its offerings of hard-boiled eggs, sliced salami, salted thins, pickles. No. He opened a Diet Pepsi instead.

  E.K. leafed through the dispatches. “One of the Bhashyistan embassy staff has joined the ranks of those seeking refugee status. We have something to gain from that. He’s familiar with the Igorgrad prison.”

  “Former head torturer, I suppose.”

  “Nikolai Globbo. He was assistant deputy director of political corrections.”

  “Say no more.”

  Globbo looked up nervously from the maps, charts, and diagrams spread across the table, trying not to stare at the maimed hand of this frightening man beside him — he was like a mangai, the monster of the Altay Mountains remembered from childhood myths. He wondered what was this mangai’s crime, why they had cut off his fingers, and why he was back in power. A regime change maybe.