“Sorry I’m late. Still on the mend, and I’ve been a bit fagged with work.”
“No problem. Let’s get right to it.”
“We’re still a little skimpy on this Stonewell fellow. The case agent on this file — he’s using the name Burton — wasn’t able to spend more than ten minutes on the phone with him. Busy chap, on the go, but he bit hard, apparently took an overnight flight — so that suggests he may be eager to cooperate.”
“Age?”
“Somewhere in his thirties.”
“Educational background?”
“That, uh, remains a bit of a blank.”
“Physical description.”
“That too is a bit hazy. One assumes he’s fit. Most workaholics are.”
Thiessen was getting annoyed. “Bad habits?”
“None we’re aware of. He doesn’t mind doing a little flutter at the poker table, according to our man on Garibaldi.”
“Soft spots. Where do I probe?”
“On that, we do have something helpful. A firm indication he’s gay. Can’t say it didn’t come as a shocker, but he checked into the hotel with a male partner.”
Always expect the unexpected, Thiessen’s mom had drilled that into him. “That helps. Maybe I should come on to him.” When Crumwell scrunched up his face in horror, he added, “Joke.”
Crumwell washed down a couple of painkillers, grimaced. “I had best explain why we don’t have a more complete book on the chap. It is, of course, a bit dodgy, non-priority, and, uh …”
“Hey, you’ve gone beyond the bounds of duty, I’m not complaining.”
“Our best profiling source, Agent DiPalma, seems to have gone off-line. Can’t fault him. Deep cover on the eco-terrorism file. Doing a majestic job. In case your deputy hasn’t briefed you, DiPalma has uncovered a scheme to take out a tar sands facility in Fort McMurray. We’ve been quite distracted with that, pouring all our energy and manpower into Alberta. The plan is to catch them with their knickers down.”
“You pull that off and maybe we don’t get buried next month. We’re fighting it out for scraps with the Marijuana Party. Let’s get back to Stonewell — has anyone seen him since he got here?”
“We are undermanned, Minister.”
“Charley. Okay, I get your point. Your case agent — what does he call himself?”
“Burton. That’s all you need to know, Charley. We do have to, uh, cover our tracks on this thing.”
“What else did Burton say about our top achiever?”
“That he has a few rough edges — not unusual for some of these backwoods entrepreneurs. He has a well-trained staff, and they’re inordinately busy. This may help: he’s not one of your greenies. Has quite a bone to pick with the environmental laws.”
That was the sort of thing Thiessen wanted to hear. Stonewell couldn’t be very palsy-walsy with Blake or her mate.
“Is anyone else but you, me, and Burton privy to this, um, exercise?” Thiessen almost said “caper.”
“There’s no courier service to Garibaldi, so a local Mountie delivered the envelope to Stonewell — but he doesn’t have any idea what’s in it. Burton is very discreet, and he’ll be meeting you at the hotel to smooth your way. You’ll recognize him by his blond hair and trim beard and moustache.”
All phony, Thiessen assumed. The cost of this was going through CSIS, so he hoped there’d be no fallout from that. Fortunately, their books weren’t inhibited by the Freedom of Information Act. “Get on the blower, tell Burton I’m on the way.”
Thiessen was delayed in the lobby by some hand-shaking of staff and guests — unavoidable but it was the political life, the price of recognition. He was finally pulled away by a crisply dressed blond fellow with a neat goatee, who whispered, “I’m Burton, your, er, political aide for the morning, sir.”
“Call me Charley.” They found privacy behind one of the lobby’s massive colonnades, where Burton slipped him a miniature digital recorder, round-topped so it would fit neatly in the palm of the hand. “Nicad battery is charged, suction cup holds it in place under a table, press this red button to record.”
Thiessen pocketed it. “Great. So we’re all set up?”
“Except for a minor glitch. Mr. Stonewell must have forgotten he instructed the operator to hold his calls.”
“When was that?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Probably needed a good night’s sleep.”
“Seven o’clock this morning, sir.”
“Well, I suppose he’s just being prudent. He obviously knows I’m coming. Room service has been alerted?”
“I believe they’re standing by.”
“Then let’s go.”
In the elevator, Thiessen gave battle instructions to Burton. He would do the introductions. Stonewell would be told that the small business minister was off campaigning and had sent regrets, so Thiessen would act in his stead. Palms would meet, then Burton would quietly slip away.
No homo jokes, Charley reminded himself. He’d have to do some bantering with the guy’s lover too. These gay boys loved their malicious gossip.
A room-service waitress was already at the door with her cart. Therèse, said her tag. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Thiessen said in his clumsy French, extending his hand while rapping on the door with the other.
No response. It was ten-forty. They hadn’t hung up the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but the Globe was there, unwrapped, untouched. Maybe they’d forgotten to reset their watches, gone out for a walk.
Burton took a turn knocking. Not a sound from within.
“Okay, miss,” said Thiessen, “you’ve got the house key?” She shook her head, but summoned a housekeeper from down the hall, a stout Haitian woman. Burton had good French and managed to cajole her to unlock the room.
“Mon Dieu,” Therèse said as she pushed the cart in.
Thiessen’s view was obstructed by her for a moment. Then a scene of profligacy opened up that had him gaping with dread.
A skimpily dressed young woman was stretched out on cushions on the floor, sleeping or passed out, a two-foot-tall hookah pipe beside her. On the bed, two more human forms, or at least two lumps under a sheet, covers bunched up at their feet with their clothes. Empty mini-bottles strewn everywhere, the fridge wide open, empty but for some chocolate bar wrappers. Two flower vases chock full of cigarette butts. The thermostat had been set to a stultifying high, and the room reeked of tobacco and marijuana.
Thiessen stood in the doorway transfixed as the housekeeper raced in, scuttled about, picking up frantically. The woman on the floor, aroused by this, raised up, stared right at Thiessen, who with a sudden shock of recognition recalled her as an exotic dancer from a Lower Town club he’d been dragged into by a visiting Nigerian judge. “It’s the fucking heat!” she yelled, scrambling around for her outerwear and shoes.
Thiessen started backing out, bumping into Burton. “Let’s get out of here.”
Too late. A gaunt young man, glistening with sweat, a cannabis leaf tattoo on his upper arm, lurched from the bedroom, shirtless, pulling on a pair of jeans. “Wha … What day is it?”
The stripper bolted past them, pulling a sweater over her head. But Burton, mindlessly sticking to the script, took Thiessen’s arm and pulled him in. “Mr. Stonewell? Burton, Small Business.” Stonewell took his hand, but not much awareness showed in his red-rimmed eyes as Burton continued his spiel.
Thiessen had backpedalled into the corridor and was about to bolt when Burton pointed to him with a frozen grin. “Mr. Thiessen here is pleased to act in his stead.” Charley gritted his teeth: this agent was an idiot, an automaton programmed to obey.
“Thiessen? Oh, yeah, Thiessen. Got your note somewhere here.”
“Charley.” Stepping inside, feeling suicidal. “Call me Charley.”
Stonewell still seemed slow to come to, looking hazily about, at Therèse; at the flustered, busy maid; at the cart with its steaming covered trays. At the bed, where the two bodies
were stirring. “Yo, Dog, we got guests, take your friend to the bedroom, the maid can do that later.” The two forms, still draped in the sheet, scuttled off like crabs.
The skinny stoner grabbed Thiessen’s arm, yanking him toward the table where Therèse had laid out the brunch. “We’ll leave you to it, then,” said Burton, making like a coward for the door, Therèse following him out, the maid still flying about like a whirlwind.
“Make yourself at home, Charley, grab some of them eggs. Guess we forgot to move our watches ahead, but I’ll be ready to roll soon as I shower up.” Stonewell slathered a cracker with caviar and disappeared into the washroom.
The maid had drawn the curtains by now, opened some windows, and was making the bed. “Psst, miss, please get rid of that thing.” The hookah. She seemed unsure what to do with it, then finally shoved it in the wardrobe. While she was diverted, Thiessen turned the recorder on, stuck it under the food table, pressing it to make sure the suction cup held.
He had no appetite. Feeling faint, he subsided onto a padded chair, then raised up to remove an empty wine bottle from under the cushion. A disaster was enfolding. His ire at Beauchamp had blinded him to the unexpected.
If the press got hold of this … Thankfully, he hadn’t seen any reporters in the lobby. What option did he have except to follow an abbreviated script, play it out and get out?
The maid had gone by the time Stonewell emerged, hair dripping, a wedge of shaving cream on his chin. The vaguely pornographic T-shirt he pulled on read, “Starkers Cove, Free Yourself.”
“Well, you, um … What do I call you, Robert, Bob?”
“Call me grateful, Charley.” Stonewell slugged back a glass of orange juice, scooped more caviar. “Yeah, the folks back home are gonna bust with pride when this goes public.”
Thiessen cleared his throat. “Now, I should warn you that the announcement may be months away. So far, it’s just among you and me and the selection committee. You haven’t, of course, mentioned this to anyone.”
“Didn’t have time. Just Ernst.”
“Ernst?”
“The local law, Constable Pound. Don’t worry about him, he’s so dumb he’s already forgot. Now let me get this straight — you’re like one of the head legal beagles here, eh?”
Thiessen emitted a strained chuckle, assuming Stonewell was jesting. “I guess you could call me that. The big beagle. But, hey, titles don’t impress me either, I’m a no-bullshit country boy just like you. Charley gives you no blarney, that’s my motto.”
“That’s great, man. To be honest, I was expecting some pompous prick.”
Thiessen laughed again, his voice cracking slightly. Strained chitchat followed, mostly about Garibaldi Island, Thiessen not getting a very clear picture of it, his powers of concentration dulled. This was broken off as Stonewell opened the door to a houseboy wheeling in a tray of mini-bottles to restock the fridge.
“You’re a mind reader, pal.”
The young man grinned broadly, knowingly. Word about the debauchery had spread like a virus through the hotel. Thiessen watched as Stonewell peeled a twenty from a thick wad in his pocket, slipped it to the departing waiter, then cracked open a beer. “You look like you could use a straightener too, Charley. Fuel up, eh, be my guest.”
Thiessen had a rule, no drinks before noon, but this was an extreme situation. His hands shook as he poured himself a whiskey neat, tilted it to his lips, felt a searing rush of warmth, of courage, however false.
“So, Robert, you must know Arthur Beauchamp and his famous wife. Your island’s most prominent couple, I would imagine.”
“Known them for yonks, man. In fact, I just finished retooling the old shyster’s heirloom Fargo.”
The old shyster. Thiessen liked the sound of that. Encouraged, he said, “Bit of a ladies’ man, I hear.”
Stonewell patted his pockets, pulled out a bent cigarette, lit it with a groan of satisfaction, blew out a stream of smoke. “Man, I feel I’m regressing to normal. So you got something there for me to sign, Charley, like a non-disclosure agreement? I mean, what’s the deal here, because everything’s been pretty vague. Like am I supposed to sit down with a panel of experts and advise about business solutions? I jotted down a few ideas here.” Pulling a sheaf of notes from his pocket.
“No hurry, Robert. This is just a … get-acquainted interview. We wanted to fill in some of the gaps … uh, your various businesses, daily routines. And friends, of course, like Arthur Beauchamp. I met him, I was really impressed, he’s a legend, bigger than life. A bon vivant with an eye for the chicks, they say, but hey, man, nothing wrong with that, more power to him. Boy, I’ll bet you must know some stories about the old shyster.”
Stonewell slugged back the rest of his Tuborg, then belched, stuffed his butt into the empty bottle, tapped another from a pack, lit it, squinted at Thiessen through the smoke. “Hey, Charley, you wanna burn one?”
“I’m trying to quit.”
Thiessen couldn’t figure out why Stonewell laughed. Then he blanched as he realized this hoodlum wasn’t talking about tobacco, was pulling some loose marijuana from his pocket. He rolled a joint so expertly he could’ve been Vladimir Horowitz playing a Chopin mazurka. The neatly packaged rollie suddenly landed on Thiessen’s lap.
He picked it up gingerly by the tip, pocketed it. “Thanks, buddy, I’ll save it for after. Normally I don’t toke up until after dinner. But, hey, man, another one of those Johnny Blacks would go down good.”
“You bet, Charley.” Refilling him, smiling at him with hooded eyes. “Here’s the deal, Charley. I got Arthur Beauchamp on my payroll as house counsel, so we got this, like, solicitor-client privilege that prevents me from revealing anything going between us.”
“Of course, sure, that’s out of bounds. I was just thinking of the … fun stuff.”
“Plus he’s a bud, man, like family, and he’s got his own private life, and I got to respect that — the word unfaithnessless ain’t in my dictionary.”
It had been a three-whiskey morning, so Thiessen was fairly muzzy as he slumped into his seat in the cabinet room. He prayed he wouldn’t be called upon to contribute to debate; he could barely rub two brain cells together. His head was swimming with images from that suite in the Château, and maybe with the second-hand fumes of the pot.
Thiessen had walked into the aftermath of a classic orgy. It’s the fucking heat! The stripper’s cry still echoed somewhere in Thiessen’s auditory canals. No way she recognized him. Bad enough that the hotel staff did. Thank God Stonewell’s pal and his bedmate never emerged.
Adding to his problems, a headache, and when Gracey banged her gavel it felt like a spike piercing his skull. He looked around: only four ministers here, everyone else out on the stump, but there was a slew of advisers led by E.K. Boyes and Gracey’s fey toady, Galbraith-Smythe. Buster Buchanan, two other generals, three colonels. They were setting up to do a show-and-tell.
“Operation Snow Job,” Clara said. “Named in honour of that smarmy snow job artist, Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich. We’re going to shut his yap” She pointed an imaginary gun at Thiessen, who jumped when she mimicked pressing the trigger. “Joke, Charley.” She’d been ribbing him mercilessly since the tomato juice debacle.
He play-acted dead, which, in his condition, wasn’t hard. Every-one laughed at this, almost too much. But maybe they were laughing with relief — Canada was finally coming out of its corner. He found the strength to join the huzzahs that greeted Gracey’s announcement that two days hence airborne missiles would be reducing Bhashyistan’s Information Ministry to rubble.
But he subsided again into anguish. That insufferably laidback stoner, with his pious claims to tact and nobility, his obviously insincere defence of Beauchamp. Thiessen had disguised his mission well enough — how had the rube clued in?
Charley had felt he was being tested, that’s why he’d twisted open a second whiskey — letting Stonewell know he was hip to the scene, a party-hardy guy himself. “Got to split
for the sweatshop, man,” he’d said, bolting to the elevator. He’d flushed the joint in the nearest john, and, to still his tremors, downed a third Scotch at the lobby bar.
Damn Anthony Crumwell — he’d carry the can if this charade backfired, he never had the right goods, and neither did his so-called genius in the field, Agent Ray DiPalma, the computer-losing screw-up. Thiessen would give Crumwell a one-way ticket to the mother country, cheerio, you wanker.
The military guys were clicking through a PowerPoint on the big screen at the back of the room: maps, charts, photos, a slideshow as meaningless as Jackson Pollock’s drip paintings. Phrases buzzed by, CF-18s, wheezy Russian interceptors, air-to-ground missiles, a surgical strike on Mukhamet’s cyber centre.
He wondered why Clara was frowning at him, wondered if his fly was open. She gavelled for silence. “Charley, can I ask you a question? That bulge in your breast pocket wouldn’t be a cellphone?”
“Oh, crap.” He drew out a Blackberry, scrambled to his feet. “It’s not on, honest.”
“It’s still a capital offence.”
He hurried out to lock it away, resumed his seat with a stiff, sheepish grin, trying to make a joke of it, repeating Clara’s gesture of miming a gun, at his forehead. “Bang.” No one laughed.
Something else was nagging at him — something about his muddled morning was struggling to rise from the grave of suppressed memory. Determinedly, he shoved it aside, tuned in to a debate over whether Christmas Eve was appropriate for Operation Snow Job. Buster Buchanan’s regretful response: “War doesn’t pause to celebrate Christmas. Surprise tactics are central to the art of war, and we intend to strike when the enemy least expects it.”
E.K.: “Expand on how we seek to limit civilian casualties.”
“A first wave will take out their air defence — with, hopefully, minimal enemy losses — then a leaflet drop will alert those in the Information Ministry to the impending strike. The third son will probably be the first to scram out of there, but we found some interesting photos on his website — he drives a yellow Hummer. Our eye in the sky confirms the same Hummer being waved into the ministry parking garage. We’ll be waiting for Mukhamet to bolt.”
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