Snow Job

by William Deverell

  Clara snorted derisively. “Oh, dear, he must be smarting.” The week before, Quilter and five executives had spent a night in the pokey while the RCMP took twenty boxes of paper from their offices. The PMO, meanwhile, had issued a press handout saying the government remained fully dedicated to the safe return of the Calgary Five.

  “Will Mr. Crumwell also be joining us for lunch?”

  “I expect so. He has rallied from his intestinal problems.”

  “Don’t let him get away.” He’d been avoiding her.

  The testosterone was so thick in 24 Sussex’s boardroom that Clara instructed an aide to open some windows, letting in a draft. Crumwell looked grumpy back there, bundled into a coat and scarf.

  Everyone had seen Mukhamet’s video, his triumphant return from the supposed dead. The mood was angry, vengeful.

  Clara was also picking up a sense of suppressed disdain from the high commanders, with their military jargon, their assumptions she had no clue what they were talking about. Even their one woman officer, a colonel, had a contemptuous smile, a reverse sexist.

  “Nothing handles unprepared runways like a Herc,” an air force general was saying. “Exceptional STOL ability, she’s the vehicle of choice.”

  STOL, Clara knew, meant short takeoff and landing. She also understood the Hercules turboprop was the force’s workhorse. But she kept silent, reluctant to ask questions that might indeed show her up as a military naïf.

  Buchanan raised a pointer at an aerial image of Özbeg, a cross-hatching of streets in the desert, the police station circled in red, a few scratchy lines depicting highways. “We could risk a run for the Russian border. But we’ve no idea what might welcome us there.”

  “We wouldn’t want to rile the Russians.” A Central Asian expert from Foreign Affairs. “But what if we simply have our commandos surrender to them? Make them look good.” He began to wilt under Buchanan’s fierce scowl, but struggled on. “Surely they’d simply deport our people to Canada.”

  “Surrender.” Buchanan was having trouble digesting the word, he croaked it, struggling, his face red.

  Clara finally spoke. “The concept offends me too. Summarize for us, Buster.”

  “Operation Wolverine. Named after the commando group that’s going in, the Wolverine unit. Pound for pound, the toughest animal in the world, by the way.”

  “Okay, a step up from a beaver.”

  “Stage one, we airdrop a few personnel in the flat desert south of this burg, in darkness. They’ll scout and prep a landing site, and do some snow clearing so we don’t face an evac impediment. They’ll set up flares, landing lights. Stage two, another Herc will nestle down two hours later, at five a.m., with the troops and three Humvees. A pre-dawn raid on Özbeg’s police station. There may be a firefight, but we expect the hostiles will prove too cowardly and disorganized to engage effectively. Stage three, back to the C-130, and non-stop to home plate, Kandahar Airfield. We’re at maximum turnaround range, that means in-flight tanking.”

  Aerial refuelling, Clara decided. “The timeline?”

  “Target day is January tenth.”

  “Can’t be sooner?”

  “Too much prep, Prime Minister.”

  “What’s our risk level?”

  “Light to medium. I can’t guarantee there won’t be casualties.”

  Nor, she supposed, could he guarantee against calamity. She looked over at E.K. Boyes. “Nothing ventured,” he said. Other advisers nodded. Unspoken was the fact that an election was in the balance.

  “We had unreliable information for Eager Beaver.” She looked at Crumwell, his cold, deadpan expression. “Buster, has there been any unusual activity in this town, or around their jail? Anything to suggest they might be expecting us?”

  “Negative on that. Our drones are keeping a watchful eye.”

  Instinct told Clara to put off her decision, to tread with caution. She’d been the one government voice urging thoughtful patience. But she had a week and a half to say go or no. Her headache was not abating. She kept seeing Mukhamet’s hamlike face.

  “I’m giving this a provisional green light. I’ll want an update two days prior to the point of no return. Let’s have lunch.”

  Crumwell had looked ready to eat and run, but his escape was thwarted by Percival, who ushered him into Clara’s study with coat in hand. “You asked if I could stay behind, Prime Minister.”

  “Yes, sit down.” She swivelled to the window, the forest of frozen bare-limbed trees that made the grounds seem spooky. She struggled to quell her distaste for the spymaster, his mask of competence, his paranoid mindset, his misogyny. “Anthony, I’m still waiting for that briefing note.” Promised a week ago.

  “Yes, I have that project on my desk. I haven’t been feeling too tickety-boo.”

  “I’m very sorry. Well, brief me now. What’s the latest on this threatened tar sands bombing?”

  “We’re waiting. We have eyes everywhere, but we’re not sure of their timing.”

  “But you have someone in deep cover. What’s his name — DiPalma.”

  “Ray DiPalma.”

  “And is he still out of contact?”

  “It’s been eleven days. I can’t say we’re not worried.”

  “You’ve no idea where he is?”

  “Afraid not. He has befriended Zack Flett, whom you’ll remember is posing as Ms. Blake’s hired hand — though his real goal is to run around the country stirring up trouble. Flett’s movements are known to us, but he’s had no recent contact with Agent DiPalma, by telephone or otherwise. I should add that we have a judicial order to intercept the suspect’s calls.”

  “Does that extend to Margaret Blake’s home phone?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Okay, I want that stopped. You are not to bug the line of a member of Parliament.”

  “Excuse me, madam, but that would seriously compromise our efforts.”

  “It could seriously blow up in our faces. Especially if it turns out your Mr. DiPalma has been fed a line of bull.”

  Crumwell looked shocked. “Agent DiPalma is a very capable operative.”

  Clara pulled a news clipping from a file. “This him? Left his laptop in an unlocked car in a shopping mall?”

  “That was, uh, when he was having marital difficulties. Started off brilliantly … I did discuss all these matters with Minister Thiessen, but let me brief you.”

  “Please.” She was in growing dread that a massive screw-up was afoot, a concern not allayed by Crumwell’s narrative of nervous breakdown and wife-stalking. Astoundingly worse, it appeared DiPalma was quickly outed as a CSIS agent by his targets on Garibaldi Island.

  “Sorry, I’m spinning. He is posing as a traitor?”

  “He has artfully persuaded Zack Flett he is a convert to his cause.”

  “And Margaret Blake as well? And Arthur Beauchamp?” Unable to still her fury, she stood, her fists balled. “Do you think they’re idiots? Are you saying Charley Thiessen did not put a stop-action on this?” Her voice cracked.

  Crumwell stammered. “I, um, didn’t see this as being so awkward, because, uh … the operation was also cleared by Gerry Lafayette …”

  She sat with a thud, pinched herself. No, she was not asleep, this was not a nightmare.

  “And now your incredibly talented Mr. DiPalma has vanished into thin air. Let’s bloody hope we don’t find his body floating down the Fraser River.” She sighed wearily. “Anthony, tell me bluntly. Has anything else been going on I should know about?”

  A massive clearing of throat. “Excuse me.” He drank some water. His eyebrows scrunched in thought. “No, uh, no, nothing comes to mind.”

  28

  On this first day of the new year, Arthur had decidedly little to celebrate. He’d just returned to his hotel in Gjirokaster after six days of bureaucratic hell, so morose that he was fighting the seductive pull of the half-litre of cognac DiPalma had left behind.

  Ray was still in Tirana — he’d been transferr
ed from its National Trauma Centre to a Catholic clinic and hospice for recovery care. On his several visits Arthur had seen physical improvement but also emotional decline — DiPalma was oppressed by an intense sense of failure. Gone was the braggadocio, replaced by teary confessions of incompetence — not just in the field of espionage but in life generally. His inability to sustain a marriage or a love affair or any kind of deep friendship; this he blamed on the early loss of his mother, the disaffection of his father.

  He’d entered an extreme depressive phase, said his physician, who was concerned that the concussion may have accelerated the symptoms of Parkinson’s he’d observed. It was as likely, Arthur thought, that DiPalma no longer had the strength to hide the shakes. Adding hugely to the toll: he was battling addictions to alcohol and nicotine.

  But Arthur too endured a sense of failure after his week in the Albanian capital. He’d been hung out to twist in the wind, shuffled from one prison official to another, his inquiries met with grins and shrugs. None were able to unearth records of Abzal’s transfer from Prison 303. Arthur had made it as far as the assistant director-general of prisons. “If Warden Chocoli says he was taken away by the border police, then I’m sure he’s correct.” He professed to know nothing about Arthur’s client; he had too many problems at work to follow the world news.

  The border police had no evidence Abzal Erzhan had even entered the country — though they were aware, from Interpol bulletins, that a man by that name was wanted. “We escort prisoners into the jails, not out,” said a senior officer who opened computer records showing they’d not visited Prison 303 on December 13 or any other day that month. He begged Arthur to believe Warden Chocoli had made an honest error — some other policing agency must have taken custody of Mr. Erzhan.

  A bored clerk in the Justice Ministry asked him to come back in ten days while they checked on the matter. Immigration officers knew nothing. Doors of more senior officials were closed for the holidays.

  Arthur refused to believe Abzal was lost within the labyrinthine oblivion of the country’s jail system. This was a classic case of stonewalling, an effort by corrupt officials to hide their illegal role in a high-profile rendition. There are other people involved, people in Tirana. People who’d been paid a vaster sum than Arthur’s laughable offer of thirty grand to Chocoli, their underling. He had a sick feeling that Abzal might have been disappeared permanently. A sham accident or suicide.

  Arthur had never been inclined toward paranoia, but had sensed a strong whiff of it in Tirana. On every street he’d walked, he’d glanced back to see followers. Sometimes a man, sometimes two, sometimes a man and a woman — ducking into shadows or doorways. He stopped venturing from his hotel at night. In the day, he took taxis. Even then he sensed pursuit, felt danger. The message: don’t get too close to the truth; you can disappear too.

  The Gjirokaster had kept his room for him, and from its balcony he stared out at a fittingly dismal, wet day, murky clouds hanging low over the hills, the street vendors protecting their wares under umbrellas — among them Djon Bajramovic, wiping his thick glasses clear of the steam rising from his curbside cookery as he served two burly men in rain hoods.

  He glanced back at that flagon of Skënderbeu konjak, but was rescued from temptation as much by firmness of will as by recall of the New Year’s Eve revelry on the streets of Tirana, the hapless, roaming drunks, a fight spilling from a tavern. That morning, the driver of his minibus, dangerously hungover, had nearly skidded off the road.

  To make matters worse, his cash reserves were down to five hundred dollars’ worth of leks, and the local bank was closed for New Year’s. Happily, Bully’s fifty thousand was there — the bank manager had confirmed this by telephone. Unhappily, he could conceive of no useful way to spend it: he was at a dead end, his campaign beyond resurrection.

  The money would stay in the bank for now — Arthur would feel very jittery carrying big sums around. Doubtless his contract with Chief Bizi for police security had expired — unless those two heavyweights munching Djon’s qebaps and looking up at him were undercover police.

  He returned inside, gave the operator the Blunder Bay phone number. Savannah answered with a poorly smothered yawn, and he realized it was five a.m. there.

  “I’m sorry, I’m obviously quite discombobulated.”

  “Hey, I was going to get up anyway.”

  “Please don’t wake Margaret. Tell her I’m returning to help with her campaign as soon as I can make arrangements. I’ll call her later in the day.”

  “Where are you anyway? Somewhere exotic I heard, but nobody’s saying.”

  “All will be known soon.”

  “Sounds like you’re not having a happy new year.”

  “The most dismal I can recall.”

  Pride goeth before a fall. Reckless in his anger at Anthony Crumwell, Arthur had vowed to solve what that thief of privacy had been unable or unwilling to grapple with. He would look moronic on his return to Canada. Going cap in hand to the Foreign Ministry, to CSIS, seeking forgiveness for DiPalma, begging help to rescue Abzal.

  He’d gathered some evidence to confirm the rendition, but would an infamous fence like Hanife Bejko be believed? Might Warden Chocoli spirit away the Prison 303 guest register? Arthur had photos of it, but the prospect of presenting such paltry proofs to Crumwell caused his stomach to clench.

  That stomach would feel better filled. He put on his coat.

  “For best customer all of Albania, unless you are observing Jew or Muslim, best buy today is pork. New Year special. Organic, from farmer friend, Christian like me. How is Mr. DiPalma?”

  “He’s very depressed.”

  “You also look not happy, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.” Seneca’s despairing cry.

  “You not have success in Tirana? Did I warn you? Hire Djon Bajramovic, otherwise they jack you around.”

  “Djon, I am not a developer. I am a criminal lawyer.”

  “The truth is revealed.” Djon passed him a thick nugget of braised pork. “You try, you like. Feast of gods.”

  “I am representing a client unlawfully detained in your country.”

  “Ah, yes, Abzal Erzhan. Why you not say so earlier?”

  Arthur gagged on the meat. “What? What? You know about this?”

  “Is secret? Not to Djon Bajramovic. Erzhan is well-known outlaw, famous in news. In Prison 303, north of Korça.”

  “He was there, but no longer. I talked to the warden.”

  “Chocoli? A scared mouse, he would lie to his mother to save ass.”

  “For God’s sake, Djon, how did you learn about Erzhan?”

  “I explain for umpteenth time, Djon Bajramovic have many contacts.” A wink and a wide smile that copied the sweeping curl of his Dali moustache. “As example, friend who is in same clan as night-shift captain at Prison 303.”

  Arthur looked up to the heavens. It had stopped raining; the clouds were breaking up. The power of Djon. “Do you ever not work, my friend? You seem to be perpetually in this spot.”

  “Seven in morning to nine at night, with break for lunch.”

  Arthur handed him twenty thousand leks. “An initial retainer. You are hired.”

  Djon wiped his thick glasses, stared at the bills for a moment. “About time.” He slipped them into a pocket.

  “Why don’t you pack up early, Djon, and come to my hotel room to talk?”

  “Is maybe not safe. Not even safe here.” A glance at the street, a silent message.

  Nibbling on his kebab, Arthur turned casually, saw a one-ton truck cruise by, recognized Ledjina in the cab, looking miserable, sandwiched between two glowering men. The truck slowed near the hotel entrance, then moved on. They appeared not to have noticed Arthur on the plaza, but the two hefty men he’d seen from his balcony — Djon’s customers, ugly customers — were still staring at him from down the street. Their rain hoods were off; one was hatless and bald, the other in a blac
k toque.

  “Not to worry, Djon has special today on accident insurance, especially for visiting famous lawyers. Lifetime guarantee.” He laughed merrily, and slipped Arthur a card with an address and directions. “Close by, in old town, friendly club on second floor where comrades sometime gather. Ten o’clock not too late?”

  “I shall meet you there. God willing.”

  Arthur considered returning to the hotel, but something in him rebelled at turning tail. Never let a dog sense your fear. In any event, he might be safer on the suddenly sunlit streets than alone in an insecure room. But he was unnerved when, as he began a steep climb up the cobbled streets, the two beefy toughs began to follow. But they were puffing, carrying too much weight, and by the time he attained the fortress summit they’d faded from the chase.

  Resting at the barricades, he studied Djon’s card. It translated, as best he could tell, as: “Fabian Branch, Albanian Socialist Party, Reading Room.” An address near the main square — which was spread out below him, the cafés busy, music drifting up from the bars.

  It was full sunlight now, the sky a deep afternoon blue. But the same wind that had whipped away the clouds was sharp on his face, and he was about to begin his descent when he saw the two followers — they’d ascended by a different route, like stealthy mountain goats, and were standing by the ramparts, smoking, watching. As he headed downhill, they followed, fifty paces behind. When he stopped, they stopped. The bald man offered a gap-toothed grin. The other was expressionless under his black toque.

  But they kept their distance, and soon after, from his balcony, Arthur saw them enter a tavern. He watched the sun dip toward the hazy horizon, turned on his alarm for nine p.m., then worried himself to sleep.

  As he set out from the hotel that night, he tried to reconstruct the morbid dream from which he’d awakened: a silent, medieval town, moustachioed giants in dark recesses reaching out for him, body snatchers. But as best he could tell, no one was stalking him now. It seemed foolish to take a taxi for a seven-minute walk, and the streets were well lit, the bars and cafés active.