Snow Job

by William Deverell

It was impossible to argue with Joy; she didn’t see reason. Global warming had brought the earth to the tipping point, she said — but look at the evidence, it was the coldest winter in years. No ice caps were melting here, snow was blowing relentlessly, almost a blizzard.

  Despite the weather, despite the defecting daughter, he was in much better fettle than a couple of weeks ago, after the calamity with that doper from the Left Coast. As of this seventh day of a new year, there hadn’t been a hint of fallout.

  Politically too, things weren’t looking too bad, thanks to Operation Snow Job and the demolition of the enemy’s propaganda machine. All they had left was a clown posting videos on YouTube. Tomorrow’s cabinet briefing was about something called Operation Wolverine, hush-hush, another go at rescuing the Calgary Five, and if that worked Canada might yet stay true to Conservative blue.

  “Looks like we’re in for a little weather, Mayor.”

  “Ay-yep.”

  His driver was urging him to get into the Lincoln van. He’d kept the engine running, thank God.

  “Ready, Dog? Turn up them burners. I’m gonna loosen this here rope.”

  Dog was standing in the gondola like a zombie, the envelope of the balloon suspended limply above him from a high tree branch. He’d suited up in hockey gear, a helmet, a chest protector, leg pads, a ratty old Canadiens sweater reaching to his knees.

  “Give it a burst,” Stoney yelled.

  No reaction. This was supposed to be dress rehearsal for next week’s official launch, but it looked like Dog had stage fright, possibly induced by the presence of the trespassing media in the form of Nelson Forbish, perched on his ATV.

  He’d been totally on Stoney’s case, stalking him like some hippo from the wilds of Africa. It had been a mistake whetting Forbish’s appetite about that recorder, a mistake compounded when he’d blurted out it had to do with Arthur Beauchamp.

  He stomped over to confront the trespasser. “Official ceremonies are next week. This here preliminary event is closed to the public. We are in camera.”

  “After talking to Ernst, I see that I treated your high honours too light, and I’ve come here to apologize. I have a proposition. The Bleat is willing to put out a spread on you being West Coast entrepreneur of the year.”

  That put a different complexion on things. “Front page?”

  “‘Local Businessman Acclaimed in Ottawa.’ Pictures and everything.”

  “I really ought to talk to Arthur.”

  “He hasn’t been home for the holidays, and no one’s seen him for a month almost. He could be dead for all we know. If there’s something on that recorder you’re worried about, I suggest we take it over to his best friend and spiritual adviser and play it for him.” He pulled out a nicad battery.

  Stoney called, “Take a break, Dog.”

  Al Noggins frowned over the letter from the Small Business Department. “You sure this is genuine?”

  Even the local preacher was a non-believer — why did no one have faith in Stoney?

  “This Charley fellow was a lawyer, you say.”

  “Or a cop.” Stoney produced the bug, stuck its suction cup on Reverend Al’s desk.

  “Let’s play it.” Forbish was all antsy. They were in Al’s cottage, the parlour, where they’d caught him searching a joke book to spice up his Sunday sermon.

  “I want it on record that we’re off the record,” Stoney said.

  “For now, okay.” Forbish reached over and clicked it on. There was nothing for a few minutes, just background noises, a door closing.

  Then: What do I call you, Robert, Bob?

  Call me grateful, Charley.

  Stoney listened to the opening skirmishing, in which Charley, instead of focusing on the award, waylaid him with questions about Garibaldi. Then a gap when the houseboy came in to restock the fridge. “This is where we tilted a couple back,” Stoney explained. “Now I got to warn you, there’s stuff here about Arthur, who, by the way, I’m kind of worried he’s on the run.”

  Reverend Al looked shocked. “Nonsense, I’m sure he’s out campaigning with Margaret. She’s on Vancouver Island. I’ll give her a call.” He was campaign manager for her on Garibaldi, he’d pestered Stoney into staking a bunch of lawn signs.

  Forbish impatiently pushed play. Here was where Arthur’s name was used in vain: A bon vivant with an eye for the chicks, they say … Boy, I’ll bet you must know some stories about the old shyster.

  And that was about it. Charley blew the scene, then there were just the sounds of Stoney and Dog getting back in party mode.

  Forbish looked resentful, like he’d been conned. “Well, that was a total letdown. Everybody knows Mr. Beauchamp has been acting up. Savannah Buckett, you told me yourself. I can’t print this, I run a family newspaper.”

  “Can I hear the beginning again, please.” Reverend Al had the expression you get when something in the back of the fridge has gone bad.

  Forbish rewound until they got to: I’m a no-bullshit country boy just like you. Charley gives you no blarney, that’s my motto.

  “Stop right there,” Al said. “Who’s this Charley?”

  “I got his note right here.”

  Reverend Al’s mouth fell open as he looked at the brunch invitation, the note that had improved the attitude of Fortesque at the front desk. “Charley Thiessen?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s his last name. Thiessen.”

  Reverend Al began rummaging through some clippings on his desk. Forbish, suddenly overexcited, tried to rise too, but his wooden armchair came with him. They were both talking at once. “Charley Thiessen? Whoa, hang on here. Thiessen? The minister of justice?”

  Al came up with a photo — the same dweeb, red paint smeared all over his white shirt.

  “Hey, yeah, that’s him.” Stoney never read the papers, so this was totally mystifying.

  Forbish freed himself from the chair. “Hold the presses. This is gonna go national.” He made a grab for the recorder, but Stoney whisked it away.

  Reverend Al picked up the phone.

  As her limousine sped from the airport, Clara Gracey lit her first cigarette of the morning, drew on it greedily. Beside her, Percival Galbraith-Smythe gave her a tsk-tsk, lowered the window a few inches. Snow blew in. “Went well?”

  “Well enough,” she said. They’d had to bus in an extra thousand supporters to help fill an arena in Gerard Lafayette’s riding. She’d denounced him as a coward who’d fled his party and his responsibilities after bungling Eager Beaver. But unfortunately, his defection wasn’t playing as poorly as she’d hoped among the tough-minded burghers of Montréal Nord, and expectations of unseating him were dimming.

  “Your reference to him as a procurer of prostitutes is today’s top sound bite.”

  She regretted that; she hadn’t been able to restrain herself. Rally in Vancouver coming up, but if this storm didn’t relent, her plane could be grounded. But she’d had to make this Ottawa pit stop to give audience — a confrontation, really — to emissaries of Anglo-Atlantic Energy. “Who are they sending?”

  “Their board chairman from London, their CEO from New York, and their head of legal from Dallas. All by private jets. They don’t want press, so we’re smuggling them into the Langevin Block by a back door.”

  “We should put them behind bars for aiding and abetting the enemy. Hang them up by their heels and waterboard them.” There were no boundaries to Clara’s wrath. Greedy cowards. Sneaking behind Canada’s back.

  “We’re not certain what they want. To grovel, perhaps, at the feet of our radiant chain-smoking ultimate leader. Or perhaps they will come bearing gifts of frankincense and myrrh and cheques made out to a campaign fund that’s running on fumes.” He batted away her own fumes, opened the window wider. “I’ve arranged an impromptu later with the Wolverine team. Mr. Crumwell has not been invited.”

  “Thank you. They’re still set to go in three days?”

  “Weather permitting. Forecast shows clearing skies over the Bh
ashyistan desert.”

  Unlike here. She couldn’t find an ashtray, reached across him, flicked the butt from the window. “Warn the press we’re flying out before this blast closes the runways. Mid-afternoon.” Air Cleavage, they’d dubbed the party’s chartered 737. She ought to have dressed less boldly but hated looking matronly, Thatcherish.

  “What about this rumour Alta bribed Lafayette?” Clara had seen it on a popular blog, hints he’d been rewarded to smooth Alta’s way into Bhashyistan.

  “Oh, it’s just a little thing we’re spreading. Might even be true.”

  “I’m going to ask you to pull it, Percival. It’s below the belt, even for that demagogue. He’s become a minor player.”

  “Not. He’s found scores of candidates. They’re eroding our vote in some touch-and-go rural areas.”

  “History won’t remember him. He’ll be buried in the footnotes. I’d like to have a chat with the RCMP commissioner.”

  “Goodness, I hope not about our rumour …”

  “No, something else.” She wanted Commissioner Lessard’s take on what Crumwell was up to — the business about the tar sands stank. “Do we have a complete slate of candidates?”

  “All holes are filled, if you’ll pardon the expression. Three losers in Quebec were nominated just before deadline, and one in Cow Islands.” As Percival preferred to call Cowichan and the Islands.

  “And who’s our loser there?” She’d done a flip-flop, decided against running a star candidate against Margaret Blake. They could run Mother Teresa and still lose. Option B was infinitely better: free Blake from any worry about retaining her seat, get her out of her riding, barnstorming the country — the Greens were feeding off the opposition parties eight to one as against the Conservatives.

  “Our contest in Cow Islands was between a bigoted evangelist and an alcoholic ex-professional wrestler. The wrestler won. Known to his fans as the Viking. We’ll be lucky to keep our deposit.”

  Clara lit another cigarette, and Percival cracked open the window again. The Airport Parkway had become Bronson Avenue, and now they were looping onto Colonel By Drive, by Dow’s Lake, the Rideau Canal. And, blurred by the whirling snow, the skaters’ changing shack from which a roadside bomb had plunged Canada into a ludicrous war. Six weeks earlier, this had been the scene of charred bodies and twisted metal. She shivered.

  By nine a.m., she was in a boardroom in the Langevin Block, the PMO’s operations centre, across the street from the Hill. The three men from Anglo-Atlantic were on one side of the table, facing Clara and her crew: E.K. Boyes, plus the foreign affairs minister and her deputy.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Exactly what, Madam Prime Minister?” The CEO, Reaves, Anglo’s designated hitter, oozing with false sincerity, refusing to wilt under her slit-eyed glare.

  “Your negotiations with a repressive regime led by a psychopath who declared war on us.”

  “We’ve been courting Bhashyistan for several years — though perhaps not as aggressively as several other competitors, including Alta International.” Reaves had been a senior adviser to an ill-regarded American vice-president. Pinch-faced, a circle of hair around a bald spot, like a slipped halo.

  “And you secretly reopened discussions after five Canadian citizens were kidnapped by these barbarians. I consider that despicable, gentlemen. Bordering on treachery.”

  Reaves didn’t bat an eye, but she could read his disdain for her, the leader of a minor player on the world stage. “I had hoped you would find our intentions benign. We are committed to securing freedom for those five brave men. That, as we have assured Bhashyistan, is non-negotiable. The declaration of war must be withdrawn, civility must be restored.”

  “Have they agreed to this?”

  “They are sending clear signals to that effect. We expect to wrap it up within days.”

  “How many days?”

  “In less than a week. I can’t imagine the terrible conditions those men must be enduring.”

  “Mad Igor wants ten billion in ransom. He’s not getting it from us. Is he getting it from you?”

  Reaves exchanged looks with his chief counsel. “The financial package has yet to be fully determined.”

  “Sounds like the answer is yes.”

  “There is a theory being bruited about, gentlemen,” E.K. said, “that your firm undertook deliberate efforts to scuttle Alta’s deal with Bhashyistan.”

  Clara saw Reaves’s facial muscles grow stiff. “Let us put that to rest,” he said. “It is a gross slander.”

  That was all bluster. Clara had heard reports of major stock movement into Anglo a month ago. Investors with good instincts and better ears had jumped on board. Irwin Godswill, the West Coast tycoon.

  Foreign Minister Dubjek took a turn: “Anglo-Atlantic has become a global pariah. The Russians are as outraged as we are. You have cheated the corporate citizens who are your competitors.”

  “Madam, Anglo-Atlantic is growing aggressively, and is outpacing those competitors. We are running a business, and we are running it to win.”

  “And trying to soften up Canadians for your backroom deal,” Clara said.

  “You’re referring to?”

  “Your lies. Your ad campaign.” Full-page pledges to sustainable energy, solemn promises to build a greener Canada. Anglo didn’t have much presence in Canada yet, some gas fields, a piece of the tar sands, exploration rights off Newfoundland.

  “I would prefer to say we are preparing to deliver some happy news for Canadians. Certain other negotiations are under way. This is in absolute confidence, of course.”

  “You’re buying out Alta International,” Clara said.

  All three of them looked surprised. A good guess — their unexpected solicitude toward the Calgary Five had inspired it.

  Their chairman, thick-necked Lord Stokely-Finn, harrumphed. “Quite. Indeed. And when the two companies are integrated, some sizable capital investments will follow. We see a robust future in Canada, and intend to become a much bigger player here. A petrol station network will soon be in place, as well as a refinery in Sascratchewan –”

  “Saskatchewan, sir.” Their chief counsel. His Lordship went red, but, Clara suspected, more with annoyance than embarrassment.

  He cleared his throat. “Let me assure you as well, Prime Minister, that we are solidly behind your party’s program for prosperity and are prepared to support it by any means you care to suggest.”

  Clara was insulted, was tempted to tell them to stick their dirty money up their anus.

  “All we ask is that your government take, shall we say, a fresh look at the criminal charges against Mr. Quilter and his associates.”

  “When the moon turns blue,” Clara said. “This meeting is over.”

  “If I may interrupt your pacing, the Wolverine team is assembling.” Percival shut the door of Clara’s office, handed her some briefing notes. “Minutes of our session with those cheeky fellows from Anglo. I have copies for distribution. I was able to corral a dozen cabinet ministers. We’re set up in the war room.”

  Clara stared bleakly out the window at a lone scraggly griever, out of step with the trying times, vainly seeking signatures to legalize LSD. “Tune out, turn out, drop out,” said his hallucinogenically garbled placard.

  Why hadn’t she had the gumption to call in the RCMP, bust those three hypocritical quislings from Anglo? She’d checked the Criminal Code, it was in plain language: Everyone commits high treason who, in Canada, assists an enemy at war with Canada. They’d be the heroes, though, if they sprang the five Albertans, and she’d have egg on her face. How pompous of them to set themselves up as the engineers of peace. But how clever — the world would no longer hold them in opprobrium. She stayed at the window, not wanting her executive assistant to see her unmanned, as it were, struggling.

  “I don’t know what to do, Percival.” To no one else would she admit such doubt. Anglo-Atlantic’s unwelcome intervention offered freedom for the C
algary Five without bloodshed. Operation Wolverine was set to go in two days, on Monday. If it turned ugly, Clara Gracey would become a political untouchable.

  “You will do the right thing as always. Not counting, of course, the time you confused the German ambassador with his chauffeur.”

  “Did you get hold of Commissioner Lessard?”

  “He in turn seems more than eager to see you. I asked him to accompany you to the airport. He is on his way. Shall we invite him to join us in the war room?”

  “Please.” She pulled herself together and followed him there. Her entrance prompted several to rise, but she waved them down. In addition to the cabinet members, ten top staff, and half as many military brass.

  She took her station at the midpoint of the long oval table, thumped her gavel lightly, mostly to get the attention of Charley Thiessen, who was joking with the defence deputy. “Okay, somebody fill us in on the current situation in Bhashyistan.”

  “There is fighting going on.” An analyst from Foreign Affairs. “No idea how extensive. In the countryside, mostly. Friendly embassies report that Igorgrad is quiet, but, the French tell us, comme une poudrière.” A powder keg.

  An air force general amplified: “We have aerial surveillance of troop carriers and tanks moving north toward the steppes and the mountains bordering Russia, and west toward the desert.”

  “Toward Özbeg?”

  “In that direction, yes, ma’am. Three, maybe four companies.”

  “That’s not good.” Clara had a fleeting premonition of disaster.

  “They’re moving slowly, Prime Minister.” Buster Buchanan. “We think they’re getting sniper fire. They batten down each night, and that leaves them only eight daylight hours to work with. We don’t expect them to reach Özbeg before we do.”

  “But you can’t be sure.”

  “Our soldiers are ready to go, Prime Minister. At plus three hours Zulu time, in two days, six engineers will parachute to the desert with their flares to set up a safe landing site. Two hours later, the Herc will put our forces on the ground. We’ll be in and out before the enemy can blink.”