Snow Job

by William Deverell

  “How tall was he?” McIlhargey asked.

  “About 190 centimetres. Six-foot-two, I’d say.”

  McIlhargey looked more taken aback than impressed. Klein’s official height was 187 centimetres.

  “I carried these faces in my head for forty days,” Abzal said.

  McIlhargey handed him a pad. “Write the numbers down, son, and sign.”

  Arthur burned up the adrenalin of triumph with a shoreline jaunt, enjoying a lazy winter sun that flirted with the clouds and dappled the water with swatches of reflected light. Matters were moving ahead quite nicely; he was in a celebratory mood — after all, it was the Orthodox Christmas here in Macedonia, the land where Alexander’s conquests had begun twenty-three centuries ago. Arthur had conquered too, in his small way.

  Yes, the Green leader’s consort had proved himself to be more than a decoration. It wouldn’t hurt her campaign to have such a celebrated fellow at her side. Not hogging the spotlight, of course, just hanging about humbly in the background. Though pleased with himself (and making rather much of it), he also felt an odd sense of ennui, of letdown, like a hangover after the party. The excellent adventures of Arthur and Ray had ended except for the credits.

  Transcriptions of Abzal’s long recorded interviews were already on their way to RCMP headquarters. McIlhargey had telephoned an overview to Lessard. Surveillance had begun on Clugg and Klein, search and arrest warrants issued. Clugg might have thought it clever to have misled DiPalma with his “good intel” about a shadowy London group of former British, German, and Soviet agents, but this seemed a homegrown show, the three kidnappers presumably aided only by Anglo-Atlantic operatives.

  Arthur pressed on to town, to enjoy the Christmas celebrations, stopping awhile at the Culture Theatre, where instrumentalists entertained in traditional costume. Many on the streets were similarly dressed, some more outlandishly: buskers in Santa suits or military jackets with braid, an operatic singer dressed as a weeping Pagliacci, an Elvis impersonator. Others with green-spiked hair and face paint.

  Arthur watched as a camera from the Skopje TV van took in a panorama of street activity. He thought of offering them a scoop. It would hit the news anyway, given the Macedonian government was such a leaky vessel. And the news would make Russia’s case that its petroleum monolith, Gazprom, was tricked out of the former puppet’s oil and gas reserves.

  He threw leks into musicians’ baskets and hats as he made his way to his hotel, wishing all a merry Christmas. He must get back to the villa for dinner, but now it was breakfast time in Fanny Bay or Oyster River or wherever Margaret’s tour had taken her. He hurried off to his hotel.

  He’d promised McIlhargey on penalty of everlasting fire that he would not speak of Abzal’s rescue to anyone outside their small circle, especially on insecure phone lines. “That includes your wife, your mistress, and Agent DiPalma.” Margaret would intuit the news anyway, from his cheery tone.

  In his bedroom, he made an operator-assisted call to her in Blunder Bay. It was answered, confusingly, by Nelson Forbish, who said, “Put him on, please.”

  There came sounds of a tussle.

  Margaret: “Give me that phone.”

  Forbish: “Arthur, explain to your censorious spouse about the Charter of Rights. This is a free-press issue. The Bleat is going out today.”

  Margaret: “Pierètte, grab the phone.”

  “Special to the Bleat,” Forbish shouted, like a corner newsboy from a fifties movie. “‘Smear Try Backfires Against Prominent Islander.’ That’s you, Mr. Beauchamp. ‘Top Tory Caught on Tape.’”

  Margaret, from a distance: “Make him another omelette.”

  “You may talk to her, Mr. Beauchamp, but this is going out today. The Bleat will not be muzzled.”

  Margaret finally retrieved the phone, breathless. “Thank God. I’ve been calling your hotel all day. Nelson has stacks of his extra edition sitting out on his ATV. We’re trying to stall him with food. Arthur, we need your consent for this, we want to get it out to the public — it’s hilarious but it could cause you some embarrassment.” That was too much to say in one gulp, and she caught her breath. “I’m sorry, are you all right?”

  “All is going splendidly here. I can say no more. But I am fascinated to know about this backfiring scandal.”

  The history she related was a farrago of absurdity, Bob Stonewell on a government-sponsored lark to Ottawa, Charley Thiessen pumping him for dirt about the reputed Lothario of Garibaldi Island. Margaret’s efforts at relating all this were frustrated by her succumbing to mirth, and the phone was rendered to Pierètte.

  “This is totally nuts, Arthur, but I’ll start from the top.”

  It took him a while to digest her more coherent account, after which he found himself in a quandary whether to feel insulted or tickled. A ladies’ man. An eye for the chicks. He felt a rare welling of affection for Stoney — his refusal to take the bait entitled him to forgiveness for many past sins.

  This foul-up had surely been inspired by the craftwork of Ray DiPalma, who had recounted the rumours of Arthur’s sexual profligacy to the impertinent spymaster. Obviously, the story had gone up the line to Thiessen, who’d speared himself with his own weapon of revenge.

  “I hope you’re okay with this, Arthur,” Pierètte said, “because the sumo wrestler out there is about to finish his omelette and we’re running out of eggs. If you can live with it, we’re ready to email the transcript to our media list, with a voice clip. I mean, how can we not?” Imitating Thiessen: “‘Hey, man, normally I don’t toke up until after dinner.’”

  “Fire away.” Arthur would somehow endure the roguish reputation foisted on him. He tried it out. Bon vivant. Sounded good.

  Djon’s Christmas kebabs had won the stomach, heart, and mind of Hugh McIlhargey, and they were at the chessboard again, working through a bottle of prime Vranec wine. The security minister had sent a case as a gift.

  As McIlhargey answered his cellphone, Djon laboured over his move, shrugged, pushed one of his last surviving pawns. He seemed content to let the superintendent win this one — he’d won the bigger game, his daring but well-calculated bet with Arthur, and he hadn’t been shy with reminders. “Work hard for good causes all life, finally in clover. No hurry, I wait.”

  After speaking guardedly with his two men in Gjirokaster, McIlhargey announced that statements were in hand from Dordana and Hanife Bejko, though Warden Chocoli had rendered himself unavailable by going on a hasty holiday somewhere. Inspectors Fyfe and Longstreet were proceeding on to Tirana. If DiPalma hadn’t smoked himself to death and was well enough to travel — their news might be the magical cure-all he needed — they would fetch him to Ohrid.

  McIlhargey went back to the board, looking pleased at what he saw. “Sorry, Djon, that little fellow’s going nowhere.” He snaffled a pawn.

  Arthur abandoned his newspapers to check on Abzal — he was in the communications room with Sergeant Chow, searching news outlets on her high-end laptop. He’d not found much from Bhashyistan, but a streamed broadcast from Moscow told of flare-ups near their border. Abzal translated with ease; Russian was his native land’s second tongue.

  According to this broadcast, Russian troop carriers were streaming toward south-central Siberia — an ominous development, given an accelerated risk facing the eight Canadians trapped in Bhashyistan.

  Abzal suddenly sat up. “Can we look at this YouTube clip they’re discussing?”

  Chow brought it up. Peering over their heads, Arthur saw Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich miked up in front of an architectural monstrosity, a five-storey wedding cake. “Almost live, we are outside culture palace for major address to nation.” On the steps, in full military regalia, was Mad Igor, addressing a crowd cheering halfheartedly — they were corralled within a cordon of armed police.

  “Father of country, and also of me, here is Igor Muckhali Ivanovich, immortal supreme leader for life, saying, Canada, we cook your goose. Also denouncing false rumours of discontent
. His people are the most happiest on planet, he is saying, except for gang of terrorists hiding in mountains who are being hunted down like dogs.”

  “I’ll be at your hanging, Mukhamet,” Abzal said.

  Abzal had been offered a bedroom in the villa, but Arthur wanted to keep close watch on his client, now in a sullen, silent fury — he’d slammed from the room after watching that video. As they hiked off for the hotel that night, Arthur could barely keep up with his athletic client’s relentless stride.

  At the edge of town, he pleaded with Abzal to slow down, and they rested on an overlook, in silent contemplation, watching a bright moon spangle the lake, listening to the jumbled strains of music from festive Ohrid.

  “Has anything been heard from Mr. Pomeroy?” His first words in the last hour.

  “Not for months, I’m afraid.” Arthur had already told him of Brian’s breakdown, the divorce, the cocaine, his collapse in court. His attempt to go native in the Subarctic, his bizarre and perilous trek across the Barrens in supposed search for buried gold.

  “In Bhashyistan, we say that men on journeys to the steppes are in quest for their souls. I hope he can conquer his demons.”

  Concerns about his fallen hero had added to his bag of dark emotions. According to Vana, he’d rarely talked about his youthful years in Bhashyistan, but his homeland now seemed almost obsessively with him. It was as if a love of country, long suppressed, had burst free.

  “I suppose you’re eager to get back to Chambly, your wife and children.”

  “I miss them, God only knows how much.” It aggrieved him that McIlhargey hadn’t let him call them. “But I won’t be going to Canada for a while.”

  “We’ll hurry things along. No reason Hugh can’t wrap up before Wednesday. I’ll take you back then.”

  “I’m not sure I want to go so soon. I may be called upon.”

  Abzal strode off, Arthur scrambling after him. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Canada has given me a home. I’m grateful for that. But I have another home.”

  Arthur thought he heard the siren call of destiny that throughout history has afflicted would-be heroes. Soul of a hero. He was in stunned dismay as he followed Abzal to the old town, to the hotel. His vengeful charge was dreaming if he was entertaining some fancy noble notion of jetting off to join the Bhashyistan insurgents. At any rate, he was going nowhere without a passport, nowhere but home to his family.

  As they neared the hotel, a man came running toward them — not with seeming hostility, but Abzal took up a defensive stand in front of Arthur.

  “Abzal Erzhan, I presume. How are you relishing your freedom, sir?”

  “Who are you?” Arthur demanded.

  Out came a press card. “Rushton, Athens desk, Reuters. Can we have a few minutes, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  The cat was out of the bag. Several cats, for others were hurrying toward them, including the camera-toting team from Skopje.

  “Olivia Guillard, Agence France-Press,” a breathless reporter said.

  “Vlad Mishin, Izvestia,” said another, who rattled off some words in Russian to Abzal as he took his photo.

  Arthur grabbed his client’s arm, led him through the encircling pack. “Gentlemen, ladies, please. There will be a press conference in due course, authorities willing. Not now, I’m afraid.”

  He retreated to the hotel door, brushing off questions like flies. They pursued them into the lobby, where the Russian, Mishin, flattered him in British-accented English: “Truly spectacular work, Mr. Beauchamp. Might we bother you for a few comments, sir.” Arthur smiled his thanks, and led Abzal to the stairs.

  When Mishin spoke another few words in Russian, Abzal stalled, turned to him with a cynical look, and then briskly carried on up the stairs.

  32

  It was Sunday, and Clara Gracey was in a B.C. town called Hope — an ironic name, given her mounting lack of it — listening to a United Church minister apply a love-thy-enemies parable to international politics.

  Which enemies must she love? Mad Igor Ivanovich? His insolent, pestering third son, the immortal Mukhamet? Maybe Anthony Crumwell, though the only cheek she’d be tempted to turn to him was the one she was sitting on. Damn him. Damn Charley Thiessen.

  She fought an impulse to stand up and shout: “You think it’s so easy, you take over.” She’d be tempted to walk out on this pacifist preacher and his simple recipes were not so many cameras lurking outside the church.

  So she just stuck it out, fighting a headache, feeling crushed by the weight of fast-rushing world events. The clock ticking for Operation Wolverine. Bhashyistan troops plodding toward the frontier, Russians massing on the other side. Abzal Erzhan popping out of nowhere, creating myriad, unaccountable repercussions.

  And Charley Thiessen going off the rails, an act of madness that threatened to take the Tory train crashing into the gully with him….

  She fled the church as swiftly and politely as she could, given the press of congregants eager to shake her hand. Others avoided eye contact, as if embarrassed for her. Reporters shouted questions about Abzal Erzhan, Bhashyistan, Thiessen. Clara deflected them with a frozen sunny smile, promising full briefings after all facts were in.

  Unable to bear the sullen faces of her campaign staff, she had ordered them to stay in Vancouver. Nor had she wanted to rush back there by plane — she needed time with Percival, needed his solace, his assurance that she was not the paranoid target of a vast international conspiracy to drive her mad.

  “Wonderful service,” said the wife of the local M.P. They were leading Clara to Percival’s rented sedan, manoeuvring through the crowds.

  “Scintillating sermon,” said Clara. “We’re going to pull this one out, Ed. Give ’em hell.”

  She scrambled in beside Percival, who closed up his phone, started the engine.

  “Okay, how are we spinning it?” she asked.

  “Total mental breakdown. A prominent head doctor has been retained. He will say Charley suffered a near psychotic episode that erupted as a response to an acute stress disorder with severe hypo-manic symptoms. But for this to wash, the shrink has actually got to meet and assess him. Charley’s up in Yellowknife — he’s speaking there tonight.”

  “Don’t let him near a platform. I want him flown down here strapped to a gurney.”

  “Senator DuWallup has confirmed he will take back the reins for the nonce. Tomorrow, he will appoint a commissioner to review the entire mess. It would be improper for you to comment until he or she reports, so you will be bound to silence.”

  A rap on the window, a supporter. Clara opened it to greet a toddler held out for show. “Oh, aren’t you lovely in your Sunday dress. Thank you all, don’t forget to vote.” Window up, she said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  She was exhausted: two hoarse speeches the day before, two hours of sleep that night. A recurring migraine. She truly thought she might crash under the pressure. After her defeat, a period of recovery, then back to writing equations on a chalkboard about aggregate demand for goods and services. She could hear the taunts: Gracey just wasn’t the man for the job.

  She must suck it up and muddle through. She is the iron maiden.

  “I don’t suppose we can cancel lunch.”

  “It’s the women’s professional club, pet, you can’t afford to.” Percival pulled into the traffic, toward the Trans-Canada.

  “Give me something for my head, for Christ’s sake.” She shook out a cigarette. “I’m sorry, I’m feeling very brittle.”

  “Look in my bag. There’s Tylenol and some mild antidepressant.”

  What she really wanted was hard drink, but she settled for two tabs of painkiller and the Sunday Post. The fiasco in the Château got second billing — under headlines from Macedonia — but featured Charley’s smiling mug and continued with a full page of interviews with hotel staff and Margaret Blake, plus a speculative sidebar about a mysterious government program to honour unknown entrepreneurs. Ano
ther item was about the no-comment stance of the P.M. and her cabinet, including Thiessen himself, playing hard to get in the Northwest Territories.

  “What the latest from Lessard?”

  “Erzhan has fingered a couple of CSIS agents. Moonlighting as mercenaries, a private-enterprise rendition. Sully Clugg, a thug — Blackwater Worldwide let him go over an issue involving dead Iraqi civilians. Rod Klein, a senior analyst, lost his shirt when the mortgage market collapsed. Whether they planted the IED remains moot, but Clugg had been trained in how to detect and dismantle them. They are under surveillance.”

  “The third man?”

  “Believed to be out of the jurisdiction. Likely ex-CIA or FBI, presumably a rendition expert, and with Albanian links.”

  “And links to Anglo-Atlantic Energy.”

  “One infers. I suspect we’ll never prove it.”

  “I don’t care. I want those oily assholes brought before our criminal courts.” Their CEO, Reaves, that priggish patronizer, and the flatulent Lord Blowhard.

  The highway rose above the Fraser River, ponderous, grey, and thick with winter rains, a tree shorn at the trunk floating by. Her headache was finally lessening. “Operation Wolverine?”

  “It hasn’t been disclosed to the Russians, but they must know something is up. Dip notes are bouncing back and forth like tennis balls. Moscow feels its southern border isn’t secure, but they assure us they have no plans to invade.”

  “Set up a call to the Russian president.”

  She had until maybe two the next afternoon, Pacific time, to pull the commandos back. Lives were at stake, her nation’s reputation, an election in the balance.

  Percival, as usual, was reading her thoughts. “History either condemns or acquits, but the verdict often doesn’t come in for decades. I read that somewhere. It’s tempting to do the popular thing, Clara, braver to do the honourable thing.”