“That was a great scoop today,” said Murphy. “We were out in front of the competition all day on the only story that anyone cared about.”
“I know,” said Simms, and beamed. “It must be killing them at CBC.”
“Your scoop is part of history now. Think about that.”
“Maybe you should give me a raise.”
Murphy laughed. “I was new on the Hill when Trudeau took his walk in the snow and decided to retire,” he said. “I covered Mulroney’s resignation, Jean Chrétien being pushed out by Paul Martin. These are the moments when things really change. Everything will be different from now on.”
“Not till March,” said Simms. “Stevens is still the boss until then.”
“Everything changes now. Stevens is in control, but whoever wants his job has to make a move now. Soon we’ll find out how good the organizations are, who has had people working away quietly for years, who has donors lined up, who has convinced some sharp customers to quit their jobs and work full time for nothing for three months.”
“You think it will be Mowat or Donahoe?”
“I can’t tell yet, but one of the two. Likely Mowat. Donahoe’s from Nova Scotia, and he’s an old Progressive Conservative. The PCs might think it’s their turn to lead the party, but the Alliance types don’t want to give up control, and they have a lot of money and a lot of members. Every riding association in the country is weighted equally, so Donahoe could theoretically go into a convention with a lot of support from red Tories in the Maritimes, Quebec and Toronto, but it looks to me like it would be tough.”
“I like Donahoe,” said Simms. “Mowat creeps me out. He reminds me of a televangelist.”
Murphy laughed.
“That probably bothers you more than it concerns a lot of Tory delegates,” he said. “If he came across like that in a general election it would hurt the party, but a leadership race isn’t an election. Donahoe will try to make delegates think about it, but he’ll have to be careful not if he wants to win their support.”
“There could be some great stories for us, up to and including the convention,” said Simms.
Murphy swirled his Scotch. “We want to do our best to get good sources near Mowat and Donahoe.”
“I may have some ideas about that.”
“Yeah? Well, whoever gave you that story today is a good source.” Murphy watched her reaction carefully. He knew that Balusi had given her the story, and guessed that there was a link to the Mowat camp, because he was obviously better prepared than the other MPs during the scrums, but he didn’t think she realized he’d seen her call display when the call came in at lunch.
Simms’s eyes flicked to the bar and back at Murphy. “Well, it wasn’t that guy,” she said, and pointed with her nose at Dave Cochrane, who was leaving the dining room with Donahoe and a few other middle-aged men in suits. When he glanced back across the room, Simms’s red hair caught Cochrane’s eye. He did a double take and waved as he walked his boss and their companions out to the street.
“If I’m not mistaken, Cochrane and Donahoe just had dinner with Geoff Bourrie, the lobbyist, one of the old Mulroney boys,” said Murphy. “I haven’t seen him around in years. Probably plotting the return of the PCs. Man, those guys knew how to have fun. They make Stevens’s crew look like a bunch of boy scouts.”
“Some of Stevens’s crew know how to have fun,” said Simms, and she pointed her chin at Cochrane, who had appeared in the bar again and was walking toward their table.
He shook hands with Murphy. Simms gave him a two-cheek kiss.
“David,” she said, “was that Geoff Bourrie you just had dinner with?”
Cochrane pulled up a chair. “Jesus, you don’t miss much, do you?” he said. “How would you know who Bourrie is? You must have been in short pants the last time that guy was making it rain in Ottawa.”
Simms winked at Murphy. “I have my sources.”
“Well that’s obvious,” said Cochrane. “That was a good one today.”
The waiter came with a gin and tonic for Cochrane. Simms ordered another glass of wine, but Murphy decided to stop at one. “I’ve got to get home,” he said. “I can’t keep up with you kids anymore.”
He squeezed Simms’s shoulder affectionately when she kissed him good night.
“Good scoop today, kid,” he whispered. “I’m proud of you.”
After Murphy left, Simms pressed Cochrane. “So, is Bourrie organizing for you guys?”
Cochrane laughed. “Just old friends having a steak together. Last time I checked that wasn’t against the law.”
“No, but you guys have got to be putting together your team in a hurry if you want to have any chance of beating Mowat.”
“If Donahoe, or Mowat, is going to run. Nobody’s announced yet.”
“No,” said Simms. “Are you going to leave the speculation to the speculators?”
Cochrane laughed. “Jesus, the boss looked a bit awkward today, didn’t he? I’d give my left one to know who tipped you off.”
“You know I can’t tell you that,” she said.
“No, but you could have let me know that you were about to ambush my guy.”
Simms took a sip of wine and regarded Cochrane coolly. “I could have, but I didn’t want to blow my scoop. I like to get scoops.”
Cochrane stared at her, smiling, drained his gin and tonic and waved for another. “Did you hear about Sawatski?”
“No. Who’s that?”
“Young fellow works in our office as a policy adviser. From Newfoundland. Late twenties. Smart kid. Lives with Sophie Fortin, Mowat’s press secretary.”
“The girl who fainted in the lobby today?”
“Yeah,” said Cochrane, taking his next gin and tonic from the waiter. “You know why she fainted? I bet it was because she just found out that her boyfriend nearly drowned. They pulled him out of the canal this morning. He’s in a coma in the hospital.”
“Wow,” said Simms.
“I don’t know if any Hill reporters have put it together yet,” said Cochrane. “You might poke around, find out what happened. Could be a story there.”
Simms crossed and uncrossed her legs and gave Cochrane a coquettish smile.
“Do me a favour, Dave,” she said. “Don’t mention it to any other reporters.”
On the way to Sophie’s, Jack twice reached to his hip to check his phone for messages, and felt like an idiot both times when he remembered it was gone. His mind kept turning in circles as he contemplated the events of the day. For the first time, he had a chance to think about why some scary people wanted to get their hands on Ed’s BlackBerry. He thought of that menacing black Buick, and wondered if the people chasing him were the same people who threw Ed into the canal, if that’s what had happened. Who would do that? Why? He ran through the day’s events again, but he just ended up with more questions. It was a relief when he finally got to Sophie’s and she buzzed him into the Centretown high rise. She was in her pyjamas and a robe when she opened the door for him, with bloodshot eyes and a tissue in her hand. He took her in his arms and pulled her to his chest. She immediately started to cry. Over her shoulder, he saw a box of tissues on the coffee table and a half empty bottle of red wine.
He had met Sophie better through Ed, and although they were friends, he didn’t know her well, because whenever he was with her they were with Ed.
He thought Ed was lucky to have found her, though, because she was so beautiful and nice, the kind of girl you would marry, with a sharp wit, silky brown hair, big brown eyes and a slim, athletic body. She had a twinkly laugh and spoke with a light, charming French accent. She was always poised and formal when it was appropriate, but she had a saucy, earthy sense of humour when she was among friends. She didn’t crowd Ed, and trusted him likely more than she should.
Jack was a little bit in love with Sophie, and he was aware of how pleasant it was to have her in his arms, even if he was consoling her because his good friend was in a coma in the hospi
tal.
Sophie must have had the same thought, because she suddenly pulled away.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” she asked.
“Is the Pope a German?”
They sat at either end of the couch.
“So, how’s Ed?” asked Jack.
“No change,” said Sophie. “The doctor says there might be improvements but we can’t count on it. His brain was starved for oxygen for a long time, and we don’t know how much it was damaged.”
Jack shook his head. “Christ. It’s hard to imagine Ed spending the rest of his life on his back. I just can’t believe it. I have to believe that he’ll find a way to recover, that we’ll see the same old Ed again someday.”
“I hope so,” said Sophie. She stared into her wine, then out the window. “God, I hope so. He had … has … so many dreams and plans for the future.”
“When we were at Pigale last night, he said that he was getting ready to make some kind of a move,” said Jack. “It sounded like he had a plan for a new job.”
Sophie back at him. “Did he say what kind of job?”
“Not really. He said he could end up being at the right hand of the prime minister. At the time I assumed he meant Stevens, but now I wonder. Maybe he was thinking about Donahoe.”
“He never mentioned that to me,” said Sophie.
“He could have just been shooting off his mouth,” said Jack. “So, do the police have any idea how he ended up in the canal? Flanagan seemed to be trying to figure out if somebody put him in the water.”
“He has handcuff bruises on his wrists,” said Sophie. “They think somebody tried to drown him.” A tear spilled from one of her big brown eyes. “What happened, Jack? What can you remember from last night?”
“Well, we shared a cab together from Pigale, and we stopped at my place. He stayed in the cab. I assume he was headed home.”
“He sent me a PIN late at night, saying he gave you his Berry to hold when he went for a lap dance,” said Sophie. “Did you give it back to him?”
Jack felt stuck. He had already lied to Sophie about Ed’s phone. He planned to tell the police that he had it, but he didn’t want to tell Sophie he had lied to her. Maybe the police would agree not to tell her.
“I don’t remember that at all,” he said. “I don’t remember him giving it to me, or giving it back to him or anything. I didn’t have it when I woke up this morning.”
“Did you check all your clothes and search your apartment?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Jack. “But I’ll have another look in the morning.”
“Okay,” said Sophie. “It’s important. The police need to see who he was sending messages to. And his boss needs to know whether there are secrets on it that are compromised.”
“God,” said Jack. “Do you think somebody drowned him to get hold of his phone?”
She looked pale and her shoulders sagged. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
Jack eased over next to her and put his arm around her to comfort her.
She looked up at him. “Promise me that you’ll let me know if you find the Berry, or if you remember what happened to it.”
“Of course,” said Jack, pulling her head onto his shoulder. “I promise.”
They sat like that for a while, in silence. After a few minutes, Jack noticed that her breathing had become deep and regular, and he realized that she had fallen asleep. Soon he was asleep as well.
4 – Scoop
JACK’S SNORING WOKE Sophie in the night and she left Jack sprawled on the couch. She spread a quilt over him, set her alarm and went to bed.
Her alarm went off at seven. Jack was still dead to the world when she got out of the shower, and she decided to let him sleep. She got dressed and headed to the office. As soon as she got to her desk, she called Mrs. Sawatski. Ed’s mom thought that Ed may have recognized her when he woke up this morning, but he still hadn’t spoken or shown any real signs of consciousness.
Sophie had worked hard to get to the Hill, sacrificing spare time during university, volunteering for the federal Conservatives and Action Démocratique du Québec, making connections, learning the ABCs of politics at street level. She had learned that the most useful people in a political organization were the ones who got things done quietly, who put in the hours when the hours needed to be put in, not when it was convenient for them, who demonstrated over time that they knew how to keep their mouths shut.
It bothered her that some people on the Hill assumed she got there because she was pretty, like some young staffers, and she took pride in her work. She made it her practice never to tell Bouchard or Mowat that she couldn’t do something, or let them know what difficulties she faced, believing that they were smart enough to notice her efficiency and discretion. She had worked herself ragged for them, never complaining, but today, with Ed in the hospital, for the first time she let the strain show. She actually scowled when Mowat popped into her office and started to speak to her while she was on the phone with Mrs. Sawatski. She covered the mouthpiece.
“I’m sorry, Minister,” she said. “I’m on the phone with Ed’s mother. Can I have just a moment, please? I’m very sorry.”
He frowned and backed out. When she hung up, he was waiting outside her little office, chatting with Marie-Hélène, the receptionist.
“I’m so sorry, Minister,” she said. “I’m so stressed.”
“Of course you are, Sophie,” he said. “Let’s get this wrapped up so you can get back to the hospital.”
He put his hand on her shoulder and walked her to Bouchard’s office. Claude stood and embraced her. “Pauvre Sophie. Ca vas? C’est dur, n’est pas?”
Sophie struggled not to cry as she hugged him back.
Bouchard asked Sophie for her Blackberry and plugged it into his laptop. He opened up a list and started deleting files. “There are a few things on there that could violate operational security if the police take a look. We need to clean a few things out. We can’t have secrets going astray.”
Mowat was leaning against the door. “Did you talk to Jack again?”
“Yeah,” said Sophie. “He came over last night to see me. He doesn’t remember anything about Ed’s BlackBerry.”
Mowat frowned. “Do you believe him?”
Sophie shrugged. “Why would he lie?”
“We can’t think that way. We have to assume he might be lying. He might hope to get secrets from Ed’s phone.”
“I see what you mean. But he wouldn’t have the password.”
“Okay. Keep after him, though, will you? Maybe his memory will improve.”
“I will. I’ll take him for drinks as soon as I can. It might loosen his tongue.”
“Okay,” said Mowat. “By the way, I want to ask you whether you talked to Simms before the scrum today? Someone in Stevens’s office seems to think you might have leaked the news of the resignation to Simms.”
Sophie was confused. Bouchard had told her that the story was going to break, and asked her to work on lines with Mowat before the scrum.
Bouchard looked at her blankly. He was disconnecting her phone.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t talk to Simms.”
“Okay,” said Mowat. “That’s what I told them. I couldn’t see you leaking anything. But if anyone from Langevin asks you about that, tell them to talk to me, okay?”
Sophie nodded.
Mowat stood up and walked around his desk. “Claude, are you finished with that darn BlackBerry? We should let Sophie get to the hospital.”
Bouchard returned her phone, and Mowat took her by the hand. “I don’t want you to worry about anything to do with this office for the rest of the day, okay? We’re very impressed by your work, and I hate like heck to have to ask you about the leak, but we have to be very careful.”
“I understand,” said Sophie.
“Don’t give up on Jack,” he said. “Keep working on him. We’ll all be able to relax when we know what happened to that BlackBer
ry.”
Jack was disoriented when he woke up on Sophie’s couch. He staggered to his feet and looked around, uncomprehending, until the events of the day before came back to him, and he realized where he was. It was 9:30.
“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
He went into the bathroom, took a quick shower and put his dirty suit back on.
He wanted to check his BlackBerry, but it was gone. Then he remembered where he had put it. He switched on Sophie’s desktop computer in the living room, to go online to check his email. While the computer booted up, he called his editor on Sophie’s land line.
“What’re you at?” said his editor.
“Not much, Kevin,” said Jack. “Story okay?”
“Yeah,” said Brandt. “Just fine. Or at least I haven’t heard anything from the publisher’s office. What have you got today?”
“Well, I’m not sure. You know my buddy, Ed Sawatski, works in Donahoe’s office?”
“Yeah?” said Brandt.
“Well, he got into some kind of accident yesterday, fell in the Rideau Canal and he’s in hospital, still unconscious. He and I were out drinking the night he got hurt, so I think I’ll have to go see him at the hospital today, and I think the police want to talk to me again. So I don’t know if I’ll have time to get up to much before Question Period.”
“Christ. How’d he end up in the canal?”
“I don’t know. Last time I saw him he was fine, drunk but fine.”
“Do the police suspect foul play?”
“Yeah. They seemed to be thinking about it when they questioned me yesterday.”
“That’s quite a story.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Jack.
“Local boy clings to life after suspicious Parliament Hill drowning. Think about it. That’s a good story.”
“You’re right. That’s a good story.”
“You’re going to talk to the police today?”
“Yeah. They want to question me again.”
As Jack spoke, the computer finished booting up and presented him with a password prompt.
“Okay,” said Brandt. “Record the interview and see what you can figure out. Talk to the family and the doctor when you’re at the hospital. You should be able to scoop everybody on this.”
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