The current President didn't plan to be the first.
Still, it wasn't pleasant to hear from Harold Smith, who never had good news unless it was a curt "Mission accomplished."
"Mr. President," Smith began, "we appear to have a foreign submarine operating off New England. It may be interfering with commercial fishing."
"Did you say fishing?"
"Yes. You are aware of the fishing crisis."
"It's global now, isn't it?"
"For our purposes it is also a domestic problem," Smith said. He went on. "An event in the North Atlantic caused me to send my people into the area. They encountered this submarine, and after a brief engagement in which a Coast Guard cutter was fired on by the aggressor, they sank it."
"They who? Your people or the Coast Guard?"
"It was a joint sinking," Smith answered truthfully.
"Sank a foreign submarine? My God," said the President, thinking the worst. "Was it Russian? Was it nuclear?"
"At this time, unknown. The name was French. Fier D'Etre des Grenouilles."
"I left my French behind in college," the President said dryly.
"It means Proud to be Frogs."
"Why would the French be mucking about out there?"
"It may not have been a French naval vessel. The vessel flew a flag that suggests the provincial flag of Quebec, and their sailors wear greasepaint disguises portraying the fleur-de-lis.
"Suggests? What do you mean by 'suggest'?"
"It was not the Quebec flag, but a quadrant of it with the colors reversed."
"Why would Quebec be cruising for an international incident?"
"That is precisely my point. It is unreasonable to think that they would. If Quebec's current push for nationhood succeeds, they will need friendly relations with the United States. Their highest priority beyond official recognition by France itself would be remaining on good terms with America."
"Yet they're sabotaging it."
"That is not a conclusion I am willing to jump to," Smith cautioned, letting the line hang empty for a long breath, "unless there exist factors I do not know. I am forced to conclude that this is an operation designed to embarrass Montreal."
"I can think of only one place that could be coming from," said the President.
"Ottawa," said Smith.
"I think I might give the prime minister up there a courtesy call."
"I would be discreet," Smith warned.
"I don't have time for discreet. I'm going to ask him flat out what's going on."
"That would not be diplomatic."
"Maybe not," the President said tightly, "but if I can head off a fishing war by scaring the starch out of Ottawa, I think that would be a good thing. What could go wrong?"
"Anything," Smith said quickly, but since his role was advice not consent on these matters, that was all he would say.
The President thanked Smith and hung up.
When he got back down to the Oval Office, the President of the United States asked his personal secretary to place a call to Ottawa. Politically this was a matter that required a certain guarded tact, a calculated finesse. But this was neighborly, diffident, good-natured Canada. He'd just go boo, and they'd scurry for cover like a possum under a porch.
THE PRIME MINISTER of Canada was happy to take the call from the President of the United States. He exchanged convivial greetings and pleasantries of the day. Then the President's voice turned vaguely steely.
"I have a report on my desk of a Canadian submarine that fired upon a Coast Guard vessel. We had to sink it. No choice. We realized it was yours only after it had gone down."
"Our submarine. What vessel?"
"I'd only mangle the French, but the English translation is Proud to be Frogs."
The fiber-optic line was deathly silent. "Mr. President, have you been-how shall I put this-imbibing?"
"You have subs in your navy bearing French names?" the President questioned.
"We do. But-"
"Your sub is on the Atlantic floor," the President went on in a cool tone. "This office will convey formal regrets, of course. But I want it perfectly understood that such aggressive Canadian naval maneuvers will not be tolerated."
"We have not been aggressive!" the prime minister exploded.
"Then if that wasn't your sub, you have nothing to worry about," the President said.
"It was not, and we are not concerned. Except for the regrettable loss of life, of course."
"Down here we call that deniability."
"And up here we call it poppycock," the prime minister said, his voice tense.
"Well, whatever the truth is, you and I understand each other clearly. Isn't that right?"
"We," the prime minister said tightly, "understand ourselves only too well. Thank you for the courtesy call. Good day to you, Mr. President."
"Have a good one," the President returned in an unconcerned voice.
The call terminated with simultaneous clicks, and in the Oval Office, the President of the United States leaned back in his chair and breathed out a cool release of air. It felt good to do that. No point in letting anyone push him around now. Not even friendly, forgiving, top trading partner to the end, Canada.
Chapter 20
In Ottawa the prime minister of the Dominion of Canada replaced the office telephone with an expression on his face like that of a man who had his lips seared unexpectedly by a friendly kiss.
Tapping his desk intercom, he snapped, "Get the minister of fisheries on the line."
"Yes, sir."
The phone lit up a moment later, and the intercom said, "Fisheries Minister Houghton on line 3, Mr. Prime Minister."
"Thank you," he said, punching the lighted button and snapping the handset to his displeased face.
There was snow on the ground, and the Rideau Canal was frozen solid, much to the delight of ice skaters. The Winterlude Festival, with its influx of tourists, was now a pleasant memory. This made what he was about to do more practicable. No loss in upsetting the free-spending Yanks after their dollars had been dispersed into the Canadian economy.
"I have just had a peculiar call from the United States President," the prime minister said in his distinctive French-Canadian accent.
"Yes?"
"He called to warn me that a submarine of ours fired on a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. He was forced to sink it, he said."
"A submarine of ours?"
"So he claims. I know nothing of any lost submarine. Do you?"
"No."
"He claimed the name translates as Proud to be Frogs. Ring a bell?"
"Of course not. There is no such vessel in our fleet."
"He was very curt with me."
"It sounds as if he were," the fisheries minister agreed.
"I did not care for his tone of voice. It reminded me of the Spanish."
"Those philistines."
"I think there should be a response. Measured but pointed. Will you see to it?"
"U.S.-flag vessels continue to slip in and out of the Grand Banks illegally."
"I think we might wish to see a simultaneous Pacific response. It will be easier to handle, in the sense of disengagement."
"We are having problems with U.S. vessels in our Pacific salmon fisheries."
"We are having problems with every flag and vessel, including our own," the prime minister said tightly.
"I have matters under control."
"I know you do, Houghton." The prime minister was very quiet as his curled lips gradually resumed their normal contours. "Do you suppose Quebec could have acquired a submarine?"
"You would know more about that than I, Mr. Prime Minister."
"I would. But I do not. I imagine that I shall have to make inquiries. I would not excuse the French from poaching again. Your predecessor had difficulties with their fishing fleets, as I recall."
"Actually, that was my predecessor's predecessor."
"Of course." The prime minister's voice grew reflective. "Str
ange, is it not, that we live in times where the minister of fisheries and oceans should control such a potent portfolio?"
"I am equal to the task," said Fisheries Minister Houghton.
"Get right on it, Gil. I look forward to the coming news reports."
"Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister..."
IN HIS OFFICE overlooking Parliament Hill, Canadian Fisheries Minister Gilbert Houghton dropped the receiver into its hard plastic cradle and dry-washed his haggard face with both hands ....
The word from the PM was like a blow to the pit of his stomach. The Fier D'Etre des Grenouilles lay at the bottom of the North Atlantic. If true, it was a grave setback. That left only the Hareng Saur to conduct Maritime operations.
He went to the bank of windows that looked out over the Ottawa River and Quebec, soon to be an enemy province, if the infernal secessionists got their damn way.
Well, they would not get their damn way if Gil Houghton had anything to say about it. While the appeasers gave and gave and conceded all but sovereignty to a bunch of mumble-mouthed cultural rebels, true Canadians like himself would do what they could to hold the dominion together.
When the previous fisheries minister had resigned to become premier of Newfoundland, some said his successor Gilbert Houghton would-if he so chose-follow in his footsteps and ascend to the premiership of his native Nova Scotia. But that wasn't the plan. Gilbert Houghton had accepted the portfolio with a more important agenda in mind.
The immediate problem had been that of the Pacific salmon fisheries. In a bold stroke that garnered him international headlines, Gil Houghton did what his predecessor hadn't dared. He cut back severely on the British Columbia fishing industry. There were howls of protest, of course. But with so many cod men in the Atlantic provinces out of work, what could the salmon fishermen say? It was simply their time.
The reaction had been more strident than calculated, however. The bloody fools in Vancouver-Hongcouver, they were calling it now that all the Asians had swarmed in-were flinging secession talk about as if it were a casual thing. And the talk kept growing.
Gilbert Houghton realized he had a problem.
He found the solution on the Net, of all places. One day he received an invitation for a thirty-day free trial of a cybertalk forum with the tantalizing name of Mistress Kali's School for Corrective Action.
How someone had learned of his peculiar but well-concealed tastes, he didn't know. But the service was anonymous. No one would know, especially his wife. It was a godsend. Since attaining ministerial office, he had had to dispense with Mistress Fury's services.
Mistress Kali had accepted him into her cyberschool without hesitation. Soon he was growing hard at his desk and keeping a spare set of trousers in case of accidental emissions. Which happened often.
Before long he was begging for private sessions. These were granted ...eventually. She seemed to delight in denying him, and he delighted in the denial. It made the eventual fulfilment all that more exquisite.
He poured out his heart and secret soul to her.
"I want to be prime minister. That is my goal," he said one day while licking her yellow-painted toenails as she toyed with his testicles with the other foot.
"First you must take full control of the crisis on both coasts," she said.
"Those out-of-work fishermen will be my ruin."
"Give them work."
"I dare not reopen the fisheries," he said, switching feet. "I will be pilloried."
"They are sailors. Put them to work on your behalf. Are you not minister of oceans, as well as fisheries?"
"Yes."
"A minister of oceans should control his dominion. If there was a way to replenish the Grand Banks, would that not advance your career?"
"It would," he agreed.
Tucking the handle of her black whip under his chin, she said, "There is..."
And he listened. The technology existed. A phantom fleet could be assembled cheaply and secretly. And best of all, a scapegoat was ready-made, so the glare of blame would not fall upon Gilbert Houghton, minister of fisheries and oceans and secret supplicant of Mistress Kali, the most brilliant and ruthless tactician he had ever known.
But now, only months into the operation, the fleet had been cut exactly in half, with the loss of all hands.
Houghton knew that communicating this dire setback to his mistress must be the first order of business. And she was not going to be pleased.
Perversely he looked forward to her displeasure ....
THE OFFICE DESKTOP SYSTEM was always running. He would not want to miss her summons, should it come.
Bringing up his e-mail folder, Gil Houghton executed a quick communication.
To: Mistress [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Grave development
The PM has just called me. The Americans are claiming to have sunk a Canadian submarine, the Frog. The PM has asked me to initiate a stiff response in the Pacific. The loss of the Frog aside, this throws my plan into a cocked hat. How can we lay proper blame on Montreal through a Pacific action? No one would believe that. Not even the Yanks in Washington.
Adoringly yours, Gil.
After checking the spelling, he sent it. Mistress Kali detested poor spelling and denied her supplicants corrective punishment for such minor infractions.
An answer came very soon. Somehow Fisheries Minister Houghton was not surprised. It was as if the woman possessed multiple eyes that saw unerringly in all directions at once.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Do as you are bid
The message was empty when he brought it up.
"Damn that woman!" he swore. Did she have to deny him even the most paltry of acknowledgments?
Furiously he typed out a reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Can we discuss this in person?
Then, in the body of the letter, he added a lowercase, perfectly centered "Please?"
A lonely hour passed before he gave up waiting for a response. Then he picked up the telephone and set in motion events that had not been factored into the master plan...
At least, not in his master plan...
Chapter 21
UN Secretary-General Anwar Anwar-Sadat returned from a dismal day of resolutions and Security Council foot-dragging and temporizing to an e-mail message that made his heart leap with undisguised joy. If the members of the international community could have seen Anwar-Sadat in his Sphinx-decorated Beekman Place high-rise apartment dropping into the chair before the blue terminal, they wouldn't have recognized the profile of the diplomat who was called Old Stone Face behind his back.
His dusky features were wreathed in joy. His fingers leaped for the keyboard he had for years disdained. Functionaries formerly input his commands for him. He was above such tasks. As the son of an upper-class Cairo politician, he had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Until he was packed off to military school at the age of twelve, his hand never touched that spoon or any other with his mouth. Servants fed him by hand.
But not here. Not in the privacy of his private world of romance and desire. Here he moved his own mouse and input his own commands.
The message was from Mistress Kali.
The subject line read, "Opportunity."
Anwar-Sadat brought up the message. Its crisp blue lines made his heart sing, but it was no message of longing and love. Rather, it was a very serious communication:
I have it on the highest authority, my Anwar, that U.S. Coast Guard forces last night sank a Canadian submarine in disputed waters.
"All waters are disputed," Anwar-Sadat muttered, his features resuming their stiff, stony lines. Such a face the Great Sphinx of pharaonic Egypt wore when it was whole and uneroded and complete of countenance.
He absorbed the remainder of the message.
This incident is being suppressed by both sides to spare d
iplomatic feelings, but it may be but the opening skirmish in a wider conflict. It might behoove you to bring this to the attention of the international community, so that your views are given the proper credit and respect they so richly deserve.
Anwar-Sadat nodded in agreement. "I will do it," he announced. Then, remembering the medium of communication, he guided the cursor to the reply icon and tapped out his very words, adding a "My Sweet Sphinx."
The message sped through fiber-optic lines to its unknown destination. As he watched the system perform its sacred duties, Anwar Anwar-Sadat only wished he were a beam of light that could follow it to the waiting arms of his love-to-be.
He yearned for those arms and the gentle caresses of Mistress Kali's fingers. He could almost feel them on his brow, his lips and in other places it was not good to think about when he was alone.
Still, the thoughts had come unbidden.
Going to a bookcase, he took from its place a book of old erotica, the Kama Sutra.
It was going to be a long night. There was no telling when Mistress Kali would reply again, if at all. But for his mind to concoct the speech he planned to give on the morrow, it must be agile.
Certain hormones facilitated his thinking processes. He only wished that their release did not require a naughty book and his own manipulations ....
It was very undignified. If only he had a snakehipped, kohl-eyed personal slave to apply the necessary unguents to the needy portions of his anatomy, which more and more felt the distress of a fish caught on a hook.
A very stimulating hook, he had to admit.
Chapter 22
The death of Tomasso Testaverde would have amounted to as much as his ill-spent life were it not for the fact that Tomasso Testaverde was of Sicilian blood.
After the autopsy his bluish corpse was released to his next of kin.
The trouble was no one wanted the remains.
Not his mother, from whom he was estranged.
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