Deadline (38 page)

Then Sophie jumped out of bed and stood naked close to the camera, so the screen was filled with a closeup of her pale, slim belly. She turned as the man’s body came into view, they embraced and she remained standing there as he left the room, her ass blocking the view of him as he passed by the camera. Then she jumped back into bed and snuggled up with Sawatski.

Flanagan clicked ahead. The recording ran through the night and finished after the two of them got up in the morning.

“We need to look through this more carefully and see if we missed something,” said Ashton. “Maybe you can make out his face and we missed it.”

“Or maybe he’s in another video,” said Flanagan.

He clicked on the next folder – 2011/11/13 – and typed in the password, but there was no file inside.

“Hey,” he said. “This is funny. There’s no video in this one.”

He clicked through the remaining folders.

“Every other folder has a file in it,” he said.

“So it looks like he deleted this one file,” said Ashton.

“I wonder why he would do that?” said Flanagan.

“Perhaps their guest made another appearance,” said Ashton.

Peggy and Vern were curled up in front of the TV when Jack got back to their mobile home. They looked as though they had nodded off on the couch, although they denied it when he came in, but they would do that, he thought.

“How was your adventure?” said Peg. “Vern tells me you went to the show.” She muted the TV.

“Yes,” said Jack, taking off his parka. “I popped into Showgirls. Had to talk to a fellow works there. By the Jesus, I think that might be the worst bar I’ve ever been in. What a sad bunch of b’ys there, drinking their wages.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Peg. “Poor shaggers.”

“I don’t know who to feel worse for,” said Vern. “The b’ys or the dancers. Makes me glad I married Peg here. I don’t have to chase after all that foolishness.” He winked.

“So did you learn anything for your story?” asked Peg.

“I did,” he said. “I got something good. I’d better not tell you about it just yet, but I did get something good. Do you mind if I go online? I’ve got to book a ticket back to Ottawa.”

“You leaving already?” said Peg. “Your mom’s gonna think we didn’t treat you good.”

“That’s what I’m gonna tell her,” said Jack. “It’s shocking the way you two treated me.”

Vern and Peg laughed. “Go way with ya, b’y,” said Peg. “You complain to your mom and I’ll tell her we hardly saw you ’cause you was always at the strip bar.”

Jack gave her a hug. “You two have treated me finest kind,” he said. “But I got to get back to Ottawa and try to save my career. What time’s the first flight tomorrow?”

J
IM
G
ODIN WOULD
rather have been at his girlfriend’s apartment on Avenue du Parc la Fontaine, in the heart of Montreal, sipping coffee on the little table in front of the window, looking out at the snowy park, taking his time going through
La Presse
and the
Globe
, as he did most weekend mornings, but an old friend of his father’s had insisted on meeting for breakfast at 7 a.m. at La Binerie, so he had bundled up in his parka and fur hat and walked through the slushy streets of the Plateau.

Godin had known Jean-Fred Charbonneau as long as he could remember. Some of his earliest memories were of happy afternoons when Charbonneau and his father would drink beer and talk politics on lawn chairs behind his parents’ little house in east-end Montreal, while their wives cooked and he and the other children played in the little backyard.

The men were both riding-level political operatives then, Godin a Liberal and Charbonneau a Tory. They grew up together in the working class neighbourhood, and although they were members of different political tribes, they were both passionate federalists and good friends, drawn together by their common experience in the cutthroat world of Montreal politics and street-level battles with the sovereigntists, which they lost more often than they won.

After Godin’s father died four years earlier, Charbonneau started calling him up and taking him out for lunch or a beer whenever he was in Montreal, trading political gossip with him and asking him about his life, never giving advice but gently posing questions that often led Godin to some insight.

The old fellow was sitting in a booth when Godin arrived. He was still wearing his parka in the overheated little restaurant, sipping coffee and peering through his reading glasses at
La Journal de Montreal
, the city’s colourful tabloid. La Binerie – a holdover from the days when the Plateau was a working-class Québécois neighbourhood, not an artsy enclave – was steamy and crowded. Customers were hunched over greasy breakfasts at the long wooden bar, and jammed into tiny booths.

“Salut, mon gars,” Charbonneau said, when he spied Godin. “Ça va bien?”

“Pas si mal,” said Godin as they shook hands. “Mais il fait pas chaud pour la pompe à eau. Osti.”

“Tabarouette,” said Charbonneau. “I should be in Florida with my sister and her kids, eh? but I can’t tear myself away from the politics.”

“Ouf,” said Godin, taking off his parka and sliding into the booth. “Haven’t you had enough of that shit? You should leave it for us young fellows.”

Charbonneau smiled. “And let you fuck it up,” he said. “Sacré monde osti. Did you see this shit?”

He held up the newspaper. It was open to a column by Henri Leblanc, a sovereigntist. The headline read, “Les conservateurs montrent leurs propres couleurs.”

“What’s Leblanc have to say?” said Godin.

“It’s all bullshit,” said Charbonneau. “They are making hay out of this Meech II thing. It’s like a wet dream for the sovereigntists. You couldn’t write a better script for them if you tried.”

“Tremblay is hammering you guys on this,” said Godin. “But what did you expect? I like Donahoe, but you can’t go around promising to reopen the Constitution and then taking it back.”

The waiter arrived and brought coffee for Godin. They both ordered big breakfasts.

“I shouldn’t be eating this shit,” said Godin, patting his tummy. “Marie-Claude is after me to lose a little bit of this.”

“I think you should do whatever she says at all times,” said Charbonneau. “You’re lucky she puts up with you. I find it a source of never-ending surprise. I’ll call the waiter back and order you a fruit salad.”

Godin laughed. “I think she’ll forgive me this one time. Or maybe I’ll tell her I had the fruit salad.”

Charbonneau peered over his reading glasses. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. They don’t serve fruit salad here. She’ll know you’re a lying sack of shit. Better let her just suspect it. Tell her the truth, ask for forgiveness and go for a long walk with her this afternoon.”

“Good advice, as always, Jean-Fred,” said Godin, bowing his head. “But I have to drive to Ottawa after breakfast. Pinsent’s got an interview on NTV. I’ve got to hold his hand.”

Charbonneau puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “They’re going to be talking about this Meech II shit?”

Godin nodded.

Charbonneau suddenly looked older, grey-faced and tired. “It’s a piece of shit,” he said. “This is a real piece of shit.”

“What is it, Jean-Fred?”

Charbonneau lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Well, you know that
petit con
Balusi?”

“Sure,” said Godin. “Of course.”

Charbonneau leaned back and pursed his lips, then leaned forward again. “A couple of weeks ago he calls me. Tells me he hears that Donahoe is going to make a speech at the Champlain Club, asks me if I am going.”

“Okay,” said Godin.

“I tell him of course I’m going, I tell him Donahoe is going to be a great leader of the Conservative party, that we’ve had enough of the goddamned Albertans running the country, although they’re better than the goddamned Liberals.”

Godin laughed. “That’s good for him,” he said. “He’s so full of himself, that guy. Give him shit.”

“Yeah, well. He tells me that Donahoe is great, he wishes he could go to the event, but he can’t make it, and asks me to record it for him and send him the tape.” Charbonneau looked at Godin sorrowfully. “He asked me to do it on the sly, eh? Not let on that I was recording it.”

“You didn’t do it,” said Godin.

Charbonneau frowned down at his coffee. “I’m sorry to say I did,” he said. “Look, I’m going to support Donahoe, but you and I both know that Mowat is more likely to win, and there’s no point burning bridges.”

“Tabarnac,” said Godin.

“These
osti de
Reformers are clumsy,” said Charbonneau. “Everything they do in Quebec is clumsy. They want us to help them run their campaigns, find sign-pounders, but they don’t listen to us. You know that. I’m often tempted to give it up, but we have been hoping that things will change when the leader changes. Whether it’s Mowat or Donahoe, Quebec needs people on the winning team. The fucking teenage MPs in the NDP won’t get anything done.”

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, and failing. He looked down at his coffee cup.

“So you recorded the meeting?” said Godin.

Charbonneau nodded his bald head. “
Oui
. I sure did. I wasn’t born on the last rainy day. I have a little recorder with a tiny mic. I put it in my breast pocket, and I transferred the file to my computer later and emailed it to Balusi.”

Godin laughed. “Well, you’ve been in the game for a while,” he said. “Donahoe should never have said that shit. It’s not your fault that he’s stupid.”

Charbonneau wasn’t laughing. His face was turning red. “Donahoe isn’t stupid. He didn’t say it. That’s what I’m telling you. He was very careful. He said he didn’t believe it was possible to do a Meech II. He was explicit.”

Godin scowled. “I heard the tape. I had to hold Pinsent’s hand while we worked out how to respond.”

Charbonneau laughed. “You say Donahoe is stupid, but you work for Pinsent! I can’t believe he came out and attacked Mowat and backed Donahoe. What potato truck did he fall off?”

Godin smiled ruefully and sucked his lips. “He doesn’t always take my advice,” he said.

“No,” said Charbonneau. “I hope you didn’t tell him to say that.
Calice.
Between Donahoe and Pinsent, Tremblay has an easy job. The
maudite séparatiste
just has to point out what a bunch of goddamned lying idiots the federalists are. Christ.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Someone doctored the tape,” he said. “They edited what he did say, and cut off the end of his speech, where he explained the practical steps he would take instead of opening the constitution.”

“Who?” said Godin.

Charbonneau pulled a memory stick out of his pocket and put it on the table just as the waiter arrived with their plates of eggs and sausages.

“Is this the original recording?” said Godin.

“Yes,” said Charbonneau, spearing a sausage. “Go ahead. Take it. Use it. Get it out.”

“It won’t help you with Balusi. They will know it came from you.”

Charbonneau dropped his fork. “Fuck them,” he said in English. “Fuck those cocksuckers.” He switched back to French. “I don’t give a Christ what they think of me. This is dirty tricks. Okay. I’m not a virgin. Fine. A little ratfucking is part of politics. But this is shitty. They are helping Tremblay and putting a good man in the shit. Fuck them.”

He bit into a sausage and smiled as he chewed.

“Believe me,” he said. “I’ll sleep better at night. A lot better.”

Ida Gushue was surprised to find Jack Macdonald on her doorstep shivering in the cold at 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning, holding a cup of takeout coffee, with his suitcase and laptop bag next to him on the doorstep.

“Sorry to show up without calling,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’m not here to ask for room and board. I’m just arriving from the airport and I wanted to tell you what I found out in Fort McMurray before I went home.”

She stood in the doorway and stared at him for a moment, then looked out at the curb. “How did you get here?”

“I took a cab,” he said. “I’ll have to ask you to call another one for me after we’ve had a chat. If you would be kind enough to spare a moment for a chat, that is.”

She looked at him again, and looked away and he thought she was going to close the door in his face.