Snow Job (11 page)

“Okay,” Finnerty said, “while we all wait with bated breath, let’s hear from our head spook. He’s been shining his pants out there.” Someone went to fetch him. Finnerty was willing to put more trust in CSIS than the RCMP, especially after the way Commissioner Lessard dropped the dime on DuWallup.

So Lessard was out, Crumwell in, and Clara Gracey back. Finnerty had been so riled at Lafayette’s pushiness he’d insisted on her counsel. He also needed her for balance.

“Thank you, gentlemen — and lady, of course — for making time for me,” Crumwell said. “Much of this you may have heard from my esteemed colleague Commissioner Lessard. However, we’ve made additional inquiries.” The spymaster spoke in clipped phrases, with a superior old school inflection that Finnerty found irritating. He tried not to be distracted by the sight of his two-fingered hand — only the thumb and middle finger had survived.

“Erzhan. Abzal Erzhan. Do not be surprised if you hear positive testimonials from fellow teachers and neighbours. Many knew of his history, but most shrugged it off. None remember him talking much about his homeland, or his army service there, or about politics. Popular with students, good family man, loves his children, that sort of thing. Seemingly proud to have become a Canadian citizen.”

Charley Thiessen: “Somehow it doesn’t compute for me that after fifteen years in Canada this teacher, this solid citizen is … what do you call it, a sleeper terrorist?”

“A very smooth and patient one, Minister. There was absolutely nothing in his house, or his school, that might incriminate him. His passport was found — one holiday trip to Cuba two years ago, so he may have connections there. No suspicious long-distance calls. No hits on Bhashyistan showed up on the family computer. Which seems so unlikely as to be suspicious in itself.”

“Isn’t that a reach, Mr. Crumwell?” Clara Gracey asked. Out of pride, she had balked at returning to this all-boys circle jerk, but wilted under Finnerty’s entreaty.
We need your unique perspective
. She understood her role: help trim Lafayette’s sails, keep the wannabe usurper in line. “You’re saying the absence of evidence is in fact proof against Erzhan.”

“A subtle but appropriate inference when one is dealing with the sly and devious. In our field we often find value in what is
not
done or said.”

Talking down to Clara and her fellow morons. She’d distrusted this guy ever since he started pushing for a national DNA registry. Not just of felons. Everyone. Still fighting the Cold War, seeking out subversives. “You don’t find it odd that he left his passport behind?” she asked.

“Not at all. These people have no difficulty obtaining false ones.” Crumwell flipped open a page on a dossier. “Mr. Erzhan is highly motivated to seek revenge against his country of birth. After he was acquitted, his mother and father were executed and his three adolescent siblings tortured and jailed.”

A hush. Clara was revolted all the more that her government, her country, had sought to play footsie with these beasts. Still, she knew she had to swallow any sympathy she might have for Erzhan — but only if he were indeed a mass murderer, which seemed assumed though not proven.

“Presumably, Abzal learned he was being watched — I offer no comment on the effectiveness of RCMP surveillance — and planned his vanishing act accordingly. We have two reports of a car with an unknown number of occupants pulling up for him on a quiet residential street, a block from the Erzhan residence. One lady saw, from her porch, a man with a satchel accepting a ride in a black sedan. But this woman, who is of a certain age, had on her reading glasses and was a hundred metres away.”

“What is a certain age?” Clara asked.

“About eighty.”

“Thank you.”

“The other report is even vaguer, and comes from Vana Erzhan, who claimed her landlord saw her husband being drawn into a car. But that person, when questioned, declined to cooperate, and seemed hostile. One wonders why. This landlord, gentlemen — and lady — may be a person of interest. Iqbal Zandoo, lives below the Erzhans, in the lower unit. Born in Pakistan, emigrated twenty-three years ago, now aged sixty-four. Did well developing properties, owns several duplexes. We believe he has an al-Qaeda connection.”

He paused for dramatic effect. Clara wondered if he was waiting for them to clap.

“Our partners in the war on terror have been superbly forthcoming. Needless to say, the CIA has left no stone unturned in its efforts to connect the dots between known enemies, and in tracing the Zandoo family tree has learned he is blood-related to a known terrorist.”

“Please spare us the suspense, Anthony,” Lafayette said. “And the metaphors.” Immediately he regretted that sarcastic aside. Crumwell was an ally. A vital ally. “Excellent work, by the way, excellent work.”

“Thank you, Gerry. The known terrorist, Iqbal Zandoo’s cousin, one Mohammed Aziz, aged twenty, is being held in an American detention centre in Kabul. He spied for the Taliban, fought for them. He confessed to having attended an al-Qaeda training camp.”

“And what have been Mr. Zandoo’s recent dealings with this terrorist?”

“We’re looking into that.”

Lafayette felt the air seeping from this balloon. “Visits, phone calls, correspondence — what do you have along those lines?”

“Nothing yet. Our American friends are, uh, working on their guest.”

Finnerty too had been expecting more. “A cousin, you say.”

“His mother’s uncle’s grandson. Technically, I suppose, a second or third cousin.” A disappointed silence. “Family ties are unusually deep, of course, over there.”

Dexter McPhee, a diversion: “What about the religious factor here? Taliban, al-Qaeda — are we dealing with Muslim fanatics? Don’t get me wrong, I have many friends in the Muslim community. My riding treasurer is one of them.”

“Spent a lot of time myself among followers of the Prophet,” Crumwell said. “I daresay I’ve gained some experience in how to handle these people. They’re not that different from you and me. Their philosophical constructs are simpler, a little more stringent.”

Clara assumed he was a misogynist too. Most bigots were.

“This landlord, Zandoo,” Guy DuWallup said. “Is he also an ideologue?” Not that he was particularly interested, but he couldn’t sit around like a cipher just because his days here were numbered. He wasn’t interested in being a judge or ambassador; he preferred the Senate — he was ready to retire anyway.

Crumwell was studying his dossier. “Local cricket club, Neighbourhood Watch … Ah, here, Zandoo subscribes to the
Guardian Weekly
.”

“Okay, and Erzhan,” DuWallup said. “Is he another of your Muslim fanatics?”

“He may be covering up, because he presents a rather secular front. His wife is observant, though. Takes a bus to Montreal weekly to attend a mosque, does volunteer work there.”

“Would that be one of those places that preaches hatred?” The defence minister.

“Not in so many words. But when one carefully parses the phrases used by their imam one can detect a certain unpatriotic subtext.”

Gerard Lafayette scanned the screens on the wall. No developments, just endless analyses. He wondered if the Ultimate Leader enjoyed keeping them in suspense. He was likely calculating what he could demand in compensation. Hundreds of millions, maybe,
which he would personally pocket. “What’s the latest on Erzhan, Anthony? Where do you think he is?”

“I’d wager he’s in Montreal. One assumes his terrorist cell keeps a safe house there. We’re working on this, but we don’t have a lot of manpower, gentlemen. And lady. There is one man he may seek to connect to. A Vancouver barrister, Brian Pomeroy. Defended him on the assassination charge. A framed photograph of him, in his robes, is hanging on a wall of Erzhan’s living room.”

“You have eyes on this Pomeroy?”

“He too has disappeared. An agent sought an appointment with him today, on the pretense of seeking advice on a hit-and-run accident, and learned that Mr. Pomeroy is on some kind of ramble in the Barrens of the Arctic. We have people trying to locate him, but … as I say, we’re likely to go over budget on this one.”

“That will be looked after,” Finnerty said impatiently.

“In fact,” said Lafayette, “this may be a time to consider loosening not just the purse but the legal restraints. Forgive me if I remind everyone this is the very kind of crisis that my amendments to the security bill were intended for.”

“They got shot down, Gerry,” Clara said. “Mr. Crumwell, I want to make sure we’re not turning a blind eye to suspects other than Abzal Erzhan and his confederates. You constantly hear of authorities getting so hooked on a theory they get tunnel vision …”

Crumwell interrupted, not kindly. “Minister, we are
not
putting all our eggs in Mr. Erzhan’s basket. There are other distinct possibilities, and I was about to get to them.” A raised hand commanded attention. “Anarchists. Eco-terrorists. Seeking to spoil the deal with Alta International.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Defence Minister McPhee. “Where you’ve got fossil fuel issues, you’ve got the environmentalists. The violent ones, the fringe elements, it doesn’t take much to stir them up. I’m not talking about the Sierra Club or the Green Party.” Murmurs of assent. “But you get people who dynamite dams and bridges, attack refineries. That lot.”

“In that regard,” Crumwell said, “you may be interested to know that two such individuals — members of the Quatsino Five, who infamously caused millions in losses to one of our major logging firms — are currently employed by the member for Cowichan and the Islands.”

A nervous shuffling. Clara recalled there’d been some noise around that last year, especially on the call-in shows. Two young people on parole, hired to caretake Margaret Blake’s farm on the Gulf Islands. Unwise of her, but she’d stoutly defended the hiring.

“In fact, we have someone who’s been, ah, monitoring that situation,” Crumwell said. “One of our most resourceful men.”

E.K. Boyes turned up the sound on a monitor, a live satellite relay from Igorgrad.

A desk, the Bhashyistan flag in background, a symbolized hand holding three jagged lightning bolts. A technician was setting up a microphone on the desk, laying out some pages. Music, the national anthem. The technician scurried away. A few moments later, the Ultimate Leader himself entered and sat, picked up the text, frowned over it, then spoke in a deep rasping voice, muted as a translator spoke over it:

“Weep, oh my comrades. Yes, all Bhashyistan weeps on this, the blackest day in our proud history since the traitorous and bloody assassination of our country’s beloved Great Father. Today I announce the barbarous murder in Canada … by the henchmen of imperialist dogs clinging to power of sixteen … no, seventeen great patriots of our nation.”

The interpreter was having trouble keeping up, getting it right. Someone gasped: “
Seventeen?
”

“Shut up.”

“… loyal and dedicated advisers in an unarmed vehicle ambushed by the terrorist Abzal Erzhan, who has been welcomed in Canada despite … murdering the Great Father of our country … and also eight crew members of our glorious nation’s presidential
plane, which was brought down, though unarmed, by Canadian fighter planes …”

“
What?
”

“Shut up!”

“Our proud people … my countrymen, do not cower like slaves. We resist! We fight to the last drop of patriotic blood! To that end, as leader of glorious Republic of Bhashyistan, I declare against Canada we are in state of war! God save Bhashyistan!”

S
ettled on a sofa by the faux fireplace, Ray DiPalma took another sip of brandy before continuing his rambling discourse. “I had the best ears in Belgrade back then, played a major role in busting Krajzinski, the Balkan wolf — you remember him?”

Arthur nodded. “One of those Serbian ethnic cleansers.”

“He earned forty years from the War Crimes Tribunal, and I earned a promotion to run the entire South Danube bureau. Then they suddenly pulled me out, God knows why, and one rotten stolen computer and I’m shelved, stuck in a corner cubicle.”

Arthur nodded sympathetically. Margaret had excused herself a while ago, was in her office, on the phone or her laptop. An hour earlier, after ushering DiPalma into their flat, she’d asked if he cared for tea, coffee, juice, or something stronger. His disarming politeness in choosing the latter was, to Arthur, a typical mannerism of one who regularly sought escape in drink. As an AA veteran of nearly twenty years, Arthur recognized him as a brother of the bottle, a perception reinforced as DiPalma worked his way through half a litre of wine plus a substantial share of the five-star brandy kept for guests.

It was as if he needed drink to keep his vocal cords from drying out. He seemed unable to stop talking, mostly about his own sad life, and Arthur wondered if he had crumbled under the pressure
of work, the pressure of keeping secrets for a living. An alternative theory was open, that he was performing — “conniving,” as Margaret put it — but if so, DiPalma had missed a distinguished career on stage, one finer than would ever be enjoyed by the theatre major in apartment 10C. But if this was all a clever act, what purpose would it serve?