Snow Job (16 page)
Arthur led him to the tractor, where he kept a first-aid kit, and brought out ointment and Band-Aids. “Crumwell thinks you think I’m on your side. Which is true. The last part, I mean. I
am
on your side, but he doesn’t know I’m actually a double agent. In other words, he thinks you think I’m embittered because of the way I was treated over that lost computer … It’s a little complicated.” Lost in these spiralling convolutions, he settled onto a hay bale, began wiping his glasses.
“This is my home, Ray, my sanctuary. It is not a place where I make a habit of entertaining spies. Please reserve the next flight back to Ottawa.”
“Whoa, Arthur, you’re my lawyer, trust me the same way I trust you. I mean, you’re like a … like a mentor, a father figure.”
That was something Arthur dreaded hearing. He unhitched the hay wagon. “I had better pull your car out of there.”
“Arthur, please listen, this is our chance to feed the dogs of war at CSIS. Throw them a few bones, send them off on a wild goose
chase. To make this work I’ve got to be seen as cozying up to Savannah and Zachary. The more confidence Crumwell has in me, the more he’ll share with me, and the more likely I’ll get inside access about who did what to Abzal Erzhan. That make sense?”
Arthur had to still a deep unease. Was DiPalma working from a brilliantly conceived script? For now he would stick by his earlier diagnosis: a nervous breakdown, complicated by resentment toward his superiors and by his new, greener
Weltanschauung
. And by excessive intake of ill-advised substances.
“So they’ve created a legend for me, as we call it, a fake biography. I’m one of those anti-American Americans who come up here to escape from the evils of capitalism. I’m an environmentalist, I’m looking for land, and I stumble onto Zack’s group and let them know I’m a friendly. You saw the way I can meld into the community, hang around, play a little poker with the boys, share some hooch and a toke or two. I met a pal of yours named Stonewell, by the way, he gave me a sampler.” He gestured with the joint, then pinched it out.
“I will not introduce you as an anti-American American land buyer.”
“I implore you, Arthur. As we speak, Zack Flett is on a train heading for Revelstoke. An agent is sitting behind him. Others will follow the VW van that’s going to pick him up. With me in deep cover, they’ll pull these agents out — as I told you, they’re stretched.”
“I fail to grasp how this double-agent business can work if you don’t confess your role to Zack and Savannah.”
“But then it could get out on the street.”
“It will be on the street as soon as they look you up on the Web. You were outed by the
Toronto Star
.”
“Sure, but that was a few years ago. You didn’t recognize me right away … Okay, you have a point, there could be blowback. Maybe I have to be more up front.” He stood, paced. “By the way, where’s the nearest bank machine?”
“Garibaldi Island isn’t blessed with bank machines, I’m pleased to say.”
“I had a bad run at that game, I think I got hustled. Any chance I could borrow a stake to get by for a day or two?”
“I can advance enough to put you on a ferry.”
“Darn it, I can get some dynamite stuff if we do this right. Rumours are flying around at Ogilvie Road that Erzhan was abducted.”
“Ogilvie Road?”
“CSIS. Nobody talks details, or maybe they don’t know any. You’ve got to friendly up with that landlord, Zandoo, he knows something.” He looked about, as if suspecting listeners were behind every bush. “Do you know them well enough, Zack and Savannah? Would they backstop me on this?”
Arthur would not play falsely with Savannah and Zack — their militancy often made him uncomfortable, but they were friends. At the same time he didn’t want to discourage DiPalma — if reliable, his information could ignite a political firestorm.
“Okay, let me reassemble the pieces here. If you were to carefully explain the situation to Savannah —” DiPalma broke off, quickly slipping behind the tractor as Constable Pound’s van came down the road, slowing as it reached the blackberries.
The engine cut and a door slammed. “Is that you, Arthur?” Pound was barely visible on the other side of the tangle.
“Yes, Ernst, I’m bringing in the late hay.”
“Well, this here has the look of an infraction. Driving without due care and attention.”
“The gentleman was parking, Ernst. He slid into the bushes.”
“He a friend of yours?”
Arthur sighed. “Yes.”
Dear Hank, Katie, Cassie, Jessie, Mom
.
I don’t know where to start. All I know is we’re half a world away from Saskatchewan, and we’re hiding out at a farm, a Bhashyistan version of a B & B that seems to be held together by staples. They call it a yurt. (It’s COLD in here. And the smells! It’s lined with sheep fat!)
I can’t imagine Exotic Asia Tours Inc. hasn’t got word out that we have disappeared from the face of the earth, and what I don’t want you to do is worry, if you even get this letter, because we’re being looked after. This craziness can’t last forever. The story we get, from the local radio as translated by our hosts who thank God speak Russian, the husband at least, is Canada is being blamed for shooting down a Bhashyistan plane with a whole load of its politicians on board, though I’m not sure if we’ve got it all straight, especially the business about a declaration of war
.
But here’s what happened. I won’t go into detail about how we got here because that’s in an earlier note I mailed from the Igorgrad airport (and God, was that a task!). Anyway, there was no connecting flight to Almaty because all the Air Bhashyistan planes were grounded and the airport closed
.
Maxine, Ivy, and I were taken into this office at the airport, where the head of immigration said we’d have to go to jail for not having visas, and we were just petrified, and then he said instead of jail we could pay him “the regular fine,” he called it, of two hundred dollars each, and fortunately we had enough in rubles but not much more, and of course try to find a bank machine in this place. The official seemed insulted when we asked for a receipt, but he let us go, and we got our bags and headed outside
.
That’s where we met Mr. and Mrs. Babichov, they were holding up a sign offering lodging, in English, German, and Russian, a kind of farm stay, which given Maxine and I were born on a farm looked like a better deal than some of the hotels which also had people out there jostling for our business. Plus they seemed like kind folk, which they have proved to be. Abrakam and Flaxseed (I
call her that, I can’t pronounce her full name). He comes from Omsk in Siberia, she’s more local. They’re in their seventies, their children have all flown the nest
.
Anyway, we jumped into this decrepit old Lada and headed off away from the city about thirty clicks out, rolling hills, pine forests, meadows, sheep, sheep, sheep, and we get to this paint-peeling frame farmhouse, which isn’t much, sort of like Bob Slotznyk’s dump down by the Yorkton highway, in a permanent state of falling down
.
Back of it, next to their barn, is their rental quarters, our yurt, our home for the last four days. (Yurts get rented out around here so tourists can get a taste of local colour.) Two beds in a makeshift loft, where it isn’t so stinky as below plus you get more heat from the barrel stove but also more smoke. So Ivy because of her asthma sleeps on the cot below
.
But mostly we stay in the main house, where I am now, writing this. Abrakam and Flaxseed seem to be more than happy with the little we can pay them, and their home is our home, sort of thing. They’re not letting on to anyone we’re here except for a few trusted neighbours of their faith, which is Baha’i, not Muslim like most around here, and they’re really not supposed to practise their religion. We explained we’re from a religious minority ourselves, Doukhobors, even though we’re not all that observant
.
As we get to know our hosts better, they’re opening up, giving us clues that they’re not very sympathetic to the national government, which is a dictatorship. We’ve taken to helping them with the chores, but when they see anyone coming up the driveway (you can spot them easily, three miles down the hill) we have to hide. Abrakam says we could be in great danger, being Canadian. We’re so relieved our saviours are so protective, so wise to the ways of this strange land
.
Well, we’ve finally got used to the fatty mutton and sheep’s milk and some weird kind of curd as part of our daily diet, and we have our cribbage board which I play with Abrakam in the evenings,
and there’s some old Russian novels — you wouldn’t believe how the language is coming back. It’s actually quite pretty around here, the valleys and the far snowy mountains, but it’s getting really wintry, the snow sticking, and the little river down in the valley is into freeze-up
.
No phone here, and I wouldn’t trust it anyway. Abrakam says he’ll try to find a safe way to mail this letter, but I told him not to take any chances. We heard some Canadians are in jail in Igorgrad, big wheels, oil company executives, and with their clout, if they’re in trouble, we’ll stay right here, thank you
.
Meanwhile, I hope nobody in Ottawa does anything stupid to make matters worse. We’re about five hundred miles from the Russian border, Siberia actually, and it’s way the hell over the mountains, so we’re sticking it out until peace has been declared
.
Take care. Don’t worry. Be strong
.
Gobs of love
,
Jill XOXOXO
F
inally, at sundown, Savannah’s visitors left — a boisterous bunch from Vancouver Island this time, foes of fish farms — and it wasn’t until they were prepping dinner (unfarmed salmon, local) that Arthur told Savannah about DiPalma. She took it as a joke, naturally, when he asked if she’d mind being infiltrated, and continued merrily cutting up lemons. “Hey, invite him for dinner.”
“I’ll summon him from his B & B.” The Lovenest, Emily LeMay, prop., specializing in season in honeymooners, anyone who dares during the rest of the year.
Finally convinced he was serious, she demanded a trustworthy witness, not just Arthur, before she would consort with “a fucking CSIS agent.” Reverend Al Noggins was their choice, three times winner of the Garibaldi Upstanding Citizen Award, and he arrived almost simultaneously with DiPalma, bringing several bottles of his prize-winning fall fair wine, misunderstanding this as a social event.
For three hours, over barbecued salmon, then apple pie, they listened with incredulity to DiPalma, his words flowing out as copiously as the prize wine flowed in. He seemed unconcerned about confiding in Reverend Al — the priest might be Protestant but he was a man of the cloth, and that was enough for this God-fearing secret agent.
Savannah decided to play along with “whatever’s going on,” as she put it. But after the guests left, she expressed doubts about DiPalma that echoed those of the local member of Parliament. “I’m going to watch and wait and see.”
“I have some people checking him out. Nothing to lose.”
“I wonder.”
Though it was nearly midnight in Ottawa, Arthur chanced a call to Margaret, whose line had been tied up earlier, and got her out of bed. “He’s here.” Breathless, low, he wasn’t sure who might be listening.
“Who?”
“You know.”
“Not
him
.”
“Yes, on Garibaldi.”
“Arthur, you have to back
off
from him. This isn’t good. Damn, don’t do anything bizarre. I have an early interview. I’ll call when I can.”
Arthur felt like a resentful child, unfairly spanked. He retreated to the non-judgmental solace of his old club chair, opened a book recommended to him,
Empires of the Steppes
.
He was three hours into its eight hundred pages, halfway through the history of Bhashyistan, when he nodded off, and soon he was playing lead actor in the theatre of the subconscious. This time, not a sweaty nightmare of the carnage on Colonel By Drive, starring instead Ray DiPalma, sneaking up on him, or jumping from behind a door or tree, morphing from clown to evil genius to mad Hamlet, frightening Arthur with his intimate disclosures. “I love you like a father.” Weeping, clutching him.
