Snow Job (18 page)

Stoney patted Dog on the head. “When we get the kinks worked out, Dog here has volunteered for the honour of being test pilot. Right, Dog?”

The squat little fellow puffed himself up as if to indicate he was indeed the man for the job, but his strained smile hinted he wasn’t quite so sure.

Arthur asked Stoney about the Fargo.

“Next in line. Give me two more days.”

“You said that two months ago.”

“This time I mean it. Anything else I can do, sire, I’m always at your service.”

“I need a pickup at six-thirty tomorrow.”

“No problem.”

“In the morning.”

“The
morning?
”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

“Well, six-thirty tends to be outside my normal working hours — I’m usually in bed by then. But in your case, as a valued customer, there’ll be only a small surcharge. Unpossible ain’t in my dictionary.”

Arthur began wishing he’d arranged for a backup, an early rising neighbour, but he hated to impose.

Stoney returned to the task at hand. “Okay, boys, let’s figure out how to get this baby airborne. We ain’t got all week.”

That evening, over garden greens and leftover macaroni and cheese, there was again no mention of Arthur’s rude interruption
of Savannah’s automatonlike foray into the fridge. He wondered if she remembered any of it.

As he settled into his club chair with his book and a mug of tea, Savannah took a call from Zachary, a guarded conversation. “I think you should include Garibaldi Island in your next itinerary, Zack. Lots to do here. Lots to talk about … No, damn it, Sunday
wouldn’t
be too early. Get your ass down here.”

A severe tone of urgency that went beyond their usual bickering. Arthur could only speculate as to what might be his reaction to Ray DiPalma and his counterspying.

Savannah disconnected, went to the computer. “He wants us to look at YouTube.”

Arthur peered over her shoulder as she expertly manoeuvred through the offerings on the screen. Here it was, another production of Third Son of Ultimate Leader Films. Again the chubby face of Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich, chief geek of Bhashyistan.

“Always first with the news that counts, today we presenting footage of national holiday for most terrible day in history, when Great Father was shot in Canada by cowardly scum. Here we see display of armed might.”

A uniformed battalion goose-stepping past the presidential palace, the Ultimate Leader on a reviewing stand, his hand over his breast, advisers behind him, almost a parody of May Day marches from the salad days of Stalin and Brezhnev. The troops seemed ragtag, some in helmets, others in turbans or other traditional headgear, rifles pointed haphazardly in the air. Rockets trundled by, then a score of tanks and other armoured vehicles.

“Here we showing world we are ready for coming conflict with Canadians who have no stomach for fight with patriotic army and air force.” The latter consisted of a couple of MiGs zooming overhead. The display seemed reasonably threatening, if not to high international standards. Less fearsome was a troop of dancing maidens — they stopped before the reviewing stand and put on a commendable hula-hoop demonstration of synchronized twirling.

A fadeout, then a closer view of Mad Igor, still on the stand, speaking from notes in his Turkic tongue. Mukhamet translated: “If spineless Canadians not responding to war declaration, he is saying, our country very soon declares victory, mission accomplished. He is saying reparations of ten billion dollars is price of peace. Not taking less, is firm offer. And here is reminder to Canadians watching.”

An exterior view of a forbidding fortress: narrow barred windows, wooden shutters. “Here is impenetrable state prison in Igorgrad, and here on ground floor is section for prisoners of war.” Cut to a cell occupied by the five languishing Alberta oilmen, staring sullenly at the camera. The national flag then filled the screen, with its three lightning bolts, and the video concluded with the stirring but fading notes of the Bhashyistan anthem.

“Wow,” Savannah said. “Here we show shitload of bluster.”

“How do you think our government should react?”

“Ignore ’em.”

“And the so-called prisoners of war?”

“Let them do penance.”

“That seems hard. They’re merely employees.”

“Okay, but schemers, a veep, two lawyers, fat cats. I mean maybe some are innocent, the accountant, the geologist, but if the Alta board of directors had any guts they’d offer themselves in exchange. This is all about oil, Arthur, and bribery and greed and extortion. Sure, these Bhashies are a joke, but the world doesn’t need their oil, it’s planetary poison. Maybe this is a wakeup call.”

Arthur was troubled by her stern, unyielding view. His softer heart went out to those five unfortunates in a cold, foreign jail. But he was just as troubled by the truth she spoke. Margaret had often said as much: Canada — the world — needs shock therapy to recover from the self-destructive sins of the last several profligate decades.

Dreams returned that night of charred bodies in a burning limousine. But they were succeeded by images less awful, more complex. He was in court, speaking a language he didn’t understand, to jurors laughing at him. Then he was running across the steppes, but with sludgelike speed, he wasn’t going to make the seven-fifteen ferry. He found himself lying on the moss, felt a shifting, a turbulence, something soft falling across his chest — gently, like a caress, a woman’s caress.

“Hey, Arthur, man, you wanna make that ferry or not?”

This familiar voice from the realm of the conscious brought him half-awake. Stoney was standing at the open doorway to his bedroom, gaping, as astonished as if he’d just witnessed a landing of Martians. Nestled beside Arthur, on her side, her arm draped loosely over his chest, a warm breast at his ribs, was Savannah Buckett, in a deep and sonorous sleep.

Hoping this was a continuation of the dream, knowing it was not, Arthur gently lifted her arm off, aghast, barely able to speak. “Forgot to set the alarm. I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Right,” Stoney said. “I’ll, uh, be in the car.”

Rattled, Arthur donned some clothes, fled the room, grabbed a small, pre-packed suitcase, and raced out into the morning darkness to join Stoney in his taxi, an aging Buick. It was just before seven — he would make it to the boat on time.

Stoney concentrated on his driving — difficult enough, given one headlight was burnt out. For a few minutes he said nothing, grinning occasionally at Arthur in a conspiratorial way. Finally: “Didn’t know you had it in you, Arthur.”

“She must have sleepwalked right into my bed.”

A guffaw. “Nice try, but that ain’t gonna wash. You gotta come up with something a little more conceivable. When the cat’s away, eh? Who could blame you, she’s a pinup, man. I got new respect.”

“You whisper one word and I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”

“Well, that puts a new light on our long relationship, don’t it? I wanna cry when I hear you speak with such distrust. I’d cut out my tongue before I’d betray my friends. I got a code of honour. See no evil, speak no evil, that’s my golden rule.”

As they pulled into the ferry dock, he added: “Anyway, man, no one’s gonna believe it.”

H
uck Finnerty stared at his sad and haggard reflection in the washroom mirror. He would have to change his shirt; his sweat glands were working like bilge pumps. Deodorant. A couple of Tylenols. A nip of rye. He was having trouble breathing. It occurred to him he’d better cut down on the booze and burgers or he wouldn’t last the session.

Question Period had done all this damage. He felt he’d been pepper-sprayed by each opposition leader in turn. That loudmouth Liberal, Cloudy McRory, screaming and sputtering as he tabled his non-confidence motion.

Patience, he’d urged. Crises are made only graver by ill-thought-out reactions. The government was
not
dithering. It was not in freefall but rising to the occasion. It was working quietly behind the scenes in the time-honoured Canadian way.

With 156 members to the opposition’s 151, the government would hobble off with a vote of confidence, but some backbenchers were restless — he’d picked up faltering, disaffection, Lafayette’s people whispering, conspiring, even as they listlessly thumped their desks. His whip had been working the caucus relentlessly, intimating that dissidents would be hanged from the beams of the Peace Tower.

All he needed was some breathing room. A few more days until Operation Eager Beaver was launched. A medal of dishonour for whoever came up with that corny name.

E.K. Boyes was waiting impatiently by Finnerty’s desk, organizing the clutter, lining up memos to be read. “Admirable, Huck, truly admirable. Calm in the midst of the storm. Mind you, referring to the socialist leader as ‘the honourable windbag from Winnipeg North’ might have crossed the line.” A snicker. Whenever the chief of staff smiled — not often — he had the look of a contented gargoyle.

Finnerty lowered his aching bulk into his high-backed swiveller — it was like a wheelchair, he could do loops around the room, he never really had to get up. “Where are we meeting?”

“Right here. You’ll want to say this was hatched in your office. Assuming matters don’t go awry.”

“They won’t,” he said overconfidently. That
would
be the end of his government. Thumps from above — the Opposition leader’s office was directly above him, McRory a heavy walker. Occasionally you could hear him bellow.

“The issue of whether to invoke war — uh, emergency measures is still to be resolved, Huck. Lafayette won’t say so publicly, but he believes we can justify it.”

“That’s real brave of him.” Finnerty wasn’t ready to touch that one and risk losing their eleven francophone seats. “You notice he wasn’t there to take any of the flack? He didn’t ask me if he could take the day off.”

“You need him onside for now. If Eager Beaver works, he’ll either be your obedient puppy or you can cast him adrift.” The gnome, for all his shrivelled morality, was comfortable to have around calling the shots.

Finnerty rolled over to a sideboard, surveyed its offerings of hard-boiled eggs, sliced salami, salted thins, pickles. No. He opened a Diet Pepsi instead.

E.K. leafed through the dispatches. “One of the Bhashyistan embassy staff has joined the ranks of those seeking refugee status. We have something to gain from that. He’s familiar with the Igorgrad prison.”

“Former head torturer, I suppose.”

“Nikolai Globbo. He was assistant deputy director of political corrections.”

“Say no more.”