Snow Job (23 page)

A
rthur leaned over the railing of his apartment balcony, bundled up against the chill wind, his pipe blowing sparks. There was an eerie, almost spooky, feeling about the city spread below him on this Wednesday, December 8. The streets were almost deserted of traffic, as if Ottawans had been too depressed to leave their homes. Few skaters on the canal. From somewhere, a sullen wail of siren. Adding to the sombreness: a dirgelike oratorio from apartment 10C.

It was two days after the abortive raid on the Igorgrad jail and the sudden death of the country’s P.M. Acting Prime Minister Clara Gracey had immediately declared a day of mourning, and the entire nation was still in a torpor, numb with disbelief and shame.

But life somehow goes on. Arthur would soon be off to Parliament Hill, where Question Period started at two-fifteen, with opposition members lining up like a firing squad waiting to let loose their volleys. Margaret wasn’t on the Speaker’s list, but her friend Julien Chambleau had earned a turn.

Returning inside, he was drawn to the computer, still open to the video on YouTube. He couldn’t help himself — he clicked on it again, number one on the most-watched list.

“Hello, especially to unhappy viewers in Canada. This is Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich, and the breaking story we are working on today is how Bhashyistan sent your invaders to glorious defeat.”

Arthur was mesmerized by the taunting third son and his cherubic, confident smile. This was the third time he’d watched this clip, a form of self-abasing penance.

“Correcting lies of international news like CNN, we showing graves where many Canadian soldiers paid ultimate price after repulsed by glorious national army.” Mounds of earth in a barren field. “Yes, Canadians, I trick you by showing state prison, making you think oil company spies are in there with common criminals, but surprise — we have other, secret jails.”

The Calgary Five were shown, unshaven, in prison clothes of loose orange fabric. They didn’t look ill fed, and had managed to secure playing cards and board games.

“Today we celebrate while you Canadians mourn leader, who was brought down by mighty strike from invisible hands directed by National Prophet.” Finnerty had been felled by a coronary, but the allusion seemed symbolically correct.

“Here we showing victory parade.” Another procession of soldiers and tanks. A shot of Mad Igor on the dais pinning medals on army officers. “In other news, December sixth is now proclaimed Illustrious Victory Over Canada Day. And coming soon, we hoping all viewers tune in for unveiling plan to make Canada pay for failed insult to national pride. Operation Beaver — hah! Is big rat with flat tail for slapping water when scared. No recession here, Canada! No unemployed! From secret location in Igorgrad, this is Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich signing off.”

Arthur stomped off to the elevator, where he encountered a few nodding acquaintances who avoided eye contact, as if embarrassed for their country. Yes, Canada had replaced Bhashyistan as the world’s laughingstock, the joke all the more hilarious because of the helicopter rescue of several prostitutes. They were freedom fighters, they’d claimed, jailed for their views, not their ancient practices.

Adding to the national discomfort: a U.S. army photographer at the Kyrgyzstan base had wired photographs of buxom young
women partying with Canadian commandos, the men loose and mindless with strong drink. One young lady was shown on the lap of a hardened fighter, offering solace with roving hands.
The Daily Show
and
The Colbert Report
had a heyday with winking references to Operation Eager Beaver.

But the humour had died with the suddenness of a hammer blow after a televised plea by a Saskatchewan doctor for the rescue of family members who’d disappeared into the heart of darkness. Three women lost in Bhashyistan — imprisoned, violated, dead, no one knew. Dr. Svetlikoff had accused the government of plunging ahead with Operation Beaver while ignoring their welfare.

Arthur plodded north, up Bronson, usually a busy artery, but the streets were ghostly, the city in mourning for the unrescued and the missing, for the loss of national pride.

Against these events, the death of a prime minister paled in gravity, but he’d been given due remembrance. The day before, the Commons was recessed after appropriate tributes from all party leaders. Margaret’s contribution had been pro forma but kindly enough. She’d not disliked Finnerty personally, a man blind to the environmental ills befouling the planet but with a basic human kindness.

Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet
, Martialis wrote. He mourns honestly who mourns without witnesses. But the mourning from sources in Foreign Affairs was public and loud, crocodile tears disguising a rush to blame the dead: the scheme had been hatched by Finnerty — it was his brainchild, his gamble.

Most columnists, however, suspected Gerard Lafayette was the architect of Black Monday, a view bolstered when Acting Prime Minister Gracey, in a solemn address to the nation, let it be known that the perpetrators of Black Monday had got incomplete advice from security and foreign office staffs, had failed to heed alternative views. The government had committed errors, she said, pleading for all Canadians to unite. A cabinet shakeup was in the offing. Gracey was wielding a new broom.

Arthur wondered how long her tenure might last — the no-confidence vote was scheduled for the next week, and some government backbenchers were reportedly reluctant to be whipped into line.

The prime minister’s heart attack had so jolted Arthur that he’d vowed to redouble his efforts to keep in trim, so he walked the nearly six kilometres to the Hill, where flags were listlessly flapping at half-mast. Even today’s assortment of demonstrators seemed lethargic: a score of listless patriots singing “O Canada” on the frozen lawns of Parliament.

Arthur took a deep breath before heading up to the Members’ Gallery. Margaret would be looking for him there, seeking his strength and comfort, oblivious to his ostensibly wanton behaviour of five days ago. The Episode.

Fretting and sweating, he’d reached Stoney the day before after several tries. “Just checking on the home scene,” he’d said with false jocularity.

“Hey, man, if it’s about you balling Savannah, my silence is golden.” Shouting so loud that anyone within fifty yards might have heard. Sadly, Stoney had found himself cash short as a result of the recession and was seeking new opportunities. Might this be the right time for Arthur to get his decaying dock rebuilt to standard? Arthur promptly accepted his bid, the price of golden silence.

The chamber was packed, backbenchers glued to their armchairs as Cloudy McRory rose. Dyspeptic, humourless, his brows knit together like an upside-down smile, he called on the acting prime minister to apologize to this House and to the world for the fiasco that was Operation Eager Beaver.

“Who has come home?” he thundered. “Who did our country free? Prostitutes! This failed adventure has become the fiasco of the ages! This House demands a credible explanation.”

The Liberals rose in unison, a full-throated cheering, jeering tsunami. Margaret might have been the lone member to the Speaker’s left who didn’t join in. She’d been appalled by the official opposition’s warlike trumpeted efforts to prove they were tougher than the government.

Arthur searched for her, found her among the Bloc benches, whispering to Chambleau. She looked up, wiggled a wave that he answered with a weak smile. He was desperate to believe in Stoney’s promise of discretion. Were they not the truest of friends? Almost family.

Clara Gracey stood. “Mr. Speaker, there is less shame in trying and failing than in acting the snivelling coward. It is not this government that should apologize, but the honourable leader of the Opposition, who should be on bended knee to the proud men and women in uniform who bravely risked their lives. No fault lies with them. Their duties were brilliantly executed.”

“Hear, hear,” called government members, rather weakly.

“Those who designed this operation acted with the best intentions upon information at hand. Inquiries are being made as to why such information may have been incomplete. In the meantime, we shall continue efforts on every front to bring our citizens home with honour and in peace.”

In an emergency caucus on late Monday, Conservative M.P.s had quickly acted to confirm Gracey as interim leader, lining up behind her as their one luminary untarnished by the debacle. Lafayette had supported her, but, insiders said, only because he couldn’t muster enough support for himself.

Finnerty’s empty chair sat between Gracey and Lafayette, a gulf as wide and cold as the Labrador Sea. The foreign minister seemed sapped of former ambition, sombre, moody, awaiting her verdict, expected the next day, as to who would sit on the front row.

The New Democrat leader, Marsh Jenkins, a Winnipeg labour lawyer, dug into his trove of sound bites, throwing out “scandalous costly boondoggle” and “boneheaded bumbling” in framing a question as to whether Monday’s raid was just a smokescreen to hide the government’s plans to declare war against its own citizenry by invoking emergency measures.

Thiessen handled that one, denouncing Jenkins for relying on baseless rumours. The government had no such plans, was fully committed to freedom under the rule of law, in proud contrast to Bhashyistan’s oppressive Stalinist regime. Clara Gracey stood, led the applause.

Jenkins stood again, eyeing the Press Gallery, which was on overflow, eager for blood. “Maybe the minister of foreign affairs, who I see is somehow still clinging to his job, can help us with this one. Unless it has escaped his notice, he will be aware that a family physician from Saskatchewan has expressed alarm to the national media that his wife, niece, and sister-in-law were detoured into Bhashyistan while on holiday, and are facing the gravest of perils. My question: why did the government proceed with Operation Eager Beaver knowing these women were at risk, and what, if anything, is the government doing about them?”

Arthur still felt a trembling when those clips of Dr. Svetlikoff’s entreaties came back to him. A straight-talking but emotional man, grey templed and trim, who hadn’t been able to continue what he began, breaking down, choking and sobbing. Arthur had felt the whip of his pain, found himself daubing his eyes with a napkin.

Lafayette heaved himself up. “Mr. Speaker, I can assure the honourable gentleman that this government is deeply aware of Dr. Svetlikoff’s concerns, and just as deeply committed to doing everything in its power to guarantee his family’s safe return.” Arthur wondered how anyone could be satisfied with that half answer.

“Shame! Resign! Resign!”

The Speaker squelched the shouts and catcalls with a demand for order. “The member for Iberville-Chambly.”

Julien Chambleau rose. “Question for the minister of public security. Is the government aware that Mr. Abzal Erzhan was forcibly abducted into a car two hours prior to the bombing of November 26?”

Thiessen took a moment as the words were translated from French, then removed his headset. “Au contraire,” he said before retreating to English, “we have reason to believe Mr. Erzhan voluntarily entered a vehicle occupied by his collaborators. If the honourable member has other information, we would be pleased if he would share it.”