Snow Job (34 page)

He popped some bud into a hookah his customers brought along as a Christmas gift, got a good burn going. “This is radically mellow, a hybrid of Garibaldi Gold and my own specialty, Purple Passion. Normally it sells around five centuries a pound, but for the favoured few,
afictionados
of the finest, I got a special on at three-fifty, comes with a guarantee you’ll be walking home in a winter wonderland. Goes good with some early Led Zep. Dog, get the lady a glass of champagne.”

“Blithe,” the guy said after his sample toke. “Truly blithe.”

A big sale resulted, a merry Christmas for all, these old pros would be quadrupling their money. Stoney was wishing he’d brought more than thirty pounds.

Another guest who called up from the lobby was the hip flight attendant. Stoney almost forgot he’d invited her. She did a taster, bought two lids, one for her boyfriend, a pilot.

By midnight, his luggage was twenty pounds lighter and his entire suite smelled like a cannabis fart, but he was in hog heaven, a good day even by the standards of an outstanding achiever.

Dog was lying on the bed, stoned beyond normal human capacity, watching a TV movie, a tearjerker, you could hear him snuffle. “Come on, Dog, the night is young. Let’s hit the bars. This town’s full of needy, lonely women.”

It was time to party.

C
harley Thiessen paced about his office, waiting for Crumwell — he was unsettled, he hadn’t been sleeping well. Big speech next day in Windsor to kick off the area candidates, but he hadn’t read it yet, couldn’t get past the first page. Then Sarnia, London, Kitchener. Charley, as one of the all-stars, had to blanket Ontario.

Headquarters had issued a directive: no media blitzes, no blatant in-your-face door-to-door stuff until after the holidays — the voters would be resentful. So the Tories had settled for a series of kick-off rallies, then Thiessen would spend Christmas week shaking paws on the main streets of Grey County and recording TV and radio spots in a Toronto studio.

This morning he had other business, vital in its own way, a duty that had to be discharged so he could get his campaign in gear. Operation Beauchamp, the bringing down of the put-down artist, his descent into ignominy.

Thiessen had pulled into Ottawa late the night before, after learning that Robert Stonewell had checked in at the Château. Easy-going, joke-telling Charley must be at his beguiling best. Brunch at ten-thirty, in forty-five minutes, over caviar and eggs Benedict in Stonewell’s suite, away from the gaze of the public and the omnivorous press.

Reception buzzed to say Crumwell had finally shown up, hopefully with his promised backgrounder on this character. “Send him in.”

“You’re aware, sir, that Privy Council is meeting in the cabinet room at noon.”

“Yeah, yeah, I have it on the calendar. Don’t put anyone through for the next half-hour.” There’d be no notes taken, no record of this tête-à-tête with the spymaster.

Crumwell slipped like a ghost into the room, looking unhealthy, pallid. The Bhashyistan business had got to him big time, the continuing cyber attacks: some big hotels had been hit, a grocery chain. Everybody was exasperated at Canada’s show of impotence. Which is why the Privy Council would be meeting, to chew over another scheme the PMO had come up with, something called Operation Blow Job — that couldn’t be it.
Snow Job
.

“Sorry I’m late. Still on the mend, and I’ve been a bit fagged with work.”

“No problem. Let’s get right to it.”

“We’re still a little skimpy on this Stonewell fellow. The case agent on this file — he’s using the name Burton — wasn’t able to spend more than ten minutes on the phone with him. Busy chap, on the go, but he bit hard, apparently took an overnight flight — so that suggests he may be eager to cooperate.”

“Age?”

“Somewhere in his thirties.”

“Educational background?”

“That, uh, remains a bit of a blank.”

“Physical description.”

“That too is a bit hazy. One assumes he’s fit. Most workaholics are.”

Thiessen was getting annoyed. “Bad habits?”

“None we’re aware of. He doesn’t mind doing a little flutter at the poker table, according to our man on Garibaldi.”

“Soft spots. Where do I probe?”

“On that, we do have something helpful. A firm indication he’s gay. Can’t say it didn’t come as a shocker, but he checked into the hotel with a male partner.”

Always expect the unexpected, Thiessen’s mom had drilled that into him. “That helps. Maybe I should come on to him.” When Crumwell scrunched up his face in horror, he added, “Joke.”

Crumwell washed down a couple of painkillers, grimaced. “I had best explain why we don’t have a more complete book on the chap. It is, of course, a bit dodgy, non-priority, and, uh …”

“Hey, you’ve gone beyond the bounds of duty, I’m not complaining.”

“Our best profiling source, Agent DiPalma, seems to have gone off-line. Can’t fault him. Deep cover on the eco-terrorism file. Doing a majestic job. In case your deputy hasn’t briefed you, DiPalma has uncovered a scheme to take out a tar sands facility in Fort McMurray. We’ve been quite distracted with that, pouring all our energy and manpower into Alberta. The plan is to catch them with their knickers down.”

“You pull that off and maybe we don’t get buried next month. We’re fighting it out for scraps with the Marijuana Party. Let’s get back to Stonewell — has anyone seen him since he got here?”

“We are undermanned, Minister.”

“Charley. Okay, I get your point. Your case agent — what does he call himself?”

“Burton. That’s all you need to know, Charley. We do have to, uh, cover our tracks on this thing.”

“What else did Burton say about our top achiever?”

“That he has a few rough edges — not unusual for some of these backwoods entrepreneurs. He has a well-trained staff, and they’re inordinately busy. This may help: he’s not one of your greenies. Has quite a bone to pick with the environmental laws.”

That was the sort of thing Thiessen wanted to hear. Stonewell couldn’t be very palsy-walsy with Blake or her mate.

“Is anyone else but you, me, and Burton privy to this, um, exercise?” Thiessen almost said “caper.”

“There’s no courier service to Garibaldi, so a local Mountie delivered the envelope to Stonewell — but he doesn’t have any idea what’s in it. Burton is very discreet, and he’ll be meeting you at the hotel to smooth your way. You’ll recognize him by his blond hair and trim beard and moustache.”

All phony, Thiessen assumed. The cost of this was going through CSIS, so he hoped there’d be no fallout from that. Fortunately, their books weren’t inhibited by the Freedom of Information Act. “Get on the blower, tell Burton I’m on the way.”

Thiessen was delayed in the lobby by some hand-shaking of staff and guests — unavoidable but it was the political life, the price of recognition. He was finally pulled away by a crisply dressed blond fellow with a neat goatee, who whispered, “I’m Burton, your, er, political aide for the morning, sir.”

“Call me Charley.” They found privacy behind one of the lobby’s massive colonnades, where Burton slipped him a miniature digital recorder, round-topped so it would fit neatly in the palm of the hand. “Nicad battery is charged, suction cup holds it in place under a table, press this red button to record.”

Thiessen pocketed it. “Great. So we’re all set up?”

“Except for a minor glitch. Mr. Stonewell must have forgotten he instructed the operator to hold his calls.”

“When was that?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“Probably needed a good night’s sleep.”

“Seven o’clock this morning, sir.”

“Well, I suppose he’s just being prudent. He obviously knows I’m coming. Room service has been alerted?”

“I believe they’re standing by.”

“Then let’s go.”

In the elevator, Thiessen gave battle instructions to Burton. He would do the introductions. Stonewell would be told that the small business minister was off campaigning and had sent regrets, so Thiessen would act in his stead. Palms would meet, then Burton would quietly slip away.

No homo jokes, Charley reminded himself. He’d have to do some bantering with the guy’s lover too. These gay boys loved their malicious gossip.

A room-service waitress was already at the door with her cart. Therèse, said her tag. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Thiessen said in his clumsy French, extending his hand while rapping on the door with the other.

No response. It was ten-forty. They hadn’t hung up the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but the
Globe
was there, unwrapped, untouched. Maybe they’d forgotten to reset their watches, gone out for a walk.

Burton took a turn knocking. Not a sound from within.

“Okay, miss,” said Thiessen, “you’ve got the house key?” She shook her head, but summoned a housekeeper from down the hall, a stout Haitian woman. Burton had good French and managed to cajole her to unlock the room.

“
Mon Dieu
,” Therèse said as she pushed the cart in.

Thiessen’s view was obstructed by her for a moment. Then a scene of profligacy opened up that had him gaping with dread.

A skimpily dressed young woman was stretched out on cushions on the floor, sleeping or passed out, a two-foot-tall hookah pipe beside her. On the bed, two more human forms, or at least two lumps under a sheet, covers bunched up at their feet with their clothes. Empty mini-bottles strewn everywhere, the fridge wide open, empty but for some chocolate bar wrappers. Two flower vases chock full of cigarette butts. The thermostat had been set to a stultifying high, and the room reeked of tobacco and marijuana.

Thiessen stood in the doorway transfixed as the housekeeper raced in, scuttled about, picking up frantically. The woman on the
floor, aroused by this, raised up, stared right at Thiessen, who with a sudden shock of recognition recalled her as an exotic dancer from a Lower Town club he’d been dragged into by a visiting Nigerian judge. “It’s the fucking heat!” she yelled, scrambling around for her outerwear and shoes.

Thiessen started backing out, bumping into Burton. “Let’s get out of here.”

Too late. A gaunt young man, glistening with sweat, a cannabis leaf tattoo on his upper arm, lurched from the bedroom, shirtless, pulling on a pair of jeans. “Wha … What day is it?”

The stripper bolted past them, pulling a sweater over her head. But Burton, mindlessly sticking to the script, took Thiessen’s arm and pulled him in. “Mr. Stonewell? Burton, Small Business.” Stonewell took his hand, but not much awareness showed in his red-rimmed eyes as Burton continued his spiel.

Thiessen had backpedalled into the corridor and was about to bolt when Burton pointed to him with a frozen grin. “Mr. Thiessen here is pleased to act in his stead.” Charley gritted his teeth: this agent was an idiot, an automaton programmed to obey.

“Thiessen? Oh, yeah,
Thiessen
. Got your note somewhere here.”

“Charley.” Stepping inside, feeling suicidal. “Call me Charley.”

Stonewell still seemed slow to come to, looking hazily about, at Therèse; at the flustered, busy maid; at the cart with its steaming covered trays. At the bed, where the two bodies were stirring. “Yo, Dog, we got guests, take your friend to the bedroom, the maid can do that later.” The two forms, still draped in the sheet, scuttled off like crabs.

The skinny stoner grabbed Thiessen’s arm, yanking him toward the table where Therèse had laid out the brunch. “We’ll leave you to it, then,” said Burton, making like a coward for the door, Therèse following him out, the maid still flying about like a whirlwind.

“Make yourself at home, Charley, grab some of them eggs. Guess we forgot to move our watches ahead, but I’ll be ready to roll
soon as I shower up.” Stonewell slathered a cracker with caviar and disappeared into the washroom.

The maid had drawn the curtains by now, opened some windows, and was making the bed. “Psst, miss, please get rid of that thing.” The hookah. She seemed unsure what to do with it, then finally shoved it in the wardrobe. While she was diverted, Thiessen turned the recorder on, stuck it under the food table, pressing it to make sure the suction cup held.