Sussex Drive: A Novel (31 page)

“Liz, I’m on it,” Barack said.

“It’s Lise,” said Lise.

He pointed at her and grinned. “Jeez, Louise,” he said, “Lise!” and then had dashed off to break beaver tails with Greg at the Peace Tower.

And when Lise chaired a conference at Carleton University about development issues in Asia, and met a leading centrist-left feminist from Pakistan who’d heard of Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K., she pounced.

“I’m searching for her children in Quetta,” Lise said after the PowerPoint presentation.

“I’ll do some digging,” the feminist said.

She called Lise to let her know that the children had indeed been in Quetta, but had mysteriously disappeared from their uncle’s house.

Meanwhile, the PMO-endorsed Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K. thanked Canada on July first for its cordial welcome and low-key press. In a parlour at the Afghan embassy, she said, “I am retiring from public life to live in peace and raise my family.”

Her imaginary family
.

On Labour Day weekend, Lise received a call from Meena Karzai. She and Hamid had just spent the day on Martha’s Vineyard with the Obamas, all very hush-hush, very low-low-key, and she was so sorry they weren’t going to visit Canada, their wonderful
NATO
ally.

“Listen,” said Meena. “I’ve just been talking to Meesh, and I understand you’re looking for Aisha.”

Suddenly there was a jumble of conversation in the background.

“Lise, is your line secure?”

“Who knows,” Lise said.

“I hope so,
inshallah
. You’re looking for Aisha
Karzai
.”

Lise said, “I don’t know if that’s her last name.”

“That’s her last name. She’s Hamid’s cousin.”

Lise could have fainted. “His cousin.”

“Yes.” A pause. “My husband has hundreds of cousins, and she’s one of them.”

Another pause.

“Babur! Babur!” she called to her son. “There are sharks in the Atlantic Ocean, my sweet, my
habibi
! Sharkies! So beeeg! And electric eels! And men-of-war!”

Lise said, “Meena, you were right. I don’t think we can have this conversation on the phone.”

“Lise, listen to me. Aisha kept an eye on Kandahar for Hamid. A close eye, and he looked out for her, too. Trust me. He tried to reason with her. But you have to look at the beeg picture, and I know you do that all the time as the King’s representative. You have to, I know. And in Afghanistan we look at the beeg picture and we see that we only have
NATO
troops helping us fight the Taliban when the countries—Britain, France, Germany, Netherlands, Canada—support the war enough to send their children to fight it.”

“I’m hanging up, Meena.”

“She couldn’t be embarrassing your mountain police, Lise.”

Lise was silent. Until she had to know. “And her children?”

“No worries. No worries. We are taking good care of them.”

“Where are they?”

“In Islamabad. With Indira.”

“
Qui?
”

“Jopal.”

The Pakistani president’s older sister.

It was the usual mini-disc.

Aisha, 11/25/2008, Panjwai
. Jerkily printed.

Lise hit play.

On her laptop screen, it was the real Aisha, in goatherd clothes, and Lise believed what Aisha said, that she was shooting the video herself on Corporal Shymanski’s phone and she was secluded in a jerry-rigged bathroom in a military tent by herself. With an army close by. Back in 2008, late November.

It was her beautiful face, and she was scared.

She talked about the promise of the Witness Protection Program in Canada.

She named her children: Khaled, Abdurachman, Malalai, Omar.

Lise watched the video over and over, over and over again.

It finally made sense.

She composed a letter to the Special Parliamentary Committee of the Military Police Commission, stating that she was submitting evidence regarding the Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha Karzai and Corporal Taylor Shymanski case, the deaths of
two ANP recruits, and RCMP corruption, at the highest level, in Kandahar, Afghanistan. She stated that she was fully aware she was contravening her viceregal oath regarding Official Secrets but that the violations of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and Canada Criminal Code must take precedence.

She addressed it to her former secretary, Chair Margaret Lee Yeung.

Signed with her special stamp, special seal, the Right Honourable Lise Lavoie, Governor General of Canada, Commander-in-Chief.

In New York, the day after René’s premiere, Lise overslept at the Waldorf Tower. Room service rushed breakfast to her suite, Niko phoned to say he was on his way uptown in a taxi, and Lise watched
Good Morning America
while showering, dressing, grabbing a bite. René was on, promoting
Nun from Bucharest
.

“Sultry,” the host said after the clip. “What’s next?”

“I’m quitting the business,” he said.

Lise dropped her croissant.

“I’m running for federal office in Quebec when my wife steps down as Governor General.”

“Who for? Which party?” asked the host. “The Democrats?”

“Yes,” René said. “We call them the New Democrats.”

“Ooh,” she said. “Like New Labour in England.”

“Non,”
said René.

When Lise and Niko arrived back at Rideau Hall, Greg was pacing the driveway by her front door. In wait. It was a
warmish day for November, freakish shirt sleeves weather, and he looked hot and tubby in a pink cashmere sweater. He shoved a couple of bunches of zingy yellow tulips her way.

Niko evaporated indoors.

“Ready to prorogue?” Greg gritted his teeth.

“No.”

“Then I guess you haven’t heard.”

“What?”

“About St. Bertrand?”

“What about it?”

“There’s been a coup. The Communist dictator Jean-Louis Raymond has seized power,” Greg said.

“He was the democratically elected president in 2004, Greg. Canadian observers ratified that election.”

“The death toll is rising.”

Lise swallowed.

He said, “I—
DFAIT
wants you to fly to St. Bertrand immediately as a non-official envoy.”

“In the midst of civil war?”

“No better time.”

“This is about the prorogation, isn’t it?”

“I appreciate how you’re staying on topic, Lise. It would be smart to prorogue before you depart.”

“I’m going to go Republican on you, Greg. Read my lips. I refuse.”

“That’s not Republican, Lise. That’s rogue. Hey, I’ve brought your constitutional advisers along. Again.” He pointed. In the back of his limo, three white-haired heads,
of varying shades and textures, were engaged in gesticulations. “A couple of your favourites.”

“They’re not ice cream, Greg.”

“Fresh from the mausoleum.”

“This is unbelievable,” Lise said. “We shouldn’t even be having this conversation without our seconds. Where’s Clark? Where’s my secretary, Noel?”

“Lise, Rome is burning and by extension your capital of Jolie Ville. My understanding is that you’ve already established a relationship with this usurper—”

“Oh, puh-leeze.”

“And your Communist sister is behind him—”

“Be careful what you say, Greg.”

“The Western allies would appreciate your first-hand take on the situation. Remember, Canada has granted debt relief to St. Bertrand. We don’t do that every day. Not when we have a military to feed. And we’ve left their telecommunications alone—”

“Are you ordering me to go?”

“It’s an ask.”

“So it’s an order.”

“Let’s put it this way. I’m not
not
ordering you.”

“Will I have military bodyguards?”

“Yup.”

“Do you know if Solange is all right?” For she knew Greg knew everything.

“All right?” he guffawed. “Ask Vice-President Soleil yourself when you see her.”

“She’s veep?”

“Apparently.”

“I’ll be back for my appearance before the Parliamentary Committee.” Lise was forced to take a deep breath. “Count on it.”

Greg ripped off his sweater and hurried back to his limo. He climbed in and the driver hit the pedal. The three-headed cluster jerked backwards then forwards.

Lise headed toward the entrance, but a movement in the Mappin window caught her eye. Becky was adjusting a curtain.
The nerve
.

“My mom’s here,” Martha said.

“
Bien—”
Lise said passing through the Long Gallery, “
sûr
.”

Martha and Niko unknitted themselves on the piano bench. Niko’s hair was already mussed and Lise surmised that the practising in progress had nothing to do with
Temptations
. But she didn’t have time to lament that Niko’s person of interest happened to be Greg Leggatt’s damaged Christian progeny.

“She went upstairs,” Martha offered.

Lise stamped her feet on the landing.

Before locating Becky and lynching her, Lise turned in at her bedroom to drop her purse and immediately noticed the note on top of her mahogany dresser—heavyweight bond redux, this time handwritten, in a feminine cursive.

You are the patriot
.

Becky

“Becky,” Lise growled.

She was standing by the altar in the Right Honourable Georges and Pauline Vanier Chapel, her gloved hand maintaining contact with the crucifix. The wee bedroom had been converted into a non-denominational sanctuary back when Georges had served as the most penitent of Governors General.
“
Lise
,”
Becky said. “It’s urgent that we talk. I hope you don’t mind my letting myself in.”

“Get out.” Lise simmered.

That took her aback. “Lise.”

“Get out of my house.”

“It’s not actually yours—” Becky swallowed.

“It’s a private apartment and you can’t trespass, as you do whenever it serves your husband’s interests.”

“I take your point, but it
is
Canada’s house, the peoples’ house.”

“They’re welcome any time. You’re not.”

“Lise.”

“Please leave before I summon security.”

“Lise! Listen. I know you’re breaking your oath to testify before the commission.”

“Why are you privy to that? It’s classified.”

“I know Greg wants you to prorogue. That’s why I’ve
come to talk to you. And that’s why I had to hide here.” Becky held Lise’s gaze. “From him.”

Lise assessed. This was a huge prosecutable admission and Becky appeared sincere. But she always had, in a self-assured way.

“It’s another tactic, isn’t it, Rebecca? I have been manipulated by you in every conceivable way since you moved into Sussex Drive. And even before. Not only that, but threatened, humilitated, and slandered, and in my own defence and that of my family, have been reduced to combatting you in ways that are completely counterintuitive to the way my life operates. Why are you here?”

“To warn you—”

“About what? That you’re back to destroy my husband? Further destabilize our son? Bewitch him with your daughter? Debtor-fuck my country? Assassinate my sister?”

“Close,” Becky said.

Silence.

“Which one?”

They were on their knees, side by side, on an uncomfortable Vanier prie-dieu. That way no staff would dare interrupt.

“When I learned you were appearing before the Parliamentary Committee, I knew Taylor had shared information with you.”

Lise didn’t indicate anything one way or the other. She wasn’t going to talk to Becky about the mini-disc. She said, “I had no choice. A woman who risked her life for our
country and turned to Canada for sanctuary may be dead. Four children orphaned.”

“Is Greg sending you to St. Bertrand?”

“Yes.”

“Right away?”

“Tout de suite.”

“What about the prorogation?”

“Becky, please—I can’t disclose.”

“You have to testify, Lise. Don’t let him stop you.”

Lise read the alarm on Becky’s face and, yes, anguish. “Becky?”

“I was supposed to meet him that day. Taylor.” Becky gripped the book rest of the prie-dieu with her gloved hands. “Last April. After you. He wanted to give me something. And I think they knew this and that’s why they blew him up.”

Lise was sick with horror, even though she suspected that she’d always known this.

Becky slowly pulled off one long silk black glove and then the other. Her hands were mottled by grafts and scars, like some marbled ghost cheese. This was no barbecue mishap.

“Oh, Becky.”

“I couldn’t help him. His hoodie was on fire. His silly beard. He was melting into the seat. I tried—” Becky started to weep.

The noise of her grief was sickening. Abhorrent. Lise had to turn her head.

“The operatives were in the woods.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t go to Africa,” Becky said.

“You’re afraid I won’t be back in time to testify?”

“You won’t be back at all.”

Lise absorbed that.

Becky sat back on on her knees. “I am sorry, Lise. I’ve trespassed against you. I regret many things I have done.”

“I appreciate your apology,” Lise said. “I’d suspected many people of leaving that note last November. But never you. Why?”

“Because I could,” Becky said. “The most important thing I’ve learned is that I can do horrible things to people. Then—dump them. Deny. Deflect. Ignore. Or even accuse the person I’ve hurt.”

Lise didn’t say anything.

Becky collected herself. “In case you’re wondering why I’m still at Sussex Drive, I’ve been informed that if I pull a Maggie Trudeau, he’ll take sole custody.”

What a world, Lise thought. What a man.

Becky said, “Will you pray with me?”

Lise’s hand shook in Becky’s scarred white claw.

They were silent until Becky said, “Amen.”

“Amen,” said Lise.

“Amen,” Martha said.

Lise’s eyes flew open. How long had the girl been standing there? And Niko right behind her.

“What did you hear?” Lise asked.

Niko was composed. “Everything.”

21