'Brian,' Milly said softly, steadily, 'please make love to me now.'
The pacing had stopped. There was a silence.
'Don't say anything,' Milly whispered. She had closed her eyes. It was as if someone else was speaking for her, another voice inhabiting her body. It had to be that way since she herself could never have said the words of a moment or two ago. In a way, she supposed, she ought to speak in denial of the stranger's voice, cancelling what had been said, resuming her own identity. But a sense of delicious languor held her back.
She heard a glass set down, feet moving softly, drapes drawn, then Brian was beside her. Their arms went around each other, lips meeting ardently, their bodies demanding. 'Oh God, Milly!' he breathed. His voice was trembling, 'Milly, I want you and I love you.'
Chapter 5
the quietness of the apartment the telephone bell purred softly. Brian Richardson propped himself on an elbow. 'Well,' he said, 'I'm glad it didn't ring ten minutes ago.' He had a sense of speaking for speaking's sake; as if using commonplace words as a shield to his own uncertainty.
'I wouldn't have answered it,' Milly said. The languor had gone. She had a sense of quickening and expectation. This time and last it had been different, so different, from other times she remembered…
Brian Richardson kissed her forehead. How much difference there was, he thought, between the Milly the outside world saw, and Milly as he had come to know her here. At this moment she seemed sleepy, her hair disordered, warm…
'I'd better answer it,' Milly said. Pushing herself upright she padded to the phone.
It was the Prime Minister's office, one of the assistant stenographers. 'I thought I ought to call you. Miss Freedeman. There've been a lot of telegrams. They started coming in this morning and there are seventy-two now, all addressed to Mr Howden.'
Milly ran a hand through her hair. She asked, 'What about?'
'They're all about that man on the ship, the one that Immigration won't let in. There was some more about him in this morning's paper. Did you see it?'
'Yes,' Milly said, 'I saw it. What do the telegrams say?'
'Mostly the same thing in different ways. Miss Freedeman: that he should be let in and given a chance. I thought you'd want to know.'
'You were right to call,' Milly said. 'Start listing where the telegrams come from and summarizing what they say. I'll be in very soon.'
Milly replaced the phone. She would have to notify Elliot Prowse, the executive assistant; he would be in Washington by now. Then it would be up to him whether or not to tell the Prime Minister. He probably would; James Howden regarded mail and telegrams very seriously, insisting on daily and monthly tabulations of their contents and source, which were studied carefully by himself and the party director.
'What was it?' Brian Richardson asked, and Milly told him.
Like gears engaging, his mind swung back to practical concerns. He was immediately concerned, as she had known he would be. 'It's being organized by somebody, otherwise there wouldn't be that many telegrams together. All the same, I don't like it any more than I like the rest.' He added gloomily, 'I wish I knew what the hell to do.'
'Perhaps there isn't anything that can be done,' Milly said.
He looked at her sharply. Then turning, he took both her shoulders gently in his hands. 'Milly, darling,' he said, 'there's something going on I don't know about, but I think you do.'
She shook her head.
'Listen, Milly,' he insisted. 'We're both on the same side, aren't we? If I'm to do anything, I have to know.'
Their eyes met.
'You can trust me, can't you?' he said softly. 'Especially now.'
She was aware of conflicting emotions and loyalties. She wanted to protect James Howden; she always did…
And yet, suddenly, her relationship with Brian had changed. He had told her that he loved her. Surely, between them now, there was no place for secrets. In a way it would be a relief…
His grip on her shoulders tightened. 'Milly, I have to know.'
'Very well.' Releasing herself from his hands, she took keys from her bag and unlocked the bottom drawer of a small bureau beside the bedroom door. The copy photostat was in a sealed envelope which she opened and gave to him. As he began to read she was aware that the mood of a few minutes earlier was dissolved and lost, like mist before a morning breeze. Once more it was business as usuaclass="underline" politics.
Brian Richardson had whistled softly as he read. Now he looked up, his expression stunned, his eyes showing disbelief.
'Jesus!' he breathed; 'Jesus Christ!'
Part 10 The Order Nisi
Chapter 1
The Supreme Court of the Province of British Columbia closed the ponderous oak doors of its Vancouver Registry office promptly each day at 4 PM.
At ten minutes to four on the day following his second shipboard interview with Captain Jaabeck and Henri Duval (and at approximately the same time – ten to seven in Washington, DC – that the Prime Minister and Margaret Howden were dressing for the White House state dinner) Alan Maitland entered the courthouse Registry, briefcase in hand.
Inside the Registry, Alan hesitated, surveying the long, high-ceilinged room with one wall occupied entirely by file cabinets, and a polished wood counter top running most of its length. Then he approached the counter, opened the briefcase, and removed the papers inside. As he did, he was aware that the palms of his hands were more than usually moist.
An elderly clerk, the Registry's only occupant, came forward. He was a frail gnome-like man, stooped as though years of closeness to the law had set a weight upon his shoulders. He inquired courteously, 'Yes, Mr…?'
'Maitland,' Alan said. He passed across a set of the papers he had prepared. 'I've these for filing, and I'd like to be taken to the chamber judge, please.'
The clerk said patiently, 'Judge's chambers are at 10.30 AM and today's list is finished, Mr Maitland.'
'If you'll excuse me' – Alan pointed to the documents he had handed over – 'this is a matter of the liberty of the subject. I believe I'm entitled to have it brought on immediately.' On this point at least, he was sure of his ground. In any proceedings involving human liberty and illegal detention the law brooked no delay and, if necessary, a judge would be summoned from his bed in dead of night.
The clerk took rimless glasses from a case, adjusted them, and bent to read. He had an attitude of incuriosity, as if nothing surprised him. After a moment he lifted his head. 'I beg your pardon, Mr Maitland. You're quite right, of course.' He pulled a cloth-bound ledger towards him. 'It isn't every day we get an application for habeas corpus.'
When he had completed the ledger entry the clerk took a black gown from a peg and shrugged it around his shoulders. 'Come this way, please.'
He preceded Alan out of the Registry, along a panelled corridor, through double swing doors, and into the courthouse hallway where a wide stone staircase led to the upper floor. The building was quiet, their footsteps echoing. At this time of day most of the courts had risen and some of the building's lights were already turned out.