In High Places

'You know,' Milly said slowly, 'I've always thought there was something strange about Mr Warrender. The way he talks and acts; as if he were nervous all the time. And then that business of idolizing that son of his – the one killed in the war…'

She stopped, startled by Brian Richardson's expression. His eyes were riveted on her face, his mouth agape.

'Brian-'

He whispered, 'Milly, doll, say that again.'

She repeated uncomfortably, 'Mr Warrender – I said he's strange about his son. I understand there's a sort of shrine in his home. People used to talk a lot.'

'Yeah.' Richardson nodded. He tried to conceal his excitement. 'Yeah. Well, I guess there's nothing in that.'

He wondered how fast he could get away. He wanted to use a telephone – but not Milly's telephone. There were certain things… things he might have to do… he would never want Milly to know.

Twenty minutes later he was phoning from an all-night drugstore. 'I don't give a goddam how late it is,' the party director told the object of his call. 'I'm telling you to get downtown now and I'll be waiting for you in the Jasper Lounge.'

Chapter 4

The pale young man with tortoise-shell glasses who had been summoned from bed turned the stem of his glass nervously in his hand. He said, with a touch of plaintiveness, 'I really don't know if I could do it.'

'Why not?' Brian Richardson demanded. 'You're right there in the Defence Department. All you have to do is ask.'

'It isn't as simple as that,' the young roan said. 'Besides, it's classified information.'

'Hell!' Richardson argued. 'Something that old – who cares about that any more?'

'Obviously you do,' the young man said with a show of spirit. "That's half of what I'm worried about.'

'I give you my word,' Richardson said, 'that whatever use I make of what you give me, it will never be traced back to you.'

'But it would be hard even to find. Those old files are buried away at the back of buildings, in basements… It might take days or weeks.'

'That's your problem,' Richardson said bluntly. 'Except, I can't wait weeks.' He beckoned a waiter. 'Let's have the same again.'

'No thank you,' the young man said. 'This is enough for me.'

'Have it your way.' Richardson nodded to the waiter, 'Make it one; that's all.'

When the waiter had gone, 'I'm sorry,' the young man said, 'but I'm afraid the answer is no.'

'I'm sorry too,' Richardson said, 'because your name was getting near the top of the list.' There was a pause. 'You know what list I'm talking about, don't you?'

'Yes,' the young man said. 'I know.'

'In my job,' Richardson said, 'I have a lot to do with selecting Parliamentary candidates. In fact, there are people who say that I pretty well pick all the new men in our party who finally get elected.'

'Yes,' the young man said, 'I've heard that too.'

'Of course, the local association has the final word. But they mostly do what the Prime Minister recommends. Or what I tell the Prime Minister to recommend.'

The young man said nothing. The tip of his tongue touched his lips and ran along them.

Brian Richardson said softly, 'I'll make a deal. Do this thing for me, and I'll put your name right at the top. And not just for any old seat, but one where you're sure to win.'

There was a flush of colour in the young man's cheeks as he asked, 'And if I don't do what you want?'

'In that case,' Richardson said softly, 'I positively guarantee that so long as I am with the party you will never sit in the House of Commons, and never be a candidate for any seat you can hope to win. You'll stay an executive assistant until you rot, and all your father's money will never change it.'

The young man said bitterly, 'You're asking me to start my political career with something rotten.'

'Actually, I'm doing you a favour,' Richardson said. 'I'm introducing you to some facts of life which other people take years to discover.'

The waiter had returned and Richardson inquired, 'You're sure you won't change your mind and have another drink.'

The young man drained his glass. 'All right,' he said. 'I will.'

When the waiter had gone, Richardson asked, 'Assuming I'm right, how long will it take you to get what I need?'

'Well…' The young man hesitated. 'I should think a couple of days.'

'Cheer up!' Brian Richardson reached over, clapping a hand on the other's knee. 'In two years from now you'll have forgotten this whole thing ever happened.'

'Yes,' the young man said unhappily. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'

Part 14 'Detained and Deported'

Chapter 1

From the surface of his office desk, the deportation order against Henri Duval stared up at Alan Maitland.

… hereby order you to be detained and deported to the place whence you came to Canada, or to the country of which you are a national or citizen, or to the country of your birth, or to such country as may be approved…

Since the edict at the special inquiry five days earlier, the order had etched itself into Alan's mind until, eyes closed, he could repeat the words from memory. And he had repeated them often, searching in the official phraseology for a minute loophole, some tiny weakness, a cavity into which the probing antennae of the law might go.

But there had been none.

He had read statutes and old law cases, first by the dozen and later by the hundred, labouring at their involved and stilted language far into each night until his eyes were red rimmed, his body aching for lack of sleep. Through most of the daytime hours Tom Lewis had joined him in the Supreme Court law library, where together they had explored indexes, reviewed abridgements, and scrutinized case reports in ancient, seldom-opened tomes. 'I don't need lunch,' Tom said on the second day. 'My stomach's full of dust.'

What they sought was a legal precedent which would demonstrate that the Immigration Department's handling of the Duval case was in error and therefore illegal. As Tom put it:

'We need something we can slap in front of a judge and say, "Jack, the bums can't screw us, and here's why."' And later, perched wearily atop a library ladder, Tom declared, 'It isn't what you know that makes a lawyer, it's knowing where to look, and we haven't found the right place.'

Nor had they found the right place in the remaining days of the search, which was now ended. 'There's just so much anyone can do,' Alan had admitted finally. 'I guess we might as well give up.'

Now it was two in the afternoon, Tuesday, January 9th. They had quit an hour ago.

There had been one brief interruption in their law library vigil – yesterday morning when a departmental board had considered Henri Duval's appeal against the outcome of the special inquiry. But it was a hollow, formal proceeding, the outcome predictable with Edgar Kramer as chairman of the board and two immigration officers the supporting members.

This was a part of the procedure which originally Alan had hoped to delay. After his own gaffe in court it had all been too swift…

Though knowing the effort wasted, Alan had presented argument as forcefully and thoroughly as if before a judge and jury. The board – including Edgar Kramer, punctiliously polite throughout – had listened attentively, then solemnly announced its decision in favour of the earlier verdict. Afterwards Alan had told Tom Lewis, 'It was like arguing with the Queen in Alice in Wonderland, only.a lot more dull.'

Tilting his chair back in the tiny, cluttered office, stifling a yawn from tiredness, Alan found himself regretting that the case was almost over. It seemed that there was nothing more he could do. The Vastervik – its repairs completed and now loading fresh cargo – was due to sail in four days' time. Sometime before then, perhaps tomorrow, he must go down to the ship to break the final news to Henri Duval. But he knew that it would not be unexpected news; the young stowaway had learned too much about human indifference for one more disavowal to surprise him greatly.