At the far end of the table, near the non-functioning fireplace, sat Gerry Lafayette, a headset on, a secure line to his ministry. While others seemed befuddled by events, he was intent on showing stern, decisive coolness. He bore no responsibility for this mess. The buck stopped at Finnerty, and one did not have to be a diviner of souls to see the resignation in his face. He had been at this job only a year, would be remembered only for this catastrophe. However tragic was this terrorist act, it accelerated Lafayette’s resolve to lead les bleus from the wilderness.
He looked around at the strained, expectant faces and slipped off his headset. “Staff has been trying to message them every conceivable way, through the Brits, through the Yanks. Rien que silence. I suspect we must issue a statement soon. The fourth estate is anxious. The Ultimate Leader may especially be eager to hear our carefully worded regrets.” The PMO’s director of communications took this as a directive, went off with the press secretary to hammer something out. “I wonder, Prime Minister, now that the cabinet is briefed, if we could dwindle to a slightly more manageable size.”
The bulk of the ministers got the message and began filing out, probably feeling relieved and perhaps guilty that Gerard Laurier Lafayette was showing the leadership their party had denied him. He took the chair next to Finnerty, at mid-centre of the long table, and spoke low: “Information has not been kept close to our chests, Huck. Or our breasts, if you take my meaning.”
Clara didn’t hear that but saw them glance at her. She didn’t need the equation written in chalk on a blackboard. That silky Iago was making a move on the operationally challenged old trawler-man, who was so hungover, so out of his depth, he was delegating power to his adversary.
Invited to stay were three Finnerty cronies, Dexter McPhee of Defence, Attorney General DuWallup, Charley Thiessen of Public Safety. Plus the P.M.’s chief of staff, executive assistant, communications director, national security adviser, and the RCMP commissioner.
The finance minister, however, was getting the bum’s rush. “Nice job, Gerry,” she said, on her way out.
“You’re very kind.”
“No, I mean it.”
“I hadn’t thought otherwise, Clara.”
Clara needed a smoke badly, she was stinging from the insult of being excluded. She was deputy prime minister! But she maintained outward composure as fellow evictee Buster Buchanan held the door for her. McPhee called after him: “General, let us know when our boys get back home safe.”
In the anteroom, Clara joined the other exiles in retrieving cellphones and Blackberrys from the bank of safety deposit boxes — wireless transmitters were banned at cabinet sessions. She took Buchanan aside to pass on her thanks to the heroes of Bagotville. “That Cool Hand Luke up there deserves a medal, General.”
“Ma’am, he’ll get one.”
Ma’am — she loathed that, it made her feel eighty years old. From the restricted zone known as the Horseshoe, outside the PMO complex, she could see down to the foyer and the press thronging there, an impatient, hungry wolf pack. How she would love to toss them some meat.
Instead, she charged up to her office and stomped inside, her angry vibrations scattering the huddle at the TV set, sending them silently to their desks. She slammed into her private office and screamed: “That rat’s asshole!”
Panting, shaking a little, she searched her bag, found her Number Sevens, lit up. Percival Galbraith-Smythe, her fussy, starchy executive assistant, knew exactly what she was up to and walked briskly in, opened a window, situated Clara close to it, and brought the ashtray out from behind the shelf of Hansards. “Lafayette, I suppose.”
“It’s a putsch. I have been effectively purged from government. He’s got the Huckster under his thumb, he’s schmoozing with DuWallup and Thiessen and McPhee, getting their blessings. I want it all over town that I opposed this Bhashyistan initiative from the get-go.”
“Already done, precious. Informed sources will hint that this day would never have happened had it been up to you.”
Finnerty tilted his flask while he took a whiz. The hot burn of aged rye gave him a hit of courage; he might yet make it through this day. “What do you think the Bhashies will do, Charley?” They were alone in a washroom, he and Thiessen, at adjoining urinals.
“Well, they sure aren’t going to be recalling their ambassador. Don’t see any solution but we send over eight of our ministers for them to kill. Maybe they’ll settle for Gerry. You may want to reel him in a bit, Huck. He’s stealing the show.”
Clara Gracey would have been a counterweight; Finnerty felt a little crappy about excluding her from the loop, a slap in the face. But let it be a lesson. She’d been leaking like Molly’s rowboat.
“Be glad the cops have to carry the can, buddy.” Thiessen left Finnerty to finish his piss, an anxiety-constricted stop-and-starter, requiring exertion. What had been his orders to DuWallup last night? Increase security, stick to the timetable, tell nobody a Bhashyistani assassin was on the loose. How was he going to get out of this?
Though it was only noon, this was already close to being the worst day of his life — worse than when his engine conked during Hurricane Zelda, maybe worse than when he stumbled onto his wife giving head to her yoga instructor. The only good news was the Ilyushin was safely on the tarmac at Bagotville.
The Canadian government’s official outpouring of remorse, though quickly seconded by many other countries, had been met with continued loud silence by Bhashyistan. He tried hard but couldn’t conjure an image of the Ultimate Leader on his throne, or wherever he sat, reacting to the slaughter of his cabinet, the arrest of his personal jetliner. No one seemed to have a handle on Igor Muckhali Ivanovich, except that he was some kind of psychopathic blowhard.
The cabinet room had been set up as a crisis centre, several plasma screens, images dancing on them, but volumes down. A server followed Finnerty with trays of sandwiches, and he joined the chow line, everyone hungry but Lafayette, who was what you’d call a dainty eater, and the RCMP commissioner, who wasn’t showing much of an appetite.
An aide thrust a note at Finnerty. The CEO of Alta International, urgent, please call. Quilter was probably going berserk. “I’ll get back to him.”
Finnerty tried for a meaningful look at DuWallup, but saw he was listening to Commissioner Lessard, who had just got off a secure line with his explosives people.
“Semtex, they think. One of those super-IEDs that are showing up in the Middle East, explosive penetrators, copper-jacketed, directional, effective to fifty metres.”
“Pretty sophisticated,” DuWallup said.
“We’re not dealing with amateurs. These are trained terrorists.”
“Run it by us again, Commissioner, how Mr. Erzhan vanished on us.” Lafayette, sitting back, examining his fingernails.
Lessard summarized a written report: “Thursday, yesterday, at eight-fifteen hours, Abzal Erzhan left home with a bag lunch in a satchel, as he has done every school day for the last eight years. He’s a teacher in a local secondary school — mathematics, science, and physical education. Earned his certificate teaching leadership skills at an immigration centre. Industrious man.”
“Age?” Finnerty asked.
“Thirty-five. Wife, two children. It’s a twenty-five-minute walk to his school, but he didn’t show up. We have two confusing accounts that suggest a car stopped for him. We’ve instructed his wife not to talk to the press, or to anyone, as it could compromise the investigation. There’s no basis for holding her, no sign of bomb making in the house or its attached garage, no traces of Semtex. So far.”