“He may be covering up, because he presents a rather secular front. His wife is observant, though. Takes a bus to Montreal weekly to attend a mosque, does volunteer work there.”
“Would that be one of those places that preaches hatred?” The defence minister.
“Not in so many words. But when one carefully parses the phrases used by their imam one can detect a certain unpatriotic subtext.”
Gerard Lafayette scanned the screens on the wall. No developments, just endless analyses. He wondered if the Ultimate Leader enjoyed keeping them in suspense. He was likely calculating what he could demand in compensation. Hundreds of millions, maybe, which he would personally pocket. “What’s the latest on Erzhan, Anthony? Where do you think he is?”
“I’d wager he’s in Montreal. One assumes his terrorist cell keeps a safe house there. We’re working on this, but we don’t have a lot of manpower, gentlemen. And lady. There is one man he may seek to connect to. A Vancouver barrister, Brian Pomeroy. Defended him on the assassination charge. A framed photograph of him, in his robes, is hanging on a wall of Erzhan’s living room.”
“You have eyes on this Pomeroy?”
“He too has disappeared. An agent sought an appointment with him today, on the pretense of seeking advice on a hit-and-run accident, and learned that Mr. Pomeroy is on some kind of ramble in the Barrens of the Arctic. We have people trying to locate him, but … as I say, we’re likely to go over budget on this one.”
“That will be looked after,” Finnerty said impatiently.
“In fact,” said Lafayette, “this may be a time to consider loosening not just the purse but the legal restraints. Forgive me if I remind everyone this is the very kind of crisis that my amendments to the security bill were intended for.”
“They got shot down, Gerry,” Clara said. “Mr. Crumwell, I want to make sure we’re not turning a blind eye to suspects other than Abzal Erzhan and his confederates. You constantly hear of authorities getting so hooked on a theory they get tunnel vision …”
Crumwell interrupted, not kindly. “Minister, we are not putting all our eggs in Mr. Erzhan’s basket. There are other distinct possibilities, and I was about to get to them.” A raised hand commanded attention. “Anarchists. Eco-terrorists. Seeking to spoil the deal with Alta International.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Defence Minister McPhee. “Where you’ve got fossil fuel issues, you’ve got the environmentalists. The violent ones, the fringe elements, it doesn’t take much to stir them up. I’m not talking about the Sierra Club or the Green Party.” Murmurs of assent. “But you get people who dynamite dams and bridges, attack refineries. That lot.”
“In that regard,” Crumwell said, “you may be interested to know that two such individuals — members of the Quatsino Five, who infamously caused millions in losses to one of our major logging firms — are currently employed by the member for Cowichan and the Islands.”
A nervous shuffling. Clara recalled there’d been some noise around that last year, especially on the call-in shows. Two young people on parole, hired to caretake Margaret Blake’s farm on the Gulf Islands. Unwise of her, but she’d stoutly defended the hiring.
“In fact, we have someone who’s been, ah, monitoring that situation,” Crumwell said. “One of our most resourceful men.”
E.K. Boyes turned up the sound on a monitor, a live satellite relay from Igorgrad.
A desk, the Bhashyistan flag in background, a symbolized hand holding three jagged lightning bolts. A technician was setting up a microphone on the desk, laying out some pages. Music, the national anthem. The technician scurried away. A few moments later, the Ultimate Leader himself entered and sat, picked up the text, frowned over it, then spoke in a deep rasping voice, muted as a translator spoke over it:
“Weep, oh my comrades. Yes, all Bhashyistan weeps on this, the blackest day in our proud history since the traitorous and bloody assassination of our country’s beloved Great Father. Today I announce the barbarous murder in Canada … by the henchmen of imperialist dogs clinging to power of sixteen … no, seventeen great patriots of our nation.”
The interpreter was having trouble keeping up, getting it right. Someone gasped: “Seventeen?”
“Shut up.”
“… loyal and dedicated advisers in an unarmed vehicle ambushed by the terrorist Abzal Erzhan, who has been welcomed in Canada despite … murdering the Great Father of our country … and also eight crew members of our glorious nation’s presidential plane, which was brought down, though unarmed, by Canadian fighter planes …”
“What?”
“Shut up!”
“Our proud people … my countrymen, do not cower like slaves. We resist! We fight to the last drop of patriotic blood! To that end, as leader of glorious Republic of Bhashyistan, I declare against Canada we are in state of war! God save Bhashyistan!”
9
Settled on a sofa by the faux fireplace, Ray DiPalma took another sip of brandy before continuing his rambling discourse. “I had the best ears in Belgrade back then, played a major role in busting Krajzinski, the Balkan wolf — you remember him?”
Arthur nodded. “One of those Serbian ethnic cleansers.”
“He earned forty years from the War Crimes Tribunal, and I earned a promotion to run the entire South Danube bureau. Then they suddenly pulled me out, God knows why, and one rotten stolen computer and I’m shelved, stuck in a corner cubicle.”
Arthur nodded sympathetically. Margaret had excused herself a while ago, was in her office, on the phone or her laptop. An hour earlier, after ushering DiPalma into their flat, she’d asked if he cared for tea, coffee, juice, or something stronger. His disarming politeness in choosing the latter was, to Arthur, a typical mannerism of one who regularly sought escape in drink. As an AA veteran of nearly twenty years, Arthur recognized him as a brother of the bottle, a perception reinforced as DiPalma worked his way through half a litre of wine plus a substantial share of the five-star brandy kept for guests.
It was as if he needed drink to keep his vocal cords from drying out. He seemed unable to stop talking, mostly about his own sad life, and Arthur wondered if he had crumbled under the pressure of work, the pressure of keeping secrets for a living. An alternative theory was open, that he was performing — “conniving,” as Margaret put it — but if so, DiPalma had missed a distinguished career on stage, one finer than would ever be enjoyed by the theatre major in apartment 1 °C. But if this was all a clever act, what purpose would it serve?
“When CSIS got the laptop back they found I’d logged onto a wife-swapping site. It was just an idle thing, I was surfing, but they made an issue of it, showed it to Janice, my wife. That’s when the marriage headed south. And, yes, there were some photos of Janice and me at a nudist camp on Lake Massawippi. She went ballistic when Crumwell asked her about them. It was stupid of me to leave them on the computer. Now they’re monitoring my Internet use, at least at the office — I heard them laughing over a couple of lonely-hearts sites I’d accessed during lunch.”
So far, DiPalma had not divulged any state secrets, or offered an inside scoop about anything, including this morning’s multiple assassination. Occasionally, he stepped out to the balcony for a smoke, taking his glass with him. But otherwise he sat by the roaring phony fire blathering away about his fall from grace, as unlike a trained spy as one could imagine. Arthur had known many who’d suffered breakdowns; this man matched the type. The heartbreak type. Brian Pomeroy was the worst case he’d known: alcohol, cocaine, he’d gone delusional, spent time in a care facility.
“This is her picture.” Janice, in a wallet photo folder, blond, winsomely appealing. “She went off with a lobbyist for the mine industry, a rattlesnake, no human values, he’s all about money and power. I phoned her a few times, maybe I got too loud. All I wanted was to talk with her, so I went to her house one afternoon, and of course she complained I was stalking her.”