“He’s just too damn eager to betray CSIS and the oath he swore on joining it. It could be a diabolical scheme. That stolen computer could have been set up to make it seem plausible that’s he’s embittered against his employer. His stage director probably thought up the klutziness, the heavy drinking, the nervous breakdown. It’s all too clever.”
A fan of spy thrillers, she’d read John LeCarre’s entire oeuvre. DiPalma was a spy who would someday come in from the cold, she insisted, like his fictional counterpart, who’d played the turncoat.
Arthur was entranced by the intrigue, didn’t want to buy into her doubts, preferred to buy what DiPalma was selling. He was encouraged to believe the fellow could unveil dark, thrilling secrets, high-level scandals. He begged Margaret to believe he was an excellent judge of character, a faculty that had rarely failed him. Like a mantra, he repeated, “What have we got to lose?”
10
It was nine-thirty, the weary back end of a day of unrelenting hell. For the first time in his political career Huck Finnerty regretted the ambition and circumstances that had propelled him to his country’s highest office. He felt stymied, freighted with self-doubt, by a sense he wasn’t the man for this job. He badly needed a drink, a steadier, but if he slipped out to the john one more time they’d be wondering if he needed a bladder operation.
The martyr DuWallup, accepting he was out of it, had wished them well and gone to bed. But a few more advisers were here, E.K. Boyes’s crew. Others kept popping in, dispatches, questions, consultations. Breaks were becoming more frequent, people pacing, conferring in corners, weary laments, an occasional desperate laugh.
Finnerty had got angry on the phone to A.J. Quilter. “You’re goddamned right I’m concerned! You don’t have a monopoly on concern! We’re busting our ass working on this!” Finnerty had turned him over to Crumwell of CSIS, who was calmer, got Quilter to book overnight flights to Ottawa for a couple of his people who’d done stints in Bhashyistan.
The P.M. had brusquely vetoed a proposal to bring in the official opposition to make common front. He couldn’t believe Cloudy McRory wanted to be anywhere near this stinkpile, nor did he want McRory sitting around telling him what to do; Lafayette was bad enough. Mr. Cool, unflustered, no sweat patches on his shirt, and with a smile no less mocking than that of the sculpted Great Father on the terrace of the Igorgrad Grand. Even Hitler in his bunker showed more despair.
The video by Third Son of Ultimate Leader Films had been transposed to one of the big screens, everyone groaning as they watched, slapping their foreheads. Those smart alecks from Alta International with their careless talk about a cash bribe — that wasn’t going to rally world support. Nor was calling Igor’s mother an ape with an axe.
Clara Gracey, equally distressed at the way this shmozzle was playing out, was cursing her bad judgment in allowing herself to be pressed back into service. Now she must share the burden of blame and shame — the Privy Council was in utter paralysis, without focus, strategies, energy. All but Lafayette, with his espousal of an unlikely benefit to this ugly contretemps: “This is Canada’s chance to dominate the world stage.” He didn’t address the logistics of how that might be done.
The tireless hawk Dexter McPhee once again was railing on about the need for extreme action. “I say we send our boys in and pummel these Mafia mobsters. We can’t just not declare war back at them. What’s it going to look like to the world if we sissy out?”
Charley Thiessen: “Never mind the world. The folks I represent in Grey County. Some of us want to get re-elected.”
E.K. Boyes: “If I may be so bold, Ministers McPhee and Thiessen have a point. We can’t allow some rogue state to run roughshod over the rules of international law. All the Western democracies are watching us, as are Japan, India, Russia. We can’t be seen as soft.”
Clara was impatient with this hard-and-soft stuff. “Good God, rise above it, toss it over to the UN.”
To McPhee, that seemed an unworthy solution. “We’re in a state of war whether we like it or not. What are we supposed to do, grovel, surrender?”
Lafayette had in mind a more cerebral stratagem: “I suggest we ignore their declaration of hostilities for the time being. We remain stern, unbowed, express appropriate outrage, call for all Canadians to unite behind the government, and so on. No desperate pleas for international support — that makes us look like beggars. Though we don’t issue our own plea to the UN, we’ll not stand aside if a friendly nation calls for an emergency session of the Security Council. That can be arranged.”
After more debate, Lafayette got his way, and someone went off to draft a communique with the appropriate outrage. Clara had to hand it to him, the way he manoeuvred through the muddle to come up with these calculated compromises.
Discussion ensued as to how to address the Canadian public. A press release was not enough. E.K. Boyes urged they go live tomorrow in front of the networks, a full and fearless statement of the government’s position. Schedule it for mid-morning, after everyone had a good night’s sleep, allowing time to brief the caucus. Lafayette suggested a full-scale press conference ought to follow, but with only the prime minister on the dais — the nation needed reassurance its leader was in calm control.
Clara thought it odd the foreign minister would so gracefully decline the spotlight, then realized he was positioning himself to dodge the flack. A staffer sped off to announce to the score of media still massed in the foyer that at eleven a.m., Eastern Time, Finnerty would speak to the nation.
Then another break, people shifting about restlessly, as if waiting for the crisis somehow to resolve itself. Lafayette looked at them sadly — didn’t they understand this was Canada’s moment in history? They’d fallen prey to that great Canadian illness, vacillation.
One of his staff called on the secure line: a fax had arrived from Moscow. “Don’t bother to translate it,” he said curtly into his headset. “Just send a runner.”
The two pages that ultimately arrived were in Cyrillic script, from the Russian embassy in Bhashyistan via the Canadian embassy in Moscow. Everyone waited as Lafayette quietly read through it. Finally, he looked up.
“Presumably this has been sent with Kremlin clearance. It summarizes a conversation between the Russian ambassador to Bhashyistan and a senior aide to President Ivanovich. The Russians, by the way, are loathed as former colonizers, but they’re a fact of life, biggest trading partner, largest embassy in Igorgrad, and they’re listened to, however resentfully.” He paused for a suspenseful moment. “The Bhashies want Abzal Erzhan. We are accused of harbouring this murderer, and they want us to turn him over.”
He turned to Crumwell. “It might help to put this communique in context, Anthony, if you summarize the psychological profiling your people did on Mad Igor.”
“Cutting it to the bone, Minister, the Ultimate Leader has never properly dealt with his father’s death, is still grieving, obsessed with thoughts of requital, vengeance — presumably in the form of Erzhan’s beheading. In other words, he seeks closure.”
Thiessen scoffed. “Closure? Give us a break.”
Lafayette quoted the Russian communique: “‘Bhashyistan may be willing to cease formal hostilities with Canada if Erzhan is surrendered to their authorities.’” Everyone seemed suitably impressed by his competence in the tongue of Tolstoy and Lenin. “The Bhashyistanis apparently don’t believe Abzal has flown the coop.”
“Maybe we can send someone who looks like him.” Thiessen again, chuckling.
“Why don’t you volunteer, Charley?” Clara asked.
They were getting testy; Lafayette must remain steady at the helm. “Our Russian friends also indicate that Bhashyistan will amend its claim we shot down their aircraft. Their latest version is that it was forced down, with all crew members under arrest in harsh conditions. This revision will soon be going out on their national radio. In the meantime, the Ultimate Leader has used the crisis as an excuse to round up hundreds more suspected dissidents.” He turned to Crumwell. “What’s the latest on the local front, Anthony?”