“Our best estimate from immigration and census records is we have about three hundred Bhashies resident in Canada, mostly exiles who came over during perestroika, a window when borders were opened. The largest grouping is in Montreal, about sixty or seventy, many belonging to a seemingly informal society. It meets regularly, but those we contacted seemed evasive. None, of course, admit to knowing Erzhan more than casually, and all claim not to know where he is.”
“Can you get someone in there?” Thiessen asked.
“I’d prefer, gentlemen — and lady — not to speak of specific investigative techniques. All I can say is we are working up some approaches with the RCMP, but we feel hamstrung …”
“You’ll get the funding,” Finnerty growled.
“I meant, Prime Minister, hamstrung by the laws.” Crumwell’s maimed hand held high a copy of the Anti-Terrorist Act.
“As I read that act,” Boyes said, “it empowers you to arrest and hold without warrant, and to question witnesses in secret.”
“But only with a court order. We were wondering, Prime Minister, if a declaration of international emergency is contemplated.”
Crumwell was addressing Finnerty, but looking at Lafayette, who was pleased that the foxy old Brit was alive to the Emergencies Act and its powers to search and seize from anyone, anywhere, anytime. Its advantages were clear: extraordinary powers to enact laws without delay, stilling the carping voices that invariably rose in knee-jerk response to national crises. A politically touchy issue, however — this aborted child of the War Measures Act was deeply reviled in his own province.
Boyes said, “The FLQ crisis was a little before your time here, Anthony, so you may not be aware of the political ramifications …”
Lafayette quietly broke in. “E.K., we have an international emergency here. We should commit to nothing that will tie our hands. Invoking emergency measures, yes, that might be difficult, but at all costs we must avoid timid thinking, we must be bold, prepared to do whatever it takes.”
McPhee: “Hear, hear.”
“Like what?” said Clara. “Mimic the Ultimate Leader? Arrest all the dissidents?”
Lafayette looked coolly at her. “We shouldn’t assume, Clara, that lawful Canadian authorities would abuse such privileges as have been granted by Parliament.”
The patronizing ponce. Showing her his haughty snoot, a look often captured by the political cartoonists. Clara was sure he had some scheme to create turmoil for the P.M., force him to resign.
“Let’s put that on tomorrow’s agenda,” Finnerty said, coming alive. “Where are we on this eco-terrorist angle?”
Crumwell flipped through his notes. “We have a list of every known organization that advocates or may be sympathetic to violent environmental protest. We’d propose to visit them unannounced, as it were, should this government grant us emergency powers …”
“Well, we haven’t, so far. Go on.”
“We are also reviewing, during what spare time we can afford, every available video of people attending the several street protests of Thursday. One such individual — I may have mentioned him, Zachary Flett, Ms. Blake’s caretaker — is in jail in Vancouver as a result of joining such a protest. You’re aware he has a record for terrorism.”
“That’s a little broad, isn’t it, Anthony?” said Clara Gracey. “A lot of timber floated out to sea. No lives were threatened.”
Crumwell offered her the weary look he reserved for those he regarded as soft on terror.
11
Nestled into his favourite lounge chair in Vancouver’s Confederation Club, Arthur fuelled up with coffee, juice, and a guilt-inducing buttery croissant while wading through the Monday morning papers. Accounts of the prime minister’s press conference, which he’d watched live on Saturday, portrayed Finnerty as confused and inept, having eschewed the folksy style, the self-deprecating humour, in favour of a ponderous, cliche-ridden call for courage and clear-headedness, qualities he seemed to lack. Some observers ventured that the P.M. had been hung out to dry by frightened privy councillors.
His responses to reporters’ questions had been guarded. The five captives: “Anything I say might put them at further risk.” Why was Canada not responding to the declaration of war? “We’re acting on the assumption those words were spoken without diplomatic care.” As to the grossly uninformative DuWallup, an encomium, then: “We will, of course, be discussing his future role in the government.”
Regarding efforts to track the bombing culprits: “First we must identify who they are. Clearly our prime suspect, Mr. Erzhan, didn’t act alone. I have instructed the RCMP and CSIS to leave no stone unturned in apprehending these evildoers.” If Erzhan had been abducted, as Ray DiPalma claimed, the prime minister was either in the dark or being cagey.
Buried in the inner pages was this quote from the P.M.: “There has been a certain amount of passion around the effort to open relations with Bhashyistan, as evidenced by the many undisciplined demonstrations on our streets. People have a right to their views, but Canada is home to several groups which make no bones about advocating violence.”
That set Arthur worrying that the government, in its desperation, might be about to cast a wild and reckless net, targeting activists like Zachary Flett, whose case he would be indignantly arguing this morning.
“Alta International. Dump it.” Irwin Godswill, the legendary tycoon who played the markets like a Vegas craps table and rarely lost, was on his phone, talking to his broker, his back to Arthur, no one else within earshot. “After we know what they want for ransom, we may go back in.”
Such pessimism about Alta’s prospects seemed justified. Bhashyistan law seemed unlikely to be tempered by notions of fundamental rights, and the Calgarians would be hard to dislodge from jail without hefty penalty. Reparations for the murders in Ottawa would be extreme too. Arthur felt it foolish to underestimate the Bhashyistan leadership, whose war declaration seemed a ploy, to be withdrawn in negotiations.
Godswill, still oblivious to Arthur, said something about Anglo-Atlantic Energy, then raised his voice, impatient. “I have read the earnings report. Something’s going on, they’re taking off. Just do it.”
Irwin Godswill was in his aching, complaining eighties, still fattening his accounts, living proof that money can’t buy happiness. Normal people retire from the chase. Or try to.
Among the forest of concrete giants sprouting from Vancouver’s downtown peninsula was the BMO tower, four floors occupied by Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham. The forty-third was the lair of the senior partners, where Arthur ran the gauntlet of secretaries and staff — no easy task on his increasingly rare visits to his old firm. “Lovely to see you, sir.” “You’re looking exceedingly well, Mr. Beauchamp.” “When is the book coming out?”
“Never, I hope, my dear.” That damned biography. A Thirst for Justice was the cruel title, trumpeting his years as a dipsomaniac, revelling in his drunken courtroom excesses. He’ll be the laughingstock of Ottawa and, worse, Garibaldi.
More greetings from various senior partners, eager to talk about Canada’s international crisis. In contrast to the tension elsewhere in the nation, in these mahogany halls there was a sense of guilty joy at the perils facing the government. The firm had lost tens of millions in fees after the Liberals’ defeat six years ago.
Gertrude Isbister gave him a businesslike hug and handed him a file with multicoloured tabs, precedents for a twelve-page brief of habeas corpus law. “He whipped this up on the weekend.”