“We’ve figured that out, Ray.” Arthur was close enough now to take in the smell not of nicotine but of cannabis, with an underlying base of Makepeace’s cheap rum.
“There was a crew working him over all weekend — he’s tough. So the deal is this: I was assigned to nose around here on Garibaldi. I told Crumwell, my handler, that I’d been in your apartment, that I’m infiltrating you guys — I had to, in case it got out. He congratulated me, he thinks I’m doing a masterful job. I’m back onside with him.”
Arthur gave him a hand, pulled him to freedom. “Am I to understand that this Crumwell fellow has sent you here to spy?” Arthur’s relationship with DiPalma was threatening to become a comedy of errors. Or no comedy at all, something dangerous. It was hard to believe DiPalma’s superiors were so dull as not to know he was in a state of near collapse. If indeed he was, if it was not a pretense.
Arthur led him to the tractor, where he kept a first-aid kit, and brought out ointment and Band-Aids. “Crumwell thinks you think I’m on your side. Which is true. The last part, I mean. I am on your side, but he doesn’t know I’m actually a double agent. In other words, he thinks you think I’m embittered because of the way I was treated over that lost computer … It’s a little complicated.” Lost in these spiralling convolutions, he settled onto a hay bale, began wiping his glasses.
“This is my home, Ray, my sanctuary. It is not a place where I make a habit of entertaining spies. Please reserve the next flight back to Ottawa.”
“Whoa, Arthur, you’re my lawyer, trust me the same way I trust you. I mean, you’re like a … like a mentor, a father figure.”
That was something Arthur dreaded hearing. He unhitched the hay wagon. “I had better pull your car out of there.”
“Arthur, please listen, this is our chance to feed the dogs of war at CSIS. Throw them a few bones, send them off on a wild goose chase. To make this work I’ve got to be seen as cozying up to Savannah and Zachary. The more confidence Crumwell has in me, the more he’ll share with me, and the more likely I’ll get inside access about who did what to Abzal Erzhan. That make sense?”
Arthur had to still a deep unease. Was DiPalma working from a brilliantly conceived script? For now he would stick by his earlier diagnosis: a nervous breakdown, complicated by resentment toward his superiors and by his new, greener Weltanschauung. And by excessive intake of ill-advised substances.
“So they’ve created a legend for me, as we call it, a fake biography. I’m one of those anti-American Americans who come up here to escape from the evils of capitalism. I’m an environmentalist, I’m looking for land, and I stumble onto Zack’s group and let them know I’m a friendly. You saw the way I can meld into the community, hang around, play a little poker with the boys, share some hooch and a toke or two. I met a pal of yours named Stonewell, by the way, he gave me a sampler.” He gestured with the joint, then pinched it out.
“I will not introduce you as an anti-American American land buyer.”
“I implore you, Arthur. As we speak, Zack Flett is on a train heading for Revelstoke. An agent is sitting behind him. Others will follow the VW van that’s going to pick him up. With me in deep cover, they’ll pull these agents out — as I told you, they’re stretched.”
“I fail to grasp how this double-agent business can work if you don’t confess your role to Zack and Savannah.”
“But then it could get out on the street.”
“It will be on the street as soon as they look you up on the Web. You were outed by the Toronto Star.”
“Sure, but that was a few years ago. You didn’t recognize me right away … Okay, you have a point, there could be blowback. Maybe I have to be more up front.” He stood, paced. “By the way, where’s the nearest bank machine?”
“Garibaldi Island isn’t blessed with bank machines, I’m pleased to say.”
“I had a bad run at that game, I think I got hustled. Any chance I could borrow a stake to get by for a day or two?”
“I can advance enough to put you on a ferry.”
“Darn it, I can get some dynamite stuff if we do this right. Rumours are flying around at Ogilvie Road that Erzhan was abducted.”
“Ogilvie Road?”
“CSIS. Nobody talks details, or maybe they don’t know any. You’ve got to friendly up with that landlord, Zandoo, he knows something.” He looked about, as if suspecting listeners were behind every bush. “Do you know them well enough, Zack and Savannah? Would they backstop me on this?”
Arthur would not play falsely with Savannah and Zack — their militancy often made him uncomfortable, but they were friends. At the same time he didn’t want to discourage DiPalma — if reliable, his information could ignite a political firestorm.
“Okay, let me reassemble the pieces here. If you were to carefully explain the situation to Savannah — ” DiPalma broke off, quickly slipping behind the tractor as Constable Pound’s van came down the road, slowing as it reached the blackberries.
The engine cut and a door slammed. “Is that you, Arthur?” Pound was barely visible on the other side of the tangle.
“Yes, Ernst, I’m bringing in the late hay.”
“Well, this here has the look of an infraction. Driving without due care and attention.”
“The gentleman was parking, Ernst. He slid into the bushes.”
“He a friend of yours?”
Arthur sighed. “Yes.”
Dear Hank, Katie, Cassie, Jessie, Mom.
I don’t know where to start. All I know is we’re half a world away from Saskatchewan, and we’re hiding out at a farm, a Bhashyistan version of a B amp; B that seems to be held together by staples. They call it a yurt. (It’s COLD in here. And the smells! It’s lined with sheep fat!)
I can’t imagine Exotic Asia Tours Inc. hasn’t got word out that we have disappeared from the face of the earth, and what I don’t want you to do is worry, if you even get this letter, because we’re being looked after. This craziness can’t last forever. The story we get, from the local radio as translated by our hosts who thank God speak Russian, the husband at least, is Canada is being blamed for shooting down a Bhashyistan plane with a whole load of its politicians on board, though I’m not sure if we’ve got it all straight, especially the business about a declaration of war.
But here’s what happened. I won’t go into detail about how we got here because that’s in an earlier note I mailed from the Igorgrad airport (and God, was that a task!). Anyway, there was no connecting flight to Almaty because all the Air Bhashyistan planes were grounded and the airport closed.
Maxine, Ivy, and I were taken into this office at the airport, where the head of immigration said we’d have to go to jail for not having visas, and we were just petrified, and then he said instead of jail we could pay him “the regular fine,” he called it, of two hundred dollars each, and fortunately we had enough in rubles but not much more, and of course try to find a bank machine in this place. The official seemed insulted when we asked for a receipt, but he let us go, and we got our bags and headed outside.
That’s where we met Mr. and Mrs. Babichov, they were holding up a sign offering lodging, in English, German, and Russian, a kind of farm stay, which given Maxine and I were born on a farm looked like a better deal than some of the hotels which also had people out there jostling for our business. Plus they seemed like kind folk, which they have proved to be. Abrakam and Flaxseed (I call her that, I can’t pronounce her full name). He comes from Omsk in Siberia, she’s more local. They’re in their seventies, their children have all flown the nest.
Anyway, we jumped into this decrepit old Lada and headed off away from the city about thirty clicks out, rolling hills, pine forests, meadows, sheep, sheep, sheep, and we get to this paint-peeling frame farmhouse, which isn’t much, sort of like Bob Slotznyk’s dump down by the Yorkton highway, in a permanent state of falling down.