“A beauty, eh? But what I want to direct your attention to is this baby here.” The balloon. “We’re not quite prepared for liftoff — there are some safety rules we got to adhere to. Like you don’t want to go up until that propane tank is full and what they call the blast valve is working. As soon as we figure everything out, the world’s our oyster.”
“Surely you need a licence of some sort to go ballooning.”
“Yeah, like for pilots, but this is Garibaldi Island, the last frontier, ordinary rules don’t apply. Soon as we figure out how to get this sucker aloft, we’re going into business, island hopping. That there gondola can carry six normal-sized tourists.” A commodious wicker basket.
Arthur saw this as a pipe dream — surely on sober reappraisal Stoney would put this project aside, as he had many other of his airy-fairy ideas. The middle of January. High over the Salish Sea, at the mercy of every gusting wind.
Stoney patted Dog on the head. “When we get the kinks worked out, Dog here has volunteered for the honour of being test pilot. Right, Dog?”
The squat little fellow puffed himself up as if to indicate he was indeed the man for the job, but his strained smile hinted he wasn’t quite so sure.
Arthur asked Stoney about the Fargo.
“Next in line. Give me two more days.”
“You said that two months ago.”
“This time I mean it. Anything else I can do, sire, I’m always at your service.”
“I need a pickup at six-thirty tomorrow.”
“No problem.”
“In the morning.”
“The morning?”
“If it’s not too much to ask.”
“Well, six-thirty tends to be outside my normal working hours — I’m usually in bed by then. But in your case, as a valued customer, there’ll be only a small surcharge. Unpossible ain’t in my dictionary.”
Arthur began wishing he’d arranged for a backup, an early rising neighbour, but he hated to impose.
Stoney returned to the task at hand. “Okay, boys, let’s figure out how to get this baby airborne. We ain’t got all week.”
That evening, over garden greens and leftover macaroni and cheese, there was again no mention of Arthur’s rude interruption of Savannah’s automatonlike foray into the fridge. He wondered if she remembered any of it.
As he settled into his club chair with his book and a mug of tea, Savannah took a call from Zachary, a guarded conversation. “I think you should include Garibaldi Island in your next itinerary, Zack. Lots to do here. Lots to talk about … No, damn it, Sunday wouldn’t be too early. Get your ass down here.”
A severe tone of urgency that went beyond their usual bickering. Arthur could only speculate as to what might be his reaction to Ray DiPalma and his counterspying.
Savannah disconnected, went to the computer. “He wants us to look at YouTube.”
Arthur peered over her shoulder as she expertly manoeuvred through the offerings on the screen. Here it was, another production of Third Son of Ultimate Leader Films. Again the chubby face of Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich, chief geek of Bhashyistan.
“Always first with the news that counts, today we presenting footage of national holiday for most terrible day in history, when Great Father was shot in Canada by cowardly scum. Here we see display of armed might.”
A uniformed battalion goose-stepping past the presidential palace, the Ultimate Leader on a reviewing stand, his hand over his breast, advisers behind him, almost a parody of May Day marches from the salad days of Stalin and Brezhnev. The troops seemed ragtag, some in helmets, others in turbans or other traditional headgear, rifles pointed haphazardly in the air. Rockets trundled by, then a score of tanks and other armoured vehicles.
“Here we showing world we are ready for coming conflict with Canadians who have no stomach for fight with patriotic army and air force.” The latter consisted of a couple of MiGs zooming overhead. The display seemed reasonably threatening, if not to high international standards. Less fearsome was a troop of dancing maidens — they stopped before the reviewing stand and put on a commendable hula-hoop demonstration of synchronized twirling.
A fadeout, then a closer view of Mad Igor, still on the stand, speaking from notes in his Turkic tongue. Mukhamet translated: “If spineless Canadians not responding to war declaration, he is saying, our country very soon declares victory, mission accomplished. He is saying reparations of ten billion dollars is price of peace. Not taking less, is firm offer. And here is reminder to Canadians watching.”
An exterior view of a forbidding fortress: narrow barred windows, wooden shutters. “Here is impenetrable state prison in Igorgrad, and here on ground floor is section for prisoners of war.” Cut to a cell occupied by the five languishing Alberta oilmen, staring sullenly at the camera. The national flag then filled the screen, with its three lightning bolts, and the video concluded with the stirring but fading notes of the Bhashyistan anthem.
“Wow,” Savannah said. “Here we show shitload of bluster.”
“How do you think our government should react?”
“Ignore ’em.”
“And the so-called prisoners of war?”
“Let them do penance.”
“That seems hard. They’re merely employees.”
“Okay, but schemers, a veep, two lawyers, fat cats. I mean maybe some are innocent, the accountant, the geologist, but if the Alta board of directors had any guts they’d offer themselves in exchange. This is all about oil, Arthur, and bribery and greed and extortion. Sure, these Bhashies are a joke, but the world doesn’t need their oil, it’s planetary poison. Maybe this is a wakeup call.”
Arthur was troubled by her stern, unyielding view. His softer heart went out to those five unfortunates in a cold, foreign jail. But he was just as troubled by the truth she spoke. Margaret had often said as much: Canada — the world — needs shock therapy to recover from the self-destructive sins of the last several profligate decades.
Dreams returned that night of charred bodies in a burning limousine. But they were succeeded by images less awful, more complex. He was in court, speaking a language he didn’t understand, to jurors laughing at him. Then he was running across the steppes, but with sludgelike speed, he wasn’t going to make the seven-fifteen ferry. He found himself lying on the moss, felt a shifting, a turbulence, something soft falling across his chest — gently, like a caress, a woman’s caress.
“Hey, Arthur, man, you wanna make that ferry or not?”
This familiar voice from the realm of the conscious brought him half-awake. Stoney was standing at the open doorway to his bedroom, gaping, as astonished as if he’d just witnessed a landing of Martians. Nestled beside Arthur, on her side, her arm draped loosely over his chest, a warm breast at his ribs, was Savannah Buckett, in a deep and sonorous sleep.
Hoping this was a continuation of the dream, knowing it was not, Arthur gently lifted her arm off, aghast, barely able to speak. “Forgot to set the alarm. I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Right,” Stoney said. “I’ll, uh, be in the car.”
Rattled, Arthur donned some clothes, fled the room, grabbed a small, pre-packed suitcase, and raced out into the morning darkness to join Stoney in his taxi, an aging Buick. It was just before seven — he would make it to the boat on time.
Stoney concentrated on his driving — difficult enough, given one headlight was burnt out. For a few minutes he said nothing, grinning occasionally at Arthur in a conspiratorial way. Finally: “Didn’t know you had it in you, Arthur.”
“She must have sleepwalked right into my bed.”
A guffaw. “Nice try, but that ain’t gonna wash. You gotta come up with something a little more conceivable. When the cat’s away, eh? Who could blame you, she’s a pinup, man. I got new respect.”