An initiative that should have been sought in the first place. But Clara didn’t say that. “Excellent. No movement from Security Council?”
“Our allies are awaiting the result of this initiative.”
“And the Russians?”
“I think they want things settled down. They’re hoping to get their grubby hands on the Bhashyistan oil fields, of course. Privately, they still see our Mr. Erzhan as the key. Find him, render him to Bhashyistan justice, and all will go swimmingly.”
“Easy for them to say. The abduction business — anything to it?”
“A clever ploy to set up an alibi. Arthur Beauchamp shouldn’t be underestimated.” He peered out the window. “Snow’s melting. They say we’re in for some relief, a warm spell.” Turning to her. “By the way, Clara, you’re looking exceedingly well. Your new role becomes you, and you embellish it as much as I’m sure you relish it.”
That was pathetic. Clara fiddled with some papers, embarrassed for him.
“Gerry, I’m afraid this whole foofaraw over Bhashyistan has stirred up separatist sentiment across the river. Rhetoric about how les quebecois are ashamed to be part of Canada, that sort of nonsense. Remarks from the Alberta premier aren’t helping either, and the provinces are squabbling. We’re going to need someone to help keep this country together in tough times. A powerful, respected Quebec federalist. No one fits that bill like you.”
Lafayette showed little expression, though his facial muscles tightened.
“I want to move you to Interprovincial Affairs. I’m going to make it a front-bench job, and you’ll be chief Quebec spokesperson as well. I’ll be in your debt if you take this on.”
“Interprovincial Affairs,” he repeated softly, then turned for the door. “Have a nice day, Prime Minister.”
Half an hour later, one of Clara’s aides reported that Lafayette had resigned from the cabinet and the Conservative Party.
19
An interminable two-stop flight to Vancouver followed by a fitful night had Arthur in a sour mood as he huddled over his poached eggs in the Confederation Club dining room. He listened dully to the voices behind him, aging executives resigned to the predictable precipitous fall of the Tory government.
“Proud to say I backed Lafayette for his run last year. The right choice, but the party made the wrong one.”
“Liberal in sheep’s clothing, that’s what he called Gracey. Can’t say I disagree.”
“Smart chap, Lafayette, good fundamentals. Has he got a name for his party?”
“Progressive Reform.”
It was Tuesday, December 14, eight days after Illustrious Victory Over Canada Day, five since Lafayette bolted from the Tories, taking two disciples with him, determined to bring down a government that Lafayette had excoriated as having tilted dangerously to the left. Even with full attendance, the Conservatives could count on only 152 votes for Thursday’s confidence motion. A united opposition had two more.
An election was at the bottom of Arthur’s wish list. Working the main streets as the toy boy of the leader of the Parti Vert du Canada. Listening politely to foul-breathed supplicants. The sweaty backrooms, the speeches, the sniping, the attacks on probity, private lives bared.
It was hard to conceive of an election going ahead while the standoff with Bhashyistan continued. The UN emissary had been thwarted by the stubbornness of Mad Igor, his fiefdom now isolated, in deepening penury, trade routes closed, only smugglers thriving.
Arthur’s thoughts went to the women who’d landed in Igorgrad by happenstance. Jill Svetlikoff, mother of three young girls; her sister Maxine, single mom of twenty-year-old Ivy, a recently laid off lab technician. It seemed odd that during all his bombastic effluvia the third son hadn’t mentioned the capture of three more Canadians, given their value as bargaining chips. That might mean they were alive and hiding. Or dead and buried.
From behind him: “Gracey’s bright enough, not hard to look at, but too soft. I’m not sexist, no one can accuse me of that — equal but different, I say. The little lady runs the kitchen staff and I pay the bills. But you don’t make them fleet commander.”
“The Iron Lady won the Falklands War.”
“Different. She had manly qualities.”
When Arthur saw Bullingham enter he tried to hide behind a back section of the Sun, but the old boy was on him like a bird of prey, his spindly fingers peeling down a corner of the paper.
“Reading the want ads, are we, Beauchamp?” He grunted into a chair beside him. “There’s plenty of work to be had at Tragger, Inglis. Forty million missing from the provincial public works budget. Minister’s aide one of the suspects. Wants you, no one else.”
“I’m up to my eyeballs, Bully.”
“Yes, representing an indigent terror suspect.”
Arthur lowered his voice. “Bully, if I have a hand in bringing the government down, Tragger, Inglis could be back doing federal business. The deputy minister is small change.”
A voice from behind: “I can live with McRory. Business background, not one of their tax-and-spenders.”
“Full of blather.”
Bully grimaced. “Can’t see how you expect to defeat the Tories by sitting around in this nest of thieves. But I will say you did a nice job on that nincompoop Thiessen.” Bully was an anomaly in this house of conservatism, a prominent Liberal bagman without liberal ideals — and therefore respected by all. “What brings you back?”
“I’m not entirely sure. A possible break in the case.” A phone call from Augustina Sage had brought him west post-haste.
“And your Mr. DiPalma — has he been vetted to your satisfaction?”
“Not quite.” Early returns from the PI’s inquiries had ranged from equivocal to worrisome. He had an apartment in the Glebe, an upscale district, not far from a friendly neighbourhood pub, but no one there knew him. Acquaintances willing to talk didn’t view him as a heavy drinker — or particularly religious, certainly not a churchgoer. More unsettling: he’d been a fair hand at Ottawa amateur theatrics. I’m a fairly good actor, I play it cool, straight.
DiPalma’s ex — Janice was indeed her name — was currently on a Caribbean holiday, but her best friend insisted DiPalma was the blameworthy party, accusing him of extramarital flings. The most torrid of which was, no surprise, with a woman named Janet. A neighbour believed Ray and Janice were equally adulterous — she’d often had male visitors while he was stationed overseas.
A confusing marital history. In any event, Arthur would henceforth be more cautious in his dealings with this chameleon. Zack and Savannah must be warned away from him.
“I know better than to pry,” Bully said. “Keep those expenses down.” He drifted off to join some lawyer cronies.
Arthur had been pursued in his dreams by black, slick, oil-dripping colossi. Oil company giants? He’d been reading the material Pierette Litvak had culled from the Web — business journals, oil industry newsletters, analysts’ websites — about the many suitors competing for Bhashyistan’s petrol riches.
Gazprom, the muscular Russian monopoly, seemed to have an inside track until old national resentments surfaced. Others included China Petrochemical, Royal Dutch Shell, Exxon-Mobil, Anglo-Atlantic Energy, and a clutch of smaller players, alone or in consortiums, with Alta International slipping through the middle of the pack.
Alta had a stake in Kuwait, but few other international interests. Some lucrative oil and gas fields in Alberta, B.C., and the Grand Banks, a refinery, an interest in a chain of gas stations, but it was a middling operation, and experts were shocked by its successful bid. The word bribery rarely surfaced in the reports, but euphemisms abounded: “ex gratia payments,” “unanticipated extras,” “development bonuses.”