“Your negotiations with a repressive regime led by a psychopath who declared war on us.”
“We’ve been courting Bhashyistan for several years — though perhaps not as aggressively as several other competitors, including Alta International.” Reaves had been a senior adviser to an ill-regarded American vice-president. Pinch-faced, a circle of hair around a bald spot, like a slipped halo.
“And you secretly reopened discussions after five Canadian citizens were kidnapped by these barbarians. I consider that despicable, gentlemen. Bordering on treachery.”
Reaves didn’t bat an eye, but she could read his disdain for her, the leader of a minor player on the world stage. “I had hoped you would find our intentions benign. We are committed to securing freedom for those five brave men. That, as we have assured Bhashyistan, is non-negotiable. The declaration of war must be withdrawn, civility must be restored.”
“Have they agreed to this?”
“They are sending clear signals to that effect. We expect to wrap it up within days.”
“How many days?”
“In less than a week. I can’t imagine the terrible conditions those men must be enduring.”
“Mad Igor wants ten billion in ransom. He’s not getting it from us. Is he getting it from you?”
Reaves exchanged looks with his chief counsel. “The financial package has yet to be fully determined.”
“Sounds like the answer is yes.”
“There is a theory being bruited about, gentlemen,” E.K. said, “that your firm undertook deliberate efforts to scuttle Alta’s deal with Bhashyistan.”
Clara saw Reaves’s facial muscles grow stiff. “Let us put that to rest,” he said. “It is a gross slander.”
That was all bluster. Clara had heard reports of major stock movement into Anglo a month ago. Investors with good instincts and better ears had jumped on board. Irwin Godswill, the West Coast tycoon.
Foreign Minister Dubjek took a turn: “Anglo-Atlantic has become a global pariah. The Russians are as outraged as we are. You have cheated the corporate citizens who are your competitors.”
“Madam, Anglo-Atlantic is growing aggressively, and is outpacing those competitors. We are running a business, and we are running it to win.”
“And trying to soften up Canadians for your backroom deal,” Clara said.
“You’re referring to?”
“Your lies. Your ad campaign.” Full-page pledges to sustainable energy, solemn promises to build a greener Canada. Anglo didn’t have much presence in Canada yet, some gas fields, a piece of the tar sands, exploration rights off Newfoundland.
“I would prefer to say we are preparing to deliver some happy news for Canadians. Certain other negotiations are under way. This is in absolute confidence, of course.”
“You’re buying out Alta International,” Clara said.
All three of them looked surprised. A good guess — their unexpected solicitude toward the Calgary Five had inspired it.
Their chairman, thick-necked Lord Stokely-Finn, harrumphed. “Quite. Indeed. And when the two companies are integrated, some sizable capital investments will follow. We see a robust future in Canada, and intend to become a much bigger player here. A petrol station network will soon be in place, as well as a refinery in Sascratchewan — ”
“Saskatchewan, sir.” Their chief counsel. His Lordship went red, but, Clara suspected, more with annoyance than embarrassment.
He cleared his throat. “Let me assure you as well, Prime Minister, that we are solidly behind your party’s program for prosperity and are prepared to support it by any means you care to suggest.”
Clara was insulted, was tempted to tell them to stick their dirty money up their anus.
“All we ask is that your government take, shall we say, a fresh look at the criminal charges against Mr. Quilter and his associates.”
“When the moon turns blue,” Clara said. “This meeting is over.”
“If I may interrupt your pacing, the Wolverine team is assembling.” Percival shut the door of Clara’s office, handed her some briefing notes. “Minutes of our session with those cheeky fellows from Anglo. I have copies for distribution. I was able to corral a dozen cabinet ministers. We’re set up in the war room.”
Clara stared bleakly out the window at a lone scraggly griever, out of step with the trying times, vainly seeking signatures to legalize LSD. “Tune out, turn out, drop out,” said his hallucinogenically garbled placard.
Why hadn’t she had the gumption to call in the RCMP, bust those three hypocritical quislings from Anglo? She’d checked the Criminal Code, it was in plain language: Everyone commits high treason who, in Canada, assists an enemy at war with Canada. They’d be the heroes, though, if they sprang the five Albertans, and she’d have egg on her face. How pompous of them to set themselves up as the engineers of peace. But how clever — the world would no longer hold them in opprobrium. She stayed at the window, not wanting her executive assistant to see her unmanned, as it were, struggling.
“I don’t know what to do, Percival.” To no one else would she admit such doubt. Anglo-Atlantic’s unwelcome intervention offered freedom for the Calgary Five without bloodshed. Operation Wolverine was set to go in two days, on Monday. If it turned ugly, Clara Gracey would become a political untouchable.
“You will do the right thing as always. Not counting, of course, the time you confused the German ambassador with his chauffeur.”
“Did you get hold of Commissioner Lessard?”
“He in turn seems more than eager to see you. I asked him to accompany you to the airport. He is on his way. Shall we invite him to join us in the war room?”
“Please.” She pulled herself together and followed him there. Her entrance prompted several to rise, but she waved them down. In addition to the cabinet members, ten top staff, and half as many military brass.
She took her station at the midpoint of the long oval table, thumped her gavel lightly, mostly to get the attention of Charley Thiessen, who was joking with the defence deputy. “Okay, somebody fill us in on the current situation in Bhashyistan.”
“There is fighting going on.” An analyst from Foreign Affairs. “No idea how extensive. In the countryside, mostly. Friendly embassies report that Igorgrad is quiet, but, the French tell us, comme une poudriere.” A powder keg.
An air force general amplified: “We have aerial surveillance of troop carriers and tanks moving north toward the steppes and the mountains bordering Russia, and west toward the desert.”
“Toward Ozbeg?”
“In that direction, yes, ma’am. Three, maybe four companies.”
“That’s not good.” Clara had a fleeting premonition of disaster.
“They’re moving slowly, Prime Minister.” Buster Buchanan. “We think they’re getting sniper fire. They batten down each night, and that leaves them only eight daylight hours to work with. We don’t expect them to reach Ozbeg before we do.”
“But you can’t be sure.”
“Our soldiers are ready to go, Prime Minister. At plus three hours Zulu time, in two days, six engineers will parachute to the desert with their flares to set up a safe landing site. Two hours later, the Herc will put our forces on the ground. We’ll be in and out before the enemy can blink.”
“That’s the right stuff!” The recently demoted Dexter McPhee, pounding both fists on the table, none of his enthusiasm lost.
“Let’s all take a moment to read something.” Clara nodded to Percival, who rose and began passing out minutes of the Anglo-Atlantic meeting as she summarized: Anglo was claiming they could free the Calgarians within a week; if Wolverine were to backfire, Anglo would go public with its offer.
In the stillness that followed, she studied the TV monitors, the silent talking heads. She looked down to see an array of sour faces absorbing the implications of Anglo’s entry into the mix. Charley Thiessen looked up, grinning. “Sascratchewan? Is that near Brit-itch Columbia?”