But now he seemed lost in his thoughts, and he started when Arthur spoke his name. “I’m not quite oriented here, Mr. Beauchamp.” The only accent Arthur could detect was French.
“Your mind was elsewhere, Abzal.”
“With my people, the patriots of Bhashyistan. I’ve sat silent for too many years, and now my people are being hunted and murdered. I’m still doing nothing and I can barely live with myself.”
My people. There was pride of self in the way he said that. Arthur suspected this former soldier was very much a hero among the oppressed of his former homeland. He had wanted Arthur to know that the Turkic name Erzhan meant soul of a hero.
“Liberate Bhashyistan from fascist tyranny!” Djon shouted.
McIlhargey’s face darkened. “We’re ready to go.”
Arthur told Abzal he was wanted for a photo lineup. “Study each man carefully before committing yourself.”
Back in the sunroom, they directed Abzal to a table on which were arrayed the three pages of headshots. Arthur watched tensely as Abzal perused them.
“No,” he said, rejecting the first page. Then he stabbed a finger at number nine, second page. “This guy.” Clugg.
Arthur cautioned him. “Wait, Abzal. Look at them all.”
“No, it’s him! This bruiser, the first one out of the car. He’s the bastard who chopped me across the neck.” He quickly scanned the others. “No, no, not this one, no one even close …” Then another finger stab, this time landing on Klein, number eighteen. “Yeah, this is the other one. With the thin face and cold eyes. He’s the guy who asked about a liquor store.”
“How tall was he?” McIlhargey asked.
“About 190 centimetres. Six-foot-two, I’d say.”
McIlhargey looked more taken aback than impressed. Klein’s official height was 187 centimetres.
“I carried these faces in my head for forty days,” Abzal said.
McIlhargey handed him a pad. “Write the numbers down, son, and sign.”
Arthur burned up the adrenalin of triumph with a shoreline jaunt, enjoying a lazy winter sun that flirted with the clouds and dappled the water with swatches of reflected light. Matters were moving ahead quite nicely; he was in a celebratory mood — after all, it was the Orthodox Christmas here in Macedonia, the land where Alexander’s conquests had begun twenty-three centuries ago. Arthur had conquered too, in his small way.
Yes, the Green leader’s consort had proved himself to be more than a decoration. It wouldn’t hurt her campaign to have such a celebrated fellow at her side. Not hogging the spotlight, of course, just hanging about humbly in the background. Though pleased with himself (and making rather much of it), he also felt an odd sense of ennui, of letdown, like a hangover after the party. The excellent adventures of Arthur and Ray had ended except for the credits.
Transcriptions of Abzal’s long recorded interviews were already on their way to RCMP headquarters. McIlhargey had telephoned an overview to Lessard. Surveillance had begun on Clugg and Klein, search and arrest warrants issued. Clugg might have thought it clever to have misled DiPalma with his “good intel” about a shadowy London group of former British, German, and Soviet agents, but this seemed a homegrown show, the three kidnappers presumably aided only by Anglo-Atlantic operatives.
Arthur pressed on to town, to enjoy the Christmas celebrations, stopping awhile at the Culture Theatre, where instrumentalists entertained in traditional costume. Many on the streets were similarly dressed, some more outlandishly: buskers in Santa suits or military jackets with braid, an operatic singer dressed as a weeping Pagliacci, an Elvis impersonator. Others with green-spiked hair and face paint.
Arthur watched as a camera from the Skopje TV van took in a panorama of street activity. He thought of offering them a scoop. It would hit the news anyway, given the Macedonian government was such a leaky vessel. And the news would make Russia’s case that its petroleum monolith, Gazprom, was tricked out of the former puppet’s oil and gas reserves.
He threw leks into musicians’ baskets and hats as he made his way to his hotel, wishing all a merry Christmas. He must get back to the villa for dinner, but now it was breakfast time in Fanny Bay or Oyster River or wherever Margaret’s tour had taken her. He hurried off to his hotel.
He’d promised McIlhargey on penalty of everlasting fire that he would not speak of Abzal’s rescue to anyone outside their small circle, especially on insecure phone lines. “That includes your wife, your mistress, and Agent DiPalma.” Margaret would intuit the news anyway, from his cheery tone.
In his bedroom, he made an operator-assisted call to her in Blunder Bay. It was answered, confusingly, by Nelson Forbish, who said, “Put him on, please.”
There came sounds of a tussle.
Margaret: “Give me that phone.”
Forbish: “Arthur, explain to your censorious spouse about the Charter of Rights. This is a free-press issue. The Bleat is going out today.”
Margaret: “Pierette, grab the phone.”
“Special to the Bleat,” Forbish shouted, like a corner newsboy from a fifties movie. “‘Smear Try Backfires Against Prominent Islander.’ That’s you, Mr. Beauchamp. ‘Top Tory Caught on Tape.’”
Margaret, from a distance: “Make him another omelette.”
“You may talk to her, Mr. Beauchamp, but this is going out today. The Bleat will not be muzzled.”
Margaret finally retrieved the phone, breathless. “Thank God. I’ve been calling your hotel all day. Nelson has stacks of his extra edition sitting out on his ATV. We’re trying to stall him with food. Arthur, we need your consent for this, we want to get it out to the public — it’s hilarious but it could cause you some embarrassment.” That was too much to say in one gulp, and she caught her breath. “I’m sorry, are you all right?”
“All is going splendidly here. I can say no more. But I am fascinated to know about this backfiring scandal.”
The history she related was a farrago of absurdity, Bob Stonewell on a government-sponsored lark to Ottawa, Charley Thiessen pumping him for dirt about the reputed Lothario of Garibaldi Island. Margaret’s efforts at relating all this were frustrated by her succumbing to mirth, and the phone was rendered to Pierette.
“This is totally nuts, Arthur, but I’ll start from the top.”
It took him a while to digest her more coherent account, after which he found himself in a quandary whether to feel insulted or tickled. A ladies’ man. An eye for the chicks. He felt a rare welling of affection for Stoney — his refusal to take the bait entitled him to forgiveness for many past sins.
This foul-up had surely been inspired by the craftwork of Ray DiPalma, who had recounted the rumours of Arthur’s sexual profligacy to the impertinent spymaster. Obviously, the story had gone up the line to Thiessen, who’d speared himself with his own weapon of revenge.
“I hope you’re okay with this, Arthur,” Pierette said, “because the sumo wrestler out there is about to finish his omelette and we’re running out of eggs. If you can live with it, we’re ready to email the transcript to our media list, with a voice clip. I mean, how can we not?” Imitating Thiessen: “‘Hey, man, normally I don’t toke up until after dinner.’”
“Fire away.” Arthur would somehow endure the roguish reputation foisted on him. He tried it out. Bon vivant. Sounded good.
Djon’s Christmas kebabs had won the stomach, heart, and mind of Hugh McIlhargey, and they were at the chessboard again, working through a bottle of prime Vranec wine. The security minister had sent a case as a gift.