Advance scouts had done a methodically inept job of hiring local talent for each stop on this West Coast tour — yesterday’s jug band had been bad enough, but the Dixiecrats betrayed her party as seeming old and out of touch.
Clara had awakened to their sounds with a bang, bringing her alive to the innumerable crises from which sleep had given fitful release. She was now hurriedly dressing in the confined space that was her bedroom in this heartland-friendly Winnebago — the strategy was to portray Clara Gracey, Ph.D., as down to earth, just one of the folks.
She peered out a window. The Dixiecrats were outside an old movie house — the Palace, according to a marquee blazing bright in the dim morning light. “Remind me, Percival, where are we?”
“Oyster Flats.”
“And what are we doing here?”
“You are about to flip pancakes.”
She saw grills being set up near the press bus. Eight o’clock, locals streaming in, enough to make it a respectable show. She was in Margaret Blake’s constituency, a pit stop to show the flag in the Viking’s home town.
A jolt of black coffee swept clear the last cobwebs of sleep. No headache today, that was a mercy.
“Where will I take the Moscow call?” Arkady Bulov, the Russian president, was due on the line in about forty-five minutes. She’d met him once, at an economics summit in Lucerne. An unstuffy Harvard-trained M.B.A.
“A secure line is being set up in that theatre over there — it’s now the town’s recreation centre. After that, four quick stops before lunch, at which time we will connect you with General Buchanan.”
Operation Wolverine. As of two o’clock, she must tell Air Command to proceed or back out. Her divided cabinet, after wrangling through a long conference call, had thrown the whole load on her. She had never felt more alone, or more overwhelmed.
“Did Buster express any second thoughts?”
“He remains gung-ho.”
Clara opened the curtain of another window. A frost on the ground, but snowless. She’d had it with snow; somebody had lied about global warming. Her view was of framed country houses on large, well-kept lots — a neighbourhood that ought to be Tory blue, but the only lawn signs were Green, three of them. No matter. Clara had practically gifted the riding to Blake, whose brand of direct talk and unyielding idealism was playing surprisingly well across the country.
The Greens had gained two points in a weekend poll, only six behind the Conservatives, sitting at an anorexic eighteen per cent. The brief euphoria of Operation Snow Job had evaporated after Canada got the goose from Mukhamet.
The former justice minister had added exponentially to the bleeding. Thiessen was still holed up in the Subarctic, hiding from the medical team sent to fetch him. Clara would love to tie Crumwell into the charade at the Chateau, but he was claiming ignorance. The only Burton on staff at the Small Business Ministry was a twenty-year-old female clerk.
Meanwhile, Thiessen’s name remained on the ballot like a curse — it was too late to slot in someone else. The party was no longer staying on message in admitting he’d gone off on a wild tangent. Somehow, his mother had got through to Clara on the weekend: her Charley had been set up, the victim of a Liberal plot, none of it was true.
Confusing matters was last night’s news that Abzal Erzhan had disappeared again. All Macedonian border posts and airports were being watched, but he hadn’t been sighted. Clara didn’t know what to make of that, how it might play out politically. Not to the government’s advantage, obviously. Had he been kidnapped, murdered — who knew? Or was this some kind of political ploy by his wily lawyer?
The arrests of two CSIS agents, the utter incompetence shown by Crumwell, the unaccountable death in Albania of one of his agents (DiPalma, the screw-up — what was that about?) … she was almost drowning. But, strangely, still no headache. Do the honourable thing. Percival’s calm advice was the lifesaver keeping her afloat.
“The Viking awaits your gracious presence at the flapjack table.”
The local throwaway candidate. She saw him out there, mixing a batch, a bearded leviathan wearing a gag hat with horns. A few dozen wrestling fans had gathered to gape and schmooze, while his election workers stood by listlessly, like shipwrecked sailors waiting for rescue.
Clara’s campaign staff, crowded like penguins in this vehicle’s midsection, cowered as she emerged from her room. “Pancakes!” she shouted. “Dixieland! A fucking Winnebago! I want the head of whoever came up with this loony backwoods theme.” A moment of recovery as she squeezed past them. “Sorry, wrong side of the bed.”
Outside, she put on her happy face as she waved at an assembly of meekly applauding supporters, about as dutiful in their enthusiasm as the cheering section she’d seen on YouTube corralled at the feet of the Ultimate Leader.
In exuberant contrast was the Viking, who was handing out DVDs with highlights of his televised matches. “I grew up here, everyone knows me,” he confided as she joined him. “There’s an undercurrent of support you don’t see on the surface. Don’t be surprised if I whomp the pants off the sitting member.”
That image almost caused her clenched smile to come unglued. She endured a photo op, her hand swallowed in the Viking’s forklift grip, then donned an apron, posturing for the press, bantering with the folks lined up with their plastic plates and cutlery. “It’s so nice to be here in Oyster Flats, you’re so lucky to live in such a lovely town, thank you for your support. A big fat one for you, little man.”
Despite renovations, the Palace had retained the faded ambience of a movie house — complete with popcorn machine — but the stage had been extended. A yoga class was in progress there, young women stretching and curling, non-attendees of the pancake breakfast. Those thin, lithe thighs — maybe Clara ought to take up yoga after she goes down in flames on January 24.
An office at the front afforded little privacy — glassed interior walls, a window to the street, the Dixiecrats still blaring away. Clara and Percival were there with a communications technician, her campaign crew on the other side of the glass, whispering, speculating about this top-secret call. The Viking was also out there, grinning, such an awful presence that she turned her back to him.
“All set. Good luck.” The technician placed the phone in front of her and slipped away. She started when it rang, but it was only E. K. Boyes. “President Bulov will be on at the count of ten. I shall quietly monitor. His English is excellent, so no interpreters to slow things up, and you won’t notice the split-second encryption delays.”
The president was bold and cheerful in greeting, tempting the bounds of sexism by telling her how radiant she’d looked on a recent cover of The Economist. She said he must not have been wearing his glasses. He laughed.
“We have a very clear line, Prime Minister, it’s as if you’re right beside me.” He carried on with a weather report: a Siberian front, twenty below, Moscow buried in snow. “But you are no stranger to snow in Ottawa.”
“Actually I’m on the West Coast. Much milder.”
“Pacific climate. Like Vladivostok. And what is the time there?”
“Half past nine. I suppose it is late in Moscow, so I hope this is no terrible inconvenience.”
“Not at all — we’re having a few friends over for a late meal. But it is breakfast hour for you?”
“I’ve just indulged in a little ritual called a pancake breakfast.”
“Like blintzes, except you use maple syrup. With us it is cream cheese filling, a famous Russian treat … What is that music? Dixieland? I love Dixieland.”
“Part of the hoopla of an election campaign.”
“An election. Another great Canadian ritual.” He laughed to tell her he was joking. “I hope it goes well for you, Prime Minister. A tough one, yes? But as the saying goes, it’s not over until the fat lady sings.”