Northern Exposure

by Michael Kilian

  Akvik was the headman of this village, and it had prospered under his rule, because it had prospered under Trudeau’s rule, and Akvik had believed in Trudeau’s rule. Throughout his long years of office, the Prime Minister had recognized the rights of the aboriginal peoples, and he had included provisions upholding those rights in his 1981 constitution. The mineral claims Akvik’s people were able to substantiate had resulted in an annual income for the village approaching $220,000 a year. Now the Harry York government had introduced changes in that constitution to remove those rights of the aboriginal peoples, to take back Trudeau’s word.

  With a few of the village children running after them, Akvik and the other two hurried to the landing and shoved and slid the largest of the village’s outboard motorboats backward over the pebble-strewn shoreline into the cold water. Akvik started the engine after just two tries and the others clambered in. He backed the boat into deep water, then shifted the engine into forward and sped out of the inlet toward the sea. When they broke into open water, one of Akvik’s men went forward to the cuddy and pulled out two packages, each containing inflatable life rafts, and Akvik’s rifle, which he was taking with him mostly as a ceremonial symbol of office. And purpose. As they neared the submarine, he nodded, and instantly the two rafts were inflated and thrown over the side into the calm sea to drag along behind. Akvik held the rifle up beside him, the stock resting on the seat. He was pleased when a crewman of the submarine waved at him in a kind of salute as he pulled alongside.

  Akvik refused an invitation to go below. It would have been to him the same as going inside a whale. He was pleased again, though, when an officer from the submarine came down the ladder to sit in his boat and talk to him while crew members loaded the two rafts with packages of explosives. As Akvik already knew but the officer insisted on explaining again, the packages in the one raft contained explosives that made only blast. The packages in the other raft contained explosives that made fire. They were to be detonated only after the pipeline had been blasted open. Akvik knew that. The officer became apologetic. In his primitive, halting Inuit, he told Akvik how his skills as a leader and hunter were known across the polar seas and how the officer’s people held Akvik in great awe. He said that, when all was done, Akvik and his people would continue to receive government money but would no longer have government restrictions. They could hunt the whales and all other creatures as they wished. The officer gave Akvik a wonderful gift: a sable hat with ear flaps that tied beneath his chin. He also gave him a large jug of clear liquid—to drink when all was done.

  Beaming, Akvik ran the boat back to the inlet, the engine’s throttle wide open. A great time was coming into his life.

  The mineral wealth had enabled the village to buy a string of snowmobiles capable of making the journey to the south. The pipeline could be reached within days.

  Akvik took out another bottle of clear liquid when he reached his hut. He drank a lot of it, made love to his wife, went to sleep, awakened, drank more liquor, and went to sleep again for a long time. In the morning, they would depart for the south.

  Inspector Beckett walked up the steep slope to the cabin half hidden in the mountain pines as nonchalantly as though it were his own and as though he hadn’t the slightest notion that there might be another human within miles, let alone inside the cabin.

  There proved to be five in the cabin, three in military commando sweaters and fatigues, one in rancher’s clothes, one in a three-piece business suit. They represented the high command of the forthcoming revolt in the west, a cadre comprising perhaps another two dozen men. Counting all the far-flung guerrilla groups and cells, the infra-structure of the rebel force ran to ten or twenty thousand “officers and men.” Beckett had no exact figure, although he intended to get one, carefully. The infra-structure extended into the highest echelons of the Alberta energy industry and into the Canadian army itself. A number of RCMP officers, demoted in the Trudeau purge, had also joined the conspiracy, Beckett counted among them. He maintained their trust through adherence to one rule: do whatever they asked of him. Which was why he had come alone to this mountainside cabin. Bringing about the capture of these five would be enough of a coup to win back his old rank, if not win promotion to commissioner of the RCMP, but York was playing another game with this. Beckett had to perform his role without knowing what would be the final act.

  They were seated around a crude wooden table, drinking coffee from mugs. There was a large, half-empty bottle of Plainsman whiskey on the table, though no glasses. They were pouring that finest of Manitoba ryes into the coffee. Frowning, Beckett stiffly lowered himself into the only empty chair. He gave a nod to the coffee they offered him but waved away the whiskey. There was nothing else but an ashtray on the table, no maps, no papers, no notes, no dispatches.

  “We just wanted to have a talk,” said the highest-ranking of the military types, a youngish-looking middle-aged man with black hair and pink cheeks. He wore no insignia but Beckett knew him to be a colonel.

  “Just a friendly little talk, eh?” said the one in the rancher’s clothes. He lifted the bottle again but Beckett shook his head.

  “It’s a long way to come for a talk,” Beckett said. “All alone.”

  “Harry York has all the phones bugged, eh?”

  “What is it that concerns you?” said Beckett.

  The colonel was staring at him with unfriendly gray eyes. The brief silence was filled by the wind against the mountain.

  “Pierre Hillion is in prison,” the colonel said, finally. “We just found out.”

  Beckett coldly returned the man’s gaze, then let his expression soften.

  “Yes. So what? It changes nothing.”

  “Who is running the Papineau Fils?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Everything is proceeding as it should.”

  “Who is running the show?”

  “The Montreal group leader. I’ve forgotten his name. Quebec really isn’t my concern.”

  “Quebec is all of our concern, eh? Without these Frenchies, she won’t fly.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about Hillion?” said the colonel.

  “Because it doesn’t matter. If it did, I would have told you.”

  Beckett was beginning to sweat from the heat in the cabin. He had been unsure about wearing his uniform and now wished he hadn’t.

  “We would like to meet with our friends from the east.”

  It was the man in the suit speaking, a blue vested suit so dark as to be black, worn with a light blue shirt and a prim blue tie. He was an older man with white hair, a plump, impassive face, and pale, blinking eyes. Beckett could not think of his name but thought he had seen the face before, in Maclean’s magazine, or in one of the western newspapers. It vaguely occurred to him that the man ran one of the big Alberta oil companies. When he had entered the cabin, he had noticed the man was wearing heavy hiking shoes with his expensive suit. One of the thick shearling coats piled near the fireplace must be his. Beckett guessed he had an airplane waiting for him not far away.

  Beckett could not understand why the man had come, why he had so dangerously exposed himself. It wasn’t foolishness. Men like this prided themselves in never making mistakes. It was ego, the hubris grown of money and the easy successes of corporate power. They always reached a point where the money and power no longer sufficed in themselves but must be put to some more satisfying, and always personalized use. Always personalized. The most daring and skillful criminals Beckett had dealt with in his policeman’s career had been like that. It was their greatest failure.

  “That’s impossible,” said Beckett.

  “Why?”

  “The Papineau Fils don’t want it. None of the Quebec groups want it. They are separatist in all things, you see. They are to do what must be done in Quebec. You are to do what must be done here in the west.”

  “And we just leave it at that, eh?”

  “You have no choice. No one wants you talking with Quebec. No one. You und
erstand, no one. You will have to be content with me.”

  “We are not content with you, inspector,” said the man in the suit.

  Beckett drained his mug of the coffee, though it was still quite hot, then shoved it toward the whiskey bottle. The lumberman poured generously, and Beckett drank generously before he spoke. He decided that the man in the suit was not really threatening him. The man was merely unused to being told no.

  “I’ve been doing my best,” Beckett said. “I can’t think of any way I’ve failed you.”

  “The damn rifle ammunition was held up,” said the colonel. “By you.”

  “We are not dissatisfied with anything you’ve done,” said the man in the suit. “We are dissatisfied with talking only to you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We don’t even know who you talk to.”

  “You know very well who I talk to. And you’ve had proof.”

  “We’re out here all alone, eh?”

  “You have people in Ottawa, just like everyone else.”

  “How do you know that, eh?”

  “Ottawa is a small city.”

  “Do you know that as a policeman, Inspector?” asked the colonel.

  “Now look. I’ve always warned you when the RCMP have got on to something. I’m getting bloody tired of this interrogation. If you have a serious problem, I will tell those who need to know. Otherwise, everything is proceeding as we discussed.”

  He drank more whiskey. Plainsman really was the best in the country.

  “We want a schedule, a timetable,” said the man in the suit.

  “Impossible.”

  “We need to know the progress Papineau Fils are making.”

  “I am told they are making good progress. Just like you.”

  “This is a bad bunch, eh? Kids, psychos, communists?”

  Beckett shrugged. “You know what they have to do. It isn’t that much, when you think of it.”

  “It is everything.”

  “I can’t give you a schedule. No one can. You just have to be ready as soon as possible, and stay ready. It’s all a matter of the parliamentary call, gentlemen. The PM can schedule and reschedule the constitutional debate as he sees fits. Your timetable is in the hands of Harry York. You just have to be ready.”

  “We will want to see you again,” said the man in the suit. “Soon.”

  Porique met Macoutes during the lunch hour in a small, smoky bar near the Montreal waterfront. Both were dressed as sailors. Porique, a muscular man with skin toughened by years of frequent exposure to wind and sun, looked the part. Macoutes, for all his dirty clothes and beard, did not. He was too pale, too thin, too young, and certainly too nervous. Porique offered him a cigarette and ordered drinks, two brandies. He realized at once that was a mistake. Sailors are not brandy drinkers. When the waitress came back, he would talk about being paid at the end of a long voyage.

  “Were you followed?” Macoutes demanded, somewhat melodramatically.

  They were at a corner table in the rear of the room, but, even so, Macoutes was speaking too loudly. Hillion’s choice of him as Montreal group leader was regrettable, a decision too easily made. Hillion had a lazy streak; perhaps all criminals did.

  “If I were followed,” said Porique, lowering his voice to set a pointed example, “I would not have come in.”

  The waitress brought the two cognacs and smiled at Porique. He smiled back, and gave her a large tip. “A good voyage,” he said.

  “Paulette is unhappy,” Macoutes said, when the waitress, lingering, had finally gone. “We’ve had some trouble. In California.”

  Porique’s brow shot up. “California?”

  “It is nothing. Not your concern. The situation is getting better. And we have more explosive coming. But Paulette is upset.”

  “Explosive. The plastique? For small bombs?”

  “We are following your goddamn plan!” Macoutes snarled. “Hillion likes it. I don’t. Paulette hates it. But we are doing what Hillion says, for now.”

  He stared at Porique, a challenge. Grim now, Porique stared back. Then, at once, he lowered his eyes and slouched back sideways in his chair. He glanced about the room, then lighted a cigarette.

  “My plan is the plan,” he said. “Our plan. If you want to change it, do so. D’accord. But tell me now, so that I need not risk my life any further. For nothing. So I can leave the country.”

  He should not have said that. It was doubtless the Papineau Fils’ intention never to let him leave Canada again, and now he had alerted them to the possibility that he might leave on his own.

  “Non,” said Macoutes, after gulping down his brandy. Porique had ordered a cognac of some quality, and this wretch was treating it like a dose of cheap narcotic. “We will do as agreed. We will have the explosive, the kind you want. We will do what we agreed to.”

  He stopped, looking down at his hands, which Porique found disgusting. When Macoutes looked up again, the challenge was gone from his eyes. There was only worry, and fear.

  “And you?” he said. “Eh, politician? Are you prepared to carry this out? Eh, great thinker, great author, great savior, will you explode the bombs? Will you not turn coward and run away? Or betray us? Paulette is worried about you. I am worried. You are no part of us.”

  A violent stream of images depicting the elimination of Paulette Arlon from the living things of this world ran through Porique’s mind, but he gave the thoughts no voice. He reminded himself that every time he was with these odious people, he was in great danger of losing his life no matter what he said. This disgusting kitchen insect across the table from him had killed an innocent policeman just to prove his manhood. Still, there were limits to his tolerance. He leaned very close to Macoutes’ face, the cigarette jutting from his lips almost touching the flesh of the other’s cheek. It was the only way Porique would wish to touch Macoutes.

  “Leon,” Porique said, “I will carry out my part of this because it is my plan—my purpose. I appreciate your help, the help of all Papineau Fils. We have the same goal for Quebec—a free Quebec. We have the same enemies—especially Harry York. We are willing to make the same sacrifice. Do not question me on this ever again! It is a solemn commitment, my commitment to myself. What are we going to do is my will, my wish. I will do it, whether you help me or abandon me or turn against me. Entendu? You were in college. Have you read Camus?”

  “Of course, you intellectual shit. Camus was an intellectual too, but he was smarter than you, you intellectual dumb stupid bastard.”

  The angry words drove Porique back to a careful corner of his mind. He was reminded of threatened wild creatures, reverting to the worst of their natures out of insecurity and fear. The boy looked very frightened.

  “Look,” said Porique, wearily but warmly. “I will do as agreed. You will do as agreed. Quebec will be free, because of both of us. There is nothing you need worry about. I am with you, with all of you. I am part of your cause. I am going to be the instrument of your success.”

  Macoutes looked away. A fat, bearded man by the bar was playing an accordion. The song was pretty in tune but obscene in lyric. There was laughter throughout the room. Porique signaled the friendly waitress for another round of drinks. She brought them quickly, lingering again after he paid her. He patted her behind, in sailor fashion, noticing the stains on her dress, wondering when he might be with totally clean people again.

  He drained his glass quickly. “Soldiering is a business of waiting,” he said, putting his hand on Macoutes’ shoulder. “See this out.”

  Macoutes grumbled. Porique rose and left, smiling at the girl, moving through the crowd as inconspicuously as he could. Of course, he could not hear Macoutes’ muttered vow to kill him once the plan was carried out.

  Porique took the Metro north toward Mont Royal, then switched to one running west. After a plausible number of stops, he got off and ascended steps into a residential neighborhood, returning to his hideaway flat nearly two hours later by way of an
unsure, circuitous, almost rambling route that provided more time to think than it did escape from possible pursuers.

  But there was really so little point to such prolonged thought. There were no real alternatives to ponder. If he chose to flee Canada, he might evade the Papineau Fils, and even the RCMP and whatever special goons York might have searching the world for him. Yet there had never been any question of his doing that. The only choice before him was a moral one. Could he explode those bombs and take those lives? Could he slaughter those people, friends and enemies alike, those living creatures, for the sake of the resolution of what was basically an intellectual dilemma?

  Guy Porique did not know. He doubted that God knew. Wearily, he turned into his apartment building doorway, paused, then pushed open the tired old door and plodded up the stairs.

  She lay on the couch, perfectly still, as motionless as a cathedral saint, her eyes wide open. Carefully, he seated himself on the arm of the couch by her head. For a moment, he feared she might have finally done it this time, but holding the palm of his hand above her nostrils, he felt the warmth of her life. Full of hashish, wine, and God knew what else, she was a biochemical phenomenon. He brushed her dirty blond hair back away from her face, marveling at her surviving beauty. He ran his finger along the line of her cheek, softly calling the name he had given her one night rereading Manon Lescaut: “Manon. C’est moi. Guy.” She did not stir. He gently closed her eyes, finding her no less beautiful. He had had so many women in his life. Here now, quite possibly, if not probably, his last, was the loveliest, though, ironically, the most brutalized and scarred.

  He collapsed into his chair by the window, lighting a cigarette. After a while, he retrieved his revolver from beneath the chair and toyed with it, turning finally to look down the street. The grimy tenements were filled with people who made decisions. Every day they decided, yes, to go to their grimy jobs and, yes, to come home again—momentous decisions in those pathetic, grimy lives.