Northern Exposure

by Michael Kilian

  “And how is it we all interest you?”

  “We are interested principally in Mr. Porique.”

  “Who killed my neighbor, Laidlaw? Who blew up my car? Who tried to kill my wife?”

  “Or you. We don’t know, Mr. Showers. We are working very hard to find out. You’re in quite a bit of danger just now. It has a great deal to do with, well, why we need your help.”

  “What is that?”

  “We want to talk to Guy Porique.”

  “I would like to talk to Guy Porique, and to Felicity. And right now.”

  “Mr. Showers, everything we know about you indicates a highly motivated patriot. It’s your patriotism I’m appealing to now. You know what trouble in Canada can mean for us. We’ve seen Central America in flames. Consider the same prospect for the north. Think of massacres in which a thousand villagers in Ontario are wiped out. Think of the St. Lawrence controlled by an Anglophobe Marxist regime. Think of full-scale war in progress a half mile from Detroit.”

  “Will you spare me this? I’ve been in the foreign service twenty years, twice posted to Canada.”

  “Then you’re fully aware of what a catastrophe I’m talking about.”

  There was a muffled, distant, thudding report. A trail of black-powder smoke rose and faded to the left of the Parliament Towers.

  “Le canon du midi,” Laidlaw said.

  Showers had almost forgotten. “The cannon of noon” fired in brief ceremony every day from its pedestal in Majors’ Hill Park.

  “We’re all aware of the catastrophe,” Showers said. “Those of us who care about it.”

  “Harry York does not seem to be aware of it, Mr. Showers. His New Canada Party isn’t, the Liberals aren’t, the Progressive Conservatives aren’t, the New Democrats aren’t, the Social Credits aren’t. They’re all being dragged along by this misplaced nationalism. It’s a flawed premise. Such a nation as they have cannot withstand the stress this mania puts upon it. The Canadian federation is in extreme danger of disintegration, Mr. Showers. That’s why we want you to talk to Porique.”

  “About Canadian politics? About how Felicity is in bed? About old times in Brussels?”

  “Mr. Showers, short of a nuclear exchange with the Russians, I can think of nothing of more dire consequence for the United States than the destruction of the Canadian federation. The wars in Central America, even another revolution in Mexico, those we can cope with. Canada would be hopeless. Canada would be, a ruptured appendix. Canada is not merely our neighbor; it is our Siamese twin. If it dies, Mr. Showers, much dies with it.”

  “Where’s Felicity?”

  “Guy Porique is at the center of this, Mr. Showers. At the very center. That one strange, possessed man has all the energies of this gathering catastrophe focused on him. He is the fuse.”

  “What do you mean, that he’s leading some separatist revolt?”

  “To my knowledge, he’s leading nothing. He’s simply doing something, here, within the next few days.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I want you to talk to him, as soon as we can find him.”

  “Why don’t you talk to him, Laidlaw? You have all those interesting methods of stimulating conversation. Why don’t you stick some electrodes up Guy’s rectum and have an interesting little chat? And if what he has to say displeases you, why don’t you eliminate him? You have some tidy ways of doing that. Then it won’t matter what he plans to do. He will not be permitted to do it. It will not be done, and that will be that.”

  “I said Porique was the focus of those energies. They can find a new focus. I don’t want Porique eliminated. I want to know what he knows about this affair. I want his cooperation in undoing it. I want his help in preventing any new attempt. We are much more likely to achieve that through you, Mr. Showers.”

  “What specifically do you think he plans?”

  “We still don’t know for certain, but there’s considerable evidence that it involves explosives.”

  “Why don’t you go to the Canadians with this?”

  “We have, Mr. Showers, but they have been unfortunately obtuse.”

  Showers clasped his hands behind his back and took a step away, then halted, looking at the towers of Parliament.

  “If I help you, Mr. Laidlaw, it will not be because I wish in any way to assist your agency or the White House or Defense in the game you’re playing up here. It will not be because I’m any sort of flag-waving, chest-thumping patriot. It’s because I think there should be a Canada.”

  “Understood.”

  “And I want a few things in return. I’d like you to find some way to get through to Alixe’s parents that she’s all right, that she’s not involved in any crime, that she’s not in any danger.”

  “Certainly. We’d also like to compensate you for your expenses.”

  “What I’d like most of all is some protection, for my wife. For my secretary, Judy Sadinauskas.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Showers.”

  “All right. I’ll do what I can. Now. Let me see Felicity.”

  “I’m afraid not yet.” He started walking back to his car.

  “And why not, Laidlaw? I said I’d cooperate.”

  “I think you’ll be more cooperative if your elusive goal remains elusive just a little bit longer.”

  Inspector Beckett had last been in the King Louis Club eighteen years before, and the occasion had been one of making an arrest. The name had been changed. It had been called Lorna’s then. But little else had changed. The women all looked the same. Beckett, dressed again in his rumpled suit, had to gently move two of them aside as he went to the rearmost booth in the far corner.

  Sebastien was drinking strong whiskey straight and smoking French cigarettes. It had been too long since his morning shave and he smelled as though he needed a shower. There was a thin blond woman sitting next to him but she left at Beckett’s approach. Sebastien patted her behind as she did so.

  “A strange haunt for a policeman,” said Beckett, quietly, as he seated himself opposite the fat man.

  “Whores, criminals. What better surroundings? And Twenty-four Sussex is just up the road. Lends an air of security to everything, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Not after this afternoon.”

  “We grabbed that young thug not an hour ago. A Papineau Fils, hein? He put up a fight. Got shot. Gut. He’s in hospital. Doesn’t look good for him but that will save us the expense of a trial.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Now. I have received everything that you sent me, Inspector. Very gratifying. Have you more information? Is that what brings us together again?”

  “I have nothing new. Only a question.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  “When.”

  “Quand? I’ve told you. Within the week.”

  “I’d appreciate more exact information.”

  “Oui, and who would not? But it can’t be helped. Porique is out of our hands, you know. He slipped us in Montreal.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Sebastien shrugged. “In the Laurentiens, peut-être. Somewhere in the North. N’importe. He’ll be here soon enough. We’ll be ready.”

  “What about the woman? You said there was a woman.”

  “Ah yes. The woman. Very nice. She is here in Ottawa. We have her under surveillance.”

  “You seem very complacent, monsieur.”

  “And why not? Comme toujours, I have everything under control.”

  He laughed and signalled a waitress.

  “You will have whiskey? Plainsman is still your brand, yes? A double Plainsman, mademoiselle. Pas de glace.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The time has come to relax, Inspector. You are too much on duty.”

  When Jordine opened the door to his apartment, Marie-Claire, a glass of gin in her hand, rushed up to him, but not to embrace. She jabbered only half coherently, mostly in French, her anger and fear mixed together in a stream of ill-
connected words.

  “The police were here! Two hours! More! They kept asking me all these things about Dennis. About the bombing. About the car. That girl, his secretary. She’s been murdered, Arthur. You didn’t tell me. Murdered. Horribly. Goddamn you, Arthur. You leave me alone when there is all this murder about. Damn you, damn you!”

  She was wild-eyed and her hair was uncombed and wild. She had been drinking heavily, and probably had taken too many pills. Jordine put an arm around her to take her to the couch, but she pulled away.

  “Police again. Murder again. I want my husband, Arthur, I want to know where he is. I want to talk to him. What has your department done with him, Arthur? I want him. I need him.”

  “We haven’t done anything with him, Marie-Claire. Now sit down. I’d bring you a drink to calm you down, but it doesn’t seem to have that effect.”

  “Don’t be smug, Arthur. You should be comforting me, helping me. Why did the police come again? Why can’t they find Dennis? Who killed that girl? Damn it. What has Dennis gotten us all into?”

  “Dennis has gotten himself into a great deal of trouble, but it has nothing to do with us. Now calm down. If we can just ride this out, I think we’re going to find ourselves in a very happy situation.”

  He went to the bar and, with nervous hands, made himself a drink.

  “I want to talk to Dennis,” Marie-Claire said, more calmly, but with an odd, distracted air to her voice. “I want to talk to Dennis. I must talk to Dennis. You must arrange it, Arthur. The State Department can do anything. Find anyone. Use your CIA. Find Dennis, Arthur. Get him. I want to talk to Dennis. I can’t take this anymore. Please, Arthur. Please, please, please. Mon Dieu, I’m so scared. Find him …”

  In the end, Jordine had to pour enough drinks into her to make her fall unconscious. He carried her into the bedroom, put her on the bed, removed her shoes, then walked away, closing the door behind him.

  Showers sat thinking and drinking, his attention moving from the view of the Ottawa skyline out the enormous window to the glass in his hand to the black automatic pistol on the table to the neat stack of one-hundred dollar bills next to it.

  Alixe had been taking a bath when he returned, and now came into the living room, barefoot, and wearing a terrycloth robe. “Look what I found,” she said. “Mr. Laidlaw provides better service than the Plaza Hotel. There’s a robe for you too, if you’re interested. Where’s Mr. Joyce?”

  “Following Laidlaw, I hope. As I should have expected, he’s being very devious about Felicity. He insists she’s in Ottawa, yet he won’t let me get to her. To insure my continued cooperation.”

  “Cooperation?”

  “Guy Porique, it seems, is the instrument that evil powers are using to destroy Canada. As soon as he arrives on the scene, I am to have a conversation with him. I’m to extract from him the names of his confederates and persuade him to abandon his plot. Easy as that. Then we all go home and live happily ever after.”

  “You have a gun.”

  “So I do,” he said, picking up the pistol. “At long last, I am the compleat man.” He slipped it into his jacket pocket. “See how neatly it fits? A wonderful present from Mr. Laidlaw, as is the money. Five thousand dollars, my dear. For expenses.”

  “We may need the money. Why did you accept the gun?”

  “Because Laidlaw convinced me that I may have need of it also. I’m very good with guns, actually. I grew up with them. I hunted all over Westchester with a shotgun. Squirrels, crow, deer, rabbits, foxes; I suppose I killed several hundred creatures. Some of my clearest memories are of those killings, the mournful cry, the circular fall of a wounded bird. The crimson blood. The smell of the gunsmoke. I truly enjoyed that, once.”

  “But you’re so opposed to that.”

  “Many ‘animal people’ are reformed hunters. The sordid waste of it grows on you after a while. And then comes a time when you ask yourself why. I shot a squirrel once, high in a tree. When I hit it, it jumped and screamed. I’d never heard such a scream before. It landed in some heavy brush. I never found it. I don’t know if it lived or died. But all that day I kept asking myself why I had done that, why I had inflicted so much suffering and pain so unnecessarily. After I went to Africa, after I had seen some of the animal slaughter there, it was no question. I never hunted again.”

  “When is Porique expected?”

  “Within a few days. They start parliamentary debate on the constitutional amendments the day after tomorrow. Laidlaw is convinced Porique’s plans center around that.”

  “And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Restons ici, in this elegant love nest, courtesy of the United States government. You may thank them if you like. I’m sure this conversation’s being recorded.”

  She put her arms around his shoulders, leaning forward, pressing her face into his hair. He wore Dunhill’s cologne, and the scent pleased her.

  “You’ve no idea how happy I’m going to be when you finally meet your Felicity Stuart again and put your midlife crisis behind you and save Canada and we can get on with whatever it is that we have.”

  “You know what we have,” he said, and put his hand over hers. Then he silently rose and led her out into the hall, and from there into the stairwell.

  “Alixe, I’m not going to do as Laidlaw wishes.”

  “You want to pull out? Just drop everything and go?”

  “No. I mean I’m not going to sit here, waiting to be used like a piece of ammunition. I mean to find Felicity. That’s what we came for. I want to find Felicity and get her out of this and then leave whatever mess the great statesmen have created to the great statesmen. I want to press forward with this, and not just sit.”

  “Why don’t you come to bed with me?” she said, kissing his ear. “I feel very tired.”

  “I want to cross the river, Alixe. I want to get away for a bit. I want to join with all those people milling about over there. I want to have a better idea of what we’re up against, what’s going on. They shot the prime minister today.”

  “Shot him? Who?”

  “Terrorists. He’s all right, just wounded, but they were able to get away with it. They shot the prime minister of Canada in his own capital just a few blocks from his Parliament. There’s a lot going on here I don’t know about, that I never knew about back in Washington.”

  “I think staying in this apartment is a fine idea.”

  “I’m going to go over there.”

  “No, Toby. Stay with me.”

  “I won’t go near the embassy. I won’t get involved in anything dangerous. You can come with me, and do some shopping if you like.”

  “No thank you.”

  “I’m not going to be a CIA chess piece, Alixe.” Her eyes were loving, but angry and fatigued.

  “I won’t be long. Joyce should be back soon. Wherever Laidlaw was going, he must have gotten to it by now.”

  “Do what you will, Dennis,” she said, walking away. “I’ll be asleep.”

  “I’ll leave you the pistol.”

  “Oh no. You take that.”

  Showers had the cab driver let him out at Wellington Street and Lyon, opposite the Canadian Supreme Court and several blocks from the American embassy. He crossed Wellington against the light, darting through the traffic, realizing as he reached the other side how conspicuous that made him. He stood a moment, smoothing his jacket, then walked toward the court building and the river, walking with deliberate nonchalance, but still quickly passing a couple pushing their child in a stroller. When he reached the court building, Showers turned right, and began following a long roadway up the hill toward the stark, forbidding towers that housed the Senate and Commons. There were a number of tourists milling about in front, in the expansive courtyard and park that stretched from a canopied entrance all the way back to Wellington Street.

  At the top of the hill, Showers hesitated, then went to the bluff overlooking the river, past a heroic statue of Queen Victoria. He moved fro
m it to the railing, looking down at the wide river, and then across to Hull. The building he was sure was their high rise was brightly visible, a white slab.

  Something unwanted, someone unwanted, stepped into his peripheral vision. He was a nontourist, a muscular-looking man, approaching the Victoria statue. If Showers lingered, he might find himself among a swarm of such men. He stepped quickly away, down from the top of the bluff and around the corner of the House of Commons building, hurrying past the members’ entrance to the long green canopy that led to the central entrance of the entire complex. Its marble steps rose through the base of the great Peace Tower, the highest of the Parliament’s pinnacles, and lead in to the pillared lobby of the marbled, vaulted, Gothic, echoing Confederation Hall. There were a number of guards about, none of them visibly armed, and a larger number of tourists. Showers moved among them, looking about the hall, at the polished walls and floors of the Hall of Honour beyond that went on to the massive doors of the Parliamentary Library. These chambers were part cathedral, part medieval fortress, part mausoleum, part setting for swashbuckling melodrama. Small balconies appeared among the gargoyled arches overlooking the central hall and extending corridors. The clang of foil, épée, and saber ringing from them would be a seemly sound.

  There were more guards here than Showers remembered from his last visit to Ottawa, a consequence of the shooting of the prime minister. Otherwise, everything looked much the same.

  One of the guards, with practiced voice, announced the next public tour. On previous occasions, with his diplomatic credentials, Showers had been able to wander these corridors at will. Now his only glimpse of what lay beyond would have to come from joining the queue for one of these public gawks. He did so, deciding it was a good idea. There was nothing so anonymous in such governmental sanctums as to be one of the herded tourists. To government officials, they were just faceless bodies, usually in the way, always to be ignored. Showers supposed he could move through the entire State Department in a shuffling crowd of tourists and never be recognized.