Porique was at the railing, both arms lifted, holding a string of deadly looking canvas packages with one hand and a small box with a lead running to one of the packages in the other.
At long last, Porique had them in his power, his one-time colleagues, his enemies, the institution he had served and come to hate. His speech was a stern lecture, followed only vaguely by the members who spoke no French. Where were their values, he demanded of them. Where was their sanity? How could they quarrel over their greedy, petty, regional concerns when Canada, their beloved Canada, faced such brutal destruction? Not the federation, but the real Canada, the Canada of lakes and rivers, of forests and mountains.
Showers looked quickly about the chamber. The prime minister was not there. There were policemen here and there about the other galleries, standing like statues. Were they afraid of firing? Were they too distant for good aim? Were they fearful that the detonator had a dead man’s switch? Showers looked carefully. It was hard to tell, but it did not appear to have one; Porique seemed to be holding the little box somewhat loosely.
There was still a chance to escape this. Showers could take a quiet step backward and then another and then turn and flee through the remembered corridors to some rear exit. He could escape this beautiful, stricken city and make his way across the St. Lawrence and return to Washington. He could settle his accounts there, prove his innocence in the murder of his beautiful neighbor, work it out with Marie-Claire, negotiate a return to his old life, to the ascending path, to the ultimate goal.
Porique began reciting a list of the government’s crimes, crimes against Canada, against humanity, against creation.
Showers’ eyes were drawn to the members’ gallery to his left. There was an anomoly there. Everyone there seemed stricken by the same terror that transfixed the members in the benches. Everyone, but one. A small neat man with white hair who sat in the front row, calmly watching, looking not at Porique but at Showers.
Why was Laidlaw there? What did he know? What did he see?
This had to end. It was an irresistible fact. This impossible chaotic interlude must conclude, and it was not Porique but he who had the power to determine what the conclusion would be. It was, however, a perishable, diminishing power. Seconds were ticking. This brief, awesomely important moment in the history of Canada was hurrying to its end.
Showers raised the pistol, aiming it as he had not aimed any weapon since he had shot that screaming squirrel from a tree so many years before. He aimed it at the same spot where Felicity had been struck, at the center of his friend’s back. He owed Porique his life, but now he owed greater debts. His finger came to the trigger and the gun fired its avenging shot.
Like the squirrel, Porique fell forward and into the chamber with a scream.
24
They took him to an office on the first floor. Judging by its elaborate, accompanying suite of outer offices, it belonged to a cabinet minister. Waiting until he had seated himself on a leather couch, they left him to himself, staring numbly at the wall. The cabinet minister collected modern art. That observation was Showers’ only thought.
When the door opened again, it was Hugh Laidlaw who entered. “Come with me, please, Mr. Showers.”
Rising obediently, he followed Laidlaw out a side door to the corridor. They walked along it unmolested, at length descending some stairs and leaving the building through a basement exit. They found themselves near the statue of Queen Victoria. It was raining hard. Laidlaw took them to the curved walkway behind the statue. He leaned his elbows on the railing, looking down at the wide sweep of river far below, oblivious to the rainwater that was soaking his hair.
“I did what you wanted of me,” Showers said.
“Yes, you did. I am very grateful, Mr. Showers.”
“Stan Joyce is dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
Laidlaw reached into his pocket and removed a small gold ring. He handed it to Showers, who looked at it briefly, then held it close. It was antique, and bore an engraved family crest.
“It will be difficult making arrangements for her body,” Laidlaw said. “There is no way of getting custody of it right now, so I took this for you so that you might have something of her.”
“I thank you.”
Showers was grateful that the rain disguised his tears, and that Laidlaw was discreet enough not to look at him.
“The solicitor general is an old friend of mine, Mr. Showers. He is also a very decent and honorable man and most sensitive to the realities of this situation. We have this interlude at his sufferance, but it can’t be long. I would estimate we have ten minutes. Fifteen minutes at the very most.”
“Before what, Mr. Laidlaw?” Showers spoke abnormally, his voice quavering and hoarse.
“Before Harry York arrives. He was alerted immediately after Porique appeared on the balcony. He needed only to dress, and will be rushed here in his car. I’ve summoned a car myself, from Hull. I can only hope it will arrive first.”
“What has this to do with me?”
“I want you to come away with me in that car. Thanks to the solicitor general, we’ll have a good chance of getting out of Ottawa. Through Quebec, possibly to the Maritimes.”
“I won’t go with you, Mr. Laidlaw.”
A power plant across the river was adding its steamy white smoke to the layer of low cloud.
“If you stay here, Harry York will have you arrested, and that won’t be the worst of it.”
“Guy Porique was going to blow up the House of Commons. As you said, it probably would have provoked a civil war. I did what I thought had to be done. I’ll stand before Canadian justice, win or lose. If I prevail, I’ll return to Washington, and attend to all my affairs there.”
“Going back to Washington is out of the question. At least for a very long time.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But if I get the opportunity, I’m going back. This is what I mean to do.”
“Mr. Showers, your career is ruined.”
“I know.”
“There is no point to your going back.”
“If you knew anything about me, Mr. Laidlaw, you’d know that there is all the point in the world to my going back.”
“Your wife is dead, Mr. Showers.”
The news took Showers by surprise, but he found he felt no emotion about it. Her death was a remarkable fact, but for some extraordinary reason, not grievous. Perhaps it was because her death seemed so inconsequential compared to Felicity’s. But why was that?
“How?”
“She was killed, by authorities, trying to escape. She murdered your associate, Arthur Jordine, shot him down quite mercilessly.”
“I can’t believe that. They were lovers, Mr. Laidlaw. I’m sure of it.”
“Marie-Claire Alzette, which is her correct name, was a spy, a French citizen and a French spy. You weren’t her husband, Mr. Showers, you were her cover. Your father-in-law, the Belgian baron, is neither a baron nor her father. He is her control. His generous gifts to you were from the French treasury. Your extremely comfortable way of life has been made possible by French taxpayers.”
“The French? They did all this?”
“Oh no. They aided and encouraged it. Claude Sebastien, York’s chief counterintelligence operative, is a French agent. They knew about the plot involving Guy Porique, but it was not their plot.”
Laidlaw took out his handkerchief and began wiping off his glasses. The handkerchief quickly became soaked.
“Whose was it?”
“The British were peripherally involved, I suppose. There’s some notion in Westminster that, if Canada comes apart, they might somehow regain British Columbia and some of the Maritimes. Unfortunately for them, as is so often the case, their principal man here, a Major Hotchkiss, was working for the Russians. Mr. Showers, what I believe to be my car is just now crossing the Portage Bridge and will be here very quickly.”
“French, British, Russians. Who else?”
“An
other country. You are in its service, as am I.”
“The United States.”
“Yes, but again, to a limited degree. Some unpleasant people in the National Security Council, as I believe you suspected. They’d developed a rather northerly notion of Manifest Destiny, and thought Alberta would make a dandy source of domestic oil. The vice-president, among others, is dealing with them.”
“Will you please answer my question?”
Laidlaw looked at his watch. “In the car, please. It will be here very soon. I’ll answer all your questions. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. In the car.”
“Now. Or I’ll walk back into that building.”
“Harry York, the prime minister of Canada, did all this. An historian, Mr. Showers. An historian with a chance to alter history, to prove his theory. He performed with consummate skill.”
“What happened, what almost happened, an academic fancy?”
“Don’t belittle Harry York, Mr. Showers. He is a formidable man, a believer. He deeply does not believe in Canada.”
The sound of sirens was audible from behind them, from the east. Showers had heard some earlier, when he was being taken to the minister’s office. Now, more were coming.
“That’s York, Mr. Showers. My car will be turning into the west drive. You must come with me.”
“I am not persuaded.”
“Marie-Claire Alzette’s body was taken by the authorities, and left at the French embassy. It was a stupid, no mistaken, thing to do, an ill-considered angry gesture. She had hired someone to kill you, to prevent you from interfering with Guy Porique. A most unpleasant person, the same animal who attacked Miss Reston, the man Mr. Joyce killed in the Commons.”
Showers stiffened. “Alixe is all right? She made it to safety? You promised …”
“She is out of danger. The French were not happy about this gesture. They took Marie-Claire Alzette’s body to your house and arranged an apparent circumstance there that leaves little doubt as to your apparent culpability.”
“I was here.”
“In any event, you’re almost certain to remain here. Harry York will be in need of a scapegoat, someone to distract attention from him, and his activities. You will be arrested without question. He has all the legalities on his side. He will be quite ruthless with you. I’m sure he’s very angry. You’ve ruined absolutely everything for him. Are you aware of what you’ve accomplished?”
The sirens were nearer. A black foreign car was coming up the hill from the west.
“I’ve done what you wanted, Laidlaw. Now leave me.”
“They took you away before it happened, Mr. Showers. There was a quick vote. On a motion by York’s deputy, rather a good man, actually, the Parliament has been adjourned until next week. Only a few days will remain until the summer recess. There will be no time for constitutional debates until the fall. You’ve pulled the keystone from York’s elaborate construction. That is your achievement; it is considerable.”
Laidlaw’s car, a black Citroen, pulled up at the steps that led to the Victoria statue. Showers could see only the dark form of a man behind the wheel. He wiped the rain from his face with his hand. The sirens were very near.
“With what would I be charged?”
“In the United States it would be called ‘Murder One.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t know. No one knew. Porique didn’t know. Those weren’t bombs. There was no explosive in those canvas packages. It was all replaced with clay. Children’s modeling clay.”
“Clay? Felicity did that?”
“Yes. She’s the martyred heroine of this piece. She is the saint of Canada.”
“She was working for you.”
“For many, many years, but not recently. She fell in love with Porique, and cut us off. Trying to find you was her own idea, not ours. We only took advantage of it. Please come with me, Mr. Showers. There’s my car.”
“No.”
“If we leave now, we leave things well. York’s been defeated. He can’t put it back together in time. Your identity is known, but if we leave, that’s all that will be known. Think of what a public trial York would arrange for you, what he would compel you to say, what he would accuse you of. Think of the damage done to U.S.-Canadian relations. Think of the damage done to the United States. And for what, sir? Your self-indulgent sense of honor?”
The sirens were almost upon them.
“Good-bye, Mr. Laidlaw.”
“All right, Mr. Showers. Good-bye.”
Laidlaw crossed to the steps, and started down. Showers turned to watch and saw a figure move in the rear seat of the Citroen. A face appeared at the window. A woman, possibly a young woman, with long hair.
Showers ran after Laidlaw. “You said you would take her back to Washington!” he shouted.
Laidlaw stopped. The rain was pounding. “She would not go, Mr. Showers,” he said.
“Well, take her away now!”
Laidlaw turned and looked up at Showers, the harsh coldness of his gray eyes evident through the water droplets on his glasses.
“No, Showers. If you won’t come with me, I’m going to put her out of the car right here and leave you both to York.”
They stood staring at each other. The woman opened the car door and said: “Toby?” An RCMP car moved slowly by, but did not stop.
“I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency, Mr. Showers. You’ve had long experience with us. Do you doubt that I mean what I say?” His pink, well-scrubbed face was glistening with rain water, but he looked as though he could not feel a drop.
“I don’t doubt you,” Showers said.
He hurried after Laidlaw to the car. Alixe looked at Showers anxiously, then moved to the other side of the seat.
The sirens had stopped. Harry York was at Parliament.
“What will you do with us?” Showers asked, as the car got underway.
“I will place you under my protection,” Laidlaw said from the front.
The driver turned into Wellington Street, heading west as rapidly as the traffic would bear. Showers continued staring back through the rear window, at the American embassy and the Parliament buildings as they receded from view. The American flag was hanging limp in the rain.
There was a distant boom, quite muffled in the rain. Le canon du midi. Despite all that had happened, they had persisted in their ceremony and fired the cannon at noon.
“I want you to know this,” Laidlaw said, turning finally in his seat. “What I said about leaving Alixe, it wasn’t true. I said that only to get you into the car, Mr. Showers.”
Showers did not believe him. He slouched in his seat, in silent contemplation of Felicity Stuart’s antique gold ring. Alixe said nothing more to him until he had returned it to his pocket.
The rendezvous was convenient enough—the quay alongside the Rideau Canal outside the Arts Centre. The storm had passed with the coming of night but the low cloud still carried the threat of more rain. There was a concert in the Centre, but few strollers outside. Ottawa was much subdued.
Laidlaw found Kodakov where promised: in the shadows where the quay ran beneath the Mackenzie King Bridge. “Pavl?”
Kodakov stepped forward partially into the light, but not fully. Laidlaw shook his hand courteously, and with caution, but it was empty.
“My rendezvous tonight was supposed to have been with Inspector Beckett. Now he is arrested, and my meeting is with you, Hugh.”
“I arranged for Beckett’s arrest.”
“I of course know that, Hugh. Why? To keep York from killing him? I’ve not known you to be so compassionate toward assets before. You think compassion a character flaw.”
“The inspector’s arrest and trial will compel Harry York’s resignation.”
Kodakov looked downriver toward the lights on the next bridge.
“Beckett took out one of our players, the Britisher. Now, I’m not sentimental about these things, but we have bureaucratic rule
s about balanced books.”
“Inspector Beckett will be paying a considerable price.”
“If he does not, Hugh, then Langley must settle the account some other way, unless you want another round of tit for tat.”
“Pavl. Beckett was not working for us.”
“Please, Hugh. We are old friends.”
“Accept the truth, then. He wasn’t.”
“Then for whom?”
“Pavl, he was working for Canada.”
“For York?”
“No, Pavl. For Canada.”
25
Thatcher and Mendelsohn were in the MacLean safe house, alone, seated at the kitchen table. This was the last day they had use of the facility, and they had spent a large part of the afternoon packing up or destroying files, tapes, and computer discs, completing their task methodically and, despite Mendelsohn’s best efforts, without much conversation. Now they were drinking: Thatcher, bourbon whiskey; Mendelsohn, his usual sherry.
“‘Melancholy men, eat no beans,’” said Mendelsohn.
“What?” Thatcher’s voice was vague and distant, though he sat just across the table from Mendelsohn.
“That’s from Robert Burton. His Anatomy of Melancholy was a favorite of Samuel Johnson’s. According to Boswell, it was the only book that ever got Dr. Johnson out of bed two hours earlier than he wished.”
“Oh.”
“What is it, William? You’ve been like this far too long.”
Thatcher pondered his whiskey, then took a deep drink of it, barroom beer-and-a-shot style. He poured some more into the glass, staring morosely into it again. “Let’s just finish our drinks and then go home,” he said.
“It’s not that.”
“Will it help if I turn on the Muzak?”
“No.”
“Some Mantovani?”
“No, Freddy. It fucking depresses me.” Thatcher drank again, then fell into a study of his hands.
“Is it because of Madeleine and Hugh?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I, personally, was quite thrilled. I can’t think of such an elopement in all of literature. Or history. Caesar did not precisely elope with Cleopatra, you know. It was a political expedient. Hugh took Madeleine to Nepal. ‘For he counteracts the Devil, who is Death, by brisking about the life,’ as Christopher Smart said. Some brisking. Some life.”
Northern Exposure Page 34
