Simon Bradley stood upon Dan’s arrival. He was young and easily six-foot-four, with a slim build under an Armani jacket, a confident smile, and a haircut that must have cost two hundred dollars. Dan recognized him as an occasional on-air broadcaster, the type who showed up in the midst of swirling snowstorms to report on traffic jams, house fires, derailed trains, and the other detritus that made up the bread and butter of the all-news stations. Apparently he’d been transferred to doing pieces of a political bent. Someone must have thought his mug worthy of the cause.
“Was it your father or your grandfather?” Dan asked.
The question caught Simon by surprise, but he quickly got back on track.
“Grandfather,” he said as they shook hands. “You remember him?”
“As a kid, yes. The name mostly, but I think I recall a resemblance.”
Simon Bradley Sr. had been one of the names reverberating through the Sharp household, spoken with reverence, when Dan was a boy. The names, including old-school politicians such as Lester Pearson, hockey players like Jean Béliveau, and broadcasters like Simon’s grandfather, were laid out as evidence of the glory days now past. They’d been legends back in the day when television ruled and you couldn’t get through the bleak northern Ontario winters without one.
“You’re right. I got his name and his looks,” Simon said. “But my dad got all the literary rights to his books.”
There would have been dozens of them, Dan recalled. Bradley had been one of Canada’s mainstays as an on-air journalist, and before that as a historian famous for his coverage of the Cold War. Now here was his grandson trying to make a name for himself in the same field. Sometimes the pressure to live up to a forebear was more trouble than it was worth.
Their server heard them talking and stole a look at Simon as though he was considering asking for an autograph.
“You somebody I should know, man?” he asked, setting down a plate of fries alongside a chicken-and-gravy sandwich.
Simon shrugged. “Only if you watch television.”
The waiter shook his head. “Nah. Waste of time,” he said, glancing over at Dan.
“Just coffee,” Dan told him.
Simon grinned as their waiter walked away. “That puts me in my place.”
The server returned with a cup of coffee, managing to slop it into the saucer as he set it on the table. He looked at it as though it might merit a second pour, then shrugged the gaffe aside as not worth his bother.
Dan tipped a single cream into his cup and sipped. It was always great coffee. He watched as Simon picked up a gravy-covered fry and slipped it into his mouth with a satisfied grin.
“So good! Love this place.”
“Just to remind you, Mr. Bradley, the meter is ticking.”
Simon gave him a reproachful look, as if he’d just insulted their new friendship. Suddenly he looked like a kid straight out of journalism school. “Sure, sorry, Dan. What do you know about John Badger Wilkens III?”
Dan shrugged. “The minister who committed suicide? Not much, really.”
“Well, let me tell you a few things. At twenty-five, John was the youngest elected minister in the legislature. He was a five-time debating champion in university, as well as a crackerjack lawyer and chartered accountant. Word is he was being groomed to be party leader in a few years. Which is to say he was considered by many to be a likely fit for future prime minister. Conservative, of course.”
“Naturally.”
“He was voted most popular member of the legislature before he turned thirty,” Simon continued. “Then last year something happened. From being leader of the pack, John’s star dimmed suddenly, and he was shunted to the backrooms. His party advisers stopped pushing him in front of TV cameras. Then came the revelations: missing money from a public portfolio. His fall was unthinkable after such a quick rise.”
Dan recalled Nick’s depiction of Conservatives as being prone to financial scandals. “What happened?”
“I don’t know for sure, but similar things have happened to others. Before him there was Sharon Timmons. Remember her?”
Dan nodded. “Another up-and-coming star. The New Democrats. Wasn’t she implicated in some scandal or other?”
“Drugs. Though she and her husband both proclaimed her innocence. For a while it looked like it might have been the teenage son, but they vigorously denied that as well, saying it was a plant. But it tarnished her reputation. The party eventually dropped her, too.”
“Curious, but how is this supposed to help me find Tony Moran?”
Simon leaned forward, as though to emphasize their intimacy. “What if I told you John Wilkens was murdered?”
Dan gave him a skeptical look. “It would make an interesting aside, but I thought we were here to talk about Tony.”
“This is related.”
“How?”
“I was in touch with John right before he was given the sack. I think he knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. It had to do with the cancellation of the power plants contracts. It was a last-minute campaign promise that got the Liberals re-elected. When it was first announced, the estimated cost was something like two hundred million and change. Then came news of the cover-up. The Auditor General recently quoted the cost to the province as more than nine hundred and fifty million dollars. John and I had planned to meet so he could tell me what he knew. Only he got himself killed first, see?”
Dan shook his head. “I don’t see anything. The power plant scandal is old news. Both the premier and the energy minister resigned. I understood Wilkens killed himself because he was disgraced for embezzling public funds. But it had nothing to do with the scandal. Why do you think he was murdered? And how does Tony Moran fit in?”
Simon stuffed a forkful of sandwich into his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“When the money disappeared, Wilkens’s party dumped him. He’d become a liability and they didn’t want to get their hands dirty. Wilkens claimed he’d been set up. I think he found something irregular. He offered to help unmask the corruption at Queen’s Park. A few days later, he turned up dead. Pretty strange coincidence, no? As for how it relates to Tony Moran, ask yourself how Tony might have stumbled onto the same info as John Wilkens.”
“I couldn’t possibly begin to guess, Mr. Bradley. You work the political beat. You would have a much better idea than me.”
Simon gave him a satisfied grin, the Cheshire Cat in person.
“We’re talking about the cover-up of corruption on a grand scale. Whatever happened to John Wilkens, whatever he uncovered, somehow Tony Moran found out about it, too.”
Dan nodded, feeling boredom creep in. There was something about Simon’s hair that made it hard to take him seriously. “Does Peter Hansen know about it?”
“I don’t know. I tried to contact him, but he won’t return my calls.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“No.”
Dan sipped his coffee. “Why not?”
“They probably wouldn’t believe me, for one. For another, I want the story. Once I get the police involved, I’ll be pushed aside.”
“If it involves murder, the police have to be informed.”
“There’s no proof. At least, not yet. I intend to find it.”
“You think you’re going to unmask a murderer?” Dan shook his head. “Braver men than you have done stupider things and lived to regret it.”
“Braver men maybe, but not smarter.” Simon winked. “We all see what we want to see. Sometimes it’s a matter of choice, other times it’s in the presentation. Take me, for instance. I can say nearly anything and it will be believed. Why? Because I’m in front of a television camera when I say it. That makes it real to most people. If I were irresponsible, I could make up all kinds of allegations about people, really hurtful things. They might make
me retract them later, but the damage would have been done to their reputations.”
“What would be the point?”
“Exactly! What if there were a person designated to do such things? Someone who could make or break your career simply by having things appear one way or another?” Simon lowered his voice. “I think John Wilkens believed there was such an individual, or possibly a small group of people, who could get rid of up-and-coming political contenders. Some promising candidate suddenly bows out of the race and takes a very cushy job, for instance, leaving the field open for another candidate …”
“Is that legal?”
“Not strictly, but so long as there’s nothing connecting the job offer with leaving the race, you can’t really point a finger, though some might question the timing. It could be a bribe or it could be a threat. In John’s case, it was a matter of suspicious activity with departmental funds. In Sharon’s it was drugs. You see what I’m getting at?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s really a matter of what you choose to see. Money changing hands in a questionable manner, expenses written off for unusual purposes. Suddenly a front runner getting all the prominence and attention he craves becomes a backbencher to keep him out of sight.”
Simon looked over to see that the server was busy taking an order before he spoke again. He leaned closer till he was within inches of Dan’s face.
“Someone is playing chess with people’s careers and reputations. What does that tell you?”
“That politics is a dirty business.”
“Very dirty! There’s a rumour in the legislature that when something needs fixing, they call in the Magus to get results.”
Dan frowned. “The Magus? You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not. That’s what John called him, anyway. He believed it was one individual acting on the directions of a small group of people with vested interests in who rises and who falls. When something needs fixing, they call in this guy. The result? Rumours spread about misplaced funds, accusations of drugs or sexual harassment. In politics, there’s nothing so fragile as a reputation. Once broken, it’s impossible to repair. It’s the Humpty Dumpty syndrome.”
It was possible, Dan thought. A man falls from grace, joining a long list of political failures. Then again, all political leaders face their day of reckoning. And when it comes, the fall is never pretty.
“Can you prove it?”
Simon wiped his mouth with his napkin, folded it, and left it draped over the plate.
“I believe Tony Moran knows what I’m talking about. That’s why he ran off and why I need to find him. I haven’t been able to crack Peter Hansen yet, but I will.” He eyed Dan. “In the meantime, I’m prepared to share with you anything I find out.”
Dan shook his head. “Even if I find him, I can’t make Tony talk to you. How could I?”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.” He pulled out his cell and checked the screen. “I’ve got your number. How about we just agree to stay in touch for now? I’ll call you from time to time to let you know what I learn. If you hear something, you can call me.”
It was late by the time Dan returned. He parked the car and glanced up at his house. The bedroom light was off. He sat in the backyard, the scene of many happy family gatherings. The singsong lullaby of crickets in summer and brief glimpses of stars through clouds all year long created an oasis of peace. To be able to see the night sky in the city’s midst was a rare thing. It had kept him sane at the worst of times, and there’d been plenty of those before Nick came along. He thought again of Simon Bradley’s allegations of the goings-on at Queen’s Park. From the depths of memory a name surfaced, someone who might give him some insight into the murky waters of politics.
Four
Queen’s Park
Queen Victoria is just one of more than a dozen famous people residing in effigy at Queen’s Park in the heart of Toronto. She shares the space with monarchs alive and dead, Canada’s first prime minister, the Fathers of Confederation, the leader of the Upper Canada Rebellion, a token poet, and even Jesus Christ himself. But it’s her park, nonetheless.
It’s here that the Ontario legislature has resided and where the province’s laws have been debated, refuted, enacted, and challenged since the country’s inception. The legislature’s ceremonial mace, an ornamented staff of wood and metal representing the ruling monarch’s authority, was stolen by the Americans in the War of 1812, a series of cross-border skirmishes that gained them no ground but inflamed nationalist identity on either side of the Great Lakes. For their part, the British got a second go at the Colony That Got Away three decades earlier. As for the Americans, they acquired a national anthem and the above-mentioned mace, until Franklin Roosevelt ordered its return in 1934. Their only real victory, the much-lauded Battle of New Orleans, came some two weeks after the signing of the peace treaty between the two nations, news of which apparently had not reached them soon enough.
There are always winners and losers in times of conflict, as Dan was well aware, and while both the British and Americans claimed — incorrectly, as it turned out — to have won the war, the only clear losers were the aboriginal peoples, betrayed by their allies on both sides while sustaining heavy casualties and further loss of land before being shunted off to reservations. In the ensuing years, native land claims were just one of many contentious issues presided over at Queen’s Park. It seemed to Dan that not much had changed in the intervening centuries.
While Canada’s history was less bloody than most, of late Dan felt his fellow Canadians had developed a smug attitude toward politics. So it had come as a shock to them when the folks at Toronto’s city hall were forced to deal with a crack-smoking mayor who befriended gang members and became the subject of police investigations, raging and rampaging at foes and allies alike, his infantile behaviour making headlines around the globe. Torontonians suddenly woke to the reality that even they could look like buffoons if their leaders were not cut from a finer cloth.
While politics at Queen’s Park tended to be of a subtler nature, it was not without scandal. Making his way up the steps of the legislature, Dan thought of Simon Bradley’s allegations about the opposition critic who may or may not have committed suicide, about Peter Hansen’s missing husband who gambled away large amounts of money, and the rumours of a master manipulator who could make and unmake the reputations of political aspirants. Verifiable or not, it was juicy stuff.
Dan checked his watch. He was early.
Inside the doors was a modest collection of paintings by Robert Bateman, one of Canada’s acclaimed nature artists. Fur and feathers. Nothing radical to shock the visitors. Farther along, behind glass, were collections of aboriginal art: tusk, bone, and soapstone looking pristine and sterile out of their natural environment, a testament to the acquisitive nature of power.
At the front desk, Dan leaned in to inquire when the next tour of chambers began. The receptionist beamed a glossy smile at him, apparently thrilled to be working in the hallowed halls of government.
“You’re in luck! It starts in five minutes,” she announced.
Beside her, a woman many years her senior who looked as though she’d had her fill of governmental regulations, frowned. “Council’s already in session today, so you won’t be going into the gallery,” she snapped, more than happy to spoil his visit.
Dan joined a group of schoolgirls and tourists and they were soon on their way. The guide, an earnest young woman of budding theatrical leanings, indicated a series of stern portraits on the surrounding walls just beyond the lobby.
“Here we have the House Speakers. The Speaker is chosen by anonymous ballot,” she announced with gravity, as though describing a Masonic initiation rite. “Generally, he comes from the ruling party, but there have been rare exceptions. Whoever becomes Speaker must agree to drop his party allegiances and act impartially at all times.”
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Dan smiled to himself, thinking it would be like putting an alcoholic in a bar and telling him not to drink while everyone else was knocking back their fill.
“Historically, the Speaker represented the throne,” their guide continued. “This proved disadvantageous when at least seven Speakers were put to death for bringing news displeasing to the king. The Speaker no longer represents the ruling monarch, but instead represents the interests of the House.”
A wise career choice, Dan thought as they trooped upward, gathering briefly before a large panel window on the second floor. Behind the glass, images flickered on playback monitors, spotlighting members of the legislature in another room. A garrulous blonde had the floor. She spoke animatedly, her face contorted with the urgency of her message, though her words remained unheard on this side of the wall.
“What you are seeing is the current debate in the assembly,” their guide informed them. “We’re not allowed to enter while council is in session, however …” Here she stepped smartly up to a switch on the wall. What had been silent images, mimes in motion, suddenly came through first in English, then in French, as she flicked the switch up and down. “We’re bilingual!” she exclaimed, as proudly as if she’d invented the switch herself.
The group broke into hesitant applause. Their guide led them on till they stood gazing up at another series of dour-faced portraits. Time-ravaged, colour-muted, the founding fathers of the legislature looked to a man as proper as an English parson, as though not one of them had so much as contemplated a dirty deed in his life. In the late nineteenth century, Dan knew, symbolist painters had begun eradicating human figures from their landscapes as they sought to depict a mystical vision of life. Humankind struck from paradise. Portraitists should do the same with politicians, he mused.
The God Game Page 4
