“Let us pray,” said McPhee, bowing his head. Lafayette watched as several others dutifully followed this execrable example.
Several of the plasma screens were tuned to the major networks. At the hub of attention was the English service of Al Jazeera — the only network to have bribed its way into Bhashyistan. Other broadcasters were focused on the Security Council’s deliberations, finally under way.
Al Jazeera, with voice-over from an announcer with a Scottish burr, was showing daytime scenes of the placid streets of Igorgrad, a vegetable market, lineups for buses, the people sullen, restrained, uncomfortable under the gaze of cameras. Depicted also: the overblown statuary, the Revered Mother with axe, firewood, and swaddled infant. The state prison, from several angles. The crew had been forbidden access to the jailed Canadians, and it was impossible to know if theirs were among the hands waving from several barred, unshuttered windows.
These transmissions ended abruptly. Back to the Al Jazeera studio, a bulletin. The announcer, McKay, a long-faced Scot with implacable British cool, announced to the world that foreign forces were landing in Igorgrad.
Cheers went up. Buchanan rose and pumped his fist. “Go get ’em, boys!” Even Lafayette was having trouble maintaining his unflappable air, and found himself jostling for a position by the screen.
The only calm voice in the room belonged to the phlegmatic Scot. “It is the dead of night in Bhashyistan, and sirens are sounding throughout its capital city. Fighter jets are reported swooping over Igorgrad, their country of origin unknown, and parachutes have been seen south of the airport. As I speak, one of Al Jazeera’s mobile units is speeding to the scene of the action … One moment. It has now been learned that helicopters are approaching the western edge of the city, near the state prison. Please stay tuned, we will update these events as they unfold.”
The air in the room was electric as the announcer stalled with backgrounders and clips. The carnage on Colonel By Drive. Mad Igor’s declaration of war. Then Finnerty saw, through the fog of hangover and tension, an uncomfortably familiar face — his own damned face, straining to convince his countrymen he was not dithering. His flask weighed heavily in his suit pocket.
“We have just received word that explosions have been heard from the vicinity of the Igorgrad airport. The city has been blacked out, and … there … we can see it, flashes of light to the south, that must be the airport area. One second. Yes, we are now transmitting live from a mobile van racing through ominously deserted streets toward the state prison.”
Flickering images of darkened buildings swishing by, helicopter searchlights beaming from above, the clatter of their blades, excited words in Arabic from the camera crew. McKay: “Can we have some voice, please.”
“Ben Ahmed Husseini here. We are five minutes from Igorgrad prison … Yei-la-Hai!”
Finnerty gasped as the cameras swung in the direction of a tank barrelling toward the TV crew from a side road. “Almighty God,” said McKay, finally flustered. The Al Jazeera van swerved around a bend, courageously pressing on.
Suddenly the van was bathed in light from above, and there came a helicopter’s roar, swooping from on high. A flash, screams from the camera crew, and Finnerty was climbing from his skin expecting a horrendous international incident. But the target had been the pursuing tank — it veered from its path into a crevasse created by the copter’s missile, its occupants fleeing like ants.
Thiessen leaped, high-fiving with an air force general. The Al Jazeera van skidded around a corner into safety. People were on the streets now, running helter-skelter.
“We are still live on air,” said McKay. “And hopefully all are still alive. Are you there, Ben? Come in, Ben.”
“I’m … we … mother, holy shit. Sorry, are we transmitting?”
“You are on air, Ben. Is everyone okay?”
“I’m checking. All here.” Some words in Arabic to his crew, then: “We’re proceeding by foot.”
“Be safe.”
“Keep it down!” Buchanan shouted, silencing the gabble in the room.
“A seminal moment in history,” Lafayette announced.
The sound of helicopters lifting off. The crew’s camera peered around a concrete wall, at an opening blasted through the razor-wire fence, the darkened prison beyond. A tea house, two armed guards hiding behind it, three others sprawled nearby, still clutching automatic rifles. Prisoners were fleeing en masse through the front door, which had been blown open. No one tried to stop them.
All the ground troops had made it up to the roof now. A last helicopter was inching upwards from it, a woman being helped aboard. Then it grunted into the air. A woman? Finnerty thought that most odd, and found himself laughing as he eased himself into his chair.
Dexter McPhee began singing the national anthem, dreadfully off key.
It was nearly an hour later that Air Command began transmitting from the U.S. base in Kyrgyzstan. By then, the Al Jazeera unit had retreated from the prison, fleeing down back streets to avoid the rumbling tanks and troop carriers hurrying to the scene. The news crew’s efforts to interview Bhashyistani officials had been curtly rebuffed.
Other networks had finally caught up, but with only patchy details, and though it was assumed Canada had launched a successful rescue mission, nobody was saying so officially — including those closeted in the war room. All were smiling but enervated, gabbing restlessly, awaiting confirmation.
Buchanan said Colonel Thorne was coming on line — the commanding officer of Operation Beaver. “General Buchanan here. Do you read?”
“Sir? Is this a secure line?”
“Encrypted, decrypted. Let’s have the news, Colonel. We’re on tenterhooks here. What took you so long?”
“Well, uh, we had to so some intensive debriefing, sir. But it seems …”
“Seems what, Colonel?” A chill engulfed the room. Finnerty felt a sharp pain and bent over, tried to catch his breath. Gas — he’d downed that Reuben sandwich like a starving dogfish.
Colonel Thorne was having trouble finding words. “The, uh, good news: all military personnel safe and accounted for. Minimal enemy losses. We took aboard some of their political prisoners. However …”
“Yes? Yes? Spit it out.”
“The target wasn’t met. They weren’t there. The hostages.”
“Weren’t there?”
“Sir, we blasted through that joint, every sealed and locked door, all three floors and the dungeon below, and … well, the dissidents we took on board said no Canadians were ever in that lockup.”
Gasps. Dexter McPhee went down on his seat with a thud. Thiessen hurried off to the washroom, looking green. E.K. Boyes emitted only a mouselike squeak of despair. Finnerty turned as white as alabaster, and as cold. The room seemed to be closing in on him.
Only Lafayette remained still and voiceless, staring at Crumwell with venom, Crumwell, the brilliant international spy chief who’d interviewed the defector Globbo and got bullshit, corrupted information.
Lafayette paid no heed to the P.M. until, as Finnerty slowly bent toward the table, his nose finally met it with a thump. Then his bulk slid sideways off his chair and he fell like a bagged rhino onto the floor, glassy eyed, no longer of this world.
Dear Journal,
That sounds silly, addressing a notebook, but I’m keeping it as a record in case … well, in case something happens. That sounds bleak, but at least my words will live. I hope I don’t have to eat these pages if we hit a roadblock — I can’t put people in danger. They’re so brave, so full of hope for freedom from their oppression. So kind.
I’m confused about what went on the night before last, but I gather a jail in Igorgrad was stormed by Canadian soldiers and all the prisoners freed. So that’s been a matter of rejoicing by the insurgents helping us and putting us up along the way. Hundreds of Bhashyistan freedom fighters escaped, and everybody we’ve met is singing Canada’s praises.
The official version is different. The government cla
imed to have repelled a massive invasion, and the radio is full of patriotic songs and guff about Canada licking its wounds. But we got the true story from one of the escapees, Atun Gumbazi, a strapping young man with a long beard and a fantastic smile. (Hunky, says Ivy.)
He’s sitting in the cab of the truck, a four-wheel king cab, with a Kalashnikov on his lap, one that he grabbed off a dead guard. We’re all hiding under sheepskin jackets in the bed of the truck, Maxine, Ivy and me, and three shy men and a woman, freedom fighters, they proudly call themselves, members of the BDRF, the Bhashyistani Democratic Revolutionary Front. We’re waiting in the woods for night to fall so we can be on our way again.
Reading this, even I’m confused. Let me back up. Yesterday, the morning after the raid, Abrakam and Flaxseed woke us up because a car with soldiers was coming down the road. We gathered everything and hid in the bushes by the river, scared out of our tree, scared for our hosts. But they received the soldiers, gave them tea, showed them around, the yurt, everything, told them they hadn’t heard anything about any Canadians, and they didn’t get beat up or anything. Elders are pretty well respected around here.
And when we crept back into the yurt, there was Maxine’s travel kit, with all the tickets and maps and brochures hanging from a peg, fortunately behind a framed photo of the country’s president for life, which I guess they didn’t dare touch.
So later in the day, one of their grandsons came by with a horse-drawn sled full of these same stinky sheepskins, which thank God for because it was snowing hard, and he got us out to the main road where there was no other traffic because of the conditions. At one point he had to shoo off a bunch of kids who tried to climb onto the backboard. Boy, were we sweating.
We pulled into some kind of town where you could hear speakers blaring from a minaret, and onto a side street. It was getting dark by now, they have these short December days just like home, I guess we’re at the same latitude. And we were bundled into a concrete building, a block of flats, and that’s where we met Ruslan and a few of his band.
Ruslan Kolkov is like the local leader of the BDRF, and he’s a story, and he had lots of them to tell, he must have thousands. About fifty years old, I’d say, looks like Redbeard the pirate, with the scars and the black eye patch to prove it — he’d been tortured, escaped, spent years on the run. Russian-born, from the steppes. Right now he’s our driver, up in the cab with hunky Atun, who arrived during the evening to cheers and kisses and back-slapping.
They broke out the vodka and made toasts to us, to our heroic Canadian soldiers, to all Canadians, to peace and freedom and also to some guy named Abzal Erzhan, who is their great national hero, like Tommy Douglas is to us, I guess, and it turns out he’d been living in Canada, a suspected assassin or bomber. Very confusing. Ruslan did a Russian folk dance (boy, can he do the prisyatki).
It was after midnight when we sneaked out of town, slipping and sliding, heading down into a valley, travelling for eight hours. At dawn, we veered off into this forest glen, where the snow is less dense. Cold potato pies and yogurt, more stories from Ruslan Kolkov. (Do I believe he wrestled a ravenous bear, felling it with a blow between the eyes?) Tonight we’ll continue toward the Altay Mountains, beyond which the rivers flow north, to Russia.
It has become dark, and we are moving.
17
Arthur leaned over the railing of his apartment balcony, bundled up against the chill wind, his pipe blowing sparks. There was an eerie, almost spooky, feeling about the city spread below him on this Wednesday, December 8. The streets were almost deserted of traffic, as if Ottawans had been too depressed to leave their homes. Few skaters on the canal. From somewhere, a sullen wail of siren. Adding to the sombreness: a dirgelike oratorio from apartment 10C.
It was two days after the abortive raid on the Igorgrad jail and the sudden death of the country’s P.M. Acting Prime Minister Clara Gracey had immediately declared a day of mourning, and the entire nation was still in a torpor, numb with disbelief and shame.
But life somehow goes on. Arthur would soon be off to Parliament Hill, where Question Period started at two-fifteen, with opposition members lining up like a firing squad waiting to let loose their volleys. Margaret wasn’t on the Speaker’s list, but her friend Julien Chambleau had earned a turn.
Returning inside, he was drawn to the computer, still open to the video on YouTube. He couldn’t help himself — he clicked on it again, number one on the most-watched list.
“Hello, especially to unhappy viewers in Canada. This is Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich, and the breaking story we are working on today is how Bhashyistan sent your invaders to glorious defeat.”
Arthur was mesmerized by the taunting third son and his cherubic, confident smile. This was the third time he’d watched this clip, a form of self-abasing penance.
“Correcting lies of international news like CNN, we showing graves where many Canadian soldiers paid ultimate price after repulsed by glorious national army.” Mounds of earth in a barren field. “Yes, Canadians, I trick you by showing state prison, making you think oil company spies are in there with common criminals, but surprise — we have other, secret jails.”
The Calgary Five were shown, unshaven, in prison clothes of loose orange fabric. They didn’t look ill fed, and had managed to secure playing cards and board games.
“Today we celebrate while you Canadians mourn leader, who was brought down by mighty strike from invisible hands directed by National Prophet.” Finnerty had been felled by a coronary, but the allusion seemed symbolically correct.
“Here we showing victory parade.” Another procession of soldiers and tanks. A shot of Mad Igor on the dais pinning medals on army officers. “In other news, December sixth is now proclaimed Illustrious Victory Over Canada Day. And coming soon, we hoping all viewers tune in for unveiling plan to make Canada pay for failed insult to national pride. Operation Beaver — hah! Is big rat with flat tail for slapping water when scared. No recession here, Canada! No unemployed! From secret location in Igorgrad, this is Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich signing off.”
Arthur stomped off to the elevator, where he encountered a few nodding acquaintances who avoided eye contact, as if embarrassed for their country. Yes, Canada had replaced Bhashyistan as the world’s laughingstock, the joke all the more hilarious because of the helicopter rescue of several prostitutes. They were freedom fighters, they’d claimed, jailed for their views, not their ancient practices.
Adding to the national discomfort: a U.S. army photographer at the Kyrgyzstan base had wired photographs of buxom young women partying with Canadian commandos, the men loose and mindless with strong drink. One young lady was shown on the lap of a hardened fighter, offering solace with roving hands. The Daily Show and The Colbert Report had a heyday with winking references to Operation Eager Beaver.
But the humour had died with the suddenness of a hammer blow after a televised plea by a Saskatchewan doctor for the rescue of family members who’d disappeared into the heart of darkness. Three women lost in Bhashyistan — imprisoned, violated, dead, no one knew. Dr. Svetlikoff had accused the government of plunging ahead with Operation Beaver while ignoring their welfare.
Arthur plodded north, up Bronson, usually a busy artery, but the streets were ghostly, the city in mourning for the unrescued and the missing, for the loss of national pride.
Against these events, the death of a prime minister paled in gravity, but he’d been given due remembrance. The day before, the Commons was recessed after appropriate tributes from all party leaders. Margaret’s contribution had been pro forma but kindly enough. She’d not disliked Finnerty personally, a man blind to the environmental ills befouling the planet but with a basic human kindness.
Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet, Martialis wrote. He mourns honestly who mourns without witnesses. But the mourning from sources in Foreign Affairs was public and loud, crocodile tears disguising a rush to blame the dead: the scheme had been hatched by Finnerty — it was his brainchild, hi
s gamble.
Most columnists, however, suspected Gerard Lafayette was the architect of Black Monday, a view bolstered when Acting Prime Minister Gracey, in a solemn address to the nation, let it be known that the perpetrators of Black Monday had got incomplete advice from security and foreign office staffs, had failed to heed alternative views. The government had committed errors, she said, pleading for all Canadians to unite. A cabinet shakeup was in the offing. Gracey was wielding a new broom.
Arthur wondered how long her tenure might last — the no-confidence vote was scheduled for the next week, and some government backbenchers were reportedly reluctant to be whipped into line.
The prime minister’s heart attack had so jolted Arthur that he’d vowed to redouble his efforts to keep in trim, so he walked the nearly six kilometres to the Hill, where flags were listlessly flapping at half-mast. Even today’s assortment of demonstrators seemed lethargic: a score of listless patriots singing “O Canada” on the frozen lawns of Parliament.
Arthur took a deep breath before heading up to the Members’ Gallery. Margaret would be looking for him there, seeking his strength and comfort, oblivious to his ostensibly wanton behaviour of five days ago. The Episode.
Fretting and sweating, he’d reached Stoney the day before after several tries. “Just checking on the home scene,” he’d said with false jocularity.
“Hey, man, if it’s about you balling Savannah, my silence is golden.” Shouting so loud that anyone within fifty yards might have heard. Sadly, Stoney had found himself cash short as a result of the recession and was seeking new opportunities. Might this be the right time for Arthur to get his decaying dock rebuilt to standard? Arthur promptly accepted his bid, the price of golden silence.
The chamber was packed, backbenchers glued to their armchairs as Cloudy McRory rose. Dyspeptic, humourless, his brows knit together like an upside-down smile, he called on the acting prime minister to apologize to this House and to the world for the fiasco that was Operation Eager Beaver.
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