There must be close to seventy people here now, more coming every day, bedraggled and cold, diving into the borscht that Maxine and I keep going on the propane stove. She’s volunteered as head chef, and is dazzling everyone.
Someone got a Canadian flag from a smuggler, and it’s hanging outside, just above a rough sign that says, translated, National Headquarters, BDRF. Little Hasran, who is only fourteen, has a dream of becoming a Canadian pilot someday. One time they chorused us with “O Canada,” it sounded hilarious. I was truly shocked to hear a partisan recite a dozen stanzas of “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.”
And they’re always carrying on about Abzal Erzhan, the great things he did, sending the Great Father the way of Dan McGrew, blowing up “those nine sons of whores who sucked on Igor’s tit and stuck their heads up his Ivanovich,” as bowlegged old Ilyich crudely put it. (Ilyich has no fingernails, but he wasn’t born that way.)
They meet a lot, Redbeard the Pirate in the chair, trying to keep things on keel, but they shout and argue. A lot of them can’t speak Russian, which is the second language here, but I could still pick up they’re talking guerrilla warfare, incursions into the countryside to give hope to the people there and bring more fighters into the fold. Sort of like Castro in the Sierra Maestra.
Plans to smuggle us across the border are on hold. “When the time is ripe,” Ruslan says. “Not taking chances with our beautiful Canadian ladies.” Sometimes I writhe with worry. Sometimes I’m at peace and full of hope, not just for ourselves, but for this defiant ragtag band of warriors.
Christmas, I’m having trouble visualizing it. The tree, the turkey, the hanging stockings. Old Tom Witherspoon in his creepy Santa suit, snockered on rum punch. Mabel Zytishin and her jinglebell necklace and out-of-key carolling. The girls dragging us out of bed at half past six. I have to stop now.
21
Arthur stared into the half-emptied closet, wondering what to pack for Christmas in Albania. Three suits would be too many; he’d surely find a dry cleaner somewhere. A warm sweater or two, an umbrella for the rainy winter climate. No point in taking his cellphone. Its reach did not extend beyond North America.
All Margaret’s clothing was gone but a pair of briefs that had somehow got mixed in with his underwear. He pocketed a stray earring, one of a pearl set he’d bought her for a Christmas past. Christmas present would be spent in Albania, where a Christmas present must be bought for her. Surely that struggling little republic would have something distinctive on offer, some handicraft or colourful fabrics.
Before heading off to her riding to set up her campaign, she’d given his trip her tentative blessing, warning him not to let DiPalma lead him into trouble — despite Arthur’s latest efforts to champion him, she was sticking to her view that he was capricious and unstable. At the slightest hint of mischance, she would hand a copy of Hanife Bejko’s letter to the deputy foreign minister. Until then, no one in government would know about this mission — certainly not Crumwell, whom Arthur heartily distrusted.
Margaret had called from Garibaldi, to inform him, with frost in her voice, that a klatch of women had come by to buck her up with cookies and sympathy, welcoming her to the cheated wives’ club. “Christ, this island is hopeless. Arthur, you didn’t …”
“Damn it,” he’d moaned. “If it will shut them up, I’ll pay for a full-page denial in the Bleat.”
“Please don’t.”
Piling his arms with clothes, Arthur listened dully to the scales on a violin, repeated monotonously — it was Sunday, when 10C’s musicologist gave lessons to neighbourhood youngsters. When he returned to the living room and his yawning suitcases, the scritching of strings was succeeded by the bawling of the male lead of “Marital Bonds,” who’d been exiled to the balcony. “Jules and Patsy? You what? Invited them over? Tell them I’m tied up!”
“Give him a gag too,” someone called from below.
Arthur turned the radio up for the news, catching the back end of the lead item: “… not only hacked into, but all hard drives on their networks rendered inoperative. Here’s a further report from Angela Brinker in Toronto.”
“Clyde, members of the RCMP electronics crimes division said the virus has clogged computers of several big-box chains with some kind of screensaver that is multiplying exponentially like amoebas gone wild. It’s in the form of a high-resolution banner that reads in translation: ‘Death to the Assassin Erzhan.’”
Operation Storming Ram. Arthur got it: Random-Access Memory. Either the third son or one of his helpmates was a genius. Cyber warfare had struck at the true heart of Western democracy, not government but consumerism, the prime engine of commerce, mega-mall shopping outlets. Just before Christmas.
“While the virus seems to have originated in Bhashyistan,” Ms. Brinker said, “it has been traced to a proxy Internet provider in Russia. Experts say it will be days before all computers can be cleaned. Losses are expected to be in the tens of millions. Back to you, Clyde.”
Arthur listened without much heart to condemnation from government, politicians, industry spokespersons. International figures too, but Canada’s powerful Western allies seemed unwilling to move off the sidelines, as if expecting Bhashyistan to implode on its own and the problem to disappear.
Arthur could only guess what awaited him overseas; he harboured little faith that his quest would end well. He’d followed the horror stories from Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib, terrorist suspects crippled for life or driven to madness by waterboarding, sleep deprivation, acts of unbearable humiliation. Or killed.
Who had engineered this extraordinary act of extraordinary rendition of a Canadian citizen named Abzal Erzhan? Russia seemed well in the picture, given reports from Sully Clugg that ex-KGB agents may have been involved. Billions in oil revenues were at stake for Gazprom if the Alta deal could be scuttled. As well, the computer virus had been traced to a server in Russia, where cyber crime flourished and the rule of law was idly enforced.
But Arthur preferred the signs that pointed to Anglo-Atlantic Energy, with its wealthy backers and powerful British and American ex-politicians — who, presumably, had easy access to the former spies mentioned by Agent Clugg, international mercenaries operating under the cover of a London security company.
Given the ease with which Abzal had been plucked from the streets of Chambly, might CSIS operatives also be involved in this shadow world of espionage agents? What about Clugg himself, whom DiPalma called a “thoroughgoing jerk”? Was Anthony Crumwell complicit? His background, after all, was as former head of MI5’s anti-terrorist wing. Arthur had never met him, but heard he was embittered at the world after a letter bomb shredded his hand.
Arthur returned his attention to the radio: the first poll figures of the campaign were out. Liberals forty-nine per cent, Conservatives eighteen and on the verge of a near-historic collapse, the NDP, Bloc, and Greens in low double digits. Progressive Reform was sniffing at the leavings while busily nominating candidates — a few respected names but many malcontents, fringe elements. Lafayette had been busy, scouring the country in an effort to patch together a credible team.
Arthur was not looking forward to this tedious, crowded global warming flight, but to kill time he’d picked up a Lonely Planet tour guide and an Albanian phrasebook. As he zipped up his bag, there came strained laughter from the neighbour’s balcony. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Jules — the straps are to keep me in bed. I have a sleepwalking disorder.”
Arthur sighed, wondering if he would forever be haunted by the Episode.
Tragger, Inglis’s Ottawa branch was small in numbers but big in rarefied specialties: trademarks, patents, private international law. Arthur’s first stop there was the office of Antoine Salzarro, the former Public Security mandarin who’d liaised with CSIS for many years.
Arthur had already apologized to this portly, pleasant gentleman for having put him to so much trouble over DiPalma before instructing him to pull out the hired investigator. And now he apologized furth
er for seeking to tap into his knowledge of Sullivan Clugg.
“Ah, yes, Sully. Interfaces with MI5, MI6, quite a character. I believe he has a black belt in something or other — a hard man, as the term is used in the service. Did a stint in Iraq with Blackwater before coming on board, bit of a dark past there, I’ve heard.”
Arthur found this brief CV intriguing and asked Salzarro if he might be able to fill it out. “Nothing classified, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But it might help my client’s case if I found out the names of his closest work companions.”
“Mr. Bullingham has put me entirely at your service. Indeed, he has asked if I might determine if any CSIS personnel may be susceptible to, uh, certain temptations.”
And whose misdoings might aid in the downfall of the party in power. Good old Bully.
The firm’s senior Ottawa solicitor, Sidney P. Biggles, was an unctuous former parliamentarian who’d gone down with the Liberal ship in the last election. He pounced as Arthur returned to the waiting room, rubbing his hands with glee over the poll results while regretting he wouldn’t be on the hustings this time.
“No, my duty lies with Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham — and even more proudly with their illustrious senior counsel. In the humble expectation you might squeeze out a few moments to sign them for staff, two dozen copies of A Thirst for Justice are already on order.”
“They might prefer to wait for the movie.”
“Marvellous. Have they engaged a leading actor? Someone with sufficient panache, I hope.”
Arthur considered spinning the joke out, but instead apologized for his feeble sense of humour. “Could you spare me an office, Sidney? I have matters to discuss with a colleague … and here he is now.”
Ray DiPalma, freshly groomed and in the requisite uniform of Ottawa grandees, a dark pin-stripe, shiny shoes, black valise, horn rims today. “Honoured to meet you, sir,” Biggles said, escorting them down a windowed hallway to a spacious, plushly furnished office.
“This is my own humble workplace.” Biggles raised a hand to deflect protests not made. “No, no, I shall insist, you must have it. Just shove those papers aside. Phone, fax, two computers, tape recorder should you care to dictate memos to our senior secretary. She will bring you coffee and something tasty to go with it. She’s yours for as long as you wish, do with her what you will and she’ll merely ask for more.” Rattling on like that, proving himself DiPalma’s match in logorrhoea, he sidled out the door.
“We should’ve insisted on champagne and exotic dancers,” DiPalma said. “I couldn’t get first class on the plane, though — heavy Christmas bookings. How much cash are you bringing?”
“Twenty thousand, mostly in traveller’s cheques.”
“May not be enough to buy the favours we’ll need.”
From the way DiPalma rubbed his fingers together, Arthur gathered payouts would be exorbitant. “I have credit cards.”
“You’ll be lucky to find a functioning ATM in Albania.”
“I can wire for more.” But he dreaded having to face the ire of the skinflint Bullingham.
DiPalma closed the room’s venetian blinds, brandished a cellphone. “Global roaming privileges.” He opened the valise and spread its papers out. “Overnight to Athens, a feeder to Corfu, hydrofoil to Albania. No maps needed — I know that country backwards. Serbia, Kosovo, Macedonia, Albania, I did them all when I was tracking Krajzinski. I have files on who’s who, who pulls the strings, whose palms to grease.”
DiPalma seemed phenomenally alert today, efficient. His tour of duty in the Balkans had been his time of glory, and he was excited to be returning. A last hurrah, Arthur assumed, for one coping with the gradual debilitating effect of Parkinson’s. Only lately had Arthur picked up on DiPalma’s tremors, a slight shaking of the hand. He was young for the disease’s onset, but famous other sufferers had achieved renown: Eugene O’Neill, John Paul II, Pierre Trudeau.
“I’m Ray DiPalma the developer. I specialize in vacation resorts. That’s why the new threads. Apex International Getaways Corp., properties in the Caribbean, South Pacific, Florida, Mexico. Albania is developing a tourism infrastructure, they’ll be drooling to get their hands on my money. I was up all night cobbling window dressing — letterheads, financial statements, brochures. I’m looking for beach property, you’re my mouthpiece.”
“I presumed I was going in as Abzal Erzhan’s lawyer.”
“Right, and you’ll be on the next plane back. Trust me.”
Arthur had brought documents too: a letter to Abzal from his wife, also signed by their children, along with photos of them. Those would introduce him, as would a recent front-page story, complete with smiling pictures of Arthur standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Zandoo at their press conference.
“You’re absolutely sure CSIS knows nothing of this?”
“I told Crumwell I’ll be incommunicado for a week or so while I’m worming my way into the Environmental Revolutionary Front. Which doesn’t exist, except on paper — Zack and I phonied up some cryptic emails and some maps and diagrams of tar sands facilities in Fort McMurray. We’re scheming to plant some bombs — that’s what they’re supposed to think, but it’s just a form of paper monkeywrenching.”
This sounded more serious than the “diversion” Savannah mentioned. Ray’s idea. He’s pretty imaginative. “I would suggest you put that on ice.”
“Too late. Come on, Arthur, every cop in Alberta and half the CSIS staff will be freezing their butts off in the northern boreal forest while we enjoy our Adriatic holiday. It was Zack’s idea, the guy is brilliant.”
“It sounds of criminal mischief.”
“The stuff I handed over is too vague. No mention of explosives. I let them draw that conclusion. I’ve got a get-out-of-jail card with the greymail I’ve got on CSIS — that’s trade talk, means soft blackmail. Trust me.”
Hopefully, DiPalma would find safety behind the shield of Canada’s whistleblower laws, which Arthur had taken pains to review. But he’d gone beyond his role as double agent. Whether or not this was DiPalma’s idea — and he seemed unwilling to take credit for it — he’d become an agent provocateur, practically a subversive.
“I assume that when you fellows came up with this novelty you were on some potent Amazonian hallucinogen.”
“I’m off intoxicants. Cigarettes too, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m on the patch. Cleaning out the system.”
Maybe that accounted for his being so alert and organized. Arthur suspected he’d never seen DiPalma entirely sober before.
“Now I want you to sit down, Arthur, I want you to relax.”
Arthur subsided onto the couch, fearing the worst.
“I had to tell Crumwell about you and Savannah Buckett, because it’s all over your island. I also had to mention Stoney as the source, because the old man gave me the third degree and I didn’t want him to think I was hiding something.” Arthur went numb as DiPalma prattled on. “Crumwell wanted me to get some kind of statement from Stoney, but I explained that would compromise me. So he just let it drop, and I don’t know if they’re going to pursue it.”
He took Arthur’s hand, clutched it hard. “No way, I mean absolutely no way, am I going to let them smear you. It would be like … like standing by while they go after my own family. I’ll go public, I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles about how CSIS’s top spy tried to engineer a vicious slander campaign. He won’t get a job picking up dog droppings in the park. So let’s put it out of mind while we’re hot on the trail of the biggest screw-up since Maher Arar.”
Arthur remained silent as he once again reassessed his presumptive fellow traveller. Unreliable and unstable, according to Margaret. DiPalma fidgeted, patted his pockets out of habit, looking distressed — the patch may have lost some potency.
“We are solicitor and client, Ray, a relationship we entered into some time ago at your request. So I may not repeat what you have just divulged unless you release me from m
y obligation of silence. Otherwise, our communications remain privileged to the end of time, even should you suddenly, right now, drop dead in front of me.”
As if recognizing this as black humour, DiPalma attempted a stiff smile, then had to still a tremor of his hand.
“So this is what we’re going to do, Ray. You are going to free me from my legal restraint — conditionally. You are going to recite on tape your role, as mandated by Crumwell, to spy on Margaret and me, and you will detail this last conversation with him. I’m going to seal the tape in an envelope, which will be signed and dated by Biggles and at least two other lawyers. It will be placed in the safe here with instructions it not be opened unless you and I somehow fail to return from Albania.”
“Bet your life we’re coming back.”
“Do it, or forget Albania.”
DiPalma hesitated only a moment. “No problem.” He sat at Biggles’s desk, and began talking to the tape machine.
Within the first ninety minutes of their crowded Olympic Airways flight, DiPalma had already broken his pledge not to drink, and was two vodkas to the bad — “Just enough to take the edge off” — but he was antsy, scattered in his conversation, an endless flow. Arthur’s concentration on his Albanian phrasebook was regularly spoiled by pokes and nudges.
He learned things he didn’t care to know: Sully Clugg, the ex-Blackwater bruiser, was suspended for three days after grabbing a secretary’s crotch at the office Christmas party. DiPalma had become so soused that he’d blown his chance with Aretha-May, passing out on her sofa. He was feeling sexually frustrated. He wished he’d been a better husband to Janice.
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