“Let’s talk about it later, Djon.”
Pulling up was a four-wheel-drive van bearing the insignia of the Albanian State Police. Climbing out, a smiling bearded officer, who held open the passenger door for Arthur. Grigori was his name, and for the enjoyment of his patron, he chose a mountainous route, by the Greek border. They looped around hairpins that Grigori took with wide, heart-stopping turns to avoid potholes, then descended to valleys with raging streams under creaky wooden bridges that were another test of courage. But the views were stunning, and Arthur captured several on DiPalma’s cellphone.
Occasionally, on emerging from scrub and pine forests, they entered areas of small holdings and dilapidated villages where grizzled locals stared after them in amazement, as if their passage were the highlight of the month. Grigori wasn’t shy about using his siren to clear passage between horse carts and fleeing chickens and flocks of stubborn, grumpy goats. Finally, a sizable town, Korça, where they turned north.
Snow was clinging to the roadside as they crested a final high point and took a view of Lake Ohrid, a glassy blue expanse beyond which lay the isolated little Republic of Macedonia. A steep descent took them to a plateau upon which a twelve-foot-high wire fence enclosed a concrete structure with guard turrets at each corner.
Prison 303 resembled an industrial warehouse, featureless and flat, with barred windows, and was abutted by a shedlike administrative office. Some three hundred prisoners were housed here, said Grigori, many of whom he’d bussed in over the years. The gatekeeper recognized him, strapped on his submachine gun as he opened the gate.
Several yard guards lounged about, keeping an eye on the dozen prisoners shovelling snow from the driveway, picking up litter, and washing two prison service vehicles near the office. Grigori barked an order as he and Arthur alighted, and they started in on his muddy van.
A rat scurried under the office annex as Arthur approached its locked steel door. Clearly, he was expected, because he was admitted immediately by a secretary. Several others sat at desks, with the resigned look of underpaid civil servants. A group of uniformed guards was watching a soccer game on a small TV. Rifles and shotguns hanging on the walls.
The man standing at an office doorway had to be Hasran Chocoli. Saying nothing, sizing Arthur up. Birdlike, twitchy, hints of an anxiety disorder, all masked by another fine example of Albanian facial art, handlebars as thick and wide as a clothes brush.
“Come in, Mr. Beauchamp.” In English, slightly accented.
The secretary followed them in with a tea tray, set it on a side table, and poured. The office was handsomely done, leafy plants, lounge chairs and ottomans, Turkish carpets, walls draped with fabric in Byzantine patterns. Good communist in past life, but repent, kept job.
“How do you take your tea? I usually prefer goat’s milk. Very healthy.”
“No question. I happen to raise goats.”
“A goatkeeper and a lawyer, how unique.”
Tea poured and stirred, they settled into soft chairs, testing each other in conversation. Arthur lied about how much he was enjoying Albania, and complimented Chocoli on his English. The warden said he’d improved it by studying abroad.
His hands were active, playing with his tie, his shirt buttons, his moustache. “I regret this meeting must be brief, Mr. Beauchamp. Abzal Erzhan is no longer in this facility. He was transferred two weeks ago.”
Arthur showed no reaction.
“Here, let me show you.” Chocoli went to his desk, returned with a leather-bound book. It was rather like a guest register, with dates and remarks written in pen after prisoners’ names. Here was Erzhan crossed out, two weeks ago, Monday, December 13.
Arthur checked himself from asking why Chocoli hadn’t mentioned this on the phone yesterday to Captain Bizi. Quickly, cellphone in hand, he snapped a picture of the page. The warden made a half-hearted effort to retrieve the book, but Arthur held on tight, flipping the pages back to late November, looking for Erzhan’s name. Here he was, booked in on Saturday, November 27, ten a.m., confirming Bejko’s account. He took another photo.
“It is not permitted to record government documents.” Chocoli wrestled the register away while Arthur calmly pocketed the phone. The warden seemed uncertain whether to pursue the matter.
“And where was Mr. Erzhan taken?”
“That is a mystery. He was signed out by the State Border Police under warrant sealed by the director-general of prisons.” A tight smile, though Arthur could barely make it out behind the foliage. “No forwarding address.”
“May I see the documents relating to his transfer?”
“You must ask in Tirana for these.”
“But you have copies, I assume?”
“I am not authorized.” He straightened his tie.
“Help me, Warden, I’m confused. Hanife Bejko — you know him, of course?”
“In my official capacity here, yes, I have met him.”
“A month ago, Hanife was in a cell adjoining Mr. Erzhan’s. He observed him being beaten.”
“That was not done. There were even discussions about his safety … Never mind. Hanife has a wayward tongue, he exaggerates.”
Discussions about his safety? “I’m curious to know what my client was charged with.”
Chocoli spread his hands. “It is a criminal offence to enter the country illegally. That is why the border police are involved, yes? I have no control over what they do. Maybe you should ask them. Or the prisons office in Tirana. It’s not my job to keep track of fifteen thousand inmates in thirteen institutions, I am sorry.” He shrugged.
“You were not aware Erzhan was flown secretly here from Canada? And that he was accused of a crime he could not have committed?”
“I know nothing about him. They come, they go, I don’t even look at them.” He was having trouble meeting Arthur’s eye.
“Warden Chocoli, what is the usual penalty for illegal immigration?”
Chocoli drained his tea. “Fine, jail, deportation, there are many solutions.”
“And how much must Mr. Erzhan pay in fines before I escort him out of the country?”
“That would be for decision by judicial authorities.” Shifting in his chair.
A hard bargainer, Bejko said. “Would fifteen thousand dollars pay his debt to society?” To get Abzal out of the country safely and fast, Arthur would be prepared to pay well in excess of that.
Chocoli stood. “Mr. Beauchamp, I would be insulted if I thought you were offering a bribe. But surely you are not, because it is against the law. Now I must close this meeting. I have many things to do.”
“I can arrange for thirty thousand in one or two days. Cash, of course.”
“Cash …” Temptation was written on his face, but there was fear also; Arthur could see it in his eyes. “No, it is not possible.” He indicated the door with a trembling hand.
Arthur calmly sipped his tea. “I am not satisfied with what I’ve been told, Warden. This is a matter with serious international implications. I can’t believe you aren’t aware of that.”
“I have to ask you to leave.” Holding the doorknob. “Please.”
Arthur rose, returned his cup to the tray, then towered over his host for a silent moment, not threatening but demanding, forcing Chocoli to look squarely at him and reveal the mendacity in his eyes. Vultus est index animi. The face is the index of the soul.
Chocoli had broken into a sweat by now. He twitched again, and spoke softly: “I have instructions. There are other people involved, people in Tirana.”
27
For the past couple of days, Charley Thiessen had been hanging at Hoffstutter Blane, the Tory ad agency, where a cluster of witty, bright-eyed women had taken him in charge, sprucing up his message, rehearsing him, dressing him, powdering him, perfecting his handsome, confident John Wayne grin.
His mother had come with him to Toronto, but they’d sent her packing on the first day, she having been considered a disruptive force, a distraction, an
d there’d been an unhappy scene around that. But the young ladies cooled him out, flattered him, insisting he had great camera presence. He guessed he didn’t come off too bad on some of the takes, but he never felt he was speaking from the heart: these were somebody else’s words, Gus Hoffstutter’s words.
Some of the clips would go national, some just in Ontario, most in Grey County, where he’d also be playing live the next night, New Year’s Eve, with a dozen soirées to visit.
Today’s last taping, for national free-time radio, was important enough that the man himself was guiding him through it, Hoffstutter with his pink face and puckered smile. Several of his girls were here in the boardroom too, hovering about, practically swooning whenever their Einstein came up with another brilliancy.
“Bhashyistan, that’s the ticket we ride to January twenty-four. How did we fare on La Presse’s poll, my darling?”
“We’re up eight.”
“And that’s just in Quebec. Are we charting up with a bullet?” A chorus of agreement. “And do we know what caused that bump?”
“The raid on Igorgrad.”
“Front of the class. We’re riding to victory on the coattails of our air force heroes. I told Clara to get that on the street, and I’m telling you, Charley. Here’s how we’re deep-thinking this thing — if silencing Mukhamet has clawed back eight points, three more shots like that will send us off the grid. We hit them again, and hit them hard. Affirmative, Charley? You with me? Hello? You zoning out on us again?”
“I was just wondering if I should say something about, you know, the environment, capping carbon emissions.” Talk about what’s really important, Dad. Joy had been all over him about Big Oil, the stripping of the boreal forest, drowning him in numbers, charts, graphs projecting climate catastrophe. She’d embarrassed him by signing on as a Greenpeace volunteer.
Hoffstutter finished his latte, wiped the foam from his manicured moustache. “Get me another of those, dear. Okay, Charley, you’re not going airy-fairy on us, I hope. That climate stuff only confuses people, scares them. No, you’re going to talk about our brave boys in uniform, and you’re going to talk about patriotism, national pride, heads held high. We’re not waiting for those chickenshits at the UN to step in, we’re not waiting for the rest of the world. We’re setting an example, we’re righteous warriors for democracy.” Applause. “The Grits, needless to say, are to come off as cowering pantywaists. Capiche, Charley?”
“Yeah, I guess, okay.”
“Remember Huck’s rallying cry. What was it, Jackie?”
“Canada first!”
“Canada first, Charley. You’re Captain Canada. Now you skedaddle out of here while we poop it up.”
That gave Thiessen a chance to get some air. He went down to Queen Street, buttoned his coat against the chill, took an aimless walk, slowing as he passed a cocktail lounge, tempted but carrying on, knowing they’d smell it on his breath.
It was December 30, ten days after the debacle in the Château Laurier. Why wasn’t that on the street? It had been an unbearable time, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. On his head, like a hobnailed boot.
But the long silence was giving him hope — there was a credible reason for it, obvious even. Robert Stonewell was a dope dealer, he didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want the heat. He’d chucked the recorder, deep-sixed it in the Ottawa River, and gone back to his hot-air balloon business. He probably smuggled his dope that way, with air drops.
So maybe all was good, maybe it was time to come up for air. Maybe his dreams hadn’t been dashed — the big prize was still open, he could yet score the game-winning touchdown. The Tomato Juice Fiasco had finally slipped off YouTube’s most-watched list, it would soon be forgotten. To the great, adversity is a welcome challenge. His mom’s favourite fridge magnet.
He stopped at an array of newspaper boxes, bought the National Post, flipped through it. Only one reference to himself — which brought relief, not despair. Buried in a story headed SIX ALTA BRASS REMANDED ON BAIL, a mention of the fiat he’d signed, as attorney general, authorizing the bribery indictment.
Gracey and the PMO had pushed him hard to approve it — Quilter and his crew were probably as guilty as Judas, but the main idea was to get distance from Alta, to demonstrate that the rule of law prevailed without fear or favour — and, as a by-product, mollify the Bhashies. The Tories weren’t expecting any campaign donations from Alta anyway.
He headed back up to the ad agency to record his jingoistic spiel. How had he let himself be cowed by Hoffstutter? How was he going to look Joy in the face?
“I come armed with vital dispatches.” Percival Galbraith-Smythe, by Clara’s bed, lowering a tray with coffee and a bowl of tastelessly healthy bran cereal — he seemed determined to keep her alive until the election. “It seems you had a rare old time last night. Doesn’t hurt. Shows you’re not some pinch-faced academic but a fun person, vital, still attractive to the dominant sex — though you might consider taking a few centimetres off those thighs.”
She’d seen those thickening thighs on Canada AM, doing a kind of faux step dance on a Halifax stage at two in the morning, a New Year’s Eve campaign kickoff party. The press was to have left early, but someone must have hung around with a minicam.
“What time is it?”
“First of all, do you know the day?”
“Saturday. New Year’s Day.”
“Correct. It is half past eleven in the morning. You are at 24 Sussex Drive. You arrived here four hours ago after a three-hour nap on the Challenger jet. You are ready to roll.”
The iron lady found her gown and slippers. She’d pretty well blown that image, a stale, ill-fitting role foisted on her by Hoffstutter and the campaign team. Couldn’t they at least call her the iron maiden? But the wartime prime minister image seemed to work. The successful air raid had ended the cyber attacks on businesses and boosted Conservative numbers.
She couldn’t remember the name of that lovely young man from last night. Ralph something, a common surname, Harrison, Henderson. Campaign manager in Dartmouth. On waking at the call of her bladder, she’d been abashed to find, sleeping beside her, a man young enough to be her son. She’d fled for her plane at five a.m., abandoning him in her hotel suite. She hoped Percival wouldn’t hear about it — he was so censorious.
Coffee and a cigarette aided the recuperative process, and soon she was showered and dressed. When she returned, Percival was at his laptop.
“I do have some good news, but first the bad, something that will not soothe your hangover.”
On the YouTube screen, an entirely unwelcome face: Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich chortling: “He’s back!”
Clara groaned as the lens widened to show him behind the wheel of a yellow Hummer. “Surprise, not so easy to pull out thorn in side, eh, Canada? So guess what, this most-watched news host has five Hummers, all same colour, for to confuse assassins. Now only four, and also one less innocent underling who you murder. So once again so-called advanced country is outwitted by emerging nation.”
Fade to a country scene, a barn, livestock. “Just in, spontaneous demonstration by agricultural workers and wives.” A throng of peasants, some holding farm and household items, pitchforks and rolling pins, chanting, in rehearsed English: “Death to Canada, death to Abzal Erzhan!” A horse reared as they set a maple leaf flag alight.
Fade back to Mukhamet, starting the Hummer’s engine. “Stay tuned for more hot news. This is your roving reporter Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich signing off.” He accepted the video camera from whoever was holding it, and his chubby face again filled the screen. “Canada goose, hah! We give you the goose.”
Clara chained a cigarette. Her hangover was compounded by a migraine — they’d been coming more frequently. So much for the jump in the polls. “For God’s sake, tell me the good news.”
“Not yet. More bad. Bit of a row in Kyrgyzstan about our use of the American base. The Yanks want us to back off. They could lose their lease.”
“Those faithless fucking faint-hearts, always looking out for number one –”
“Whoa … Listen up, my sweet.” He wagged a finger to still her rant. “Last night, our embassy in Kazakhstan received a call by sat-phone from a partisan of the Bhashyistan Democratic Revolutionary Front. Didn’t leave a number. Announced himself in English as ‘a friend to Canada.’ The rest was in Russian.” He passed her a memo with the translation.
“A dissident? Some are still on the loose?”
“Well, we did empty the jail, Clara. They seem to have developed an effective underground grapevine.”
Clara put on her glasses. According to this informant, the Calgary Five were in the cells of a police station in a town called Özbeg, in the northern desert, near the Russian border. A company of Bhashyistan regulars was barracked there, protecting the nearby oil fields. “Very dangerous, but you will squash them like cockroaches. Good luck. God save the Queen.”
Percival opened a file. “Özbeg, population twenty thousand. Aerial images place it approximately in the middle of nowhere. Hometown of one of the defectors from the Ilyushin crew, he helped the DoD pinpoint the police station. Buster Buchanan has a plan to pull the hostages out of there, fly them to our base in Kandahar. Total Canadian show, avoiding Kyrgyzstan.”
“What if it’s a trick, Percival?”
“Buster Buchanan is willing to gamble. What do we have to lose?”
“Lives. The election.”
“It’s also ours to win, pet.” He looked at his watch. “High command will be here for lunch at twelve-thirty to seek milady’s blessings. No time to brief the cabinet. They’re spread all over the country anyway. It’ll be your call.”
This is what it was all about. This is what killed Huck Finnerty. Clara stared at her wan, haunted face in the dressing table mirror. Eyeshadow seemed well advised. “What else?”
“A.J. Quilter filed suit yesterday against Her Majesty for two billion dollars.”
Snow Job Page 27
