The excitement of making it to Siberia and freedom (a sort of freedom) is paling, and I’m feeling tension over what awaits our friends and rescuers camped below. Add to that the agony of waiting to get out of here, and waiting, waiting. We will be escorted to Omsk imminently, Colonel Letvinov keeps promising, then continues to ignore us.
Maxine and Ivy sleep on, but I am bundled into a quilt, staring out at the snowy barrens. They look so haunted and desolate under the silvery moon. Fires are burning in the Bhashyistan encampment. An occasional flick of a lighter below, where Russian sentries smoke and murmur.
Far away on the Siberian steppes, something else is sending darts of light — headlights, it looks like, a vehicle coming down the dusty road from Omsk.
I’ve nudged the window open, and I can hear the purr of its engine. Maybe someone has finally come to fetch us. Soon, Colonel Letvinov said. Soon. With repetition, that no longer seems a comforting word.
The vehicle has taken shape, a big black Lada, maybe a staff car … It has just rolled into the encampment, and … wow, it’s causing a huge stirring among the tents of the Bhashyistan resistance army …
Okay, a couple of men have got out of the car, and one of them is going toward the men and women pouring out of the tents. A huge commotion! A shout, repeated. “Abzal! Abzal!”
It has become a chorus. They are thronging him. “Abzal! Abzal! Abzal!”
Dear Hank (continued),
Eight a.m., a cold winter sun is rising over the snowbound eastern plains. In the tent village of the Revolutionary Front, the partisans are dipping bowls into a huge pot of, I guess, porridge. Abzal Erzhan is still moving among them, hugging, shaking the hands that are not pummelling him on the back. “Abzal! Abzal!” Where had he come from? No one is saying.
We have just returned from breakfast downstairs in the officers’ mess, where we met a very engaging journalist, Vlad Mishin. The card he gave us says he’s with Izvestia. He arrived with Abzal Erzhan, I guess, though he didn’t say so. No one will talk about Mr. Erzhan, we just get shrugs. I find his presence here a little unnerving. A hero of the resistance, and a Canadian citizen to boot, but isn’t he also an assassin?
Anyway, Mr. Mishin wants to interview Maxine, Ivy, and me, and we’re game for that, anything that will get word out that we’re alive and well. He’s the only journalist here, and seems to have privileges, talking and joking with the colonel and his staff — they’ve probably ordered him to put the right slant on this story. Cynical me …
Abzal Erzhan has just entered the palisade gate, a Kalashnikov over his shoulder, and has joined red-bearded Ruslan and Atun and Colonel Letvinov, and they’re poring over maps down there. I’ve read history. Sometimes the big powers don’t directly invade the little ones. They use surrogates. At the Bay of Pigs the surrogates got trounced.
Through the binoculars Atun left with us, I see cook fires burning in the Bhashyistan army encampment. Their efforts at trenching have been abandoned — I think they struck hardpan over there. You don’t see any civilians on the village’s streets, it’s like a ghost town. Sometimes you hear a shot, accidental or caused by nerves. If you believe Atun, it’s deserters being executed.
The air seems prickly with anticipation. I know I should get away from the window, but I can’t. It’s nerve-racking, though, what if one of those rifles sends a bullet my way? Or a missile. I have an eerie sense the Russians might not mind, they’d have their excuse to go to war, which it looks like they’re itching to do.
Hello again, darling. It’s a couple of hours later. I’ll try to relate this as plainly as possible, though I’m absolutely shaking.
First of all, there was a plane, a small one, Russian, I guess, and it flew right above us, low, over the border, and you could see the Bhashyistan soldiers scampering off, like they were under attack, but the plane only dropped leaflets, it was like a snowfall of paper.
As this was going on, Ruslan was leading about a hundred partisans south, and Atun was taking another hundred to the west, a pincer manoeuvre, said Mishin. I’d better explain. Vlad Mishin has come up to our suite to do his interviews, and we all got distracted when the plane passed over. Vlad had his own binocs (and a satellite phone, by the way), and Maxine and Ivy and I were fighting over the other pair.
So Bhashyistan officers were running about, ordering their soldiers back to their positions, and you could see them, officers and infantry, mulling over the leaflets. They’re from the Bhashyistan Revolutionary Front, Vlad said, with a picture of Abzal Erzhan and a message urging the army to put down their guns and join the resistance.
While that was going on, Abzal Erzhan led the main body of partisans straight toward the little customs houses, and as they approached, there was wild activity on the Bhashyistan side, with most of the officers piling into army trucks and speeding off.
Some of the foot soldiers followed, bounding off like jackrabbits, but most began throwing rifles into a pile, raising their arms in surrender. By this time, Abzal Erzhan’s contingent had crossed the border. Not a shot fired! They simply took over the village, and the townspeople finally emerged from their homes. You could hear their chanting from the half a mile that separates us. “Abzal! Abzal! Abzal!” Even the soldiers who’d surrendered were calling his name.
Meanwhile, Vlad Mishin has been on his satellite phone, to his editor in Moscow, relating his scoop. Somehow, the communications blackout doesn’t apply to him. He looks really pleased with himself as he concludes his call … Oh, boy, he wants to know if I’d like to call home.
The girls had finally gone to bed, and Dr. Hank Svetlikoff was contemplating the risks of doing the same, of suffering through another tormented night.
He was slow to answer the phone, fearful of what he might hear — eleven o’clock on a Monday night seemed a good time for bad news. By the time he got to it, Katie had already picked up the extension, and was screaming wildly, nonsensically.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“Just me, dear.”
35
“How like a winter hath my absence been. What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen.’” Apt lines from a favourite sonnet, recited with rumbling brio as Arthur warmed his buttocks by the blazing phony fireplace — a break from the gratifying task of vacating his unloved tenth-floor Ottawa flat.
No longer would he have to endure this thin-walled sound box, whose lessor was soon to resume his Ottawa professorship. No more Handel, no more theatrics, no more weekend revels detonating through walls and floors. Almost all his belongings were now bagged and boxed, and what wasn’t ready for storage would travel with him. Westward ho!
The four days since his return from Europe had been hectic: wearying sessions with police, politicians, and press, the constant nagging of the phone. Among the worst perpetrators: the deadline-bedevilled chronicler, Wentworth Chance — whose title for the final chapter, “A Balkan Odyssey,” hinted of ponderous prose throughout.
Newspapers had devoted vast columns of ink to Abzal’s rescue and his secret journey to his homeland, ultimately dwarfing the sadder story of DiPalma’s travails and death. Arthur had largely abided by RCMP pleas to withhold details so as not to compromise the case against the renegade CSIS agents, but he’d balked at keeping back the DiPalma tape. I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles about how CSIS’s top spy tried to engineer a vicious slander campaign.
The media trumpeted the tape as confirmation that Crumwell and Thiessen were co-sponsors of l’affaire Château Laurier — a journalist had already traced the hotel’s billing charges to an unspecified government account. CSIS issued its standard vague disclaimer: “The Service does not comment on investigations it may or may not be pursuing.”
Nor had it commented on DiPalma’s death, though it was the subject of massive speculation. His demise was still heavy on Arthur’s mind, his shrouded figure shuffling energetically through his dreams.
“The play’s the thing!” A bellow from the hallway, as the theatre ma
jor unlocked his door. He sounded in fine fettle, well recovered from the critical flop of “Marital Bonds.” Inhuman screeches sounded from the rock fan’s flat below, a skirl of amplified guitar, the thump-thump of bass. A woman’s shout: “Turn that damn thing down!” How pleasant it was to be facing imminent eviction.
It was Thursday, and tonight he would lay over in his Vancouver club before taking a weekend of recuperation on Garibaldi Island, a respite too brief. Then he would join Margaret on her crosscountry campaign train. Manitoba maybe, Northern Ontario.
Margaret must regain her voice for that. She’d been hoarse on the line that morning, but cheery: the Greens, at fourteen, were a point behind the Tories. But the Liberals were poised to sweep, riding a tidal wave of disgust at a government perceived as in effective in crisis and with its foreign intelligence service in disarray.
It was hard not to feel sympathy for Clara Gracey. Her strategy of caution, however wise, had not won plaudits. Nihil est incertius vulgo. Nothing is more uncertain than the favour of the crowd, snorted that wily counsel Cicero. A leader more foolhardy than Gracey might have led Canada into a disaster, but she’d had the wisdom to back off. Arthur honoured her for her restraint.
Prime-Minister-in-Waiting McRory had already announced that the Bhashyistan imbroglio would go to royal commission — a banquet of delights for participating barristers: treachery, bribery, kidnapping, assassination, the death of a spy, and now a growing rebellion in Bhashyistan. A spectacular opportunity for the lucky man or woman who’d be working Abzal’s corner — whoever that might be. And it wouldn’t be Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp, Q.C. But how to explain this to Abzal? He could imagine his look of astonishment and betrayal at being forsaken for goats, garlic, and prize pumpkins.
Unless … a glimmer of hope. If Brian Pomeroy were suddenly to appear out of the cold Arctic blue, showing himself reasonably sane, the client would be more than mollified. Arthur must get back on Pomeroy’s trail.
He strapped his suitcases shut, paused to review his packing list: books, CDs, a hand-sewn quilt from Ohrid, Margaret’s Christmas gift. He was pestered by the thought he’d forgotten to do some tedious task, something routine but which he couldn’t identify. Never mind — he phoned for a taxi.
As he manoeuvred his three bags past apartment 10C, he heard a favourite line: “‘Let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp.’” Hamlet! The neighbourhood thespian had raised the level of his art.
“‘And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee!’” Arthur shouted back as he headed to the elevator.
The Mishin Statement
A Blog by Vlad Mishin — Version: English
Dateline: Thursday, January 6. Somewhere Inside Bhashyistan
Welcome to the only unfiltered, uncensored reportage of events that are electrifying the world, as this veteran war correspondent is still the sole representative of the free press to have attained entry into this isolated, troubled land.
Our dramatic story continues again in Bhashyistan’s cold northern barrens, a war zone unlike any other I have covered in my twenty years as international journalist. A war zone in which a small force of rebels marches resolutely forward, and a vast army flees like stampeding caribou.
As those who have followed my articles in Izvestia [see sponsored links] know, I am imbedded, along with camera and technical assistants, in the newly created First Battalion of the Bhashyistan Democratic Revolutionary Front. This fighting force has grown to nearly 700 men and women, spectacularly led by a former Bhashyistan soldier who has returned to his beloved homeland after years of exile in Quebec and Canada: Abzal Erzhan, [click to enlarge] whom I am proud to call a friend, having bonded with him during our night flight to Omsk in Izvestia’s executive jet. [click on Farewell to Macedonia]
As you may know from my posting three days ago [click here], the BDRF were guardian angels to three Canadian women with Russian roots whom they smuggled to freedom, protecting them as fiercely as if they’d been their sisters. Now these brave women are happily winging their way to Moscow for a special welcome by President Bulov before flying home first class to their loved ones, courtesy of the Russian government. (And hello to you beautiful women, Jill and Maxine and Ivy, and to Dr. Hank whose words of thanks still ring joyfully in my ears. Happy reunion!)
Soon they will be joined by other homecoming Canadians, not so heroic in my humble opinion. Here is where we pick up the story from Tuesday when I crossed into Bhashyistan.
Friendly arms pulled me onto a military lorry that the insurgents had seized from fleeing government soldiers, and in no time we were on the outskirts of Özbeg, a small but important administrative centre. [Search “oil fields,” click on Özbeg] I was nervous, it cannot be denied, because I expected artillery fire from the garrison protecting the town.
But advance scouts soon returned to say that the official army had deserted. Even so, Abzal Erzhan was cautious as he led us toward the city square. Then suddenly hundreds of happy men, women, and children poured from their homes and boarded-up shops with great cheers of Abzal! Abzal! coming from every street.
Your correspondent got many hugs too because Russians are seen as sympathetic to their struggle for freedom — though like good international citizens we respect our neighbours’ borders. I was swept up by the cheering crowd as they led Abzal to the city jail, which had been left unguarded except for one old man. A poignant moment occurred then, because after he surrendered the keys to the cells he went to his knees sobbing not to be executed.
Of course he will not be! Abzal assured him he is a man of compassion. His army is an army of compassion.
Keys rattled and doors clanged, and I hurried forward to join Abzal so I could capture faces of the five Canadians languishing in the cells. When they saw the guns they were petrified at first [click here], but as the dawn rose for them, that gave way to this:
“Gentlemen, you are free to return home,” said Abzal, in English as impeccable as my own. It gave me ironic pleasure to see these high-rolling North Americans, who had tried to bribe their way into the oil fields [go to www.izvestia.com, search “Revenge of Revered Mother”] supplicating themselves before this self-effacing saviour who refuses to be known as anything but a simple soldier, teacher, and patriot. More Ghandi than Genghis Khan.
So as our humbled Calgarians (I mean no insult to Calgary, home of the famous stampede and the revered Flames) journeyed north to the freedom and safety of Mother Russia, we began our trek east, toward Igorgrad.
And now it is Thursday and so far the BDRF has met little resistance. The battalion’s three prongs, led respectively by comrades Abzal, Ruslan, and Atun, are sweeping across the plains like reapers, harvesting eager recruits, men and women leaving farms and towns to take up arms against their fascist enslavers. We are a day’s march from the capital, where the President’s elite guard, fiercely loyal to the Ultimate Leader (and, sadly, Russian-trained), stand ready to fight to the death …
Arthur arrived at the Vancouver airport suffering flight guilt — a phenomenon unknown to him pre-Blake but which had begun to plague him in recent weeks. He vowed to abstain from these gas-gulping journeys; he’d been soiling planet Earth with his massive carbon footprint. A train next time — if there was to be a return journey.
At the arrivals level, Augustina Sage gave him a kiss and a hug, and helped stuff his three bulging suitcases into her small car. As they were under way, she peppered him with questions about his Balkan exploits and the spectacular events in Bhashyistan. That continued over prawns and noodles in Chinatown. Finally, Arthur was able to ask if her former partner, gone native, had sent her any smoke signals.
“The good news, if you can call it that, is Brian is still alive. Somehow, he made it over the Nahanni Range to the Mackenzie Highway. This news comes from the RCMP in Fort Simpson, who called wanting to know if a haggard prospector found eating snow-shoe-rabbit stew in a trapper’s cabin was actually a lawyer.”
“And?”
“I asked them t
o hold him, arrest him for something, anything, a trumped-up charge. They just laughed. I asked them to have him call me collect, but he hasn’t had the courtesy or courage to do that. This was three days ago. I was booking a flight up there when they phoned again to say he’d joined some First Nations people driving to Fort Providence, on Great Slave Lake. He could be anywhere.” Arthur couldn’t believe that Pomeroy, having re-emerged into the human community, could be unaware of world events or that his favourite former client was on course to liberate Bhashyistan. Surely, the gold claim his clients had presumably assigned to him was an illusory fee. He would find more gold in Ottawa — if appointed to represent Abzal, he could earn several thousand taxpayers’ dollars a day.
The next morning, Arthur got up early at his club to meet Roy Bullingham in the dining room. As he waited over coffee and a soft-boiled egg, he watched the wall screen, where talking heads were reciting the obvious about Bhashyistan. The received wisdom was that the Russian army was calmly waiting at the border for its invitation from the new regime to help with reconstruction. An army of Gazprom engineers would not be far behind.
Canada AM lingered lovingly for several minutes on happy faces in a Kremlin reception hall, where President Bulov toasted the three Prairie heroines and posed with them, arms linked. The love-in did not include the five Calgarians — who’d been very bad boys in Moscow’s estimation. Military police had held them for eight hours of questioning before deporting them on an Air Canada flight.
Journalists continued to be held up at the Russian and Kazakhstan borders, so the only person filing reports was the Russian spy and intriguer Vlad Mishin, whose tendentious blog was widely read and profitably smothered in ads. Arthur hadn’t realized, when he’d met Mishin in Ohrid, that Izvestia was owned by the Gazprom Media Holding Company.
Snow Job Page 35
