by Jim Stark
"Thanks Betty,” he said as he pulled his glasses down and his body up. “Monique knows I'll be late, eh?"
"Yes sir,” said Betty, “and she said not to worry about your son's performance in the school play. It'll be on again next Saturday, so you can catch it then."
"Make sure I don't screw up on that,” said St. Aubin. “They'll skin me alive if I blow it the second time around."
"Of course, sir,” said the secretary.
Dellaire picked up the dossiers of priority agenda items and gave a copy to the Prime Minister as they walked over to the meeting room. “Watch out for the Honorable Mr. Goofy,” he said quietly. “He's been whining out loud to the media about his desperate need for shiny new toys for the boys now that the goddam Cold War has started up again."
"Gotcha,” said the Prime Minister as he opened the door. “Ladies, gentlemen, don't get up,” he bellowed as he entered the room. “Let's make this one a quickie. No disasters, I trust? The ship of state is on course and on time as far as I know, and I'm sure you've all got plans for the evening."
The ten men and six women of the inner cabinet opened their files, and St. Aubin ploughed through the agenda like a man on a mission.
"Bertha, you can announce the Russian wheat sale whenever you're ready. Tuesday is probably best, a few days before the farmers hold their convention in Winnipeg. I'll be going out there to—"
"I don't see why we should sell our wheat to that bugger Latzoff,” muttered Jeremy Ford, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. “He's another Stalin."
"We might as well sell him our wheat,” said the prime minister in a soothing voice. “We would have given the stuff to him if Russia had stayed on the road to freedom and democracy. At least this way we get paid."
"Wednesday, six p.m.?” said Agriculture Minister Bertha McNeil with a quick glance around the room. “Unless anyone has a conflict or a good reason why not..."
"Gaston, are those PSAC negotiations back on track?” asked St. Aubin.
"Prime Minister, I still think we're giving away the damned store,” said Gaston St. Cyr. “Those guys in the Public Service Alliance have it goddam good, but they're never happy. The press guys are going to say we caved in to their demands, that we're wasting taxpayers’ money to buy labor peace."
"And they'll be right, Gaston,” said an exasperated prime minister, as calmly as he could. “We'll deny it vehemently, of course, but they'll be right. The problem is, there isn't any alternative, is there? This year we giveth to PSAC, next year we taketh away. Didn't we cover that at the last meeting?"
"Yes, sir,” admitted St. Cyr, “but I'm still very uncomfortable with the numbers, and my staff feels that—"
"Your staff is your concern,” said the PM sharply. “I'm interested in your views, not those of your staff. We've got a country to run here.
"Now, Jeremy, I've been told that the rebels in the Philippines are in retreat, but some dumb-ass official over at Foreign Affairs opened his fat yapper and told the press that we were talking about recognizing the breakaway islands. What's the poop?"
One by one, each item in the current litany of irritants was taken the next step, or papered over, or postponed until the next meeting. The public would be told the truth where possible, part of the truth where prudent, and lied to, with some regret, when necessary.
After an hour and a half, the Prime Minister finally found himself at the bottom of the list. He was about to adjourn when Nick Godfrey raised his hand. St. Aubin grimaced at the way his defense chief resembled a tenth-grader asking a teacher for permission to go for a pee. “What is it, Mr. Godfrey?” he asked, hoping his frustration wouldn't show.
"Request five minutes, one on one, sir,” said the Minister. “We have a classified situation that requires your urgent attention—can't wait."
Nicholas Godfrey always looked ill at ease. His long chin and saggy cheeks were permanently gray where the whiskers grew, and the rest of his face was only slightly less gray. His forehead was slashed with horizontal gullies and he had heavy, lined sacks under his eyes. Oddly enough, no one in Parliament was better dressed, even though the Defense Minister would be everyone's last choice as a clotheshorse.
The Prime Minister looked briefly at his trusted chief of staff, and they both knew that their golf game had just been cancelled by the Honorable Nick Goofy. Still, he was the Minister of National Defence and the Deputy Prime Minister, so if he said the issue was urgent, he had to be given the benefit of the doubt.
"Very well,” he said. “Thank you all. Nick ... in my office."
St. Aubin tromped across the hall and into his office in a manner that suggested displeasure, if not hostility. Nick Godfrey followed closely, quickly, not wanting to appear less virile than his boss. He wasn't oblivious to the 180-degree mood swing he'd produced in the Head of Government, but there was nothing he could do about that.
Ralph Dellaire limped along behind this procession of unlikely bedfellows. He hoped that Godfrey's kafuffle would turn out to be overblown nonsense so they could tell him to go fly a kite and get on with their golf game.
"You now have my undivided attention,” said St. Aubin as he flopped into his chair. “What is it, Nick?"
The Minister was dumbfounded, and searched frantically for the right words to vent his outrage without losing his cool, or his job. He had specifically asked for a one-on-one with the Prime Minister, yet there was the ever-present Ralph Dellaire, standing casually by the doorjamb, showing every intention of staying right where he was. St. Aubin preempted Goofy's outburst by saying, “You don't mind if Ralph stays, do you Nick? I'll just have to tell him about it after."
"I most certainly do mind, Prime Minister,” said Godfrey. “And if I don't have your full support, then you should come right out and—"
"Nick!” shouted the Prime Minister as he stood up abruptly and planted both fists knuckles-down on the desk, “put a fucking sock in it. I know the speech, and this is not the time or the place for posturing. Ralph, give us exactly five, then come back in here and I'll bring you up to speed. Now, Nick, sit your ass down and tell me what this is all about."
Dellaire closed the door after winking at his old pal Louis.
Godfrey sat. “Prime Minister,” he began solemnly, “all hell is going to break loose in the next month or two, worldwide, and the trouble is going to start here in Canada, right here in Ottawa. Now you hear me out for however long this takes, or I'll have to—"
"First,” hissed the Prime Minister, “don't ever threaten me with any of your ‘or else’ crap, or I'll have you fucking arrested." His voice almost broke on the last word. He was astonished at his own ferocity and realized, too late, that his threat of arrest was as empty as Godfrey's puffed-up bravado.
"And second,” he said, after taking a deep breath, “I never know what to do when you speak in freaking tongues, Nick. What the Christ are you going on about? Are you telling me we're going to have a nuclear war or something?"
"No, Prime Minister,” said Godfrey, “or I should say I hope not. The problem that I foresee is ... is not primarily military, but it could turn ugly at any—"
St. Aubin stopped his defense chief in mid-sentence with a flared hand, a gesture that warned of serious consequences unless it was obeyed immediately and in full. He could slug Godfrey, he could fire him, but he couldn't make the man get to the point. He couldn't even get him to abandon his beloved clichés. What does that mean, “turn ugly?" he wondered.
"I want the bottom line NOW!” said St. Aubin, with a maximum of emphasis, an uncharacteristic absence of profanity, and only one cliché.
"Prime Minister,” Godfrey began again, “I have reason to believe that within one year, the secrets of all governments will be laid bare to the public. I've learned of a new device with which anyone can tell when anyone else is lying, from the way they speak. When the media get their hands on this, and the Opposition parties, and the pollsters, there won't be a secret left anywhere that can't be found out and print
ed. Think about what this could mean, in the middle of Cold War II and the ongoing War on Terror. We could be looking at chaos on an unprecedented international scale, a sudden confluence of national and subnational crises that may reach the point where all law, both international law and domestic law, could collapse, and—"
"You're joking,” the Prime Minister said as he reached back and scratched his neck. “Who the fuck told you this?"
Godfrey felt a need to stand for this occasion. He wasn't sure why, but the situation just seemed to call for it, so he rose, and stood virtually at attention.
"Prime Minister,” he said bluntly, “at this very moment, there is a sixty-five-year-old man named Roger Findlay in my office, a colonel in the U.S. Air Force. He fought in Vietnam, and he is in fear for his life—with cause, I might add. He told me about this new kind of lie detector. He wouldn't tell me his source, but he kept referring to him and repeating: ‘You have to act quickly; the man is fuckin’ rabid.’ He must have used the word ‘rabid’ five or six times. And that's all I know, but apparently there's a lot more to it. Colonel Findlay won't say any more until he can say it directly to you, in person. In my opinion, you and I should go talk to this man, and we should bring the Minister of Justice and the Commissioner of the RCMP, to cover all the necessary bases."
"You're telling me the truth, aren't you Nick?” said St. Aubin.
"Yes, sir, of course, and if you don't mind my saying, I think—"
"Ralph, get in here—Nick, sit down,” shouted the distraught and deadly serious prime minister. As Dellaire came through the door, St. Aubin ordered him to sit down as well. “Right beside Nick, like you two were bosom buddies."
He walked to the bay window and looked at the newly rototilled garden-to-be behind his palatial residence. The unwritten rules of nature were so immutable, the seasons so predictable, the results of zero administration so perfect and pleasurable. It's easy for the God damned lilies of the field, he thought. He knew that if Godfrey was right about this new device, the tone and tenor of human activity was about to convulse. Some day people would ask each other where they were at the exact moment they first heard of the thing, like people used to do about the Kennedy assassination, or that terrible day when the twin towers of the World Trade Organization were felled in New York by al-Qaeda—9/11, as it had come to be known. And now this!
"Nicholas,” he said respectfully as he turned and walked back to his desk, “Ralph was listening in on the intercom, not because he's a snoop, but because I signaled him to. I trust him more than anyone on Earth, and that includes the Justice Minister and my own wife. Ralph deserves that level of trust, Nick, and I am asking you to give him no less than I give him, from now on. Can you do that for me? Will you do that for me?"
Godfrey was comfortable with his own leadership abilities, but he was also a good follower when a situation called for it. “Of course, sir,” he replied. “Sorry, Mr. Dellaire ... Ralph."
"Ralph,” continued the Prime Minister, “the truth is that you and I don't like this minister a hell of a great deal, personally, and I'm sure he's aware of that. But he was my choice for Defence Minister and Deputy Prime Minister, and I have no regrets about those decisions. In fact, I'm really impressed by the job he's doing—on both fronts. I want you to treat him with more respect, give him your full and unfettered confidence. Will you do that for me?"
Dellaire had never seen his old friend in quite this mood, never in forty years, not even when they were students together at the University of Toronto. Louis looked older than his age, in spite of the off-season facelifts and tummy tucks he'd had in recent years. Truly difficult situations usually led the Prime Minister to let fly with a virtual torrent of improvisational cursing, and the absence of that display seemed to represent a rare lack of self-confidence. Ralph nodded sincerely. “Yes, of course, Louis ... I'll do that."
"Now, both of you,” continued St. Aubin, “do not discuss this Colonel Findlay or the dilemma he represents with anyone unless you clear it with me first. Is that understood?"
It was.
"Good,” he concluded. “Now, let's the three of us go see this son-of-a-bitch."
Chapter 11
SHAKE A PAW
The headquarters of Whiteside Technologies was a twelve-story office tower that seemed to be made of solid, steel-tinted glass. It reflected clouds and sky, looking almost as powerful as the elements themselves. The front lawn seemed greener than grass had a right to be this early in spring. A sense of corporate muscularity oozed from a parking lot flush with new cars, and from the very visible security presence. There was a giant low-rise production plant behind the tower, spread over an area the size of a city block. This complex was the crown jewel of Kanata, a suburb of Ottawa. It provided employment, tax dollars, and prestige to a city that served mainly as a bedroom community for the federal civil service.
Steve Sutherland was delivered to the front of the office tower at 5:05 p.m. He was dressed for hiking, camping, or a barbecue—certainly not for preaching. He gave the taxi driver his VISA card and reminded himself that he had to get some cash from his bank account in Alberta. At this moment, however, what he needed most was a friend, a real friend.
The driver seemed skeptical that his wordless fare of apparently modest means would have a valid card, so he insisted on running the transaction past his dispatcher. After all, the trip from Ottawa out to Norway Bay and back to Kanata came in at almost $450, not including the tip, and he'd been stiffed before.
"It's valid,” came a voice over the car radio as Steve sat patiently in the backseat, with the door open.
"Problem—uh—Father?” said a Patriot hostess who had been on the lookout for Sutherland.
The driver's dark eyes stayed focused on the paperwork, but his brain was flashing “disk error.” Is that her dad, or did I just figure a priest for a deadbeat? he asked himself. Probably best to just write in the price, get the signature, and haul ass.
"He was just checking my card,” Steve said to the hostess as the driver passed the plastic tray from the front seat. He added a modest tip, signed on the line, and passed the tray back. “Thanks,” he said, taking his card and the receipt back from the driver. “I made this in my basement this morning,” he bragged loudly as he showed his VISA card to the hostess and stepped out of the cab. “Pretty professional job, eh?"
"You must have been a holy terror as a kid,” said the hostess in a voice that the driver was sure to hear.
"Whadya mean ‘as a kid?'” Steve joked just as he closed the car door. He didn't know quite why he was in such an outrageously wonderful mood, or why he and his temporary escort would conspire to confuse and worry a perfectly innocent cab driver. I'll think it through later, he said to himself.
As he walked towards the large glass doors, he found himself taking stock. He had made the right first step—to set up shop in Norway Bay, in the small cottage his family had owned since before World War II. That gave him a base of operation. Now he could look forward to a future that was ... well, tabula rasa, he supposed. A blank slate ... he made a mental note to lay off the Latin while he was a civvie.
In spite of the problems that would attend such a profound change in his life, Steve felt a bit like ... like what? he wondered. Like the day I went to summer camp, when I was eleven; like the day I started high school, age thirteen-and-a-half; like that wondrous day when I first donned a cassock and plunked my father's suitcase on the bed of that small, austere room in the seminary, back in 1980. Or was it 1979? Somewhere around there.
He wasn't very good with dates. He also wasn't very good at hiding his real feelings, and he therefore suspected that his good mood was a defense mechanism of some sort, and destined to be short-lived. Still, he wasn't very inclined to kill it off, to sour himself deliberately. Time enough for tears, he thought. Maybe I've already exceeded my lifetime quota?
The hostess was unaware of his reasons for not having a collar on, and Steve didn't explain as she ushered him i
nto the waiting elevator. Instead, he engaged her in a lively conversation about the state of the nation. They went down two floors, where she sat him in an electric golf cart and drove him through a well-lit tunnel, an underground link between the office tower and the production plant. It seemed that her opinion of the new St. Aubin Liberal government wasn't much different from her opinion of the previous Tory bunch, and Steve got a kick out of the way she searched for polite ways to trash politicians, the lot of them. At the other end of the tunnel, they went up an elevator, down a hall and around a corner to a door that was flanked by two burly agents.
"He's expecting you,” said the hostess as she showed him in.
Randall was at the other end of a large, windowless room—a lab of some sort. There were dozens of white-clad workers standing around in clusters, murmuring—the way people do at a wake, Steve thought. As soon as Randall saw him, he crossed the room and welcomed him with a hearty handshake.
"It's great to see you, Steve,” he beamed. “It's been a while since you just came by out of the blue. What brings you all the way out here? Looking for another donation for the missions?"
Steve was truly pleased to see his oldest friend. He felt as if he were returning home from a foreign war. And yet this was a man who could usually read him like a book, the person he'd have to lean on for a while. As night falls in the mountains, his upbeat mood dissipated with astonishing suddenness.
"Hi Randy,” he said, with as much of a smile as he could manage. “Actually, I'm looking for some advice. I came to Ottawa for an emergency meeting of the CACB. You can guess what was on the agenda, what with Caughy Commission and all that."
"Yeah,” said Randall. “I saw your ugly mug on TV last night, at the hearing, giving the scribes a ‘no comment.’ Must have been a slow news day. I wonder how come they don't report it on national TV when I've got nothing to say,” he quipped, with a play-punch to the Bishop's gut.
