by Jim Stark
It took several minutes of furious writing, but Cam managed to tell Dr. Pavay about the LieDeck device, and show him the five he had in his briefcase, and tell him what had happened up in the Secretary General's office. The High Commissioner was prudent enough not to speak. He picked up his phone and asked his secretary to have a car meet him in the sub-basement garage, immediately. “So that I won't be late for my scheduled meeting at the Sri Lankan mission,” he said blandly.
"Of ... course sir,” she replied. A quick check of the calendar told her that her boss had no such meeting. She ordered the car, then went to the closet and took out a wide-brimmed ceremonial hat and a shin-length, embroidered gray coat. When the two men emerged from the inner office, she nodded to Cam and helped him into the coat. Then she put the hat on him, and with her hands on his neck, she pulled his head downwards, so that the hat hid his facial features. She took the briefcase out of his hand and gave it to her boss to carry. Then she ducked down so that Cam could see her face, and with a childlike wiggling of her fingers and a warm smile, she said goodbye.
The two men went down the elevator to the parking level without incident. The driver held the door as Dr. Pavay and O'Connor got in the backseat. After the car had pulled out from under the UN building, Cam opened his briefcase, took out his address book, and turned to the page marked “B.” With his pen, he underlined the address of the Brondel Building, where he and Randall had often landed by helicopter. He held the book in front of his diminutive host.
"Go to ... three-eight-five-four Lexington,” said Dr. Pavay to the driver.
"May I keep the coat and hat for a bit?” wrote Cam on a blank page at the back of his address book, giving the book to Dr. Pavay.
"Yes,” wrote Pavay, “but no talk and no more notes. Good luck."
Cam took back his address book and gave one of his business cards to his savior. He then took out the few personal items he had in his briefcase, put them in various pockets, and gave the briefcase to Dr. Pavay with the LieDecks and the photocopied instruction pamphlets still in it. The sober international public servant gave a knee-level thumbs up, to hide it from the chauffeur. And that was the last communication the two men had until Cam stepped onto the sidewalk at 3854 Lexington.
"Have a good day,” he said as he closed the door.
Dr. Pavay only nodded.
Cam walked into the office tower, showed his corporate credentials, and was escorted by security to the office of the president. Howard Brondel was out, and that was fine. Cam's face was well known here. He was able to rid himself of the ceremonial hat and the embroidered coat and have these items couriered back to the High Commissioner for Refugees, and he was able to get a private phone to call Grant Eamer, who was waiting back at the Airport Hotel.
"Eamer here,” came the voice.
"Don't say anything,” demanded Cam. “Code Beaver. Charter a helicopter to land on Brondel within a half hour. Call Kennedy Airport and make sure the Learjet is ready and cleared for takeoff by 3:00 p.m., at the latest. Then get over here in the chopper. I'll be in the waiting room on the roof."
He hung up, and everything went according to plan. In just over an hour, the Learjet was airborne, streaking towards Canada.
"Okay,” said Cam. “We can talk now."
"What the Christ is going on?” asked Eamer as he leveled off at 30,000 feet.
"I wish to fuck I knew, Grant,” said Cam. “I wish I knew."
Chapter 27
OUT ON BAIL
"I bet you was fuckin’ scared, Bobbeeeeee,” taunted Jean Proulx as he leaned forward between the bucket seats from the back. “I bet you shit da pants when Jake is catching you."
"I'm nineteen, furchrissakes, so I don't get Juvenile Court any more, eh?” said Bobby Thompson as he gingerly picked the roach from Jean's hand. “But this here's my first offence, eh, so I'll probably get—"
"First time you got caught,” snorted Geoff Farley from behind the wheel of his sort-of rebuilt, canary-yellow 1968 Dodge Charger. “You been rippin’ off stores and restaurants for longer'n I can remember, since you was thirteen."
"Yeah, well, I coulda told them you were in on the one at Ray's if I'd ‘a wanted to,” said Bobby. “You like to forget about that, eh?"
An awkward silence fell. Everybody in Quyon knew that Geoff was involved in the break-in at Ray's, and the cops knew it too, but they didn't have any evidence. The chances were that Geoff would get charged any day now, evidence or no, but it hadn't happened yet, and it was up to Bobby to keep his mouth shut, according to the honor code among punks.
"Let's go to the Miniputt in Norway Bay and check out all them city chicks from the cottages,” suggested Bobby. “I like ‘em young and juicy."
"No chicks there today, asshole,” said Geoff. “It's Monday."
"Easter Monday, dog-shit-breath,” snapped Bobby.
"Oh yeah,” realized Geoff. “Them preevert priests used to do a big deal over that one, eh?” he said as he turned towards the 148. “Something about like they thought Jesus was lying about being dead so they stuck fingers in the hole in his gut, eh ... I mean where the spear went in? Friggin’ preevert Jews."
"Jeezechrise, Geoff, don't go more dan da speed limit,” pleaded Jean from the back as the Charger charged onto the highway. “I got da stuff on me, an’ I don’ need no hassle wit’ no cop."
Bobby inserted the shrinking joint into the hollow end of a rolled-up matchbook and held it up to the driver's mouth. Geoff sucked, took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled loudly, and coughed, roughly ... the price. “Gooooood stuff,” he exuded through choked vocal cords. “Did ya get it from Ziggy?"
"Nah,” said Bobby, “I don't like dealing with Zig. This is the last of that kilo I got from Fatty in twenty-twelve. I wish I'd ‘a bought more of his stuff before he went and got himself shot. He had great stuff, the best. Cheap, too."
The Norway Bay Miniputt had just opened for the season. It was early evening, and as the boys wheeled into the gravel parking lot, children, teens, and parents looked up to see whose car badly needed the muffler job. Diane Logan was handling the shack, and she knew these three all too well. Their arrival always meant trouble, so she made a quick telephone call to her husband over at the glass shop, just to let him know.
"Just treat them polite and don't give them no reason to start up,” advised Sam. “If you don't call me back in five minutes, I'll come on over and settle things down. How's the turnout?"
"Pretty good,” she said Diane. “How's it going over there?"
Diane had two little freckle-faced girls waiting impatiently for putters and balls, so she cut the conversation short. But she made sure the boys in the aging Charger saw her talking on the phone. That was the main point of the call.
"Lookit dat old fart on da bench checkin’ out da meat,” said Jean from the backseat. “Man, does he look horny or what? Let's swarm da bastard."
Geoff looked at Bobby cross-eyed and flicked the back of his hand in the general direction of Jean's face. “Jerk,” he said. “Wait till you're out on bail. We'll make sure to get your ass in trouble."
"Okay okay,” said Jean, “you stay here in da car den. I gotta hassle dat guy. I jus’ gotta. Here, you hold da grass, Geoff."
He tossed his baggie of marijuana onto Geoff's lap, jumped out the back door, and started doing his patented palsy-limp towards the man on the bench. Geoff and Bobby rolled up the windows so the man wouldn't hear them laughing. It never failed to crack them up when Jean did his “reeeetard” routine.
He eased himself onto the bench, inches from the man, and began picking his nose. He got a piece of gelatinous snot tucked under his fingernail and examined it closely, obviously, so the man couldn't help but take note of his Academy performance. Then, with a toothy smile and a bizarre waggle of his tongue, he reached over and wiped his finger on the man's shirt, on the upper arm. “Duhhh, how's doin’ derr, Pops?” he asked.
The man stared right into Jean's eyes. He had been challenged, an
d he wanted to let the tears roll. How could a good-looking youngster in a wealthy, decent country become so warped? he wondered.
"I am afraid of you,” admitted the gentleman. “That is what you wanted to know, isn't it? But I'm more afraid of other things, such as losing my self-respect. I tell you what. You take that off my shirt and I won't tell your mother. If you don't take that stuff off my shirt, I'll make sure you get arrested for assault, and then I'll go tell your mom what a creep you turned out to be."
The man's eyes indicated that he meant business, and Jean wasn't ready to sail these uncharted and apparently treacherous waters. He leapt up from the bench, right into the titanium arms of Buckminster Ash, who had sidled up quietly from behind when he saw the situation brewing. Buck planted an oversized mitt into the boy's hair to hold him steady, squeezing just hard enough to cause real pain without actually separating scalp from skull. From the parking lot, the spinning of tires and the clatter of flying pebbles told Jean that he was alone on this one. Nobody messed with “the Buck,” never mind if he was almost fifty.
"You got something to say to the nice man?” Buck asked in a voice that seemed to come from the bottom of a mineshaft.
"I'm sorry,” squealed Jean. “Leggo o’ my fuckin’ hair, man."
"Louder,” shouted the Buck, “so's all them good people over on the Miniputt can hear you good and clear."
"Sorry,” cried Jean, again, and much louder.
"And maybe there's somethin’ else that needs doin'?” asked Buck as he moved the boy by the hair back to the bench where the man was still sitting, shocked.
Jean picked the disgusting blob of mucus from the man's sleeve and wiped his finger and thumb on the bench.
"You're lucky I didn't make you eat it, you little asshole,” said Buck as he released the boy's hair. “Now bugger off before I..."
Jean didn't need any further prompting. He ran away as fast as he could, amid a spontaneous round of applause from the people who had gathered to test their minigolf skills.
"You okay, Father?” asked Buck as he lit a Player's cigarette. “Uh ... Steve,” he corrected himself.
"I'm fine, Buck,” said Steve. “And thanks. It's a good thing you happened along."
"Actually, I didn't exactly happen along, Steve,” said Buck after he blew out a cloud of smoke, coughed, and spit. “I ... sort of followed you here. I need to talk to somebody, and if you don't mind, you're it."
"Of course I don't mind,” said Steve. “Let's go down to the British Hotel in Quyon and chat over a bottle of beer."
"Tomorrow,” said Buck.
"Fine,” said Steve. “Tomorrow at say ... seven?"
TUESDAY, APRIL 22, 2014
Chapter 28
A DIRTY JOB
The Centre Block, as the name implies, is located in the center of a cluster of gray, stone buildings that house the political component of the Canadian government. It is 470 feet long, but only five stories high. In addition to the vast lawn, the wide cement walk that leads to its arched doors, and the Centennial Flame in the middle of the walk, the Centre Block is set apart from all the others by the Peace Tower jutting up in the middle, a great square stone tube, fourteen yards along the sides and 300 feet high. It has a pyramidal, copper-green cap on top, and a maple-leaf flag fluttering above that. Just under the cap is a clock, sort of a “Little Ben,” with carillons that announce the passing of every quarter-hour. The other political buildings—the East Block, the West Block, the South Block, and the Confederation Building—could only look on with envy; tower envy, power envy.
The PMO—the Prime Minister's Office on Parliament Hill—is in the Centre Block, on the second floor, near the center of the Centre Block. In the PMO rests the authority to command, compel, control. By tradition, by default and by elimination, its occupant is usually a person who badly needs to command, compel and control. As the PM's chief of staff, Ralph Dellaire, liked to say: “It's a dirty job, but everybody wants to do it."
For many years, Louis St. Aubin had laughed at Ralph's offbeat humor throughout his days. Ralph used humor partly to maintain his sanity, mostly because it was his nature to enjoy life. No more. Ralph wasn't joking around these days, and no one in the PMO felt much like laughing—not since the attempted assassination of Victor Helliwell stopped being a mere crime and showed signs of becoming a political crisis of global proportions, with the RCMP right in the middle of the mess.
St. Aubin's feelings were in free-fall. Canada is a middle power, he said to himself, economically and politically married to America—or at least living in sin with her. Is the U.S. government behind this WDA madness, or itself a victim? Thank God we have the LieDeck to help us figure all this out.
The Prime Minister reconsidered his reasons for warning Randall Whiteside of the government's intention to classify the LieDeck. He really did believe that burying this technology would be a terrible mistake. If nothing else, such an approach would surely mobilize the riffraff. “What are you trying to hide?” the radicals and cynics would hiss. “Coward,” they'd call him. “Dictator!"
Technologies can't be buried anyway, he reasoned. Suppression of the LieDeck would only mean that governments would have it and ordinary citizens wouldn't. People would be horrified by that kind of situation, and they'd have every right to scream. And besides, the pressure to classify the LieDeck top secret is all coming from the damn military, and I don't like it when soldiers flex political muscle.
St. Aubin had one other reason for doing what he did, but he didn't want to think about that ... not now, not ever. He had issued the warning in the sincere hope that his old friend Randall would find a way around the problem, but he hardly expected him to pass out free LieDecks to all 195 ambassadors at the UN!
He stood sullenly at the window, looking out over the lawn at the old U.S. embassy across Wellington St., the one Uncle Sam occupied before the new colossus was built on Sussex Drive. For all the political purity and practicality behind his thinking, the LieDeck was bound to cause serious trouble, not just with Canada's elephantine “neighbor” to the south, but everywhere. Now St. Aubin was in it, up to his nostrils, and so was the country ... and the world. "It's a dirty job," he remembered.
"Is it possible that even the PMO is bugged?” he wrote on a piece of paper when he heard the voices outside his office door. As Nick Godfrey and the RCMP Commissioner Bertrand Joly came in, Prime Minister St. Aubin put a finger to his lips and handed the note surreptitiously to his defense minister.
Godfrey looked at the note and shrugged helplessly. It was possible, he supposed. But anything was possible. He passed the note to Joly, who tried to hide the fact that he was insulted. If the PMO was bugged, then he had failed at his job, inexcusably. “Let's go to the parking lot out back and talk,” he wrote under St. Aubin's question.
They walked nonchalantly down the corridor, rode the elevator to the basement level, and exited through the back door, telling their security escort that they would be right back, and not to follow. Bertrand Joly was a bit of a whale, and he had trouble keeping up as the other two wove their way between cars to a stone ledge at the back of the parking lot, led by the leader of the nation. Beyond the ledge, the ground dropped off steeply to the Ottawa River, more than a hundred yards below.
"Any news?” whispered St. Aubin when the Commissioner arrived at his side.
"Well,” said Joly softly, gulping for oxygen as he spoke, “we ... still ... can't find Jeremy ... Ford."
"What do you mean you can't find him?"
"Jesus, Louis,” said Godfrey, “I thought you would have heard. We heard almost an hour ago."
"Heard? Heard what?"
"He's ... missing,” explained Godfrey. “His wife called me on my personal line this morning, looking for him. She hasn't seen him since yesterday. He told her he had a late cabinet meeting, which he obviously didn't. Security dropped him off at the East Block at 9:20 p.m. last night, and he hasn't been seen or heard from since. He left the East Block by t
he back door. The security guys that were on duty at the time figured maybe he had something ... shall we say ‘private’ going on."
"And you can't ... find him?” asked St. Aubin, incredulously.
"Thin air,” said Joly—he'd caught his breath by now. “My guys are in his office right now, looking for clues. It's still possible there's some innocent explanation for all this, but we figure he was with the WDA. Had to be. Why else would a minister of the Crown just bugger off like that? The WDA must know we're on to them by now."
"Why wasn't I told about Jeremy?” demanded the Prime Minister angrily. “He's my minister of foreign affairs, for Christ's sake!"
"You probably were told,” said Godfrey, on his right. “There's probably a memo or a fax on your secretary's desk. The entire government is having serious communications problems, ever since Whiteside announced the LieDeck yesterday. Nobody will use the damned telephone. Everybody is sending memos and faxes. The secretaries are drowning in faxes. Everybody's running scared. I think we just got thrust into a new world, Louis. Nobody knows how to cope with this fucking device, even though there's only a few of the things around. Nobody's talking to reporters, because some of them have LieDecks, or they can make tapes and run the tapes past a LieDeck later. And look at us! I mean just look at us, for the love of Christ! We're passing notes in the PMO and skulking off to a God damned parking lot!"
"And General Brampton, he's still not talking?” asked St. Aubin to the big man on his left.
"Not a word,” said the Commissioner. “We're scared he's going to commit suicide. We got him under visual, around the clock. The Yanks think we've got him and they want him back, and they're entitled, but I'm not letting him go until he talks. I want to know if the American government is in on this WDA thing first."
"You're not letting him go until he talks?” said the prime minister.
"We're not letting him go until he talks,” said Joly assertively. “I also think you ought to instruct me to formally arrest him, or we—uh—we could get charged ... with kidnapping."
