There was an uneasy silence. It was no secret in Cabinet that lately the Prime Minister had been dissatisfied with his Minister of Defence.
Now Howden continued, his hawklike face bleak, pointedly addressing his words to Adrian Nesbitson. 'In the past this Government has been amply concerned with maintenance of our national independence. And my own feeling in that area has been demonstrated time and time again.' There was a murmur of assent. 'The personal decision I have now reached has not been easy and I think I may say it has required a modicum of courage. The easy way is the reckless way, which some might think of as courage but, in the end, would be the greater cowardice.' At the word 'cowardice' General Nesbitson flushed crimson, but the Prime Minister had not finished. "There is one more thing. Whatever our discussions in the weeks ahead, I shall not expect to encounter, among members of this Government, political gutter phrases like "selling out to the United States".'
Howden had always ridden his Cabinet hard, tongue-lashing ministers at times, and not always in private. But never before had his anger been quite so pointed.
Uncomfortably the others watched Adrian Nesbitson.
At first it seemed as if the old warrior might strike back. He had moved forward in his chair, his face suffused angrily. He started to speak. Then, suddenly, like a worn mainspring run down, he visibly subsided, becoming once again the old man, insecure and floundering among problems far removed from his own experience. Muttering something about, 'Perhaps misunderstood ... unfortunate phrase,' he receded into his seat, plainly wishing the focus of attention to move on from himself.
As if in sympathy, Stuart Cawston said hastily, 'Customs union would have a large attraction from our point of view since we would have most to gain.' As the others turned to him, the Finance Minister paused, his astute mind plainly assessing possibilities. Now he continued, 'But any agreement should go considerably further than that. After all, it's their own defence as well as ours that the Americans are buying. There must be guarantees for manufacturing here, enlargement of our industries...'
'Our demands will not be light and I intend to make that clear in Washington,' Howden said. 'In whatever time is left we must strengthen our economy so that after a war we can emerge stronger than either of the principal contenders.'
Cawston said softly, 'It could work that way. In the end it really could.'
'There is something else,' Howden said. 'Another demand -the biggest of all - that I intend to make.'
There was a silence which Lucien Perrault broke. 'We are listening attentively. Prime Minister. You spoke of another demand.'
Arthur Lexington was toying with a pencil, his expression thoughtful.
He dare not tell them, Howden decided. At least, not yet. The concept was too big, too bold, and in a way preposterous. He remembered Lexington's reaction yesterday during their private talk, when the Prime Minister had revealed his thoughts. The External Affairs Minister had demurred: 'The Americans would never agree. Never.' And James Howden had answered slowly, 'If they were desperate enough, I think they might.'
Now, determinedly, he faced the others. 'I cannot tell you,' he said decisively, 'except that if the demand is met it will be the greatest achievement for Canada in this century. Beyond that, until after the White House meeting, you must trust me.' Raising his voice he said commandingly, 'You have trusted me before. I demand your trust again.'
Slowly, around the table, there was a succession of nods.
Watching, Howden felt the beginning of a new exultation. They were with him, he knew. By persuasion, logic, and force of leadership he had carried the argument here and gained support. It had been the first test, and what he had done once could be done elsewhere.
Only Adrian Nesbitson remained unmoving and silent, eyes downcast, his lined face sombre. Glancing down the table Howden felt a resurgence of anger. Even though Nesbitson might be a fool, as Minister of Defence his token support was necessary. Then the anger subsided. The old man could be disposed of quickly, and once dismissed would be bothersome no more.
Part 5
Senator Richard Devereaux
Chapter 1
The Vancouver Post, a newspaper not given to decorous pussyfooting, had accorded full human-interest treatment to Dan Orliffe's report on the would-be immigrant, Henri Duval. The story ran at the top left on page one through all Christmas Eve editions, taking second place only to a day-old sex slaying which led the paper. A four-column head proclaimed:
Homeless Ocean Waif
Faces Bleak, Lone Yule
Below, also across four columns, and forty lines deep, was a close-up picture of the young stowaway, his back to a ship's boat. Unusually for a press photograph, the camera had caught a depth of expression which coarse newsprint etching had not entirely lost; it combined a suggestion of yearning and something close to innocence.
The effect of story and picture was such that the managing editor scribbled upon a proof copy, 'Good, let's keep this hot,' and sent it to the city desk. The city editor, phoning Dan Orliffe at home, said, 'Try to find a forward angle for Thursday, Dan, and see what you can get out of the Immigration people besides bull. Looks like this thing may rouse a lot of interest.'
Locally the interest began at a high point and sustained itself over the Christmas holiday. Across the city and its environs the Vastervik's stowaway was a major topic of conversation in homes, clubs, and bars. Some who discussed the young man's plight were moved to pity, others angrily referred to 'damned officialdom' and 'bureaucratic inhumanity'. Thirty-seven phone calls, beginning an hour after publication, commended the Post for its initiative in bringing the matter to public attention. As usual on such occasions, all calls were carefully logged so that, afterwards, advertisers could be shown just how much impact there had been from a typical Post newsbeat.
There were other signs. Five local disc jockeys referred sympathetically to the item on the air, one of their number dedicating a platter of 'Silent Night' to Henri Duval 'in case our" friend from the seven seas is tuned to Vancouver's most listened-to station'. In Chinatown, amid applause, a night-club stripper dedicated her next uncovering to 'that lonely little guy on the ship'. And in pulpits, at least eight Christmas sermons had been hastily revised to include a topical reference to the 'Stranger that is within thy gates'.
Fifteen people were sufficiently moved to compose letters to the editor, fourteen of which were subsequently printed. The fifteenth, largely incoherent, exposed the incident as part of an infiltration plot from outer space, with Duval a Martian agent. Apart from the last, most letter writers were agreed that something should be done by somebody, but were not clear as to what way or by whom.
A handful did practical things. A Salvation Army officer and a Catholic priest made notes to visit Henri Duval and subsequently did. The mink-weighted widow of a one-time gold prospector personally gift-wrapped a parcel of food and cigarettes and dispatched it, via her uniformed chauffeur and white Cadillac, to the Vastervik. As an afterthought she also sent a bottle of her late husband's favourite whisky. At first the chauffeur had considered stealing this, but en route, discovering it to be of a kind much inferior to the brand he favoured himself, he rewrapped the bottle and delivered it as instructed.
An electrical-appliance dealer, desperately harried by impending bankruptcy, took a new portable radio from his stock and, without quite knowing why, addressed the carton to Duval and delivered it to the ship's side. An age-bent railroad pensioner, eking out his years on a monthly sum which would have been just adequate if the cost of living had stayed at 1940 levels, put two dollars in an envelope and mailed it to the Post for transmission to the stowaway. A group of bus drivers, reading the Post report before going on duty, passed around a uniform cap and collected seven dollars and thirty cents. The cap owner took it to Duval in person on Christmas morning.
The ripples went beyond Vancouver.
The first news story appeared in the Post's Mainland edition at 10 AM, December 24th. By 10.10 Canadian
Press wire service had rewritten and condensed the item, then fed it out to press and radio stations in the West. Another wire carried the news to Eastern papers, and CP in Toronto rerouted it to AP and Reuters in New York. The American agencies, news-starved over the Christmas holiday, capsuled the piece some more and fanned it out across the world.
The Johannesburg Star gave the item an inch and the Stockholm Europa Press a quarter of a column. The London Daily Mail allowed four lines and the Times of India delivered itself of an editorial. The Melbourne Herald used a paragraph, as did the Buenos Aires La Prensa. In Moscow, Pravda quoted the incident as an example of 'capitalist hypocrisy'.
In New York the UN Peruvian delegate learned of the story and resolved to ask the General Assembly if something couldn't be done. In Washington the British Ambassador heard the report and frowned.
'The news got to Ottawa by early afternoon in time for the late editions of the capital's two evening newspapers. The
Citizen front-paged the CP dispatch and tagged it:
Man Minus Country
Pleads'Let Me In'
More sedately, the Journal ran the item on page three under the head:
Ship's Stowaway
Asks Entry Here
Brian Richardson, who had been brooding about the problem which the party would face when the secret Washington proposals eventually became known, read both paper? in his sparsely furnished Sparks Street office. The party director was a big, athletically built man with blue eyes, sandy hair, and ruddy cheeks. His expression, most times, conveyed an amused scepticism, but he could be quick to anger and there was a sense of latent power about him. Now his heavy, broad-shouldered figure was slumped into a tilted chair, both feet planted upon a cluttered desk, a pipe clenched between his teeth. The office was lonely and silent. His second in command, as well as the assistants, researchers, and office workers who formed the sizeable staff of party headquarters, had gone home, some laden with Christmas parcels, several hours earlier.
Having gone through the two newspapers thoroughly, he returned to the stowaway item. Long experience had given Richardson a sensitive nose for political trouble and it was reacting now. Compared with the bigger issues pending, he knew that the matter was unimportant; all the same, it was the kind of thing the public was likely to seize on. He sighed; there were times when vexations seemed endless. He had still not heard from the Prime Minister since his own call to Milly earlier in the day. Uneasily putting the newspapers aside, he refilled his pipe and settled down once more to wait. '
Chapter 2
Less than a quarter-mile from Brian Richardson, within the sacrosanct cloister of the Rideau Club on Wellington Street, Senator Richard Deveraux, who was killing time before a scheduled jet flight to Vancouver, also read both papers, then rested his cigar in an ashtray and smilingly tore the stowaway item out. Unlike Richardson, who hoped fervently that the case would not embarrass the Government, the Senator - chairman of the Opposition party organization - was happily confident that it would.
Senator Deveraux had purloined the news item in the Rideau Club's reading room - a square, lofty chamber overlooking Parliament Hill, and guarded at its doorway by a stern bronze bust of Queen Victoria. To the ageing Senator, both the reading room and the club itself were an old familiar habitat.
The Rideau Club of Ottawa (as its members sometimes point out) is so exclusive and discreet that not even its name appears outside the building. A pedestrian passing by would never know what place it was unless he were told, and, if curious, he might take it for a private, though somewhat seedy, mansion.
Within the club, above a pillared entrance hall and broad divided stairway, the atmosphere is just as rarefied. There is no rule about silence, but most times of the day a sepulchral hush prevails and newer members tend to speak in whispers.
Membership of the Rideau Club, though non-partisan, is made up largely of Ottawa's political elite - cabinet ministers, judges, senators, diplomats, military chiefs of staff, top civil servants, a handful of trusted journalists, and the few ordinary Members of Parliament who can afford the stiff fees. But despite the non-partisan policy a good deal of political business is transacted. In fact, some of the larger decisions affecting Canada's development have been shaped, over brandy and cigars, by Rideau Club cronies, relaxed in the club's deep red-leather armchairs, as Senator Deveraux was relaxing now.
In his mid-seventies Richard Borden Deveraux was an imposing figure - tall, straight-backed, with clear eyes and a healthy robustness which had come from a lifetime entirely without exercise. His paunch was sufficient for distinction but not for ridicule. His manner was an amiable mixture of bluffness and bulldozing which produced results but rarely gave offence. He talked at length and gave the impression of listening not at all, though, in fact, there was little that he missed. He had prestige, influence and enormous wealth founded upon, a western Canada logging empire bequeathed by an earlier,, Deveraux.
Now, rising from his chair, the Senator proceeded, cigar jutting ahead, to one of two unobtrusive telephones - direct exchange lines - in the rear of the club. He dialled two numbers before reaching the man he wanted. On the second call he located the Hon Bonar Deitz, leader of the parliamentary Opposition. Deitz was in his Centre Block office.
'Bonar, my boy,' Senator Deveraux announced, Tm delighted, if surprised on Christmas Eve, to find you applying yourself so assiduously.'
'I've been writing letters,' the voice of Deitz said shortly. 'I'm going home now.'
'Splendid!' the Senator boomed. 'Will you stop in at the club on the way? Something has arisen and we need to get together.'
There was the beginning of a protest from the other end of the line which the Senator cut off. 'Now, my boy, that's not the attitude at all - not if you want our side to win elections and make you Prime Minister instead of that bag of wind James Howden. And you do want to be Prime Minister, don't you?' The Senator's voice took on a caressing note. 'Well, you will be, Bonar boy, never fear. Don't be long now. I'm waiting.'
Chuckling, the Senator padded to a chair in the club's main lounge, his canny mind already at work on methods of turning the news item he had read to the Opposition party's advantage. Soon there was a cloud of cigar smoke above him as he indulged his favourite mental exercise.
Richard Deveraux had never been a statesman, either young or elder, or even a serious legislator. His chosen field was political manipulation and he had practised it all his life. He enjoyed the exercise of semi-anonymous power. Within his party he had held few elective offices (his current tenure as organization chairman was a belated exception), yet in party affairs he had wielded authority as few others before him. There had been nothing sinister about this. It was based simply upon two factors - a natural political astuteness which in the past had made his advice eagerly sought, plus the judicious use of money.
In time, and during one of his own party's periods in power, these dual activities had brought Richard Deveraux the ultimate reward bestowed among the party faithful - a lifetime appointment to the Canadian Senate, whose members were once accurately described by one of their own as 'the highest class of pensioners in Canada'.
Like most of his elderly Senate brethren, Senator Deveraux rarely attended the few perfunctory debates which the upper chamber held as proof of its existence, and only on two occasions had he ever risen to speak. The first was to propose additional reserved parking for Senators on Parliament Hill, the second to complain that the Senate ventilating system was producing draughts. Both pleas resulted in action which, as Senator Deveraux was wont to observe dryly, 'is more than you can say for the majority of Senate speeches'.
It was ten minutes since the phone call and the leader of the Opposition had not yet appeared. But he knew that eventually Bonar Deitz would come, and meanwhile the Senator closed his eyes to doze. Almost at once - age and a heavy lunch taking their toll - he was asleep.
Chapter 3
The Centre Block of Parliament was deserted and
silent as the Hon Bonar Deitz closed the heavy oaken door of his parliamentary office. Room 407S, behind him. His light footsteps on the marble floor echoed sharply through the long corridor, the sound bouncing forward and down from its vaulted Gothic arches and Tyndall limestone walls. He had stayed, handwriting some personal notes, longer than he had intended and now going to the Rideau Club to meet Senator Deveraux would make him even later. But he supposed he had better see what the old boy wanted.
Not bothering to wait for an elevator, he used the square marble staircase leading down to the main-floor front corridor. It was two flights only and he trod the stairs quickly, his long bony frame moving in short jerky movements like a tightly wound toy soldier. A thin, delicate hand touched the brass stair rail lightly.
A stranger seeing Bonar Deitz for the first time might have taken him for a scholar - which, in fact, be was - but not for a political leader. Leaders, traditionally, have robustness and authority, and externally Deitz had neither. Nor did his triangular, gaunt face - an unfriendly cartoonist had once drawn him with an almond head on a string-bean body - have any of the physical handsomeness which attracts votes to some politicians irrespective of anything they say or do.
And yet he had a surprising following in the country -among discriminating people, some said, who could detect qualities in Deitz finer and deeper than those of his major political opponent James McCallum Howden. Nevertheless in the last election Howden and his party had beaten Deitz resoundingly.
As he entered Confederation Hall, the vaulted outer lobby with its soaring columns of dark polished syenite, a uniformed attendant was talking with a young man - he looked like a teenager - in tan slacks and a Grenfell jacket. Their voices carried clearly.
In High Places Page 10
