“What is it?” someone shouted.
“What’s the question?” someone else called.
“Order,” said the Speaker. “Recognize the member for Dorval.”
Xavier Martineau rose wearily, and received permission to make a brief statement.
“Thank you, Mr. Speaker. While vigorously rejecting the slurs cast by the Honourable Leader of the Opposition — I need not recite them, but ‘panicking chickens’ might be the most egregious — I seek to assure this House that our caucus has sought to assess the Canadian public’s appetite for a summer election, with the season’s many pleasant distractions and the consequent inconveniences vacation-goers would be subjected to, and so . . .”
The die was cast. Boos and catcalls from the opposition side.
“And so we have asked the voters, we have asked our supporters to canvass for the general view, and it seems there is insufficient appetite for a midsummer election . . .”
He carried on awhile, the world’s longest sentence, but his words were drowned in hoots and boos from the Opposition side, while government members looked on grinning or yelling, “Call the vote!”
When it ultimately came — “Resolved that the government has lost the confidence of the House” — several Liberals of stouter heart voted for the affirmative, but the remainder abstained, and the nays won handily.
§
Margaret arrived in the Foyer late, expecting to see the Prime Minister holding the fort, but Win Fowler was a no-show and Emil Farquist, surrounded by a platoon of press, was subbing for him. The Opposition leader was waiting in the wings to reply. There was a pecking order to these media scrums, and the Green leader was always the last pecker, usually sharing her sound bites with ragtag remnants of the press.
At least she had time to arm herself, to respond to Farquist’s hokum. So she sidled behind him to hear better. He spotted her and scowled, but didn’t break rhythm as he heaped scorn on the Opposition for trying to force an untimely election. Threatening to disrupt hard-earned holidays. Stalling the government’s program for growth, lower taxes, and environmental protection. With that, a glance behind, a shot, a challenge.
It seemed an open invitation, and Margaret, despite — or because of — her frazzled state, couldn’t help but grab the moment. Flouting the proprieties, she twisted under cameras and microphones and got close enough to smell his musky cologne.
“Well, that demonstrates the government’s total lack of respect for democracy, doesn’t it?” Farquist tried to interrupt but Margaret talked above his scattershot of complaint. “What’s more fundamental to our way of life than the exercise of the people’s right to choose who will represent them? That’s so typical of the Fowler government, demeaning the right to vote — we should be celebrating elections.”
She made a quick exit and several reporters followed her, deserting Farquist. She sensed she’d really got his goat this time, thrown him off his game. He would try to make light of it, tossing off some snarky put-down. Canadians will want to consider whether rudeness is a quality they seek in a party leader.
Had she been reckless in invading his scrum? Jennie Withers, standing near the West Door, apparently didn’t think so. A smile. The current Green leader still had game.
And now she had her own mini-scrum, grown to a dozen, lobbing friendly questions. Yes, of course, she was disappointed in the spineless Liberals. The Greens were ready, had almost a full slate. The government had won a mere reprieve and would certainly fall in the fall.
Her cloud of gloom, exhaustion, and confusion had lifted. She felt energized.
§
But that didn’t last. The entire day, the entire frenetic week caught up to her at Green HQ halfway through the afternoon, and she had to steal off to her inner office, needing its peace and solitude. She stretched out on a couch, fighting the urge to sleep, fiddling with her phone. She finally dialled Blunder Bay, thinking Arthur would be much relieved at having escaped a summer of main-streeting.
She caught him at home, in the kitchen finishing lunch. “No election. I guess you’ve heard. I hope that makes your day.”
“Nonsense. You know how I love going door to door, invading the space of total strangers. Your sneak attack on Farquist was on the national news. I hope you’re not tempting fate, darling.”
She bristled. “I’m not going to lay off him just because . . . Never mind. Anyway, I’ve got breathing space now.”
“Margaret, I hope you aren’t playing with the thought of tripping off to Montreal to join Pierette.”
“Of course not,” she said sharply. “That would be foolish and risky.” But she yearned to do just that.
§
She slept like a dead woman that night, rose late to a sunny and excruciatingly pleasant day, and took a bracing hike to the Hill. She’d given her staff the Friday off, so her parliamentary office was ghostly quiet. She got coffee going and sat down at her desktop to review an array of iPhone photos from Pierette of tree-lined Rue de la Visitation, its row of venerable triplexes, their sinuous outdoor staircases, relics of old Montreal; Lou Sabatino’s second-floor flat, its covered balcony and shuttered windows.
Below it was Svetlana Glinka’s therapy clinic, though there was nothing to advertise it as such. A small, tiled terrace; a wrought-iron bench; wide, curtained windows. No sign of her Miata, which, according to Sabatino, was usually parked out front.
Margaret wouldn’t be surprised if Glinka was in Cannes or a Greek villa, spending Farquist’s hush money. Unless he was on the take, he had no great wealth, so he must be hurting. Had he retained another professional paddler to satisfy his obsession? A younger model?
He wants a change, says I’m too old to be his mother. Farquist’s real mother became a single mom when her husband left her for another woman. Their son was eight years old. Ten years later, she committed suicide. Maybe there was tragedy enough here to turn a man into a fetishist.
As for Lou, he might be anywhere. Targeted by the Mafia, newly fired, separated from wife and children, bitter about that, bitter about his situation, his life. Had he given up? She pictured him hanging lifeless from a chandelier. Or sprawled on the carpet, a bullet in his brain.
With a mug of hot coffee at hand, she called Pierette, who picked up right away — she was still in her rented compact, stationed across from the triplex. “You got the pix?”
“Yep.”
“More coming. Hey, sweetie, I’m worried this place is being watched. I saw a couple of goony-looking guys in a big black SUV prowling by yesterday, looking things over.”
The Mafia? Had they traced him there? “Did you get a photo? The licence plate?”
“No, I was across the street chatting up a couple of old boys hanging outside the adjoining triplex. I didn’t see the driver. One passenger, both male. Probably nothing.”
“So what did the old boys have to say?”
“They figured Svetlana was a high-priced pute. They dug her, she gave the neighbourhood some tone. Lou was an utter nonentity, they hardly knew him, didn’t know he was gone.”
“Any chance he forgot to lock up?”
“Door won’t budge, knob doesn’t turn. There’s a huge pile of newspapers sitting there, four days’ worth, Globe, Gazette, Post, Journal de Montréal. Nothing from Monday, so that must be when he vanished.”
“Could you see inside?”
“Just a glimpse through a gap in the shutters. All I could see was a clump of clothes, it looked like, maybe for the wash.”
Had he run off suddenly with chores undone? Another dark thought: had he been disappeared? Likely not, if that was indeed the Mafia doing a drive-by, still hoping to target him.
“Whoops, hang on. Car coming.”
Pierette went silent for several seconds, then, in a hushed voice: “Miata, its top down, just stopped and double-parked. It’s Svetlana. I’m scooching dow
n. I’ll call back.”
Margaret waited tensely. Minutes passed before Pierette rang. “Okay, she’s outta here, all clear. I’m shooting you some video. Hang on while I check flights out of Dorval.”
Svetlana was on the lam? Two videos soon arrived. The first showed Svetlana Glinka removing her dark glasses as she climbed from the driver’s seat. Legs almost freakishly long, like a high-jumper. Blonde, if that was her real hair, blue eyes, cherry lips, a face like a Kewpie doll. Dressed for travel in skinny jeans and a multi-pocketed blazer. Knee-high boots, alligator or something.
Now she was hurrying to her building, carrying a flight bag, now opening the door to her flat, stepping inside. The second video showed her reappearing, pulling a wheeled suitcase that must have been waiting for her inside the door. She locked up, loaded the suitcase into the trunk, and took off.
Pierette sounded breathless. “I don’t think she saw me. My guess is that she’s on her way to the airport. I’m making a run for Dorval right now. Over and out.”
Again, Margaret found herself dredging up dismal scenarios: Lou had vanished Monday, the day after the open-mike blooper. Had Christie Montieth, who had sprinted from the salon with her iPhone, held on to her exclusive to track down sources? She could easily have zeroed in on Glinka, prompting Glinka’s sudden departure.
Maybe Christie had got a lead on Sabatino, tried to contact him. Had the nervous fellow, knowing the story was about to break, fled from the coming storm?
§
Fretful, impatient, yielding to an itch to be more than a passive bystander, Margaret sped off that afternoon in her Honda Civic hybrid over the Macdonald-Cartier Bridge to the Quebec side, for a rendezvous in the Gatineau Hills with her intrepid aide.
Pierette had confirmed that Glinka had flown out from Dorval — she’d spotted her in short-term parking at the open trunk of her Miata. A heavy-set man and a tall, fit-looking woman, in their thirties, seemed to be helping with her luggage — or searching it, because Pierette watched them close her suitcase from some distance away. No photos, her phone had died.
The mystery woman then drove off in the Miata. Her partner took Glinka’s suitcase and led her to the terminal. By the time Pierette caught up to them, she was already being waved into security. Presumably first class, given the brief elapsed time. Her escort then returned to the short-term lot, drove off in a white van.
Margaret supposed that the two confederates had been hired by Emil Farquist to facilitate her quick getaway. Her presence in Canada posed a grave danger to him if a nosy reporter — Christie Montieth, for instance — were to ask her questions. Emil had to be anxious — masked well, not on display at the scrum on Thursday.
The highway wove among forested hills and scattered farms and cozy villages, scenes that took Margaret back home to a gentler life that beckoned more urgently with the passing days. A wise woman was whispering: give up, get healthy, enjoy life, it’s not too late. Jennie would be anointed acting leader; someone with more energy could run in Cowichan and the Islands.
North of Gatineau Park, farms gave way to forests of beech and birch and sugar maple in their fresh green dresses. It was a gorgeous day, but Margaret was too depressed to enjoy it. The spiriting away of Glinka seriously dimmed any chance of proving Farquist had bought her silence. With the world crowding in on her — the election, Farquist, Sabatino and Glinka’s disappearences — Margaret was becoming like her husband, or at least one of his personas: pessimistic, morose.
Pierette was waiting, as promised, in her rented compact outside a café in the village of Kazabazua. Margaret parked and got in beside her.
“Not too pleased about this,” Pierette said. “The leader of a national party can’t be seen poking around anywhere near Lac Vert.”
“Hey, it’s just a couple of pals taking a scenic drive on a sunny afternoon. Don’t be such a grouse.” This was met with silent disapproval. “You’ve been a total wizard, Pierette. My hero. I love you.”
That earned just a weary look and raised unforgiving eyes as she stuck a sun hat on Margaret’s head, dark glasses on her nose.
Pierette turned onto a secondary road that wound east into hills thickly forested with spruce and aspen, birch and tamarack. Sun-bathed lakes. Occasional cottages, but most of them hidden.
After about fifteen kilometres, they pulled in to a roadside lookout with a panorama of undulating forest on mountains scarred with ski runs. The large lake in the foreground was rimmed by forest and hill and was still as glass, ruffled only by a whisper of wind near the far shore.
“Lac Vert,” said Pierette. A narrow driveway a hundred metres up the road was marked by a sign at a wonky angle. “Privé. Private.” It led, Pierette had learned, to three waterfront chalets, none visible from here, the owners a retired judge, a computer engineer, and Farquist.
“I’m sorry, you’re staying put. Pretend you’re a tourist.” Pierette tucked a camera into her day pack and hustled up the road and down the driveway. Margaret itched to follow her, but obeyed orders, lowered her seat-back, ready to duck should a car approach. Only two did, each slowing to catch the view, then carrying on.
She finally began to relax, to fall under the sway of this fair June day. Songbirds were in full throat, warblers flitting among the branches, and below her was a lush view of forest and lake. Ducks foraging among the reeds, a pair of loons diving for their lunch.
Pierette reappeared at the end of the driveway after what seemed an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes. She paused at the privacy sign, took a photo of it, ducked as a car drove by, then hurried to the car.
“Didn’t see a soul, thank God.” She handed Margaret her camera, its viewer on, then started the engine and drove farther up the road. “The one on the screen is taken from below his chalet window. Seem familiar?”
“Yes.” The image of the still lake and hills beyond jibed with the wintry glimpses Margaret had seen on the video: the iced-over lake and skeletal trees rising beyond it, the grove of white birch.
She scrolled through the other pictures: a snug, attractive log structure with a deck overlooking a lake. No interiors, all the windows draped. A one-vehicle carport. A more expansive view across Lac Vert offered a glimpse of a neighbour’s small boathouse, a dock, and a small cabin cruiser.
They continued their climb, hair-pinning to a summit where they could see the lake distantly. Lac Vert, so pretty but its name tarnished by the irony that the very non-vert minister of the environment claimed a piece of it.
As they made a similarly sinuous journey down, toward the highway that would take them to Ottawa, Pierette remained watchful and silent, occasionally commanding Margaret to keep her head low. Margaret worried that she might be losing her respect, losing her to Jennie Withers, who didn’t indulge in spontaneous spying expeditions. She thought of confessing her notion to retire. But was she too hooked on politics? Her addiction.
UNSAFE HOUSE
Lou was running low on Cheerios and corn flakes. The last of his milk had gone sour in the fridge. He had half a Polish sausage in there, two rubbery carrots, and a sprouting potato. He would sell his left nut for a deluxe double-patty with fries and a chocolate shake.
It was Friday. For five days he’d been hiding in his stale-smelling flat, its doors double-locked, no lights, no sound, newspapers piling up outside. He rarely stirred from his computer room, a windowless box, except to sleep, shit, and peek furtively out the front window between a gap in the shutters.
Rue de la Visitation was rightly named. It had been like rush hour at Central Station for those five days. The traffic included several of Svetlana’s clients who had appointments. Lou had heard her outside apologizing to one guy for not phoning to cancel. Other pain-seekers gave up when she didn’t come to the door. She was away a lot.
Late afternoon on Tuesday, he heard rummaging noises in her suite, then spied a small unmarked white van parked ou
t front. An hour later, he peeked through the shutters again and saw a man and woman, young, hip-looking, piling cardboard boxes into the van, then driving off. What was that about? No sign of Svetlana or her Miata.
And then there was Christie Montieth. Twice Lou had spied her out there. Peppery little Christie, journalist, opinionated blogger, digger — he knew her from shared press briefings. Both times, she had parked her Mini Cooper and knocked loudly on the locked door to Svetlana’s flat, shouting, “I only need to talk to you for a few minutes.” Both times, she’d been met with silence and retreated to her car.
What the hell was she up to? Had she somehow got a whiff of scandal? A leak about a certain high minister of state? Whatever, it unnerved him.
Infinitely more alarming was the black Lincoln SUV he’d seen driving slowly past. Four times, twice yesterday. He assumed they were hoping to catch him arriving or leaving home. That was their preferred tactic of attrition. The same theme, the same piece of work that got his kids’ snowman beheaded in his former front yard. And last Sunday, a similar drill in Laval, probably the same goombahs in the SUV, riddling Nick Giusti as he was returning home from ten a.m. mass at Holy Rosary.
That event was lavishly reported on, all over the Internet, though no one seemed to give a shit about some crooked mouthpiece getting whacked. No one but Lou. It’s why Lou had been holed up in this hole for five days, freaking out and starving. Nick Giusti, his uncle-in-law, his informant for Waterfrontgate. Somehow his ex-clients found out — or just guessed — that he’d ratted on them. And now that they’d also figured out where Lou lived, his life wasn’t worth a popcorn fart.
There was no point in calling the police for help, especially not Superintendent Malraux, who was pissed at Lou for scuttling their planned bust and refusing to name sources. He would only refer him back to Witless Protection and its smarmy bureaucrat. This had to be the unsafest safe house on the planet. The entire Green Party must know where he lived.
Whipped Page 10
