Margaret’s smile froze. “What does that mean?”
“Sorry. Don’t mean to be flippant. I felt you should know. Lloyd told me about . . . This is awkward.”
“About sleeping with me.”
“Pillow talk. Charmer couldn’t resist.” Jennie rolled her eyes. “He said you were great in bed. I felt fucking insulted, not to mention appalled. The guy has a mouth disorder. That’s when I decided to get out of his gravitational field. Sorry, honey, it was bugging me, I had to tell you.” She gave Margaret a hug, and she returned it, and kissed her.
Jennie refilled their glasses. “You heard he’s moved on to Francine Lafontaine?” The rookie Liberal. “He claims he can bring her over.”
“He expects us to believe that? Damn his big mouth.”
“Mine is shut.”
“It’s okay, Jen. I totally trust you.”
She did not trust Chalmers, however, whose mouth was clearly not shut. His need to boast about his conquests could prove horribly awkward — while hiding behind their Twitter usernames, Farquist’s troops would gleefully mock the adulterous Green leader. Though she had long regretted her confession to Arthur, she now realized she’d been wise to be honest, to cleanse her marriage of secrets that could poison it.
A tapping on the door. She opened it to Pierette. “Excuse. Marcus Yates just sent an emissary with a note. The PM wants an audience with you.”
Margaret looked down at her empty glass of Pinot — she hadn’t remembered finishing it. She was feeling very light-headed.
§
After two coffees and a liberal dose of Listerine, Margaret found herself in the horseshoe-shaped lobby of the Prime Minister’s office in the Centre Block, trying not to wobble on her heels as Marcus Yates’s personal secretary opened a door and ushered her in.
A commodious office, regally done in carved oak throughout, blinds open to an overlook of the West Annex and the Hill’s frost-seared lawn, with its usual cluster of grumps with placards — anti-abortion diehards today, huddled under umbrellas. Dominating one wall was a portrait of Sir John A. Macdonald, Canada’s first prime minister and arguably its most famous drunk. He gazed fondly upon his tipsy visitor, with the merest hint of a smile.
Yates rose from a capacious oak desk piled with files and binders and greeted her with outstretched hand. Graceful, trim, clean-cut, a boyish smile. Margaret couldn’t shake off a more youthful rendition from the attack ads: Yates in a cannabis-leaf T-shirt at a pro-pot rally. But those ads had boomeranged on the Conservatives — they’d merely encouraged young voters to shake off their torpor and actually vote this time.
“Thank you for coming, Margaret.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Can we get you anything? A coffee, a juice?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Just a little hammered.
Yates dismissed his secretary, settled into his padded leather desk chair. They began by exchanging complaints about the unending toil of political life. That segued briefly into mention of Farquist’s slander suit, Yates expressing sympathy over the strain she must be under. “May the best woman win,” he said.
She laughed, a little hoarsely.
He talked about the mess left behind by the outgoing administration, and the long task ahead to clean it up. The former social worker had a genial, confiding manner that nibbled away at one’s defences. A clever fellow, and she reminded herself to be on guard. Commit to nothing, she told herself. Wait until sober second thought kicks in.
Finally he got to the point. “We assume you have a wish list.”
She had rehearsed for this, and spoke slowly, fearful of slurring: “Let’s start with our twelve-point election platform, and see if we can build on that.”
He nodded, smiled. “Proportional rep, Senate reform, pulling the plug on the Extended Police Powers bill — a definite on that — repairing the Species at Risk Act, curtailing energy subsidies, tackling carbon pricing — we can go along with a lot of that. I think you’ll be pleased with the Throne Speech. Much of it has to be done incrementally, of course.”
Margaret didn’t like that imprecise afterword, but this was sounding not too bad. If he was being honest. “I hope Dr. Lecourt has enough gumph to stand up to the Goliaths.” Diane Lecourt, his environment minister. A political novice.
“She’s a fast learner and a tough cookie.”
“As a jester . . . gesture of good faith, Marcus, let’s start with Coast Mountains.”
A pained look. “Look, I’m with you, but you see the problem — the pipeline is a done deal, signed and sealed. Our opinion from Legal is we can’t renege without a massive suit in damages.”
Margaret refused to believe that. “A deal done behind the backs of Parliament.”
Yates merely shrugged. “We’re looking for loopholes. Meantime, let’s get our teams to prioritize other areas of shared concern. Oh, congratulations on your success in Halifax East. Bright guy, Chalmers. We approached him ourselves, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.” Why hadn’t Chalmers mentioned that?
“He spoke admiringly of you.”
How admiringly? she wondered. She’s a passionate woman, Marcus, in more ways than one.
§
Sobriety was kicking in by the time Margaret returned to her office, but so was a headache, and she washed down a couple of extra-strength ibuprofens with strong coffee before sitting with Pierette to work on sound bites for the Throne Speech scrums. But they kept returning to Margaret’s one-on-one with Yates, debating how to keep pressing him on measures to re-green Canada.
“Keeping his feet to the fire,” Pierette said. “Is that scrum-worthy?”
“Sounds too much like an enhanced interrogation technique.”
“Keep them on their toes?”
“Too timid.”
“Stick a broom up their ass? Oh, just wing it, do your awesome best.”
Margaret rose to look out her window. There he was again, on the sidewalk, the tall spook with about ten days’ growth of beard, holding a briefcase, pausing to talk on his phone. She nudged Pierette, who’d joined her at the window.
“That guy was right on my butt the other day on Sparks Street. I did the old duck-and-doodle into a shop, and he looked in as he walked by. A few minutes later, back on the street, there he was again.”
The private eye, if that’s what he was, tucked away his phone then glanced up at their window before carrying on.
“I know that face from somewhere,” said Pierette. “Creepy. Maybe they’re hoping to catch you with Sabatino.”
“I wish.” Maybe they’d heard about her and Charmer, were hoping to spot them making out by her office window.
Just as Margaret was about to call it a day and head for home — she was beat, hungry, had smelly armpits and a throbbing head — the receptionist came to the door. “A Mr. McGilroy is here. Insists you’ll be interested in what he has to say. He’s with CSIS.”
Canadian Security Intelligence Service, the spy agency. Margaret shared a puzzled look with Pierette, took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, tucked in her blouse. “Okay, send him in, please.”
The tall, bearded man who was ushered in was the same guy who had just been outside, Margaret’s stalker. Late thirties, handsome in a dark and forbidding way, well built, probably a gym junkie, steely eyes taking in the full measure of the two agape women.
“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Blake. I’m sorry for the lack of notice.” His handshake was quick, firm, confident, and his manner of speech formal, almost toneless. “Ms. Litvak, you may not remember that we were in the same political science class at McGill.”
“I do remember you. Parliamentary Democracy 200.” A tentative smile, a nervous flutter of eyelashes.
He showed them his wallet of credentials and passed them each a card. Fitzgerald W. McGilroy, senior officer, CSIS.
“We used to call y
ou Fitz,” Pierette said.
“I still have to live with that.”
Margaret offered coffee. He accepted, and Pierette went off to fetch it. Margaret seated him in an armchair and herself on her high-backed desk chair, her throne, the power position. She was on guard. She distrusted CSIS, always nosing around front-line environmental and Indigenous groups.
“Mr. McGilroy, you have been doing a very poor job of following me.”
“I apologize. I was merely keeping you in sight until I got approval to approach you. I now have that.” Without hesitation, he took a ten-by-eight glossy from his briefcase and passed it to her. “Do you recognize this woman?”
A tall, blonde, blue-eyed Barbie doll in a pantsuit speaking to an attendant at what looked like an outdoor security gate. “Svetlana Glinka.” She just blurted it out. Stupid.
“Have you met her?’
“No. Just a guess.” She didn’t care to admit she’d seen photos of her, taken by Pierette during her stakeout on rue de la Visitation.
“Good guess.”
Pierette returned with a tray bearing mugs, milk, sugar. Margaret bought time by picking up hers and taking a mouthful right away. Black, to get her brain in gear. McGilroy stirred milk into his, waiting. Pierette studied the photo without expression.
Margaret took a deep breath. “Mr. McGilroy, as you obviously know, I am currently facing an extravagant claim for an alleged defamation. If this discussion is to go further, I need to set boundaries. I will not jeopardize my court case.”
“I guarantee you that this conversation is in complete confidence.”
“I’m prepared to hear you out, but I will not answer questions without legal advice, I’m sorry.”
“Then I encourage you to get advice. Or even have Mr. Beauchamp present when we reconvene. But you will need some background.”
He had obviously expected her to be close-mouthed — his quick opener with the photo had been a tactic to catch her off guard.
McGilroy sipped his coffee, studying her, then Pierette, as if for signs of their agreement. Or weakness. “Can we agree this is in total confidence?”
“Other than with my husb. . . my lawyer.” Why was that always so awkward to say? “And Pierette. I have to insist that she stays.”
“Of course she can stay.” He unexpectedly beamed at Pierette, who blushed as she sank into a chair beside him. Had she had the hots for him in Parliamentary Democracy 200?
“The photo I gave you was taken in front of the Russian Embassy on Charlotte Street on April 24, this year.” Margaret now recognized, in the background, the Russians’ rambling stone fortress by the Rideau River. “Glinka had just got out of a taxi. Here she is entering the grounds.” Another glossy, Svetlana from the back, being escorted into the building by a functionary.
“She remained inside for nearly ninety minutes.” A third photo of her, departing, outside the gate, getting into a taxi. “We had no idea who she was. She could have been anyone, an émigré getting papers stamped. But a week later she showed up in more curious circumstances.”
More photos. These were taken in a fast-food restaurant, maybe a McDonald’s. Svetlana was sitting at a plastic-topped table, in a long, low-cut dress, beside a leering, bald man.
“Igor Novotnik. Ostensibly a trade officer. We’ve had eyes on him for some time.” Another shot: Novotnik pulling a letter-size envelope from an inside pocket. A thick envelope.
“That was the last day of April. I had taken over the file, but still had no idea who she was or what services she was being paid for. My ears perked up when your voice clip went public. ‘Weekends with a Russian dominatrix named Svetlana.’”
“Broadcast a billion times,” Margaret said, getting a look from Pierette.
“Novotnik’s paid informant fit Glinka’s physicals: tall, blonde, blue-eyed, well endowed. I was certain she was the dominatrix. But by then she had fled the country.”
A picture was forming for Margaret. A week after Novotnik paid her off, Sibericon opened negotiations to buy into Coast Mountains. Talks were completed in July. Cabinet gave it the green light in August. Margaret couldn’t help herself. “So you suspect the Russians had a . . . let’s call it a pipeline, into Coast Mountains.”
He didn’t confirm that, but said: “I am curious, Ms. Blake, to hear what you know of Svetlana Glinka’s association with Emil Farquist.”
Margaret raised her hands: a halt sign.
McGilroy packed away his photos. “I gather you’d like to reserve on that.”
“Why come to me now, Mr. McGilroy? Why not months ago?”
“We hesitated to approach you, given the court action. But matters are now more difficult.”
Glinka, he explained, in his monotonous way, had been under observation in France, but had pulled up stakes, sold her sex shop, and returned to the motherland. “Moscow, we believe.”
“The heat was getting too hot.”
“Meaning what, Ms. Blake?”
“When would you like to continue this, Mr. McGilroy?”
EXODUS
At tea time on Saturday afternoon Arthur was comfortably seated in his Vancouver club, the Confederation, flipping through Maclean’s while stirring his Earl Grey and eavesdropping on a trio of codgers at the table behind him. Retired tycoons, all hard of hearing, he supposed, given their high decibels.
“Sorry, J.O., I disagree. Farquist is too risky. In fact, I just cut Clara a cheque.”
“Clara Gracey, gentlemen, is a radical feminist. Liberal in sheep’s clothing. Emil’s a hard-hearted bastard, I give you that, but he’s the man to take on those weepy-eyed Liberals.”
A third voice. “I’ve always been able to work with Clara. She’s the best finance minister since Don Fleming, and better looking. I’m hoping she whips Emil’s ass.”
“Give it to me, Clara, I’ve been a bad boy.” Loud guffaws.
“Emil will get the last laugh, boys. That climate alarmist he’s suing, Blake, she’s about to get her ass whipped.”
Arthur knew this loathsome threesome, though not well. Banking, timber, and real estate. And they knew him, though obviously hadn’t observed him being led to his chair. The prediction by the Farquist booster soured Arthur’s mood. He sipped his tea, played with his smartphone, on which the Woofers, with painstaking effort, had finally taught him a few basics.
Arthur had stayed a couple of nights in Alberta after the chambers hearing, debating strategies with Sierra, reviewing case law at the Tragger, Inglis branch, then went on to Edmonton for one night. He’d met with Alfred Scower there, a pleasant evening in a restaurant.
Dr. Scower hadn’t tried to hide his shock or his glee over Arthur’s surmise about the incestuous adolescence of his bête noir. He was eager to help bring Farquist down but lacked ammunition. He offered one remote possibility: Emil’s mother, Lee, had regularly attended mass; her priest from the late 1980s might still be alive. Sierra would follow that up.
Arthur had been nearly a week away from Garibaldi and was aching to return. The Sunday morning ferry would take him there to begin another seven-day reprieve from the wearying monster of the coming trial. He was repelled by the prospect of Margaret being cross-examined in open court, probed and needled, portrayed as the queen of the careless remark. He dreaded seeing her embarrassed or, worse, flare up, losing her temper. The trial had to be avoided. Without Sabatino, without the video, Margaret would lose.
Somehow Arthur would have to pull off the biggest bluff since they broke the bank at Monte Carlo.
His thoughts were interrupted by an intrusive sound from somewhere near. A banal, repellent tune. It took Arthur a moment to realize it was coming from his phone. He finally answered it with a brusque hello.
“Hello, darling. I just had a very interesting visitor. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
§
The Sunday m
orning ferry to Garibaldi was famously slow, with three pit stops, and Arthur spent the time pacing the upper deck, bundled up against the November cold, determined to walk himself back into shape after dining out all week and otherwise sitting on his rear.
It hadn’t yet rained, but the clouds were low and ominous. The grey sky melded on the horizon with the darker shade of the frothy, white-capped strait. The islands of the Salish Sea were still far away, formless green mounds. Occasionally cormorants and guillemots beat across the waves.
He hadn’t been in touch with Garibaldi except for a mid-week call to Reverend Al, who reported that he had been busy campaigning with Taba. The anti-Transformer slate was losing ground: the Bleat had endorsed Shewfelt and Zoller. Arthur promised he would pitch in. He owed it to his pal, and to Taba, who had been so commendably discreet about their liaison amoureuse.
More central to his thoughts was Margaret’s sudden, intriguing visit from a CSIS agent. Despite his fears about tapped phone connections, Arthur had recklessly and raptly listened to her account. Tromping up and down the deck, exercising his mind as well as his legs, Arthur struggled to collate the bits and pieces she’d gleaned from her briefing by McGilroy.
Assuming his information was reliable, Svetlana Glinka was not a spy but a businesswoman selling secrets. Emil Farquist had enjoyed her services over the course of five months. As he was showering away his exertions in his log chalet, had she seen, or even copied or photographed, some confidential memo on his desk blotter? Perhaps an alert that the PMO was about to bypass Parliament and approve the Coast Mountains Pipeline by cabinet order.
It was hard to believe that Farquist had gotten so close and loose with Glinka that he would confide government secrets. Maybe he had merely advised her to buy Coast Mountains stock, with a telling wink as he was pulling on his pants. Or maybe, the most delicious conjecture, he was using Svetlana as an agent to earn a rich payoff from Sibericon.
But that theory, lamentably, was most unlikely. Even Margaret refused to entertain it. According to Sierra, Farquist was financially strapped. The chalet was still up for sale. The owner, the realtor had said, was motivated.
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