Snow Job Page 5

  “What happened?” Was this, finally, the prayed-for crisis that would wing him to the western shores?

  “I didn’t want to bother you last night, but they’re not letting him out.”

  “Who?”

  “Zack. They’ve got Zack. The cops. They say he’s going to have to do the rest of his term, five months.”

  He’d been at the rally in Vancouver, outside the bank tower housing Alta International’s B.C. office. Arthur was shocked to learn he was accused of violating parole by joining a public demonstration. “Do I understand a term of parole prohibits Zack from attending public protests?”

  “Yeah, both of us. That’s why I didn’t go.”

  “Read me the language.”

  “We are barred from organizing, participating in, or attending any public demonstration relating to political or environmental issues. Zack says that’s against the Charter of Rights.”

  “Fundamentally so. There was no court order enjoining this protest?”

  “No. The police didn’t intervene at all except to keep order and grab Zack.”

  “Savannah, you are to call Tragger, Inglis in Vancouver and ask for my secretary, Gertrude Isbister, and give her what she needs for an affidavit for a judicial review. Regrettably it can’t be heard until after the weekend, but I’ll be there.”

  “You’re a lovely man, Arthur.”

  He felt a tingle of relief, anticipation. Perversely, Zack’s arrest offered an antidote to his felt uselessness.

  Still no stirring from the bedroom. He left a note: “Gone for a nippy walk.”

  And nippy it was. But the sun was out, and a fast walk warms, and there was comfort in knowing he’d be in Vancouver by the weekend enjoying the dying autumn’s softness. Back in the saddle. Doing what he did best.

  He walked south on Bronson Avenue, a busy artery feeding the Airport Parkway. His usual route would take him to Dow’s Lake, the pathway along it, past the skaters’ changing huts — unused as yet, but as this freeze continued the lake and canal would soon be thronged with hardy commuters skating to work, an Ottawa rite of winter.

  Approaching from the north came a vehicle with its flashers on — an RCMP cruiser, moving with a funereal lack of speed. Behind it came a troop of Mounties on motorcycles, followed by a second cruiser and, some distance away, a stretch limousine, which seemed deliberately to have slowed the procession’s pace. From its open windows, swarthy men were waving to pedestrians. “Maple leaf forever!” one shouted. “On marge of Lake Labarge!” called another. They were passing a bottle.

  Clearly, this was the infamous band of Bhashies, who had profoundly failed to charm staid Ottawa. Heading for their Ilyushin and a polar flight home. An RCMP van was impatiently pressing them from the rear. A police helicopter roared overhead. The Crown must have called out the reserves to get rid of its guests.

  As he reached the bridge between the canal and Dow’s Lake, Arthur momentarily lost sight of the procession in the backed-up traffic. But as he gained the apex of the bridge, he recoiled with a gasp on seeing a brilliant flash below, accompanied by a whump so loud it seemed to reverberate drumlike within his chest cavity. Pedestrians froze, cars braked. A puff of grey smoke, swallowed by darker clouds, billowed skyward. The lick of flames reflected red from the frozen surface of the lake.

  People were pouring out of cars and stalled buses. Arthur, craning over the bridge railing, could see the twisted remnants of the stretch Lincoln on Colonel By Drive, by the lakeside. A skaters’ change hut was aflame, as was an adjoining Beavertail hut.

  As Arthur picked up his pace, others overtook him, running, and by the time he found his way down to the disaster scene, police and emergency vehicles were arriving, brakes screeching, uniformed men and women bounding from them.

  Soon, extinguishers were dousing flames around the sprawled, blackened bodies in the limousine. Collateral damage had been done to the RCMP cruiser behind it, whose two dazed occupants were sitting on the sidewalk, receiving first aid.

  Arthur felt faint, grasped a lamppost, took several deep breaths. He’d seen dead bodies before — his career had hardened him, but not enough; never had he witnessed such carnage. A missile or a roadside bomb. A direct hit. Clean, expert, unerring, ghastly.

  Police were throwing up a cordon, ordering the crowds back with the frantic bawling of the severely rattled. A woman next to Arthur was vomiting. He felt his stomach roiling too.

  An improvised explosive device, that was the verdict of the experts who testified before the news cameras. A remote-controlled IED, the odious weapon of choice for the fanatics of the modern age of terrorism, tested and refined in the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan. Likely triggered by a cellphone, the experts said. Ten dead, the entire Bhashyistan delegation plus the chauffeur and their ambassador, who’d been seeing them off to the airport.

  Here was a day-old clip of that ambassador, his face lit by a smile as he cut a ribbon outside a brick duplex being renovated for an embassy. Here were clips of the Bhashie delegation being welcomed, feted, inspecting the honour guard. The sole Canadian victim, the chauffeur, was a retired naval warrant officer, whose children were shown grieving.

  Arthur was still shaking. Margaret was still in her robe. They’d been staring raptly at the screen for the last hour, as the networks scrambled to interview witnesses, mobilize pundits, piece together the story, fill in with backgrounders. The IED had apparently been hidden high up in the changing hut. Some pedestrians were rushed to emergency with shrapnel cuts, none severe. For some reason, Ottawa International had been shut down, planes were being diverted. The city had come to a halt, the parliamentary sitting cancelled.

  No arrests. No indication any were imminent. Three Bhashies remained in town: their embassy staff, quartered in a small hotel on Sparks Street, hiding there, unavailable to the press.

  Still no response from cabinet, just footage of them heading to a briefing room, fleeing pursuing cameras, getting jammed up at the doorway in their haste. There’d been no reaction from Bhashyistan either, calls from newsrooms not answered, the country’s entire phone system down. The silence seemed ominous. Arthur couldn’t imagine what Mad Igor was thinking right now. Fifteen years ago, his father murdered on Canadian soil. Now his top ministers. One would not have to be wildly delusional to see Canada as complicit.

  Arthur got up to the intercom to buzz in Pierètte Litvak, Margaret’s assistant, who announced from the lobby: “Sorry I took so long, I had to change, I actually peed my pants.” This was information Arthur didn’t care to know. A minute later she came sweeping in, throwing her ski jacket on a chair, giving him a peck, then rushing to Margaret and hugging her. “Wow, you all right?”

  “I’m in shock. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “The BDRF, the Bhashyistani Democratic Revolutionary Front.” Pierètte smiled a thanks to Arthur for the coffee he extended. “Catch me up. Why is the airport shut down?”

  It was a mystery, the press didn’t know; there was a news embargo. But now Arthur’s travel plans were in disarray. He’d told Margaret about Zack’s arrest, and they’d agreed he should fly out the next day if possible. A travel agent was working at it. Mean-while, he’d left a message with his secretary instructing her to file the appeal within the day.

  Pierètte squatted on the carpet, lotus position, got her Blackberry and laptop going. Arthur had been surprised to learn this political junkie was almost thirty. She looked eighteen. A Quebecer, bilingual, political science degree.

  “That guy who assassinated the Great Father, isn’t he supposed to be around here somewhere? Quebec?”

  “The RCMP won’t confirm,” Margaret said. Old footage had been shown of Abzal Erzhan being arrested, being freed, an extensive backgrounder. A wiry, intense-looking fellow. An unbelieving pinch-me look as he walked free from the Vancouver Law Courts. A clip of Brian Pomeroy, his counsel, in his barrister’s robes, bantering with reporters at a post-victory scrum.

  “Are we making a statement
?” Pierètte asked.

  “We need to confer about that. I haven’t been answering the phone.”

  “You could thank the bomber for scuttling Alta’s oil deal. Joke. Condolences, it’s a black day, that sort of thing. You can’t make political hay with it. Yet. My advice is wait, respond to the government when they get their shit together. If.”

  Talk stopped. A news bulletin. “CBC has just learned that an airliner took off without clearance this morning from Ottawa International Airport. Just a minute …” The announcer flattened a headset against his ear. “We have breaking news from Canadian Forces Air Command. CF-18 interceptors from 3 Wing in Bagotville are in pursuit of that aircraft, an Ilyushin 62 believed en route to Bhashyistan.”

  “Wow, this is some freaky shit,” Pierètte said.

  For the next several minutes, not much new. They learned that Ilyushin 62s, four-engine jetliners, once the mainstay of Aeroflot, had gone out of production in the 1970s. Only a couple of dozen still in service. Regarded as a jinxed aircraft, a history of disasters. This one had a cockpit crew of captain, first officer, flight engineer, navigator. Three cabin crew and one for the yak. The fore quarters had been modified into a gilded, sumptuous lounge. It was the Ultimate Leader’s personal plane.

  Pierètte, who was flipping through media sites, looked up from her laptop. “Turn to CTV.”

  A solemn newscaster. “We take you live to Pamela Burns in Chambly.”

  A camera panned a pleasant, tree-lined street, brick tenements, spiralling cast iron staircases. “These are the typical residences of Rue Talon, a typical street in a typical Quebec town.” A teenaged boy made a face, then ducked under the moving camera, which settled on Pamela Burns, shivering, shrugging into a jacket.

  “And this, 740 Rue Talon, is the home of Abzal Erzhan, who, fifteen years ago in Vancouver, was acquitted of murdering the visiting ruler of Bhashyistan.” The camera was looking at the upstairs flat of a duplex, its door guarded by three uniformed police. More were on the sidewalk, keeping the curious at bay. “We’re not being allowed to talk to anyone inside, but no one has been arrested, no one is coming or going from that house but RCMP officers.” As if on cue, a bristle-haired man in a suit exited, conferred with the guards. “We’re looking at Inspector Luc Poirier, senior officer on duty here.” Zoom on him, a deep frown, tight lips. A face at a window, a woman in a hijab, apprehensive.

  Inspector Poirier descended to the street. Reporters converged. “Inspector, can you confirm that Abzal Erzhan has disappeared?”

  “Pas de commentaires.” He shouldered gruffly past them, into his car, hunched over the police radio.

  “C’est de la grosse foque,” Pierètte said. A total fuckup. “Means an election, can’t see them surviving.” Fingers dancing over the keyboard. “Radio-Canada, give me something. Whoa, here we are. Looks like our interceptors have made contact with the Ilyushin. Oh, baby, I’d donate a kidney to be a fly on the wall in the cabinet room.”

  6

  Radio static crackled from a transmitter-receiver they’d lugged into the cabinet room, onto its long oval table. Tense male voices. Positions, bearings, Aircom jargon, gobbledygook to most of the cabinet, including Clara Gracey. Six fully armed CF-18 Hornets were somewhere near Ungava Bay, zeroing in on their quarry.

  “Squad Boss, Squad Boss, this is Alpha One.”

  “Roger, this is Squad Boss, over.”

  “Do you have a visual?”

  “We’re right on him, about angels twenty, just above the goo. We’re looking at some weather down there.”

  “You’re looking at a fast-moving Arctic front. That flying junk-pile could fall apart. How’s your juice?”

  “Ten minutes to bingo. Out.”

  Clara could barely endure the stench emanating from the male armpits in the room, sweat born of fear, confusion, desperation, with an acrid overlay of resentment. She’d been the lone dissenter, and now no one could look at her, not even Finnerty, and especially not Lafayette. The tattletale, spreading word she’d broken cabinet secrecy. All the more hurtful for being true.

  The feed was courtesy of General Buster Buchanan, Canadian Forces chief of staff, who’d been joined by a few other brass plus a radio technician. Plus the national security adviser and the RCMP commissioner. Throw in several PMO staff and three dozen cabinet members, and it was a full house. Huck looked shaky. A bad day to have a hangover.

  “Alpha One, this is Squad Boss.”

  “What have you got?”

  “We’re practically touching wings, but the driver’s pretending he can’t see us.”

  “Weapons safe. Stay with the drill.”

  “Roger wilco.”

  “Let’s try to avoid Plan B.”

  “Roger that for sure. Wait one.” More static, then: “Hey, BH-zero-niner-niner, you see me now?”

  A heavy accent. “Have trobble with radio.”

  “I think you hear me real good. Can you see me? … Right, that’s me, playing left wing for les canadiens. You know hockey, captain?”

  “Is national game. Have many hockey heroes.”

  “Here’s your chance to be one. You get to be goalie. We’re the forwards. You know what forwards do?”

  “They shoot puck.”

  “That’s right. How many parachutes have you got?”

  “Two, but not working.”

  “Okay, so think of your wives and families, and throttle down to a nice, easy three zero zero knots, and I’m going to give you a set of coordinates, and we’re all going to glide back down to a friendly little air force base.”

  “I talk to fellow workers.” After a moment, the pilot returned to the radio. “We ask your contry giving us what you call refugee state. Not send back ever to Bhashyistan. If no deal, okay, shoot puck.”

  Buster Buchanan looked at Finnerty, who glanced around — at everybody but Clara. A woman, she wasn’t expected to hold useful views on military strategies.

  “They’re going to screw us around. Blast ’em out of the air.” This hard line, from Dexter McPhee, the defence minister, earned an embarrassed silence. Clara knew it was just bluster, but the P.M.’s aides looked shocked.

  “This isn’t a time to joke,” Lafayette said. “They face execution if deported. Their terms should be accepted.”

  Finnerty agreed. Buster Buchanan went on air personally to tell Bagotville it was a done deal. A few seconds later, the squadron leader came on, sounding relieved. “Alpha One, this is Squad Boss, we’re taking this bird in.”

  “Bravo Zulu, Squad Boss.”

  Sighs of relief. Finnerty rose unsteadily to stretch and refill his coffee. Clara felt sorry for him. Events had propelled him well beyond his normal range of competence. Commissioner Luc Lessard, normally so thoughtful and phlegmatic, was looking unusually distressed after the RCMP’s botched security job. Probably wondering how far his head was going to roll.

  At the far end of the table, near the non-functioning fireplace, sat Gerry Lafayette, a headset on, a secure line to his ministry. While others seemed befuddled by events, he was intent on showing stern, decisive coolness. He bore no responsibility for this mess. The buck stopped at Finnerty, and one did not have to be a diviner of souls to see the resignation in his face. He had been at this job only a year, would be remembered only for this catastrophe. However tragic was this terrorist act, it accelerated Lafayette’s resolve to lead les bleus from the wilderness.

  He looked around at the strained, expectant faces and slipped off his headset. “Staff has been trying to message them every conceivable way, through the Brits, through the Yanks. Rien que silence. I suspect we must issue a statement soon. The fourth estate is anxious. The Ultimate Leader may especially be eager to hear our carefully worded regrets.” The PMO’s director of communications took this as a directive, went off with the press secretary to hammer something out. “I wonder, Prime Minister, now that the cabinet is briefed, if we could dwindle to a slightly more manageable size.”

  The bulk of t
he ministers got the message and began filing out, probably feeling relieved and perhaps guilty that Gerard Laurier Lafayette was showing the leadership their party had denied him. He took the chair next to Finnerty, at mid-centre of the long table, and spoke low: “Information has not been kept close to our chests, Huck. Or our breasts, if you take my meaning.”

  Clara didn’t hear that but saw them glance at her. She didn’t need the equation written in chalk on a blackboard. That silky Iago was making a move on the operationally challenged old trawler-man, who was so hungover, so out of his depth, he was delegating power to his adversary.

  Invited to stay were three Finnerty cronies, Dexter McPhee of Defence, Attorney General DuWallup, Charley Thiessen of Public Safety. Plus the P.M.’s chief of staff, executive assistant, communications director, national security adviser, and the RCMP commissioner.

  The finance minister, however, was getting the bum’s rush. “Nice job, Gerry,” she said, on her way out.

  “You’re very kind.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  “I hadn’t thought otherwise, Clara.”

  Clara needed a smoke badly, she was stinging from the insult of being excluded. She was deputy prime minister! But she maintained outward composure as fellow evictee Buster Buchanan held the door for her. McPhee called after him: “General, let us know when our boys get back home safe.”

  In the anteroom, Clara joined the other exiles in retrieving cellphones and Blackberrys from the bank of safety deposit boxes — wireless transmitters were banned at cabinet sessions. She took Buchanan aside to pass on her thanks to the heroes of Bagotville. “That Cool Hand Luke up there deserves a medal, General.”

  “Ma’am, he’ll get one.”

  Ma’am — she loathed that, it made her feel eighty years old. From the restricted zone known as the Horseshoe, outside the PMO complex, she could see down to the foyer and the press thronging there, an impatient, hungry wolf pack. How she would love to toss them some meat.