Snow Job (26 page)

After correcting a few sound problems, Chambleau said a few words about how the people of Quebec were shoulder-to-shoulder with all of Canada in these difficult times — a typical separatist spiel: we are with you but not of you. He introduced Zandoo, a
constituent, proud Quebecer, naturalized citizen, community activist, and so on, then turned the mike over to Beauchamp, counsel for the Erzhan family and Zandoo. Pro bono, but Thiessen knew he was doing it for the publicity.

More problems with the mike, but Beauchamp started off fine without it, he had a voice you could hear a block away in heavy traffic. “Okay, while that contraption is being looked at, give me your ears, folks.”

“You come to bury the government, not to praise it,” someone said to laughter.

“‘I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is.’” More laughs.

Thiessen was reminded of Finnerty, his rapport with the media. Funeral this weekend, he’d be sharing top billing with Gracey and the Opposition leader. He’d probably cry, it wouldn’t be an act — they’d been like brothers. The heir apparent, that was starting to sound right. Huck had somehow become more popular in death than life, so that could be a boost. If Thiessen decided to go for it.

They were laughing again at something Beauchamp said. In French, no less. French, or the lack of it, that was one of Thiessen’s drawbacks. Never needed it in Grey County. A history of lacklustre report cards was another problem — he’d had to repeat third-year law.

Now Beauchamp turned serious. “To those among you who may wonder why we bring this matter not before the private scrutiny of officialdom but before the press, I paraphrase Edmund Burke: a power far more important than that of kings and parliaments resides in the fourth estate. And that power used wisely and boldly is democracy’s lifeblood.”

A touch of honey for the media flies. This guy was a natural. Why wasn’t he in politics?

“Mr. Zandoo has a statement to read. I’m confident you’ll listen to and question him respectfully.”

The microphone, working now, was passed to Zandoo, who
must have been nervous, but hid it with a gruff manner as Beauchamp drew from him some personal history: born where, immigrated when, made a living how. The podium backdrop, an array of loosely hanging maple leaf flags, had the unfortunate effect of giving the guy a kind of patriotic credibility.

Thiessen tried to hang in there, but too much was on his mind. He’d need a campaign committee, endorsements from respected names. He’d need money. Maybe a few French lessons, but, hey, Dief the Chief hardly spoke it, and he amassed the biggest majority in Canadian history. Hardest of all, he’d need to find some way to square it all with Clara Gracey. He’d tell her he couldn’t fight the pressure, they were coming at him from all sides. Also, a fair and tough debate about goals and principles would be healthy for the party.

The national executive was planning a February convention. Maybe by then Gracey would have put this Bhashyistan thing behind them, with honour. If not, let’s face it, the party, the entire country, would be looking for new leadership. Where would Lafayette’s votes go? Maybe Thiessen should soap him up a little. Even if he ended up today as minister of interprovincial livestock standards, he could still be a broker.

Back to Zandoo, carrying on in his gravelly voice about this so-called abduction, a black car pulling up for Erzhan, two white guys getting out, urging him to get in, then pulling him in, pushing his head down like the cops do on the TV shows, but without resistance, his legs buckling. Zandoo just happens to be there to see this? How convenient. Then he doesn’t tell the police because he was leery of them over some racist incident? Come on.

It bugged Thiessen a little, though, that Zandoo had told this story to Erzhan’s wife immediately afterwards. She’d confirmed that, it was on record with the cops. Why hadn’t they given him the third degree when they had the chance, Crumwell too? Maybe that’s why the sullen bugger was having a little problem with the bowels.

He was fighting a dry throat, so he went to the refreshment table for a glass of tomato juice, smiling and waving at the lenses that followed him there and back.

When Zandoo started fielding questions, Thiessen’s reaction was: where are the attack dogs? Beauchamp must have played a little hockey in his time, or maybe refereed, the way he calmly skated around and kept reporters from getting their bodychecks.

But here, finally, was the Fraser Institute maestro — Thiessen had passed him a note — asking Zandoo about his jailed cousin, the al-Qaeda terrorist.

Zandoo looked confused. His questioner prompted him with a name, Mohammed Aziz. “Means nothing,” Zandoo said. “Why would I know a terrorist? If he’s some kind of religious fanatic, I have no dealings with such people, they disgust me.”

The pundit glanced at Thiessen, frowned over his note. “Your, uh, mother’s uncle’s grandson. Twenty years old, fought for the Taliban. He’s in an American prison in Kabul. Does that ring a bell, sir?”

“No bells are ringing. I have lived in Canada twenty-three years, never returned. How would I meet some crazy young man not born when I came to this country?”

This line of questioning was going over like a lead balloon, Beauchamp sitting there with a big fat grin, offering his two bits worth. “If the justice minister has other equally compelling information he hopes might tar my client, maybe he can offer it directly rather than through an intermediary.”

From somewhere, poorly stifled laughter. As Thiessen stood he slopped tomato juice on his shirt and tie.

“Someone get the minister a straw,” Beauchamp said. Uproarious laughter.

Thiessen’s face went as red as his shirt, and he stammered, his knack for the sharp comeback deserting him. It seemed like half a day as he stood there with his mouth open. Finally, he could
only grit his teeth, sit back down, and accept his licks. He’d pulled a boner coming here. He’ll nail that smug bugger. Someday, somehow.

As Clara Gracey led Dexter McPhee to the door of the P.M.’s office, she opted for a handshake — a hug seemed inappropriate. “We’re polling at almost sixty per cent of retired troops, so don’t let anyone tell you Veterans Affairs isn’t an absolutely key portfolio. No one can work the Legion Halls like you, Dexter; I’ve seen you in action too many times to doubt that. I’m so proud to have you aboard.”

McPhee walked out stiffly, mumbling, “Proud to be serving, Clara. Good luck.” The insincerity was palpable.

Clara mopped her brow, lit a cigarette, leaned on her desk for support. That was a tough one, but McPhee had been too closely tied to Eager Beaver. “Give me strength,” she prayed, hoping someone up there was listening.

Percival Galbraith-Smythe slipped in, frowning, turning on the desk fan to blow away the smoke. She’d brought him over from Finance as executive assistant, much to the discomfort of E.K. Boyes — the chief of staff suffered more than a mild homophobic disorder.

“M. Lafayette is outside on the phone to our UN ambassador, pretending it’s business as usual. Please put that out, it will make him think you’re rattled.”

One last draw, then she butted out, slid the ashtray into a drawer. “Did you reach Sonja?”

“She’s delighted.”

Sonja Dubjek, a former diplomat, the new face of Foreign Affairs. The gender gap tightens. “How did Chambleau’s press conference go?”

“Thiessen waltzed in there and made a complete bloody fool of himself. I know he’s cute, darling, but otherwise what
do
you see in him?”

“I like him, he lacks ambition. What did he do?”

“Later. The prince of darkness awaits.”

Clara popped a breath mint. “Send him in.”

Percival gave way to Gerry Lafayette, hiding behind a smile as he pocketed his phone. “Good news, Clara, the UN is sending a high-ranking emissary to Igorgrad. Assistant secretary-general, no less. Plans to warn them that if they don’t see reason they’ll be internationally condemned as a pariah state. Sanctions, embargos, the whole package.”

An initiative that should have been sought in the first place. But Clara didn’t say that. “Excellent. No movement from Security Council?”

“Our allies are awaiting the result of this initiative.”

“And the Russians?”

“I think they want things settled down. They’re hoping to get their grubby hands on the Bhashyistan oil fields, of course. Privately, they still see our Mr. Erzhan as the key. Find him, render him to Bhashyistan justice, and all will go swimmingly.”

“Easy for them to say. The abduction business — anything to it?”

“A clever ploy to set up an alibi. Arthur Beauchamp shouldn’t be underestimated.” He peered out the window. “Snow’s melting. They say we’re in for some relief, a warm spell.” Turning to her. “By the way, Clara, you’re looking exceedingly well. Your new role becomes you, and you embellish it as much as I’m sure you relish it.”

That was pathetic. Clara fiddled with some papers, embarrassed for him.

“Gerry, I’m afraid this whole foofaraw over Bhashyistan has stirred up separatist sentiment across the river. Rhetoric about how
les québécois
are ashamed to be part of Canada, that sort of nonsense. Remarks from the Alberta premier aren’t helping either, and the provinces are squabbling. We’re going to need someone to help
keep this country together in tough times. A powerful, respected Quebec federalist. No one fits that bill like you.”

Lafayette showed little expression, though his facial muscles tightened.

“I want to move you to Interprovincial Affairs. I’m going to make it a front-bench job, and you’ll be chief Quebec spokesperson as well. I’ll be in your debt if you take this on.”

“Interprovincial Affairs,” he repeated softly, then turned for the door. “Have a nice day, Prime Minister.”

Half an hour later, one of Clara’s aides reported that Lafayette had resigned from the cabinet and the Conservative Party.

A
n interminable two-stop flight to Vancouver followed by a fitful night had Arthur in a sour mood as he huddled over his poached eggs in the Confederation Club dining room. He listened dully to the voices behind him, aging executives resigned to the predictable precipitous fall of the Tory government.

“Proud to say I backed Lafayette for his run last year. The right choice, but the party made the wrong one.”

“Liberal in sheep’s clothing, that’s what he called Gracey. Can’t say I disagree.”

“Smart chap, Lafayette, good fundamentals. Has he got a name for his party?”

“Progressive Reform.”

It was Tuesday, December 14, eight days after Illustrious Victory Over Canada Day, five since Lafayette bolted from the Tories, taking two disciples with him, determined to bring down a government that Lafayette had excoriated as having tilted dangerously to the left. Even with full attendance, the Conservatives could count on only 152 votes for Thursday’s confidence motion. A united opposition had two more.

An election was at the bottom of Arthur’s wish list. Working the main streets as the toy boy of the leader of the Parti Vert du Canada. Listening politely to foul-breathed supplicants. The sweaty
backrooms, the speeches, the sniping, the attacks on probity, private lives bared.

It was hard to conceive of an election going ahead while the standoff with Bhashyistan continued. The UN emissary had been thwarted by the stubbornness of Mad Igor, his fiefdom now isolated, in deepening penury, trade routes closed, only smugglers thriving.

Arthur’s thoughts went to the women who’d landed in Igorgrad by happenstance. Jill Svetlikoff, mother of three young girls; her sister Maxine, single mom of twenty-year-old Ivy, a recently laid off lab technician. It seemed odd that during all his bombastic effluvia the third son hadn’t mentioned the capture of three more Canadians, given their value as bargaining chips. That might mean they were alive and hiding. Or dead and buried.

From behind him: “Gracey’s bright enough, not hard to look at, but too soft. I’m not sexist, no one can accuse me of that — equal but different, I say. The little lady runs the kitchen staff and I pay the bills. But you don’t make them fleet commander.”