Sussex Drive: A Novel (26 page)

“Unblemished,” Lise said. “I am an open book.”

Becky leaned in. “Are you sure?”

“Absolument,”
said Lise.

“What about everybody else?”

“Whom do you mean?” said Lise. She felt sick. “Do you mean René?”

“If the shoe fits,” said Becky.

Lise felt as if she could raise the couch with Becky on it and hurl all out of the gabled window onto the broadcast trucks below.

“I’m trying to help.” Becky lifted her magic tote, dug until she found an envelope, opened it and slid a photo across the Doukhobor coffee table.

It was René, in a grizzly hug, apparently, with Che Guevera, but she knew it was the famous Romanian drug lord, bare-chested, drugged, drunk. Behind them, but not far enough, bare-breasted, bare-assed dancers were leashed to a spectacular dildo, a ten-footer, and she thought she could identify the famous drug spilled across the table.

“I just have to think,” Becky said, “as your friend and neighbour, what would this do to your family?” She closed her eyes. “Imagine. To Niko.” A pause. “I’m getting a headline: ‘Who Put the Vice in Viceregal?’ ‘Left to His Own De-Vices.’ ‘Who let the Vice out?’ ”

Lise wanted to ask where Becky got this, but she already knew, the way she knew they had photos of her on the ground at the Former Slave Depot, or in conference with the ex-president of St. Bertrand, and every other move she’d made or hadn’t. There was no point in asking, filing a complaint; she was done.

Lise stood. “I must ask you to leave my apartment.
Immédiatement
.”

Becky did not. “Because you, Open Book, were also seen in a tête-à-tête with the ousted president of St. Bertrand.”

“Our paths crossed in an airport in Africa.”

“I heard. Like Stanley and Livingstone.”

“Neither was seeking the other, which you already know. You have that photo
aussi
?”

Becky folded her arms. “Jean-Louis Raymond isn’t on our A-for-Allies list. He didn’t help us out.” She paused. “And it also wouldn’t help if folks knew the Green King was interfering.”

Lise sat back down beside Becky. She restrained herself from spitting on the photo of stupid René with the stupid stupid drug lord, and those poor enslaved girls. “All right,” Lise said, “let’s talk
dinde
.”

“Ding-Dong,” said Becky.

“Turkey.”

“Dindon,”
said Becky.

“Whichever you wish,” said Lise. “I will prorogue on the Prime Minister’s advice.”

“You’ll come to see the wisdom, Lise.”

“On a few conditions.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Yes. It is.”

Becky didn’t answer.

“
Numéro un
. The secretary resigns right now.”

“Peggy?” Becky was mock shocked, and Lise supposed that this was because the first condition was so very, very easy. “But the PMO—”

“Fire her,” said Lise. “And further—”

“There’s more?”

Lise took a breath, then exhaled. She’d assumed this role, carried this enormous Dominion on her slim shoulders, to help her country, to help the world. She was already on the edge of losing her husband, and her son might be having a breakdown. It was clear now that she could do nothing at all to help Canada. Its democracy had early-onset Alzheimer’s. Its democracy was in a media-induced ethical coma; it had permanent parliamentary amnesia—her mind was raving.

“Numéro deux,”
Lise said. “St. Bertrand. My native land. Canada is to forgive the debt.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Becky said.

“
Numéro trois
. St. Bertrand
encore
. Stop the privatization of telecommunications.”

“If we don’t do it, the States will. Or France,” Becky said. “Lise, this is naive. You’ve made a far left turn here. Take two Tylenol and burn your Naomi Klein, seriously.”

Lise reached across and clutched Becky’s arm and held it very, very tightly. She was pinching it.
“Écoute-moi,”
Lise said.
“They think they know about us, me and René, the photo, the chance meeting. You have the nerve to sit here and tell me about my own family, how my decision will affect them.”

“Let go, Lise, please,” said Becky, softly.

Lise dug her fingernails into Becky’s flesh.

“I’ll deck you,” Becky said. “I’m stronger.”

“I know, though, that your family is also going through things—”

Lise had never seen a human flush blood out of her head faster than this woman. She witnessed a living illustration of physiological brain drain. Becky turned so white. It was beyond fight-or-flight.

“And I know that it would not be good for your own family if certain information about them—got out.” Lise timed her next words. “To the base.
N’est-ce pas?
”

Becky sank into herself. She looked like the Wicked Witch of the West when Dorothy threw the pail of water on her and she melted. Except Becky wasn’t wailing. And she was a redhead. Silent, savvy, and far more cunning than an MGM witch. Plus her husband, with
CSIS
,
CSE
,
RCMP
,
NATO
and
CENTCOM
, could summon more than flying monkeys.

When Becky finally spoke, she stared down at her lap. “The children pay the price.”

“Yes.” Lise swallowed. “Children everywhere.” She picked up a blueberry muffin from Becky’s basket and threw it at the TV. “Long-term.”

Becky shook her head. Lise saw that she had to ask. “What do you know?”

Lise didn’t hesitate.
“Tout.”
She threw another muffin.

“Truly?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What do you know?”

“Your daughter.” Lise caressed the familial noun.

Becky sat up tall, squared her shoulders, took a breath and left the room. Lise waited. Outside, the sun shone brilliantly, and Lise could see, on the slightly crumby TV screen, that the crews outside Rideau Hall, where she was collared and leashed, had started shooting the winter rainbow that had just now rooted itself in the middle of the Ottawa River behind the Hill. She heard, “Meanwhile, the PM’s looking for his own pot of gold.”

It was less than ten minutes later when Becky returned. She passed Lise the handwritten letter of resignation from Margaret Lee. “Effective immediately. Embargoed until the New Year.”

“The debt.”

“Forgiven.”

For Canada, a drop in the bucket. For St. Bertrand, perhaps a future.

“Telecommunications?”

“Best efforts.” Becky produced the prorogation document. “Clark says sign here and here.”

Lise did. She had a wild urge to add one of Becky’s emoticons to her signature but was able to restrain herself.

“One final thing,” Becky said.

Lise regarded her with detachment.

“Who told?” Becky asked. “Niko?”

“I will never say,” said Lise.

“Shymanski,” Becky breathed.

From the empty rooms above the Rideau Hall front porch—an area of suites known as the Mappin—Lise moved aside the curtain. Below her, the Prime Minister was in makeup. Becky was magically redelivered from a limo that slipped in up the drive. She wore sunglasses and a long dark coat by Arabesque, with a knotted red and white scarf—she was Pablo-less now, and Greg completely ignored her presence, even when she tugged the sleeve of his protective duster.

A helicopter landed on the pad by the skating rink. Three men rushed from the pod. Constitutional advisers, she presumed. Too late.

“My fellow Canadians.” Greg launched into his speech. Lise stared down at his bald spot. He was audible because every channel in the nation was broadcasting this, and every television in Rideau Hall was tuned in. “The Governor General and I have concluded a productive two-hour session, the longest in camera discussion between a Prime Minister and the representative of the monarchy in Canadian history. She has, in her infinite wisdom, granted this government a prorogation until—” and he named a date she couldn’t register because René had appeared in the door, his carry-on luggage in hand.

He looked at her and put his hand on his heart. She walked to him and bowed her head; he rested his lips on her neck. Niko was just behind him, also with a carry-on.

René said, “My resignation is on Margaret Lee’s desk.”

Lise nodded. It was all too much. “The North,” she said. “Mistassini might be a good idea.”

René squeezed her hand.

“Niko,” Lise said, “I want you to relax in California, go surfing, just get away from here and have a good time.”

Niko said, “You sold out.”

And they left.

Later that night, alone, Lise turned on the news.

The prorogation was already ancient history.

Monsieur Triste had resigned as Leader of the Opposition.

Instead of opening a Ski-Doo manufacturing plant, the PM had called yet another media conference at the Press Building. Flanked by Afghan ambassador Jabar Khan and a few pertinent ministers, he announced that the Canadian government had negotiated the release, without paying any ransom, of the beloved Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K.

“Lieutenant-Colonel!” he said. The camera moved to a wide shot. The PM gestured to a dark-haired babe poised in the wings.

“Tabarnac!”
Lise knocked over her wine.

It was the first time Canadians had seen the Lieutenant-Colonel without her full-coverage burka; they didn’t know what she looked like at all. That went through Lise’s mind as she studied the woman on her screen. Her walk was a glissando—no rhythm, no slight weave and bob. She wore a camel jacket, matching short skirt, calf-clenching black leather
boots, tasteful gloves, and more closely resembled the sultry TV anchor from the Kabul breakfast show than any memory Lise had of her own mature and maternal Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K. This Aisha’s hair was beauty-pageant ready; she wore winged eye makeup and lashes thick enough to flip a hummingbird. And where was Shymanski?

Greg showed all his polished teeth. “Welcome to democracy.”

She’d never seen that woman before in her life.

Special Committee on the Canadian Mission of the Military Police Committee in Afghanistan

Comité special sur la mission canadienne du comité de polices militaires en Afghanistan

***

The Chair (Mme Margaret Lee Yeung, Kelowna–Lake Country, IND):
I’ll call the meeting to order.

Lt.-Colonel Aisha K., welcome. We have all been looking forward to your appearance. Are you ready to proceed?

Lt.-Colonel Aisha K. (Afghan National Police, Kandahar, Kandahar, Afghanistan):
Thank you, Madame Chair. Congratulations to you on winning the by-election in Kelowna.

The Chair:
Thank you. It is an honour to continue in the service of this great country. Lt.-Colonel, please begin.

Lt.-Colonel Aisha K.:
A little bit of background. I joined the Afghan National Police in 2002, in Kandahar, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan. My primary duties were to investigate crimes involving female perpetrators and victims, and to assist my superior
XXXXX
, who was assassinated in
XXXX
. After my superior’s murder, I was the primary female officer in Kandahar and it was my role to liaise with military and police personnel from
NATO
, which in Kandahar was primarily Canadian.

In 2005, I was partnered with Corporal Shymanski. His role was to liaise with my unit, provide bodyguard services when there was any possible threat to me or my cases. In 2006, I visited Canada and toured with him in order to publicize the situation for girls and women in Kandahar and to commend Canada for its commitment to my people. At that time, Corporal Shymanski was a great guy.

In the fall of 2006, this changed completely. Corporal Shymanski became involved with a prostitution ring run out of the governor’s mansion’s basement. He coerced ANP recruits to become involved. He recruited young Afghan women to become involved. And there was heavy involvement with drug trafficking. In January 2008, when two neophyte ANP reported his actions to my superior, they were murdered by taser. The Taliban claimed responsibility, but tasers are not weapons they routinely use.

At that time,
XXXXXXXXXXX
ordered me to work undercover in the prostitution ring. I will not go into detail here, but my investigation revealed Corporal Shymanski’s extensive involvement in criminal activity at every level.

In February 2008, when I was delivering critical evidence to the ANP chief and RCMP superiors, my convoy was attacked. There was an explosion and in the chaotic aftermath, I was abducted by
XXXXXXXXXXX
, rescued by
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
, and lived in
XXXXXXXXXXX
until the brave Canadian forces liberated me in December 2008.

With the clear understanding that Corporal Shymanski lost a leg in that same explosion, I offer that this was an unfortunate consequence but does not exonerate him of accountability in this action.

The Chair:
Please take all the time you need. A glass of water.

Lt.-Colonel Aisha K.:
To the best of my knowledge, Corporal Shymanski acted alone. No superior RCMP officers were involved in this operation.

The Chair:
Lt.-Colonel K., thank you for your brave testimony.

I turn this over to the Honourable Committee member from Buntzen Lake.

Hon. Bibbo Hedge (Buntzen Lake, B.C., NDP):
Lt.-Colonel K., these are serious revelations and unsubstantiated, perhaps defamatory, accusations. Did you see first-hand Corporal Shymanski commit any crime?

Lt.-Colonel Aisha K.:
Yes. He had a taser. In Kandahar.

Hon. Bibbo Hedge:
Did you not have a successful visit to Canada with Corp. Shymanski in 2006? Did you not say, and I quote, “he’s a great guy”?

Lt.-Colonel Aisha K.:
Yes, at that time, he was a great guy. Then, he wasn’t.

Hon. Bibbo Hedge:
With all due respect, that doesn’t make sense.