The High Road (33 page)

“I won’t take up much of your time, gentlemen, but I did want to thank you, Professor McLintock, for opening up your home to the First Family on such short notice. You’ll get along just fine with the President. He’s a first-rate guy with a first-rate mind. I’m sure the Prime Minister will be impressed.”

The ambassador was huge. The term barrel-chested seemed to have been coined in his honour. And the barrel was big. Grey pinstripe, complete with vest and pocket watch. Blue shirt, red striped tie, matching red handkerchief in his jacket pocket. The full deal.

“Well, thank you, Ambassador. I’m really just the innkeeper. We don’t expect any issues. With the number of Secret Service agents crawling about the place, I expect we could repel an invasion from almost any industrialized nation,” said Angus. “Nevertheless, we’re looking forward to welcoming them to my home.”

“Yep, they’re still a mite sensitive about that little incident in Dallas a few decades back, but you want your presidential security team to be seriously vigilant,” he noted.

I held my peace. The ambassador removed his silver glasses and ran his hands through his flowing silver mane.

“Okay, now that we’ve exchanged a few pleasantries, it’s time to cut the crap and get down to it,” the ambassador suggested. “And this part of the meeting is on such deep background that I will deny we’ve ever met, let alone jawed about the presidential missus. Am I coming in loud and clear, gentlemen?”

“You can count on our discretion, Ambassador,” I offered. I looked at Angus and he at me, as dread and curiosity mingled in the space between us. What had we got ourselves into?

“All right, boys, cards down. Plain and simple, the First Lady is a goddamned whack job who would beat up a priest to get her paws on his sacramental wine. There must be no alcohol of any kind on the premises when the First Lady is on site. Is that absolutely clear?”

Angus nodded.

“You can rest easy, sir, we’ve made arrangements to remove any and all liquor products, including beer, spirits, wine, rubbing alcohol, Aqua Velva, cough syrup, and even the fermented maraschino cherry juice that’s been sitting in the icebox for a while now. There’ll be not the least temptation for anyone beholden to the insidious liquid.”

“Well, that’s a relief. We’ve had a few unfortunate incidents in the last six months that we’re, um, not eager to repeat. We’re very lucky they haven’t yet hit the press or we’d be dominating the goddamned news cycle and ducking calls from Larry King.”

“Understood, Ambassador. My home will be dry as the Kalahari, but not quite so sandy and hot,” Angus assured him.

“Don’t forget to ditch any mouthwash you have lying around. You could make a mean Molotov cocktail with a bottle of Listerine,” he warned. “Folks always forget the mouthwash, but FLOTUS never does. She makes a beeline for the crapper every time. Her breath is sure fresh, but that doesn’t much matter if she’s pissed to the gills.”

Angus was still puzzling but eventually gave up.

“FLOTUS?”

“First Lady of the United States,” I explained.

“And don’t let her charm you into anything that wasn’t on the plasticized agenda. I swear she could persuade a cobra to bite itself and enjoy the whole experience.”

The ambassador stood up. We took the cue and rose, too.

“Okay, gents, I think we’re done here. Thanks for this little chat that never ever happened.”

After dinner, Lindsay and I drove to the Riverfront Seniors’ Residence to consult the political oracle. Lindsay was guiding Muriel through the lobby, heading for our favoured couch by the window, when they stopped. Muriel’s legs were vibrating but her feet weren’t moving. She couldn’t get herself going.

“Damn these shakes!” she snapped.

“Shall we invoke the speedbump protocol?” Lindsay asked.

“We might as well or we’ll be here all bloody night.”

“Daniel, would you mind lying on the ground directly in front of Muriel?” Lindsay asked. Both Lindsay and Muriel smiled sweetly at me.

I chuckled, shaking my head. They were joking, right? Nope.

“Come again?”

“Just lie down in front of my feet,” said Muriel. “And trust that I’ve lived with this damned Parkinson’s long enough to know what I’m doing.”

I’d grown quite attached to Muriel over the previous several months. We’d been through a lot together. But I was still a little scared of her. I lay down on the ground on my stomach as casually as I could. Muriel and Lindsay immediately vaulted over me, then high-stepped all the way to the couch.

“Thank you, Daniel,” Muriel said when I joined them. “Even when I’ve got the shudders, I can always step over something, but it actually has to be there to work.”

We chatted about this and that for a few minutes before I pulled out two copies of our final, final report.

“It’s done. I’ve read it over about 235 times and so has Angus. But we’re far too close to it to see it objectively.” I handed them each a copy. “Can you read it through for us before we send it in to the PMO?”

I played double solitaire with Jasper while Lindsay and Muriel read the twenty-two pages.

“How many of those peach safari suits do you own?” I asked Jasper.

“Just the one. Why?”

“It’s very, um, stylish.”

“You’re telling me. The birds love it. It’s Italian, you know.”

“No kidding. Nice.”

In the heat of the action, he kindly pointed out that I’d put a red six on a red seven. He then proceeded to beat me in three straight games. I was saved from further humiliation, at least related to solitaire, when Muriel and Lindsay closed their reports within seconds of one another.

“Well?” was all I said when I rejoined them.

“It’s a compelling read presenting a simple and powerful story. There wasn’t anything I didn’t understand, except how government after government simply ignored their officials’ advice,” said Lindsay. “The writing is wonderful.”

“But does it all hang together? Are there any chinks in the armour?”

“Everything was well supported. The footnotes put you on very solid ground. And the Executive Summary really presents the whole story succinctly, strongly, and clearly,” Lindsay observed. “I read the summary last and it worked well for me.”

I nodded, feeling better about it all. I trusted Lindsay’s judgment and her academic perspective on the paper. Muriel was quiet and wore a vaguely concerned look. Lindsay and I both turned to her.

“It’s the best piece of investigative writing I’ve ever read, and I couldn’t be prouder of you,” Muriel said. “But I hope you and Angus are ready, because the PMO is going to have all four of your chestnuts on display in the caucus room as a warning to others.”

“Grandma!”

Angus, Lindsay, and I were all up early the next morning. We had to vacate so the Secret Service, the RCMP, White House staff, and the PMO could swarm all over the property doing whatever they do to prepare for the arrival of the President and First Lady. I had visions of land mines, Uzis, and laser tripwires but I tried to push them from my mind. Angus had been assured that no tree would be harmed in the making of this presidential visit, but he kept a weather eye on Marin’s favourite silver maple just the same. Lindsay headed into campus to work on her thesis and mark under-grad papers. She was not looking forward to it. It being Friday and all, Angus and I made our way to the constituency office.

The two Petes were already en route to Ottawa for class but had a mission to complete first. They were delivering, through no intermediaries, two copies of our final report into the hands of Bradley Stanton. I’d warned Bradley they were coming and he had, in turn, arranged with the Commissionaires at the front doors of Centre Block to escort them up to the Prime Minister’s office on the second floor. I’m sure when the Petes arrived at the Commissionaires’ desk a few more phone calls were required to complete the transaction. Pete1 and Pete2 were in full punk regalia.

Pete1 called at 9:20.

“The eagle has landed” was all he said.

In case there’s any doubt, that was our confirmation code that the reports had been successfully delivered from pierced and
tattooed palms into the sweaty but unaltered hands of Bradley Stanton. I felt I should say something like “10-4” but just went with “Thanks, Pete.”

Now I was nervous. It felt like a few dozen Lilliputians were playing lacrosse in my stomach, and it was a high-scoring game. Angus seemed completely at ease behind his desk, chowing down on a blueberry-filled doughnut, most of which made it into his mouth.

“Will you not fret yourself!” Angus chided. “We’ve done our job and we’ve done it well. We’ve nothing about which to be troubled.”

“Right. No problem. We’re about to derail a Throne Speech, the federal Budget, and perhaps even the government. I guess you’re right, there’s really no call for anxiety. None at all,” I mocked.

“’Tis what we do. I should think you’d be getting used to it by now,” Angus replied.

“I have no doubts about what we’re doing. I just don’t much like being yelled at. By the way, there’s a blueberry off the port bow of your moustache.”

“I thank you.”

The ring of my phone ended the waiting about twenty-four minutes later. I hit the speaker button, wondering if anyone else could hear the pneumatic drill pounding in my chest.

“Daniel Addison,” I croaked.

“Is this your idea of a fucking joke, because if it is, I’m not laughing and neither is the PM.”

“You’re on the speaker phone, Bradley.”

“Oh.”

“Our report is no joke, Mr. Stanton. In fact, I think it’s complete, comprehensive, and fulfills our mandate signed and agreed to at the outset,” noted Angus, as he smirked my way.

“I’d actually say it covers off more than your mandate, Angus. Much more. We asked you to find out what happened to the Alexandra Bridge and you come back with an indictment of our
entire national infrastructure, which wouldn’t be too bad if you didn’t also blame a previous Liberal government for starting it all. You’ve given us a powerful partisan hammer to swing on page four, and then you bash us in the head with it on page seven. What the … hell?”

“Mr. Stanton, our mandate was, and let me actually quote it to make sure I’ve got it right …” Angus winked at me. He was having fun. “Let’s see here, ‘to investigate the cause of the collapse of the Alexandra Bridge and recommend related measures to protect the public and serve the national interest.’” Angus read the last phrase with real emphasis.

“Just a minute, I’m switching to speaker phone,” Bradley warned before we heard a click.

“Hello, Angus,” a tight-sounding PM said. “You delivered quite the little grenade to Bradley and I, haven’t you?”

“Actually, sir, you mean I delivered a grenade ‘to Bradley and me.’” I winced, and Angus went on. “I’m sorry, I cannae help myself. But I shouldn’t think the grenade metaphor is at all appropriate, Prime Minister. We have submitted what I believe to be a balanced and thoughtful analysis of the bridge collapse, what led to it, and what we ought to do now and in the coming years to avoid any future calamities. The report presents only that which we were asked to consider.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve done all of that, but I’d like to make a few suggestions for the final draft.”

“But Prime Minister, you’re holding the final draft.”

“Just hear me out, Angus. Your report is very comprehensive, but it reaches back so far into history. Into
our
history, if I’m being clear. I’d like to suggest that we examine only the last fifteen years. This allows us to strengthen our position politically so that we’ll have the support we need to redress this situation.”

“Prime Minister, with all due respect, the underfunding story started twenty years ago and I don’t care much who was in office at the time. The history is only there for context, but it is important. I’d rather we focus more on the recommendations.”

“I could not agree more that it’s the recommendations that are important, which is why I’m suggesting we abbreviate what you call ‘context’ so that we don’t impugn the memory of a foregoing Liberal government. Why must we shoot ourselves in the foot?”

Not wanting to hog all the fun, Angus tagged me so I could go a few rounds.

“Prime Minister,” I started, “we think the entire report will be more credible and legitimate because we haven’t shied away from telling the whole story, including where it all started. Besides, it will take Tory Research about five minutes online to uncover the truth about which government really started the infrastructure negligence campaign. So why not take that revelation away from them and try to control how it’s positioned?”

We debated the political pros and cons for another ten minutes or so before Angus grew bored.

“Was there anything else, Prime Minister?” Angus asked. Not a line often used in Ottawa.

The PM’s polite façade was slipping. I’d seen it before when I served on his staff so I could almost picture the back of his neck flushing red as he struggled to remain prime ministerial.

“Angus, my direction to you is to limit your final report’s view of history to the last fifteen years. The recommendations and everything else can stay.”