William Deverell - Snow Job

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 Pierette 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.” Pierette 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.

Pierette 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?” Pierette 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,” Pierette 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.

Pierette, 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 ,” Pierette 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.”

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.”