William Deverell - Snow Job

Dear sweethearts ,

We got split up from the group again, because of some mix-up, and, boy, they happen a lot here. We got to departures late, Ivy was throwing up, something she ate, and there were only two seats left on the direct flight from Tashkent to Almaty so the three of us were put on this grungy prop plane to someplace called Igorgrad so we can make connections. I swear, we’ll NEVER do business with Exotic Tours ever again. The old man next to me said, “Why you go Bashtan?” I said, “What’s Bashtan? We go Almaty.” He says, “Good luck.”

So that started us worrying and we checked with the flight attendant and he didn’t speak any English, but he did have some Russian and all we could figure out is there’s some kind of trouble and the connecting flight will be delayed or something. Well, it’s another adventure, I guess .

Hank, I hope you got Ruffy to the vet so he could be fixed. (Don’t try to do it yourself, I don’t care if you are a surgeon. Have the girls got their flu shots?) I’ll try to slip this into an envelope and mail it from Bashtan, but the way things work around these parts I’ll probably be back home before it arrives. If it arrives .

I hope I can find something lovely in Bashtan for Katie for her thirteenth .

Weather’s been great, but we seem to be heading north, so I’m glad we brought our parkas. Maxine says hi. A year after Wally’s funeral, and she’s only now climbing out of it. Ivy is hopeless, still pining for that loser of a boyfriend, Maxine is sure he’s into drugs. Her idea was that a few weeks away would cure all her hopeless moping, but I don’t know. When I think we’ll be dealing with three teenagers in a few years, I go, “Yikes!”

Love you and miss you. Love you all. I’m going to come back with stories .

Jill XOXO

Returning from his third trip to the can, feeling a little rosy, Huck Finnerty nodded in passing to Anthony Crumwell, operations head of CSIS, who was going over his reports, waiting for his turn in the war room, as the cabinet room had been dubbed. The P.M. always got a chill just looking at this cold fish, Canada’s sphincter-eyed head spy, with his maimed right hand — he’d lost three fingers to a letter bomb. An import, a Brit, former head of MI5’s anti-terrorist wing.

Before the break, Lafayette had heaped about fifteen minutes of praise on DuWallup before taking him off at the knees. Only your resignation will save this government, mon ami . Poor DuWallup. They’d spent all afternoon doctoring something up for the media, but an outright lie (such as: the Bhashyistanis had known full well Erzhan had split, but insisted on taking their chances) was not going to fool even the Ottawa Sun . It struck Finnerty as odd that Abzal’s name had never been mentioned by the visiting Bhashies, or his whereabouts queried. But maybe they were forbidden to talk about him.

As a gesture of loyalty, he made a point of settling in beside DuWallup before reopening discussion. “Anything new?”

“There have been stirrings,” said Boyes, the PMO chief. “Bhashyistan national TV interrupted its programming — patriotic songs all day — for an announcement there’s to be an announcement. Presumably by the Ultimate Leader. Meanwhile, we’ve shown clips worldwide that the Ilyushin crew are all safe and in good health.”

“Okay,” Finnerty said, “while we all wait with bated breath, let’s hear from our head spook. He’s been shining his pants out there.” Someone went to fetch him. Finnerty was willing to put more trust in CSIS than the RCMP, especially after the way Commissioner Lessard dropped the dime on DuWallup.

So Lessard was out, Crumwell in, and Clara Gracey back. Finnerty had been so riled at Lafayette’s pushiness he’d insisted on her counsel. He also needed her for balance.

“Thank you, gentlemen — and lady, of course — for making time for me,” Crumwell said. “Much of this you may have heard from my esteemed colleague Commissioner Lessard. However, we’ve made additional inquiries.” The spymaster spoke in clipped phrases, with a superior old school inflection that Finnerty found irritating. He tried not to be distracted by the sight of his two-fingered hand — only the thumb and middle finger had survived.

“Erzhan. Abzal Erzhan. Do not be surprised if you hear positive testimonials from fellow teachers and neighbours. Many knew of his history, but most shrugged it off. None remember him talking much about his homeland, or his army service there, or about politics. Popular with students, good family man, loves his children, that sort of thing. Seemingly proud to have become a Canadian citizen.”

Charley Thiessen: “Somehow it doesn’t compute for me that after fifteen years in Canada this teacher, this solid citizen is … what do you call it, a sleeper terrorist?”

“A very smooth and patient one, Minister. There was absolutely nothing in his house, or his school, that might incriminate him. His passport was found — one holiday trip to Cuba two years ago, so he may have connections there. No suspicious long-distance calls. No hits on Bhashyistan showed up on the family computer. Which seems so unlikely as to be suspicious in itself.”

“Isn’t that a reach, Mr. Crumwell?” Clara Gracey asked. Out of pride, she had balked at returning to this all-boys circle jerk, but wilted under Finnerty’s entreaty. We need your unique perspective . She understood her role: help trim Lafayette’s sails, keep the wannabe usurper in line. “You’re saying the absence of evidence is in fact proof against Erzhan.”

“A subtle but appropriate inference when one is dealing with the sly and devious. In our field we often find value in what is not done or said.”

Talking down to Clara and her fellow morons. She’d distrusted this guy ever since he started pushing for a national DNA registry. Not just of felons. Everyone. Still fighting the Cold War, seeking out subversives. “You don’t find it odd that he left his passport behind?” she asked.

“Not at all. These people have no difficulty obtaining false ones.” Crumwell flipped open a page on a dossier. “Mr. Erzhan is highly motivated to seek revenge against his country of birth. After he was acquitted, his mother and father were executed and his three adolescent siblings tortured and jailed.”

A hush. Clara was revolted all the more that her government, her country, had sought to play footsie with these beasts. Still, she knew she had to swallow any sympathy she might have for Erzhan — but only if he were indeed a mass murderer, which seemed assumed though not proven.

“Presumably, Abzal learned he was being watched — I offer no comment on the effectiveness of RCMP surveillance — and planned his vanishing act accordingly. We have two reports of a car with an unknown number of occupants pulling up for him on a quiet residential street, a block from the Erzhan residence. One lady saw, from her porch, a man with a satchel accepting a ride in a black sedan. But this woman, who is of a certain age, had on her reading glasses and was a hundred metres away.”

“What is a certain age?” Clara asked.

“About eighty.”

“Thank you.”

“The other report is even vaguer, and comes from Vana Erzhan, who claimed her landlord saw her husband being drawn into a car. But that person, when questioned, declined to cooperate, and seemed hostile. One wonders why. This landlord, gentlemen — and lady — may be a person of interest. Iqbal Zandoo, lives below the Erzhans, in the lower unit. Born in Pakistan, emigrated twenty-three years ago, now aged sixty-four. Did well developing properties, owns several duplexes. We believe he has an al-Qaeda connection.”