William Deverell - Snow Job

He paused for dramatic effect. Clara wondered if he was waiting for them to clap.

“Our partners in the war on terror have been superbly forthcoming. Needless to say, the CIA has left no stone unturned in its efforts to connect the dots between known enemies, and in tracing the Zandoo family tree has learned he is blood-related to a known terrorist.”

“Please spare us the suspense, Anthony,” Lafayette said. “And the metaphors.” Immediately he regretted that sarcastic aside. Crumwell was an ally. A vital ally. “Excellent work, by the way, excellent work.”

“Thank you, Gerry. The known terrorist, Iqbal Zandoo’s cousin, one Mohammed Aziz, aged twenty, is being held in an American detention centre in Kabul. He spied for the Taliban, fought for them. He confessed to having attended an al-Qaeda training camp.”

“And what have been Mr. Zandoo’s recent dealings with this terrorist?”

“We’re looking into that.”

Lafayette felt the air seeping from this balloon. “Visits, phone calls, correspondence — what do you have along those lines?”

“Nothing yet. Our American friends are, uh, working on their guest.”

Finnerty too had been expecting more. “A cousin, you say.”

“His mother’s uncle’s grandson. Technically, I suppose, a second or third cousin.” A disappointed silence. “Family ties are unusually deep, of course, over there.”

Dexter McPhee, a diversion: “What about the religious factor here? Taliban, al-Qaeda — are we dealing with Muslim fanatics? Don’t get me wrong, I have many friends in the Muslim community. My riding treasurer is one of them.”

“Spent a lot of time myself among followers of the Prophet,” Crumwell said. “I daresay I’ve gained some experience in how to handle these people. They’re not that different from you and me. Their philosophical constructs are simpler, a little more stringent.”

Clara assumed he was a misogynist too. Most bigots were.

“This landlord, Zandoo,” Guy DuWallup said. “Is he also an ideologue?” Not that he was particularly interested, but he couldn’t sit around like a cipher just because his days here were numbered. He wasn’t interested in being a judge or ambassador; he preferred the Senate — he was ready to retire anyway.

Crumwell was studying his dossier. “Local cricket club, Neighbourhood Watch … Ah, here, Zandoo subscribes to the Guardian Weekly .”

“Okay, and Erzhan,” DuWallup said. “Is he another of your Muslim fanatics?”

“He may be covering up, because he presents a rather secular front. His wife is observant, though. Takes a bus to Montreal weekly to attend a mosque, does volunteer work there.”

“Would that be one of those places that preaches hatred?” The defence minister.

“Not in so many words. But when one carefully parses the phrases used by their imam one can detect a certain unpatriotic subtext.”

Gerard Lafayette scanned the screens on the wall. No developments, just endless analyses. He wondered if the Ultimate Leader enjoyed keeping them in suspense. He was likely calculating what he could demand in compensation. Hundreds of millions, maybe, which he would personally pocket. “What’s the latest on Erzhan, Anthony? Where do you think he is?”

“I’d wager he’s in Montreal. One assumes his terrorist cell keeps a safe house there. We’re working on this, but we don’t have a lot of manpower, gentlemen. And lady. There is one man he may seek to connect to. A Vancouver barrister, Brian Pomeroy. Defended him on the assassination charge. A framed photograph of him, in his robes, is hanging on a wall of Erzhan’s living room.”

“You have eyes on this Pomeroy?”

“He too has disappeared. An agent sought an appointment with him today, on the pretense of seeking advice on a hit-and-run accident, and learned that Mr. Pomeroy is on some kind of ramble in the Barrens of the Arctic. We have people trying to locate him, but … as I say, we’re likely to go over budget on this one.”

“That will be looked after,” Finnerty said impatiently.

“In fact,” said Lafayette, “this may be a time to consider loosening not just the purse but the legal restraints. Forgive me if I remind everyone this is the very kind of crisis that my amendments to the security bill were intended for.”

“They got shot down, Gerry,” Clara said. “Mr. Crumwell, I want to make sure we’re not turning a blind eye to suspects other than Abzal Erzhan and his confederates. You constantly hear of authorities getting so hooked on a theory they get tunnel vision …”

Crumwell interrupted, not kindly. “Minister, we are not putting all our eggs in Mr. Erzhan’s basket. There are other distinct possibilities, and I was about to get to them.” A raised hand commanded attention. “Anarchists. Eco-terrorists. Seeking to spoil the deal with Alta International.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Defence Minister McPhee. “Where you’ve got fossil fuel issues, you’ve got the environmentalists. The violent ones, the fringe elements, it doesn’t take much to stir them up. I’m not talking about the Sierra Club or the Green Party.” Murmurs of assent. “But you get people who dynamite dams and bridges, attack refineries. That lot.”

“In that regard,” Crumwell said, “you may be interested to know that two such individuals — members of the Quatsino Five, who infamously caused millions in losses to one of our major logging firms — are currently employed by the member for Cowichan and the Islands.”

A nervous shuffling. Clara recalled there’d been some noise around that last year, especially on the call-in shows. Two young people on parole, hired to caretake Margaret Blake’s farm on the Gulf Islands. Unwise of her, but she’d stoutly defended the hiring.

“In fact, we have someone who’s been, ah, monitoring that situation,” Crumwell said. “One of our most resourceful men.”

E.K. Boyes turned up the sound on a monitor, a live satellite relay from Igorgrad.

A desk, the Bhashyistan flag in background, a symbolized hand holding three jagged lightning bolts. A technician was setting up a microphone on the desk, laying out some pages. Music, the national anthem. The technician scurried away. A few moments later, the Ultimate Leader himself entered and sat, picked up the text, frowned over it, then spoke in a deep rasping voice, muted as a translator spoke over it:

“Weep, oh my comrades. Yes, all Bhashyistan weeps on this, the blackest day in our proud history since the traitorous and bloody assassination of our country’s beloved Great Father. Today I announce the barbarous murder in Canada … by the henchmen of imperialist dogs clinging to power of sixteen … no, seventeen great patriots of our nation.”

The interpreter was having trouble keeping up, getting it right. Someone gasped: “ Seventeen? ”

“Shut up.”

“… loyal and dedicated advisers in an unarmed vehicle ambushed by the terrorist Abzal Erzhan, who has been welcomed in Canada despite … murdering the Great Father of our country … and also eight crew members of our glorious nation’s presidential plane, which was brought down, though unarmed, by Canadian fighter planes …”

“ What? ”

“Shut up!”

“Our proud people … my countrymen, do not cower like slaves. We resist! We fight to the last drop of patriotic blood! To that end, as leader of glorious Republic of Bhashyistan, I declare against Canada we are in state of war! God save Bhashyistan!”

Settled on a sofa by the faux fireplace, Ray DiPalma took another sip of brandy before continuing his rambling discourse. “I had the best ears in Belgrade back then, played a major role in busting Krajzinski, the Balkan wolf — you remember him?”