William Deverell - Snow Job

DiPalma put on a pair of wire-rim spectacles. “Third son of six. Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich. Computer sciences degree from the University of Dusseldorf.” The CSIS agent might be a wreck, but he was a well-informed one.

The Ultimate Leader’s webwise progeny was narrator of this film, a fat young fellow with thick glasses and a multicoloured skullcap. “Here we have rooftop terrace of Igorgrad Grand Hotel, and here you seeing tables and umbrellas for tourists for gazing on beautiful city below and mountains. Over there, in Park of the Revered Mother, is her famous statue.” A fifty-foot pyramid topped with a gold-plated Amazonian figure wielding an axe and carrying a swaddled baby, a load of firewood strapped to her back.

“Close up, here are busts of great heroes of Bhashyistan.” An array of them on the low wall surrounding the terrace. “And here is rooftop swimming pool for use only in summer, and here is bar.” A wooden structure with stools. “Here is hidden video camera in case of spies or enemies of the state.” Its lens was one of a pair of glass eyes in a bust of the Great Father. “And here is pickup for sound.” Mukhamet bent, pointed to a small microphone under a table. “Surprise, we are not so backward here in Bhashyistan.”

DiPalma seemed impressed, a little puckered whistle. Then Mukhamed’s cherubic smile filled the screen. “And day before yesterday, here is rock-solid proof how our ungrateful guests insulted Revered Mother.”

A dimmer, dusky light, the Calgarians relaxing with drinks, five men enjoying a sunset.

“Eight point five.”

“Nah, doesn’t beat a Prairie sunset.”

“What’s that weird shit on the pyramid over there? Mad Igor in a dress?”

“Looks like an ape carrying an axe.”

“That’s the Great Mother. It’s in one of their brochures, some bullshit fairy tale about how she went out to the forest to gather kindling and lay down in a field of flowers and gave birth to the Ultimate Leader.” Laughter.

“He wants another half a billion on closing.”

“Has to be untraceable, that’s going to be a bitch.”

“Hey, keep your voices down.”

“Paranoid, Clyde?”

“You bet I’m paranoid.” A glance toward the bar. “Five days in this shithole. Don’t dare talk in the rooms.”

Clyde and two others rose, moved off, out of sight, presumably to confer about Igor’s extortion fee.

Back to Mukhamed. “So you seeing why are being tried Canadian running dogs for unbearable insult to great lady of People’s Republic of Bhashyistan. Also notice scheme for bribing our glorious president. Stay tuned for more breaking news, this is Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich, reporting from Igorgrad.”

Arthur was spinning when he finally got to bed, after midnight, after DiPalma practically had to be carted out to a taxi. Sleep was slow in coming, stalled by excitement and by a long bedtime colloquy — mostly about DiPalma, of whom Margaret was highly distrustful.

“He’s just too damn eager to betray CSIS and the oath he swore on joining it. It could be a diabolical scheme. That stolen computer could have been set up to make it seem plausible that’s he’s embittered against his employer. His stage director probably thought up the klutziness, the heavy drinking, the nervous breakdown. It’s all too clever.”

A fan of spy thrillers, she’d read John LeCarre’s entire oeuvre. DiPalma was a spy who would someday come in from the cold, she insisted, like his fictional counterpart, who’d played the turncoat.

Arthur was entranced by the intrigue, didn’t want to buy into her doubts, preferred to buy what DiPalma was selling. He was encouraged to believe the fellow could unveil dark, thrilling secrets, high-level scandals. He begged Margaret to believe he was an excellent judge of character, a faculty that had rarely failed him. Like a mantra, he repeated, “What have we got to lose?”

It was nine-thirty, the weary back end of a day of unrelenting hell. For the first time in his political career Huck Finnerty regretted the ambition and circumstances that had propelled him to his country’s highest office. He felt stymied, freighted with self-doubt, by a sense he wasn’t the man for this job. He badly needed a drink, a steadier, but if he slipped out to the john one more time they’d be wondering if he needed a bladder operation.

The martyr DuWallup, accepting he was out of it, had wished them well and gone to bed. But a few more advisers were here, E.K. Boyes’s crew. Others kept popping in, dispatches, questions, consultations. Breaks were becoming more frequent, people pacing, conferring in corners, weary laments, an occasional desperate laugh.

Finnerty had got angry on the phone to A.J. Quilter. “You’re goddamned right I’m concerned! You don’t have a monopoly on concern! We’re busting our ass working on this!” Finnerty had turned him over to Crumwell of CSIS, who was calmer, got Quilter to book overnight flights to Ottawa for a couple of his people who’d done stints in Bhashyistan.

The P.M. had brusquely vetoed a proposal to bring in the official opposition to make common front. He couldn’t believe Cloudy McRory wanted to be anywhere near this stinkpile, nor did he want McRory sitting around telling him what to do; Lafayette was bad enough. Mr. Cool, unflustered, no sweat patches on his shirt, and with a smile no less mocking than that of the sculpted Great Father on the terrace of the Igorgrad Grand. Even Hitler in his bunker showed more despair.

The video by Third Son of Ultimate Leader Films had been transposed to one of the big screens, everyone groaning as they watched, slapping their foreheads. Those smart alecks from Alta International with their careless talk about a cash bribe — that wasn’t going to rally world support. Nor was calling Igor’s mother an ape with an axe.

Clara Gracey, equally distressed at the way this shmozzle was playing out, was cursing her bad judgment in allowing herself to be pressed back into service. Now she must share the burden of blame and shame — the Privy Council was in utter paralysis, without focus, strategies, energy. All but Lafayette, with his espousal of an unlikely benefit to this ugly contretemps: “This is Canada’s chance to dominate the world stage.” He didn’t address the logistics of how that might be done.

The tireless hawk Dexter McPhee once again was railing on about the need for extreme action. “I say we send our boys in and pummel these Mafia mobsters. We can’t just not declare war back at them. What’s it going to look like to the world if we sissy out?”

Charley Thiessen: “Never mind the world. The folks I represent in Grey County. Some of us want to get re-elected.”

E.K. Boyes: “If I may be so bold, Ministers McPhee and Thiessen have a point. We can’t allow some rogue state to run roughshod over the rules of international law. All the Western democracies are watching us, as are Japan, India, Russia. We can’t be seen as soft.”

Clara was impatient with this hard-and-soft stuff. “Good God, rise above it, toss it over to the UN.”

To McPhee, that seemed an unworthy solution. “We’re in a state of war whether we like it or not. What are we supposed to do, grovel, surrender?”

Lafayette had in mind a more cerebral stratagem: “I suggest we ignore their declaration of hostilities for the time being. We remain stern, unbowed, express appropriate outrage, call for all Canadians to unite behind the government, and so on. No desperate pleas for international support — that makes us look like beggars. Though we don’t issue our own plea to the UN, we’ll not stand aside if a friendly nation calls for an emergency session of the Security Council. That can be arranged.”