In High Places

Chapter 1

The entire Cabinet, with the exception of three ministers who were away from Ottawa, had come to Uplands Airport to witness the departure of the Prime Minister's party for Washington. This was not unusual. Early in his regime James Howden had allowed it to be known that he liked to be seen off and met, not merely by one or two of his ministers, but by the entire group. And this applied, not just on special occasions, but to all his journeys in and out of the capital.

Among cabinet members the process had become known familiarly as 'the line-up'. Occasionally there was mild grumbling and, once, word of it had reached James Howden's ears. But his own attitude – defined to Brian Richardson, who had reported the complaints – was that the occasions were a demonstration of party and government solidarity, and the party director agreed. Not mentioned by the Prime Minister was a boyhood memory he sometimes even now recalled.

Long ago, young James Howden had journeyed from his orphanage to school to Edmonton, three hundred and fifty miles distant, where he was to write examinations for entry to the University of Alberta. He had been provided with a return train ticket and set off alone. Three days later, brimming with a success he desperately needed to share, he had returned – to an empty railway station, with no one to meet him. In the end, carrying his cardboard suitcase, he had had to walk to the orphanage three miles out of town, his first flush of excitement evaporating along the way. Ever after, he had shrunk from beginning or ending a journey alone.

There would be no aloneness today. Others, in addition to the Cabinet, had come to the airport, and from the rear seat of the chauffeur-driven Oldsmobile, with Margaret beside him, James Howden observed the chiefs of staff – Army, Navy, and Air Force, in uniform, with aides – as well as the Mayor of Ottawa, the RCMP Commissioner, several chairmen of Government boards, and discreetly in rear. His Excellency Phillip B. Angrove, US Ambassador. In a separate group were the inevitable cluster of reporters and photographers and, with them, Brian Richardson and Milly Freedeman.

'Good heavens!' Margaret whispered. 'You'd think we were going to China as missionaries.'

'I know,' he answered. 'It's a nuisance, but people seem to expect this sort of thing.'

'Don't be silly,' Margaret said softly. Her hand touched his. 'You love it all, and there's no reason you shouldn't.'

The limousine swung in a wide arc across the airport ramp, halting smoothly near the VIP Vanguard, its fuselage gleaming in the morning sunshine, the RCAF crew drawn up at attention alongside. An RCMP constable opened the car door and Margaret alighted, James Howden following. The military and police snapped to salutes and the Prime Minister raised the new pearl-grey homburg which Margaret had brought him back from her shopping trip in Montreal. There was an air of expectancy among those waiting, he thought; or perhaps it was the sharp, cold wind sweeping across the airport runways which made faces seem tense. He wondered about secrecy – whether it had been preserved, or if there had been leakage, with hints of the true importance' of today's journey.

Stuart Cawston stepped forward, beaming. Smiling Stu, as the senior member of Cabinet, would be Acting Prime Minister in Howden's absence. 'Greetings, sir – and Margaret,' the Finance Minister said. Then, as they shook hands, 'We are, as you see, a sizeable cheering section.'

'Where are the massed bands?' Margaret asked irreverently. 'It seems the only thing missing.'

'It's supposed to be a secret,' Cawston answered lightly, 'but we flew them ahead to Washington disguised as US Marines. So if you see any, assume they're ours.' He touched the Prime Minister's arm. His face becoming serious, he asked, 'Is there any further word – proof or disproof?'

James Howden shook his head. There was no need for explanations; the question was one which the world had been asking ever since, forty-eight hours earlier, Moscow had trumpeted the destruction of a US nuclear submarine, the Defiant, in the East Siberian Sea. According to the Russian claim -which Washington had since denied – the submarine had encroached on Soviet territorial waters. The incident had brought to an apparent peak mounting world tensions of the past few weeks.

'There can't possibly be any proof, not now,' Howden said softly. The welcoming group waited as he spoke earnestly to Cawston. 'I believe it's a calculated act of provocation and we should resist any temptation to retaliate. I intend to urge that on the White House because we still need time – as much as we can get.'

'I agree,' Cawston said quietly.

'I've ruled against any statement or protest ourselves,' the Prime Minister said, 'and you must understand there's to be none unless Arthur and I decide in Washington, and in that case it'll be from there. Is that clear?'

'Quite clear,' Cawston said. 'Frankly I'm glad it's you and Arthur, and not me.'

They returned to the waiting group and James Howden began to shake hands. At the same time the other three cabinet members who would accompany him on the flight – Arthur Lexington, Adrian Nesbitson, and Styles Bracken of Trade and Commerce – fell in behind.

Adrian Nesbitson looked a good deal healthier, Howden thought, than the last time they had met. The old warrior, pink cheeked and tightly cocooned in woollen scarf, fur hat, and heavy overcoat, had a touch of his parade-ground manner and was obviously enjoying the occasion, as he did all ceremonial. They must talk during the flight, Howden realized there had been no opportunity since the Defence Committee meeting and it was essential, somehow, to bring the old man into line. Even though Nesbitson would not participate directly in the Presidential talks, there must be no apparent dissension within the Canadian group.

Behind Nesbitson, Arthur Lexington wore the casual air becoming an External Affairs Minister to whom travel anywhere in the world was routine business. Seemingly unbothered by the cold, he had on a soft felt hat and light topcoat, his customary bow tie visible beneath. Bracken, the Trade and Commerce Minister, a wealthy westerner who had joined the Cabinet only a few months earlier, was being taken along- for appearance's sake, since trade was supposed to be the main topic in the Washington talks.

Harvey Warrender was in the cabinet line-up. 'A profitable -journey.' His manner was carefully correct, containing no hint of their previous clash. He added, 'And you too, Margaret.'

'Thank you,' the Prime Minister answered. His response was notably less courteous than to the others.

Unexpectedly Margaret said, 'Haven't you a Latin tag for us, Harvey?'

Warrender's eyes flickered between the two. 'Sometimes I have the impression your husband dislikes my little gambits.'

'Never mind that,' Margaret said. 'I think it's rather fun.' -

The Immigration Minister smiled slightly. 'In that. case, may it be true: vectatio, interque, et mutata regio vigorem dant.'

'I dig the vigorem bit,' Stuart Cawston said. 'What's the rest, Harvey?'

'An observation of Seneca,' Warrender responded. 'Voyage, travel, and a change of place impart vigour.'

'I'm quite vigorous, with or without travel,' James Howden declared curtly. The exchange had annoyed him and he took Margaret's arm firmly, steering her towards the US Ambassador who moved forward, doffing his hat. As if instinctively the others held back.

'Angry, this is an unexpected pleasure,' Howden said.

'On the contrary. Prime Minister – my privilege and honour.' The ambassador bowed slightly to Margaret. Phillip Angrove, a grizzled career diplomat with friends in many countries of the world, had a way of making protocol courtesies seem personally meant, as perhaps, at times, they were. We tend too much, Howden thought, to discount everything that is said politely as surface dressing only. He noticed the ambassador was stooped at the shoulders rather more than usual.

Margaret had observed too. 'I hope your arthritis hasn't bothered you again, Mr Angrove.'

'It has, I'm afraid.' A rueful smile. 'The Canadian winter has many delights, Mrs Howden, but also penalties for us arthritics.'

'For heaven's sake don't be polite about our winter!' Margaret exclaimed. 'My husband and I were born here and still dislike it.'

'I hope not entirely.' The ambassador spoke quietly, his seamed face meditative. 'I have often considered, Mrs Howden, that Canadians have much to thank their climate for: stalwart character and hardihood, but with great warmth seldom far away.'

'If true, it's another reason we've so much in common.' James Howden offered his hand. 'You'll be joining us in Washington, I understand.'

The ambassador nodded assent. 'My own flight leaves a few minutes after yours.' As their hands clasped, 'A safe journey, sir, and a return with honour.'

As Howden and Margaret turned away, towards the waiting aircraft, the Press group closed in. There were a dozen reporters from the parliamentary press gallery and wire services, along with a self-important TV interviewer and accompanying film crew. Brian Richardson had stationed himself where he could hear and be seen by Howden, and the Prime Minister gave a grin and friendly nod, to which Richardson responded. The two of them had already discussed press arrangements for the trip and agreed that the principal official statement -though still not revealing the major issues involved – should be made on arrival in Washington. AU the same, Howden knew he must provide something for use by the Ottawa press corps. He spoke briefly, employing some of the regular platitudes concerning Canada-US relations. He then awaited questions.

The first was from the TV interviewer. 'There have been rumours, Mr Prime Minister, that this trip of yours may involve more than just trade talks.'

'Well, that's true,' Howden said with apparent seriousness. 'K there's time the President and I may play a little handball.' There was a ripple of laughter; he had touched the right note, being good-natured without scoring off the interviewer.

'But besides the sporting side, sir' – the TV man smiled dutifully, exposing a double moon of faultless white teeth -'hasn't there been some talk of major military decisions being taken at this time?'

So there had been leakage, after all, though obviously just in a general way. It was not surprising really, Howden thought; he had once heard someone say that when a secret went beyond a single person it was a secret no longer. All the same it was a reminder that vital information could not be stoppered up too long, and after Washington he must act quickly if he hoped to control release of the major news himself.

Now he answered, speaking carefully and remembering that what he said could be quoted later on, 'Naturally the subject of our joint defence will be discussed in Washington, as it always is on these occasions, along with other subjects of mutual concern. But as to decisions, any decisions will, of course, be taken in Ottawa with the full knowledge of Parliament and, if necessary, parliamentary approval.'

There was a small outburst of hand clapping from spectators.

'Can you say, Mr Howden,' the TV interviewer asked, 'whether the recent submarine incident will be discussed and, if so, what the Canadian attitude will be?'

'I am quite sure it will be discussed,' Howden answered, his long, beaked face serious, 'and naturally we share the deep United States concern at the tragic loss of the Defiant and its crew. But beyond that, at present, I have no further statement to make.'

'In that case, sir…' the TV man began, but another reporter cut in impatiently, 'Do you mind if someone else has a turn, chum? Newspapers haven't been abolished yet, you know.'

There was a murmur of assent from others in the press group and James Howden smiled inwardly. He saw the TV interviewer flush, then nod to the camera crew. That particular portion of film, the Prime Minister guessed, would be edited out later.

The interrupter, a brisk, middle-aged journalist named George Haskins who worked for the Winnipeg Free Press, now proclaimed, 'Mr Prime Minister, I'd like to ask a question, not about Washington, but about the Government's stand on this man-without-a-country issue.'

James Howden frowned. Puzzled, he asked, 'How's that again, George?'

'I'm talking about this young fellow Henri Duval, sir – the one in Vancouver that the Immigration Department won't let in. Can you tell us why the Government is taking the stand it is?'

Howden caught Brian Richardson's eye and the party director shoved forward to the front. 'Gentlemen,' Richardson said, 'surely this is not the time…'

'Like hell it isn't, Brian!' the reporter Haskins flared. 'It's the hottest news story in the country, that's all.' Someone else added grumblingly, 'What with TV and public relations you can't hardly ask questions any more.'

Good-humouredly James Howden interposed, 'I'll answer any question that I can. I always have, haven't I?'

Haskins said, 'Yes, sir, you sure have. It's just other people who try to do the blocking.' He glared accusingly at Brian Richardson, who stared back, his face impassive.

'My only doubt' – the Prime Minister said, 'and obviously Mr Richardson's – is whether the subject matter is appropriate at this particular time.' He hoped he could lead the questioning away; if not, he supposed he would have to make the best of it. Sometimes he thought, there must be advantages in having a press secretary – as the US President did – who could handle this kind of thing. But he had always avoided appointing one for fear of becoming too remote.

Tomkins of the Toronto Star, a mild, scholarly Englishman who was greatly respected in the capital, said courteously, 'The fact is, sir, most of us here have telegrams from our editors asking for a quote from you about this man Duval. A lot of people, it seems, are interested in what's going to happen to him.'

'I see.' There was to be no avoidance of the subject then. Even a Prime Minister, if he were wise, could not bypass that kind of appeal. It was infuriating, however, to realize that some of the attention to his own Washington journey might be taken away as a result. Howden considered carefully. He could see Harvey Warrender edging nearer but ignored him, remembering angrily the other's obstinate stupidity which had caused this to happen. He caught Richardson's eye. The party director's expression seemed to say: 'I warned you there could be trouble if we didn't keep Warrender in line.' Or perhaps by now Richardson had guessed there was an additional factor involved; he was shrewd enough for that. But either way, with Harvey Warrender's threat still poised like a guillotine, James Howden himself would have to deal with the situation as competently as he could. One thing was certain, he reasoned: the incident, while briefly embarrassing, was the type of thing which would undoubtedly blow over in a few days and be forgotten. He noticed the TV film camera was in action again; perhaps, after all, this was a good time to explain the official position forcefully and thereby silence criticism.

'All right, gentlemen,' the Prime Minister declared briskly, 'here is what I have to say.' In front of him pencils poised, then scribbled as he began.

'It has been pointed out to me that there has been considerable newspaper coverage concerning the individual whose name Mr Haskins mentioned a moment ago. Some of the reports, I must say quite frankly, have been of a somewhat sensational nature, tending to ignore certain facts – facts which the Government, because of its responsibilities, cannot ignore.'

'Will you tell us what these are, sir?' This time, the Montreal Gazette.

'M you'll be patient I'm coming to that,' Howden's voice held a touch of sharpness. He disliked interruptions and it did no harm occasionally to remind these men that they were not interviewing some junior minister. 'I was about to remark that there are many individual cases receiving no publicity but which, nevertheless, come regularly before the Department of Citizenship and Immigration. And dealing with such cases, fairly and humanely, yet on the basis of law, is not a new experience either for this Government or its Immigration officers.'

The Ottawa Journal asked, 'Isn't this case a little different, Mr Prime Minister? I mean, the man having no country and all that.'

James Howden said soberly, 'When you are dealing with human beings, Mr Chase, every case is different. That is why – to provide a measure of fairness and consistency – we have an Immigration Act, approved by Parliament and the Canadian people. The Government, as it must by law, operates within the framework of that act and, in the instance we are speaking of, this is exactly what has been done.' He paused, waiting for the note takers to catch up with his words, then continued. 'I have, of course, none of the details immediately before me. But I have been assured that the application of the young man in question has been considered carefully on its merits and that he is in no way admissible to Canada under the Immigration Act.'

A young reporter, whom Howden failed to recognize, asked, 'Wouldn't you say, sir, there are times when human considerations are more important than technicalities?'

Howden smiled. 'If you are asking me a rhetorical question, my answer is that human considerations are always important, and this Government has frequently demonstrated its awareness of them. But if your question is specifically about the case we are speaking of, let me repeat that human factors have been taken into account as far as is possible. However, I must remind you again that the Government is bound – as it must, and should be – by what it can accomplish legally.'

The wind blew bitingly and James Howden felt Margaret shiver beside him. This was enough, he decided; the next question would be the last. It came from the mild-mannered Tomkins who began, almost apologetically, 'The Leader of the Opposition made a statement earlier this morning, sir.' The reporter shuffled copy paper, consulting his notes, then went on, 'Mr Deitz said, "The Government should resolve the case of Henri Duval on broad human principles, rather than stubborn adherence to the letter of the law. The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration has power, if he chooses to use it, to enact an order in council permitting this tragically unfortunate young man to enter Canada as an immigrant."'

'The Minister has no such power,' James Howden snapped. 'The power is vested in the Crown in the person of the Governor General. Mr Bonar Deitz is equally aware of that as anyone else.'

There was a moment's silence, then with bland innocence the reporter asked, 'But doesn't the Governor General always do exactly what you yourself recommend, sir, including waiving the Immigration Act, which has happened quite a few times, I believe?' For all his seeming mildness, Tomkins had one of the sharpest minds in the Ottawa press corps, and Howden realized he had walked into a verbal trap.

'I have always understood that the Opposition object to government by order in council,' he said sharply. But it was a weak answer and he knew it. He caught sight of Brian Richardson's face suffused with anger – and with good reason, Howden thought. Not only had the focus of attention shifted from the important Washington mission to this trivial affair, but he himself had not come out of the question well.

He decided to recover as best he could, 'I am sorry to learn from the reference to Mr Deitz that the matter we are speaking of could become an issue, perhaps, between political parties. My own conviction is that it should not.' He paused for effect, then continued earnestly, 'As I indicated earlier, there are no grounds for admitting this man Duval to Canada under our present laws and, from what I am told, many other countries have taken a similar stand. Nor do I see any obligation upon Canada to take such action when other countries will riot. As to the facts, both known and alleged, let me assure you again that these have been examined thoroughly by the Department of Citizenship and Immigration before a decision was reached. And now, gentlemen, if you please, that is all.'

He had been tempted to add something about newspapers maintaining a sense of news proportion, but decided not; the Press, while every brother's keeper, could be savagely resentful when criticized itself. Instead, smiling outwardly but seething with inner fury at Harvey Warrender, the Prime Minister took Margaret's arm and walked towards the waiting aircraft. Applause and cheers from his supporters followed them.

Chapter 2

The VIP turbo-prop Vanguard, maintained by the Government for official flights, was partitioned into three compartments – a conventional section forward for non-ministerial staff who had been boarded before the Prime Minister's arrival; a more comfortable centre cabin, now occupied by the three ministers and several deputies; and, aft, a comfortably upholstered drawing-room, decorated in pastel shades of blue, with a cosily compact bedroom adjoining.

The rearmost suite, which had been designed originally for use by the Queen and her husband on state visits, was to be used now by the Prime Minister and Margaret. The steward, an RCAF flight sergeant, helped strap them into two of the deep soft seats, then discreetly disappeared. Outside, the deep, muted throb of the four Rolls-Royce motors increased in tempo as they began to taxi towards the airport perimeter.

When the steward had gone James Howden said sharply, 'Was it really necessary to encourage Warrender in that absurd conceit of his about Latin doggerel?'

Margaret answered calmly, 'Not really, I suppose. But if you must know, I thought you were being extremely rude and I wanted to make amends.'

'Goddammit Margaret!' His voice rose. 'I had good reason to be rude with Harvey Warrender.'

His wife removed her hat carefully and placed it on a small table beside her seat. The hat was a wispy affair of black velvet and net which she had bought in Montreal. She said levelly, 'Kindly don't snap at me, Jamie. You may have had reason, but I didn't, and I've said before I'm not a carbon copy of your moods.'

'That isn't the point at all,…'

'Yes, it is the point!' Now there was a flush of red in Margaret's cheeks. She was always slow to anger, which was the reason their quarrels were comparatively rare. 'Judging by the way you behaved with the reporters just now, I'd say that Harvey Warrender isn't the only one to be accused of vanity.'

He asked abruptly, 'What do you mean?'

'You were angry with that Mr Tomkins just because he wasn't silly enough to be taken in by all your pompous nonsense about fairness and humanity. If you want to know, I wasn't either.'

He expostulated, 'Surely, at least here, I'm entitled to some loyalty.'.

'Oh, don't be ridiculous,' Margaret flared. 'And for goodness' sake stop talking to me as if I were a political meeting. I'm your wife, remember? – I've seen you undressed. It's perfectly obvious what's happened. Harvey Warrender has put you in a difficult position…'

He interjected, 'It's an impossible position.'

'Very well, impossible. And for some reason you feel you must back him up, but because you don't like doing it you're taking your bad temper out on everyone else, including me.' Unusually, with the last words there was a catch in Margaret's voice.

There was a silence between them. Outside the engines' tempo increased for take-off; the runway slid by and they were airborne, climbing. He reached for Margaret's hand. 'You were quite right. I was being bad-tempered.'

This was the way most of their arguments ended, even the serious ones, and there had been a few in their married life. Invariably one of them saw the other's point of view and then conceded. James Howden wondered if there really were married couples who lived together without quarrelling. If so, he thought, they must be dull and spiritless people.

Margaret's head was averted but she returned the pressure of his hand.

After a while he said, 'It isn't important about Warrender – not to us, I mean. It's hampering in some ways, that's all. But things will work out.'

'I expect I was being a bit silly too. Perhaps because I haven't seen much of you lately.' Margaret had taken a tiny square of cambric from her bag and delicately touched the corners of both eyes. She went on slowly, 'Sometimes I get a terrible feeling of jealousy about politics, a sort of helplessness in a way. I think I'd prefer it if you had another woman hidden somewhere. At least I'd know how to compete.'

'You don't have to compete,' he said. 'You never did.' For an instant he had a pang of guilt, remembering Milly Freedeman.

Abruptly Margaret said, 'If Harvey Warrender is so difficult, why give him the Immigration Department? Couldn't you put him somewhere where he'd be harmless – like Fisheries?'

James Howden sighed. 'Unfortunately Harvey wants to be Immigration Minister and he still has influence enough to make his wishes count.' He wondered if Margaret really believed the second statement, but she gave no sign of questioning.

The Vanguard was turning south on to course, still climbing, but less steeply now. The mid-morning sun shone brightly through the port side windows and, to the right, visible from both seats, Ottawa lay spread like a miniature city three thousand feet below. The Ottawa River was a slash of silver between snow-clad banks. To the west, near the narrows of Chaudiere Falls, faint white streamers pointed like fingers to the Supreme Court and Parliament, dwarfed and puny from above.

The capital slid out of sight below, leaving flat open country ahead. In ten minutes or so they would cross the St Lawrence and be over New York State. A guided missile, Howden thought, would cover the same ground, not in minutes but seconds.

Turning from the window Margaret asked, 'Do you think that people outside have any idea of all the things that go on in government? The political deals, favours for favours, and all the rest.'

Momentarily James Howden was startled. Not for the first time he had the feeling that Margaret had dipped into his thoughts. Then he answered, 'Some do, of course – those close to the inside. But I imagine that most of the people don't really, or at least don't want to know. And there are others who wouldn't believe it if you produced document proof and swore out affidavits.'

Reflectively Margaret said, 'We're always so quick to criticize American politics.'

'I know,' he agreed. 'It's quite illogical, of course, because in proportion we have as much patronage and graft as the Americans, perhaps even more. It's just that most times we're a good deal more discreet and every now and then we offer up a public sacrifice of somebody who became too greedy.'

The seat-belt sign above their heads had gone out. James Howden unsnapped his own belt and reached across to help Margaret release hers. 'Of course, my dear,' he said, 'you must realize that one of our greatest national assets is our sense of self-righteousness. It's something we inherited from the British. You remember Shaw? – "There is nothing so bad or so good that you will not find an Englishman doing it; but you will never find an Englishman in the wrong." That kind of conviction helps the national conscience quite a lot.'

'Sometimes,' Margaret said, 'you sound positively gleeful about the things which are wrong.'

Her husband paused, considering. 'I don't mean it to seem that way. It's just that when we're alone I try to drop pretences.' He smiled faintly. 'There aren't many places left nowadays where I'm not on show.'

'I'm sorry.' There was concern in Margaret's voice. 'I shouldn't have said that.'

'No! I wouldn't want either of us to feel there was something we couldn't say to each other, no matter what it was.' Fleetingly he thought of Harvey Warrender and the deal between them. Why had he never told Margaret? Perhaps he would someday. Now he continued, 'A good deal of what I know about politics saddens me. It always has. But then I get to thinking of our mortality and human weakness, remembering there has never been power with purity – anywhere. If you want to be pure, you must stand alone. If you seek to do positive things, achieve something, leave the world a mite better than you found it, then you must choose power and throw some of your purity away. There's no other choice.' He went on thoughtfully, 'It's as if we're all together in a strong-flowing river; and though you'd like to, you can't change its course suddenly. You can only go along, and try to ease it slowly in one direction or the other.'

A white intercom telephone near the Prime Minister's seat pinged musically and he answered it. The aircraft captain's voice announced, 'This is Galbraith, sir.'

'Yes, Wing Commander?' Galbraith, a veteran pilot with a reputation for solidity, was usually in command on VIP missions out of Ottawa. He had flown the Howdens many times before.

'We're at cruising height, twenty thousand, and estimating Washington in one hour ten minutes. Weather there is sunny and clear, temperature sixty-five.'

'That's good news,' Howden said. 'It'll be a taste of summer.' He told Margaret about the Washington weather, then said into the phone, 'I understand there'll be a luncheon at the embassy tomorrow. Wing Commander. We shall expect to see you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

James Howden replaced the telephone. While he had been speaking the RCAF steward had reappeared, this time with coffee trays and sandwiches. There was also a single glass of grape juice. Margaret pointed to it. 'If you really like that so much, I'll order some at home.'

He waited until the steward had gone, then lowered his voice. 'I'm beginning to loathe the stuff. I once said I liked it and word seems to have passed around. Now I understand why Disraeli hated primroses.'

'But I always thought he loved primroses,' Margaret said. 'Weren't they his favourite flower?'

Her husband shook his head emphatically. 'Disraeli said so just on one occasion, out of politeness to Queen Victoria, who had sent him some. But afterwards, people showered primroses on him until the mere sight of one could drive him to distraction. So you see, political myths die hard.' Smiling, he took the grape juice, opened a door of the rear of the cabin and poured it down the toilet.

Margaret said thoughtfully, 'You know, I sometimes think you're rather like Disraeli, though a little fiercer perhaps.' She smiled. 'At least you have the nose for it.'

'Yes,' he agreed, 'and this old craggy face of mine has been a trademark.' He fondled his eagle-beak nose, then said re-miniscently, 'It used to surprise me when people said I appeared fierce, but after a while, when I learned to switch it on and off, it became quite useful.'

'This is nice,' Margaret said, 'being by ourselves for a while. How long do we have before Washington?'

He grimaced. 'No longer than this, I'm afraid. I have to talk to Nesbitson before we land.'

'Do you really, Jamie?' It was more an entreaty than a question.

He said regretfully, 'I'm sorry, my dear,'

Margaret sighed. 'I thought it was too good to last. Well, I'll lie down so you can be private.' She got up, gathering her bag and hat. At the doorway of the little bedroom she turned. 'Are you going to bully him?'

'Probably not – unless I have to.'

'I hope you don't,' Margaret said seriously. 'He's such a sad old man. I always think he should be in a wheel chair with a blanket, and another old soldier pushing.'

The Prime Minister smiled broadly. 'All retired generals should be like that. Unfortunately they either want to write books or get into politics.'

When Margaret had gone he buzzed for the steward and sent a courteous message asking General Nesbitson to join him.

Chapter 3

'You're looking extremely fit, Adrian,' James Howden said.

From the depths of the soft chair which Margaret had vacated earlier, his pink pudgy hands nursing a scotch and soda, Adrian Nesbitson nodded in pleased agreement. 'I've been feeling first-class these past few days. Prime Minister. Seem to have thrown off that damned catarrh at last.'

'I'm delighted to hear it. I think you were overdoing things for a while. In fact we all were. It made us impatient with each other.' Howden studied his Defence Minister carefully. The old man really did look healthier, distinguished even, despite increasing baldness and the trace of resemblance to Mr Five-by-Five. The thick white moustache helped; carefully trimmed, it added an aura of dignity to the square-jawed face which still retained a hint of soldierly authority. Perhaps, Howden thought, the course he had been considering might work. But he remembered Brian Richardson's warning: 'Go easy on the bargaining; the old boy has a reputation for straightness.'

'Impatient or not,' Nesbitson said, 'I still can't share your views on this Act of Union idea. I'm sure we can get what we want from the Yanks without giving so much away.'

James Howden willed himself to calmness, ignoring, in his mind, a ground swell of anger and frustration. Nothing, he knew, would be achieved by loss of control, by shouting aloud as impulse urged: 'For God's sake wake up! Wake up and acknowledge the obvious: that it's desperately late and there isn't time for ancient weary nostrums.' Instead he said placatingly, 'I'd like you to do something for me, Adrian, if you will.'

There was a trace of hesitancy before the old man asked, 'What is it?'

'Go over everything in your mind: what the situation is likely to be; the time we have available; what was said the other day; then the alternatives, and your own conscience.'

'I've already done it.' The answer was determined.

'But once again?' Howden was at his most persuasive. 'As a personal favour to me?'

The old man had finished his scotch. It had warmed him and he put the glass down. 'Well,' he conceded, 'I don't mind doing that. But I warn you my answer will still be the same: we must keep our national independence – all of it.'

'Thank you,' James Howden said. He rang for the steward and when he appeared, 'Another scotch and soda, please, for General Nesbitson.'

When the second drink arrived Nesbitson sipped it, then leaned back, surveying the private cabin. He said approvingly, with something of the old military bark in his voice, 'This is a damn fine setup, PM, if I may say so.'

It was the opening James Howden had hoped for.

'It isn't bad,' he acknowledged, his fingers toying with the fresh glass of grape juice which the steward had brought, along with the Defence Minister's scotch. 'I don't use it a great deal, though. This is more the Governor General's aeroplane than mine.'

'Is that so?' Nesbitson seemed surprised. 'You mean that Sheldon Griffiths gets to ride around like this?'

'Oh yes, whenever he wants.' Howden's voice was elaborately casual. 'After all, the GG is Her Majesty's representative. He's entitled to rather special treatment, don't you think?'

'I suppose so.' The old man's expression was bemused.

Again casually, as if their conversation had reminded him, Howden said, 'I expect you'd heard that Shel Griffiths is retiring this summer. He's had seven years at Government House and feels he'd like to step down.'

'I'd heard something of the sort,' Nesbitson said.

The Prime Minister sighed. 'It's always a problem when a Governor General retires – finding the best man to succeed him: someone with the right kind of experience who is willing to serve. One has to remember that it's the highest honour the country can award.'

As Howden watched, the older man took a generous sip of scotch. 'Yes,' he said carefully, 'it certainly is.'

'Of course,' Howden said, 'the job has disadvantages. There's a good deal of ceremonial – guards of honour everywhere, cheering crowds, artillery salutes, and so on.' He added lightly, 'The GG rates twenty-one guns, you know – as many as the Queen.'

'Yes,' Nesbitson said softly, 'I know.'

'Naturally,' Howden continued, as if thinking aloud, 'it needs a special brand of experience to handle that kind of thing well. Someone with a military background usually does it best.'

The old warrior's lips were slightly parted. He moistened them with his tongue. 'Yes,' he said, 'I expect that's true.'

'Frankly,' Howden said, 'I'd always hoped that you might take it on someday.'

The old man's eyes were wide. 'Me?' His voice was barely audible. 'Me?'

'Well,' Howden said, as if dismissing the thought. 'It's come at the wrong time, I know. You don't want to leave the Cabinet and I certainly wouldn't want to lose you.'

Nesbitson made a half-movement as if to rise from the cabin seat, then subsided. The hand which held the glass was trembling. He swallowed in an attempt to keep his voice under control and succeeded partially. 'Matter of fact, been thinking for some time of getting out of politics. Sometimes a bit trying at my age.'

'Really, Adrian?' The Prime Minister allowed himself to sound surprised. 'I'd always assumed you'd be working with us for a long time to come.' He stopped to consider. 'Of course, if you did accept, it would solve a lot of problems. I don't mind telling you that as I see it, after the Act of Union there'll be a difficult time for the country. We shall need a sense of unity and a continuance of national feeling. Personally, I see the office of Governor General – assuming it's entrusted to the right hands – as contributing a great deal towards that.'

For a moment he wondered if he had gone too far. As he had spoken, the old man's eyes had risen, meeting his own directly. It was hard to read what they contained. Was it contempt; or unbelief; or even both, with a mingling of ambition? One thing could be counted on. Though in some ways Adrian Nesbitson was a fool, he was not so obtuse that he could fail to grasp what was being offered: a. deal, with the highest possible price for his own political support.

It was the old man's assessment of the prize that James Howden counted on. Some men, he knew, would never covet the Governor Generalship on any terms; for them it would be a penalty rather than reward. But to a military mind, loving ceremony and pomp, ii was the glistening ultimate ideal.

James Howden had never believed the cynic's dictum that all men have their price. In his lifetime he had known individuals who could not be bought, either with wealth or honours, or even the temptation – to which so many succumbed -to do good for their fellow men. But most who were in politics had a price of one kind or another; they had to have in order to survive. Some people preferred to use euphemisms like 'expediency' or 'compromise', but in the end it amounted to the same thing. The question was: had he gauged correctly the price of Adrian Nesbitson's support.

The inner struggle was written on the old man's face: a sequence of expressions, swift-changing like a child's kaleidoscope in which doubt, pride, shame, and longing were conjoined…

He could hew the guns in memory… the bark of German 88s and answering fire… a sunstreaked morning; Antwerp behind, the Scheldt ahead… the Canadian Division clambering, clawing, moving forward; then slowing, wavering, ready to turn away…

It was the pivot of battle and he had commandeered the jeep, beckoned the piper, and ordered the driver forward. To the skirl of pipes from the back seat he had stood, facing the German guns, leading, cajoling, and the wavering ranks had reassembled. He had urged stragglers on, cursing with foul oaths, and the men had cursed him back and followed.

Din, dust, motors gunned, the smell of cordite and oil, cries of wounded… The movement forward, slow at first, then faster… The wonderment in men's eyes – at himself, upstanding, proud, a target no enemy gunner could miss…

It was the ultimate moment of glory. It had been hopeless but they had snatched back victory. It had been suicidal but wondrously he had survived…

They had called him the Mad General and the Fighting Fool, and afterwards a slim frail man with a stutter, whom he revered, had pinned on a medal at Buckingham Palace.

But now the years had gone, and memories with them; and few remembered the moment of glory, and fewer cared. No one called him, any more, the Fighting Fool. If they called him anything they omitted the 'Fighting'.

Sometimes, however briefly, he longed for the taste of glory 'again.

With a trace of hesitancy Adrian Nesbitson said, 'You seem very sure about this Act of Union, Prime Minister. Are you certain it will go through?'

'Yes, I am. It will go through because it has to.' Howden kept his face and voice serious.

'But there'll be opposition.' The old man frowned in concentration.

'Naturally. But in the end, when need and urgency are seen, it will make no difference.' Howden's voice took on a note of persuasion. 'I know your first feeling has been to oppose this plan, Adrian, and we all respect you for it. I suppose, too, that if you felt you must continue to oppose, we would be obliged to part company politically.'

Nesbitson said gruffly, 'I don't see the need for that.'

'There is no need,' Howden said. 'Particularly when, as Governor-General, you could do far more to serve the country than you ever could from the political wilderness.'

'Well,' Nesbitson said; he was studying his hands. 'I suppose when you look at it like that…'

It's all so simple, Howden thought. Patronage, the power of bestowal, brings most things within reach. Aloud he said, 'If you're agreeable I'd like to notify the Queen as soon as possible. I'm sure Her Majesty will be delighted with the news.'

With dignity Adrian Nesbitson inclined his head. 'As you wish. Prime Minister.'

They had risen to their feet and shook hands solemnly. 'I'm glad; very glad,' James Howden said. He added informally, 'Your appointment as Governor General will be announced in June. At least we shall have you in the Cabinet until then, and your campaigning with us through the election will mean a great deal.' He was summing up, making clear without any shadow of misunderstanding what they had agreed upon. For Adrian Nesbitson there would be no bolting from the Government, no criticism of the Act of Union. Instead, Nesbitson would fight the election with the remainder of the party -supporting, endorsing, sharing responsibility…

James Howden waited for dissent, if any. There was none.

A moment or two earlier the note of the aircraft engines had changed. Now they were descending evenly and the land below was no longer snow covered, but a patchwork quilt of browns and greens. The intercom phone gave its gentle ping and the Prime Minister answered.

Wing Commander Galbraith's voice announced, 'We'll be landing in Washington in ten minutes, sir. We have priority clearance right on down and I've been asked to tell you that the President is on his way to the airport.'

Chapter 4

After take-off of the Prime Minister's flight Brian Richardson and Milly drove back from Uplands Airport in Richardson's Jaguar. Through most of the journey into Ottawa the party director was silent, his face set grimly, his body tense with anger. He handled the Jaguar – which normally he gentled lovingly – as though it were responsible for the abortive press conference on the airport ramp. More than others, perhaps, he could already visualize the hollowness of James Howden's statement about Immigration and Henri Duval as they would appear in print. Even more unfortunate, Richardson fumed, the Government – in the person of the Prime Minister – had taken a stand from which it would be exceedingly difficult to retreat.

Once or twice after leaving the airport Milly had glanced sideways but, sensing what was in her companion's mind, she refrained from comment. But nearing the city limits after a particularly savage cornering, she touched Richardson's arm. No words were necessary.

The party director slowed, turned his head and grinned. 'Sorry, Milly. I was letting off steam.'

'I know.' The reporter's questioning at the airport had distressed Milly too, aware as she was of the secret restraint upon James Howden.

'I could use a drink, Milly,' Richardson said. 'How about going to your place?'

'All right.' It was almost noon and for an hour or two there was little urgency for Milly to return to the Prime Minister's office. They crossed the Rideau River at Dunbar Bridge and swung west on Queen Elizabeth Drive towards the city. The sun, which had been shining earlier, had retreated under sullen clouds and the day was greying, the drab stone buildings of the capital merging with it. The wind whistled in gusts, stirring eddies of dust and leaves and^ paper, cavorting in gutters and around week-old snow piles, denied and ugly now from sludge and soot. Pedestrians hurried, coat collars upturned, holding their hats and hugging buildings closely. Despite the Jaguar's warmth, Milly shivered. This was the time of year when winter seemed endless and she longed for spring.

They parked the Jaguar at Milly's apartment building and rode up in the elevator together. Inside the apartment, out of habit, Milly began to fix drinks. Brian Richardson put a hand around her shoulder and kissed her quickly on the cheek. For an instant he looked directly into Milly's face, then abruptly released her. The effect within himself startled him; it was as if, for an instant, he had floated into some other megacosm, dreamlike, airy… More practically he said, 'Let me do the drinks. A man's place is at the bar.'

He took glasses and, as she watched, poured even measures of gin, then sliced a lemon, squeezing part into each drink. He added ice cubes, efficiently opened a bottle of Schweppes tonic and divided it neatly between the two glasses. It was simple and effortless but Milly thought: how wonderful to share things – even a simple thing like mixing drinks – with someone you genuinely cared for.

Milly took her glass to the settee, sipped, and put it down. Leaning back she let her head fall comfortably against the cushions, savouring the welcome luxury of rest at midday. She had a sense of moments stolen from time. Stretching, she extended her nyloned legs, heels against the rug, shoes kicked free.

Richardson was pacing the small, snug living-room, his glass clenched tightly, his face absorbed and frowning. 'I don't get it, Milly. I just plain don't get it. Why is the chief behaving this way when he never has before? Why, of all things, is he backing Harvey Warrender? He doesn't believe in what he's doing; you could tell that today. Then what's the reason? Why, why, why?'

'Oh, Brian!' Milly said. 'Couldn't we forget it for a while?'

'Forget it, hell!' The words rapped out in frustration and anger. 'I tell you we're being stupid goddam morons by not giving in and letting that bastard stowaway off the ship. This whole affair could build and keep on building until it cost us an election.'

Illogically Milly was tempted to ask: Would it matter if it did? It was wrong, she knew, to think that way, and earlier her anxiety had been as great as Richardson's own. But suddenly she was overwhelmed with a weariness for political concerns: the tactics, manoeuvring, petty scoring over opponents, the self-implanted certainties of right. In the end what did it all amount to? Today's seeming crisis would be a forgotten trifle next week or next year. In ten years, or a hundred, all the tiny causes and people who espoused them, would be lost in oblivion. It was individuals, not politics, that mattered most. And not just other people… but themselves.

'Brian,' Milly said softly, steadily, 'please make love to me now.'

The pacing had stopped. There was a silence.

'Don't say anything,' Milly whispered. She had closed her eyes. It was as if someone else was speaking for her, another voice inhabiting her body. It had to be that way since she herself could never have said the words of a moment or two ago. In a way, she supposed, she ought to speak in denial of the stranger's voice, cancelling what had been said, resuming her own identity. But a sense of delicious languor held her back.

She heard a glass set down, feet moving softly, drapes drawn, then Brian was beside her. Their arms went around each other, lips meeting ardently, their bodies demanding. 'Oh God, Milly!' he breathed. His voice was trembling, 'Milly, I want you and I love you.'

Chapter 5

the quietness of the apartment the telephone bell purred softly. Brian Richardson propped himself on an elbow. 'Well,' he said, 'I'm glad it didn't ring ten minutes ago.' He had a sense of speaking for speaking's sake; as if using commonplace words as a shield to his own uncertainty.

'I wouldn't have answered it,' Milly said. The languor had gone. She had a sense of quickening and expectation. This time and last it had been different, so different, from other times she remembered…

Brian Richardson kissed her forehead. How much difference there was, he thought, between the Milly the outside world saw, and Milly as he had come to know her here. At this moment she seemed sleepy, her hair disordered, warm…

'I'd better answer it,' Milly said. Pushing herself upright she padded to the phone.

It was the Prime Minister's office, one of the assistant stenographers. 'I thought I ought to call you. Miss Freedeman. There've been a lot of telegrams. They started coming in this morning and there are seventy-two now, all addressed to Mr Howden.'

Milly ran a hand through her hair. She asked, 'What about?'

'They're all about that man on the ship, the one that Immigration won't let in. There was some more about him in this morning's paper. Did you see it?'

'Yes,' Milly said, 'I saw it. What do the telegrams say?'

'Mostly the same thing in different ways. Miss Freedeman: that he should be let in and given a chance. I thought you'd want to know.'

'You were right to call,' Milly said. 'Start listing where the telegrams come from and summarizing what they say. I'll be in very soon.'

Milly replaced the phone. She would have to notify Elliot Prowse, the executive assistant; he would be in Washington by now. Then it would be up to him whether or not to tell the Prime Minister. He probably would; James Howden regarded mail and telegrams very seriously, insisting on daily and monthly tabulations of their contents and source, which were studied carefully by himself and the party director.

'What was it?' Brian Richardson asked, and Milly told him.

Like gears engaging, his mind swung back to practical concerns. He was immediately concerned, as she had known he would be. 'It's being organized by somebody, otherwise there wouldn't be that many telegrams together. All the same, I don't like it any more than I like the rest.' He added gloomily, 'I wish I knew what the hell to do.'

'Perhaps there isn't anything that can be done,' Milly said.

He looked at her sharply. Then turning, he took both her shoulders gently in his hands. 'Milly, darling,' he said, 'there's something going on I don't know about, but I think you do.'

She shook her head.

'Listen, Milly,' he insisted. 'We're both on the same side, aren't we? If I'm to do anything, I have to know.'

Their eyes met.

'You can trust me, can't you?' he said softly. 'Especially now.'

She was aware of conflicting emotions and loyalties. She wanted to protect James Howden; she always did…

And yet, suddenly, her relationship with Brian had changed. He had told her that he loved her. Surely, between them now, there was no place for secrets. In a way it would be a relief…

His grip on her shoulders tightened. 'Milly, I have to know.'

'Very well.' Releasing herself from his hands, she took keys from her bag and unlocked the bottom drawer of a small bureau beside the bedroom door. The copy photostat was in a sealed envelope which she opened and gave to him. As he began to read she was aware that the mood of a few minutes earlier was dissolved and lost, like mist before a morning breeze. Once more it was business as usual: politics.

Brian Richardson had whistled softly as he read. Now he looked up, his expression stunned, his eyes showing disbelief.

'Jesus!' he breathed; 'Jesus Christ!'