In High Places

Chapter 1

'So you've told the Cabinet,' Brian Richardson said. 'How did they take it?' The party director rubbed a hand over his eyes to relieve their tiredness. Since the Prime Minister's return from Washington the previous day, Richardson had spent most of the intervening hours at his desk. He had left it ten minutes ago to come by taxi to Parliament Hill.

Hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his suit coat, James Howden continued to face the window where he had been looking down, from his Centre Block office, on the steady afternoon stream of arrivals and departures. In the past few minutes an ambassador had come and gone; a trio of senators, like ancient pundits, had passed beneath and out of sight; there had been a black-habited cleric, stalking hawk-faced like a shade of doom; official messengers with monogrammed dispatch cases, self-important in their brief authority; a handful of press-gallery reporters; MPs returning from lunch or a stroll, at home like members of a club; and the inevitable tourists, some standing to be photographed by friends beside sheepish, grinning Mounties.

What does it all mean, Howden thought? What does it all amount to in the end? Everything around us seems so permanent: the long procession down the years; the statuary; the storeyed buildings; our systems of government; our enlightenment, or so we choose to think. And yet it is all so temporary, and we ourselves the most fragile, temporary part. Why do we struggle, strive, achieve, when the best we can do, in time, will amount to nothing?

There was no answer, he supposed. There was never any answer. The party director's voice recalled him to reality.

'How did they take it?' Brian Richardson repeated. A full meeting of Cabinet had been held early that morning.

Turning from the window, Howden asked, 'Take what?'

'The Act of Union, of course. What else?'

James Howden considered before answering. The two men were in the Prime Minister's parliamentary office -'Room 307S, a smaller and more intimate chamber than the regular suite of offices in the East Block, but only an elevator ride from the House of Commons.

'It's strange that you should ask what else. As far as the Act of Union was concerned, most of the Cabinet took it remarkably well. Of course, there'll be some dissension – perhaps strong dissension – when we discuss it again.'

Brian Richardson said dryly, 'That figures, doesn't it?'

'I suppose so,' Howden took a turn around the room. 'But then again, perhaps not. It's often true that big concepts can be accepted more readily than smaller ones.'

'That's because most people have little minds.'

'Not necessarily.' There were times when Richardson's cynicism grated on Howden. 'You were the one, I think, who pointed out that we've been moving towards the Act of Union for a long time. What's more, the terms as I have now negotiated them, are extremely favourable to Canada.' The Prime Minister paused, tweaked his nose, then continued thoughtfully, 'The extraordinary thing about this morning's Cabinet was that some people were much more anxious to talk about this wretched immigration affair.'

'Isn't everybody? I suppose you saw today's papers?'

The Prime Minister nodded, then sat down, motioning Richardson to a facing chair. 'This lawyer Maitland in Vancouver seems to be giving us a good deal of trouble. What do we know about him?'

'I checked. Seems to be just a young fellow, fairly bright, with no political connexions that are known of.'

'Not now, maybe. But this kind of case is a good way to start them. Is there any way we could approach Maitland indirectly; offer him a by-election seat if he'll take things easier?'

The party director shook his head. 'Too risky. I made some inquiries and the advice I get is to stay away. If anything like that was said, Maitland would use it against us. He's that type.'

In his own young days, Howden thought, he had been that type too. 'All right,' he said. 'What else can you suggest?'

Richardson hesitated. For three days and nights, ever since Milly Freedeman had produced the fateful photostatic record of the deal between the Prime Minister and Harvey War-render, his mind had explored possibilities.

Somewhere, Brian Richardson was convinced, a counter-lever against Harvey Warrender existed. There was always a counter-lever; even blackmailers had secrets they preferred to keep, though the problem was inevitably the same: how to wrest the secret out. There were many individuals in politics -inside and outside the party – whose secrets Richardson had been told or had stumbled on over the years. And in a locked safe in his own office a slim brown book contained them all, written in a private shorthand that only he could read.

But under 'Warrender' in the private brown book there was nothing save a new entry made a day or two ago.

Yet… somehow… the counter-lever must be found; and if anyone found it, Richardson knew, it would be himself.

Over the three days and nights he had turned his memory inside out… probing recesses… recalling chance words, incidents, asides… juggling faces, places, phrases. It was a process which had worked before, but this time it had not.

Except that for the past twenty-four hours he had had a nagging sense of being close. There was something, he knew; and it was near the surface of his mind. A face, a memory, a word might trigger it. But not yet. The question was: how long?

He was tempted to reveal to Howden his knowledge about the nine-year-old agreement; to have a full and frank discussion. It might clear the air, perhaps produce a plan for countering Harvey Warrender, possibly even release whatever was locked in his own mind. But to do so would involve Milly, at this moment, in the office outside, guarding their privacy. And Milly must not be involved, now or later. The Prime Minister had asked: 'What else can you suggest?'

'There's a fairly simple remedy, chief, which I've urged before.'

Howden said sharply, 'If you mean, let the stowaway in as an immigrant, that's out of the question now. We've taken a stand and we must maintain it. To back down would be an admission of weakness.'

'If Maitland has his way, the courts may overrule you.'

'No! Not if things are handled properly. I intend to talk to Warrender about that civil servant who's in charge out there.'

'Kramer,' Richardson said. 'He's a deputy director who was sent out temporarily.'

'He may have to be recalled. An experienced man would never have allowed a special inquiry. According to the newspapers he offered it voluntarily after the habeas corpus writ had been refused.' Howden added with a flash of anger, 'Because of that stupidity, the whole issue has been reactivated.'

'Maybe you should wait till you get out there. Then you can give him hell personally. Did you look over the schedule?'

'Yes.' Howden rose from the chair he had been occupying and crossed to his paper-strewn desk near the window. Dropping into an armchair behind, he reached for an open file folder. 'Considering the short notice,' he said approvingly, 'it's a good programme you've arranged for me.'

Howden's eye ran down the list. Allowing for a House of Commons announcement about the Act of Union in ten days' time, there were five days available for a whirlwind speaking tour across the country – the 'conditioning' period they had planned. He would begin in Toronto the day after tomorrow – a joint meeting of the influential Canadian and Empire Clubs – and end, on the final day, in Quebec City and Montreal. In between would be Fort William, Winnipeg, Edmonton, Vancouver, Calgary, and Regina.

He observed dryly, 'I see you've included the usual quota of honorary degrees.'

'I always thought you collected them,' Richardson said.

'I suppose you could call it that. I keep them in the basement of Number 24, along with the Indian headdresses. The two things are about as useful.'

Richardson gave a broad grin. 'Don't ever get quoted on that. We'd lose the Indian and intellectual votes together.' He added: 'You said the Cabinet kicked the Duval case around, as well as the Act of Union. Was there any new conclusion?'

'No. Except that if the Opposition forces a debate in the House this afternoon, Harvey Warrender will speak for the Government and I shall intervene if needed.'

Richardson said with a grin, 'More discreetly than yesterday, I hope.'

The Prime Minister flushed brick red. He answered angrily, 'That kind of remark is not required. What I said yesterday at the airport was an error, which I admit. But everyone has lapses occasionally. Even you, from time to time, have made a few mistakes.'

'I know.' The party director rubbed the tip of his nose ruefully, 'And I guess I just made another. Sorry.'

Slightly mollified, Howden said, 'Possibly Harvey War-render can handle the whole thing himself.'

Actually, Howden thought, if Harvey spoke as well and convincingly as he had in Cabinet, he might well retrieve some lost ground for the Government and the party. This morning under sharp attack from other ministers, Harvey had defended the Immigration Department's action, making it seem sane and logical. There had been nothing erratic about his manner, either; it was subdued and rational, though the trouble with Harvey was, you could never be sure when his mood might switch.

The Prime Minister stood up again and faced the window, his back to Brian Richardson. There were fewer people down below, he noticed. Most, he supposed, had gone inside the Centre Block where the House of Commons would be convening in a few minutes' time.

'Will the rules allow a debate in the House?' Richardson questioned.

'Not in the ordinary way.' Howden answered without turning. 'But there's a supply motion coming up this afternoon, and the Opposition can pick any subject they choose. I hear a rumour that Bonar Deitz may make it immigration.'

Richardson sighed. He could already imagine the radio and television coverage tonight, the news stories tomorrow morning.

There was a light tap at the door. It opened to admit Milly. Howden turned, facing her.

'It's almost half past,' Milly announced. 'If you're going in for prayers…' She smiled at Richardson and nodded. On the way in the party director had handed her a folded note which read characteristically: 'Expect me at seven tonight. Important.'

'Yes,' the Prime Minister said. 'I'm going.'

Above them the Westminster quarters of the Peace Tower carillon began to chime.

Chapter 2

The sonorous, distinguished voice of the Speaker of the House was moving towards the end of prayers as James Howden entered the Government lobby. As always, the Prime Minister thought, Mr Speaker was putting on an impressive show. Through the nearest doorway to the floor of the House he could hear the familiar daily words… beseech Thee… particularly for the Governor General, the Senate and the House of Commons… that thou wouldst be pleased to direct and prosper all their consultations… that peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety may be established among us for all generations…

Such splendid sentiments, Howden thought – alternated daily in French and English for a presumably bilingual God. It was a pity that in a few minutes from now the words would be forgotten among the minutiae of petty political sparring.

From inside came a chorus of sonorous amens, led strongly by the Clerk of the House, as was his special privilege.

Now other ministers and members were moving in, the House filling as it usually did for question time at the opening of a daily session. Around the Prime Minister in the lobby, supporters of his own majority party filed to their seats. Howden stayed, chatting briefly with members of the Cabinet, nodding to others who acknowledged his presence respectfully as they passed.

He allowed time for the galleries to fill before making his own entrance.

As always, there was a stir and turning of heads as he appeared. As if unaware of the attention, he made his way leisurely to the front row double desk on the Government side of the House which he shared with Stuart Cawston, already seated. Bowing to the Speaker, presiding from his canopied, thronelike chair at the north end of the high oblong chamber, James Howden took his own seat. A moment later he nodded urbanely to Bonar Deitz in the Opposition Leader's seat directly across the centre aisle.

The routine barrage of questions to government ministers had already begun.

A Newfoundland member was upset because of great numbers of dead codfish floating off the Atlantic coast, and what did the Government propose to do? The Minister of Fisheries began an involved and laboured answer.

Beside the Prime Minister, Smiling Stu Cawston murmured, 'I hear Deitz has chosen immigration for sure. I hope Harvey can carry the ball.'

James Howden nodded, then glanced behind him at the second row of government desks where Harvey Warrender sat, apparently imperturbable, except that now and then the muscles of his face were twitching.

As questioning continued, it was evident that the subject of immigration and Henri Duval – normally the kind of issue with which the Opposition would delight to bombard the Government at question time – was being omitted. It was added confirmation that Bonar Deitz and his supporters planned a full-dress debate when the supply motion was moved in a few minutes.

The Press gallery was crowded, Howden noted gloomily. All the front row seats were occupied and other reporters had crowded in behind.

The questions had ended and Smiling Stu arose from beside the Prime Minister. He moved formally that the House go into Committee of Supply.

Gathering his silk QC's gown around his corpulent figure, the Speaker nodded. At once, the Leader of the Opposition was on his feet.

'Mr Speaker,' the Hon Bonar Deitz enunciated crisply, then paused, his scholarly, gaunt face turned questioningly towards the presiding officer. Again a nod from the Speaker, like a black watching beetle, in his chair under the carved oak canopy.

For a moment Deitz paused, looking up – an unconscious habit he sometimes had – towards the soaring ceiling of the chamber fifty feet above. It was almost, James Howden thought on the other side of the House, as if his principal opponent sought to draw, from the painted Irish linen surface and elaborate gold-leaf cornices, the words he needed for a moment's greatness.

'The sorry record of this Government,' Bonar Deitz began, 'is.nowhere more depressingly exemplified than in its policies affecting immigration, and the day-to-day administration of immigration affairs. I suggest, Mr Speaker, that the Government and its Department of Citizenship and Immigration have their collective feet firmly rooted in the nineteenth century, a period from which they will not be stirred by considerations of a changed world or by simple, everyday humanity.'

It was an adequate opening, Howden thought, though whatever else Bonar Deitz had gathered from his survey of the ceiling, it had not been greatness. Most of the words, in one form or another, had been used before by successive oppositions in the House of Commons.

The thought prompted him to scribble a note to Harvey Warrender. 'Quote instances where Opposition, when in power, followed exact same procedure as us now. If you've not details, instruct your Dept rush them here.' He folded the note, beckoned a page boy and indicated the Minister of Immigration.

A moment later Harvey Warrender turned his head towards the Prime Minister, nodded, and touched a file folder among several on the desk before him. Well, Howden thought, that was as it should be. A good executive assistant would brief his minister carefully on something like that.

Bonar Deitz was continuing,'… in this motion of "no confidence"… a current example of a tragic case where humanitarian considerations, as well as human rights have been wantonly ignored'.

As Deitz paused there was a thumping of desk tops on the Opposition side. On the Government side a back-bencher called out, 'I wish we could ignore you.'

For a second the Opposition Leader hesitated.

The rough and tumble of the House of Commons had never appealed greatly to Bonar Deitz. Right from his own first election as a Member of Parliament years before, the House had always seemed to him remarkably like a sports arena where competing teams attempted to score points off each other at every opportunity. The rules of conduct, it seemed, were childishly simple: if some measure was favoured by your own party, it was naturally good; if favoured by another party, and not your own, it was just as automatically bad. There was seldom any in between. Similarly, to doubt your own party's stand on any issue and wonder if, for once, your opponents might be right and wiser, was considered disaffecting and disloyal.

It had been a jolt, also, to Deitz the scholar and intellectual, to discover that effective party loyalty extended to banging desk tops in support of other party members and hurling gibes and counter-gibes across the House in the manner of exuberant schoolboys, with sometimes a good deal less erudition than schoolboys might show. In time – long before he had become Opposition Leader – Bonar Deitz had learned to do both, though seldom without a degree of inward squirming.

The heckler had cried: 'I wish we could ignore you.''

His instinctive reaction was not to bother with a rude and silly interruption. But his own supporters, he knew, would expect some retaliation. Therefore he snapped back, 'The honourable member's wish is understandable since the Government he supports has ignored so much for so long.' He wagged an accusing finger at the other side of the House. 'But there will come a time when the conscience of this country can no longer be ignored.'

Not very good, Bonar Deitz decided inwardly. He suspected that the Prime Minister, who excelled in repartee, would probably have done better. But at least his attempt at counterattack had earned a volley of desk-top banging from the members behind him.

Now, responding, there were jeers, and shouts of 'Oh, oh,' and 'Are you our conscience?' from the other side.

'Order, order.' It was Mr Speaker, standing, putting on his tricorn hat. In a moment or two the hubbub died down.

'I referred to the conscience of our country,' Bonar Deitz proclaimed. 'Let me tell you what that conscience tells me. It tells me that we are one of the richest and most underpopulated nations in the world. And yet we are informed by the Government, through its Minister of Immigration, that there is not space here for this single unfortunate human being…'

In a separate compartment of his mind the Opposition Leader was aware that he was being verbally reckless. It was dangerous to put sentiments of that kind so unequivocally on record, because any party which came to power found speedily that political pressures for limiting immigration were too great to be ignored. Someday, Deitz knew, he might well regret his present ardent words.

But at moments – and this was one – the compromises of politics, the endless mealy-mouthed speeches, wearied and disgusted him. Today, for once, he would say what he believed forthrightly and hang the consequences!

In the Press gallery, he noted, heads were down.

Pleading for Henri Duval, an insignificant man whom he had never met, Bonar Deitz continued to address the House.

Across the centre aisle, James Howden was listening with half an ear. For the past few minutes he had been watching the clock at the south end of the chamber below the steeply-tiered ladies' gallery, three-quarters full today. He was aware that very soon a third of the reporters present would be leaving to file stories for their papers' late afternoon editions. With deadlines close, they would begin moving out at any moment. Listening carefully, he waited for an opening…

'Surely there are times,' Bonar Deitz declaimed, 'when humanitarian considerations should override stubborn adherence to the letter of the law?'

The Prime Minister was on his feet. 'Mr Speaker, will the Leader of the Opposition permit a question?'

Bonar Deitz hesitated. But it was a reasonable request he could hardly refuse. He said curtly, 'Yes.'

'Is the Leader of the Opposition suggesting,' Howden asked with sudden rhetoric, 'that the Government should ignore the law, the law of this country, enacted by Parliament…'

He was interrupted from the Opposition side by shouts of 'Question, question!' 'Get on with it!' 'It's a speech!' And from his own supporters came retaliatory cries of 'Order!' 'Listen to the question!' 'What are you afraid of?' Bonar Deitz, who had resumed his seat, was once more on his feet.

'I am coming to the crux of my question,' the Prime Minister declared loudly, his voice rising above the others, 'and it is simply this.' He paused, waiting for relative silence, and when it came he continued, 'Since it is plain that this unfortunate young man, Henri Duval, is in no way admissible to Canada under our own law, I ask the Leader of the Opposition if he is in favour of referring the case to the United Nations. And I may say that in any event it is the Government's intention to bring this matter immediately to United Nations attention…'

There was instant uproar. Once more, shouts, accusations and counter-accusations flew back and forth across the House. The Speaker was on his feet, his voice unheeded. Red-faced, his eyes blazing, Bonar Deitz faced the Prime Minister. He cried angrily, 'This is a device -'

And so it was.

In the press gallery, reporters were hurrying out. The interruption, the announcement, had been perfectly timed…

James Howden could predict the one-sentence lead on most news stories now being telephoned or typed: Henri Duval, the 'man-without-a-country, may have his case referred to the United Nations, the Prime Minister revealed to the House of Commons today. CP and BUP had probably sent three-bell bulletins already. 'DUVAL CASE GOES TO UN – PRIME MINISTER', the teletypes would clatter, and time-pressured editors, feverishly in search of a new angle, would use the words in headlines. The Opposition attack; Bonar Deitz's speech -these would be mentioned, of course, but in a secondary sense.

Inwardly glowing, the Prime Minister scribbled a one-line note to Arthur Lexington: 'Write a letter.' If questioned later, he must be able to state that the promise of an approach to UN had been properly fulfilled by External Affairs."

Bonar Deitz had resumed his interrupted speech. But there was a sense of lessened impact, of a bead of steam dispersed. James Howden was aware of it; he suspected Deitz was too.

Once, long ago, there had been a time when the Prime Minister had liked and respected Bonar Deitz despite the gulf of party politics dividing them. There had seemed an integrity and depth of character about the Opposition Leader, an honest consistency to all his actions, which was hard not to admire. But in time Howden's attitude had changed until nowadays he thought of Bonar Deitz with little more than tolerant contempt.

Mostly the change had come through Deitz's own performance as Opposition Leader. Many times, Howden had been aware, Bonar Deitz had failed to take full advantage of James Howden's own vulnerability on specific issues. That sometimes such action – or lack of it – argued a reasonable restraint, was (as Howden saw it) beside the point. A leader's role was to lead and, whenever advantage offered itself, to be tough and ruthless in taking it. Party politics was no cream-puff affair and inevitably the path to power was strewn with shattered hopes, and husks of other men's ambitions.

It was ruthlessness which Bonar Deitz had lacked.

He had other qualities: intellect and scholarship, perception and foresight, patience and personal charm. But overall these qualities had never made him a match – or at least had never seemed to – for James McCallum Howden.

It was next to impossible, Howden thought, to imagine Bonar Deitz as Prime Minister, commanding the Cabinet, dominating the House of Commons, manoeuvring, feinting, acting swiftly – as he himself had done a moment ago – to gain tactical advantage in debate.

And what of Washington? Could the Leader of the Opposition have faced the US President and his formidable aide, and have stood his ground, and come away from Washington with as much as Howden himself had gained? More than likely Deitz would have been reasonable, never as tough as James Howden and, in the end, have conceded more and gained less. And the same would be true in whatever was to happen in the months to come.

The thought was a reminder that in a mere ten days he, James Howden, would stand here in the House and announce the Act of Union and its terms. Then would be a time for greatness and great issues, with petty concerns – stowaways, immigration, and their like – forgotten or ignored. He had a sense of frustration and annoyance that the present debate was at this moment considered significantly when, in fact, it was laughably trivial compared with the issues he would soon reveal.

And now, after a speech of almost an hour, Bonar Deitz was ending.

'Mr Speaker, it is not too late,' the Opposition Leader declared. 'It is not too late for the Government, in charity and magnanimity, to allow this young man Henri Duval the Canadian domicile he seeks. It is not too late for the individual himself to escape the tragic prison to which an accident of birth has grimly sentenced him. It is not too late for Duval -with our help and in our midst – to become a useful, happy member of society. I plead with the Government for compassion. I urge them that we should not plead in vain.'

After announcing the wording of the formal motion '… that this House regrets the refusal of the Government to accept and discharge its proper responsibility in the matter of Immigration…' Bonar Deitz sat down to a thunder of desk tops on the Opposition side.

Immediately, Harvey Warrender was on his feet.

'Mr Speaker,' the Immigration Minister began, in his bass, booming voice, 'as usual the Leader of the Opposition has managed to flavour fact with fantasy, cloud a simple issue with excessive sentimentality, and has succeeded in making a normal lawful procedure of the Department of Immigration appear like a sadistic conspiracy against all mankind.'

At once there were angry cries of protest and 'Withdraw!' countered by cheers and desk thumping.

Ignoring the outcry, Harvey Warrender continued heatedly, 'If this Government had been guilty of a breach of law we would deserve the contumely of the House. Or if the Department of Citizenship and Immigration had failed in its proper legal duty, ignoring the statutes enacted by Parliament, I would bow my head and accept its condemnation. But since we have done neither, I tell you I will accept neither.'

James Howden found himself wishing that Harvey War-render would moderate his aggressive tone. There were occasions in the House of Commons which called for a boisterous, free-swinging kind of tactic, but today was not one. Here and now quiet reasonableness would be more effective. Besides, the Prime Minister was uncomfortably aware of an undercurrent of hysteria in Warrender's voice. It persisted as he continued, 'What is this charge of infamy and heartlessness which the Opposition Leader lays before you? It is simply that the Government has not broken the law; that its Department of Citizenship and Immigration has honoured its obligations exactly according to the Immigration Act of Canada, with undeviating fairness.'

Well, there was nothing wrong with that; in fact it was something which needed to be said. If only Harvey, personally, could be less intense…

'The Leader of the Opposition has spoken of the man Henri Duval. Let us ignore for the moment the question of whether this country should take on a burden which no one else wants, whether we should open our doors to the human garbage of the seas…'

From across the House a roar of protest eclipsed in volume all the earlier skirmishes of the day. Harvey Warrender had gone too far, Howden knew. Even on the Government side there were shocked faces, with only a few members responding half-heartedly to the opposition clamour.

Bonar Deitz was on his feet. 'Mr Speaker, on a question of privilege, I object…' Behind him were other heated, protesting cries.

Amid the growing din Harvey Warrender ploughed determinedly on. 'I say let us ignore the phony sentimentalities and consider the law alone. The law has been served…' His words were drowned out in a rising tide of angry shouts.

One voice persisted above the rest. 'Mr Speaker, will the Minister of Immigration define what he means by human garbage?' Uneasily, James Howden recognized the question's source. It had come from Arnold Geaney, a back-bench Opposition member who represented one of the poorer districts of Montreal.

There were two notable things about Arnold Geaney. He was a cripple, only five feet tall, with a partially paralysed and twisted body, and a face so uniquely ugly and misproportioned as to suggest that nature had conspired against him to produce a human freak. And yet, despite his incredible handicap, he had carved a notable career as a parliamentarian and champion of down-trodden causes. Personally, Howden had an intense dislike for the man, believing him to be an exhibitionist who traded shamelessly upon his physical deformity. At the same time, well aware that popular sympathy was all too ready to be on the side of a cripple, the Prime Minister was invariably wary of tangling with Arnold Geaney in debate.

Now Geaney demanded again, 'Will the Minister define the words "human garbage"?'

The muscles of Harvey Warrender's face were twitching once more. James Howden envisaged the answer which, in un-considered haste, the Immigration Minister might make: 'No one is in a better position than the honourable member to know exactly what I mean.' At all costs, Howden decided, that kind of rejoinder must be prevented.

Rising, the Prime Minister declared above the shouts and counter-shouts, 'The honourable member of Montreal East is placing an emphasis upon certain words which I am perfectly sure my colleague did not intend.'

'Then let him say so!' Geaney, raising himself awkwardly on crutches, hurled the words across the centre aisle. Around him there were supporting shouts and cries, 'Withdraw! Withdraw!' In the galleries people were craning forward.

'Order! Order!' It was the Speaker, his voice barely heard above the din.

'I withdraw nothing!' Harvey Warrender was shouting wildly, his face flushed hotly, his bull neck bulging. 'Nothing, do you hear!'

Again the clamour. Again the Speaker's cries for order. This was a rare parliamentary occasion, Howden realized. Only some deep-rooted division or a question of human rights could arouse the House in the way that had happened today.

'I demand that the minister be made to answer.' It was still the persistent, penetrating voice of Arnold Geaney.

'Order! The question before the House…' At last the Speaker was succeeding in making himself heard. On the Government side the Prime Minister and Harvey Warrender resumed their seats in deference to the chair. Now from all quarters the shouts were dying. Only Arnold Geaney, swaying on his crutches, continued to defy the Speaker's authority.

'Mr Speaker, the Minister of Immigration has spoken to this House of human garbage. I demand…'

'Order! I would ask the member to resume his seat.'

'On a question of privilege…'

'If the member will not resume his seat, I shall be obliged to name him.'

It was almost as. if Geaney were courting censure. Standing orders, the rules of the House, were definite that when the Speaker stood, all others must give way. In this case there had been reinforcement by a specific order. If Geaney continued in defiance, some form of disciplining would become essential.

'I will give the honourable member one more opportunity,' the Speaker warned sternly, 'before I name him.'

Arnold Geaney said defiantly, 'Mr Speaker, I am standing for a human being three thousand miles from here, contemptuously referred to by this Government as "garbage"…'

The pattern, James Howden suddenly perceived, was perfectly simple. Geaney the cripple was seeking to share the martyrdom of Duval the stowaway. It was an adroit, if cynical, political manoeuvre which Howden must prevent.

Standing, the Prime Minister interjected, 'Mr Speaker, I believe this matter can be resolved…' He had already decided that on behalf of the Government he would withdraw the offensive words, whatever Harvey Warrender might feel…

Too late.

Ignoring the Prime Minister, the Speaker pronounced firmly, 'It is my unpleasant duty to name the honourable member for Montreal East.'

Infuriatingly aware that he had lost the gambit, James Howden sat down.

The formalities followed swiftly. The Speaker's naming of a member of the House was a measure rarely resorted to. But when it occurred, disciplinary action by the remaining members became automatic and inevitable. Authority of the Speaker must, above all things, be upheld. It was the authority of Parliament itself, and of the people, won by centuries of struggle…

The Prime Minister passed a two-word note to Stuart Cawston, leader of the House. The words were 'minimum penalty'. The Finance Minister nodded.

After a hurried consultation with the Postmaster General behind him, Cawston rose. He announced, 'In view of your decision, Mr Speaker, I have no alternative but to move, seconded by the Postmaster General, Mr Gold: "That the honourable member for Montreal East be suspended for the duration of this day's sitting."'

Unhappily the Prime Minister observed that the press gallery was once again crowded. Tonight's TV and radio news, as well as a headline for the morning papers, was in the making.

It took twenty minutes for a recorded vote on Cawston's motion. The balloting was 131 for, 55 against. The Speaker announced formally, 'I declare the motion carried.' There was silence in the House.

Carefully, wavering on his crutches, Arnold Geaney rose. Deliberately, step by awkward step, he swung his distorted body and misshapen features past the Opposition front benches into the centre aisle. To James Howden, who had known Geaney in the House of Commons for many years, it seemed that the other man had never moved more slowly. Facing the Speaker, with a pathetic awkwardness, the cripple bowed and for a moment it seemed as if he might fall forward. Then, recovering, he turned, retreated slowly the length of the House, then turned and bowed again. As he disappeared through the chamber's outer doors, held wide by the sergeant at arms, there was an audible sigh of relief.

The Speaker said quietly, 'The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration has the floor.'

Harvey Warrender – a shade more subdued than before -continued where he had left off. But James Howden knew that whatever happened now could only be anticlimatic. Arnold Geaney had been justly expelled, for a few hours only, for a flagrant breach of House of Commons rules. But the Press would make the most of the story, and the public, not knowing or caring about rules of debate, would see two underprivileged men – the cripple and the friendless stowaway – as victims of a harsh, despotic Government.

For the first time Howden wondered how much longer the Government could afford to lose popularity, as had happened since the coming of Henri Duval.

Chapter 3

Brian Richardson's note had said: 'Expect me at seven.'

At five minutes to, Milly Freedeman, nowhere near ready and stepping drippily from her bath, hoped he would be late.

Milly often wondered with vague incuriosity why it was that she, who managed her office life – and James Howden's – with machine-like efficiency, almost never carried the same process through to her life at home. On Parliament Hill she was punctual to the second; at home, seldom so. The Prime Minister's office suite was a model of orderliness, including neatly arranged cupboards, and a file system from which, in seconds Milly could whisk a five-year-old handwritten letter from an obscure individual whose name had long since been forgotten. But at the moment, typically, she was rummaging through untidy bedroom drawers in search of an elusive fresh brassiere.

She supposed – when she bothered thinking about it – that her own mild disorganization out of office time was an inner rebellion against having her private life affected by outside habits or pressures. She had always been rebellious, even perverse at times, about extraneous affairs, or the ideas of others which spilled over, embroiling her personally.

Nor had she liked others planning her own future, even when the planning was well-intentioned. Once, when Milly had been in college at Toronto, her father had urged her to follow him into the practice of law. 'You'd be a big success, Mill,' he had predicted. 'You're clever and quick, and you've the kind of mind which can see straight to the heart of things. If you wanted to, you could run rings around men like me.'

Afterwards she reasoned: if she had thought of it herself she just might have followed through. But she had resented -even from her own father, whom she loved – the implication that her personal, private decisions could be made by someone other than herself.

Of course, the whole idea was a contradiction. You could never live a wholly independent existence, any more than you could separate your private and your office lives completely. Otherwise, Milly thought, as she found the brassiere and put it on, there would have been no love affair with James Howden, and no Brian Richardson coming here tonight.

But should there be? Should she have allowed Brian to come? Wouldn't it have been better if she had been firm at the beginning, insisting that her private life remain inviolate: the private life she had carefully created since the day she learned finally that there was no future for herself and James Howden together?

She stepped into a pair of panties, and again the questions troubled her.

A self-contained private life, reasonably happy, was worth a good deal. With Brian Richardson was she running the risk of losing her hard won contentment and gaining nothing in return?

It had taken time – a good deal of time after the break with James Howden – to adjust her outlook and mode of living to the permanence of being alone. But because (Milly imagined) of her deep-rooted instinct for solving personal problems unaided, she had adjusted to the point where her life nowadays was content, balanced, and successful.

Quite genuinely, Milly no longer envied – as she once had -married girlfriends with their protective pipe-smoking husbands and sprawling children. Sometimes, in fact, the more she saw of them all, the more boring and routine their lives appeared compared with her own independence and freedom.

The point was: were her feelings for Brian Richardson inclining her back towards thoughts of conventional involvement?

Opening the bedroom closet door, Milly wondered what she should wear. Well, on Christmas Eve, Brian had said she looked sexy in pants… She selected a pair of bright green slacks, then searched through the drawers again for a white, low-necked sweater, she left her feet bare, slipping them into slim white sandals. When she had the slacks and sweater on and the light make-up she always wore, day or evening, it was already ten past seven.

She ran her hands through her hair, then decided she had better brush it after all, and went hurrying to the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror, she told herself: There is nothing, absolutely nothing to be concerned about. Yes, if I am honest I could fall in love with Brian, and perhaps I have already. But Brian is unavailable, and he wants it that way. So no question arises.

But there is a question, her mind insisted. What will it be like afterwards? When he has moved on. When you are alone again.

For a moment Milly stopped. She remembered how it had been nine years earlier. The empty days, desolate nights, the long weeks creeping… She said aloud: 'I don't think I could go through that again.' And silently: Perhaps, after all, I should end it tonight.

She was still remembering when the downstairs buzzer sounded.

Brian kissed her before he took off his heavy overcoat. There was a slight stubble on his face and a smell of tobacco. Milly had a sense of weakness, of resolve vanishing. I want this man, she thought; on any terms. Then she remembered her thought of a few minutes earlier: Perhaps I should end it tonight.

'Milly, doll,' he said quietly, 'you look terrific.'

She eased away, looking at him. Then, concernedly, 'Brian, you're tired.'

'I know.' He nodded. 'And I need a shave. And I just came from the House.'

Not really caring at this moment, she asked, 'How did it go?'

'You haven't heard?'

She shook her head. 'I left the office early. I didn't turn on the radio. Should I have?'

'No,' he said. 'You'll hear about it soon enough.'

'The debate went badly?'

He nodded gloomily. 'I was in the gallery. I wished I hadn't been. They'll slay us in tomorrow's papers.'

'Let's have a drink,' Milly said. 'You sound as if you need one.'

She mixed martinis, going lightly on the vermouth. Bringing them from the kitchenette, she said almost gaily, 'This will help. It usually does.'

No ending tonight, she thought. Perhaps a week from now, a month. But not tonight.

Brian Richardson sipped his drink, then put it down.

Without preliminary, almost abruptly, he announced, 'Milly, I want you to marry me.'

There was a silence of seconds which seemed like hours. Then, this time softly: 'Milly, did you hear me?'

Tor a minute,' Milly said, 'I could have sworn you asked me to marry you.' The words as she spoke seemed airy, detached, her voice disembodied. She had a sense of light-headedness.

'Don't make a joke of it,' Richardson said gruffly. 'I'm serious.'

'Darling, Brian.' Her voice was gentle. 'I'm not making a joke. Really I'm not.'

He put down his glass and came to her. When they had kissed again, long and passionately, she put her face against his shoulder. There was the tobacco smell still. 'Hold me,' she whispered. 'Hold me.'

'When you get around to it,' he said into her hair, 'you can give me some sort of an answer.'

Every womanly instinct urged her to cry yes. The mood and the moment were made for swift consent. Wasn't this what she had wanted all along? Hadn't she told herself, just a few minutes ago, that she would accept Brian on any terms; and now, unexpectedly, she could have the best terms of all – marriage, permanence…

It was all so easy. A murmured acceptance, and it would be done; with no turning back…

The finality frightened her. This was real, not dreaming. She was assailed by a tremor of uncertainty. A voice of caution whispered: Wait!

'I guess I'm not much of a catch.' Brian's voice rumbled in her hair; a hand caressed her neck gently. 'I'm a bit shop-soiled, and I'll have to get a divorce, though there won't be any trouble over that. Eloise and I have a sort of understanding.'

There was a pause, then the voice continued slowly. 'I guess I love you, Milly. I guess I really do.'

She lifted her face, her eyes full with tears, and kissed him. 'Brian, darling, I know you do; and I think I love you too. But I have to be sure. Please give me a little time.'

His face twisted to a rugged grin. 'Well,' he said, 'I rehearsed all the way over. I guess I loused it up.'

Maybe, he thought, I left it all too late. Or handled everything the wrong way. Or maybe it's a retribution for the way we started: with me not caring, cagey against involvements.

Now I'm the one who wants to get involved and I'm left, like a joker, on the outside looking in. But at least, he consoled himself, the indecision had come to an end: the restless soul searching of the past few days; the knowledge that Milly was what counted most. Now, without her, there seemed only emptiness…

'Please, Brian.' Milly was calmer now, her poise and self-control returning. She said earnestly, 'I'm flattered and honoured, darling, and I think the answer v/ill be yes. But I want to be sure – for both our sakes. Please, dear, give me a little time.'

He asked brusquely, 'How long?'

They sat down together on the long settee, their heads close and hands held tightly. 'Honestly, darling, I don't know, and I hope you won't insist on a definite time. I couldn't bear to have a sort of deadline hanging over. But I promise I'll tell you as soon as I know.'

She thought: What's wrong with me? Am I afraid of living? Why hesitate; why not settle now? But still the cautionary voice urged: Wait!

Brian put out his arms and she went into them. Their Ups met and he kissed her fiercely again and again. She felt herself responding, her heart pounding wildly. After a while his hands moved gently.

Towards the end of the evening Brian Richardson came into the living-room carrying coffee for both of them. Behind him in the kitchenette Milly was cutting salami sandwiches. She noticed her breakfast dishes still piled in the sink, unwashed. Really, she thought, perhaps I should bring some of my office habits home.

Richardson crossed to Milly's portable television, on a low table facing one of the big armchairs. Switching the set on, he called over, 'I don't know if I can stand it, but I guess we'd better know the worst.' As Milly brought the plate of sandwiches and set it down, the CBC national news was beginning.

As happened most days now, the first report concerned the worsening international scene. Soviet-inspired revolts had flared again in Laos, and the Kremlin had replied belligerently to an American note in protest. In the Soviet satellites of Europe, troops were reported massing. An exchange of cordialities had taken place between the now-repaired Moscow-Peking axis.

'It's getting closer,' Richardson muttered. 'Closer every day.'

The Henri Duval story was next.

The well-groomed news announcer read, 'In Ottawa today the House of Commons was in uproar over Henri Duval, the man-without-a-country, now awaiting deportation in Vancouver. At the height of a clash between Government and Opposition, Arnold Geaney, member from Montreal East, was suspended from the House for the remainder of today's sitting…'

Behind the announcer a screen flashed a picture of Henri Duval, followed by a large, still shot of the crippled MP. As Richardson – as well as James Howden – had feared, the expulsion incident and Harvey Warrender's 'human garbage' phrase which had provoked it were the news story's highlight. And no matter how fairly the report was handled, inevitably the stowaway and the cripple would appear victims of a harsh, relentless Government.

'CBC correspondent Norman Deeping,' the announcer said, 'describes the scene in the House…'

Richardson reached to switch off the set. 'I don't think I can take any more. Do you mind?'

'No,' Milly shook her head. Tonight, though knowing the significance of what she had seen, she found it hard to maintain interest. The most important question was still undecided…

Brian Richardson pointed to the darkened TV screen. 'Goddam, do you know what audience that has? It's network -coast to coast. Add to that all the others – radio, local TV, tomorrow's newspapers…' He gave a shrug of helplessness.

'I know,' Milly said. She tried to bring her mind back to impersonal concerns. 'I wish there were something I could do.'

Richardson had risen and was pacing the room. 'You have done something, Milly dear. At least you found…' He left the sentence unfinished.

Both of them, Milly knew, were remembering the photostat; the fateful, secret agreement between James Howden and Harvey Warrender. She asked tentatively, 'Have you done…'

He shook his head. 'Damn all! There's nothing… nothing…'

'You know,' Milly said slowly, 'I've always thought there was something strange about Mr Warrender. The way he talks and acts; as if he were nervous all the time. And then that business of idolizing that son of his – the one killed in the war…'

She stopped, startled by Brian Richardson's expression. His eyes were riveted on her face, his mouth agape.

'Brian-'

He whispered, 'Milly, doll, say that again.'

She repeated uncomfortably, 'Mr Warrender – I said he's strange about his son. I understand there's a sort of shrine in his home. People used to talk a lot.'

'Yeah.' Richardson nodded. He tried to conceal his excitement. 'Yeah. Well, I guess there's nothing in that.'

He wondered how fast he could get away. He wanted to use a telephone – but not Milly's telephone. There were certain things… things he might have to do… he would never want Milly to know.

Twenty minutes later he was phoning from an all-night drugstore. 'I don't give a goddam how late it is,' the party director told the object of his call. 'I'm telling you to get downtown now and I'll be waiting for you in the Jasper Lounge.'

Chapter 4

The pale young man with tortoise-shell glasses who had been summoned from bed turned the stem of his glass nervously in his hand. He said, with a touch of plaintiveness, 'I really don't know if I could do it.'

'Why not?' Brian Richardson demanded. 'You're right there in the Defence Department. All you have to do is ask.'

'It isn't as simple as that,' the young roan said. 'Besides, it's classified information.'

'Hell!' Richardson argued. 'Something that old – who cares about that any more?'

'Obviously you do,' the young man said with a show of spirit. "That's half of what I'm worried about.'

'I give you my word,' Richardson said, 'that whatever use I make of what you give me, it will never be traced back to you.'

'But it would be hard even to find. Those old files are buried away at the back of buildings, in basements… It might take days or weeks.'

'That's your problem,' Richardson said bluntly. 'Except, I can't wait weeks.' He beckoned a waiter. 'Let's have the same again.'

'No thank you,' the young man said. 'This is enough for me.'

'Have it your way.' Richardson nodded to the waiter, 'Make it one; that's all.'

When the waiter had gone, 'I'm sorry,' the young man said, 'but I'm afraid the answer is no.'

'I'm sorry too,' Richardson said, 'because your name was getting near the top of the list.' There was a pause. 'You know what list I'm talking about, don't you?'

'Yes,' the young man said. 'I know.'

'In my job,' Richardson said, 'I have a lot to do with selecting Parliamentary candidates. In fact, there are people who say that I pretty well pick all the new men in our party who finally get elected.'

'Yes,' the young man said, 'I've heard that too.'

'Of course, the local association has the final word. But they mostly do what the Prime Minister recommends. Or what I tell the Prime Minister to recommend.'

The young man said nothing. The tip of his tongue touched his lips and ran along them.

Brian Richardson said softly, 'I'll make a deal. Do this thing for me, and I'll put your name right at the top. And not just for any old seat, but one where you're sure to win.'

There was a flush of colour in the young man's cheeks as he asked, 'And if I don't do what you want?'

'In that case,' Richardson said softly, 'I positively guarantee that so long as I am with the party you will never sit in the House of Commons, and never be a candidate for any seat you can hope to win. You'll stay an executive assistant until you rot, and all your father's money will never change it.'

The young man said bitterly, 'You're asking me to start my political career with something rotten.'

'Actually, I'm doing you a favour,' Richardson said. 'I'm introducing you to some facts of life which other people take years to discover.'

The waiter had returned and Richardson inquired, 'You're sure you won't change your mind and have another drink.'

The young man drained his glass. 'All right,' he said. 'I will.'

When the waiter had gone, Richardson asked, 'Assuming I'm right, how long will it take you to get what I need?'

'Well…' The young man hesitated. 'I should think a couple of days.'

'Cheer up!' Brian Richardson reached over, clapping a hand on the other's knee. 'In two years from now you'll have forgotten this whole thing ever happened.'

'Yes,' the young man said unhappily. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'