In High Places - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Arthur Hailey (Part 4 Ottawa, Christmas Eve) #6

Part 4 Ottawa, Christmas Eve

Chapter 1

At 6.15 AM on Christmas Eve Milly Freedeman was awakened by the telephone's insistent ringing in her apartment in the fashionable Tiffany Building on Ottawa Driveway. Slipping a robe of faded yellow terrycloth over silk pyjamas, she groped with her feet for the old, heel-trodden moccasins she.had kicked off the night before. Unable to locate them, the Prime Minister's personal secretary padded barefoot into the adjoining room and snapped on a light.

Even this early, and viewed through sleepy eyes, the room which the light revealed seemed as inviting and comfortable as always. It was a far cry, Milly knew, from the chic bachelor-girl apartments so often featured in the glossy magazines. But it was a place she loved to come home to every evening, usually tired, and sinking at first into the down cushions of the big overstuffed chesterfield – the one which had given the movers so much trouble when she had brought it here from her parents' home in Toronto.

The old chesterfield had been recovered since then, in Milly's favourite shade of green, and was flanked now by the two armchairs she had bought at an auction sale outside Ottawa – a little threadbare, but wonderfully comfortable. She kept deciding that some day soon she must have autumn-coloured chintz covers made for the chairs. The covers would go well with the apartment's walls and woodwork, painted in a warm mushroom shade. She had done the painting herself one weekend, inviting a couple of friends in for a scratch dinner, then cajoling them into helping her finish.

On the far side of the living-room was an old rocking chair, one that she was absurdly sentimental about because she had rocked in it, daydreaming, as a child. And beside the rocking chair, on a tooled-leather coffee table for which she had paid an outrageously high price, was the telephone.

Settling into the chair with a preliminary rock, Milly lifted the receiver. The caller was James Howden.

'Morning, Milly,' the Prime Minister said briskly. 'I'd like a cabinet Defence Committee meeting at eleven o'clock.' He made no reference to the earliness of the call, nor did Milly expect it. She had long ago grown used to her employer's addiction to early rising.

'Eleven this morning?' With her free hand Milly hugged the robe around her. It was cold in the apartment from a window she had left slightly open the night before.

'That's right,' Howden said.

'There'll be some complaining,' Milly pointed out. 'It's Christmas Eve.'

'I hadn't forgotten. But this is too important to stand over.'

When she had hung up she checked the time from the tiny leather travelling clock which stood beside the telephone and resisted a temptation to return to bed. Instead she closed the open window, then crossed to the tiny kitchenette and put on coffee. After that, returning to the living-room, she switched on a portable radio. The coffee was beginning to perk when the 6.30 radio news carried the official announcement of the Prime Minister's forthcoming talks in Washington.

Half an hour later, still in pyjamas, but this time with the old moccasins on her feet, she began to call the five committee members at their homes.

The Minister of External Affairs was first. Arthur Lexington responded cheerfully, 'Sure thing, Milly. I've been at meetings all night, what's another more or less? By the way, did you hear the announcement?'

'Yes,' Milly said. 'It was just on the radio.'

'Fancy a trip to Washington?'

'All I ever get to see on trips,' Milly said, 'is the keyboard of a typewriter.'

'You must come on one of mine,' Lexington said. 'Never need a typewriter. All my speeches are on the backs of cigarette packets.'

Milly said, "They sound better than most that aren't.'

'That's because I never worry.' The External Affairs Minister chuckled. 'I start with the assumption that nothing I say can make the situation worse.'

She laughed.

'I must go now,' Lexington said, 'it's a big occasion in our house – I'm having breakfast with my children. They want to sec how much I've changed since last time I was home.'

She smiled as she wondered just what breakfast would be like this morning in the Lexington household. Bordering on bedlam probably. Susan Lexington, who had been her husband's secretary years before, was a notoriously poor housekeeper, but the family seemed close-knit when doing things together while the Minister was home in Ottawa. Thinking of Susan Lexington, Milly was reminded of something she had once been told: different secretaries go different ways; some get laid and married, others old and harried. So far, she thought, I've half a point each way. I'm not old, or married either.

She might have been married, of course, if her life had been less oriented to the life of James McCallum Howden…

A dozen years or so ago, when Howden had been merely a backbench MP, though a forceful, rising figure in the party, Milly, his young, part-time secretary, had fallen blindly and blissfully in love with him to the point where she longed for each new day and the delight of their physical closeness. She had been in her twenties then, away from her home in Toronto for the first time, and Ottawa had proved a virile and exciting world.

It seemed even more virile on the night that James Howden, having guessed her feelings, had made love to her for the first time. Even now, ten years later, she remembered the way it had been: early evening; the House of Commons adjourned for dinner; herself sorting letters in Howden's parliamentary office when he had come in quietly. Without speaking he had locked the door and, taking Milly by the shoulders, turned her towards him. Both knew that the other MP who shared the office with Howden was away from Ottawa. '

He kissed her and she responded ardently, without pretence or reserve, and later he had taken her to the leather office couch. Her awakening, bursting passion, and a total lack of inhibition surprised even herself.

It was the beginning of a time equalled in joy by no other part of Milly's life, before or since. Day after day, week after week, their clandestine meetings were contrived, excuses minted, minutes snatched… At times their affair took on the pattern of a game of skill. At other moments it seemed as if life and love were geared for their devouring.

Milly's adoration of James Howden was deep and consuming. She was less certain of his feelings for her, even though he frequently declared them to be identical with her own. But she closed her mind to doubts, choosing to accept gratefully the here-and-now which circumstances had brought. Some day soon, she knew, there would be a point of no return either for the Howdens' marriage or for James Howden and herself. On the eventual outcome she cherished hope, dimly, but with scant illusion.

And yet, at one point – almost a year after their affair began – the hope seemed stronger.

It had been close to the time of the convention at which the party leadership would be decided, and one night James Howden had told her, 'I've been thinking of giving up politics and asking Margaret for a divorce.' After the first excitement, Milly had asked – what of the convention which would decide whether Howden or Harvey Warrender would win the leadership which both men sought.

'Yes,' he said. He had stroked his eagle-beak nose thoughtfully, his heavy face sombre. 'I've thought about that. If Harvey wins I'm getting out.'

She had watched the convention breathlessly, not daring to think' of the thing she wanted most: a Warrender victory. For if Warrender won, her own future would be assured. But if Warrender lost and James Howden won, Milly sensed that her love affair inevitably must end. The personal life of a party leader soon to become Prime Minister must be impeccable and beyond any breath of scandal.

At the end of the first convention day the odds favoured Warrender. But then, for a reason Milly never understood, Harvey Warrender withdrew and Howden won.

A week later, in the parliamentary office where it had begun, the romance between the two of them was ended.

'It has to be this way, Milly darling,' James Howden had said. 'There isn't any other.'

Milly had been tempted to reply that there was another way, but she knew it would be time and effort wasted. James Howden was riding high. There had been intense excitement ever since his election to the party leadership, and even now, though his emotion was genuine, there was a sense of impatience behind it, as if to clear out the past so the future might move in.

'Shall you stay on, Milly?' he had asked.

'No,' she said, 'I don't think I could.'

He had nodded understandingly. 'I can't say I blame you. If you ever change your mind…'

'I won't,' she said, but six months later she had. After a Bermuda holiday and another job which bored her, she had gone back and had remained. The return, at first, had been difficult and a sense of what-might-have-been was never far away. But sadness and private tears had never soured into embitterment and, in the end, love had turned to generous loyalty.

Sometimes Milly wondered, if Margaret Howden had ever known of that almost-year and the intensity of feeling of her husband's secretary; women had an intuition for that kind of thing which men lacked. But if so, Margaret had wisely said nothing, either then or since.

Now, her mind pivoting to the present, Milly made her next call.

It was Stuart Cawston, whose wife answered drowsily with the information that the Finance Minister was in the shower. Milly passed on a message, which was relayed, and she heard Smiling Stu acknowledge with a shouted, 'Tell Milly I'll be there.'

Adrian Nesbitson, Minister of Defence, was next on her list and she had to wait several minutes before the old man's shuffling footsteps reached the phone. When she told him about the meeting he said resignedly, 'H that's what the chief wants. Miss Freedeman, I'll have to be there, I suppose. Too bad, I'd say, it couldn't have waited until after the holiday.'

Milly made sympathetic noises, despite her awareness that the presence or absence of Adrian Nesbitson would make little difference to anything decided at this morning's meeting. Something else she knew, which Nesbitson did not, was that James Howden planned several cabinet changes in the new year and among the people to go would be the present Minister of Defence.

Nowadays, Milly thought, it seemed strange to remember that General Nesbitson had once been an heroic figure in the nation – a legendary, much-decorated veteran of World War II, with a reputation for daring, if not imagination. It was Adrian Nesbitson who had once led an armoured attack against panzers, standing in an open jeep, his personal bagpiper perched, playing, on the seat behind. And as much as generals are ever loved, Nesbitson had been loved by the men who had served him.

But after the war, Nesbitson the civilian would have amounted to nothing had it not been that James Howden wanted someone well known but administratively weak in the Defence slot. Howden's objective had been to have the appearance of possessing a stalwart Defence Minister but actually to control the portfolio closely himself.

That part of the plan had worked out well enough – too well, at times. Adrian Nesbitson, the gallant soldier, had proved entirely out of his depth in an era of missiles and nuclear power and only too willing to do exactly as told without the nuisance of argument. Unfortunately he had not always grasped the briefings of his own officials, and, lately, before press and public, had assumed the appearance of a tired and harassed Colonel Blimp.

Talking with the old man depressed Milly and she replenished her coffee and went to the bathroom to freshen up before making the remaining two calls. Pausing, before going back, she looked at herself in the long bathroom mirror under the bright fluorescent light. She saw a tall, attractive woman, still young if you used the word tolerantly, full-bosomed; also a bit hippy, she thought critically. But she had good bones, a strong, well-shaped face with high classic cheekbones, and thickish eyebrows which she tweezed spasmodically when she thought of it. Eyes were big, sparkling, grey-green and wide in her face. A straight nose, broad at the end, was set over full, sensuous lips. Dark brown hair cut very short: Milly looked at it critically, wondering if it was time for cutting again. She 'disliked beauty salons and preferred to wash, set, and brush her own hair into shape. To do this, though, it had to be cut well and, it seemed, much too frequently.

Short hair had one big advantage, though – you could run your hands through it, and Milly often did. James Howden had liked doing that too, just as he had liked the old yellow robe she still wore. For the twentieth time she decided she must get rid of it soon.

Returned to the apartment living-room, she made her two remaining calls. One was to Lucien Perrault, Minister of Defence Production, who was openly annoyed at being called so early, and Milly was as snippy in return as she reasoned she could get away with. Afterwards she was a little sorry about that, remembering that someone or other had once described the right to be disagreeable in the early morning as the sixth human freedom, and most times Perrault – who wore the mantle of French Canadian leadership in Canada – treated her courteously enough.

The final call was to Douglas Martening, Clerk of the Privy Council, and procedural Solon at all cabinet meetings. With Martening, Milly was more respectful than with the others. Ministers might come and go, but the Clerk of the Privy Council, while in office, was the senior civil servant in Ottawa. He also had a reputation for aloofness and most times when Milly spoke to him gave the impression of scarcely being aware of her. But today, unusually, he was gloomily chatty.

'It will be a long meeting, I suppose. Probably go right on over into Christmas Day.'

'It wouldn't surprise me, sir,' Milly said. Then tentatively,

'But if it does I could always send out for turkey sandwiches.'

Martening grunted, then again surprisingly came back, 'It isn't sandwiches I need. Miss Freedeman. Just some other kind of work where a fellow gets a little more home life now and then.'

Afterwards Milly reflected: was disenchantment infectious? Could the great Mr Martening be about to join the parade of senior civil servants who had left the ranks of government for higher-paying industrial jobs? The question made her wonder about herself. Was this a time for departure; a time for change before it became too late for change?

She was still wondering four hours later as the members of the cabinet Defence Committee began to assemble in the Prime Minister's office suite on Parliament Hill. Dressed in a smartly tailored grey suit with a white blouse, Milly ushered them in.

General Nesbitson had been last to arrive, his balding, pudgy figure wrapped in a heavy overcoat and scarf. Helping him off with them, Milly had been shocked to see how unwell the old man appeared and now, as if to confirm the opinion, he suddenly began a coughing spell into his handkerchief.

Milly poured some ice water from a carafe and held it out. The old warrior sipped it, nodding gratefully. After an interval and more coughing, he managed to gasp, 'Excuse me – this blasted catarrh. Always get it when I have to stay the winter in Ottawa. Used to take a winter holiday down south. Can't get away now, with so many important things going on.'

Next year, maybe, Milly thought.

'A Merry Christmas, Adrian.' Stuart Cawston had joined them, his amiably ugly features beaming, as usual, like an illuminated sign.

Lucien Perrault spoke from behind him. 'And such a one to be wishing it, whose taxes pierce our souls like daggers.' Jauntily handsome, with a shock of black curls, bristling moustache, and a humorous eye, Perrault was as fluent in English as in French. At times – though not now – his manner betrayed a touch of hauteur, reminder of his seigneurial ancestors. At thirty-eight, and the youngest member of Cabinet, his influence was actually much stronger than indicated by the comparatively minor office he held. But the Defence Production Ministry had been Perrault's own choosing, and since it was one of the three patronage ministries (the others. Public Works and Transport), by ensuring that plum contracts went to the party's financial supporters, his influence in the party hierarchy was considerable.

'You shouldn't have your soul so near your bank account, Lucien,' the Finance Minister rejoined. 'In any case I'm Santa Claus to you fellows. You and Adrian here are the ones who buy the expensive toys.'

'But they explode with such a remarkable bang,' Lucien Perrault said. 'Moreover, my friend, in Defence Production we create much work and employment which bring you more taxes than ever.'

'There's an economic theory tied in there somewhere,' Cawston said. 'Too bad I've never understood it.'

The office intercom buzzed and Milly answered. Metallically James Howden's voice announced, 'The meeting will be in the Privy Council chamber. I'll be there in a moment.'

Milly saw the Finance Minister's eyebrows rise with mild surprise. Most small policy meetings aside from the full Cabinet usually took place informally in the Prime Minister's office. But obediently the group filed out into the corridor towards the Privy Council chamber a few yards away.

As Milly closed her office door behind Perrault, the last to leave, the Bourbon Bell of the Peace Tower carillon was chiming eleven.

Unusually, she found herself wondering what to do. There was plenty of accumulated work, but on Christmas Eve she felt disinclined to begin anything new. All of the seasonal things – routine Christmas telegrams to the Queen, Commonwealth Prime Ministers, and heads of friendly governments -had been prepared and typed yesterday for early dispatch today. Anything else, she decided, could wait until after the holiday.

Her earrings were being bothersome and she slipped them off. They were pearl, like small round buttons. She had never been fond of jewellery and knew it did nothing for her. The one thing she had learned – jewellery or nor – was that she was attractive to men, though she had never quite known why…

The phone on her desk buzzed and she answered it. It was Brian Richardson.

'Milly,' the party director said, 'has the defence meeting started?'

'They just went in.'

'Goddam!' Richardson sounded out of breath, as if he had been hurrying. Abruptly he asked, 'Did the chief say anything to you about the blow-up last night?'

'What blow-up?'

'Obviously he didn't. There was practically a fist fight at the GG's. Harvey Warrender blew his cork – dipped generously in alcohol, I gather.'

Shocked, Milly said, 'At Government House? The reception?'

'That's the word around town.'

'But why Mr Warrender?'

'I'm curious too,' Richardson admitted. 'I've a notion it might have been because of something I said the other day.'

'What?'

'About immigration. Warrender's department has been getting us a stinking bad press. I asked the chief to lay some law down.'

Milly smiled. 'Perhaps he laid it down too heavily.'

'It ain't funny, kid. Brawling between cabinet ministers doesn't win elections. I'd better talk to the chief as soon as he's free, Milly. And there's another thing you can warn him about: unless Harvey Warrender pulls his finger out fast we're heading for more immigration trouble on the West Coast. I know there's a lot sizzling right now, but this is important too.'

'What kind of trouble?'

'I had a call from one of my people out there this morning,' Richardson said. 'It seems the Vancouver Post has broken a story about a jerk stowaway who claims he isn't getting a fair deal from Immigration. My man says some goddam writer is sobbing all over page one. It's exactly the kind of case I've been warning everybody about.'

'Is he getting a fair deal – the stowaway?'

'For Christ sake, who cares?' The party director's voice rattled sharply into the receiver. 'All I want is for him to quit being news. If the only way to shut the papers up is by letting the bastard in, then let's admit him and have done with it.'

'My!' Milly said. 'You are in a forceful mood.'

'If I am,' Richardson snapped back, 'it's because sometimes ^ I get downright weary of stupid hicks like Warrender who,, make political farts and then look for me to clear up the mess.' "j

'Apart from the vulgarity,' Milly said lightly, 'isn't that a mixed metaphor?' She found the rough edge to Brian Richardson's tongue and character refreshing after the professional smoothness and spoken cliches of most politicians she met. Perhaps it was this, Milly thought, which had made her think ' more warmly of Richardson of late – more so, in fact, than she had ever intended.

The feeling had begun six months earlier when the party director had begun to ask her out on dates. At first, uncertain whether she liked him or not, Milly had accepted out of curiosity. But later the curiosity had turned to liking and, on the evening a month or so ago which had ended in her apartment, to physical attraction.

Milly's sexual appetite was healthy enough but not enormous, which was sometimes, she thought, just as well. She had known a number of men since her feverish year with James Howden, but the occasions ending in her bedroom had been few and far between, reserved only for those for whom Milly felt genuine affection. She had never taken the view, as some did, that romping into bed should be a thank-you-for-the-evening gesture, and perhaps it was this hard-to-get quality which attracted men as much as her casual, sensual charm. But in any case the night with Richardson, which ended surprisingly as it had, did little to satisfy her and merely demonstrated that Brian Richardson's roughness extended to more than his tongue. Afterwards she thought of it as a mistake…

They had had no other meeting since and, in the meantime, Milly had resolved firmly that she would not fall in love, for a second time, with a married man.

Now Richardson's voice on the telephone said, 'If they were all as smart as you, doll, my life would be a dream. Some of these people think public relations is sexual intercourse between the masses. Anyway, have the chief call me as soon as his meeting's over, eh? I'll wait in the office.'

'Will do.'

'And Milly.'

'Yes.'

'How would it be if I dropped around this evening? Say sevenish?'

There was a silence. Then Milly said doubtfully, 'I don't know.'

'What don't you know?' Richardson's voice held a matter-of-factness; the tone of one not intending to be put off. 'Had you planned anything?'

'No,' Milly said, 'but…' She hesitated. 'Isn't it a tradition to spend Christmas Eve at home?'

Richardson laughed, though the laugh had a hollowness. 'H that's all that worries you – forget it. I can assure you Eloise has made her own arrangements for Christmas Eve and they don't include me. In fact she'd be grateful to you for making sure I can't intrude.'

Still Milly hesitated, remembering her own decision. But now… she wavered; it might be a long while… Stalling for rime she said, 'Is all this wise? Switchboards have ears.'

'Then let's not give 'em too much to flap about,' Richardson said crisply. 'Seven o'clock?'

Half-unwillingly, 'All right,' Milly said, and hung up. Out of habit, after phoning, she replaced her earrings.

For a moment or two she remained by the desk, one hand touching the telephone as if a thread of contact still remained. Then, her expression pensive, she moved over to the high arched window overlooking the front courtyard of the Parliament Buildings.

Since she had come in earlier, the sky had darkened and it had begun to snow. Now, in thick white flakes, the snow was blanketing the nation's capital. From the window she could see the heart of it: the Peace Tower, sheer and lean against the leaden sky, gauntly surmounting the House of Commons and Senate; the square gothic towers of the West Block and, behind, the Confederation Building, hunched hugely like some sombre fortress; the colonnaded Rideau Club nudging the white sandstone US Embassy; and Wellington Street in front, its traffic – as of habit – snarled. At times, it could be a stern, grey scene – symbolic, Milly sometimes thought, of the Canadian climate and character. Now, in the clothing of winter, its hardness and angularity were already blurring into softness. The forecasters had been right, she thought. Ottawa was in for a white Christmas.

Her earrings still hurt. For the second time she took them off.

Chapter 2

Serious-faced, James Howden entered the high-ceilinged, beige-carpeted Privy Council chamber. The others – Cawston, Lexington, Nesbitson, Perrault, and Martening – were already seated near the head of the big oval table with its twenty-four carved-oak and red-leather chairs, scene of most decisions affecting Canadian history since Confederation. Off to one side, at a smaller table, a shorthand writer had appeared – a small, self-effacing man with pince-nez, an open notebook, and a row of sharpened pencils.

At the approach of the Prime Minister the five already in the room made to rise, but Howden waved them down, moving to the tall-backed, thronelike chair at the table's head. 'Smoke if you wish,' he said. Then pushing back the chair, he remained standing, and for a moment silent. When he began, his tone was businesslike.

'I ordered our meeting to be held in this chamber, gentlemen, for one purpose: as a reminder of the oaths of secrecy which all of you took on becoming Privy Councillors. What is to be said here is of utmost secrecy, and must remain so until the proper moment, even among our closest colleagues.' James Howden paused, glancing at the official reporter. 'I believe it might be best if we dispensed with a stenographic record.'

'Excuse me. Prime Minister.' It was Douglas Martening, his intellectual's face owlish behind big horn-rimmed spectacles. As always the Clerk of the Privy Council was respectful but definite: 'I think it might be better if we had recorded minutes. It avoids any disagreement subsequently about who said exactly what.'

Faces at the centre table turned towards the shorthand writer, who was carefully recording the discussion concerning his own presence. Martening added, 'The minutes will be safeguarded, and Mr McQuillan, as you know, has been trusted with many secrets in the past.'

'Yes, indeed.' James Howden's response was cordial with a touch of his public presence. 'Mr McQuillan is an old friend.' With a slight flush the subject of their discussion looked up, catching the Prime Minister's eye.

'Very well,' Howden conceded, 'let the meeting be recorded, but in view of the occasion I must remind the reporter of the applicability of the Official Secrets Act. I imagine you're familiar with the act, McQuillan?'

'Yes, sir.' Conscientiously the reporter recorded the query and his own response.

His glance ranging over the others, Howden brought his thoughts into focus. Last night's preparation had shown him clearly the sequence of steps he must follow in advance of the Washington meeting. One essential, to be achieved early on, was persuasion of others in Cabinet to his own views, and that was why he had brought this small group together first. If he could obtain agreement here, he would then have a hard core of support which could influence the remaining ministers to give him their endorsement. ^

James Howden hoped that the five men facing him would share his views and see the issues and alternatives clearly. It could be disastrous if the fulminations of lesser brains than his own resulted in needless delay.

'There can no longer be any doubt,' the Prime Minister said, 'of Russia's immediate intention. If there were ever any doubt, events these past few months have surely dispelled it. Last week's alliance between the Kremlin and Japan; before that, the Communist coups in India and Egypt and now the satellite regimes; our further concessions on Berlin; the Moscow-Peking axis with its threats to Australasia; the increase in missile bases aimed at North America – all these admit to only one equation. The Soviet programme of world domination is moving to its climax, not in fifty years or twenty years, as we once comfortably supposed, but now, in our generation and within this decade.

'Naturally, Russia would prefer its victory without recourse to war. But it's equally plain that the gamble of war may be undertaken if the West holds out and the Kremlin's objectives can be reached in no other way.'

There was a reluctant murmur of assent. Now he continued. 'Russian strategy has never been afraid of casualties. Historically their regard for human life is notably less than our own and they are prepared not to be afraid now. Many people, of course – in this country and elsewhere – will continue to have hope, just as there was hope that someday Hitler would stop gobbling Europe of his own accord. I do not criticize hope; it is a sentiment to be cherished. But here among us we cannot afford its luxury and must plan, unequivocally, for our defence and for survival.'

As he spoke, James Howden was remembering his words to Margaret of the night before. What was it he had said? Survival is worthwhile, because survival means living, and living is an adventure. He hoped it would be true, in the future as well as now.

He went on, 'What I have said, of course, is not news. Nor is it news that in some degree our defences have been integrated with those of the United States. But what will be news is that within the past forty-eight hours a proposal has been ', made, directly to me by the US President, for a measure of integration as far-reaching as it is dramatic.'

Swiftly, perceptibly there was a sharpening of interest around the table. 'Before I tell you the nature of the proposal,' Howden said, speaking carefully, 'there is some other ground I wish to be covered.' He turned to the External Affairs Minister. 'Arthur, shortly before we came in here, I asked for your assessment of present world relations. I'd like you to repeat your answer.'

'Very well. Prime Minister.' Arthur Lexington laid down a cigarette lighter he had been turning over in his hand. His cherubic face was unusually solemn. Glancing to left and right in turn, he said evenly, 'In my opinion, international tension at the moment is more serious and dangerous than at any other time since 1939.'

The calm, precise words had honed an edge of tension. Lucien Perrault said softly, 'Are things really that bad?'

'Yes,' Lexington responded, 'I'm convinced they are. I agree it's difficult to accept, because we've been poised on a needle point so long that we're used to crises as a daily habit. But eventually there comes a point beyond crisis. I think we're close to it now.' '

Stuart Cawston said lugubriously, 'Things must have been easier fifty years ago. At least the threats of war were spaced at decent intervals.'

'Yes.' There was tiredness in Lexington's voice. 'I suppose they were.'

'Then a new war…' It was Perrault's question. He left it unfinished.

'My own opinion,' Arthur Lexington said, 'is that despite the present situation we shall not have war for a year. It could be longer. As a precaution, however, I have warned my ambassadors to be ready to burn their papers.'

'That's for the old kind of war,' Cawston said. 'With all your diplomatic doodads.' He produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe, which he began to fill.

Lexington shrugged. He gave a faint smile. 'Perhaps.'

For a calculated interval James Howden had relaxed his dominance of the group. Now, as if gathering reins, he resumed it.

'My own views,' the Prime Minister said firmly, 'are identical with those of Arthur. So identical, that I have ordered immediate partial occupancy of the government's emergency Quarters. Your own departments will receive secret memoranda on the subject within the next few days.' At the audible gasp which followed, Howden added severely, 'Better too much too early than too little too late.'

Without waiting for comment he continued, 'What I have to say next is new, but we must remind ourselves of our own position when a third world war begins.'

He surveyed the others through the haze of smoke which was beginning to fill the room. 'In the state of affairs today, Canada can neither wage war – at least, as an independent country – nor can we remain neutral. We have not the capacity for the first, nor the geography for the second. I offer this, not as opinion, but as a fact of life.'

The eyes around the table were fixed steadfastly upon his own. So far, he observed, there had been no gesture of dissension. But that could come later. 'Our own defences,' Howden said, 'have been, and are, of a token nature only. And it is no secret that the United States budget for Canadian defence, though not high as defence budgets go, is greater by far than the total of our own.'

Adrian Nesbitson spoke for the first time. 'But it isn't philanthropy,' the old man said gruffly. 'The Americans will defend Canada because they've got to, to defend themselves. We're under no compulsion to be grateful.'

'There is never any compulsion about gratitude,' James Howden responded sharply. 'Though I will admit at times to thanking Providence that honourable friends, not enemies, adjoin our borders.'

'Hear, hear!' It was Lucien Perrault, his teeth clamped on a cigar pointed jauntily upwards. Now he put down the cigar and clapped his paw of a hand on the shoulders of Adrian Nesbitson next to him. 'Never mind, old friend, I will be grateful for the two of us.'

The interjection, and its source, had surprised Howden. Traditionally he had assumed that the greatest opposition to his own immediate plans would come from French Canada, whose spokesman was Lucien Perrault: French Canada, with its ancient fear of encroachment; its deep-rooted, historic mistrust of alien influence and ties. Could he have misjudged? Perhaps not; it was early yet to tell. But for the first time he wondered.

'Let me remind you of some facts.' Once again, Howden's voice was firm and commanding. 'We are all familiar with the possible effects of a nuclear war. After such a war, survival will depend on food, and food production. The nation whose food-producing areas have been contaminated by radioactive fallout will already have lost the battle for survival.'

'More than food would be wiped out,' Stuart Cawston said. His customary smile was absent.

'But food production is the single thing that matters most.' Howden's voice rose. 'The cities can be blasted to rubble, and a good many will be. But if, afterwards, there's clean land, uncontaminated; land to grow food, then whoever is left can come out of the rubble and begin again. Food and the land to grow it in – that's what will really count. We come from the land and we'll go back to it. That's the way survival lies! The only way!'

On the wall of the Privy Council chamber a map of North America had been hung. James Howden crossed to it, the heads of the others turning with him. 'The Government of the United States,' he said, 'is well aware that food areas must be protected first. Their plan, at all costs, is to safeguard their own.' His hand raced across the map. 'The dairy lands -northern New York, Wisconsin, Minnesota; the mixed farming of Pennsylvania; the wheat belt – the Dakotas and Montana; Iowa corn; Wyoming livestock; the speciality crops -Idaho, northern Utah, and to the south; and all the rest.' Howden's arm dropped. 'These will be protected first, the cities secondarily.'

'With no provisions for Canadian land,' Lucien Perrault said softly.

'You're wrong,' James Howden said. 'There is provision for Canadian land. It's reserved for the battleground.'

Again he turned to the map. With the index finger of his right hand he stubbed a series of points directly to the south of Canada, moving inward from the Atlantic seaboard. 'Here is the line of United States missile sites – the launching sites for defensive and intercontinental missiles – with which the US will protect its food-producing areas. You know them as well as I know them, as well as every junior in Russian Intelligence knows them.' Arthur Lexington murmured softly, 'Buffalo, Plattsburg,

Presque Isle…'

'Exactly,' Howden said. 'These points represent the spearhead of American defence and, as such, they will form the first prime target of a Soviet attack. If that attack – by Russian missiles – is repelled by interception, the intercept will occur directly over Canada.' Dramatically he swept the palm of his hand across the Canadian segment of the map. 'There is the battleground! There, in the scheme of things now, is where war will be fought.' Eyes followed where the hand had moved. Its path of travel had been a broad swathe north of the border, bisecting the grain-growing West and the East's industrial heartland. In its path were the cities – Winnipeg, Fort William, Hamilton, Toronto, Montreal, the smaller communities in between. 'Fallout will be heaviest here,' Howden said. 'In the first few days of war we could expect our cities to go and our food areas to become poisoned and useless.'

Outside, the Peace Tower carillon announced the quarter-hour. Within the room only Adrian Nesbitson's heavy breathing broke the silence, and the rustle of paper as the official reporter turned a page of his notebook. Howden wondered what the man was thinking, if he was thinking; and if he was, unless conditioned in advance, could any mind grasp truly the portent of what was being said?, For that matter could any of them really understand, until it happened, the sequence of events to come?

The basic pattern, of course, was appallingly simple. Unless there were an accident of some sort, or a false warning, the Russians almost certainly would be the first to fire. When they did, the trajectory of their missiles would lie directly over Canada. If the joint warning systems worked efficiently, the American command would have several minutes warning of attack – time enough to launch their own defensive, short-range missiles. The initial series of intercepts would occur, at best guess, somewhere north of the Great Lakes, in southern Ontario and Quebec. The American short-range weapons would not have nuclear warheads, but the Soviet missiles would be nuclear armed and contact-fused. Therefore the result of each successful intercept would be a hydrogen blast which would make the atom bombing of Hiroshima squib-like and archaic by comparison. And beneath each blast – it was too much to hope that there would be merely two, Howden thought – would be five thousand square miles of devastation,and radioactivity.

Swiftly, in terse crisp sentences, he transposed the pictures into words. 'As you must see,' he concluded, 'the possibilities of our survival as a functioning nation are not extraordinary.'

Again the silence. This time Stuart Cawston broke it, speaking softly, 'I've known all this. I suppose we all have. And yet one never truly faces… you put things off; other things distract… perhaps because we want them to…'

'We've all been guilty of that,' Howden said. 'The point is: can we face it now?'

'There is an "unless" in what you have said, is there not?' This time Lucien Perrault, his deep eyes searching.

'Yes,' Howden acknowledged. 'There is an "unless".' He glanced at the others, then faced Perrault squarely. His voice was strong. 'All that I have described will occur inevitably unless we choose, without delay, to merge our nationhood and sovereignty with the nationhood of the United States.'

Reaction came swiftly.

Adrian Nesbitson was struggling to his feet. 'Never! Never! Never!' His face brick-red, the old man spluttered angrily.

Cawston's expression was shocked. 'The country would throw us out!'

Douglas Martening, startled into response, said, 'Prime Minister, have you seriously…' The sentence was never finished.

'Silence!' The hamlike fist of Lucien Perrault smashed down upon the table. Startled, the other voices stopped. Nesbitson subsided. Below his black locks, Perrault's face scowled. Well, Howden thought, I've lost Perrault and with him goes any hope I had of national unity. Now Quebec – French Canada – would stand alone. It had before. Quebec was a rock – sharp-edged, immovable – on which other governments had foundered in the past.

He could carry the others today, or most of them; that much he still believed. Anglo-Saxon logic in the end would see what had to be seen, and afterwards English-speaking Canada alone might still provide the strength he needed. But division would be deep, with bitterness and strife, and scars which would never heal. He waited for Lucien Perrault to walk out.

Instead, Perrault said, 'I wish to hear the rest.' He added darkly: 'Without the chattering of crows.'

Again James Howden wondered. But he wasted no time.

'There is one proposal which, in event of war, could change our situation. That proposal is perfectly simple. It is the movement of United States missile bases – ICBM and short-range missiles – to our own Canadian North. If it were done, a good deal of radioactive fallout which I have spoken of would occur over uninhabited land.'

'But there are still winds!' Cawston said.

'Yes,' Howden acknowledged. 'If winds were from the north, there is a degree of fallout we would not escape. But remember that no country will come unscathed through a nuclear war. The best we can hope for is reduction of its worst effect.'

Adrian Nesbitson protested, 'We have already cooperated…'

Howden cut the ageing Defence Minister short. 'What we have done are half-measures, quarter-measures, temporizing! If war came tomorrow our puny preparations would be insignificant!' His voice rose. 'We are vulnerable and virtually undefended, and we should be overwhelmed and overrun as Belgium was overrun in the great wars of Europe. At best we should be captured and subjugated. At worst we should become a nuclear battleground, our nation destroyed utterly and our land laid waste for centuries to come. And yet this need not be. The time is short. But if we are swift, honest and above all realistic, we can survive, endure, and perhaps beyond find greatness as we have not dreamed of.'

The Prime Minister stopped, his own words stirring him. Momentarily he had a sense of breathlessness, of excitement at his own leadership, at the looming pattern of great events to come. Perhaps, he thought, this was the way Winston Churchill felt when he had impelled others to destiny and greatness. For a moment he considered the parallel between Churchill and himself. Was it so obscure? Others, he supposed, might fail to see it now, though later they might not.

'I have spoken of a proposal, made to me forty-eight hours ago, by the President of the United States.' James Howden paused. Then, clearly and with deliberation: 'The proposal is for a solemn Act of Union between our two countries. Its terms would include total assumption of Canadian defence by the United States; disbandment of the Canadian armed forces and their immediate recruitment by the US forces under a joint Oath of Allegiance; the opening of all Canadian territory as part of the manoeuvring arena of the US military; and -most important – the transfer, with every possible speed, of all missile-launching bases to the Far North of Canada.'

'My God!' Cawston said. 'My God!'

'One moment,' Howden said. 'That is not quite all. The Act of Union, as proposed, would provide also for customs union and the joint conduct of foreign affairs. But outside those areas, and the others I have named specifically, our national entity and independence would remain.'

He moved forward, bringing his hands from behind and placing their fingertips upon the oval table. Speaking for the first time with emotion he said, 'It is, as you will see at once a proposal both awesome and drastic. But I may well tell you that I have weighed it carefully, envisaging consequences, and, in my opinion, it is our only possible course if we are to emerge, as a nation, from a war to come.'

'But why this way?' Stuart Cawston's voice was strained. The Finance Minister had never seemed more troubled or perplexed. It was as if an old, established world were crumbling about him. Well, Howden thought, it's crumbling for all of us. Worlds had a way of doing that, even though each man thought his own world was sure.

'Because there is no other way and no other time!' Howden rapped out the words like the crackle of machine guns. 'Because preparation is vital and we have three hundred days and perhaps – God willing – a little more, but not much more. Because action must be sweeping! Because the time for timidity has gone! Because until now, in every council of joint defence, the spectre of national pride has haunted us and paralysed decision, and it will haunt and paralyse us still if we attempt more compromise and patching! You ask me – why this way? I tell you again – there is no other!'

Now, quietly, in his best mediator's voice, Arthur Lexington spoke. 'The thing, I imagine, most people would want to know is whether we could remain a nation under such a covenant or if we would be merely an American satellite – a sort of unregistered fifty-first state. Once our control of foreign policy was surrendered, as would happen of course whether we spelled it out or not, a good deal would need to be taken on trust.'

'In the unlikely event that such an agreement were ever ratified,' Lucien Perrault said slowly, his dark brooding eyes fixed upon Howden, 'it would, of course, have a specific term.'

'The period suggested is twenty-five years,' the Prime Minister said. 'There would, however, be a clause that the Act of Union could be dissolved by mutual agreement, though not by one country acting alone. As to the point about taking good deal on trust – yes, we would certainly have to do that. The question is: where would you prefer your trust to be – in a vain hope that war may not occur, or in the pledged word of a neighbour and ally whose concept of international ethics is somewhat as our own''

'But the country!' Cawston said. 'Could you ever convince the country?'

'Yes,' Howden responded. 'I believe we could.' He proceeded to tell them why: the approach he had devised; the opposition to be expected; the election on the issue which they must fight and win. The talk moved on. An hour passed, two hours, two and a half. Coffee had been brought in, but except for a brief moment discussion had not stopped. The paper napkins with the coffee had a design of holly, Howden noticed. It seemed a strange reminder – that Christmas was only hours away. The birthday of Christ. What he taught us was so simple, Howden thought: that love is the only worth-while emotion – a teaching sane and logical, whether you believed in Christ the Son of God, or Jesus, a saintly mortal man. But the human animal had never believed in love – pure love – and never really would. He had corrupted the word of Christ with prejudice, and his churches had obfuscated it; and so we are here, Howden thought, doing what we are on Christmas Eve.

Stuart Cawston was refilling his pipe for what was probably the tenth time. Perrault had run out of cigars and was smoking Douglas Martening's cigarettes. Arthur Lexington – like the Prime Minister a non-smoker – had opened a window behind them for a while, but later had shut it because of the draught. A pall of smoke hung over the oval table, and, like the smoke, a sense of unreality. What was happening, it seemed, was impossible; it could not be true. And yet, slowly, James Howden could feel reality taking hold, conviction settling on the others as it had settled upon himself.

Lexington was with him; to the External Affairs Minister none of this was new. Cawston was wavering. Adrian Nesbit-son had been mostly silent, but the old man didn't count. Douglas Martening had seemed shocked at first, but after all he was a civil servant and eventually would do as he was told. Lucien Perrault remained – his opposition to be expected, but so far undeclared.

The Clerk of the Privy Council said, 'There would be several constitutional problems. Prime Minister' His voice was disapproving, but mildly so, as if objecting to some minor procedural change.

'Then we will solve them,' Howden said decisively. 'I, for one, do not propose to accept annihilation because certain courses are closed off in the rule book.'

'Quebec,' Cawston said. 'We'd never carry Quebec'

The moment had come.

James Howden said quietly, 'I will admit that the thought had already occurred to me.'

Slowly the eyes of the others swung round to Lucien Perrault – Perrault, the chosen; the idol and spokesman of French Canada. As others had before him – Laurier, Lapointe, St Laurent – he alone in two elections past had swung the strength of Quebec behind the Howden government. And behind Perrault were three hundred years of history: New France, Champlain, the Royal Government of Louis XIV, the British conquest – and French Canadians' hatred of their conquerors. Hatred had gone in time, but mistrust – two-sided -had never vanished. Twice, in twentieth-century wars involving Canada, their disputations had divided the country. Compromise and moderation had salvaged uneasy unity. But now…

'There would appear no need to speak,' Perrault said dourly. 'It seems that you, my colleagues, have a pipeline to my mind.'

'It's hard to ignore facts,' Cawston said. 'Or history either.' 'History,' Perrault said softly, then slammed down his hand. The table shook. His voice boomed angrily. 'Has no one told you that history moves; that minds progress and change; that divisions do not last for ever? Or have you slept – slept while better minds matured?'

The change in the room was electric. The startling words had come like a thunderclap., 'How do you consider us – we of Quebec?' Perrault raged. 'For ever as peasants, fools, illiterates? Are we unknowing; blind and oblivious to a changing world? No, my friends, we are saner than you, and less bemused by what is past. If this must be done, it will be done with anguish. But anguish is not new to French Canada; or realism either.'

'Well,' Stuart Cawston said quietly, 'you can never tell which way the cat will jump.'

It was all that was needed. Tension, as if by magic, dissolved in a howl of laughter. Chairs scraped back. Perrault, tears of mirth streaming, cuffed Cawston vigorously across the shoulders. We are a strange people, Howden thought: an unpredictable admixture of mediocrity and genius, with now and then a flash of greatness.

'Perhaps it will be the end of me.' Lucien Perrault shrugged, a Gallic gesture of indifference. 'But I will support the Prime Minister, and perhaps I can persuade others.' It was a masterpiece of understatement and Howden felt a surging gratitude.

Adrian Nesbitson alone had remained silent in the last exchange. Now/his voice surprisingly strong, the Defence Minister said, 'If that's the way you feel, why stop at half" measures? Why not sell out to the United States completely?' Simultaneously five heads had turned towards him.

The old man flushed but continued doggedly, 'I say we should maintain our independence – at whatever cost.'

'To the point, no doubt, of repelling a nuclear invasion,' James Howden said icily. Coming after Perrault, Nesbitson's words had seemed like a dismal, chilling shower. Now, with controlled anger, Howden added, 'Or perhaps the Defence

Minister has some means of doing so that we have not yet heard about.'

Bitterly, in his mind, Howden reminded himself that this was a sample of the unseeing, obtuse stupidity he would have to face in the weeks immediately ahead. For an instant he pictured the other Nesbitsons still to come: the cardboard warriors with aged, faded pennants, a Blimplike cavalcade marching blindly to oblivion. It was ironic, he reflected, that he must expend his own intellect in convincing fools like Nesbitson of the need to save themselves.

There was an uneasy silence. It was no secret in Cabinet that lately the Prime Minister had been dissatisfied with his Minister of Defence.

Now Howden continued, his hawklike face bleak, pointedly addressing his words to Adrian Nesbitson. 'In the past this Government has been amply concerned with maintenance of our national independence. And my own feeling in that area has been demonstrated time and time again.' There was a murmur of assent. 'The personal decision I have now reached has not been easy and I think I may say it has required a modicum of courage. The easy way is the reckless way, which some might think of as courage but, in the end, would be the greater cowardice.' At the word 'cowardice' General Nesbitson flushed crimson, but the Prime Minister had not finished. "There is one more thing. Whatever our discussions in the weeks ahead, I shall not expect to encounter, among members of this Government, political gutter phrases like "selling out to the United States".'

Howden had always ridden his Cabinet hard, tongue-lashing ministers at times, and not always in private. But never before had his anger been quite so pointed.

Uncomfortably the others watched Adrian Nesbitson.

At first it seemed as if the old warrior might strike back. He had moved forward in his chair, his face suffused angrily. He started to speak. Then, suddenly, like a worn mainspring run down, he visibly subsided, becoming once again the old man, insecure and floundering among problems far removed from his own experience. Muttering something about, 'Perhaps misunderstood… unfortunate phrase,' he receded into his seat, plainly wishing the focus of attention to move on from himself.

As if in sympathy, Stuart Cawston said hastily, 'Customs union would have a large attraction from our point of view since we would have most to gain.' As the others turned to him, the Finance Minister paused, his astute mind plainly assessing possibilities. Now he continued, 'But any agreement should go considerably further than that. After all, it's their own defence as well as ours that the Americans are buying. There must be guarantees for manufacturing here, enlargement of our industries…'

'Our demands will not be light and I intend to make that clear in Washington,' Howden said. 'In whatever time is left we must strengthen our economy so that after a war we can emerge stronger than either of the principal contenders.'

Cawston said softly, 'It could work that way. In the end it really could.'

'There is something else,' Howden said. 'Another demand -the biggest of all – that I intend to make.'

There was a silence which Lucien Perrault broke. 'We are listening attentively. Prime Minister. You spoke of another demand.'

Arthur Lexington was toying with a pencil, his expression thoughtful.

He dare not tell them, Howden decided. At least, not yet. The concept was too big, too bold, and in a way preposterous. He remembered Lexington's reaction yesterday during their private talk, when the Prime Minister had revealed his thoughts. The External Affairs Minister had demurred: 'The Americans would never agree. Never.' And James Howden had answered slowly, 'If they were desperate enough, I think they might.'

Now, determinedly, he faced the others. 'I cannot tell you,' he said decisively, 'except that if the demand is met it will be the greatest achievement for Canada in this century. Beyond that, until after the White House meeting, you must trust me.' Raising his voice he said commandingly, 'You have trusted me before. I demand your trust again.'

Slowly, around the table, there was a succession of nods.

Watching, Howden felt the beginning of a new exultation. They were with him, he knew. By persuasion, logic, and force of leadership he had carried the argument here and gained support. It had been the first test, and what he had done once could be done elsewhere.

Only Adrian Nesbitson remained unmoving and silent, eyes downcast, his lined face sombre. Glancing down the table Howden felt a resurgence of anger. Even though Nesbitson might be a fool, as Minister of Defence his token support was necessary. Then the anger subsided. The old man could be disposed of quickly, and once dismissed would be bothersome no more.