In High Places

Chapter 1

The Vancouver Post, a newspaper not given to decorous pussyfooting, had accorded full human-interest treatment to Dan Orliffe's report on the would-be immigrant, Henri Duval. The story ran at the top left on page one through all Christmas Eve editions, taking second place only to a day-old sex slaying which led the paper. A four-column head proclaimed:

Homeless Ocean Waif

Faces Bleak, Lone Yule

Below, also across four columns, and forty lines deep, was a close-up picture of the young stowaway, his back to a ship's boat. Unusually for a press photograph, the camera had caught a depth of expression which coarse newsprint etching had not entirely lost; it combined a suggestion of yearning and something close to innocence.

The effect of story and picture was such that the managing editor scribbled upon a proof copy, 'Good, let's keep this hot,' and sent it to the city desk. The city editor, phoning Dan Orliffe at home, said, 'Try to find a forward angle for Thursday, Dan, and see what you can get out of the Immigration people besides bull. Looks like this thing may rouse a lot of interest.'

Locally the interest began at a high point and sustained itself over the Christmas holiday. Across the city and its environs the Vastervik's stowaway was a major topic of conversation in homes, clubs, and bars. Some who discussed the young man's plight were moved to pity, others angrily referred to 'damned officialdom' and 'bureaucratic inhumanity'. Thirty-seven phone calls, beginning an hour after publication, commended the Post for its initiative in bringing the matter to public attention. As usual on such occasions, all calls were carefully logged so that, afterwards, advertisers could be shown just how much impact there had been from a typical Post newsbeat.

There were other signs. Five local disc jockeys referred sympathetically to the item on the air, one of their number dedicating a platter of 'Silent Night' to Henri Duval 'in case our" friend from the seven seas is tuned to Vancouver's most listened-to station'. In Chinatown, amid applause, a night-club stripper dedicated her next uncovering to 'that lonely little guy on the ship'. And in pulpits, at least eight Christmas sermons had been hastily revised to include a topical reference to the 'Stranger that is within thy gates'.

Fifteen people were sufficiently moved to compose letters to the editor, fourteen of which were subsequently printed. The fifteenth, largely incoherent, exposed the incident as part of an infiltration plot from outer space, with Duval a Martian agent. Apart from the last, most letter writers were agreed that something should be done by somebody, but were not clear as to what way or by whom.

A handful did practical things. A Salvation Army officer and a Catholic priest made notes to visit Henri Duval and subsequently did. The mink-weighted widow of a one-time gold prospector personally gift-wrapped a parcel of food and cigarettes and dispatched it, via her uniformed chauffeur and white Cadillac, to the Vastervik. As an afterthought she also sent a bottle of her late husband's favourite whisky. At first the chauffeur had considered stealing this, but en route, discovering it to be of a kind much inferior to the brand he favoured himself, he rewrapped the bottle and delivered it as instructed.

An electrical-appliance dealer, desperately harried by impending bankruptcy, took a new portable radio from his stock and, without quite knowing why, addressed the carton to Duval and delivered it to the ship's side. An age-bent railroad pensioner, eking out his years on a monthly sum which would have been just adequate if the cost of living had stayed at 1940 levels, put two dollars in an envelope and mailed it to the Post for transmission to the stowaway. A group of bus drivers, reading the Post report before going on duty, passed around a uniform cap and collected seven dollars and thirty cents. The cap owner took it to Duval in person on Christmas morning.

The ripples went beyond Vancouver.

The first news story appeared in the Post's Mainland edition at 10 AM, December 24th. By 10.10 Canadian Press wire service had rewritten and condensed the item, then fed it out to press and radio stations in the West. Another wire carried the news to Eastern papers, and CP in Toronto rerouted it to AP and Reuters in New York. The American agencies, news-starved over the Christmas holiday, capsuled the piece some more and fanned it out across the world.

The Johannesburg Star gave the item an inch and the Stockholm Europa Press a quarter of a column. The London Daily Mail allowed four lines and the Times of India delivered itself of an editorial. The Melbourne Herald used a paragraph, as did the Buenos Aires La Prensa. In Moscow, Pravda quoted the incident as an example of 'capitalist hypocrisy'.

In New York the UN Peruvian delegate learned of the story and resolved to ask the General Assembly if something couldn't be done. In Washington the British Ambassador heard the report and frowned.

'The news got to Ottawa by early afternoon in time for the late editions of the capital's two evening newspapers. The

Citizen front-paged the CP dispatch and tagged it:

Man Minus Country

Pleads'Let Me In'

More sedately, the Journal ran the item on page three under the head:

Ship's Stowaway

Asks Entry Here

Brian Richardson, who had been brooding about the problem which the party would face when the secret Washington proposals eventually became known, read both paper? in his sparsely furnished Sparks Street office. The party director was a big, athletically built man with blue eyes, sandy hair, and ruddy cheeks. His expression, most times, conveyed an amused scepticism, but he could be quick to anger and there was a sense of latent power about him. Now his heavy, broad-shouldered figure was slumped into a tilted chair, both feet planted upon a cluttered desk, a pipe clenched between his teeth. The office was lonely and silent. His second in command, as well as the assistants, researchers, and office workers who formed the sizeable staff of party headquarters, had gone home, some laden with Christmas parcels, several hours earlier.

Having gone through the two newspapers thoroughly, he returned to the stowaway item. Long experience had given Richardson a sensitive nose for political trouble and it was reacting now. Compared with the bigger issues pending, he knew that the matter was unimportant; all the same, it was the kind of thing the public was likely to seize on. He sighed; there were times when vexations seemed endless. He had still not heard from the Prime Minister since his own call to Milly earlier in the day. Uneasily putting the newspapers aside, he refilled his pipe and settled down once more to wait. '

Chapter 2

Less than a quarter-mile from Brian Richardson, within the sacrosanct cloister of the Rideau Club on Wellington Street, Senator Richard Deveraux, who was killing time before a scheduled jet flight to Vancouver, also read both papers, then rested his cigar in an ashtray and smilingly tore the stowaway item out. Unlike Richardson, who hoped fervently that the case would not embarrass the Government, the Senator – chairman of the Opposition party organization – was happily confident that it would.

Senator Deveraux had purloined the news item in the Rideau Club's reading room – a square, lofty chamber overlooking Parliament Hill, and guarded at its doorway by a stern bronze bust of Queen Victoria. To the ageing Senator, both the reading room and the club itself were an old familiar habitat.

The Rideau Club of Ottawa (as its members sometimes point out) is so exclusive and discreet that not even its name appears outside the building. A pedestrian passing by would never know what place it was unless he were told, and, if curious, he might take it for a private, though somewhat seedy, mansion.

Within the club, above a pillared entrance hall and broad divided stairway, the atmosphere is just as rarefied. There is no rule about silence, but most times of the day a sepulchral hush prevails and newer members tend to speak in whispers.

Membership of the Rideau Club, though non-partisan, is made up largely of Ottawa's political elite – cabinet ministers, judges, senators, diplomats, military chiefs of staff, top civil servants, a handful of trusted journalists, and the few ordinary Members of Parliament who can afford the stiff fees. But despite the non-partisan policy a good deal of political business is transacted. In fact, some of the larger decisions affecting Canada's development have been shaped, over brandy and cigars, by Rideau Club cronies, relaxed in the club's deep red-leather armchairs, as Senator Deveraux was relaxing now.

In his mid-seventies Richard Borden Deveraux was an imposing figure – tall, straight-backed, with clear eyes and a healthy robustness which had come from a lifetime entirely without exercise. His paunch was sufficient for distinction but not for ridicule. His manner was an amiable mixture of bluffness and bulldozing which produced results but rarely gave offence. He talked at length and gave the impression of listening not at all, though, in fact, there was little that he missed. He had prestige, influence and enormous wealth founded upon, a western Canada logging empire bequeathed by an earlier,, Deveraux.

Now, rising from his chair, the Senator proceeded, cigar jutting ahead, to one of two unobtrusive telephones – direct exchange lines – in the rear of the club. He dialled two numbers before reaching the man he wanted. On the second call he located the Hon Bonar Deitz, leader of the parliamentary Opposition. Deitz was in his Centre Block office.

'Bonar, my boy,' Senator Deveraux announced, Tm delighted, if surprised on Christmas Eve, to find you applying yourself so assiduously.'

'I've been writing letters,' the voice of Deitz said shortly. 'I'm going home now.'

'Splendid!' the Senator boomed. 'Will you stop in at the club on the way? Something has arisen and we need to get together.'

There was the beginning of a protest from the other end of the line which the Senator cut off. 'Now, my boy, that's not the attitude at all – not if you want our side to win elections and make you Prime Minister instead of that bag of wind James Howden. And you do want to be Prime Minister, don't you?' The Senator's voice took on a caressing note. 'Well, you will be, Bonar boy, never fear. Don't be long now. I'm waiting.'

Chuckling, the Senator padded to a chair in the club's main lounge, his canny mind already at work on methods of turning the news item he had read to the Opposition party's advantage. Soon there was a cloud of cigar smoke above him as he indulged his favourite mental exercise.

Richard Deveraux had never been a statesman, either young or elder, or even a serious legislator. His chosen field was political manipulation and he had practised it all his life. He enjoyed the exercise of semi-anonymous power. Within his party he had held few elective offices (his current tenure as organization chairman was a belated exception), yet in party affairs he had wielded authority as few others before him. There had been nothing sinister about this. It was based simply upon two factors – a natural political astuteness which in the past had made his advice eagerly sought, plus the judicious use of money.

In time, and during one of his own party's periods in power, these dual activities had brought Richard Deveraux the ultimate reward bestowed among the party faithful – a lifetime appointment to the Canadian Senate, whose members were once accurately described by one of their own as 'the highest class of pensioners in Canada'.

Like most of his elderly Senate brethren, Senator Deveraux rarely attended the few perfunctory debates which the upper chamber held as proof of its existence, and only on two occasions had he ever risen to speak. The first was to propose additional reserved parking for Senators on Parliament Hill, the second to complain that the Senate ventilating system was producing draughts. Both pleas resulted in action which, as Senator Deveraux was wont to observe dryly, 'is more than you can say for the majority of Senate speeches'.

It was ten minutes since the phone call and the leader of the Opposition had not yet appeared. But he knew that eventually Bonar Deitz would come, and meanwhile the Senator closed his eyes to doze. Almost at once – age and a heavy lunch taking their toll – he was asleep.

Chapter 3

The Centre Block of Parliament was deserted and silent as the Hon Bonar Deitz closed the heavy oaken door of his parliamentary office. Room 407S, behind him. His light footsteps on the marble floor echoed sharply through the long corridor, the sound bouncing forward and down from its vaulted Gothic arches and Tyndall limestone walls. He had stayed, handwriting some personal notes, longer than he had intended and now going to the Rideau Club to meet Senator Deveraux would make him even later. But he supposed he had better see what the old boy wanted.

Not bothering to wait for an elevator, he used the square marble staircase leading down to the main-floor front corridor. It was two flights only and he trod the stairs quickly, his long bony frame moving in short jerky movements like a tightly wound toy soldier. A thin, delicate hand touched the brass stair rail lightly.

A stranger seeing Bonar Deitz for the first time might have taken him for a scholar – which, in fact, be was – but not for a political leader. Leaders, traditionally, have robustness and authority, and externally Deitz had neither. Nor did his triangular, gaunt face – an unfriendly cartoonist had once drawn him with an almond head on a string-bean body – have any of the physical handsomeness which attracts votes to some politicians irrespective of anything they say or do.

And yet he had a surprising following in the country -among discriminating people, some said, who could detect qualities in Deitz finer and deeper than those of his major political opponent James McCallum Howden. Nevertheless in the last election Howden and his party had beaten Deitz resoundingly.

As he entered Confederation Hall, the vaulted outer lobby with its soaring columns of dark polished syenite, a uniformed attendant was talking with a young man – he looked like a teenager – in tan slacks and a Grenfell jacket. Their voices carried clearly.

'Sorry,' the attendant said. 'I don't make the rules, son.'

'I realize that, but couldn't you make just this one exception?' The boy's accent was American; if not from the Deep South, then close to it. 'I've two days, is all. My folks start back…'

Involuntarily Bonar Deitz stopped. It was none of his business, but something about the boy… He asked, 'Is there a problem?', 'The young man wants to see the House, Mr Deitz,' the attendant said. 'I've explained it isn't possible, being the holiday,'

'I'm at Chattanooga U, sir,' the boy said. 'Majoring in constitutional history. I figured while I was here…'

Deitz glanced at his watch. 'If we're very quick I'll show you. Come with me.' Nodding to the attendant, he turned around the way he had come.

'Boy, this is great!' The lanky sophomore walked beside him, taking long easy strides. 'This is really swell.'

'H you're studying constitutional history,' Deitz said, 'you'll understand the difference between our Canadian system of government and yours.' The boy nodded. 'I think I do, most of it. The biggest difference is that we elect a President, but your Prime Minister isn't elected.'

'He isn't elected as Prime Minister,' Deitz said. 'To sit in the House of Commons, though, he must seek election as a Member of Parliament, the same way as all the other members. After an election the leader of the majority party becomes Prime Minister and then forms a ministry from among his own followers.'

Continuing, he explained. 'The Canadian system is a parliamentary monarchy with a single, unbroken line of authority all the way upward from the ordinary voter, through the Government, to the Crown. Your system is divided authority with separation of powers – the President has some. Congress others.'

'Checks and balances,' the boy said. 'Only sometimes there are so many checks, nothing gets done.'

Bonar Deitz smiled. 'I won't comment on that. We might upset foreign relations.'

They came to the House of Commons lobby. Bonar Deitz opened one of the heavy double doors and led the way on to the floor of the House. They stopped, the deep silence – almost physically felt – enfolding them. Only a few lights were burning and, beyond their range, the soaring galleries and the chamber's outer edges blurred into darkness.

'When the House is sitting it's a good deal livelier,' Deitz said dryly.

Tm glad I saw it this way,' the boy said softly. 'It's… it's sort of hallowed.'

Deitz smiled. 'It has very old traditions.' They moved forward and he explained how the Prime Minister and the Leader,. of the Opposition – himself – faced each other daily across the ' floor of the House. 'You see,' he said, 'we think directness has a lot of advantages. With our kind of government the Executive is accountable to Parliament immediately for everything it does.'

The boy looked curiously at his guide. 'If your party had elected more people, sir, then you'd be Prime Minister instead of leading the Opposition.'

Bonar Deitz nodded. 'Yes, I would.'

With unembarrassed frankness the boy asked, 'Do you think you'll ever make it?'

'Now and then,' Deitz said wryly, 'I get to wondering that myself.'

He had intended to take only a few minutes. But he found himself liking the boy and, by the time they had finished talking, much longer had elapsed. Once again, Deitz thought, he had allowed himself to be sidetracked. It happened frequently. He wondered sometimes if that were the real reason he had not been more successful in politics. Others whom he knew -James Howden was one – saw a straight, undeviating line and followed it. Deitz never did, politically or any other way.

He was an hour later than he had expected in reaching the Rideau Club. Hanging up his coat he remembered ruefully that he had promised his wife he would spend most of today at home.

In the lounge upstairs Senator Deveraux, still asleep, was snoring in gentle undulations.

'Senator!' Bonar Deitz said softly. 'Senator!' The old man opened his eyes, taking a moment to focus them. 'Dear me.' He eased upright from the depths of the big chair. 'I appear to have dropped off.'

'I expect you thought you were in the Senate,' Bonar Deitz said. He lowered himself angularly, like a collapsible spindle, into an adjoining seat.

Senator Deveraux chuckled. 'H that were so, you would have wakened me less easily.' Shifting around, he reached into a pocket and produced the newspaper item he had torn out earlier. 'Read this, my boy.'

Deitz adjusted his rimless glasses and read carefully. While he did so the Senator trimmed a new cigar and lit it.

Looking up Deitz said mildly, "'I have two questions. Senator.'

'Ask away, my boy.'

'My first question is – since I am now sixty-two years old, do you conceivably think you could stop calling me "my boy"?'

The Senator chuckled. 'That's half the trouble with you young fellows – you want to become old men before your time. Don't worry; age will creep up soon enough. Now, my boy, what's your second question?'

Bonar Deitz sighed. He knew better than to argue with the older man, who he suspected was baiting him. Instead he lighted a cigarette and asked, 'What about this chap in Vancouver – Henri Duval? Is there something you know?'

Senator Deveraux waved his cigar in a gesture of dismissal. 'I know nothing whatever. Except that the moment I learned of this unfortunate young man and his unheeded plea to enter our country, I said to myself: here is an opportunity for some ordure stirring which will embarrass our opponents.'

Several others had come into the room, greeting Deitz and Senator Deveraux as they passed. The Senator lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'You've heard what occurred at Government House last night? A fight! – among members of the Cabinet.'

Bonar Deitz nodded.

'Under the very nose, mind you, of the duly appointed representative of our gracious sovereign.'

'These things happen,' Deitz said. 'I remember once when our people had a shindig…'

'Please!' Senator Deveraux seemed shocked. 'You're committing a cardinal political sin, my boy. You're trying to be fair.'

'Look,' Bonar Deitz said, 'I promised my wife…'

'I'll be brief.' Manoeuvring the cigar to the left side of his mouth the Senator brought his hands together, checking off points upon his pudgy fingers. 'Point one: we know that our opponents have dissension in their midst, as witness the disgraceful occurrence of last night. Point two: from what my informants tell me, the spark which touched off the explosion concerned immigration and Harvey Warrender – that egghead with the addled yolk. Are you with me so far?'

Bonar Deitz nodded. 'I'm listening.'

'Very well. Point three: in the matter of immigration, the individual cases which have come to public attention lately -what we might call the sentimental cases have been handled with appalling disregard… appalling from our opponents' point of view, of course, not ours… appalling disregard of practical politics and the impact of these cases upon the public conscience. Do you agree?'

Again a nod. 'I agree.'

'Splendid!' Senator Deveraux beamed. 'Now we come to point four. It seems equally likely that our inhabile Minister of Immigration will deal with this unfortunate young man, Duval, with the same blundering ineptness as the rest. At any rate, we hope so.'

Bonar Deitz smiled.

'Therefore' – the Senator's voice was still lowered – 'therefore, I say, let us – the Opposition party – espouse this young man's cause. Let us turn this thing into a public issue, striking a blow against the unyielding Howden government. Let us…'

'I get the point,' Bonar Deitz said. 'Let's pick up a few votes too. It's not a bad idea.'

The Leader of the Opposition regarded Senator Deveraux thoughtfully through his glasses. It was true, he told himself, the Senator was becoming senile in some ways, but all the same, when you ignore the tiresome Micawberisms, the old man still possessed a remarkable political astuteness. Aloud Deitz said, 'What I'm more concerned about is this morning's announcement of this meeting in Washington between Howden and the President. They say it's for trade talks but I've a feeling there's something bigger involved. My idea was to demand a fuller explanation of what they plan to discuss.'

'I urge upon you not to do it.' Senator Deveraux shook his head severely. 'It could gain us nothing in public sympathy and you may appear petulant in certain eyes. Why begrudge even Howden the occasional little junket to touch the hem in the White House? It's one of the prerogatives of office. You'll do it yourself someday.'

'If it's really for trade talks,' Bonar Deitz said slowly, 'why at this particular time? There's no urgent issue; nothing new that's in dispute.'

'Exactly!' The Senator's voice held a note of triumph. 'So

what better time – when everything in his own kennel is quiet – for Howden to make himself a headline or two and get photographed in bigger company. No, my boy, you'll do no good attacking there. Besides, if it's trade they're going to talk about, who cares outside a few importers and exporters?'

'I care,' Bonar Deitz responded, 'and so should everybody.'

'Ah! But what people should do and really do are different things. It's average voters we have to think about, and average voters don't understand international trade and, what's more, don't want to. What they care about is issues they can understand – human issues which stir their emotions; that they can weep for or cheer about; something like this lost and lonely young man, Henri Duval, who so badly needs a friend. Will you be his friend, my boy?'

'Well,' Bonar Deitz said thoughtfully, 'maybe you have something.'

He paused, considering. Old man Deveraux was right about one thing: the Opposition did need a good popular issue with which to clobber the Government, because lately there had been all too few.

There was another thing. Bonar Deitz was acutely aware that recently there had been growing criticism of himself among his own supporters. He was too mild, they said, in his attacks, as Opposition Leader, upon the Government. Well, perhaps his critics were right; he had been mild at times and he supposed it was the result of being able, always, to see the other fellow's point of view. In the cut and thrust of politics such reasonableness could be a handicap.

But a clear-cut human-rights issue – if this turned out to be one; and it looked as if it might – well, that would be different. He could fight hard, hitting the Government in its tender underbelly and perhaps, that way, his own record would be evened out. Even more important, it would be the kind of fight which newspapers and the public could grasp and applaud.

But would it help his own party at the next election? That was the real test, and particularly for himself. He remembered the question which the boy had asked this afternoon: 'Do you think you'll ever make it?' the real answer was that the next campaign would decide one way or the other. Bonar Deitz had led the Opposition through one election which had brought defeat. A sound defeat would spell the end of his own tenure as Leader and his ambition to become Prime Minister.

Would it help to have the kind of fight which the Senator was suggesting? Yes, he decided, it very likely would.

'Thank you. Senator,' Bonar Deitz said. 'I think your suggestion is sound. If it can be done, we'll make this man Duval an issue and there are a lot of other things about immigration we can hit at the same time.'

'Now you're talking.' The Senator beamed.

'There'll have to be some precautions,' Deitz said. He glanced at the others in the lounge, making sure he could not be overheard. 'We must be certain that this fellow in Vancouver is what he purports to be, and of good character. That's clear, isn't it?'

'Naturally, my boy. Naturally.'

'How do you suggest we begin?'

'The first thing is to secure a lawyer for this young man,' Senator Deveraux said. 'I'll take care of that myself in Vancouver tomorrow. After that there'll be legal steps during which, we trust, the Immigration Department will behave with its usual blundering heartlessness. And then… well, the rest will be up to you.'

The Opposition Leader nodded approval. 'That sounds all right. There's one thing about the lawyer, though.'

'I'll get the right man – someone we can rely on. You may be sure of that.'

'It might be wise if the lawyer isn't one of our own party.' Bonar Deitz spoke slowly, thinking aloud. 'That way, when we come into the picture it won't look too much like a setup. In fact, the lawyer really shouldn't belong to any party.'

'A well-taken point. There is a problem, however, that most of our lawyers support one party or another.'

'Not all lawyers do,' Bonar Deitz said carefully. 'Not all the new ones, for instance. Those just in practice, fresh from law school.'

'Brilliant!' A slow grin spread over Senator Deveraux's face.

'That's it my boy! We will find an innocent.' His grin widened. 'A little lamb whom we shall lead.'

Chapter 4

It was still snowing, though wetly, when Brian Richardson, his scarf wound tightly, overshoes snug, and topcoat collar upturned, left the office on Sparks Street for the short walk to Parliament Hill. The Prime Minister had finally called him and said, 'You'd better come up. There's a lot I want to talk about.' Now, taking long plunging strides through the crowds of Christmas Eve shoppers, Richardson shivered at the cold which seemed intensified by dusk settling greyly over the city.

Richardson disliked winter and Christmas with equal impartiality – the first through a built-in physical craving for warmth, the second because of an agnosticism which he was convinced most others shared but would not admit. He had once told James Howden, 'Christmas is ten times phonier than any politics you ever saw, but nobody dare say so. All they'll tell you is "Christmas is too commercialized". Hell! – the commercial bit is the only part that makes sense.'

Some of the commercial bit impinged on Richardson's consciousness now as he passed store fronts, most lighted garishly, with their inevitable Christmas themes. He grinned at a combination of signs he had noticed earlier. In the window of ah appliance showroom a bright green panel blazoned in neoned misquotation, PEACE ON EARTH GOODWILL TOWARDS MEN. Below, a second sign, equally bright, read: ENJOY IT NOW – PAY LATER.

Aside from a few gifts – including one for Milly Freedeman, which he must buy before this evening – Brian Richardson was glad there was no part he would have to act out in the Christmas scheme of things. Like James Howden, for instance, who would be obliged to turn out for church tomorrow morning, as he did most Sundays, even though his religious beliefs were about as non-existent as Richardson's own.

Once, years before, when Richardson had worked as an advertising account executive, a major industrial client had underwritten a 'go to church' campaign which Richardson had handled. At one point the client had suggested pointedly that Richardson, too, should follow the advice in his own clever advertising copy and become a church attender. He had gone; the industrial end of the account was too important to take chances with. But he had been secretly relieved when the agency later lost the account and that particular client no longer had to be appeased.

That was one of the reasons he enjoyed his work so greatly nowadays. There were no clients for him to appease, and any appeasement needed was handled by others at Richardson's direction. Nor, because he was out of the public eye, was there any front that had to be maintained; that kind of thing was politicians' business. Far from worrying about appearance, the party director had a duty to remain obscure, and behind the obscurity he could live pretty much as he pleased.

That was one reason he had been less concerned than Milly Freedeman about a possible eavesdropper when they had made their date for tonight, though perhaps, he thought, out of consideration he should be more discreet another time. If there were another time.

Come to think of it, that was something to consider and perhaps after tonight it would be wise to ring down the curtain on the incident with Milly. Love 'em and leave 'em, he thought. After all, there were always plenty of women whose company – in and out of bed – a well organized male could enjoy.

He liked Milly, of course; she had a personal warmth and depth of character which appealed to him, and she hadn't been bad – though a bit inhibited – the one time they had made love. All the same, if the two of them went on meeting there was always the danger of emotional involvement – not himself, because he intended to avoid that sort of thing for a long time to come. But Milly might be hurt – women were apt to become serious about what men thought of as casual love-making – and it was something he preferred not to happen.

A plain-featured girl in Salvation Army uniform jingled a handbell in his face. Beside her on a stand was a glass jar of coins, mostly pennies and small silver. 'Spare something, sir. It's Christmas cheer for the needy.' The girl's voice was shrill, as if worn thin; her face glowed redly from the cold. Richardson reached into a pocket and his fingers found a bill among loose change. It was ten dollars and on impulse he dropped it into the glass jar.

'God be with you, and bless your family,' the. girl said.

Richardson grinned. Explaining, he thought, would spoil the picture; explaining that there never had been a family, with children, the way he had once pictured in what he thought of now as stickily sentimental moments. Better not to explain that he and his wife Eloise had a working arrangement whereby each went his own way, pursuing his separate interests but preserving the shell of their marriage to the extent that they shared accommodation, had meals together sometimes, and occasionally, if conditions happened to be right, slaked their sexual appetites by the polite use of each other's bodies.

Beyond that there was nothing else, nothing left, not even the once bitter arguments they used to have. He and Eloise never argued nowadays, having accepted the gulf between them as too wide even for their differences to bridge. And lately, as other interests had become dominant – his work for the party principally – the rest had seemed to matter less and less.

Some people might wonder why they bothered retaining their marriage at all, since divorce in Canada (except in two provinces) was relatively easy, entailing merely some mild per-''' jury which the courts went along with. The truth was that both he and Eloise were freer married than they would have been unattached. As things stood now, each of them could have affairs, and did. But if an affair became complicated, the fact of an existing marriage was a convenient 'out'. Moreover, their own experience had convinced them both that a second marriage for either was no more likely to be successful than the first.

He quickened his steps, anxious to be out of the snow and cold. Entering the silent, deserted East Block, he went up by the stairs and into the Prime Minister's office suite.

Milly Freedeman, wearing a coral woollen topcoat and fur-trimmed snow boots with high heels, was peering into a mirror to adjust a white mink cloche hat. 'I've been told to go home.' She glanced around, smiling. 'You can go in; though if it's anything like the Defence Committee you're in for a long session.'

'It can't be too long,' Richardson said. 'I've a later appointment.'

'Perhaps you should cancel it.' Milly had turned. The hat was in place; it was the finest, most practical, and attractive winter head-gear, he thought. Her face was glowing and her large grey-green eyes sparkled.

'Like hell I will,' Richardson said. His eyes, moving over her, were frankly admiring. Then he warned himself of the decision he had made about tonight.

Chapter 5

When he had finished talking, James Howden pushed his chair back tiredly. Opposite, on the visitors' side of the old-fashioned four-legged desk at which a succession of Prime Ministers had worked, Brian Richardson sat silently meditative, his alert mind indexing and absorbing facts he had just been given. Though he had known broadly of the Washington proposals, this was his first detailed briefing. Howden had told him, too, of the Defence Committee's reaction. Now the party director's thoughts, like veins and arteries of a human body, were branching out busily, assessing credits and debits, implications and eventualities, actions and counteractions, all with practised skill. Details would be filled in later; many details. What was needed now was a broad plan of strategy – a plan, Richardson knew, more critically important than any other he had yet devised. For if he failed it would mean defeat for the party and perhaps more than defeat, eclipse.

'There's another thing,' James Howden said. He had risen and was standing by the window, looking down on Parliament Hill. 'Adrian Nesbitson must go.'

'No!' Emphatically Richardson shook his head. 'Later maybe, but not now. If you drop Nesbitson, no matter what reason we give, it'll look like a cabinet split. It's the worst thing that could happen.' 'I was afraid you'd think that,' Howden said. 'The trouble is, he's completely useless. But I suppose we can manage, if we have to.'

'Apart from that, can you keep him in line?' 'I think so.' The Prime Minister massaged his long, curved nose. 'I believe there's something he might want. I can use it to bargain.'

'I'd go easy on the bargaining,' Richardson said doubtfully. 'Don't forget the old boy has a reputation for straightness.'

'I'll remember your advice.' Howden smiled. 'Do you have any more?'

'Yes,' the party director said crisply, 'quite a lot. But first let's talk about a timetable. I agree that for something this big there'll have to be a mandate from the country.' He mused. 'In a lot of ways a fall election would be our best chance.'

'We can't wait that long,' Howden said decisively. 'It'll have to be spring.'

'Exactly when?'

'I'd thought of dissolving Parliament right after the Queen's visit, then the election could be in May.'

Richardson nodded. 'It might work.'

'It has to work.'

'What's your plan after the Washington meeting?'

The Prime Minister considered. 'I think an announcement to the House in, say, three weeks from now.'

The party director grinned. 'That'll be when the fireworks start.'

'Yes, I expect it will.' Howden smiled faintly. 'It will also give the country time to get used to the idea of the Act of Union before the election.'

'It sure will help a lot if we can get the Queen over,' Richardson said. 'That way she'd be here between the announcement and the election.'

'That was my thought, too,' Howden agreed. 'She'll be a symbol of what we're retaining, and should convince people -on both sides of the border – that we've no intention of losing our national identity.'

'I take it there'll be no signing of any agreement until after the election.'

'No. It will have to be understood that the election is the real decision. But we'll do our negotiating beforehand so there will be no time lost afterwards. Time is the thing that matters most.'

'It always does,' Richardson said. He paused, then continued thoughtfully, 'So it's three weeks before the whole thing is out in the open, then fourteen weeks to the election. It isn't long but there could be advantages – getting everything over before any splits become too wide.' His voice became more businesslike. 'All right, here's what I think.'

Howden had returned from the window to his chair. Tilting it back, he placed his finger ups together and prepared to listen.

'Everything,' Brian Richardson said deliberately, ' – and I really mean everything – depends upon a single thing: trust. There must be absolute trust and confidence in one individual – you. And it must exist right across the country and down through every level. Without that kind of trust we'll lose; with it, we can win.' He paused, thinking deeply, then continued. 'The Act of Union… by the way, I think we must find another name… but the kind of union you're proposing isn't outrageous. After all, we've been moving towards it for half a century or more, and in some ways we'd be insane to turn it down. But the Opposition will do their best to make it seem outrageous and I guess you can hardly blame them. For the first time in years they'll have a real live issue to get their teeth into, and Deitz and company will make the most of it. They'll hurl words like "betrayal" and "sellout" and they'll call you Judas.'

'I've been called names before, and I'm here, aren't I?' 'The trick is to stay.' Richardson's expression was unsmiling. 'What must be done is consolidate your image so clearly in the public mind that people will trust you absolutely, and have confidence that whatever you recommend is for their own good.'

'Are we so far removed from that now?'

'Complacency isn't going to help either of us,' Richardson snapped, and the Prime Minister flushed but made no comment. The party director went on, 'Our latest private polls show that the Government – and you – have slipped four per cent in popularity since this time last year, and you personally are weakest in the West. Fortunately it's a minor change, but still a trend. We can change the trend, though, if it's worked at bard – and fast.'

'What's your suggestion?'

'I'll have a long list of them – the day after tomorrow. Mostly, though, it will mean getting out of here' – Richardson waved a hand around the office – 'and moving about the country – speaking engagements, press coverage, television time where we can get it. And it must start soon – immediately you're back from Washington.'

'You're not forgetting that Parliament reconvenes in less than two weeks.'

'I'm not forgetting. Some days you'll have to be two places at once.' Richardson permitted himself a grin. 'I hope you haven't lost that old knack of sleeping in aeroplanes.'

'You envisage, then, that part of this tour should take place before the announcement in the House.'

'Yes. We can arrange it if we work fast. As far as we can, I'd like to condition the country to expect what's coming, and that's where your speeches will be important. I think we should hire some new men to write them – really top people who can make you sound like Churchill, Roosevelt, and Billy Graham rolled together.'

'All right. Is that all?'

'It's all for now,' Richardson said. 'Oh, except for one thing – a nuisance item, I'm afraid, among all this. We've an immigration hassle in Vancouver.'

Irritably Howden said, 'Again!'

'There's a ship's stowaway who hasn't got a country and wants to come in. It looks as if the Press has taken his case up and it ought to be settled quickly.' He related the details which had appeared in the afternoon papers.

Briefly Howden was tempted to brush the matter aside. There were limits, after all, to the number of things a Prime Minister could become involved in personally, and with so much else… Then he was reminded of his intention to have a showdown with Harvey Warrender… his own awareness that small issues could sometimes become important. But still he hesitated.

'I talked to Harvey Warrender last night.' 'Yes,' Richardson said dryly. 'I heard about it.' 'I want to be fair.' Howden was still debating in his own mind. 'Some of what Harvey said last night made sense -about not letting people into the country… That particular case you told me about – the woman who was deported. I understand she'd been running a brothel in Hong Kong and she had VD.'

'But the newspapers wouldn't print that, even if we leaked it,' Richardson said irritably. 'All that people see is a mother and baby being thrown out by the big bully of a Government. The Opposition made the most of it in the House, didn't they? You needed overshoes to wade through the tears.'

The Prime Minister smiled.

'That's why we should settle this Vancouver thing pronto,' the party director insisted.

'But surely you wouldn't admit undesirables – like that woman, for instance – as immigrants.'

'Why not?' Richardson argued, 'if it means avoiding bad publicity? It can be done quietly by order in council. After all, there were twelve hundred special admissions last year, mostly to oblige our own MPs. You can be sure there were some maggots among the lot, so what difference do a few more make?'

The figure of twelve hundred surprised Howden. It was not news, of course, that the immigration laws of Canada were frequently bent, and the bending process was a form of patronage accepted by all political parties. But the extent surprised him. He asked, 'Was it really that many?'

'A few more, actually,' Richardson said. He added dryly, 'Fortunately the department lumps twenty to fifty immigrants under each order, and nobody adds the total.'

There was a pause, then the Prime Minister said mildly, 'Harvey and his deputy apparently think we should enforce the Immigration Act.'

'If you weren't the Queen's first minister,' Richardson responded, 'I'd be tempted to reply with a short, succinct word.'

James Howden frowned. Sometimes, he thought, Richardson went a little far.

Oblivious to the disapproval, the party director continued, 'Every government in the past fifty years has used the Immigration Act to help its own party members, so why should we suddenly stop? It doesn't make political sense.'

No, Howden thought, it didn't make sense. He reached for a telephone. 'All right,' he told Richardson, 'we'll do it your way. I'll have Harvey Warrender in now.' He instructed the government operator, 'Get Mr Warrender. He'll probably be at home.' With a hand cupped over the mouthpiece he asked, 'Apart from what we've talked about, is there anything else you think I should tell him?'

Richardson grinned. 'You could try suggesting that he keep both feet on the ground. That way he might not put one in his mouth so often.'

'If I tell Harvey that,' Howden said, 'he'll probably quote Plato at me.'

'In that case you could come back with Menander: He is raised the higher that he might fall the heavier.'

The Prime Minister's eyebrows went up. There were things about Brian Richardson which constantly surprised him.

The operator came on the line and Howden listened, then replaced the phone. 'The Warrenders are away for the holiday – at their cottage in the Laurentians, and there isn't a phone.'

Richardson said curiously, 'You give Harvey Warrender a lot of leeway, don't you? – more than some of the others.'

'Not this time,' James Howden said. After their discussion his mind was quite made up. 'I'll have him up here the day after tomorrow and this Vancouver case will not boil over. I guarantee it.'

Chapter 6

It was seven-thirty when Brian Richardson arrived at Milly Freedeman's apartment and he carried two packages, one containing an ounce of Guerlain, a perfume he knew Milly liked, the other twenty-six ounces of gin.

The perfume pleased Milly. About the gin she was less certain, though she took it to the kitchenette to mix drinks.

Waiting in the softly lighted living-room, Richardson watched from one of the two deep armchairs. He stretched his feet luxuriously across the beige broadloom – the single large-expense item Milly had indulged in when decorating the apartment – then said approvingly, 'You know, a lot of the stuff you've got in here, Milly, other people would throw out. But the way you've put it together, this is the cosiest hangout I know.'

'I assume that's a compliment.' In the kitchenette Milly turned, smiling. 'Anyway, I'm glad you like it.'

'Sure I like it. Who wouldn't?' Mentally Brian Richardson was contrasting the apartment with his own, which Eloise had remodelled just over a year ago. They had ivory walls, with off-white broadloom, Swedish walnut furniture and tailored curtains of pale peacock blue. He had long grown indifferent to it all, and the effect no longer offended him. But he recalled the bitter fight there had been with Eloise when on being confronted with the bill he had protestingly described it as 'the President's suite in a whore-house'.

Milly, he thought, would always know how to make a place warm and personal… a little untidy, books piled on tables, some place a man could relax.

Milly had turned away again. He watched her thoughtfully.

Before his arrival she had changed out of the suit which she had worn earlier into orange slacks and a plain black sweater, relieved only by a triple strand of pearls. The effect, Richardson thought, was simple and physically exciting.

As she returned to the living-room he found himself admiring her gracefulness. There was rhythm and economy about each of Milly's movements and she seldom wasted a gesture.

'Milly,' he said, 'you're an astonishing girl.'

She brought their drinks across the room, ice clinking. He was aware of slim legs and firm thighs under the slacks; again the unselfconscious rhythm of movement… like a young, long-legged racehorse, he thought absurdly.

'Astonishing in what way?' Milly asked. She handed him his glass and their fingers touched.

'Well,' he said, 'without the filmy negligee routine, pants and all, you're the sexiest thing on two legs.'

He put down the glass she had given him, stood up, and kissed her. After a moment she eased herself gently free and turned away.

'Brian,' Milly said, 'is this any good?'

Nine years ago she had known what love meant, and afterwards the intolerable anguish of loss. She supposed she was not in love with Brian Richardson, as she had been with James Howden, but there was a warmth and tenderness; and there could be more, she knew, if time and circumstance allowed. But she suspected they would not allow. Richardson was married… he was practical; and in the end it would mean, once more, breaking… parting…

Richardson asked, 'Is what any good, Milly?'

She said levelly, 'I think you know.'

'Yes, I know.' He had returned to his drink. He held the glass against the light, inspecting it, then put it down.

She wanted love, Milly thought. Her body ached for it. But suddenly the need for more than physical love overwhelmed her… There must be some permanence. Or must there? Once, when she had loved James Howden, she had been willing to settle for less.

Brian Richardson said slowly, 'I guess I could kid you with a lot of words, Milly. But we're both grown up; I didn't think you'd want it.'

'No,' she answered, 'I don't want to be kidded. But I don't want to be an animal, either. There ought to be something more.'

He responded harshly, 'For some people there isn't any more. Not if they're honest with themselves.'

A moment after, he wondered why he had said it: an excess of truthfulness perhaps, or merely self-pity, an emotion he despised in others. But he had not expected the effect upon Milly. Her eyes glistened with tears.

'Milly,' he said, 'I'm sorry.'

She shook her head and he went to her. Taking out a handkerchief, he gently wiped her eyes and the rivulets beneath.

'Listen,' he said, 'I shouldn't have said that.'

'It's all right,' Milly said. 'I was just being womanly, I suppose.'

Oh God, she thought, what's happening to me – the self-reliant Millicent Freedeman… crying like an adolescent. What does this man mean to me? Why can't I take something of this kind in my stride as I've done before?

His arms went around her. 'I want you, Milly,' he said softly. 'I don't know any other way to say it, except I want you.'

He lifted her head and kissed her.

Hesitancy assailed her. 'No, Brian! Please no!' But she made no effort to pull away. As he fondled her, desire grew stronger. Now, she knew, she cared. Afterwards, there would be loneliness again; the sense of loss. But now… now… eyes closed, her body trembled… now.

'All right.' Her voice was husky.

The light switch snapped in the silence. As it did, faintly from outside came the high-pitched whine of aeroplane engines high over the city. The sound came closer, then receded as the night flight to Vancouver – Senator Deveraux among its passengers – turned westward, climbing swiftly through the darkness.

'Be gentle, Brian,' Milly whispered. "This time… please be gentle.'