In High Places

Chapter 1

The brief respite of Christmas had sped by as if it had never been.

On Christmas Day the Howdens had gone to early Communion and, after returning home, received guests until lunch-time – mostly official callers and a few family friends. In the afternoon the Lexingtons had driven over, and the Prime Minister and Arthur Lexington spent two hours closeted privately, discussing arrangements for Washington. Later, Margaret and James Howden talked by transatlantic telephone to their daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren in London, who were spending Christmas together. By the time everyone had spoken to everyone else it was a lengthy call and, glancing at his watch at one point, James Howden was glad that his wealthy industrialist son-in-law, and not himself, would receive the bill. Later still, the Howdens dined quietly by themselves and afterwards the Prime Minister worked alone in his study while Margaret watched a movie on television. It was the sad, gentle James Hilton story Goodbye, Mr Chips, and Margaret was reminded nostalgically that she and her husband had seen it together in the 1930s, but now the star, Robert Donat, and its author were long dead, and nowadays the Howdens no longer went to movies… At 11.30 after saying goodnight, Margaret went to bed, while James Howden continued to work until 1 AM.

Milly Freedeman's Christmas Day had been less arduous, but also less interesting. She had wakened late and, after some mental indecision, went to a church service but not Communion. In the afternoon she took a taxi to the home of a former girlfriend from Toronto, now married and living in Ottawa, who had invited Milly for Christmas dinner. There were several small children in the household, who became trying after a while and, later still, boredom set in at the inevitable talk of child management, domestic help, and the cost of living. Once more – as she had on other occasions – Milly realized she was not fooling herself in believing that scenes of so-called domestic bliss held no charm for her. She preferred her own comfortable apartment, independence, and the work and responsibility she enjoyed. Then she thought: maybe I'm just getting old and sour, but all the same it was a relief when it became time to go. Her friend's husband drove her home and, on the way, made tentative advances which Milly rejected firmly.

Throughout the day she had thought a good deal about Brian Richardson, wondering what he was doing and if he would telephone. When he failed to call, her disappointment was intense.

Common sense warned Milly against deeper emotional involvement. She reminded herself of Richardson's marriage, the unlikelihood of anything permanent between the two of them, her own vulnerability… But the image persisted, daydreams ousting reason, an echo of softly whispered words: I want you, Milly I don't know any other way to say it, except I want you… And in the end it was this thought which became, deliciously and dreamily, her last remembrance of the waking day.

Brian Richardson had a hard-working Christmas Day. He had left Milly's apartment in the early morning and, after four hours of sleep, his alarm clock wakened him. Eloise, he noticed, had not come in overnight, a fact occasioning no surprise. After fixing breakfast for himself he had driven to party headquarters on Sparks Street, where he remained through most of the day, working on details of the general campaign plan he had discussed with the Prime Minister. Since only a janitor and himself were in the building and there were no interruptions, he accomplished a great deal and eventually returned to his own still empty apartment with a sense of satisfaction. Once or twice, earlier on, he had been surprised to find himself distracted by remembering Milly the way she had been the night before. Twice he was tempted to telephone her, but a sense of caution warned him against it. After all, the whole thing was just a passing affair, not to be taken too seriously. In the evening he had read for a while and went to bed early.

And now Christmas had gone. It was 11 AM, December 26th.

Chapter 2

'Mr Warrender is available if you'd like him this morning,' Milly Freedeman announced. She had slipped into the Prime Minister's inner office with a coffee tray as his executive assistant left. The executive assistant, an earnest, ambitious young man of independent means named Elliot Prowse, had been coming and going all morning, receiving instructions and reporting their outcome to James Howden in between a steady stream of other callers with appointments. A good deal of the activity, Milly knew, had to do with the forthcoming Washington talks.

'Why should I want Warrender?' A trifle irritably, James Howden looked up from a folder over which he had been poring – one of a series on his desk, prominently marked TOP SECRET and relating to intercontinental defence. Military matters had never interested James Howden overwhelmingly and, even now, he had to compel concentration in himself in order to absorb facts. Occasionally it saddened him that there was so little time nowadays he could devote to social welfare matters, which were once his ruling interest in politics.

Pouring coffee from an aluminium vacuum jug, Milly answered equably, 'I understand you called Mr Warrender the day before the holiday, and he was away.' She added the customary four lumps of sugar and generous cream, then placed the cup carefully on the Prime Minister's blotter with a small plate of chocolate cookies beside it.

James Howden put down the folder, took a cookie, and bit into it. He said approvingly, 'These are better than the last lot. More chocolate.'

Milly smiled. If Howden had been less preoccupied he might have noticed that she seemed unusually radiant this morning, as well as attractively dressed in a brown tweed suit flecked with blue, and a soft blue blouse.

'I remember – I did call,' the Prime Minister said after a pause. 'There was some sort of immigration trouble in Vancouver.' He added hopefully, 'Perhaps it's cleared itself up by now.'

'I'm afraid not,' Milly told him. 'Mr Richardson phoned this morning with a reminder.' She consulted a notebook. 'He asked me to tell you it's a very live issue in the West, and the Eastern newspapers are becoming interested.' She failed to say that Brian Richardson had also added warmly and personally, 'You're a pretty wonderful person, Milly. I've been thinking about it, and we'll talk again soon.'

James Howden sighed. 'I suppose I'd better see Harvey Warrender. You'll have to fit him in somehow; ten minutes should be enough.'

'All right,' Milly said. 'I'll make it this morning.'

Sipping coffee, Howden asked, 'Is there much of a backlog outside?'

Milly shook her head. 'Nothing that won't keep for a while. I've passed on a few urgent things to Mr Prowse.'

'Good.' The Prime Minister nodded approvingly. 'Do that as much as you can, Milly, these next few weeks.'

Sometimes, even now, he had a strange nostalgic feeling about Milly, even though physical desire had evaporated long since. He sometimes wondered how it could all have happened… the affair between them; his own intensity of feeling at the time. There had been the loneliness, of course, which backbench MPs always suffered in Ottawa; the sense of emptiness, with so little to do to fill the long hours when the House was sitting. And, at the time Margaret had been away a good deal… But it all seemed something distant, far away.

'There is one thing and I hate to bother you with it.' Milly hesitated. 'There's a letter from the bank. Another reminder that you're overdrawn.'

Switching his thoughts back, Howden said gloomily, 'I was afraid there would be soon.' As he had when Margaret brought up the subject three days ago, he found himself resentful of the need to deal with something like this at such a time. It was his own fault in a way, he supposed. He knew that he had only to let word leak out among a few of the party's richer supporters and generous American friends, and gifts of money would come in quickly and amply, without strings attached. Other Prime Ministers before him had done the same thing, but Howden had always declined, principally as a matter of pride. His life, he reasoned, had begun with charity in the orphanage and he rejected the idea that after a lifetime's achievement he should become dependent on charity again.

He recalled Margaret's concern about the speed with which their modest savings were disappearing. 'You'd better call the Montreal Trust,' he instructed. 'Find out if Mr Maddox can come to see me for a talk.'

'I thought you might want him, so I checked,' Milly answered. 'The only time you're free is late tomorrow afternoon and he'll come then.'

Howden nodded assent. He was always grateful for Milly's efficient shortcuts.

He had finished the coffee – he liked it near-scalding as well as sweet and creamy – and Milly refilled his cup. Tilting back his padded leather chair, he relaxed consciously, enjoying one of the few unpressured moments of the day. Ten minutes from now he would become intense and preoccupied once more, setting a work pace which his staff found hard to equal. Milly knew this, and over the years had learned to be relaxed herself in these time-out periods, something she knew James Howden liked. Now he said easily, 'Did you read the transcript?'

'Of the Defence Committee?'

Taking another chocolate cookie, Howden nodded.

'Yes,' Milly said. 'I read it.'

'What do you think?'

Milly considered. For all the question's casualness she knew an honest answer was expected. James Howden had once told her complainingly, 'Half the time I try to find out what people are thinking, they don't tell me the truth; only what they believe I'd like to hear.'

'I wondered what we'd have left, as Canadians,' Milly said. 'If it happens – the Act of Union, I mean – I can't see our going back to the way things were before.'

'No,' Howden said, 'I can't either.'

'Well, then, wouldn't it be just the beginning of a swallowing-up process? Until we're part of the United States. Until all our independence has gone.' Even as she asked the question, Milly wondered: would it matter if it were true? What was independence, really, except an illusion which people talked about? No one was truly independent, or ever could be, and the same was true of nations. She wondered how Brian Richardson would feel; she would have liked to talk to him about it now.

'Possibly we shall be swallowed, or appear to be for a while,' Howden said slowly. 'It's also possible that after a war it might prove the other way around.' He paused, his long face brooding, then went on. 'Wars have a way of changing things, you know, Milly; of exhausting nations and reducing empires, and sometimes those who think they've won a war have really lost. Rome discovered that; so did a lot of others in their time: the Philistines, Greece, Spain, France, Britain. The same thing could happen to Russia or the United States; perhaps to both in the end, leaving Canada strongest.' He stopped, then added: 'A mistake people make sometimes is to assume that the great changes of history always occur in other lifetimes than their own.'

There was another thought too, unexpressed, in Howden's mind. A Canadian Prime Minister might easily have more influence in a joint relationship than under total independence. He could become an intermediary, with authority and power which could be fostered and enlarged. And in the end – if Howden himself were the one to wield it – the authority could be used for his own country's good. The important thing, the key to power, would be never to let the final thread of Canadian independence go.

'I realize it's important moving the missile bases north,' Milly said, 'and I know what you said about saving the food-producing land from fallout. But we're really heading directly into war; that's what it means, doesn't it?'

Should he confide-his own conviction about war's inevitability and the need to prepare for it in terms of survival? Howden decided not. It was an issue on which he would have to hedge publicly and he might as well practise now.

'We're choosing sides, Milly,' he said carefully, 'and we're doing it while the choice can still mean something. In a way, believing what we believe, it's the only choice we could ever make. But there's a temptation to put it off; to avoid a decision; to sit on our hands hoping unpalatable truths will go away.' He shook his head. 'But not any more.'

Tentatively she asked, 'Won't it be hard – convincing people?'

Fleetingly the Prime Minister smiled. 'I expect so. It may even make things somewhat hectic around this place.'

'In that case,' Milly said, 'I shall try to reduce them to order.' With the words, she felt a surge of affection and admiration for this man whom, over the years, she had seen achieve so much and now proposed to shoulder so much more. It was not the old, urgent feeling she had once experienced, but, in a deeper way, she wanted to protect and shield him. Satisfyingly, she had a sense of being needed.

James Howden said quietly, 'You've always reduced things to order, Milly. It's meant a great deal to me.' He put down the coffee cup – a signal the time-out period was over.

Forty-five minutes and three appointments later Milly ushered in the Hon Harvey Warrender.

'Sit down, please.' Howden's voice was cool.

The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration eased his tall, bulging figure into the seat facing the desk. He shifted uncomfortably.

'Look, Jim,' he said with an attempt at heartiness, 'if you've called me in to tell me I made a fool of myself the other night, let me say it first. I did, and I'm damn sorry.'

'Unfortunately,' Howden said acidly, 'it's somewhat late to be sorry. And aside from that, if you choose to behave like the -town drunk, a Governor General's reception is scarcely the place to begin. I assume you're aware that the whole story was around Ottawa next day.' He noted with disapproval that the suit the other man wore was in need of pressing.

Warrender avoided the Prime Minister's glowering eyes above the beaklike nose. He waved a hand self-deprecatingly. 'I know, I know.'

'I'd be entirely justified in demanding your resignation.'

'I hope you won't do that. Prime Minister. I sincerely hope you won't.' Harvey Warrender had leaned forward, the movement revealed beads of sweat on the balding surface of his head. Was there an implied threat in the phrasing and tone, Howden wondered? It was hard to be sure. 'If I may add a thought,' Warrender said softly, smiling – he had regained some of his usual confidence – 'it is graviora quaedam sunt remedia periculis, or freely translated from Virgil, "Some remedies are worse than the dangers."'

'There is also a line some place about the braying of an ass.' Howden snapped back angrily; the other man's classical quotations invariably annoyed him. Now the Prime Minister continued tight-lipped, 'I was about to say that I had decided to take no action beyond a warning. I suggest you don't provoke me into changing my mind.'

Warrender flushed, then shrugged. He murmured softly, 'The rest is silence.'

'The reason, principally, for calling you in is to talk about this latest immigration case in Vancouver. It appears to be the same kind of troublesome situation I insisted we avoid.'

'Aha!' Harvey Warrender's eyes gleamed with aroused interest. 'I've had a full report on that. Prime Minister, and I can tell you all about it.'

'I don't want to be told,' James Howden said impatiently. 'It's your job to run your own department and in any event I've more important things.' His eyes strayed to the open folders on inter-continental defence; he was anxious to get back to them. 'What I want is for the case to be settled out of the newspapers.'

Warrender's eyebrows went up. 'Aren't you being contradictory? In one breath you tell me to run my own department, then in the next to settle a case…'

Howden cut in angrily, 'I'm telling you to follow government policy – my policy: which is to avoid contentious immigration cases, particularly at this time, with an election next year and' – he hesitated – 'other things coming up. We went into all that the other night.' Then bitingly: 'Or perhaps you don't remember.'

'I wasn't all that drunk!' Now the anger was Harvey War-render's. 'I told you then what I thought of our so-called immigration policy, and it still goes. Either we get ourselves some new, honest immigration laws which admit what we're doing, and what every government before us…'

'Admit what?'

James Howden had risen and was standing behind the desk. Looking up at him Harvey Warrender said softly, intensely, 'Admit we have a policy of discrimination; and why not – it's our own country, isn't it? Admit we have a colour bar and race quotas, and we ban Negroes and Orientals, and that's the way it's always been, and why should we change it? Admit we want Anglo-Saxons and we need a pool of unemployed. Let's admit there's a strict quota for Italians and all the rest, and we keep an eye on the Roman Catholic percentage. Let's quit being fakers. Let's write an honest Immigration Act that spells things out the way they are. Let's quit having one face at the United Nations, hobnobbing with the coloureds, and another face at home…'

'Are you insane?' Incredulously, half-whispering, James Howden mouthed the question. His eyes were on Warrender. Of course, he thought, he had been given a clue: what had been said at the Government House reception… but he had assumed the effect of liquor… Then he remembered Margaret's words: I've sometimes thought that Harvey is just a little mad.

Harvey Warrender breathed heavily; his nostrils quivered. *No,' he answered, 'I'm not insane; just tired of damned hypocrisy.'

'Honesty is fine,' Howden said. His anger had dissipated now. 'But that kind is political suicide.'

'How do we know when nobody's tried it? How do we know people wouldn't like to be told what they already know?'

Quietly James Howden asked, 'What's your alternative?'

'You mean if we don't write a new Immigration Act?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'll enforce the one we have right down the line,' Harvey Warrender said firmly. 'I'll enforce it without exception or camouflage or back-door devices to keep unpleasant things out of the press. Maybe that'll show it up for what it is.'

'In that case,' James Howden said evenly, 'I'd like your resignation.'

The two men faced each other. 'Oh no,' Harvey Warrender said softly, 'oh no.'

There was a silence.

'I suggest you be explicit,' James Howden said. 'You've something on your mind?'

'I think you know.'

The Prime Minister's face was set, his eyes unyielding. ' "Explicit" was the word I used.'

'Very well, if that's what you wish.' Harvey Warrender had resumed his seat. Now, conversationally, as if discussing routine business, he said, 'We made an agreement.'

'That was a long time ago.'

'The agreement had no term to it.*

'Nevertheless it's been fulfilled.'

Harvey Warrender shook his head obstinately. 'The agreement had no term.' Fumbling in an inside pocket he pulled out a folded paper and tossed it on the Prime Minister's desk. 'Read for yourself and see.'

Reaching out, Howden felt his hand tremble. If this were the original, the only copy… It was a photostat.

For a moment his control left him. 'You fool!'

'Why?' The other's face was bland.

'You had a photostat…'

'No one knew what was being copied. Besides I stood there all the time, beside the machine.'

'Photostats have negatives.'

'I have the negative,' Warrender said calmly. 'I kept it in case I ever need more copies. The original is safe too.' He gestured. 'Why don't you read it? That's what we were talking about.'

Howden lowered his head and the words came up at him. They were simple, to the point, and in his own handwriting.

1. H. Warrender withdraws from leadership, will support J. Howden.

2. H. Warrender's nephew (H.O'B) to have-TV franchise.

3. H. Warrender in Howden Cabinet – to choose own portfolio (except Ext Affairs or Health). J.H. not to dismiss H.W. except for indiscretion, scandal. In latter event H.W. takes full respon, not involving J.H.

Then there was the date – nine years ago – and the scribbled initials of them both.

Harvey Warrender said quietly, 'You see – just as I said, the agreement has no term.'

'Harvey,' the Prime Minister said slowly, 'is it any good appealing to you? We've been friends…' His mind reeled. One copy, in a single reporter's hands, would be an instrument of execution. There could be no explaining, no manoeuvre, no political survival, only exposure, disgrace… His hands were sweating.

The other man shook his head. Howden was conscious of a wall… unreasoning, impregnable. He tried again. 'There's been the pound of flesh, Harvey; that and more. What now?'

'I'll tell you!' Warrender leaned near the desk, his voice a fierce, intense whisper. 'Let me stay; let me do something worth while to balance out. Maybe if we rewrite our immigration law and do it honestly – spelling out things the way we really do them – maybe then people will stir their consciences and want to change. Maybe the way we do things should be changed; perhaps it's change that's needed in the end. But we can't begin without being honest first.'

Perplexed, Howden shook his head. 'You're not making sense. I don't understand.'

'Then let me try to explain. You talked of a pound of flesh. Do you think I care about that part? Do you think I wouldn't go back and unmake that agreement of ours if it could be done? I tell you there've been nights, and plenty of them, when I've lain awake until the daylight came, loathing myself and the day I made it.'

'Why, Harvey?' Perhaps if they could talk this out it might help… anything might help…

'I sold out, didn't I?' Warrender spoke emotionally now. 'Sold out for a mess of pottage that wasn't worth the price. And I've wished a thousand times since that we could be in that convention hall again and I'd take my chances against you – the way they were.'

Howden said gently, 'I think I'd still have won, Harvey.' Momentarily he felt a deep compassion. Our sins revisit us, he thought – in one form or another, according to ourselves.

'I'm not so sure,' Warrender said slowly. His eyes came up. 'I've never been quite sure, Jim, that I couldn't have been here at this desk instead of you.'

So that was it, Howden thought: much as he had imagined, with an extra ingredient added. Conscience plus dreams of glory thwarted. It made a formidable combination. Warily he asked, 'Aren't you being inconsistent? In one breath you say you loathe the agreement we made, and yet you insist on hewing to its terms.'

'It's the good part that I want to salvage, and if I let you send me out I'm finished. That's why I'm holding on.' Harvey Warrender took out a handkerchief and wiped his head, which was perspiring freely. There was a pause, then he said more softly, 'Sometimes I think it might be better if we were exposed. We're both frauds – you and me. Perhaps that's a way of setting the record straight.'

This was dangerous. 'No,' Howden said quickly, 'there are better methods, believe me.' One thing he was sure of now:

Harvey Warrender was mentally unstable. He must be led;

coaxed, if necessary, like a child.

'Very well,' James Howden said, 'we'll forget the talk of resignation.'

'And the Immigration Act?'

'The act remains the way it is,' Howden said firmly. There was a limit to compromise, even here. 'What's more, I want something done about that situation in Vancouver.'

'I'll act by the law,' Warrender said. 'I'll look at it again; I promise you that. But by the law – exactly.'

Howden sighed. It would have to do. He nodded, signifying the interview was at an end.

When Warrender had gone he sat silently, weighing this new untimely problem thrust upon him. It would be a mistake, he decided, to minimize the threat to his own security. War-render's temperament had always been mercurial; now the instability was magnified.

Briefly he wondered how he could have done the thing he had… committed himself recklessly to paper when legal training and experience should have warned him of the danger. But ambition did strange things to a man, made him take risks, supreme risks sometimes, and others had done it too. Viewed across the years it seemed wild and unreasoning. And yet, at the time, with ambition driving, lacking a foreknowledge of things to come…

The safest thing, he supposed, was to leave Harvey War-render alone, at least for the time being. The wild talk of rewriting legislation posed no immediate problem. In any case it was not likely to find favour with Harvey's own deputy minister, and senior civil servants had a way of delaying measures they disagreed with. Nor could legislation be brought in without cabinet consent, though a direct clash between Harvey Warrender and others in Cabinet must be avoided.

So what it really came down to was doing nothing and hoping for the best – the old political panacea. Brian Richardson would not be pleased, of course; obviously the party director had expected swift, firm action, but it would be impossible to explain to Richardson why nothing could be done. In the same way, the Vancouver situation would have to simmer, with Howden himself obliged to back up Harvey Warrender in whatever ruling the Immigration Department made. Well, that part was unfortunate, but at least it was a small issue entailing the kind of minor-key criticism which the Government had ridden before, and no doubt they could survive it again.

The essential thing to remember, James Howden thought, was that preservation of his own leadership came first. So much depended on it, so much of the present and the future. He owed it to others to retain power. There was no one else at this moment who could replace him adequately.

Milly Freedeman came in softly. 'Lunch?' she queried in her low contralto voice. 'Would you like it here?'

'No,' he answered. 'I feel like a change of scene.'

Ten minutes later, in a well-cut black overcoat and Eden homburg, the Prime Minister strode briskly from the East Block towards the Peace Tower doorway and the Parliamentary Restaurant. It was a clear, cold day, the crisp air invigorating, with roadways and sidewalks – snow heaped at their edges – drying in the sun. He had a sense of well-being, and acknowledged cordially the respectful greetings of those he passed and the snapped salutes of RCMO guards. Already the Warrender incident had receded in his mind; there were so many other things of greater import.

Milly Freedeman, as she did on most days, had coffee and a sandwich sent in. Afterwards she went into the Prime Minister's office taking a sheaf of memoranda from which she had pruned non-urgent matters that could wait. She left the papers in an 'in' tray on the desk. Its surface was untidily paper-strewn but Milly made no attempt to clear it, aware that in the middle of the day James Howden preferred to find things as he had left them. A plain, single sheet of paper, however, caught her eye. Turning it over curiously she saw it was a photostat.

It took two readings for the full meaning to sink in. When it had, Milly found herself trembling at the awful significance of the paper she held. It explained many things which over the years she had never understood: the convention… the Howden victory… her own loss.

The paper could also, she knew, spell the end of two political careers.

Why was it here? Obviously it had been discussed… today… in the meeting between the Prime Minister and Harvey Warrender. But why? What could either gain? And where was the original?… Her thoughts were racing. The questions frightened her. She wished she had left the paper unturned; that she had never known. And yet…

Suddenly, she experienced a fierce surge of anger against James Howden. How could he have done it? When there had been so much between them; when they could have shared happiness, a future together, if only he had lost the leadership… lost at the convention. She asked herself emotionally: Why didn't he play it fair?… at least leave her a chance to win? But she knew there had never been a chance…

Then, almost as suddenly as before, the anger was gone and sorrow and compassion took its place. What Howden had done, Milly knew, had been done because he had to. The need for power, for vanquished rivals, for political success… these had been all-consuming. Beside them, a personal life… even love… had counted for nothing. It had always been true: there had never been a chance…

But there were practical things to think of.

Milly stopped, willing herself to think calmly. Plainly there was a threat to the Prime Minister and perhaps to others. But James Howden was all that mattered to herself… there was a sense of the past returning. And only this morning, she remembered she had resolved to protect and shield him. But how could she… using this knowledge… knowledge she was certain that no one else possessed, probably not even Margaret Howden. Yes, in this she had at last become closer to James Howden even than his wife.

There was no immediate thing to do. But perhaps an opportunity might come. Sometimes blackmail could be turned against blackmail. The thought was vague, ephemeral… like groping in the dark. But if it happened… if an opportunity came… she must be able to substantiate what she knew.

Milly glanced at her watch. She knew Howden's habits well. It would be another half hour before he returned. No one else was in the outer office.

Acting on impulse she took the photostat to the copying machine outside. Working quickly, her heart beating at a footfall which approached, then passed, she put the photostat through. The copy which came out – a reproduction of a reproduction – was of poor quality and blurred, but clear enough to read, and the handwriting unmistakable. Hastily she folded the extra copy and crammed it to the bottom of her bag. She returned the photostat, face down, as she had found it.

Later in the afternoon James Howden turned the single sheet over and blanched. He had forgotten it was there. If he had left it overnight… He glanced at the outside door. Milly? No; it was a long-standing rule that his desk was never disturbed at midday. He took the photostat into the toilet adjoining his office. Shredding the paper into tiny pieces, he flushed them down, watching until all had gone.

Chapter 3

Harvey Warrender reclined comfortably, a slight smile on his face, in the chauffeur-driven pool car which returned him to the Ministry of Citizenship and Immigration on Elgin Street. Alighting from the car, he entered the boxlike brown brick building, breasting a tide of office workers headed outward in a hasty lunchtime exit. He rode an elevator to the fifth floor and entered his own office suite through a direct door. Then, throwing overcoat, scarf, and hat carelessly over a chair, he crossed to his desk and pressed the intercom switch connecting him directly to the department's deputy minister.

'Mr Hess,' Harvey Warrender said, 'if you're free, could you come in, please.'

There was an equally polite acknowledgement, after which he waited. It always took a few minutes for the deputy minister to arrive; his office, though on the same floor, was some distance away, perhaps as a reminder that the administrative head of a ministry should not be sent for lightly or too often.

Harvey Warrender paced the room's deep broadloom slowly and thoughtfully. He still had a sense of elation from his encounter with the Prime Minister. Without any question, he thought, he had come off best, turning what could have been a reverse, or worse, into a clear-cut victory for himself. Moreover, the relationship between the two of them had now been clearly and sharply redefined.

Succeeding the elation came a glow of satisfaction and possession. This was where he belonged: in authority; if not at the pinnacle, then at least in a secondary throne of power. A well-upholstered throne, too, he reflected, glancing around with satisfaction, as he often did. The personal office suite of the Minister of Immigration was the most lavish in Ottawa, having been designed and furnished at large expense by a female predecessor – one of the few women in Canada ever to hold cabinet rank. On taking office himself, he had left the place as he found it – the deep grey carpet, pale grey drapes, a comfortable mixture of English period furniture – and visitors were invariably impressed. It was so very different from the Chilly college cubbyhole in which he had toiled unrewardingly years before and, despite the stirrings of conscience he had confessed to James Howden, he had to admit it would be hard to relinquish the bodily comforts which rank and financial success provided.

The thought of Howden reminded him of his own promise to re-examine the tiresome Vancouver affair and to act precisely by existing law. And he would keep the promise. He was determined there should be no blundering or error in that direction for which Howden or others could blame him later.

A tap at the door, and his own secretary ushered in the deputy minister, Claude Hess, a portly career civil servant who dressed like a prosperous undertaker and sometimes had the pontifical manner to match.

'Good morning, Mr Minister,' Hess said. As always, the deputy managed to combine a judicious mixture of respect and familiarity, though somehow conveying that he had seen elected ministers come and go, and would still be exercising his own power when the present incumbent had moved on.

'I was with the PM,' Warrender said. 'On the carpet.' He had formed the habit of speaking frankly to. Hess, having found it paid off in the shrewd advice he often got in return. On this basis, and pardy because Harvey Warrender had been Immigration Minister through two terms of the Government, their relationship worked well.

The deputy's face assumed a commiserating expression. 'I see,' he said. He had, of course, already received through the higher civil-service grapevine a detailed description of the brawl at Government House, but discreetly refrained from mentioning it.

'One of his beefs,' Harvey said, 'was about the Vancouver business. Some people it seems don't like our keeping to the rules.'

The deputy minister sighed audibly. He had grown used to retreats and back-door dodges by which immigration laws were subverted to political ends. But the Minister's next remark surprised him.

'I told the PM we wouldn't back down,' Warrender said. 'Either that or we revise the Immigration Act and do what we have to do above board.'

The deputy asked tentatively, 'And Mr Howden…'

'We've a free hand,' Warrender said shortly. 'I've agreed to review the case, but after that we handle it our way.'

'That's very good news.' Hess put down a file he had been carrying and the two men lowered themselves into facing chairs. Not for the first time the pudgy deputy speculated on the relationship between his own Minister and the Rt Hon James McCallum Howden. Obviously some kind of special rapport existed, since Harvey Warrender had always seemed to have an unusual degree of freedom, compared with other members of the Cabinet. It was a circumstance, though, not to be quarrelled with and had made possible the translation of some of the deputy minister's own. policies into reality. Outsiders, Claude Hess reflected, sometimes thought that policy was the sole prerogative of elected representatives. But to a surprising degree the process of government consisted of elected representatives putting into law the ideas of an elite corps of deputy ministers.

Pursing his lips, Hess said thoughtfully, 'I hope you weren't serious about revising the Immigration Act, Mr Minister. On the whole it's good law.'

'Naturally you'd think so,' Warrender said shortly. 'You wrote it in the first place.'

'Well, I must admit to a certain parental fondness…'

'I don't agree with all your ideas about population,' Harvey Warrender said. 'You know that, don't you?'

The deputy smiled. 'In the course of our relationship I have gathered something of the kind. But, if I may say so, you are, at the same time, a realist.'

'If you mean I don't want Canada swamped by Chinese and Negroes, you're right,' Warrender said tersely. He went on, more slowly, 'All the same though, I sometimes wonder. We're sitting on four million square miles of some of the richest real estate in the world, we're under-populated, underdeveloped; and the earth is teeming with people, seeking sanctuary, a new home…'

'Nothing would be. solved,' Hess said primly, 'by opening our doors wide to all comers.'

'Not for us, perhaps, but what about the rest of the world – the wars which may happen again if there isn't an outlet for population expansion somewhere?'

'It would be a high price to pay, I think, for eventualities which may never occur.' Claude Hess folded one leg over another, adjusting the crease in his faultlessly tailored trousers. 'I take the view, Mr Minister – as you are aware, of course – that Canada's influence in world affairs can be far greater as we are, with our present balance of population, than by allowing ourselves to be overrun by less desirable races.'

'In other words,' Harvey Warrender said softly, 'let's hang on to the privileges we were lucky enough to be born to.'

The deputy smiled faintly. 'As I said a moment ago, we are both realists.'

'Well, maybe you're right.' Harvey Warrender drummed his fingers on the desk. 'There are some things I've never really made up my mind about, and that's one. But one thing I am sure of, is that the.people of this country are responsible for our immigration laws, and they should be made to realize it, and they'll never realize it while we shift and waver. That's why we'll enforce the act right down the line – no matter which way it reads as long as I'm sitting in this chair.'

'Bravo!' The pudgy deputy mouthed the word slowly. He was smiling.

There was a pause between them in which Harvey War-render's eyes moved up to a point above the deputy's head. Without turning, Hess knew what it was the Minister saw: a portrait in oils of a young man, in Royal Canadian Air Force uniform. It had been painted from a photograph after the death in action of Harvey Warrender's son. Many times before in this room Claude Hess had seen the father's eyes straying to the picture, and sometimes they had spoken of it.

Now Warrender said, as if recognizing the other's awareness, 'I often think about my son, you know.'

Hess nodded slowly. It was not a new opening and sometimes he sidestepped it. Today he decided to reply.

'I never had a son,' Hess said. 'Just daughters. We've a good relationship, but I've always thought there must be something special between a father and son.'

'There is,' Harvey Warrender said. 'There is, and it never quite dies – not for me, anyway.' He went on, his voice warming. 'I think so many times of what my son Howard could have been. He was a splendid boy, always with the finest courage. That was his outstanding feature – courage; and in the end he died heroically. I've often told myself I've that to be proud of.'

The deputy wondered if heroism were the kind of thing he would remember a son of his own by. But the Minister had said much the same thing before, to others as well as himself, seeming unaware of repetition. Sometimes Harvey Warrender would describe in graphic detail the blazing air battle in which his son had died until it was hard to be sure where sorrow ended and hero worship began. At times there had been comments around Ottawa on the subject, though most of them charitable. Grief did strange things, Claude Hess thought, even sometimes producing a parody of grief. He was glad when his superior's tone became more businesslike.

'All right,' Warrender said, 'let's talk about this Vancouver thing. One thing I want to be sure of is that we're absolutely in the clear legally. That's important.'

'Yes, I know.' Hess nodded sagely, then touched the file he had brought in. 'I've gone over the reports again, sir, and I'm sure there's nothing you need worry about. Only one thing concerns me a little.'

'The publicity?'

'No; I think you'll have to expect that.' Actually the publicity had bothered Hess, who had been convinced that political pressure would cause the Government to back down on enforcement of the Immigration Act, as had happened many times before. Apparently, though, he had been wrong. Now he continued, 'What I was thinking is that we don't have a senior man in Vancouver right now. Williamson, our district superintendent, is on sick leave and it may be several months before he's back, if at all.'

'Yes,' Warrender said. He lit a cigarette, offering one to the deputy minister, who accepted it. 'I remember now.'

'In the ordinary way I wouldn't get concerned; but if the pressure builds up, as it may, I'd like to have someone out there I can rely on personally, and who can handle the Press.'

'I presume you've something in mind.'

'Yes.' Hess had been thinking quickly. The decision to stand firm had pleased him. Warrender was eccentric at times, but Hess believed in loyalty, and now he must protect his Minister's position in every way possible. He said thoughtfully, 'I could shuffle some responsibilities here and relieve one of my deputy directors. Then he could take charge in Vancouver -ostensibly until we know about Williamson, but actually to handle this specific case.'

'I agree.' Warrender nodded vigorously. 'Who do you think should go?'

The deputy minister exhaled cigarette smoke. He was smiling slightly. 'Kramer,' he said slowly. 'With your approval, sir, I'll send Edgar Kramer.'

Chapter 4

In her apartment, restlessly, Milly Freedeman reviewed once more the events of the day. Why had she copied the photostat? What could she do with it, if anything? Where did her loyalty really lie?

She wished there could be an end to the conniving and manoeuvres in which she was obliged to share. As she had a day or two before, she considered leaving politics, abandoning James Howden, and beginning something new. She wondered if somewhere, anywhere, among any group of people, there was a sanctuary where intrigue never happened. On the whole, she doubted it.

The telephone's ringing was an interruption. 'Milly,' Brian Richardson's voice said briskly, 'Raoul Lemieux – he's a deputy in Trade and Commerce and a friend of mine – is starting a party. We're both invited. How about it?' '

Milly's heart leapt. She asked impulsively, 'Will it be gay?' The party director chuckled. 'Raoul's parties usually get that way.' 'Noisy?'

'Last time,' Richardson said, 'the neighbours called the police.'

'Does he have music? Can we dance?'

'There's a stack of records; at Raoul's, anything goes.'

'I'll come,' Milly said. 'Oh, please; I'll come.' 'I'll pick you up in half an hour.' His voice sounded amused. She said impetuously, 'Thank you, Brian; thank you.' 'You can thank me later.' There was a click as the line went dead.

She knew just the dress that she would wear; it was crimson chiffon, a low-cut neck. Excitedly, with a feeling of release, she kicked her shoes across the living-room.