Murder at the Opera

TWENTY-THREE

Arthur and Pamela Montgomery, president of the United States and first lady, returned to their living quarters in the White House after having hosted a state dinner for Canada’s prime minister. The first couple enjoyed such events. President Montgomery was a gregarious host who took pleasure in bantering with guests, especially peers from other nations. His wife was equally at ease with a roomful of strangers. Her social secretary was adept at preparing a talking points list for the couple prior to social affairs, complete with a dossier on each guest that included special interests to be woven into conversations. The White House hadn’t had as smooth and erudite a couple in decades, or one as good-looking. Montgomery was movie-star handsome, his wife possessing the sort of quiet, staunch beauty that graced films in the forties and fifties. A formidable pair.

The evening featured Canadian whiskey (a martini for the president) and Canadian wines from its Okanagan Valley, a 2002 Township Chardonnay, and 2001 red Jackson-Triggs Grand Reserve Meritage. A Canadian wine expert was on hand to discuss the merits of the wines: “Because the wines are produced in a cooler climate, they tend to be lighter and fruitier, whereas hotter regions produce less fruity, heavier wines.” Whether that was true or not, the first lady proclaimed them delightful, which was good enough for other wine drinkers at the black-tie affair, who perhaps thought otherwise.

The cocktail hour was to begin at seven. But at six, the president and Prime Minister Bruce Colmes met in a hastily scheduled session in a small room off the family quarters, a meeting arranged at the last minute by their staffs.

“I appreciate you taking the time to meet like this on the spur of the moment,” Montgomery said to his counterpart.

“No inconvenience,” Colmes said. “I’m here at the White House anyway, thanks to your hospitality, Arthur. Let’s just say that this lovely evening has started a little earlier.”

Colmes was a large, rough-hewn man with red cheeks, a shock of red hair, and the beefy, calloused hands of a working man, which he wasn’t except for well-publicized outdoor chores on his ranch when on vacation. He wore his tuxedo like a sack.

These two governmental leaders had forged an easy, comfortable relationship since taking office, and enjoyed a first-name relationship when out of the public eye. Roughly the same age-Colmes was a few years younger than Montgomery but looked older-they shared, but only in private moments like this, a reasoned, albeit cynical view of politics, politicians, political consultants, political commentators, political pundits, political bosses, and everything else to which they’d successfully devoted their adult lives. Their bond, of course, was strengthened by the geographical and cultural boundaries of their two nations.

“The family is good?” Montgomery asked.

“Very much so,” Colmes replied. “Yours?”

“Fine. Our youngest son is giving us a hard time, but that’s just his hormones erupting. He hates living here in the White House, but someday he’ll look back and appreciate the experience, probably by writing a scathing exposé of my administration. I’m sure you’re aware, Bruce, that our press has been making hay out of the tragic murder of your young opera singer from Toronto.”

“I’ve been kept abreast,” Colmes said, his sizable frame filling a crimson armchair. “The spotlight seems to be focused on another of our citizens, also a student at your opera school.”

Montgomery, who consumed less of the matching chair, nodded. “I’ve had some briefings on the case from our Justice Department. One thing we don’t need is for the press to make an international incident out of it.”

Colmes laughed heartily. “They are capable of that, aren’t they? Before we know it, one of your television commentators will find something untoward about our meeting like this before the dinner.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. I do want you to know that our local police are doing everything possible to find the murderer and bring him to justice. I’m told the young lady was quite a promising singer.”

“My understanding, too. You enjoy opera, don’t you, Arthur?”

“Yes, I do, not to the extent Pamela does, but I respond to the spectacle onstage, the incredible voices, the drama of it all. It’s a little like politics, I suppose.”

“I’ve never developed a taste,” Colmes said. “I prefer country-and-western music. At least I like the voters to believe that’s my musical choice. The common man and all.”

“That was the problem with Adlai Stevenson when he twice ran for president,” Montgomery said. “Maybe if he’d played the fiddle, he would have done better.”

“I’m sure he would have,” Colmes said, eliciting a smile from the president, who was well aware that his Canadian counterpart was a lot more sophisticated than he let on.

Montgomery checked his watch. “Let’s get to the meat of this little get-together, Bruce. My intelligence people tell me that this latest al-Qaeda threat has what they’re terming ‘a Canadian connection.’ What the hell is that all about?”

“We’re trying to ascertain the same thing on our end,” Colmes said. “Our people have been in close contact with your intelligence agencies, unlike the way your FBI and CIA function together.”

“We’re getting better at it,” Montgomery said, knowing that the jibe was without barbs. They’d discussed this subject on earlier occasions.

“So I hear. I was briefed on the situation this morning before coming to Washington. It’s the considered opinion of our intelligence that al-Qaeda has decided to forgo large, bigger-than-life strikes, as happened on your nine-eleven, and concentrate on smaller but symbolic targets-namely, people like you, Arthur.”

“I should be flattered.”

“And concerned.”

“The president is always a target. History proves that. Goes with the job. Security is good around here, and has been enhanced since the latest raising of the threat level.”

“Still.”

“I know, I know. If someone really wants to get you, they probably will. But I’m not concerned. Have they named me specifically?”

“What do your people say?”

“Nothing so specific, except…”

“Except that the threat might come by way of Canada,” Colmes said.

“That’s what I’m told,” the president said. “Makes me wonder whether an assassin will come riding into the White House wearing a red Mountie uniform and pronouncing ‘roof’ funny.”

“Pronouncing it differently, Arthur. Differently.”

Montgomery laughed. “I stand corrected.”

“Obviously,” Colmes said, “we need more specifics. Hopefully, there’ll be additional intelligence to provide it. Right now, all your people and ours know is that al-Qaeda plans to assassinate high-profile leaders here in the States rather than attempt to hijack airplanes again. I suppose they could coordinate such an attack for maximum impact-you know, target a dozen government leaders for a simultaneous strike, one or two of your governors here or there, a few of your senators, a cabinet member.” He hesitated. “The children of a prominent figure.”

Montgomery’s eyes narrowed and his jaw worked. That same scenario had been presented to him only a few days earlier during an intelligence briefing, a what-if? exercise, one of three offered by his briefers.

“The British have been helpful,” Montgomery said.

“They sometimes are,” Colmes said.

“Our Homeland Security people have been briefed by British go-betweens,” Montgomery said. “The border with you has been beefed up. In the meantime, life goes on.”

“As it must. I want you to know that we’re doing everything we possibly can to ferret out potential assassins from our Muslim population. That’s what makes it so damn difficult, distinguishing madmen from good, decent, law-abiding Arab folks. They’re good at assimilating into those communities.”

Montgomery stood and checked his bow tie in a mirror. “We’re making an interesting, and possibly fatal, assumption, Bruce,” he said.

“Which is?”

“That these assassins, if they exist and this plan exists, are of Arab extraction. I’m sure you have as many homegrown nuts in Canada as we do here in the States.”

“Sometimes I think we have even more,” Colmes said, rising from his chair and slapping Montgomery on the back. “In the meantime, Mr. President, our better halves await us. And if you insist on having your usual martini when so much excellent Canadian whiskey and wine is available, the press will have another sinister plot to conjure.”