'About being flexible,' Sharon said, 'the other day I was beginning to wonder. Where to?'
'Back to the office, I guess. There's some swearing I have to do.'
'Why not here? I know most of the words.'
He grinned. 'Let's not go through the dumb-brunette routine. I know better.'
She turned her head. Her lips were red, full, and slightly parted in a humorous bow. He was conscious again of the petite elfin quality.
'All right, so it's some sort of legal thing.' She returned her eyes to the road. They took a corner sharply and he was jolted against her. The contact was pleasant.
'It's an affidavit,' he told her.
'If it doesn't offend your stuffy old rules to tell me,' Sharon said, 'how is it all going? The man on the ship, I mean.'
'I'm not sure yet,' Alan said seriously. 'The Immigration people turned us down, but we expected that.'
'And then?'
'Something happened today… just now. It might turn out that there's a chance – just a remote one – we can get the case into court.'
'Would that help?'
'It might not, of course.' Sharon's question was one he had already asked himself. But with this kind of problem you could take only one step at a time and hope for the best after that.
'Why do you want to go into court if it might not help?' They swung through traffic, accelerating to beat a light already changed to amber. In the intersecting street, brakes squealed. 'Did you see that bus?' Sharon said. 'I thought it was going to hit us.' They made a sharp turn, left then right, around a halted milk truck, barely missing its driver. 'You were talking about getting into court.'
'There are different ways,' Alan said, swallowing, 'and different kinds of courts. Could we go a little slower?'
Obligingly Sharon slowed from forty to thirty-five. 'Tell me about the court.'
'You can never know in advance just what's going to come out in evidence,' Alan said. 'Sometimes there are things you'd never get to hear of otherwise. Points of law, too. And in this case there's another reason.'
'Go on,' Sharon urged. 'It's exciting.' Their speed, Alan noticed, had crept up again to forty.
'Well,' he explained, 'whatever we do, we've nothing to lose. And the longer we keep things stirred up, the better chance there is that the Government will change its mind and give Henri the chance to be an immigrant.'
'I don't know if Granddaddy would like that,' Sharon said thoughtfully. 'He hopes to make it a big political issue, and if the Government gave in there wouldn't be anything left to argue about.'
'Frankly,' Alan said, 'I don't give a damn what Granddaddy wants. I'm more interested in what I can do for Henri.'
There was a silence. Then Sharon said, 'You called him by his first name – twice. Do you like him?'
'Yes, I do,' Alan said. He found he was speaking with conviction. 'He's a nice little guy who's had it rough all his life. I don't think he'll ever be president of anything, or amount, to very much, but I'd like to see him get a decent break. If he does, it'll be the first he's ever had.'
Sharon glanced sideways at Alan's profile then returned her eyes to the road. After a moment she asked, 'Do you know something?'
'No. Tell me.'
'If I were ever in trouble,' she said, 'you're the one, Alan, I'd like to have help me.'
'We're in trouble now,' he said. 'Will you let me drive?'
Their tyres squealed. The MG slid to a halt. 'Why?' Sharon asked innocently. 'We're here.'
The mixed odour of pizza and spaghetti sauce was unmistakable.
Within the office Tom Lewis was reading the Mainland edition of the Vancouver Post. He put down the paper as they came in. 'The Law Society will disbar you, of course,' he announced. 'After a public unfrocking, no doubt, in Stanley Park. You did know the rules about advertising?'
'Let me see,' Alan said. He took the paper. 'I just said what I thought. At the time I was a bit peeved.'
'That,' Tom said, 'comes through with remarkable clarity.'
'My God!' Alan had the front page spread out, Sharon beside him. 'I didn't think it would be like this.'
'It's been on the radio, too,' Tom informed him.
'But I thought it would be mostly Duval…'
'To be perfectly honest,' Tom said, 'I am bright chartreuse with envy. Somehow, without even trying, you seem to have corralled the outstanding case, a hero's publicity, and now, it seems…'
'Oh, I forgot,' Alan interjected. 'This is Sharon Deveraux.'
'I know,' Tom said. 'I was just getting to her.'
Sharon's eyes sparkled with amusement. 'After all, Mr Lewis, you are mentioned in the newspaper. It says quite distinctly Lewis and Maitland.'
'For that crumb, I shall be eternally grateful.' Tom put on his coat. 'Oh, by the way, I'm off to see a new client. He has a fish store and, I gather, a problem about his lease. Unfortunately he has no one to mind the store so I must go to the fish. You wouldn't like a nice cod cutlet for supper?'
'Not tonight, thanks.' Alan shook his head. 'I'm planning to take Sharon out.'
'Yes,' Tom said. 'I somehow thought you would.'
When they were alone, 'I'll have to work on the affidavit,' Alan observed. 'It "has to be ready, so I can appear before a judge tomorrow.'
'Could I help?' Sharon asked. She smiled at him, the dimple coming and going. 'I can type too.'
'Come with me,' Alan said. He took her by the hand into his glass-panelled cubicle.
Part 9 General Adrian Nesbitson
Chapter 1
The entire Cabinet, with the exception of three ministers who were away from Ottawa, had come to Uplands Airport to witness the departure of the Prime Minister's party for Washington. This was not unusual. Early in his regime James Howden had allowed it to be known that he liked to be seen off and met, not merely by one or two of his ministers, but by the entire group. And this applied, not just on special occasions, but to all his journeys in and out of the capital.
Among cabinet members the process had become known familiarly as 'the line-up'. Occasionally there was mild grumbling and, once, word of it had reached James Howden's ears. But his own attitude – defined to Brian Richardson, who had reported the complaints – was that the occasions were a demonstration of party and government solidarity, and the party director agreed. Not mentioned by the Prime Minister was a boyhood memory he sometimes even now recalled.
Long ago, young James Howden had journeyed from his orphanage to school to Edmonton, three hundred and fifty miles distant, where he was to write examinations for entry to the University of Alberta. He had been provided with a return train ticket and set off alone. Three days later, brimming with a success he desperately needed to share, he had returned – to an empty railway station, with no one to meet him. In the end, carrying his cardboard suitcase, he had had to walk to the orphanage three miles out of town, his first flush of excitement evaporating along the way. Ever after, he had shrunk from beginning or ending a journey alone.
There would be no aloneness today. Others, in addition to the Cabinet, had come to the airport, and from the rear seat of the chauffeur-driven Oldsmobile, with Margaret beside him, James Howden observed the chiefs of staff – Army, Navy, and Air Force, in uniform, with aides – as well as the Mayor of Ottawa, the RCMP Commissioner, several chairmen of Government boards, and discreetly in rear. His Excellency Phillip B. Angrove, US Ambassador. In a separate group were the inevitable cluster of reporters and photographers and, with them, Brian Richardson and Milly Freedeman.
'Good heavens!' Margaret whispered. 'You'd think we were going to China as missionaries.'
'I know,' he answered. 'It's a nuisance, but people seem to expect this sort of thing.'
'Don't be silly,' Margaret said softly. Her hand touched his. 'You love it all, and there's no reason you shouldn't.'
The limousine swung in a wide arc across the airport ramp, halting smoothly near the VIP Vanguard, its fuselage gleaming in the morning sunshine, the RCAF crew drawn up at attention alongside. An RCMP constable opened the car door and Margaret alighted, James Howden following. The military and police snapped to salutes and the Prime Minister raised the new pearl-grey homburg which Margaret had brought him back from her shopping trip in Montreal. There was an air of expectancy among those waiting, he thought; or perhaps it was the sharp, cold wind sweeping across the airport runways which made faces seem tense. He wondered about secrecy – whether it had been preserved, or if there had been leakage, with hints of the true importance' of today's journey.
Stuart Cawston stepped forward, beaming. Smiling Stu, as the senior member of Cabinet, would be Acting Prime Minister in Howden's absence. 'Greetings, sir – and Margaret,' the Finance Minister said. Then, as they shook hands, 'We are, as you see, a sizeable cheering section.'
'Where are the massed bands?' Margaret asked irreverently. 'It seems the only thing missing.'
'It's supposed to be a secret,' Cawston answered lightly, 'but we flew them ahead to Washington disguised as US Marines. So if you see any, assume they're ours.' He touched the Prime Minister's arm. His face becoming serious, he asked, 'Is there any further word – proof or disproof?'
James Howden shook his head. There was no need for explanations; the question was one which the world had been asking ever since, forty-eight hours earlier, Moscow had trumpeted the destruction of a US nuclear submarine, the Defiant, in the East Siberian Sea. According to the Russian claim -which Washington had since denied – the submarine had encroached on Soviet territorial waters. The incident had brought to an apparent peak mounting world tensions of the past few weeks.
'There can't possibly be any proof, not now,' Howden said softly. The welcoming group waited as he spoke earnestly to Cawston. 'I believe it's a calculated act of provocation and we should resist any temptation to retaliate. I intend to urge that on the White House because we still need time – as much as we can get.'
'I agree,' Cawston said quietly.
'I've ruled against any statement or protest ourselves,' the Prime Minister said, 'and you must understand there's to be none unless Arthur and I decide in Washington, and in that case it'll be from there. Is that clear?'
'Quite clear,' Cawston said. 'Frankly I'm glad it's you and Arthur, and not me.'
They returned to the waiting group and James Howden began to shake hands. At the same time the other three cabinet members who would accompany him on the flight – Arthur Lexington, Adrian Nesbitson, and Styles Bracken of Trade and Commerce – fell in behind.
Adrian Nesbitson looked a good deal healthier, Howden thought, than the last time they had met. The old warrior, pink cheeked and tightly cocooned in woollen scarf, fur hat, and heavy overcoat, had a touch of his parade-ground manner and was obviously enjoying the occasion, as he did all ceremonial. They must talk during the flight, Howden realized there had been no opportunity since the Defence Committee meeting and it was essential, somehow, to bring the old man into line. Even though Nesbitson would not participate directly in the Presidential talks, there must be no apparent dissension within the Canadian group.
Behind Nesbitson, Arthur Lexington wore the casual air becoming an External Affairs Minister to whom travel anywhere in the world was routine business. Seemingly unbothered by the cold, he had on a soft felt hat and light topcoat, his customary bow tie visible beneath. Bracken, the Trade and Commerce Minister, a wealthy westerner who had joined the Cabinet only a few months earlier, was being taken along- for appearance's sake, since trade was supposed to be the main topic in the Washington talks.