In High Places

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'They just went in.'

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

'What blow-up?'

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

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

'That's the word around town.'

'But why Mr Warrender?'

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

'What?'

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

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

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

'What kind of trouble?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Will do.'

'And Milly.'

'Yes.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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