In High Places

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.'