In High Places

As always, Richardson's sparsely furnished office was stiflingly hot. On two walls, steam radiators, turned fully on, bubbled like simmering kettles. Although only mid-afternoon, the Venetian blinds had been lowered and shabby drapes drawn to circumvent draughts through the leaky windows of the decrepit building. Unfortunately it also had the effect of blocking out fresh air.

Outside, where a bitter blanket of arctic air had gripped

Ottawa and all Ontario since Sunday morning, the temperature was five below zero. Inside, according to a desk thermometer, it was seventy-eight, There were beads of perspiration on the young man's forehead. Richardson rearranged his heavy, broad-shouldered figure in the leather swivel chair. 'Well?' he asked. '

'I have what you wanted,' the young man said quietly. He placed a large manila envelope in the centre of the desk. The envelope was imprinted 'Department of National Defence'.

'Good work.' Brian Richardson had a sense of rising excitement. Had a hunch, a long shot, paid off? Had he remembered accurately a chance remark – a fleeting innuendo, no more -uttered long ago at a cocktail party by a man whose name he had never known? It must have been all of fifteen years ago, perhaps even twenty… long before his own connexion with the party… long before James Howden and Harvey Warrender were anything more to him than names in newspapers. That far back, people, places, meanings – all became distorted. And even if they were not, the original allegation might never have been true. He could, he thought, so easily be wrong.

'You'd better relax for a while,' Richardson suggested. 'Smoke if you like.'

The young man took out a thin gold cigarette case, tapped both ends of a cigarette, and lit it with a tiny flame which sprang from a corner of the case. As an afterthought he reopened the case and offered it to the party director.

'No thanks.' Richardson had already fumbled for a tobacco tin in a lower drawer of the desk. He filled his pipe and lit it before opening the envelope and removing a slim green file. When the pipe was drawing, he began to read.

He read silently for fifteen minutes. At the end of ten he knew he had what he needed. A hunch had been right; the long shot had paid off.

Closing the file, he told the young man with the tortoise-shell glasses, 'I shall need this for twenty-four hours.'

Without speaking, his lips tightly compressed, the other nodded.

Richardson touched the closed file. 'I suppose you know what's in here.'

'Yes, I read it.' Two spots of colour came into the young man's cheeks. 'And I'd like to say that if you make use of any of it, in any way whatever, you're a lower and dirtier bastard even than I thought you were.'

For an instant the party director's normally ruddy cheeks flushed deep red. His blue eyes went steely. Then, visibly, the anger passed. He said quietly, 'I like your spirit. But I can only tell you that once in a while it becomes essential that someone gets down in the dirt, much as he may dislike doing it.'

There was no response.

'Now,' Richardson said, 'it's time to talk about you.' He reached into a file tray, thumbed through some papers and selected two sheets clipped together. When he had glanced through them he asked, 'You know where Fallingbrook is?'

'Yes, northwest Ontario.'

Richardson nodded. 'I suggest you start finding out all you can about it: the area, local people – I'll help you there -economics, history, all the rest. The riding's been represented by Hal Tedesco for twenty years. He's retiring at the next election, though it hasn't been announced yet. Fallingbrook is a good safe seat and the Prime Minister will be recommending you as a party candidate.'

'Well,' the young man said grudgingly, 'you certainly don't waste any time.'

Richardson said crisply, 'We made a deal. You kept your part, so now I'm keeping mine.' Pointing to the file on his desk, he added, 'I'll get this back to you tomorrow.'

The young man hesitated. He said uncertainly, 'I don't quite know what to say.'

'Don't say anything,' Richardson advised. For the first time in their interview he grinned. 'That's half the trouble with politics: too many people saying too much.'

Half an hour later, when he had read the file again, this time more thoroughly, he picked up one of the two telephones on his desk. It was a direct outgoing line and he dialled the Government exchange, then asked for the Department of Immigration. After another operator and two secretaries, he reached the minister.

Harvey Warrender's voice boomed down the phone. 'What can I do for you?'

'I'd like to see you, Mr Minister.' With most Cabinet members Brian Richardson was on first name terms. Warrender was one of the few exceptions.

'I'm free for an hour now,' Harvey Warrender said, 'if you want to come round.'

Richardson hesitated. 'I'd rather not do that if you don't mind. What I want to talk about is rather personal. Actually, I wondered if I could come to your house tonight. Say eight o'clock.'

The minister insisted, 'We can be plenty private in my office.'

The party director replied patiently, 'I'd still prefer to come to your house.'

It was obvious that Harvey Warrender disliked being crossed. He announced grumblingly, 'Can't say I like all the mysterioso. What's it all about?'

'As I said, it's rather personal. I think you'll agree tonight that we shouldn't discuss it on the phone.'

'Look here, if it's about that son-of-a-bitch stowaway…'

Richardson cut in, 'It isn't about that.' At least, he thought, not directly. Only indirectly, through a vicious pattern of duplicity which, innocently enough, the stowaway had started.

'Very well, then,' the Immigration Minister conceded disagreeably. 'If you must, come to my house. I'll expect you at eight o'clock.'

There was a click as he hung up.

Chapter 2

The residence of the Hon Harvey Warrender was an impressive two-storey house in Rockliffe Park Village, northeast of Ottawa. A few minutes after eight the party director watched the headlights of his Jaguar pick out the winding, tree-lined boulevards of the Village, once known more prosaically as McKay's Bush, and now the elegant, exclusive habitat of the capital's elite.

The Warrender house, which Richardson reached after a few minutes more of driving, was built on a large landscaped and wooded lot, approached by a long crescent-shaped driveway. The house itself, strikingly fronted with cut stone, had white double entrance doors, flanked by two white pillars. To the west and east across abutting lawns, Richardson knew, were the homes of the French Ambassador and a Supreme Court judge, with the Opposition Leader, Bonar Deitz, immediately across the street.

Parking the Jaguar in the crescent driveway, he passed between the pillars and pressed the glowing pinpoint of a bell button. Inside the house, door chimes reverberated softly.

The Minister of Citizenship and Immigration, wearing a smoking jacket and red leather slippers, opened one of the double white doors himself and peered outward. 'Oh,' he said, 'it's you. Well, you'd better come in.'

The tone and manner were ungracious. There was also a slight slurring of speech, the result, Richardson presumed, of the tumbler of what appeared to be neat whisky in Harvey Warrender's hand, and probably several others preceding it. It was not a situation, he thought, likely to help what he had come to do. Or perhaps it might; with some people the effect of liquor was unpredictable.

The party director moved inside, stepping on to a deep Persian rug centred in a wide, oak-floored hallway. Harvey War-render gestured to a straight-backed Queen Anne chair. 'Leave -your coat,' he commanded, then, without waiting, walked down the hallway to a door already opened. Richardson slipped off his heavy overcoat and followed.

Warrender nodded to the room beyond the door, and Brian Richardson preceded him into a square, spacious study. Three of the walls, from floor to ceiling, were lined with books, many of them, Richardson noted, with expensive hand-tooled bindings. A massive stone fireplace centred the fourth mahogany-panelled wall. Earlier a fire had been burning, but now only a few charred logs smouldered in the grate. A darkly polished mahogany desk was set to one side, with leather armchairs arranged in groups around the room.

But the dominating feature was above the fireplace.

A recessed rectangle had been built into the panelling of the wall and within the rectangle illuminated by skilfully concealed lighting, was a painting of a young man in air force uniform. It was a similar, but larger version, of the painting in Harvey Warrender's office.

The base of the rectangle, Richardson observed, formed a shelf and on it were three objects – a small-scale model, of a World War II Mosquito bomber, a folded map in a pocket-size plastic case and, centred between the other two, an air force officer's cap, the cloth and cap badge faded and tarnished. With a mental shudder the party director remembered Milly's words: 'a sort of shrine'.

Harvey Warrender had come close behind him. 'You're looking at my son, Howard,' he said. The observation was more gracious than any other so far. It was also accompanied by a blast of whisky-laden breath.

'Yes,' Richardson said, 'I expected that's who it was.' He had a sense of going through a ritual enforced upon all visitors. It was one which he wanted to get away from quickly.

But Harvey Warrender was not to be deterred. 'You're wondering about the things beneath the picture, I expect,' he said. 'They were all Howard's. I had them sent back to me – everything he had when he was killed in action. I have a cupboard-fill and I change them every few days. Tomorrow I shall take away the little aeroplane and put a pocket compass there. Next week I have a wallet of Howard's which I shall substitute for the map. I leave the cap there most of the time. Sometimes I have the feeling he'll walk into this room and put it on.'

What could you say in answer? Richardson thought. He wondered how many others had suffered the same embarrassment. A goodly number, if rumour were true.

'He was fine,' Warrender said. His speech was still slurred. 'Fine in character through and through, and he died a hero. I expect you've heard that.' Sharply: 'You must have heard it.'

'Well,' Richardson began, then stopped. He had the feeling that whatever he said, there would be no stemming the other's flow of words.

'There was an air raid over France,' the Immigration Minister declared. His voice warmed, as if he had told the story many times before. 'They were flying Mosquitoes – two-seater bombers like the little model there. Howard didn't have to go. He'd already done more than his share of operations, but he volunteered. He was in command of the squadron.'

'Look,' Richardson interjected, 'don't you think we should…' He wanted to stop this; stop it now, at once…

Warrender did not even hear the interruption. He boomed, "Thanks to Howard, the raid was a success. The target was heavily defended but they clobbered it. That's what they used to say, "clobbered the target".'

With a sense of helplessness-the party director listened.

'Then, on the way back, Howard's aeroplane was hit, and Howard mortally wounded. But he went on flying… a crippled aeroplane… fighting it every mile of the way home; wanted to save his navigator… though dying himself…' Warrender's voice broke; he appeared, alcoholically, to be stifling a sob.

Oh God, Richardson thought; for God's sake let this end. But it went on.

'He made it home… and landed; the navigator safe… and Howard died.' Now the voice changed and became querulous. 'He should have been awarded a posthumous VC. Or at least a DFC. Sometimes, even now, I think I should go after it… for Howard's sake.'