In High Places

Now I'm the one who wants to get involved and I'm left, like a joker, on the outside looking in. But at least, he consoled himself, the indecision had come to an end: the restless soul searching of the past few days; the knowledge that Milly was what counted most. Now, without her, there seemed only emptiness…

'Please, Brian.' Milly was calmer now, her poise and self-control returning. She said earnestly, 'I'm flattered and honoured, darling, and I think the answer v/ill be yes. But I want to be sure – for both our sakes. Please, dear, give me a little time.'

He asked brusquely, 'How long?'

They sat down together on the long settee, their heads close and hands held tightly. 'Honestly, darling, I don't know, and I hope you won't insist on a definite time. I couldn't bear to have a sort of deadline hanging over. But I promise I'll tell you as soon as I know.'

She thought: What's wrong with me? Am I afraid of living? Why hesitate; why not settle now? But still the cautionary voice urged: Wait!

Brian put out his arms and she went into them. Their Ups met and he kissed her fiercely again and again. She felt herself responding, her heart pounding wildly. After a while his hands moved gently.

Towards the end of the evening Brian Richardson came into the living-room carrying coffee for both of them. Behind him in the kitchenette Milly was cutting salami sandwiches. She noticed her breakfast dishes still piled in the sink, unwashed. Really, she thought, perhaps I should bring some of my office habits home.

Richardson crossed to Milly's portable television, on a low table facing one of the big armchairs. Switching the set on, he called over, 'I don't know if I can stand it, but I guess we'd better know the worst.' As Milly brought the plate of sandwiches and set it down, the CBC national news was beginning.

As happened most days now, the first report concerned the worsening international scene. Soviet-inspired revolts had flared again in Laos, and the Kremlin had replied belligerently to an American note in protest. In the Soviet satellites of Europe, troops were reported massing. An exchange of cordialities had taken place between the now-repaired Moscow-Peking axis.

'It's getting closer,' Richardson muttered. 'Closer every day.'

The Henri Duval story was next.

The well-groomed news announcer read, 'In Ottawa today the House of Commons was in uproar over Henri Duval, the man-without-a-country, now awaiting deportation in Vancouver. At the height of a clash between Government and Opposition, Arnold Geaney, member from Montreal East, was suspended from the House for the remainder of today's sitting…'

Behind the announcer a screen flashed a picture of Henri Duval, followed by a large, still shot of the crippled MP. As Richardson – as well as James Howden – had feared, the expulsion incident and Harvey Warrender's 'human garbage' phrase which had provoked it were the news story's highlight. And no matter how fairly the report was handled, inevitably the stowaway and the cripple would appear victims of a harsh, relentless Government.

'CBC correspondent Norman Deeping,' the announcer said, 'describes the scene in the House…'

Richardson reached to switch off the set. 'I don't think I can take any more. Do you mind?'

'No,' Milly shook her head. Tonight, though knowing the significance of what she had seen, she found it hard to maintain interest. The most important question was still undecided…

Brian Richardson pointed to the darkened TV screen. 'Goddam, do you know what audience that has? It's network -coast to coast. Add to that all the others – radio, local TV, tomorrow's newspapers…' He gave a shrug of helplessness.

'I know,' Milly said. She tried to bring her mind back to impersonal concerns. 'I wish there were something I could do.'

Richardson had risen and was pacing the room. 'You have done something, Milly dear. At least you found…' He left the sentence unfinished.

Both of them, Milly knew, were remembering the photostat; the fateful, secret agreement between James Howden and Harvey Warrender. She asked tentatively, 'Have you done…'

He shook his head. 'Damn all! There's nothing… nothing…'

'You know,' Milly said slowly, 'I've always thought there was something strange about Mr Warrender. The way he talks and acts; as if he were nervous all the time. And then that business of idolizing that son of his – the one killed in the war…'

She stopped, startled by Brian Richardson's expression. His eyes were riveted on her face, his mouth agape.

'Brian-'

He whispered, 'Milly, doll, say that again.'

She repeated uncomfortably, 'Mr Warrender – I said he's strange about his son. I understand there's a sort of shrine in his home. People used to talk a lot.'

'Yeah.' Richardson nodded. He tried to conceal his excitement. 'Yeah. Well, I guess there's nothing in that.'

He wondered how fast he could get away. He wanted to use a telephone – but not Milly's telephone. There were certain things… things he might have to do… he would never want Milly to know.

Twenty minutes later he was phoning from an all-night drugstore. 'I don't give a goddam how late it is,' the party director told the object of his call. 'I'm telling you to get downtown now and I'll be waiting for you in the Jasper Lounge.'

Chapter 4

The pale young man with tortoise-shell glasses who had been summoned from bed turned the stem of his glass nervously in his hand. He said, with a touch of plaintiveness, 'I really don't know if I could do it.'

'Why not?' Brian Richardson demanded. 'You're right there in the Defence Department. All you have to do is ask.'

'It isn't as simple as that,' the young roan said. 'Besides, it's classified information.'

'Hell!' Richardson argued. 'Something that old – who cares about that any more?'

'Obviously you do,' the young man said with a show of spirit. "That's half of what I'm worried about.'

'I give you my word,' Richardson said, 'that whatever use I make of what you give me, it will never be traced back to you.'

'But it would be hard even to find. Those old files are buried away at the back of buildings, in basements… It might take days or weeks.'

'That's your problem,' Richardson said bluntly. 'Except, I can't wait weeks.' He beckoned a waiter. 'Let's have the same again.'

'No thank you,' the young man said. 'This is enough for me.'

'Have it your way.' Richardson nodded to the waiter, 'Make it one; that's all.'

When the waiter had gone, 'I'm sorry,' the young man said, 'but I'm afraid the answer is no.'

'I'm sorry too,' Richardson said, 'because your name was getting near the top of the list.' There was a pause. 'You know what list I'm talking about, don't you?'

'Yes,' the young man said. 'I know.'

'In my job,' Richardson said, 'I have a lot to do with selecting Parliamentary candidates. In fact, there are people who say that I pretty well pick all the new men in our party who finally get elected.'

'Yes,' the young man said, 'I've heard that too.'

'Of course, the local association has the final word. But they mostly do what the Prime Minister recommends. Or what I tell the Prime Minister to recommend.'

The young man said nothing. The tip of his tongue touched his lips and ran along them.

Brian Richardson said softly, 'I'll make a deal. Do this thing for me, and I'll put your name right at the top. And not just for any old seat, but one where you're sure to win.'

There was a flush of colour in the young man's cheeks as he asked, 'And if I don't do what you want?'

'In that case,' Richardson said softly, 'I positively guarantee that so long as I am with the party you will never sit in the House of Commons, and never be a candidate for any seat you can hope to win. You'll stay an executive assistant until you rot, and all your father's money will never change it.'

The young man said bitterly, 'You're asking me to start my political career with something rotten.'