In High Places

'Well, sit down.' The Prime Minister indicated a facing chair, which Alan took. 'You will have to be brief, Mr Maitland, because I can't spare more than a few minutes.'

'I'd expected that, sir.' Alan was careful to keep his tone respectful. 'So I thought I'd omit the facts of the case. I imagine you've heard most of them already.'

'Heard them!' Howden resisted a sudden craving for hysterical laughter. 'Great heavens! – for weeks I seem to have heard nothing else.'

Alan smiled – a warm, boyish smile, Howden observed, which quickly came and went. Then, immediately serious, he began, 'There are a lot of things, Mr Prime Minister, which the facts don't telclass="underline" the conditions on the ship; a man cooped up in a hole no better than an animal's cage; a human being with no freedom, no hope…'

'Has it occurred to you, Mr Maitland,' Howden interjected, 'that this is not a Canadian ship; that some of these conditions have existed for a considerable time; and that they are of no concern to this country?'

'Then whose concern are they? Sir, I ask you.' Alan's eyes flashed fire, his initial nervousness forgotten. 'Are we not to have concern for human beings who don't belong to our nice tight club?'

James Howden answered patiently, 'You speak of a nice tight club. Are you aware that Canada's record on immigration is one of the best in the world?'

Alan Maitland leaned forward in his chair. 'There really isn't much competition, is there?'

Touche, Howden thought. Aloud he replied sharply, 'That's beside the point. The real thing is that there are laws and regulations covering this kind of thing and if they're to mean anything they must be observed.'

'Some of the law is pretty arbitrary,' Alan said, 'especially where it concerns human rights.'

'If that's your opinion, then you have legal recourse to the courts.'

'Your immigration chief in Vancouver didn't think so. He told me that no court had any business interfering.'

'Nevertheless,' the Prime Minister insisted, 'you did go to court, and you lost your case.'

Alan admitted ruefully, 'Yes, we lost. And that's why I'm here – to beg.' The smile flashed again. 'If necessary I'll get down on my knees.'

'No.' Howden smiled in response. 'I don't want you to do that.'

'I'd like to tell you, sir, about Henri Duval.' If his time were short, Alan thought, he would at least make the most of it. 'He's a good little man, sturdy, a hard worker; I'm convinced he'd make a good citizen. True, he doesn't speak English well; he's had no education…'

'Mr Maitland,' the Prime Minister interrupted firmly, 'the reason this man cannot be admitted is quite simple. The world is full of people who, on the surface of things, are perhaps worth helping. But there must be some order to the help; some plan, some scheme of action. It's the reason we have an Immigration Act…'

Besides, he thought obstinately, he would not give way to this absurd and disproportionate public clamour. The indignity at Ottawa airport still rankled. And even if he ignored the threat of Harvey Warrender, a concession now would seem weak and ridiculous. As Prime Minister he had made his decision known; surely that should count for something.

Alan Maitland was arguing, 'Henri Duval is in Vancouver, Mr Prime Minister. He isn't in Hungary, or Ethiopia, or China. He's here and now.' He added, with a trace of bitterness, 'In a country where the underprivileged are supposed to get a break.'

The underprivileged. For an instant James Howden had a troubled memory of the orphanage; the outside, unexpected chance, won for himself through one man – his own Alan Maitland, long ago. But at least he had been born here. He decided the interview had gone on long enough.

'The Immigration Act is the law of this country, Mr Maitland. No doubt it has its faults, but the way it is, is the way the people of Canada choose to have it. Under the law I regret the answer to you must be no.'

The concluding, speedy civilities were observed. Standing, James Howden shook Alan's hand. 'Allow me to wish you great success in your profession,' he remarked. 'Perhaps one day you'll enter political life. I've a notion you'd do well.'

Alan answered quietly, 'I don't think so, sir. There are too many things about it I don't like.'

When Alan Maitland had gone, the Prime Minister selected a second chocolate bar and nibbled it thoughtfully. After a while he summoned his executive assistant and irritably demanded the draft of his evening speech.

Chapter 2

In the Hotel Vancouver lobby Dan Orliffe was waiting for Alan Maitland. He asked expectantly, 'Any change?'

Alan shook his head.

'Well,' Orliffe said cheerfully, 'you're keeping the case before the public, and that's worth something.'

Alan asked dourly, 'It is? Just tell me what the public can do when the Government won't budge.'

'Haven't you heard? The public can change the Government; that's what.'

'Oh, great!' Alan said. 'We'll wait for an election, then send Henri a postcard with the news. If we can find out where he is.'

'Come on,' Dan told him. 'I'll drive you to your office. On the way you can tell me what Howden said.'

Tom Lewis was working in his own small cubicle when Alan came in. Dan Orliffe had driven away after their session in the car, presumably to the Post. Once more, for Tom's benefit, Alan repeated what had transpired.

'I'll say this,' Tom said. 'You don't let go of the bone once your teeth are in.'

Alan nodded. He wondered if he should call Sharon; or perhaps there was really no reason. They had not talked since their telephone conversation two days earlier.

'By the way,' Tom said, 'a parcel came for you – chauffeur-delivered and all. It's in your office.'

Curiously Alan went in. A square, wrapped package was in the centre of the desk. Untying it, he drew out a box and removed the lid. Under layers of tissue paper was a clay-moulded figure – head and shoulders. A note beside it read: 'I tried to make it like Mr Kramer, but it kept coming out the way it is. So, please, no pins – ever! With love – Sharon.'

He lifted the figure. It was, he saw glowing, a passable imitation of himself.

Chapter 3

Less than a quarter-mile from the Prime Minister's suite in the Hotel Vancouver, Mr Justice Stanley Willis of the British Columbia Supreme Court paced restlessly, as he had for more than an hour, his private Judge's chambers.

Mr Justice Willis, stern-faced, severe, and outwardly imperturbable, was waging an inward mental battle.

The lines of battles were clearly drawn. On one side was his judicial integrity, on the other his personal conscience. Both were focused upon a single subject: Henri Duval.

Edgar Kramer had told the Prime Minister's executive assistant: 'There is nothing further legally that the man's sponsors can do.' Alan Maitland, after a week-long search for legal precedents, had reached the same opinion.

Mr Justice Willis possessed knowledge demonstrating both to be wrong. The knowledge was such that, if used promptly, it would free Henri Duval from his shipboard prison, at least temporarily, and possibly for good.

The key to the situation lay in a heavy, bound volume – BC Reports, Vol 34, 1921 – on the judge's desk. It was open at a page headed Rex vs A hmed Singh.

The paper upon which the words – and those which followed – appeared was faded and yellow. But the proposition of law – ratio decidendi – was as binding as if enunciated yesterday.

A Canadian judge had ruled: Ahmed Singh in 1921… and therefore Henri Duval today… could not be deported solely to a ship.

Any individual (the long dead judge had declared in 1921) must be deported to the country from whence he came, and not to any other place.