Before the break, Lafayette had heaped about fifteen minutes of praise on DuWallup before taking him off at the knees. Only your resignation will save this government, mon ami. Poor DuWallup. They’d spent all afternoon doctoring something up for the media, but an outright lie (such as: the Bhashyistanis had known full well Erzhan had split, but insisted on taking their chances) was not going to fool even the Ottawa Sun. It struck Finnerty as odd that Abzal’s name had never been mentioned by the visiting Bhashies, or his whereabouts queried. But maybe they were forbidden to talk about him.
As a gesture of loyalty, he made a point of settling in beside DuWallup before reopening discussion. “Anything new?”
“There have been stirrings,” said Boyes, the PMO chief. “Bhashyistan national TV interrupted its programming — patriotic songs all day — for an announcement there’s to be an announcement. Presumably by the Ultimate Leader. Meanwhile, we’ve shown clips worldwide that the Ilyushin crew are all safe and in good health.”
“Okay,” Finnerty said, “while we all wait with bated breath, let’s hear from our head spook. He’s been shining his pants out there.” Someone went to fetch him. Finnerty was willing to put more trust in CSIS than the RCMP, especially after the way Commissioner Lessard dropped the dime on DuWallup.
So Lessard was out, Crumwell in, and Clara Gracey back. Finnerty had been so riled at Lafayette’s pushiness he’d insisted on her counsel. He also needed her for balance.
“Thank you, gentlemen — and lady, of course — for making time for me,” Crumwell said. “Much of this you may have heard from my esteemed colleague Commissioner Lessard. However, we’ve made additional inquiries.” The spymaster spoke in clipped phrases, with a superior old school inflection that Finnerty found irritating. He tried not to be distracted by the sight of his two-fingered hand — only the thumb and middle finger had survived.
“Erzhan. Abzal Erzhan. Do not be surprised if you hear positive testimonials from fellow teachers and neighbours. Many knew of his history, but most shrugged it off. None remember him talking much about his homeland, or his army service there, or about politics. Popular with students, good family man, loves his children, that sort of thing. Seemingly proud to have become a Canadian citizen.”
Charley Thiessen: “Somehow it doesn’t compute for me that after fifteen years in Canada this teacher, this solid citizen is … what do you call it, a sleeper terrorist?”
“A very smooth and patient one, Minister. There was absolutely nothing in his house, or his school, that might incriminate him. His passport was found — one holiday trip to Cuba two years ago, so he may have connections there. No suspicious long-distance calls. No hits on Bhashyistan showed up on the family computer. Which seems so unlikely as to be suspicious in itself.”
“Isn’t that a reach, Mr. Crumwell?” Clara Gracey asked. Out of pride, she had balked at returning to this all-boys circle jerk, but wilted under Finnerty’s entreaty. We need your unique perspective. She understood her role: help trim Lafayette’s sails, keep the wannabe usurper in line. “You’re saying the absence of evidence is in fact proof against Erzhan.”
“A subtle but appropriate inference when one is dealing with the sly and devious. In our field we often find value in what is not done or said.”
Talking down to Clara and her fellow morons. She’d distrusted this guy ever since he started pushing for a national DNA registry. Not just of felons. Everyone. Still fighting the Cold War, seeking out subversives. “You don’t find it odd that he left his passport behind?” she asked.
“Not at all. These people have no difficulty obtaining false ones.” Crumwell flipped open a page on a dossier. “Mr. Erzhan is highly motivated to seek revenge against his country of birth. After he was acquitted, his mother and father were executed and his three adolescent siblings tortured and jailed.”
A hush. Clara was revolted all the more that her government, her country, had sought to play footsie with these beasts. Still, she knew she had to swallow any sympathy she might have for Erzhan — but only if he were indeed a mass murderer, which seemed assumed though not proven.
“Presumably, Abzal learned he was being watched — I offer no comment on the effectiveness of RCMP surveillance — and planned his vanishing act accordingly. We have two reports of a car with an unknown number of occupants pulling up for him on a quiet residential street, a block from the Erzhan residence. One lady saw, from her porch, a man with a satchel accepting a ride in a black sedan. But this woman, who is of a certain age, had on her reading glasses and was a hundred metres away.”
“What is a certain age?” Clara asked.
“About eighty.”
“Thank you.”
“The other report is even vaguer, and comes from Vana Erzhan, who claimed her landlord saw her husband being drawn into a car. But that person, when questioned, declined to cooperate, and seemed hostile. One wonders why. This landlord, gentlemen — and lady — may be a person of interest. Iqbal Zandoo, lives below the Erzhans, in the lower unit. Born in Pakistan, emigrated twenty-three years ago, now aged sixty-four. Did well developing properties, owns several duplexes. We believe he has an al-Qaeda connection.”
He paused for dramatic effect. Clara wondered if he was waiting for them to clap.
“Our partners in the war on terror have been superbly forthcoming. Needless to say, the CIA has left no stone unturned in its efforts to connect the dots between known enemies, and in tracing the Zandoo family tree has learned he is blood-related to a known terrorist.”
“Please spare us the suspense, Anthony,” Lafayette said. “And the metaphors.” Immediately he regretted that sarcastic aside. Crumwell was an ally. A vital ally. “Excellent work, by the way, excellent work.”
“Thank you, Gerry. The known terrorist, Iqbal Zandoo’s cousin, one Mohammed Aziz, aged twenty, is being held in an American detention centre in Kabul. He spied for the Taliban, fought for them. He confessed to having attended an al-Qaeda training camp.”
“And what have been Mr. Zandoo’s recent dealings with this terrorist?”
“We’re looking into that.”
Lafayette felt the air seeping from this balloon. “Visits, phone calls, correspondence — what do you have along those lines?”
“Nothing yet. Our American friends are, uh, working on their guest.”
Finnerty too had been expecting more. “A cousin, you say.”
“His mother’s uncle’s grandson. Technically, I suppose, a second or third cousin.” A disappointed silence. “Family ties are unusually deep, of course, over there.”
Dexter McPhee, a diversion: “What about the religious factor here? Taliban, al-Qaeda — are we dealing with Muslim fanatics? Don’t get me wrong, I have many friends in the Muslim community. My riding treasurer is one of them.”
“Spent a lot of time myself among followers of the Prophet,” Crumwell said. “I daresay I’ve gained some experience in how to handle these people. They’re not that different from you and me. Their philosophical constructs are simpler, a little more stringent.”
Clara assumed he was a misogynist too. Most bigots were.
“This landlord, Zandoo,” Guy DuWallup said. “Is he also an ideologue?” Not that he was particularly interested, but he couldn’t sit around like a cipher just because his days here were numbered. He wasn’t interested in being a judge or ambassador; he preferred the Senate — he was ready to retire anyway.
Crumwell was studying his dossier. “Local cricket club, Neighbourhood Watch … Ah, here, Zandoo subscribes to the Guardian Weekly.”
“Okay, and Erzhan,” DuWallup said. “Is he another of your Muslim fanatics?”