Arthur had already apologized to this portly, pleasant gentleman for having put him to so much trouble over DiPalma before instructing him to pull out the hired investigator. And now he apologized further for seeking to tap into his knowledge of Sullivan Clugg.
“Ah, yes, Sully. Interfaces with MI5, MI6, quite a character. I believe he has a black belt in something or other — a hard man, as the term is used in the service. Did a stint in Iraq with Blackwater before coming on board, bit of a dark past there, I’ve heard.”
Arthur found this brief CV intriguing and asked Salzarro if he might be able to fill it out. “Nothing classified, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But it might help my client’s case if I found out the names of his closest work companions.”
“Mr. Bullingham has put me entirely at your service. Indeed, he has asked if I might determine if any CSIS personnel may be susceptible to, uh, certain temptations.”
And whose misdoings might aid in the downfall of the party in power. Good old Bully.
The firm’s senior Ottawa solicitor, Sidney P. Biggles, was an unctuous former parliamentarian who’d gone down with the Liberal ship in the last election. He pounced as Arthur returned to the waiting room, rubbing his hands with glee over the poll results while regretting he wouldn’t be on the hustings this time.
“No, my duty lies with Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham — and even more proudly with their illustrious senior counsel. In the humble expectation you might squeeze out a few moments to sign them for staff, two dozen copies of A Thirst for Justice are already on order.”
“They might prefer to wait for the movie.”
“Marvellous. Have they engaged a leading actor? Someone with sufficient panache, I hope.”
Arthur considered spinning the joke out, but instead apologized for his feeble sense of humour. “Could you spare me an office, Sidney? I have matters to discuss with a colleague … and here he is now.”
Ray DiPalma, freshly groomed and in the requisite uniform of Ottawa grandees, a dark pin-stripe, shiny shoes, black valise, horn rims today. “Honoured to meet you, sir,” Biggles said, escorting them down a windowed hallway to a spacious, plushly furnished office.
“This is my own humble workplace.” Biggles raised a hand to deflect protests not made. “No, no, I shall insist, you must have it. Just shove those papers aside. Phone, fax, two computers, tape recorder should you care to dictate memos to our senior secretary. She will bring you coffee and something tasty to go with it. She’s yours for as long as you wish, do with her what you will and she’ll merely ask for more.” Rattling on like that, proving himself DiPalma’s match in logorrhoea, he sidled out the door.
“We should’ve insisted on champagne and exotic dancers,” DiPalma said. “I couldn’t get first class on the plane, though — heavy Christmas bookings. How much cash are you bringing?”
“Twenty thousand, mostly in traveller’s cheques.”
“May not be enough to buy the favours we’ll need.”
From the way DiPalma rubbed his fingers together, Arthur gathered payouts would be exorbitant. “I have credit cards.”
“You’ll be lucky to find a functioning ATM in Albania.”
“I can wire for more.” But he dreaded having to face the ire of the skinflint Bullingham.
DiPalma closed the room’s venetian blinds, brandished a cellphone. “Global roaming privileges.” He opened the valise and spread its papers out. “Overnight to Athens, a feeder to Corfu, hydrofoil to Albania. No maps needed — I know that country backwards. Serbia, Kosovo, Macedonia, Albania, I did them all when I was tracking Krajzinski. I have files on who’s who, who pulls the strings, whose palms to grease.”
DiPalma seemed phenomenally alert today, efficient. His tour of duty in the Balkans had been his time of glory, and he was excited to be returning. A last hurrah, Arthur assumed, for one coping with the gradual debilitating effect of Parkinson’s. Only lately had Arthur picked up on DiPalma’s tremors, a slight shaking of the hand. He was young for the disease’s onset, but famous other sufferers had achieved renown: Eugene O’Neill, John Paul II, Pierre Trudeau.
“I’m Ray DiPalma the developer. I specialize in vacation resorts. That’s why the new threads. Apex International Getaways Corp., properties in the Caribbean, South Pacific, Florida, Mexico. Albania is developing a tourism infrastructure, they’ll be drooling to get their hands on my money. I was up all night cobbling window dressing — letterheads, financial statements, brochures. I’m looking for beach property, you’re my mouthpiece.”
“I presumed I was going in as Abzal Erzhan’s lawyer.”
“Right, and you’ll be on the next plane back. Trust me.”
Arthur had brought documents too: a letter to Abzal from his wife, also signed by their children, along with photos of them. Those would introduce him, as would a recent front-page story, complete with smiling pictures of Arthur standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Zandoo at their press conference.
“You’re absolutely sure CSIS knows nothing of this?”
“I told Crumwell I’ll be incommunicado for a week or so while I’m worming my way into the Environmental Revolutionary Front. Which doesn’t exist, except on paper — Zack and I phonied up some cryptic emails and some maps and diagrams of tar sands facilities in Fort McMurray. We’re scheming to plant some bombs — that’s what they’re supposed to think, but it’s just a form of paper monkeywrenching.”
This sounded more serious than the “diversion” Savannah mentioned. Ray’s idea. He’s pretty imaginative. “I would suggest you put that on ice.”
“Too late. Come on, Arthur, every cop in Alberta and half the CSIS staff will be freezing their butts off in the northern boreal forest while we enjoy our Adriatic holiday. It was Zack’s idea, the guy is brilliant.”
“It sounds of criminal mischief.”
“The stuff I handed over is too vague. No mention of explosives. I let them draw that conclusion. I’ve got a get-out-of-jail card with the greymail I’ve got on CSIS — that’s trade talk, means soft blackmail. Trust me.”
Hopefully, DiPalma would find safety behind the shield of Canada’s whistleblower laws, which Arthur had taken pains to review. But he’d gone beyond his role as double agent. Whether or not this was DiPalma’s idea — and he seemed unwilling to take credit for it — he’d become an agent provocateur, practically a subversive.
“I assume that when you fellows came up with this novelty you were on some potent Amazonian hallucinogen.”
“I’m off intoxicants. Cigarettes too, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m on the patch. Cleaning out the system.”
Maybe that accounted for his being so alert and organized. Arthur suspected he’d never seen DiPalma entirely sober before.
“Now I want you to sit down, Arthur, I want you to relax.”
Arthur subsided onto the couch, fearing the worst.
“I had to tell Crumwell about you and Savannah Buckett, because it’s all over your island. I also had to mention Stoney as the source, because the old man gave me the third degree and I didn’t want him to think I was hiding something.” Arthur went numb as DiPalma prattled on. “Crumwell wanted me to get some kind of statement from Stoney, but I explained that would compromise me. So he just let it drop, and I don’t know if they’re going to pursue it.”
He took Arthur’s hand, clutched it hard. “No way, I mean absolutely no way, am I going to let them smear you. It would be like … like standing by while they go after my own family. I’ll go public, I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles about how CSIS’s top spy tried to engineer a vicious slander campaign. He won’t get a job picking up dog droppings in the park. So let’s put it out of mind while we’re hot on the trail of the biggest screw-up since Maher Arar.”
Arthur remained silent as he once again reassessed his presumptive fellow traveller. Unreliable and unstable, according to Margaret. DiPalma fidgeted, patted his pockets out of habit, looking distressed — the patch may have lost some potency.