Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(73)

“As a jester . . . gesture of good faith, Marcus, let’s start with Coast Mountains.”

A pained look. “Look, I’m with you, but you see the problem — the pipeline is a done deal, signed and sealed. Our opinion from Legal is we can’t renege without a massive suit in damages.”

Margaret refused to believe that. “A deal done behind the backs of Parliament.”

Yates merely shrugged. “We’re looking for loopholes. Meantime, let’s get our teams to prioritize other areas of shared concern. Oh, congratulations on your success in Halifax East. Bright guy, Chalmers. We approached him ourselves, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.” Why hadn’t Chalmers mentioned that?

“He spoke admiringly of you.”

How admiringly? she wondered. She’s a passionate woman, Marcus, in more ways than one.

§

Sobriety was kicking in by the time Margaret returned to her office, but so was a headache, and she washed down a couple of extra-strength ibuprofens with strong coffee before sitting with Pierette to work on sound bites for the Throne Speech scrums. But they kept returning to Margaret’s one-on-one with Yates, debating how to keep pressing him on measures to re-green Canada.

“Keeping his feet to the fire,” Pierette said. “Is that scrum-worthy?”

“Sounds too much like an enhanced interrogation technique.”

“Keep them on their toes?”

“Too timid.”

“Stick a broom up their ass? Oh, just wing it, do your awesome best.”

Margaret rose to look out her window. There he was again, on the sidewalk, the tall spook with about ten days’ growth of beard, holding a briefcase, pausing to talk on his phone. She nudged Pierette, who’d joined her at the window.

“That guy was right on my butt the other day on Sparks Street. I did the old duck-and-doodle into a shop, and he looked in as he walked by. A few minutes later, back on the street, there he was again.”

The private eye, if that’s what he was, tucked away his phone then glanced up at their window before carrying on.

“I know that face from somewhere,” said Pierette. “Creepy. Maybe they’re hoping to catch you with Sabatino.”

“I wish.” Maybe they’d heard about her and Charmer, were hoping to spot them making out by her office window.

Just as Margaret was about to call it a day and head for home — she was beat, hungry, had smelly armpits and a throbbing head — the receptionist came to the door. “A Mr. McGilroy is here. Insists you’ll be interested in what he has to say. He’s with CSIS.”

Canadian Security Intelligence Service, the spy agency. Margaret shared a puzzled look with Pierette, took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, tucked in her blouse. “Okay, send him in, please.”

The tall, bearded man who was ushered in was the same guy who had just been outside, Margaret’s stalker. Late thirties, handsome in a dark and forbidding way, well built, probably a gym junkie, steely eyes taking in the full measure of the two agape women.

“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Blake. I’m sorry for the lack of notice.” His handshake was quick, firm, confident, and his manner of speech formal, almost toneless. “Ms. Litvak, you may not remember that we were in the same political science class at McGill.”

“I do remember you. Parliamentary Democracy 200.” A tentative smile, a nervous flutter of eyelashes.

He showed them his wallet of credentials and passed them each a card. Fitzgerald W. McGilroy, senior officer, CSIS.

“We used to call you Fitz,” Pierette said.

“I still have to live with that.”

Margaret offered coffee. He accepted, and Pierette went off to fetch it. Margaret seated him in an armchair and herself on her high-backed desk chair, her throne, the power position. She was on guard. She distrusted CSIS, always nosing around front-line environmental and Indigenous groups.

“Mr. McGilroy, you have been doing a very poor job of following me.”

“I apologize. I was merely keeping you in sight until I got approval to approach you. I now have that.” Without hesitation, he took a ten-by-eight glossy from his briefcase and passed it to her. “Do you recognize this woman?”

A tall, blonde, blue-eyed Barbie doll in a pantsuit speaking to an attendant at what looked like an outdoor security gate. “Svetlana Glinka.” She just blurted it out. Stupid.

“Have you met her?’

“No. Just a guess.” She didn’t care to admit she’d seen photos of her, taken by Pierette during her stakeout on rue de la Visitation.

“Good guess.”

Pierette returned with a tray bearing mugs, milk, sugar. Margaret bought time by picking up hers and taking a mouthful right away. Black, to get her brain in gear. McGilroy stirred milk into his, waiting. Pierette studied the photo without expression.

Margaret took a deep breath. “Mr. McGilroy, as you obviously know, I am currently facing an extravagant claim for an alleged defamation. If this discussion is to go further, I need to set boundaries. I will not jeopardize my court case.”

“I guarantee you that this conversation is in complete confidence.”

“I’m prepared to hear you out, but I will not answer questions without legal advice, I’m sorry.”

“Then I encourage you to get advice. Or even have Mr. Beauchamp present when we reconvene. But you will need some background.”