Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(74)

He had obviously expected her to be close-mouthed — his quick opener with the photo had been a tactic to catch her off guard.

McGilroy sipped his coffee, studying her, then Pierette, as if for signs of their agreement. Or weakness. “Can we agree this is in total confidence?”

“Other than with my husb. . . my lawyer.” Why was that always so awkward to say? “And Pierette. I have to insist that she stays.”

“Of course she can stay.” He unexpectedly beamed at Pierette, who blushed as she sank into a chair beside him. Had she had the hots for him in Parliamentary Democracy 200?

“The photo I gave you was taken in front of the Russian Embassy on Charlotte Street on April 24, this year.” Margaret now recognized, in the background, the Russians’ rambling stone fortress by the Rideau River. “Glinka had just got out of a taxi. Here she is entering the grounds.” Another glossy, Svetlana from the back, being escorted into the building by a functionary.

“She remained inside for nearly ninety minutes.” A third photo of her, departing, outside the gate, getting into a taxi. “We had no idea who she was. She could have been anyone, an émigré getting papers stamped. But a week later she showed up in more curious circumstances.”

More photos. These were taken in a fast-food restaurant, maybe a McDonald’s. Svetlana was sitting at a plastic-topped table, in a long, low-cut dress, beside a leering, bald man.

“Igor Novotnik. Ostensibly a trade officer. We’ve had eyes on him for some time.” Another shot: Novotnik pulling a letter-size envelope from an inside pocket. A thick envelope.

“That was the last day of April. I had taken over the file, but still had no idea who she was or what services she was being paid for. My ears perked up when your voice clip went public. ‘Weekends with a Russian dominatrix named Svetlana.’”

“Broadcast a billion times,” Margaret said, getting a look from Pierette.

“Novotnik’s paid informant fit Glinka’s physicals: tall, blonde, blue-eyed, well endowed. I was certain she was the dominatrix. But by then she had fled the country.”

A picture was forming for Margaret. A week after Novotnik paid her off, Sibericon opened negotiations to buy into Coast Mountains. Talks were completed in July. Cabinet gave it the green light in August. Margaret couldn’t help herself. “So you suspect the Russians had a . . . let’s call it a pipeline, into Coast Mountains.”

He didn’t confirm that, but said: “I am curious, Ms. Blake, to hear what you know of Svetlana Glinka’s association with Emil Farquist.”

Margaret raised her hands: a halt sign.

McGilroy packed away his photos. “I gather you’d like to reserve on that.”

“Why come to me now, Mr. McGilroy? Why not months ago?”

“We hesitated to approach you, given the court action. But matters are now more difficult.”

Glinka, he explained, in his monotonous way, had been under observation in France, but had pulled up stakes, sold her sex shop, and returned to the motherland. “Moscow, we believe.”

“The heat was getting too hot.”

“Meaning what, Ms. Blake?”

“When would you like to continue this, Mr. McGilroy?”





EXODUS

At tea time on Saturday afternoon Arthur was comfortably seated in his Vancouver club, the Confederation, flipping through Maclean’s while stirring his Earl Grey and eavesdropping on a trio of codgers at the table behind him. Retired tycoons, all hard of hearing, he supposed, given their high decibels.

“Sorry, J.O., I disagree. Farquist is too risky. In fact, I just cut Clara a cheque.”

“Clara Gracey, gentlemen, is a radical feminist. Liberal in sheep’s clothing. Emil’s a hard-hearted bastard, I give you that, but he’s the man to take on those weepy-eyed Liberals.”

A third voice. “I’ve always been able to work with Clara. She’s the best finance minister since Don Fleming, and better looking. I’m hoping she whips Emil’s ass.”

“Give it to me, Clara, I’ve been a bad boy.” Loud guffaws.

“Emil will get the last laugh, boys. That climate alarmist he’s suing, Blake, she’s about to get her ass whipped.”

Arthur knew this loathsome threesome, though not well. Banking, timber, and real estate. And they knew him, though obviously hadn’t observed him being led to his chair. The prediction by the Farquist booster soured Arthur’s mood. He sipped his tea, played with his smartphone, on which the Woofers, with painstaking effort, had finally taught him a few basics.

Arthur had stayed a couple of nights in Alberta after the chambers hearing, debating strategies with Sierra, reviewing case law at the Tragger, Inglis branch, then went on to Edmonton for one night. He’d met with Alfred Scower there, a pleasant evening in a restaurant.

Dr. Scower hadn’t tried to hide his shock or his glee over Arthur’s surmise about the incestuous adolescence of his bête noir. He was eager to help bring Farquist down but lacked ammunition. He offered one remote possibility: Emil’s mother, Lee, had regularly attended mass; her priest from the late 1980s might still be alive. Sierra would follow that up.

Arthur had been nearly a week away from Garibaldi and was aching to return. The Sunday morning ferry would take him there to begin another seven-day reprieve from the wearying monster of the coming trial. He was repelled by the prospect of Margaret being cross-examined in open court, probed and needled, portrayed as the queen of the careless remark. He dreaded seeing her embarrassed or, worse, flare up, losing her temper. The trial had to be avoided. Without Sabatino, without the video, Margaret would lose.