Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(75)
Somehow Arthur would have to pull off the biggest bluff since they broke the bank at Monte Carlo.
His thoughts were interrupted by an intrusive sound from somewhere near. A banal, repellent tune. It took Arthur a moment to realize it was coming from his phone. He finally answered it with a brusque hello.
“Hello, darling. I just had a very interesting visitor. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
§
The Sunday morning ferry to Garibaldi was famously slow, with three pit stops, and Arthur spent the time pacing the upper deck, bundled up against the November cold, determined to walk himself back into shape after dining out all week and otherwise sitting on his rear.
It hadn’t yet rained, but the clouds were low and ominous. The grey sky melded on the horizon with the darker shade of the frothy, white-capped strait. The islands of the Salish Sea were still far away, formless green mounds. Occasionally cormorants and guillemots beat across the waves.
He hadn’t been in touch with Garibaldi except for a mid-week call to Reverend Al, who reported that he had been busy campaigning with Taba. The anti-Transformer slate was losing ground: the Bleat had endorsed Shewfelt and Zoller. Arthur promised he would pitch in. He owed it to his pal, and to Taba, who had been so commendably discreet about their liaison amoureuse.
More central to his thoughts was Margaret’s sudden, intriguing visit from a CSIS agent. Despite his fears about tapped phone connections, Arthur had recklessly and raptly listened to her account. Tromping up and down the deck, exercising his mind as well as his legs, Arthur struggled to collate the bits and pieces she’d gleaned from her briefing by McGilroy.
Assuming his information was reliable, Svetlana Glinka was not a spy but a businesswoman selling secrets. Emil Farquist had enjoyed her services over the course of five months. As he was showering away his exertions in his log chalet, had she seen, or even copied or photographed, some confidential memo on his desk blotter? Perhaps an alert that the PMO was about to bypass Parliament and approve the Coast Mountains Pipeline by cabinet order.
It was hard to believe that Farquist had gotten so close and loose with Glinka that he would confide government secrets. Maybe he had merely advised her to buy Coast Mountains stock, with a telling wink as he was pulling on his pants. Or maybe, the most delicious conjecture, he was using Svetlana as an agent to earn a rich payoff from Sibericon.
But that theory, lamentably, was most unlikely. Even Margaret refused to entertain it. According to Sierra, Farquist was financially strapped. The chalet was still up for sale. The owner, the realtor had said, was motivated.
It was also telling that in mid-May Farquist fired Glinka. Because he suspected she’d passed secrets to the Russians? Sabatino recalled she’d been furious — he’d thought it was pride, but perhaps it was because this lost connection meant the Russians’ wallets would close. Vengefully, she’d shown Lou the video, talked of exposing him, writing a book. About a week later she’d been bribed into silence, possibly to the tune of $200,000, the proceeds of his mortgage on the Lac Vert property.
The comment by Arthur’s ever-so-talkative wife had hit the mark: “The heat was getting too hot.” Glinka had been under siege: visits from Farquist’s lawyers, from Sierra; the press might not be far behind. Afraid she’d be summoned back for the trial — and forced to lie under oath and face a perjury charge — she’d found a bolthole in Russia, where she was extradition-free.
Arthur had given up on her anyway. The CSIS backgrounder was redolent with scandal, and though not central to the slander suit, it might be of some use. But Arthur didn’t trust CSIS one iota, and was aghast that Margaret had had a cozy chit-chat with their man. What if his information was false, those photos doctored? What if they were trying to set her up, tempting her to test the defamation laws once again with this explosive new allegation?
Arthur had left a message with McGilroy’s office saying he would be pleased to see him when he was next in Ottawa. He didn’t add that he was prepared to listen but would be offering no quid pro quo. Not until, maybe, after the trial in March.
He had found himself exasperated with Margaret — she was too keen to pursue the Glinka–Farquist–Sibericon connection. In all his years at the bar, he had never had such a trying client. He’d instructed her not to talk to McGilroy any further — and that went double for Pierette, who’d been practically drooling over him. They were to be cautious on the phone, erase all saved messages, phone numbers.
After he had caught his breath, he apologized for his severe tone.
She’d responded stiffly. “Thank you for your advice, Counsellor.”
§
Standing in the bow of the ferry as it grunted into the slip at Ferryboat Cove, he was relieved to see his truck — the Fargo-napper hadn’t struck again; it was still on the steep side road where Arthur had parked it, pointing downhill, because of its lazy battery.
He retrieved his bag from the ferry van and joined the several cyclists and backpackers making their way over the ramp. Standing there, staring past him with a pained expression, was Henrietta Wilks, retired teacher and early convert to the Transformers. Her daughter, Melanie, was tugging at her arm.
“Come on, Mom, let’s take you home.”
“He’s gone,” Henrietta announced to Arthur. “But I can hear his voice. Can you hear it too?”
Melanie pulled her out of the way of the vehicles rolling off. Arthur asked if he could be of any help.