Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(86)
Arthur was in despair. He’d fired his best shots at the plaintiff, and they’d rebounded like rubber balls. He’d rarely encountered such an elusive target — Farquist seemed to have anticipated every line of attack.
Nanisha’s gaze was fixed on Charles Laughton. “Either he’s an extremely good actor . . .” She hesitated, as if afraid to utter a forbidden thought. “Or, what if . . . I’m just throwing this out, but what if Emil believes what he is saying? What if this is all a hoax, the video was a clever piece of artistry, cut and spliced so seamlessly that, well . . . ?” A helpless, embarrassed shrug.
That was inconceivable. But if Arthur’s junior counsel was harbouring doubts, Chief Justice Cohon-Plaskett might also find herself impressed with Farquist’s cries of innocence. Her Ladyship might also conclude that Margaret was the gullible and blameworthy victim of a hoax.
He did his best to pooh-pooh Nanisha’s speculation. Who would have motive to create such an illusion? Lou Sabatino? That would make no sense. And hadn’t Glinka’s lawyer in Nice, in couched phrases, practically affirmed that she had filmed the episode, got paid off, suppressed all evidence of it?
“I’m sorry,” said Nanisha. “Just a brief escape from reality.”
Margaret and Pierette hove into view, both breathless, kicking the snow from their boots at the door before descending on their booth.
“They’ve tapped our lines,” Margaret said, her expression fierce.
“Just mine,” Pierette blurted. “My house phone. Fitz told me.”
“Sit down, please, and slow down.” Arthur called over the server, who took two more orders for sandwiches.
“Just be straightforward, Pierette,” Margaret said. “It’s okay.”
“Well, um, Fitz and I have been getting a little close.”
“In bed, close,” Margaret added.
“Yeah, my bed. I lost my head a little. It’s okay. I trust him, honestly. He couldn’t say how he knew, but he has access to all kinds of stuff, and he learned someone put a tap on my landline. He found it, wired to some kind of transmitter outside my apartment. My cell seems to be okay, and all the office lines checked out okay. But they bugged my old house phone. I hardly ever use it, but I’m afraid I did talk to Margaret on it a couple of times.” She trailed off, breathless, embarrassed.
Arthur was horrified. Despite all the precautions, all his warnings, she and Margaret had been loose on the phone. Both were looking guilty. He held his temper and began a calm, probing cross-examination.
Pierette’s line had been compromised late in October, according to McGilroy, whose insider information he wasn’t at liberty to detail. McGilroy’s name was not to be mentioned; his career might be at risk. That suggested to Arthur that someone in CSIS had been the tapper. A rogue agent, maybe, a Farquist booster, or one on the take. Late October was when the Conservatives were toiling over their shredders.
Pierette was adamant that only two of her conversations would have been of interest. One was relatively benign, about Chalmers crossing the floor. The other, in late November, was more alarming. Pierette had been laid up at home with the flu, woozy with pills, had rambled on to Margaret about the incest theory, speculating about the Gatineau mortgage, how the funds bought Glinka’s silence — areas for which Farquist had so skilfully armed himself — and, infinitely worse, Svetlana Glinka’s role as Russian informant. All laid out on a platter for the plaintiff.
“What else?” Arthur demanded.
“Nothing else, I swear to God.”
“The video?”
“Absolutely no mention.”
“Absolutely,” Margaret chimed in, breaking her tense silence.
How could they be sure? Arthur felt sick. He had been played like a fool all morning.
§
As they resumed at two p.m., Arthur was mentally wrung out and weighted by despair. Farquist had calmed down — with the aid of a drink or two. Arthur’s nose was well trained to detect the perfume that wafted across the table: rye whisky, he decided, well aged, with an overlay of breath mint. That belied Farquist’s show of self-assurance.
Arthur had to bury the urge to accuse him of engineering an illegal wiretap. It would give away too much information, and McGilroy was owed discretion. He refused to believe that George Cowper, reputedly a counsel of honour, was aware of the wiretap or would have countenanced it.
He picked away like a man without appetite. Glinka’s blue Miata? Farquist didn’t know anyone with a Miata of any colour. The Lac Vert groundskeeper, Arthur said, had seen such a car parked by his chalet in January. The poor fellow, said Farquist, was of limited intelligence, and just as unreliable when sober as in his accustomed drunken condition.
Arthur wanted to kick himself. Why had he even brought that up? He’d just given them a freebie. Farquist’s team would be on the groundskeeper in a flash, buying him off with a case of Crown Royal.
He produced some blown-up glossies taken by Frank Sierra from his triplex across from Glinka’s flat. “You have seen these, Mr. Farquist, they were delivered with our affidavit of documents. They were taken on July seventh. Do you know what they depict?”
“I’ve been instructed that they show the flat of this Glinka woman on Rue de la Visitation in Montreal. I had also seen it on the six o’clock news.” The shot of rye had done its job. He seemed on the verge of affability.