In High Places Page 4

  'I was thinking the other day,' he said, 'about that time your father found us. Do you remember?'

  'Of course. Women always remember those things. I thought it was you who'd forgotten.'

  It had been forty-two years before in the western foothills city of Medicine Hat, himself twenty-two - the product of an orphanage school and now a new-hatched lawyer without clients or immediate prospects. Margaret had been eighteen, the eldest of seven girls, all daughters of a cattle auctioneer who, outside his work, was a dour, uncommunicative man. By the standards of those days Margaret's family had been well-to-do, compared with James Howden's penury at the end of his schooling.

  On a Sunday evening before church the two of them had somehow secured the parlour to themselves. They were embracing with mounting passion, and Margaret partly in dishabille when her father had entered in search of his prayer book. He had made no comment at the time beyond a muttered 'Excuse me', but later in the evening, at the head of the family supper table, had looked sternly down its length and addressed James Howden.

  'Young man,' he had said, his large placid wife and the other daughters watching interestedly, 'in my line of work when a man spreads his fingers around an udder, it indicates a more than passing interest in the cow.'

  'Sir,' James Howden had said, with the aplomb which was to serve him well in later years, 'I would like to marry your eldest daughter.'

  The auctioneer's hand had slammed upon the loaded supper table. 'Gone!' Then, with unusual verbosity and glancing down the table, 'One down, by the Lord Harry! and six to go.'

  They had been married several weeks later. Afterwards it had been the auctioneer, now long dead, who had helped his son-in-law first to establish a law practice and later to enter politics.

  There had been children, though he and Margaret rarely saw them nowadays, with the two girls married and in England, and their youngest, James McCallum Howden, Jr, heading an oil-drilling team in the Far East. But the influence of having had children lasted, and that was important.

  The fire had burned low and he threw on a fresh birch log. The bark caught with a crackle and burst into flame. Sitting beside Margaret he watched the flames engulf the log.

  Margaret asked quietly, 'What will you and the President be talking about?'

  'There'll be an announcement in the morning. It'll say talks on trade and fiscal policy.'

  'But is it really about that?' 'No,' he said, 'it isn't', 'What, then?'

  He had trusted Margaret before with information about government business. A man - any man - had to have someone he could confide in.

  'It'll be mostly about defence. There's a new world crisis coming and before it does, the United States may be taking over a lot of things which, until now, we've done for ourselves.'

  'Military things?' He nodded.

  Margaret said slowly, 'Then they'd be in control of our Army ... all the rest?'

  'Yes, dear,' he said, 'it looks as if they may.'

  His wife's forehead creased in concentration. 'H it happened, Canada couldn't have its own foreign policy any more, could we?'

  'Not very effectively, I'm afraid.' He sighed. 'We've been moving towards this - for a long time.'

  There was a silence, then Margaret asked: 'Will it mean the end of us, Jamie - as an independent country?'

  'Not while I'm Prime Minister,' he answered firmly. 'And not if I can plan the way I want.' His voice sharpened as conviction took hold. 'If our negotiations with Washington are handled properly; if the right decisions are made over the next year or two; if we're strong ourselves, but realistic; if there's foresight and integrity on both sides; if there's all of that, then it can be a new beginning. In the end we can be stronger, not weaker. We can amount to more in the world, not less.' He felt Margaret's hand on his arm and laughed. 'I'm sorry; was I making a speech?'

  'You were beginning to. Do eat another sandwich, Jamie. More coffee?' He nodded.

  Pouring, Margaret said quietly, 'Do you really think there's going to be a war?'

  Before answering he stretched his long body, eased more comfortably in the chair, and crossed his feet on the footstool. 'Yes,' he said quietly, 'I'm sure there will be. But I think there's a good chance it can be delayed a little longer - a year, two years, perhaps even three.'

  'Why does it have to be that way?' For the first time there was emotion in his wife's voice. 'Especially now, when everyone knows it means annihilation for the whole world.'

  'No,' James Howden said, speaking slowly, 'it doesn't have to mean annihilation. That's current fallacy.'

  There was a silence between them, then he went on, choosing his words with care. 'You understand, dear, that outside this room, if I were asked the question you just put to me, my answer would have to be no? I would have to say that war is not inevitable, because each time you admit the inevitability it's like adding an extra little squeeze to a trigger that's already cocked.' ,- '

  Margaret had put the coffee cup in front of him. Now she said, 'Then surely it's better not to admit it - even to yourself. Isn't it best to keep on hoping?'

  'If I were just an ordinary citizen,' her husband answered, 'I think I'd delude myself that way. I suppose it wouldn't be hard to do - without a knowledge of what was going on at the heart of things. But a head of government can't afford the luxury of delusion; not if he's to serve the people who've trusted him - as be should.'

  He stirred his coffee, sipped without tasting, then put it down.

  'War is inevitable sooner or later,' James Howden said slowly, 'because it's always been inevitable. It always will be, too, just as long as human beings are capable of quarrelling and anger, no matter over what. You see, any war is just a little man's quarrel magnified a million times. And to abolish war you'd need to abolish every last vestige of human vanity, envy, and unkindness. It can't be done.'

  'But if all that's true,' Margaret protested, 'then there's nothing worth while, nothing at all.'

  Her husband shook his head. 'That isn't so. Survival is worth while, because survival means living, and living is an adventure.' He turned, eyes searching his wife's face. 'It's been an adventure with us. You wouldn't want to change it?'

  'No,' Margaret Howden said, 'I don't suppose I would.'

  His voice was stronger now. 'Oh, I know what's said about a nuclear war - that it would wipe out everything and extinguish all life. But when you think of it, there have been forecasts of doom about every weapon from the breech-loading cannon to the aeroplane bomb. Did you know that when the machine gun was invented somebody calculated that two hundred machine guns firing for a thousand days would kill the whole world's population?'

  Margaret shook her head. Howden went on, not pausing.

  'The human race has survived other perils that logically it shouldn't have: the Ice Age and the Flood are two that we know of. A nuclear war would be a mess and, if I could, I suppose I'd give my life to prevent it. But every war is a mess, though none of us dies more than once, and maybe it would be an easier way to go than some of the older means - like an arrow through the eye or being nailed to a cross.

  'We'd set civilization back, though. No one can argue that>> and maybe we'd be in the Dark Ages again, if there's a darker one than this. We'd lose the knack of a lot of living, I expect -including how to explode atoms, which might not be a bad thing for a while.

  'But annihilation, no! I won't believe in it! Something will survive, come crawling from the ruins, and try again. And that's the worst way it could be, Margaret. I believe that our side - the free part of the world - can do better. If we do the right things now and use the time we have.'

  With the last words James Howden had risen. He crossed the room and turned. Looking at him, Margaret said softly, 'You're going to use it, aren't you - the time we have left?'

  'Yes,' he said, 'I am.' His expression softened. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have told you all this. Has it upset you very much?'

  'It's made me sad. The world, mankind - whatever name you give to
it - we have so much and we're going to squander it all.' A pause, then gently: 'But you wanted to tell someone.'

  He nodded. 'There aren't many people I can talk with freely.'

  'Then I'm glad you told me.' Out of habit, Margaret moved the coffee things together. 'It's getting late. Don't you think we should go up?'

  He shook his head. 'Not yet. But you go: I'll follow later.'

  Partway to the door Margaret paused. On a Sheraton games table was a pile of papers and press clippings sent over from Howden's parliamentary office earlier in the day. She picked up a slim booklet, turning it over.

  'You don't really read this sort of thing, Jamie, do you?' There was a title on the cover - Stargazer. Around it were the zodiac signs of astrology.

  'Good God, no!' Her husband coloured slightly. 'Well, occasionally I glance at it - just for amusement.'

  'But the old lady who used to send these to you - she died, didn't she?'

  'I expect someone keeps on sending them.' Howden's voice had a trace of irritability. 'It's hard to get off any mailing list once you're on.'

  'But this is a subscription copy,' Margaret persisted. 'Look -- it's been renewed; you can tell from the date on the label.'

  'Really, Margaret, how do -I know how and when and where it's been renewed? Have you any idea how much mail comes addressed to me in the course of a day? I don't check it all. I don't even see it all. Maybe this is something which someone in the office did without telling me. If it bothers you I'll have it stopped tomorrow.'

  Margaret said calmly, 'There's no need to be testy, and it doesn't bother me. I was just curious, and even if you do read it, why make such a fuss? Perhaps it'll tell you how to deal with Harvey Warrender.' She put the book down. 'You're sure you won't come to bed now?'

  'I'm sure. I've a lot of planning to do, and not much time.' It was an old experience. 'Goodnight, dear,' she said. Climbing the broad, curving staircase, Margaret wondered how many times in her married life she had spent solitary evenings or gone to bed this way, alone. It was as well, perhaps, that she had never counted them. In recent years, especially, it had become a pattern for James Howden to stay up late, brooding on politics or affairs of state, and usually when he came to bed Margaret was asleep and seldom awoke. It was not the sexual intimacies of bed she missed, she told herself with feminine frankness; those, in any case, had become channelled and organized years before. But companionship at close of day was a warmth a woman cherished. There have been good things about our marriage, Margaret thought, but there has been aloneness too.

  The talk of war had left her with a sense of unaccustomed sadness. Inevitability of war, she supposed, was something which men accepted but women never would. Men made war; not women, save with small exceptions. Why? Was it because women were born to pain and suffering, but men must make their own? Suddenly she had a yearning for her children; not to comfort them, but to be comforted. Tears filled her eyes and a temptation seized her to return downstairs; to ask that for just one night, at the hour of sleep, she need not be alone.

  Then she told herself: I'm being silly. "Jamie would be kind, but he would never understand.

  Chapter 4

  Briefly after his wife's departure James Howden remained before the fire - a glowing red, the earlier flames diminished -allowing his thoughts to drift along. What Margaret had said was true; talking had been a relief, and some of the things said tonight had been spoken aloud for the first time. But now he must make specific plans, not only for the Washington talks, but for his approach to the country afterwards.

  The first essential, of course, was to retain power for himself; it was as if destiny beckoned him. But would others see it the same way? He hoped they would, but it was best to be sure. That was why, even at this time, he must chart a careful, guarded course in domestic policies. For the country's sake, an election victory for his own party in the next few months was vital.

  As if in relief for a switch to smaller issues, his mind returned to the incident tonight involving Harvey Warrender. It was the kind of thing which must not occur again. He must have a showdown with Harvey, he decided, preferably tomorrow. One thing he was determined about - there would be no more embarrassment for the Government from the Department of Citizenship and Immigration.

  The music had stopped and he crossed to the hi-fi to put on another record. He chose a Mantovani selection called 'Gems Forever'. On the way back he picked up the magazine which Margaret had commented on.

  What he had told Margaret had been perfectly true. There was a mass of mail that came into his office and this was a trifling fragment only. Of course, many papers and magazines never reached him, except when there was some reference to himself, or a photograph. But for years now Milly Freedeman had put this particular one among a small selection. He was not aware that he had ever asked her to, but neither had he objected. He supposed, too, that Milly had automatically renewed the subscription whenever it ran out.

  Naturally, the whole subject was nonsense - astrology, the occult, and its associated hocus-pocus - but it was interesting to see how gullible others could be. That was solely the basis for his own interest, though it had seemed difficult, somehow, to explain to Margaret.

  It had started years before in Medicine Hat when he was becoming established in law and just beginning a political career. He had accepted a free legal-aid case, one of a good many he handled in those days, and the accused had been a white-haired, motherly woman charged with shoplifting. She was so obviously guilty and had a long record of similar offences that there seemed nothing to do but admit the facts and plead for leniency. But the old lady, a Mrs Ada Zeeder, had argued otherwise, her main concern being that the court hearing should be postponed for a week. He had asked why.

  She had told him, 'Because the magistrate won't convict me then, silly.' Pressed further, she explained, 'I'm a child born under Sagittarius, dear. Next week is a strong week for all Sagittarians. You'll see.'

  To humour the old woman he had had the case stood over and later entered a plea of not guilty. To his great surprise, and following the flimsiest of defences, a normally tough magistrate had dismissed the charge.

  After that day in court he had never seen old Mrs Zeeder again, but for years until her death she had written him regularly with advice about his career based on the fact that he, too, she had discovered, was a child of Sagittarius. He had read the letters but paid scant attention, except amusedly, though once or twice had been startled by predictions which seemed to have come true. Later still, the old woman had entered a subscription in his name to the astrology magazine and when her letters finally stopped the copies continued to" come.

  Casually he opened the pages to a section headed 'Your Individual Horoscope - December 15th to 30th'. For every day of the two weeks there was a paragraph of advice to the birthdate conscious. Turning to the Sagittarius section for tomorrow, the twenty-fourth, he read:

  An important day for decisions and a good opportunity to turn events in your favour. Your ability to persuade others will be most marked and therefore progress which can be accomplished now should not be put off till later. A time of meeting. But beware the small cloud no larger than a man's hand.

  It was absurd coincidence, he told himself. Besides, looked at intelligently, the words were vague and could be applied to any circumstance. But he did have decisions to make, and he had been considering a meeting of the cabinet Defence Committee for tomorrow, and it would be necessary for him to persuade others. He speculated on what could be meant by the cloud no larger than a man's hand. Something to do with Harvey Warrender, perhaps. Then he stopped himself. This was ridiculous. He put down the book, dismissing it.

  He had been reminded of one thing, though: the Defence Committee. Perhaps, after all, the meeting should be held tomorrow, Christmas Eve notwithstanding. The announcement about Washington would be out and he would have to gain support in Cabinet by persuading others to his own opinions. He began to plan what he would tell the committ
ee. His raced on.

  It was two hours before he retired to bed. Margaret was already sleeping, and he undressed without waking her, setting a small bedside alarm for 6 AM.

  At first he slept soundly, but towards morning his rest was by an odd recurring dream - a series of clouds, which rose from the smallness of hands into sombre, stormlike shapes.

  Part 3

  The MV Vastervik

  Chapter 1

  On the Canadian West coast - 2,300 miles from Ottawa as the jets fly - the Motor Vessel Vastervik docked, between showers, on December 23rd.

  The wind in Vancouver harbour was wintry and gusting. The harbour pilot, who had boarded the ship half an hour earlier, had ordered out three shackles of anchor chain and now the Vastervik was berthing gently, its big hook dragging like a brake on the silt-layered, rock-free bottom. The tug ahead of the ship gave one short blast and a heaving line snaked shoreward, others following.

  Ten minutes later, at 3 PM local time, the ship was secure and its anchor recovered.

  La Pointe Pier, at which the ship had moored, was one of several projecting, fingerlike, from the busy, building-crowded shore line. Around the new arrival, and at adjoining piers, other ships were loading or discharging freight. Cargo slings rose swiftly and were lowered. Box cars shunted fussily on dockside rail spurs while lift trucks squirrelled back and forth from ships to warehouses. From a berth nearby a squat freighter eased out towards open water, a tug and line boat fore and aft.

  A group of three men approached the Vastervik purposefully. They walked in step, competently skirting obstacles and working parties. Two of the men wore uniforms. One was a customs officer, the other from the Canadian Immigration. The third man was in civilian clothes.

  'Damn!' the customs man said. 'It's raining again.'

  'Come aboard our ship,' said the civilian, grinning. He was the shipping-company agent. 'It'll be drier there.'