James Howden waited for dissent, if any. There was none.
A moment or two earlier the note of the aircraft engines had changed. Now they were descending evenly and the land below was no longer snow covered, but a patchwork quilt of browns and greens. The intercom phone gave its gentle ping and the Prime Minister answered.
Wing Commander Galbraith's voice announced, 'We'll be landing in Washington in ten minutes, sir. We have priority clearance right on down and I've been asked to tell you that the President is on his way to the airport.'
Chapter 4
After take-off of the Prime Minister's flight Brian Richardson and Milly drove back from Uplands Airport in Richardson's Jaguar. Through most of the journey into Ottawa the party director was silent, his face set grimly, his body tense with anger. He handled the Jaguar – which normally he gentled lovingly – as though it were responsible for the abortive press conference on the airport ramp. More than others, perhaps, he could already visualize the hollowness of James Howden's statement about Immigration and Henri Duval as they would appear in print. Even more unfortunate, Richardson fumed, the Government – in the person of the Prime Minister – had taken a stand from which it would be exceedingly difficult to retreat.
Once or twice after leaving the airport Milly had glanced sideways but, sensing what was in her companion's mind, she refrained from comment. But nearing the city limits after a particularly savage cornering, she touched Richardson's arm. No words were necessary.
The party director slowed, turned his head and grinned. 'Sorry, Milly. I was letting off steam.'
'I know.' The reporter's questioning at the airport had distressed Milly too, aware as she was of the secret restraint upon James Howden.
'I could use a drink, Milly,' Richardson said. 'How about going to your place?'
'All right.' It was almost noon and for an hour or two there was little urgency for Milly to return to the Prime Minister's office. They crossed the Rideau River at Dunbar Bridge and swung west on Queen Elizabeth Drive towards the city. The sun, which had been shining earlier, had retreated under sullen clouds and the day was greying, the drab stone buildings of the capital merging with it. The wind whistled in gusts, stirring eddies of dust and leaves and^ paper, cavorting in gutters and around week-old snow piles, denied and ugly now from sludge and soot. Pedestrians hurried, coat collars upturned, holding their hats and hugging buildings closely. Despite the Jaguar's warmth, Milly shivered. This was the time of year when winter seemed endless and she longed for spring.
They parked the Jaguar at Milly's apartment building and rode up in the elevator together. Inside the apartment, out of habit, Milly began to fix drinks. Brian Richardson put a hand around her shoulder and kissed her quickly on the cheek. For an instant he looked directly into Milly's face, then abruptly released her. The effect within himself startled him; it was as if, for an instant, he had floated into some other megacosm, dreamlike, airy… More practically he said, 'Let me do the drinks. A man's place is at the bar.'
He took glasses and, as she watched, poured even measures of gin, then sliced a lemon, squeezing part into each drink. He added ice cubes, efficiently opened a bottle of Schweppes tonic and divided it neatly between the two glasses. It was simple and effortless but Milly thought: how wonderful to share things – even a simple thing like mixing drinks – with someone you genuinely cared for.
Milly took her glass to the settee, sipped, and put it down. Leaning back she let her head fall comfortably against the cushions, savouring the welcome luxury of rest at midday. She had a sense of moments stolen from time. Stretching, she extended her nyloned legs, heels against the rug, shoes kicked free.
Richardson was pacing the small, snug living-room, his glass clenched tightly, his face absorbed and frowning. 'I don't get it, Milly. I just plain don't get it. Why is the chief behaving this way when he never has before? Why, of all things, is he backing Harvey Warrender? He doesn't believe in what he's doing; you could tell that today. Then what's the reason? Why, why, why?'
'Oh, Brian!' Milly said. 'Couldn't we forget it for a while?'
'Forget it, hell!' The words rapped out in frustration and anger. 'I tell you we're being stupid goddam morons by not giving in and letting that bastard stowaway off the ship. This whole affair could build and keep on building until it cost us an election.'
Illogically Milly was tempted to ask: Would it matter if it did? It was wrong, she knew, to think that way, and earlier her anxiety had been as great as Richardson's own. But suddenly she was overwhelmed with a weariness for political concerns: the tactics, manoeuvring, petty scoring over opponents, the self-implanted certainties of right. In the end what did it all amount to? Today's seeming crisis would be a forgotten trifle next week or next year. In ten years, or a hundred, all the tiny causes and people who espoused them, would be lost in oblivion. It was individuals, not politics, that mattered most. And not just other people… but themselves.
'Brian,' Milly said softly, steadily, 'please make love to me now.'
The pacing had stopped. There was a silence.
'Don't say anything,' Milly whispered. She had closed her eyes. It was as if someone else was speaking for her, another voice inhabiting her body. It had to be that way since she herself could never have said the words of a moment or two ago. In a way, she supposed, she ought to speak in denial of the stranger's voice, cancelling what had been said, resuming her own identity. But a sense of delicious languor held her back.
She heard a glass set down, feet moving softly, drapes drawn, then Brian was beside her. Their arms went around each other, lips meeting ardently, their bodies demanding. 'Oh God, Milly!' he breathed. His voice was trembling, 'Milly, I want you and I love you.'
Chapter 5
the quietness of the apartment the telephone bell purred softly. Brian Richardson propped himself on an elbow. 'Well,' he said, 'I'm glad it didn't ring ten minutes ago.' He had a sense of speaking for speaking's sake; as if using commonplace words as a shield to his own uncertainty.
'I wouldn't have answered it,' Milly said. The languor had gone. She had a sense of quickening and expectation. This time and last it had been different, so different, from other times she remembered…
Brian Richardson kissed her forehead. How much difference there was, he thought, between the Milly the outside world saw, and Milly as he had come to know her here. At this moment she seemed sleepy, her hair disordered, warm…
'I'd better answer it,' Milly said. Pushing herself upright she padded to the phone.
It was the Prime Minister's office, one of the assistant stenographers. 'I thought I ought to call you. Miss Freedeman. There've been a lot of telegrams. They started coming in this morning and there are seventy-two now, all addressed to Mr Howden.'
Milly ran a hand through her hair. She asked, 'What about?'
'They're all about that man on the ship, the one that Immigration won't let in. There was some more about him in this morning's paper. Did you see it?'
'Yes,' Milly said, 'I saw it. What do the telegrams say?'
'Mostly the same thing in different ways. Miss Freedeman: that he should be let in and given a chance. I thought you'd want to know.'
'You were right to call,' Milly said. 'Start listing where the telegrams come from and summarizing what they say. I'll be in very soon.'
Milly replaced the phone. She would have to notify Elliot Prowse, the executive assistant; he would be in Washington by now. Then it would be up to him whether or not to tell the Prime Minister. He probably would; James Howden regarded mail and telegrams very seriously, insisting on daily and monthly tabulations of their contents and source, which were studied carefully by himself and the party director.
'What was it?' Brian Richardson asked, and Milly told him.
Like gears engaging, his mind swung back to practical concerns. He was immediately concerned, as she had known he would be. 'It's being organized by somebody, otherwise there wouldn't be that many telegrams together. All the same, I don't like it any more than I like the rest.' He added gloomily, 'I wish I knew what the hell to do.'
'Perhaps there isn't anything that can be done,' Milly said.
He looked at her sharply. Then turning, he took both her shoulders gently in his hands. 'Milly, darling,' he said, 'there's something going on I don't know about, but I think you do.'
She shook her head.
'Listen, Milly,' he insisted. 'We're both on the same side, aren't we? If I'm to do anything, I have to know.'
Their eyes met.
'You can trust me, can't you?' he said softly. 'Especially now.'
She was aware of conflicting emotions and loyalties. She wanted to protect James Howden; she always did…
And yet, suddenly, her relationship with Brian had changed. He had told her that he loved her. Surely, between them now, there was no place for secrets. In a way it would be a relief…
His grip on her shoulders tightened. 'Milly, I have to know.'
'Very well.' Releasing herself from his hands, she took keys from her bag and unlocked the bottom drawer of a small bureau beside the bedroom door. The copy photostat was in a sealed envelope which she opened and gave to him. As he began to read she was aware that the mood of a few minutes earlier was dissolved and lost, like mist before a morning breeze. Once more it was business as usual: politics.
Brian Richardson had whistled softly as he read. Now he looked up, his expression stunned, his eyes showing disbelief.
'Jesus!' he breathed; 'Jesus Christ!'
Part 10 The Order Nisi
Chapter 1
The Supreme Court of the Province of British Columbia closed the ponderous oak doors of its Vancouver Registry office promptly each day at 4 PM.
At ten minutes to four on the day following his second shipboard interview with Captain Jaabeck and Henri Duval (and at approximately the same time – ten to seven in Washington, DC – that the Prime Minister and Margaret Howden were dressing for the White House state dinner) Alan Maitland entered the courthouse Registry, briefcase in hand.
Inside the Registry, Alan hesitated, surveying the long, high-ceilinged room with one wall occupied entirely by file cabinets, and a polished wood counter top running most of its length. Then he approached the counter, opened the briefcase, and removed the papers inside. As he did, he was aware that the palms of his hands were more than usually moist.
An elderly clerk, the Registry's only occupant, came forward. He was a frail gnome-like man, stooped as though years of closeness to the law had set a weight upon his shoulders. He inquired courteously, 'Yes, Mr…?'
'Maitland,' Alan said. He passed across a set of the papers he had prepared. 'I've these for filing, and I'd like to be taken to the chamber judge, please.'
The clerk said patiently, 'Judge's chambers are at 10.30 AM and today's list is finished, Mr Maitland.'
'If you'll excuse me' – Alan pointed to the documents he had handed over – 'this is a matter of the liberty of the subject. I believe I'm entitled to have it brought on immediately.' On this point at least, he was sure of his ground. In any proceedings involving human liberty and illegal detention the law brooked no delay and, if necessary, a judge would be summoned from his bed in dead of night.
The clerk took rimless glasses from a case, adjusted them, and bent to read. He had an attitude of incuriosity, as if nothing surprised him. After a moment he lifted his head. 'I beg your pardon, Mr Maitland. You're quite right, of course.' He pulled a cloth-bound ledger towards him. 'It isn't every day we get an application for habeas corpus.'