In High Places (21 page)

Later in the afternoon James Howden turned the single sheet over and blanched. He had forgotten it was there. If he had left it overnight ... He glanced at the outside door. Milly? No; it was a long-standing rule that his desk was never disturbed at midday. He took the photostat into the toilet adjoining his office. Shredding the paper into tiny pieces, he flushed them down, watching until all had gone.

Chapter 3
Harvey Warrender reclined comfortably, a slight smile on his face, in the chauffeur-driven pool car which returned him to the Ministry of Citizenship and Immigration on Elgin Street. Alighting from the car, he entered the boxlike brown brick building, breasting a tide of office workers headed outward in a hasty lunchtime exit. He rode an elevator to the fifth floor and entered his own office suite through a direct door. Then, throwing overcoat, scarf, and hat carelessly over a chair, he crossed to his desk and pressed the intercom switch connecting him directly to the department's deputy minister.

'Mr Hess,' Harvey Warrender said, 'if you're free, could you come in, please.'

There was an equally polite acknowledgement, after which he waited. It always took a few minutes for the deputy minister to arrive; his office, though on the same floor, was some distance away, perhaps as a reminder that the administrative head of a ministry should not be sent for lightly or too often.

Harvey Warrender paced the room's deep broadloom slowly and thoughtfully. He still had a sense of elation from his encounter with the Prime Minister. Without any question, he thought, he had come off best, turning what could have been a reverse, or worse, into a clear-cut victory for himself. Moreover, the relationship between the two of them had now been clearly and sharply redefined.

Succeeding the elation came a glow of satisfaction and possession. This was where he belonged: in authority; if not at the pinnacle, then at least in a secondary throne of power. A well-upholstered throne, too, he reflected, glancing around with satisfaction, as he often did. The personal office suite of the Minister of Immigration was the most lavish in Ottawa, having been designed and furnished at large expense by a female predecessor - one of the few women in Canada ever to hold cabinet rank. On taking office himself, he had left the place as he found it - the deep grey carpet, pale grey drapes, a comfortable mixture of English period furniture - and visitors were invariably impressed. It was so very different from the Chilly college cubbyhole in which he had toiled unrewardingly years before and, despite the stirrings of conscience he had confessed to James Howden, he had to admit it would be hard to relinquish the bodily comforts which rank and financial success provided.

The thought of Howden reminded him of his own promise to re-examine the tiresome Vancouver affair and to act precisely by existing law. And he would keep the promise. He was determined there should be no blundering or error in that direction for which Howden or others could blame him later.

A tap at the door, and his own secretary ushered in the deputy minister, Claude Hess, a portly career civil servant who dressed like a prosperous undertaker and sometimes had the pontifical manner to match.

'Good morning, Mr Minister,' Hess said. As always, the deputy managed to combine a judicious mixture of respect and familiarity, though somehow conveying that he had seen elected ministers come and go, and would still be exercising his own power when the present incumbent had moved on.

'I was with the PM,' Warrender said. 'On the carpet.' He had formed the habit of speaking frankly to. Hess, having found it paid off in the shrewd advice he often got in return. On this basis, and pardy because Harvey Warrender had been Immigration Minister through two terms of the Government, their relationship worked well.

The deputy's face assumed a commiserating expression. 'I see,' he said. He had, of course, already received through the higher civil-service grapevine a detailed description of the brawl at Government House, but discreetly refrained from mentioning it.

'One of his beefs,' Harvey said, 'was about the Vancouver business. Some people it seems don't like our keeping to the rules.'

The deputy minister sighed audibly. He had grown used to retreats and back-door dodges by which immigration laws were subverted to political ends. But the Minister's next remark surprised him.

'I told the PM we wouldn't back down,' Warrender said. 'Either that or we revise the Immigration Act and do what we have to do above board.'

The deputy asked tentatively, 'And Mr Howden...'

'We've a free hand,' Warrender said shortly. 'I've agreed to review the case, but after that we handle it our way.'

'That's very good news.' Hess put down a file he had been carrying and the two men lowered themselves into facing chairs. Not for the first time the pudgy deputy speculated on the relationship between his own Minister and the Rt Hon James McCallum Howden. Obviously some kind of special rapport existed, since Harvey Warrender had always seemed to have an unusual degree of freedom, compared with other members of the Cabinet. It was a circumstance, though, not to be quarrelled with and had made possible the translation of some of the deputy minister's own. policies into reality. Outsiders, Claude Hess reflected, sometimes thought that policy was the sole prerogative of elected representatives. But to a surprising degree the process of government consisted of elected representatives putting into law the ideas of an elite corps of deputy ministers.

Pursing his lips, Hess said thoughtfully, 'I hope you weren't serious about revising the Immigration Act, Mr Minister. On the whole it's good law.'

'Naturally you'd think so,' Warrender said shortly. 'You wrote it in the first place.'

'Well, I must admit to a certain parental fondness...'

'I don't agree with all your ideas about population,' Harvey Warrender said. 'You know that, don't you?'

The deputy smiled. 'In the course of our relationship I have gathered something of the kind. But, if I may say so, you are, at the same time, a realist.'

'If you mean I don't want Canada swamped by Chinese and Negroes, you're right,' Warrender said tersely. He went on, more slowly, 'All the same though, I sometimes wonder. We're sitting on four million square miles of some of the richest real estate in the world, we're under-populated, underdeveloped; and the earth is teeming with people, seeking sanctuary, a new home...'

'Nothing would be. solved,' Hess said primly, 'by opening our doors wide to all comers.'

'Not for us, perhaps, but what about the rest of the world -- the wars which may happen again if there isn't an outlet for population expansion somewhere?'

'It would be a high price to pay, I think, for eventualities which may never occur.' Claude Hess folded one leg over another, adjusting the crease in his faultlessly tailored trousers. 'I take the view, Mr Minister - as you are aware, of course -- that Canada's influence in world affairs can be far greater as we are, with our present balance of population, than by allowing ourselves to be overrun by less desirable races.'

'In other words,' Harvey Warrender said softly, 'let's hang on to the privileges we were lucky enough to be born to.'

The deputy smiled faintly. 'As I said a moment ago, we are both realists.'

'Well, maybe you're right.' Harvey Warrender drummed his fingers on the desk. 'There are some things I've never really made up my mind about, and that's one. But one thing I am sure of, is that the .people of this country are responsible for our immigration laws, and they should be made to realize it, and they'll never realize it while we shift and waver. That's why we'll enforce the act right down the line -- no matter which way it reads as long as I'm sitting in this chair.'

'Bravo!' The pudgy deputy mouthed the word slowly. He was smiling.

There was a pause between them in which Harvey War-render's eyes moved up to a point above the deputy's head. Without turning, Hess knew what it was the Minister saw: a portrait in oils of a young man, in Royal Canadian Air Force uniform. It had been painted from a photograph after the death in action of Harvey Warrender's son. Many times before in this room Claude Hess had seen the father's eyes straying to the picture, and sometimes they had spoken of it.

Now Warrender said, as if recognizing the other's awareness, 'I often think about my son, you know.'

Hess nodded slowly. It was not a new opening and sometimes he sidestepped it. Today he decided to reply.

'I never had a son,' Hess said. 'Just daughters. We've a good relationship, but I've always thought there must be something special between a father and son.'

'There is,' Harvey Warrender said. 'There is, and it never quite dies - not for me, anyway.' He went on, his voice warming. 'I think so many times of what my son Howard could have been. He was a splendid boy, always with the finest courage. That was his outstanding feature - courage; and in the end he died heroically. I've often told myself I've that to be proud of.'

The deputy wondered if heroism were the kind of thing he would remember a son of his own by. But the Minister had said much the same thing before, to others as well as himself, seeming unaware of repetition. Sometimes Harvey Warrender would describe in graphic detail the blazing air battle in which his son had died until it was hard to be sure where sorrow ended and hero worship began. At times there had been comments around Ottawa on the subject, though most of them charitable. Grief did strange things, Claude Hess thought, even sometimes producing a parody of grief. He was glad when his superior's tone became more businesslike.

'All right,' Warrender said, 'let's talk about this Vancouver thing. One thing I want to be sure of is that we're absolutely in the clear legally. That's important.'

'Yes, I know.' Hess nodded sagely, then touched the file he had brought in. 'I've gone over the reports again, sir, and I'm sure there's nothing you need worry about. Only one thing concerns me a little.'

'The publicity?'

'No; I think you'll have to expect that.' Actually the publicity had bothered Hess, who had been convinced that political pressure would cause the Government to back down on enforcement of the Immigration Act, as had happened many times before. Apparently, though, he had been wrong. Now he continued, 'What I was thinking is that we don't have a senior man in Vancouver right now. Williamson, our district superintendent, is on sick leave and it may be several months before he's back, if at all.'

'Yes,' Warrender said. He lit a cigarette, offering one to the deputy minister, who accepted it. 'I remember now.'

'In the ordinary way I wouldn't get concerned; but if the pressure builds up, as it may, I'd like to have someone out there I can rely on personally, and who can handle the Press.'

'I presume you've something in mind.'

'Yes.' Hess had been thinking quickly. The decision to stand firm had pleased him. Warrender was eccentric at times, but Hess believed in loyalty, and now he must protect his Minister's position in every way possible. He said thoughtfully, 'I could shuffle some responsibilities here and relieve one of my deputy directors. Then he could take charge in Vancouver -ostensibly until we know about Williamson, but actually to handle this specific case.'

'I agree.' Warrender nodded vigorously. 'Who do you think should go?'

The deputy minister exhaled cigarette smoke. He was smiling slightly. 'Kramer,' he said slowly. 'With your approval, sir, I'll send Edgar Kramer.'

Chapter 4
In her apartment, restlessly, Milly Freedeman reviewed once more the events of the day. Why had she copied the photostat? What could she do with it, if anything? Where did her loyalty really lie?

She wished there could be an end to the conniving and manoeuvres in which she was obliged to share. As she had a day or two before, she considered leaving politics, abandoning James Howden, and beginning something new. She wondered if somewhere, anywhere, among any group of people, there was a sanctuary where intrigue never happened. On the whole, she doubted it.

The telephone's ringing was an interruption. 'Milly,' Brian Richardson's voice said briskly, 'Raoul Lemieux - he's a deputy in Trade and Commerce and a friend of mine - is starting a party. We're both invited. How about it?' '

Milly's heart leapt. She asked impulsively, 'Will it be gay?' The party director chuckled. 'Raoul's parties usually get that way.' 'Noisy?'

'Last time,' Richardson said, 'the neighbours called the police.'

'Does he have music? Can we dance?'

'There's a stack of records; at Raoul's, anything goes.'

'I'll come,' Milly said. 'Oh, please; I'll come.' 'I'll pick you up in half an hour.' His voice sounded amused. She said impetuously, 'Thank you, Brian; thank you.' 'You can thank me later.' There was a click as the line went dead.

She knew just the dress that she would wear; it was crimson chiffon, a low-cut neck. Excitedly, with a feeling of release, she kicked her shoes across the living-room.

Part 8

Edgar Kramer

Chapter 1
In the thirty-six hours during which Edgar S. Kramer had been in Vancouver, he had come to two conclusions. First, he had decided there was no problem in the West Coast Headquarters of the Department of Citizenship and Immigration which he could not handle with ease. Second, he was dismally aware that a personal and embarrassing physical disability was steadily becoming worse.

In a square, functionally furnished office on the second storey of the department's water-front Immigration Building, Edgar Kramer mentally debated both matters.

Kramer was a grey-eyed, spare man in his late forties, with wavy brown hair parted in the middle, rimless glasses, and an agile logician's mind which had already taken him a long way, from a modest beginning, in government service. He was industrious, undeviatingly honest, and impartial in administering official regulations to the letter. He disliked sentiment, 'inefficiency, and disrespect for rules and order. A colleague had once observed that, 'Edgar would cut off his own mother's pension if there was a comma out of place in the application.' While exaggerated, the charge held a basis of truth, though it could equally well be said that Kramer would help his greatest enemy unstintingly if the regulations of his job required it.