way.”
“Not again”
“Bloody DG. We always take the blame.”
I could see the sweat beading on Bob’s upper lip. “Just get them done. ASAP!”
“Oh, I will.” I paused for effect. “But I’ll also send an e-mail to you, with a cc to the director general, confirming the date that I received the files. Just so that our group isn’t blamed for any delays.”
People around the table nodded in agreement. Bob’s face had gone an unbecoming shade of red, and his lips were a tense and quivering line in what passed for his chin.
“We’ll discuss it after the meeting. My office.” “Excellent,” I said, and closed the files in front of me. I was going to skewer the bastard.
The meeting droned on. I tuned out, not really caring about the latest memo from the DG or a circular from Treasury Board. I did perk up when Bob finally turned to Duncan.
“So, Duncan, it doesn’t look like you have a lot on your plate these days.” Bob was almost snickering as he took in the empty table in front of Duncan.
Duncan is tall and thin with an Alan Alda sort of natty look: simple wool sweaters with matching wool or corduroy pants. Today it looked like he, too, was playing cat and mouse, with Mr. Cabbage Patch definitely cast as the rodent. However, like many rodents, Bob seemed blissfully unaware of his place in the food chain.
Duncan smiled. “Sort of looks that way, doesn’t it.”
“Why, that’s wonderful, just dandy, because I have an urgent file here, international involvement, politically sensitive, high security clearance required, big money — and it involves a trip to scenic Vancouver. It’s yours!” He could hardly contain his glee. “Everything’s booked. You leave for Vancouver tonight.”
If there had been an eighth dwarf named Nasty he would have looked just like Bob at that moment. Duncan is a single father with two kids under the age of six. Travel for him is a logistical and emotional nightmare, and damn near impossible on such short notice. But Duncan was unflappable.
“I don’t think so, Bob.” He paused, as if seriously considering the proposal, then shook his head. “Nope: definitely not in my stars this week.”
Bob shot to his feet. “Are you refusing a project? You’ll be disciplined. Possibly suspended. It’ll go on your record.”
“I’m not refusing a project, Bob. I’m refusing to work for you.”
“What do you mean by that? You can’t refuse to work for me.”
Duncan rose unhurriedly from his chair. “I have another job, and I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me because I have a lot of loose ends to pull together by the end of the day.”
Bob’s first reaction was delight, but an instant later reality set in, that being that he would have to cover for Duncan on such short notice. “You can’t just walk out of here. You need to give two weeks notice.”
Duncan looked innocent. “But I start two weeks’ vacation tomorrow. You approved it last month.”
Bob is administratively challenged, and the idea that he might remember signing a vacation request a month ago was farcical. Bob glared at Duncan, who shrugged slightly and headed for the door. I, of course, couldn’t hold myself back.
“Congratulations, Duncan. What’s the new job?”
He stopped, turned, and made an obvious effort — unsuccessful — to keep a straight face. “Special Science Advisor to the Minister of Industry.”
Everyone in the conference room gasped. Except me. It must have been the tension because, try as I might to stop it, a grin spread across my face. We all knew that Bob had applied for that job.
I didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll take the job in Vancouver,” I said, plucking the file from where it lay in front of Duncan’s recently vacated spot. This job was a plum: a successful outcome might even catapult me out from under Bob. I pushed the biotechnology files back into the centre of the table, gathered up my things, and stood.
“I’m sure your other highly competent staff members can handle these… how did you describe them? Simple and straightforward investigations.” I glanced down at the new file and read the label: International Network for Pacific Salmon Population Dynamics. I almost laughed out loud.
“Perfect,” I said in Bob’s direction.
chapter two
Back in my office I took a few minutes to gloat. I imagined myself returning triumphant from Vancouver to a new fifth-floor corner office with a teak desk and credenza. I was just about to sink into my imaginary leatherette chair when my mind, unbidden, flew back to Vancouver and began to make its way down 12th Avenue toward the dismal east end. I could feel my stomach twitch as we hovered past the elementary school, the derelict yard, the swings dangling askew.
The house was down a side street, white clapboard and looking abandoned. As my mind pulled me toward it, willing me to open the door, to step inside, I felt myself numb. I hadn’t thought about my mother in months, and her intrusion into my life was unwelcome.
I jerked my chair forward and caught sight of the file sitting innocently on my desk. I grabbed for it, flipped it open, and focused all my attention on it, forcing the past to recede. Work, I have always found, is the most potent antidote to memory.
The first thing that caught my attention was the appearance of the file. It was way too trim and neat for a project with high security clearance, especially one involving Pacific salmon. Since these animals migrate across international borders, the Network had to involve research partners from Japan, Russia, and the United States. With that amount of bureaucracy the file should have been bloated with back-and-forth correspondence, directives, and memos, the foreplay of an investigation, but the only thing inside was a single, neatly bound sheaf of paper that was maybe a hundred pages long.
I picked it up and fanned through it. There were letters, some newspaper clippings, grant applications, curriculum vitae, and the printout of a very inadequate reference search, but no external correspondence with any other funding bodies, foreign governments, or research institutes. That meant that none of the other research partners had been notified of the investigation.
I flipped to the front of the file, hoping to find something to explain the lack of background material. Normally, the first page in any file is NCST Internal Form 16-52-C, which covers financial codes and any special instructions or concerns related to a project. But instead of the usual form, there was a post-it note with a scrawled message attached to the first page. It was from our director general, Ms. Patricia Middlemass. Bob had scratched out his name and jotted in “Duncan.” The note from Patsy (she would behead me if that nickname ever slipped out in conversation) was surprisingly informal. Usually her missives arrive on official letterhead in triplicate and are written in a language that only a lawyer can understand. They are known around here as CYA (cover your ass) memos, and Patsy is gifted in her ability to produce them. Her instructions for this project, however, were terse.
B̶o̶b̶, Duncan Investigate financial impropriety only. Some documentation available here (see file) but onsite records needed. Extreme
