to the prime minister or I will take it to him myself. I apologize for my bluntness, James, but this is a damn mess and it’s going to get a lot worse.”
Jim Riley swallowed hard, twice, then stepped up and extended his hand to Bishop, “Thanks, Andy. I appreciate your bluntness. I promise you that I’ll speak directly and frankly to the prime minister and impress on him the seriousness of the situation. I am sure he’ll want to hear from you directly in short order; I’ll make sure he does.”
The minister of national defence looked around the room. “One thing I want you and your officers to understand, general. I’m a Canadian too, and more to the point, one of the places you’re talking about – Manitoba’s Inter-Lakes region – that’s my home and has been my family’s home for generations. No one’s going to drive us off our land anytime soon. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can speak with the PMO.”
DAY FOUR
Wednesday, September 1
Wednesday, September 1, 0900 hours
Air Canada Flight 8565, Montreal to Winnipeg
The flight out of Montreal was routine enough – a cursory once-over at the gate by bored inspectors more interested in their communal gossip than their dull jobs, a bad seat, and no in-flight meal. Alex always asked for a window seat on the right side of the aircraft when he travelled west. It was a three-hour trip over some of the most beautiful land in the world, especially as the aircraft sailed out high over Lake Superior’s wondrous blue waters framed in grey granite dressed in autumn’s red and yellow forests.
Alex dozed uneasily for the last thirty minutes of the flight. The thump of the landing gear locking into position brought him back abruptly to the world of metal and machines and bitter politics. He tightened his seat belt and watched the farms and fields slip under the wing as the aircraft pulled into a tight southerly turn, dropped over the Perimeter Highway and landed slickly on the windy runway. He followed the other passengers off the plane, through Gate T, and down the stairs into the lobby. Alex retrieved his suitcase, headed outside, and joined the taxi queue.
When his cab came, he got the door himself, settled into the backseat, and told the scarlet-turbaned Sikh driver, “The Occidental Hotel, Main Street, please.”
The cabbie hesitated. “The Occidental? Are you sure, sir? Have you been here before? It’s not in a very fancy place – kind of a beat-up area for a hotel, really.”
“Yeah, well, business is tough in Ottawa these days,” Alex replied, deliberately lying about where he was coming from, as he’d been instructed to, in order to cover his tracks. “We’re saving money this month.”
The cabbie shrugged, pulled away from the airport, and cut out on to Wellington Street. “Most of our visitors from Ottawa go to the best places.” He paused for the traffic and grinned at Alex in his rear-view mirror. “Can you still tip?”
Alex smiled back. “Oh, sure – special rates, though.”
The taxi turned down Flight Road to Sargent Avenue directly to the inner city. The driver cut across Cumberland, manoeuvred though heavy traffic out on to Main Street, and pulled up on Logan, stopping in front of a run-down, three-storey building, the famously infamous Occidental Hotel.
“Here you go, sir. Are you sure I can’t take you somewhere else?”
“No, this is fine.” Alex looked at the meter and passed the driver thirty dollars. “Keep the change, but I’ll need a receipt.” As Alex stepped out onto the noisy, dusty sidewalk, the driver said, “Thanks. Have a nice day. And watch your wallet in this part of town.”
The cabbie hesitated at the curb, curious to see whether his wealthy-looking passenger was really going into the Occidental or, Alex thought grimly when he noticed the driver watching him, whether he’d make it inside without being hassled outside on the street. As Alex reached for the hotel door he saw the cabbie through the taxi’s grimy side window shaking his head as the car eased away from the curb. The old Sikh would have a story for the guys tonight.
Wednesday, September 1, 1140 hours
Winnipeg: North Main Street
Alex was familiar with Main Street, and even the barroom of the Occidental, from his first posting several years ago to the 2nd Patricias, then stationed at Kapyong Barracks on Kenaston Boulevard. But his experiences then only added to his sense of apprehension this morning. If anything, the intervening years hadn’t been kind to north Main Street or the old hotel-saloon. The Occidental was known by reputation to every Winnipegger, although few decent citizens have ever stepped into the place, except cops and the odd bunch of college kids on a dare. The three-storey building sat on a concrete island, isolated by the flow of traffic along Main and Logan streets and the busy Disraeli Freeway. Its uninviting front door faced the even less-inviting Bon Accord block across Logan, while its shabby rear, strewn with broken crates, boxes, and rubble, overlooked three dilapidated grey houses.
Still, the Occidental, perhaps in tribute to its sheer tenacity, was held in a kind of respect, a landmark residents would hate to see vanish almost as much as they’d hate to see its insides. The old girl displayed her aspirations in bold colours on a fancy sign hung on the Main Street wall: Furnished Rooms, Suites, Private Baths. Special Discounts for Artists, Musicians and Students. And, thought Alex, nightly brawls outside, no charge, join or watch, take your choice.
In the days of beer parlours and ladies-and-escorts segregated drinking establishments, the hotel had been the favourite of ordinary working white guys looking for ten-cent draft beer. They enjoyed the rough and the reassuring company of people like themselves. In those days, keen members of the Salvation Army would drop by to save souls from drink and damnation. The new locals, though less prosperous, drank beer there too, but they looked to other saviours and another religion. Alex grimaced at the sign over the entrance, White Buffalo Spiritual Society, then stepped inside.
The smell of old carpets and stale beer buffeted him on his way in the door. He blinked in the dim light and walked to the desk, where a middle-aged, unshaven clerk put down his paper and scowled at this unusual customer. “What will it be, chief? Nice suit. On welfare or are you one of those guys they hired in the government to make things look fair?”
“You have a room for me,” Alex replied stonily. “The name’s Grieves. Or do you have to ask your boss first?” He flashed a twenty and they settled for a draw. The clerk glanced at the register and said, “Yeah, sure, okay. Staying three days it says here. Prepaid.” His eyes flicked up in genuine surprise, and a note of sarcasm crept in as he continued, “Top floor, 372, the presidential suite.” He handed Alex a key and an envelope, taped shut and initialled. “Elevator’s broke. Stairs are over there.”
Alex crossed the small lobby and walked up the stairs, not too fast. He was conspicuous enough in his suit without taking the stairs two at a time; nobody that healthy had stayed in this hotel since 1953. He walked down the dark third-floor corridor to room 372, fumbled with the key, and pushed open the door. The room was small, just a creaky steel bed, a chest of drawers, and a well-used “private bath.”
He threw his bag on the bed and tore open the envelope that had been waiting for him at the desk. It contained nothing but a card with a phone number written on it. He flipped open his cellphone and dialled the number. Two rings, then a grunted “Yeah?”
Alex replied to the voice according to the set of code-words and counter-challenges he had been given at Akwasasne.
“You left me a card.”
The
