In High Places

  Din, dust, motors gunned, the smell of cordite and oil, cries of wounded ... The movement forward, slow at first, then faster ... The wonderment in men's eyes - at himself, upstanding, proud, a target no enemy gunner could miss...

  It was the ultimate moment of glory. It had been hopeless but they had snatched back victory. It had been suicidal but wondrously he had survived...

  They had called him the Mad General and the Fighting Fool, and afterwards a slim frail man with a stutter, whom he revered, had pinned on a medal at Buckingham Palace.

  But now the years had gone, and memories with them; and few remembered the moment of glory, and fewer cared. No one called him, any more, the Fighting Fool. If they called him anything they omitted the 'Fighting'.

  Sometimes, however briefly, he longed for the taste of glory 'again.

  With a trace of hesitancy Adrian Nesbitson said, 'You seem very sure about this Act of Union, Prime Minister. Are you certain it will go through?'

  'Yes, I am. It will go through because it has to.' Howden kept his face and voice serious.

  'But there'll be opposition.' The old man frowned in concentration.

  'Naturally. But in the end, when need and urgency are seen, it will make no difference.' Howden's voice took on a note of persuasion. 'I know your first feeling has been to oppose this plan, Adrian, and we all respect you for it. I suppose, too, that if you felt you must continue to oppose, we would be obliged to part company politically.'

  Nesbitson said gruffly, 'I don't see the need for that.'

  'There is no need,' Howden said. 'Particularly when, as Governor-General, you could do far more to serve the country than you ever could from the political wilderness.'

  'Well,' Nesbitson said; he was studying his hands. 'I suppose when you look at it like that...'

  It's all so simple, Howden thought. Patronage, the power of bestowal, brings most things within reach. Aloud he said, 'If you're agreeable I'd like to notify the Queen as soon as possible. I'm sure Her Majesty will be delighted with the news.'

  With dignity Adrian Nesbitson inclined his head. 'As you wish. Prime Minister.'

  They had risen to their feet and shook hands solemnly. 'I'm glad; very glad,' James Howden said. He added informally, 'Your appointment as Governor General will be announced in June. At least we shall have you in the Cabinet until then, and your campaigning with us through the election will mean a great deal.' He was summing up, making clear without any shadow of misunderstanding what they had agreed upon. For Adrian Nesbitson there would be no bolting from the Government, no criticism of the Act of Union. Instead, Nesbitson would fight the election with the remainder of the party -supporting, endorsing, sharing responsibility...

  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 m
oment 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.'

  When he had completed the ledger entry the clerk took a black gown from a peg and shrugged it around his shoulders. 'Come this way, please.'

  He preceded Alan out of the Registry, along a panelled corridor, through double swing doors, and into the courthouse hallway where a wide stone staircase led to the upper floor. The building was quiet, their footsteps echoing. At this time of day most of the courts had risen and some of the building's lights were already turned out.

  As they climbed the stairs, treading sedately one step at a time, an unaccustomed nervousness gripped Alan tautly. He subdued a childish impulse to turn and run. Earlier, in considering the arguments he intended to present, they had appeared plausible, even if some of the legal ground was shaky. But now, abruptly, the structure of his case seemed witless and naive. Was he about to make a fool of himself in the august presence of a Supreme Court judge? And if he did, what of the consequences? Judges were not to be trifled with, or special hearings demanded without good reason.

  In a way he wished he had chosen another time of day, with the courthouse busy, as it usually was in the morning and early afternoon. The sight of other people might have been reassuring. But he had chosen this time carefully, to avoid attention and any more publicity which at this point might prove harmful. Most of the newspaper court reporters would have gone home by now, he hoped, and he had been careful to give other newspapermen who had phoned him several times today no hint of what was planned.

  'It's Mr Justice Willis in chambers today,' the clerk said. 'Do you know him, Mr Maitland?'

  'I've heard his name,' Alan said, 'but that's all.' He was aware that the roster of chamber judges changed regularly, each justice of the Supreme Court taking his turn
to be available in chambers outside regular court hours. Therefore whichever judge one drew was mainly a matter of chance.

  The clerk appeared about to speak, then changed his mind. Alan prompted him, 'Was there something you were going to tell me?'

  'Well, sir, just a suggestion - if it isn't presumptuous.'

  'Please go ahead,' Alan urged.

  They had come to the head of the stairway and turned down a darkened corridor. 'Well, Mr Maitland' - the clerk lowered his voice - 'his lordship is a fine gentleman. But he's very strict about procedure and especially interruptions. Take as long as you like over your argument and he'll give you all the time you need. But once he's begun to talk himself he doesn't like anyone to speak, not even to ask questions, until he's finished. He can get very annoyed when that happens.'

  'Thanks,' Alan said gratefully, 'I'll remember.'

  Stopping at a heavy door, marked with the one word PRIVATE, the clerk rapped twice, his head cocked forward to listen. Faintly from inside a voice called 'Come!' The clerk opened the door, ushering Alan in.

  It was a large, panelled room, Alan saw, carpeted, and with a tiled fireplace. In front of the fireplace a portable electric fire had two of its elements turned on. A mahogany desk, piled with files and books, occupied the room's centre, with more books and papers on a table behind. Brown velvet draperies were drawn back from leaded windows, revealing dusk outside, with lights of the city and harbour beginning to wink on. Within the room a single desk lamp burned, providing a pool of light. Outside the lamp's radius an erect lean figure had been putting on an overcoat and hat, preparing to leave, as the clerk and Alan entered.

  'My lord,' the clerk said, 'Mr Maitland has an application for habeas corpus.'

  'Indeed.' The one word, gruffly spoken, was the sole response. As the clerk and Alan waited, Mr Justice Stanley Willis carefully removed the coat and hat, replacing both on a stand behind him. Then, moving into the circle of light by the desk and seating himself, he instructed sharply, 'Come forward, Mr Maitland.'