Free Snow Job by William Deverell

warned.”
    “Who’s to say they weren’t?” The PMO’s chief, gnomelike E.K. Boyes. “Given there were no survivors.” Finnerty’s brain they called him.
    Finnerty recoiled a little from the gnome’s cold, deadpan logic, but after a moment’s hesitation told his staff: “See what you can come up with.” His publicity wonk took that to mean, rightly, that he was to get something on the drawing board fast, so he got up and left.
    “Let’s get an update.” Finnerty, with teeth-gritting effort, was taking back the gavel. “Tell me, Gerry, is there anyone at risk in Bhashyistan if things go sour? Any Canadians there?”
    “My people are looking into that.”
    “Tell them to stop looking.” Thiessen indicated one of the TV screens. A press conference. In the background, the Alta International logo, in the foreground, its boss, A.J. Quilter, who, as the volume was raised, was sounding irritated, raw. “Vice-president for foreign development, two from our legal team, a geologist, and an accountant, a total complement of five men. I am not suggesting they’re in harm’s way. Our worry is that we haven’t been able to make contact since early this morning.”
    A reporter: “How would you normally make contact?”
    “Satellite phone.”
    Another reporter: “Can you tell us how long they’ve been there, what they’re doing?”
    “They’ve been there nearly a week. It’s not news that we’ve been in delicate negotiations with the Bhashyistan government.”
    “Sir, have you enlisted the aid of the federal government?”
    “I’m still waiting for the prime minister to return my call.”

7

    M argaret and Pierètte were donning their coats to leave for the Hill, but Arthur was slow to join them — it wasn’t easy to pull away from the set. He wondered at the presumption of this fellow Quilter — he was waiting for the P.M. to call. Prairie tan and jutting chin, the fearless look of the self-assured.
    Arthur doubted if satellite phones could be jammed. Maybe the batteries had run down. Maybe these unfortunates — already dubbed by the press the Calgary Five — had been ordered to surrender their phones. They’d been staying at the Igorgrad Grand, the city’s one prestige hotel.
    The news outlets didn’t have much recent footage from Bhashyistan. One of the networks had found a still of that hotel, a drab, square, fifteen-storey box on a riverbank. Some clips from a ten-year-old National Geographic travelogue of the mountains-markets-and-mules variety. Mad Igor presiding at a viewing stand: broad, bemedalled chest and flat, pocked, crabbed face.
    Pierètte was holding his coat. “You coming, Counsellor?”
    Arthur followed them to the elevator, shrugging into his coat, straightening his tie. A headache was creeping up on him, born of the strain of suppressing recent memory, the carnage, the horror, those ten blackened bodies — a scene that was bound to surface in dreams.
    Pierètte pedalled off on her bicycle, blowing Margaret a kiss, calling to Arthur: “See you later, litigator.”
    The weather was still crisp but kinder, and they decided to walk, they needed the air, the peace of this suddenly quiet city. As they strolled through the leaf-littered, church-thick streets below Wellington, Arthur brought out his new cellphone, with its alarming array of gimmickry. He dialed his travel agent one-handed, with his thumb (he had practised this), and put the phone to his ear, imagining himself as cool, modern, online.
    “Sunday at noon is the best you can do? Well, fine, then, thank you, my good man.” To Margaret: “They’re reopening the airport. I’ll be staying at my club in Vancouver until I resolve this imbroglio over Zack. Probably drop in on Garibaldi for a couple of days.”
    “Take a bunch, Arthur. December’s coming. I know how you suffer here.”
    Did she seem almost eager to see him go? As they crossed a street she gripped his arm tight, leaned her head on his shoulder.