Disclaimer: I'm not smart enough to make these guys up (mostly), so I'm not stupid enough to claim I did. Please don't sue me. I get nothing out of this but my own sick pleasure.
Author's Note: Despite the above disclaimer, I take all blame for the characters of Marianne Reuter, Lawson Douglas, PM Arthur Reynolds, and Governor Gordon Lum upon myself. If you don't like them, hate not Aaron Sorkin and brilliant kind, but my humble personage, who cannot hope to emulate their, well, brilliance, I guess. Enjoy.
The Angry Beaver
By BJ Garrett
The newswoman turned toward the camera, smoothing platinum-blonde hair out of her eyes. She drew a shaky breath and tried not to think about what she had to report. She wore no make-up and her lightweight jacket was insufficient cover for the frigid pre-dawn of January 3rd, 2001. Normally she reported traffic for the commuter crowd tuning into the breakfast show, but today something had happened and there was no one available to run out to City Hall and do it live, cold. She wished silently for a cup of coffee and tightened her grip on the microphone as she checked over her shoulder at the scene one last time. Yellow caution tape surrounded a blackened area of sidewalk and pavement. Debris littered the ground nearby, lit sporadically in the milky dawn by the revolving red and blue lights of a police car. There were several cruisers and transport vehicles parked haphazardly in the street before Seattle City Hall, but one officer had been too shocked to switch off his lights. The wail of a siren could be heard in the far distance, rushing to some other emergency-one where there were lives to be saved, instead of just mourned.
The cameraman flicked a peace sign at her and they were live. She waited for the short introduction and feeder question to filter into her ear, then began. "Yes, Joanne, a horrific explosion happened here just an hour ago, right on the steps of Seattle's City Hall. A FOLAX Utilities van was parked outside the building at five a.m., and as six FOLAX employees sat within, it exploded in a shower of flaming debris." She moved aside a little so a corner of the blackened area could be seen, then continued, "Needless to say, there were no survivors. The names of the van's occupants have not been released pending identification of the bodies and notification of their families. The cause of the explosion is not yet known, though the fire marshall did seem certain the explosion was not the result of a defect of the van, an older GMC cargo model. There was little left of the van to identify it as such, let alone as one belonging to FOLAX, but shocked City Hall employees assured the police, rescue workers, and myself that it was a FOLAX vehicle." She swallowed stiffly around a lump in her throat. "That's all I have to report right now Joanne, I'll try to have an update in half an hour. This is Angela Reid, CNBS 13 Get Up News, reporting."
*
Deep in the bowels of the Privy Council Office, the Communications Director toiled over a short, sweet 'screw you' for the press on the latest Native Relations disaster. Short and dark, her hair partially obscured her unlined skin, which was thanks in part to a generous glass of milk twice a day and the rest to good genes. The small round rose-tinted glasses pushed up on her nose masked her shadowed blue eyes. Most early mornings she dressed in faded jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt emblazoned with a peeling Saskatchewan University logo and partially covered by a woolly PEI-style cardigan. On the middle finger of her right hand gleamed a heavy class ring bought in 1988. On the door to her office hung a garment bag with her work-a-day outfit: conservative suit accented with a bright shirt or scarf and an optional hat and vest--all tucked safely out of sight until lunch hour.
Pulling a red pencil from behind her thrice-pierced left ear, she muttered, "Who says thusly?" to herself. As she pondered this question and that of how to replace 'thusly' with something more, well, a la mode, her phone buzzed. She grunted and ignored it, scribbling out a word. It buzzed again. She wished desperately Lawson would pick it up, flicking her eyes heavenward. It buzzed once more. Rising from her chair like an inordinately-angry geyser, pulling off her glasses and flinging them on the desk, she shouted, "Lawson!" at the top of her lungs.
A frenzied-looking yet serene young man walked into her office. "Yes, Marianne?" he asked, setting a to-go cappucino on her desk.
"Answer the goddamn phone," she replied, a little more sedately, falling on the coffee like a vulture on fresh meat. Without a word, he hooked up the receiver.
"Director Marianne Reuter's office. Lawson Douglas speaking." He paused and paled. Marianne, sucking on her coffee, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking about nothing but the warmth of caffeine and a synonym for 'thusly'. Swallowing hard, Lawson put the phone down on Marianne's desk and pushed it toward her. "It's him."
Sighing, Marianne crossed her feet on her desk, blocking the phone from her view, wiggling her slippered toes. "What does he want?"
Lawson picked the phone up again and moved it to beside Marianne's legs, where she could see it and it, had it eyes, could have seen her. "He sounds a little, well, angry, Marianne. I think you should talk to him. Something's happened in Seattle."
Remembering dourly her oath to the Prime Minister, she swung her feet to the floor and reached for the phone. "What does Seattle have to do with us?" she asked tiredly.
Eyes wide, Lawson made a 'ka-boom' sound and mimed an explosion with his hands.
"No fucking way," Marianne whispered. Lawson nodded and pointed at the phone, already inching toward the door. Marianne grabbed the handpiece and put it to her ear. "Yes, Mr. Prime Minister?"
She forgot all about Native Relations, synonyms, and even coffee. Her life would never be the same.
*
Leo was drinking a cup of coffee himself when Margaret's phone buzzed, too far away for him to hear. She answered it and stepped into his office like a frightened deer. "There's a problem, Leo," she said haltingly.
"A problem with what? The justice system? Interest rates? This coffee? A problem with what?" he asked irritatedly, bending over a random paper with an embassy letterhead, trying to appear far too busy to take on another problem.
His assistant shuddered. "No, sir, it's a big problem."
He looked up at her over the rims of his reading glasses. "Terrible coffee isn't a big problem?"
"No, sir, I mean Gordon Lum is on the phone," she insisted, wringing her thin hands.
Leo blinked. "Have I met him?"
"Yes, sir. He's the Governor of Washington. You should speak to him. He wouldn't tell me what happened, but he wants to talk to you," she said, flapping a hand at Leo's phone.
He sighed and put his coffee down, pushing the random paper away. "This better be good."
"No, sir, I think it's rather bad, actually."
Picking up his phone and pushing the blinking button, Leo said, "Perfect way to start a Wednesday morning."
*
As he put down the phone, staring at his desk, Leo reached for something to do, to hold on to. The same random paper happened to be under his hand and he picked it up, not really seeing it even as he skimmed the short message typed on it. The words, 'regret to inform you,' caught his attention and he pulled himself to the present, to the paper in his hand.
"Dear Chief of Staff McGarry," the letter ran.
"As Ambassador for the Dominion of Canada to the Republic of the United States of America, I regret to inform you of my resignation. As our associations in the past have been pleasant, I assure you that my reasons for leaving the embassy are entirely personal. I am certain Prime Minister Reynolds will have no trouble appointing a replacement palatable to both President Bartlet and his administration.
"May our countries continue to prosper and conduct themselves in peace towards each other.
"Sincerely, Martin Belleveau, Ambassador to the United States."
*
"So now we have to get a new ambassador and spin a possible terrorist bombing," Marianne stated, buttoning up her suit jacket. Turning, she smoothed her shirt lapels in the mirror, eyeing herself critically. She reached up and removed two of the earrings from her left ear, leaving a small, chaste diamond. With a wiggle of her nose, she adjusted the rimless clear-lensed glasses she now wore.
"Yep," Lawson replied, not looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "Guess so." He'd been oddly silent during the hour since the Prime Minister's phone call. Marianne was beginning to worry. Normally at every turn he jumped in with a pithy observation or timely insight. Smart-ass comments about her choice of attire and noting that leather shoes would look considerably better with whatever suit she was wearing were common. Or that she needed to streak her hair--it was all the rage and would take three years off her face.
Deciding to ignore his withdrawal for now, Marianne took a deep breath and grabbed her attaché case from the rack beside the door. "If I'm not back in an hour, send in a SWAT team, okay?"
Where he normally would have agreed in a serious tone, his chocolate brown eyes twinkling, today he pierced her with a most uncharacteristic glare. "Look, this is a baby crisis, Marianne. It's not a joking matter."
Taken aback, she stared at him for a second. Her hand found the doorknob and as she twisted it, she said flatly, "It's not a crisis at all unless you know something I don't. And why would a secretary know something the Communications Director doesn't?"
Lawson shook his head and snapped his paper a couple of times. "Maybe I just take my job, and my responsibility to the country, more seriously than you do."
"Last time I looked, Douglas, Seattle was in the United States, and there was still a border between here and there. Why on earth is everyone up here panicking about an explosion that happened on the other side of the continent in someone else's territory?" she demanded with exasperation.
Going back to the sports section, Lawson replied, "That's just the kind of attitude that's got Alberta wanting to separate. You're late for your meeting."
Marianne glanced at her watch. "I've got ten minutes."
"It takes fifteen to get to the PMO, Marianne," he said, looking up to gauge her reaction. The sight that greeted him was the door swinging shut on his boss running down the hall. Aides, assistants, and minor employees on the Privy Council leaped out of her way with long-suffering, practised grace.
*
The Right-Honourable Arthur Reynolds, Prime Minister of the Dominion of Canada, thought himself a formidable man, and it was lucky for him that most people agreed. Unfortunately for both of them, Marianne did not. She despised his presence, and his supervisorial position above her, so for all Marianne's intents and purposes, she ignored him. For just this reason, he harboured no particular liking of her either. They had an understanding.
So while there was no tension in the Prime Minister's Office as Marianne entered, six minutes late for her meeting, there was animosity-the PM noted that Marianne was late, frazzled-looking, and wearing red and blue, and Marianne noted that Arthur was wearing her least favourite tie, leather shoes, and had used the entirely wrong shade of Grecian for Men. Again.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Reuter," Arthur said smoothly, standing behind his desk flanked by his three favourite lap dogs--Parsons, Minister of the Interior, Landrey, Minister of Health, and Chou, Minister of Foreign Affairs. They nodded to her as she slapped her attache on the chaise lounge to one side of the sitting area.
She didn't smile at the joke. "Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister. I aplogise for being five minutes late. Please excuse me for requiring the use of one of the many lavatories in the building, sir." Her rather vocal desire for the installation of more facilities was one of their mutual sticking points. "Now, if you'll tell me the reason for all this drama over the FOLAX van?"
Arthur sat, gesturing for the three ministers to join him. They arranged themselves to the right of Marianne, out of her line of vision. She just knew Parsons was making faces at her, the little rat. The Prime Minister pushed a folder towards her, trying to be official and yet mysterious. Marianne sighed inwardly, stepping forward to take the folder. She sat in a comfortable wing-backed chair to the left of the desk, so Parsons couldn't make faces at her anymore, and opened the folder on her crossed knees.
The first document was the FOLAX press release, issued half an hour ago, on the explosion. Marianne skimmed it and set it on the spindly-legged mahogany table beside the chair. Next came a series of photos from the site, which Marianne did not care to glance at in the company of men who disliked her. Crying before civil enemies is not a particularly smart move for a woman in politics. The proceeding four documents were radio, television, and internet news reports of the explosion. Then came an excerpt from the transcript of that morning's White House Press Conference. Marianne grimaced in sympathy for the Press Secretary. It appeared she'd known nothing of the explosion before facing the rabid reporters. "Poor gal," she muttered, forgetting for a moment where she was. Setting the excerpt aside, she was faced with a letter of resignation from Martin Belleveau, the Canadian Ambassador to the US. She frowned and looked up.
"What does Belleveau's resignation have to do with a bombing in Seattle?" she asked quizzically.
Arthur tried to contain his glee. If Marianne hadn't known him better, he would have succeeded. His jowls shook minisculely with repressed laughter, his folded hands, wrinkled in all the right places for a man who'd never done a day's work in his life, clenched together on his green marbled blotter-never used, by the way-and his eyes squeezed shut, hiding the raw malicious humour in their hazel depths. "You mean you don't know?" he asked, sounding falsely concerned.
On a sigh, Marianne replied dutifully, "No, Mr. Prime Minister. I don't know." No fucking way, she said silently, infusing the unspoken words with all the venom she could muster.
"Martin resigned last night. I just received the call from DC that they have noted his letter. Apparently he's having family troubles, so I promised I'd appoint him to the Senate so he'll have more time for his wife and kids. I just thought of his resignation as another pin in the cushion."
When she realised Arthur had nothing more than the news of Belleveau's resignation, she relaxed. "Very generous of you, sir. What cushion?"
"The situtation. It's another problem in the situation," Arthur replied, sulky now that his attempt at one-upping Marianne had failed to get a rise from her.
Marianne stood, slipping the folder onto the coffe table. "As far as I'm concerned, there is no situation. A bombing occurred in Seattle, which if I may remind you, sir, is an American city, and our ambassador to self-same country has resigned. I don't see the situation. I'll write and send a letter of condolence on the bombing and you can appoint a new ambassador, okay?"
Arthur grew grave, and Marianne sensed it was not an act. "There's one more paper in there, Ms. Reuter. I suggest you read it."
Cautious and confused, Marianne picked the folder up again and pulled the last sheet from it. It was an e-mail, from a hotmail account named flag_burners@hotmail.com, subject headed "Boom". It read:
"Fascist government:
"We've had enough. We're taking action. You don't care about what they've done or what they're planning to do. The blood is on your hands, you pigs.
"Five a.m., Wednesday, January 3rd. Six will die for six hundred thousand.
"The Front of Liberated Anglo Growers."
Marianne looked up. "This is a claim. FLAG has claimed the bomb?"
Arthur shrugged. "It looks like they have. I thought they were just a little marijuana-smoking bunch of anarchists living in the Okanagan, but I guess I was wrong."
Shaking her head, Marianne read the e-mail again. "They could have sent it after the explosion, wanting the publicity."
Even as Arthur said, "Check the date stamp," she did, and it read midnight on January 2nd, 2001.
"Somebody else...the real bombers, wanting to shift the blame...."
Arthur sighed. "I'm having CSIS look into it."
Author's Note: Despite the above disclaimer, I take all blame for the characters of Marianne Reuter, Lawson Douglas, PM Arthur Reynolds, and Governor Gordon Lum upon myself. If you don't like them, hate not Aaron Sorkin and brilliant kind, but my humble personage, who cannot hope to emulate their, well, brilliance, I guess. Enjoy.
The Angry Beaver
By BJ Garrett
The newswoman turned toward the camera, smoothing platinum-blonde hair out of her eyes. She drew a shaky breath and tried not to think about what she had to report. She wore no make-up and her lightweight jacket was insufficient cover for the frigid pre-dawn of January 3rd, 2001. Normally she reported traffic for the commuter crowd tuning into the breakfast show, but today something had happened and there was no one available to run out to City Hall and do it live, cold. She wished silently for a cup of coffee and tightened her grip on the microphone as she checked over her shoulder at the scene one last time. Yellow caution tape surrounded a blackened area of sidewalk and pavement. Debris littered the ground nearby, lit sporadically in the milky dawn by the revolving red and blue lights of a police car. There were several cruisers and transport vehicles parked haphazardly in the street before Seattle City Hall, but one officer had been too shocked to switch off his lights. The wail of a siren could be heard in the far distance, rushing to some other emergency-one where there were lives to be saved, instead of just mourned.
The cameraman flicked a peace sign at her and they were live. She waited for the short introduction and feeder question to filter into her ear, then began. "Yes, Joanne, a horrific explosion happened here just an hour ago, right on the steps of Seattle's City Hall. A FOLAX Utilities van was parked outside the building at five a.m., and as six FOLAX employees sat within, it exploded in a shower of flaming debris." She moved aside a little so a corner of the blackened area could be seen, then continued, "Needless to say, there were no survivors. The names of the van's occupants have not been released pending identification of the bodies and notification of their families. The cause of the explosion is not yet known, though the fire marshall did seem certain the explosion was not the result of a defect of the van, an older GMC cargo model. There was little left of the van to identify it as such, let alone as one belonging to FOLAX, but shocked City Hall employees assured the police, rescue workers, and myself that it was a FOLAX vehicle." She swallowed stiffly around a lump in her throat. "That's all I have to report right now Joanne, I'll try to have an update in half an hour. This is Angela Reid, CNBS 13 Get Up News, reporting."
*
Deep in the bowels of the Privy Council Office, the Communications Director toiled over a short, sweet 'screw you' for the press on the latest Native Relations disaster. Short and dark, her hair partially obscured her unlined skin, which was thanks in part to a generous glass of milk twice a day and the rest to good genes. The small round rose-tinted glasses pushed up on her nose masked her shadowed blue eyes. Most early mornings she dressed in faded jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt emblazoned with a peeling Saskatchewan University logo and partially covered by a woolly PEI-style cardigan. On the middle finger of her right hand gleamed a heavy class ring bought in 1988. On the door to her office hung a garment bag with her work-a-day outfit: conservative suit accented with a bright shirt or scarf and an optional hat and vest--all tucked safely out of sight until lunch hour.
Pulling a red pencil from behind her thrice-pierced left ear, she muttered, "Who says thusly?" to herself. As she pondered this question and that of how to replace 'thusly' with something more, well, a la mode, her phone buzzed. She grunted and ignored it, scribbling out a word. It buzzed again. She wished desperately Lawson would pick it up, flicking her eyes heavenward. It buzzed once more. Rising from her chair like an inordinately-angry geyser, pulling off her glasses and flinging them on the desk, she shouted, "Lawson!" at the top of her lungs.
A frenzied-looking yet serene young man walked into her office. "Yes, Marianne?" he asked, setting a to-go cappucino on her desk.
"Answer the goddamn phone," she replied, a little more sedately, falling on the coffee like a vulture on fresh meat. Without a word, he hooked up the receiver.
"Director Marianne Reuter's office. Lawson Douglas speaking." He paused and paled. Marianne, sucking on her coffee, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking about nothing but the warmth of caffeine and a synonym for 'thusly'. Swallowing hard, Lawson put the phone down on Marianne's desk and pushed it toward her. "It's him."
Sighing, Marianne crossed her feet on her desk, blocking the phone from her view, wiggling her slippered toes. "What does he want?"
Lawson picked the phone up again and moved it to beside Marianne's legs, where she could see it and it, had it eyes, could have seen her. "He sounds a little, well, angry, Marianne. I think you should talk to him. Something's happened in Seattle."
Remembering dourly her oath to the Prime Minister, she swung her feet to the floor and reached for the phone. "What does Seattle have to do with us?" she asked tiredly.
Eyes wide, Lawson made a 'ka-boom' sound and mimed an explosion with his hands.
"No fucking way," Marianne whispered. Lawson nodded and pointed at the phone, already inching toward the door. Marianne grabbed the handpiece and put it to her ear. "Yes, Mr. Prime Minister?"
She forgot all about Native Relations, synonyms, and even coffee. Her life would never be the same.
*
Leo was drinking a cup of coffee himself when Margaret's phone buzzed, too far away for him to hear. She answered it and stepped into his office like a frightened deer. "There's a problem, Leo," she said haltingly.
"A problem with what? The justice system? Interest rates? This coffee? A problem with what?" he asked irritatedly, bending over a random paper with an embassy letterhead, trying to appear far too busy to take on another problem.
His assistant shuddered. "No, sir, it's a big problem."
He looked up at her over the rims of his reading glasses. "Terrible coffee isn't a big problem?"
"No, sir, I mean Gordon Lum is on the phone," she insisted, wringing her thin hands.
Leo blinked. "Have I met him?"
"Yes, sir. He's the Governor of Washington. You should speak to him. He wouldn't tell me what happened, but he wants to talk to you," she said, flapping a hand at Leo's phone.
He sighed and put his coffee down, pushing the random paper away. "This better be good."
"No, sir, I think it's rather bad, actually."
Picking up his phone and pushing the blinking button, Leo said, "Perfect way to start a Wednesday morning."
*
As he put down the phone, staring at his desk, Leo reached for something to do, to hold on to. The same random paper happened to be under his hand and he picked it up, not really seeing it even as he skimmed the short message typed on it. The words, 'regret to inform you,' caught his attention and he pulled himself to the present, to the paper in his hand.
"Dear Chief of Staff McGarry," the letter ran.
"As Ambassador for the Dominion of Canada to the Republic of the United States of America, I regret to inform you of my resignation. As our associations in the past have been pleasant, I assure you that my reasons for leaving the embassy are entirely personal. I am certain Prime Minister Reynolds will have no trouble appointing a replacement palatable to both President Bartlet and his administration.
"May our countries continue to prosper and conduct themselves in peace towards each other.
"Sincerely, Martin Belleveau, Ambassador to the United States."
*
"So now we have to get a new ambassador and spin a possible terrorist bombing," Marianne stated, buttoning up her suit jacket. Turning, she smoothed her shirt lapels in the mirror, eyeing herself critically. She reached up and removed two of the earrings from her left ear, leaving a small, chaste diamond. With a wiggle of her nose, she adjusted the rimless clear-lensed glasses she now wore.
"Yep," Lawson replied, not looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "Guess so." He'd been oddly silent during the hour since the Prime Minister's phone call. Marianne was beginning to worry. Normally at every turn he jumped in with a pithy observation or timely insight. Smart-ass comments about her choice of attire and noting that leather shoes would look considerably better with whatever suit she was wearing were common. Or that she needed to streak her hair--it was all the rage and would take three years off her face.
Deciding to ignore his withdrawal for now, Marianne took a deep breath and grabbed her attaché case from the rack beside the door. "If I'm not back in an hour, send in a SWAT team, okay?"
Where he normally would have agreed in a serious tone, his chocolate brown eyes twinkling, today he pierced her with a most uncharacteristic glare. "Look, this is a baby crisis, Marianne. It's not a joking matter."
Taken aback, she stared at him for a second. Her hand found the doorknob and as she twisted it, she said flatly, "It's not a crisis at all unless you know something I don't. And why would a secretary know something the Communications Director doesn't?"
Lawson shook his head and snapped his paper a couple of times. "Maybe I just take my job, and my responsibility to the country, more seriously than you do."
"Last time I looked, Douglas, Seattle was in the United States, and there was still a border between here and there. Why on earth is everyone up here panicking about an explosion that happened on the other side of the continent in someone else's territory?" she demanded with exasperation.
Going back to the sports section, Lawson replied, "That's just the kind of attitude that's got Alberta wanting to separate. You're late for your meeting."
Marianne glanced at her watch. "I've got ten minutes."
"It takes fifteen to get to the PMO, Marianne," he said, looking up to gauge her reaction. The sight that greeted him was the door swinging shut on his boss running down the hall. Aides, assistants, and minor employees on the Privy Council leaped out of her way with long-suffering, practised grace.
*
The Right-Honourable Arthur Reynolds, Prime Minister of the Dominion of Canada, thought himself a formidable man, and it was lucky for him that most people agreed. Unfortunately for both of them, Marianne did not. She despised his presence, and his supervisorial position above her, so for all Marianne's intents and purposes, she ignored him. For just this reason, he harboured no particular liking of her either. They had an understanding.
So while there was no tension in the Prime Minister's Office as Marianne entered, six minutes late for her meeting, there was animosity-the PM noted that Marianne was late, frazzled-looking, and wearing red and blue, and Marianne noted that Arthur was wearing her least favourite tie, leather shoes, and had used the entirely wrong shade of Grecian for Men. Again.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Reuter," Arthur said smoothly, standing behind his desk flanked by his three favourite lap dogs--Parsons, Minister of the Interior, Landrey, Minister of Health, and Chou, Minister of Foreign Affairs. They nodded to her as she slapped her attache on the chaise lounge to one side of the sitting area.
She didn't smile at the joke. "Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister. I aplogise for being five minutes late. Please excuse me for requiring the use of one of the many lavatories in the building, sir." Her rather vocal desire for the installation of more facilities was one of their mutual sticking points. "Now, if you'll tell me the reason for all this drama over the FOLAX van?"
Arthur sat, gesturing for the three ministers to join him. They arranged themselves to the right of Marianne, out of her line of vision. She just knew Parsons was making faces at her, the little rat. The Prime Minister pushed a folder towards her, trying to be official and yet mysterious. Marianne sighed inwardly, stepping forward to take the folder. She sat in a comfortable wing-backed chair to the left of the desk, so Parsons couldn't make faces at her anymore, and opened the folder on her crossed knees.
The first document was the FOLAX press release, issued half an hour ago, on the explosion. Marianne skimmed it and set it on the spindly-legged mahogany table beside the chair. Next came a series of photos from the site, which Marianne did not care to glance at in the company of men who disliked her. Crying before civil enemies is not a particularly smart move for a woman in politics. The proceeding four documents were radio, television, and internet news reports of the explosion. Then came an excerpt from the transcript of that morning's White House Press Conference. Marianne grimaced in sympathy for the Press Secretary. It appeared she'd known nothing of the explosion before facing the rabid reporters. "Poor gal," she muttered, forgetting for a moment where she was. Setting the excerpt aside, she was faced with a letter of resignation from Martin Belleveau, the Canadian Ambassador to the US. She frowned and looked up.
"What does Belleveau's resignation have to do with a bombing in Seattle?" she asked quizzically.
Arthur tried to contain his glee. If Marianne hadn't known him better, he would have succeeded. His jowls shook minisculely with repressed laughter, his folded hands, wrinkled in all the right places for a man who'd never done a day's work in his life, clenched together on his green marbled blotter-never used, by the way-and his eyes squeezed shut, hiding the raw malicious humour in their hazel depths. "You mean you don't know?" he asked, sounding falsely concerned.
On a sigh, Marianne replied dutifully, "No, Mr. Prime Minister. I don't know." No fucking way, she said silently, infusing the unspoken words with all the venom she could muster.
"Martin resigned last night. I just received the call from DC that they have noted his letter. Apparently he's having family troubles, so I promised I'd appoint him to the Senate so he'll have more time for his wife and kids. I just thought of his resignation as another pin in the cushion."
When she realised Arthur had nothing more than the news of Belleveau's resignation, she relaxed. "Very generous of you, sir. What cushion?"
"The situtation. It's another problem in the situation," Arthur replied, sulky now that his attempt at one-upping Marianne had failed to get a rise from her.
Marianne stood, slipping the folder onto the coffe table. "As far as I'm concerned, there is no situation. A bombing occurred in Seattle, which if I may remind you, sir, is an American city, and our ambassador to self-same country has resigned. I don't see the situation. I'll write and send a letter of condolence on the bombing and you can appoint a new ambassador, okay?"
Arthur grew grave, and Marianne sensed it was not an act. "There's one more paper in there, Ms. Reuter. I suggest you read it."
Cautious and confused, Marianne picked the folder up again and pulled the last sheet from it. It was an e-mail, from a hotmail account named flag_burners@hotmail.com, subject headed "Boom". It read:
"Fascist government:
"We've had enough. We're taking action. You don't care about what they've done or what they're planning to do. The blood is on your hands, you pigs.
"Five a.m., Wednesday, January 3rd. Six will die for six hundred thousand.
"The Front of Liberated Anglo Growers."
Marianne looked up. "This is a claim. FLAG has claimed the bomb?"
Arthur shrugged. "It looks like they have. I thought they were just a little marijuana-smoking bunch of anarchists living in the Okanagan, but I guess I was wrong."
Shaking her head, Marianne read the e-mail again. "They could have sent it after the explosion, wanting the publicity."
Even as Arthur said, "Check the date stamp," she did, and it read midnight on January 2nd, 2001.
"Somebody else...the real bombers, wanting to shift the blame...."
Arthur sighed. "I'm having CSIS look into it."