Salajeeb!

By Doug Lewars

A political group from a little-known Middle-Eastern country called Salajeeb has abducted the premier of Ontario! But why would they possibly want him? Join Buck Slade and his team as they travel to a far-off country where intrigue and danger seem to lurk in every corner and behind every bush. Can they rescue the Premier? Does anyone want them to? Take a look and find out!

Perhaps another half-hour passed and then a different flight attendant came by.
“We’ll be serving our in-flight meal shortly,” she said, “Would you prefer fish or chicken?”
“Chicken,” said Bobby.
“Okay,” she replied making a note on her pad.
“Uh, can I have chips with that?”
“I’m sorry sir but the vegetables are standard. We only have mashed potatoes.”
“Oh, Okay.”
“And you sir?” she asked looking at me.
“I’ll have the chicken as well.”
She noted that and then said, “Uh, do you think I should wake up the gentleman beside you to take his order?”
I turned and looked at my seatmate. He face had taken on a noticeably grey pallor.
“No I don’t think so. I think he’s dead.”
Her face brightened, “Oh good, we were starting to run short of the chicken.”
“Right.”
“I mean it wouldn’t be so bad if he ordered fish but almost everyone seems to want chicken.”
“I quite understand. His being dead will make your life easier.”
“Exactly.”
“Pity more people couldn’t follow his example.”
She nodded, “You’re absolutely right. The dead ones are always our best passengers.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Lewars
• Release date: Feb 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370784028

Doug Lewars

Although not quite over-the-hill, Doug is certainly approaching the summit. He lives in Etobicoke which is a polite way of saying West Toronto. When not exercising such creative talents as he may possess, Doug may be found gardening or out somewhere fishing. He comes with a large bald spot, a dark sense of humour, and a fondness for chocolate eclairs – or chocolate anything actually.

Book preview

Salajeeb!

By

Doug Lewars

Published by Doug Lewars at Smashwords

Copyright: 2018 by Doug Lewars – All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

All characters, events and organizations in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

This book is dedicated to Lauren and Philip Rouse.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – A Game of Soccer

Chapter 2 – A Strange Visitor

Chapter 3 – The Flight

Chapter 4 – Investigative Techniques

Chapter 5 - The Prison

Chapter 6 - Inside

Chapter 7 – A Trip Into the Desert

Chapter 8 – The Harem

Chapter 9 – Into the Desert

Chapter 10 - Rescue

Chapter 11 - Redina

Chapter 12 – Assault on the Palace

Chapter 13 – The Premier Assists

Odds n’Ends

Chapter 1 – A Game of Soccer

The ace of spades is the card of death. Or at least that’s what some people believe although many think that the queen of spades is far more dangerous. It’s hard to be sure. Personally I have some doubts about either; but one thing was absolutely certain, I had drawn the black queen and did not have a red king on which to place it so yet another game of solitaire was going into the tank. It was a losing day.

I shuffled the deck and placed it back inside the drawer of my desk. I wasn’t playing online solitaire because I hadn’t even bothered to turn my computer on. Business was slow. That’s frequently the case for me. Being the world’s greatest private investigator is not a lucrative job if the world doesn’t recognize your brilliance; and, frankly, the world had a way to go in recognizing mine. I’m Buck Slade. My assistant is Klintara. She has a tail; but that’s because she’s not human – attractive mind you and she looks human for the most part - except for the tail - but she isn’t human. In addition to being a detective I’m also a Java Websphere developer and systems’ programmer; but there’s even less demand for that than for detectives. It also happens that I’m a paranoid schizophrenic with mild sociopathic tendencies that aid considerably in almost any investigation or computing assignment.

I checked my watch for possibly the thirty-second time that day. It was only two-thirty - still two-and-a-half hours before quitting time. Still, being a free agent allows for some latitude. I decided that if the world wasn’t beating a path to my doorstep then I might as well knock off early. After all, if no business had appeared in the last six-and-a-half months, how much was likely to arrive in the next two-and-a-half hours? I left my office and entered the house itself. I work from home. My front door opens into a small hallway off which there are two doors. One leads into the house and one into my office. You can tell which is which because there is a sign on my door saying ‘Office’. It’s not too complicated. I considered putting a sign on the other door saying ‘House’, but Klintara vetoed it for some reason. Outside the front door is another sign advising clients that they should just walk in rather than knocking but few do. Because the place looks like a house they feel compelled to knock.

I walked into the kitchen to see if by chance Klintara had a pot of tea brewing. Since it was two-thirty and since we always have tea at two-thirty it seemed likely; but there was no pot brewing or any indication that water was being boiled in order to start one. In fact, the pot was in the cupboard and the kettle was empty.

It wasn’t like Klintara to miss afternoon tea. Since coming to Earth she had acquired a taste for it; and, even though we really couldn’t afford it, she made sure there was some around the house anyway. Of course we really couldn’t afford anything. Were it not for the rice that my late mother had left me along with the house for my inheritance, we’d have starved long ago. Admittedly, it would have been better if my late mother had paid off the mortgage before leaving the house to me; but one has to take what one can get.

I was currently a little behind in the mortgage payments. It had been six-and-a-half months since I’d completed my last case; and, as a result, I was six-and-a-half months behind in my mortgage. It’s not a happy place to be. The not-so-friendly people at the bank were beginning to discuss foreclosure as more than a theoretical option. At least my phone service had been disconnected some years ago, so they couldn’t harass me by telephone. I’m sure that provided considerable frustration to their accounts receivable department who live for the opportunity to harass customers. I was also somewhat maxed out on my credit card; so, I had been reduced to living in a cash economy without any cash.

In addition to not being in the kitchen, Klintara was not in the dining room, the living room or any downstairs room, so I went upstairs to see if she was there. She wasn’t. All the upstairs rooms were empty. That meant only one thing. She was visiting my next door neighbour Mrs. Ketchen.

Klintara liked Mrs. Ketchen and it didn’t hurt that Mrs. Ketchen always provided a cup of tea for her guest along with something sweet. Her memory wasn’t as good as it had been when she was younger and many people might consider her more than a little eccentric; still, she hadn’t lost any of the skills she’d acquired in the kitchen and could certainly turn out some lovely baked goods. I liked tea but I loved the sweets so I decided that perhaps Mrs. Ketchen could use a second visitor.

I walked out the back door and surveyed the estate. It wasn’t much to look at. At least the grass was cut. That was an improvement brought about by Klintara’s arrival. Until that time I had pretty much allowed it to revert to nature; but Klintara, it appeared, was not an aficionado of wilderness, so the grass was cut. There was even a small garden in which something that might have been a radish was growing. Inner city living is not entirely conducive to gardening but that did not stop Klintara from trying.

Around the corner walked an orange and white cat who eyed the short grass with some regret remembering those years when mice and other creatures of interest were to be found living there. He eyed me with distain and walked on. I didn’t take it personally. Cats frequently eye everyone and everything with distain. He ambled over to the far corner, walked through a hole in the fence and was gone to whatever business cats are involved in. I didn’t ask and he probably wouldn’t have bothered to answer anyway.

He was a normal cat and not a shape-shifter. I’ve had some dealings with were-cats. They’re not a bad lot for the most part although our relationship started with them trying to kill me; but that’s ancient history. They hardly ever try and kill me these days unless they’re feeling bored. That’s quite a bit better than my relationship with the were-wolves who would like nothing better than to rip my throat out; but, so far I’ve been able to avoid them and they’re sufficiently lazy that, unless I’m doing something that affects their interests. they pretty much leave me alone. There were none of them around that I could see so the prospect of immediate death was low on the probability scale. A sparrow did land on the fence and look me over; but, unless he had bird-flu, I figured he wasn’t much of a menace.

The sky was cloudy but the rain promised in the weather forecast had held off; and, it appeared, would not arrive before night, so I didn’t require an umbrella. I walked over to Mrs. Ketchen’s house and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I repeated the knock a little louder and there was still no answer so I opened the door and stepped inside. Mrs. Ketchen does occasionally lock her doors but not always. She grew up at a time when locks were unnecessary and never quite got into the habit. I don’t always lock the doors on our house either; but that’s because we have absolutely nothing worth stealing. In fact, should a burglar enter our house, I’m fairly sure he’d leave a small donation after checking over the place.

Mrs. Ketchen’s house smelled a little of lavender and moth-balls. The light was dim in the hallway but I could hear sounds coming from the den so I figured they were in there watching television and so that’s where I went. Sure enough, the television was on and both Mrs. Ketchen and Klintara were watching avidly. It was a soccer game. Soccer, or football as it’s known by some, did not particularly interest me, but fans of the game tend to be intense in their admiration and it was clear that both Mrs. Ketchen and Klintara were fans because they were glued to the set with barely touched cups of tea beside them. I suspected that the tea had probably grown cold from inattention and beside each cup was a plate of cookies that had also been ignored.

Pass the ball! exclaimed Mrs. Ketchen.

Oh no! wailed Klintara as a member of the opposing team neatly stripped it away from the attacker and raced down field. I noted the player with the ball was wearing an orange jersey with black lettering while the team forced suddenly to the defense was wearing pale blue. Personally I found the orange to be more attractive but it was clear that fashion was not the criteria they’d used when choosing a team.

Mr. Orange Jersey did not have what in hockey would be described as a breakaway, but there was only one defender between him and the goal which, in soccer, appeared to be almost as good.

Tackle him! yelled Mrs. Ketchen.

That seemed a little strange to me. I was pretty sure that use of the hands was forbidden in soccer and that it was supposed to be a non-contact sport; so tackling someone might be thought to be against the rules; but since I had no idea what the rules entailed, I decided that perhaps it was possible. It appeared that in this case the term ‘tackle’ did not refer to grabbing an opponent and hauling him to the ground, but in kicking the ball away from him. The attacker dodged to one side. The defender responded by pivoting and kicking to the same side – a kick which came marginally too late, missed the ball and landed smartly on the ankle of the attacker who proceeded to collapse to the ground holding his ankle in agony while the ball rolled safely into the arms of the goal tender. The referee appeared to take a dim view of this manoeuvre and blew the play dead.

He’s faking it! complained Klintara as the injured player writhed in pain.

He took a dive! agreed Mrs. Ketchen.

If it was an act it appeared to have fooled the referee who produced a yellow card and authorized a penalty kick thereby enraging a goodly number of the fans who showed their disapproval with loud boos.

The teams lined up in their approved position with a certain amount of jockeying back and forth as they decided on what strategy to use. It seemed fairly simple to me. All the attacker had to do was kick the ball but there was more than a little consultation and the preparation took the better part of ten minutes. At last everyone appeared to have come to some sort of agreement. The attacker rushed at the ball but, instead of kicking it directly towards the goal as I would have done, he kicked it to the side where another attacker kicked it hard towards the open corner of the net. As the ball flew towards that opening, the goal tender threw himself at it and barely deflected it with his head; but it was enough and the ball hit the post and bounced back into a swarm of both attackers and defenders who kicked it one way and then another until at last the goal tender was able to gather it up and end the play.

Thank God! breathed Mrs. Ketchen.

That was a brilliant save! added Klintara.

Hi guys, I said announcing myself. Neither looked up from the television.

Be quiet, said Klintara, This is important.

Now the teams seemed headed back in the other direction; however the player with the ball was about to run into some heavy opposition.

Your winger! yelled Mrs. Ketchen.

On the right! yelled Klintara.

It was seemingly good advice and the player took it, lifting the ball with his foot in a graceful arc that missed his winger by no more than ten feet and landed almost on the toe of the defender.

You idiot! yelled Mrs. Ketchen.

Can’t you even kick?! put in Klintara.

It was obviously an exciting match although I’m not personally interested in sports of any kind. I appreciate that they provide exercise but they also provide broken arms, broken legs and the occasional concussion. For me, I prefer a good brisk walk in the country but for those who like them, sports are important. Generally here in Canada, hockey is particularly popular but obviously some prefer football, baseball, or, in this case, soccer.

Stop him! Stop him! Stop him! yelled Mrs. Ketchen as a swarm of players headed for the goal and one of the offenders obligingly did stop him and pass the ball back to the goal tender who picked it up and gave it a mighty boot that sent it well down the field and into the opponents’ territory. It seemed to me to be an efficient way of moving the ball but Mrs. Ketchen clicked her tongue indicating that she didn’t entirely approve.

I have to admit that I do enjoy watching soccer occasionally. It seems quite relaxing. First the teams run up the field, then they run down the field, then they run up the field, then they … well, you get the idea. Occasionally someone takes a shot and everyone gasps. Then they go back to running up and down the field. Once, or possibly twice over the course of an hour-and-a-half, someone will score a goal and that creates a bit of a disturbance. But shortly thereafter, they go back to running up and down the field; and, for the most part, it’s all very relaxing. It seems to be sort of a Zen-like experience.

Neither Klintara nor Mrs. Ketchen seemed very relaxed. They were sitting on the edges of their seats as the teams ran first one way and then the other. Since nothing seemed to come from these forays I wasn’t sure why they seemed so tense but I guess different things affect people in different ways; nevertheless, with their attention so avidly wrapped on the game, I saw an opportunity for myself and edged closer to Klintara. One of the players they were rooting for, in a moment of either madness or suicidal self-sacrifice, stood directly under the ball as it descended from a long kick and allowed it to smack him in the forehead likely sustaining a concussion but directing the rebound up the field to one of his team mates who, as it happened, was not surrounded by opponents and who was free to make quite a bit of progress towards the opposing goal.

Yes! yelled Mrs. Ketchen.

Perfect! added Klintara.

In that moment of riveting excitement I reached for one of Klintara’s cookies. Without ever taking her eyes off the screen she slapped me smartly on the hand, thereby defending her cookies and forcing me to retreat a couple of feet to nurse my wounded appendage. Clearly this was going to require a bit of strategy. What I needed was a diversion more significant than a mere well-executed header.

Although the player drew close to the goal, there was little real likelihood of him scoring because two defenders were in position and no-one was in position to receive a pass. He seemed to recognize this however, and instead of running directly towards a defender cut away towards the corner. Sensing he had his opponent trapped, the defender followed at which point the man with the ball, turned and kicked it back up field to where one of his team mates was running full tilt through the path that had suddenly opened. The pass was perfect. The player put on a burst of speed, passed the only defender that had a chance of stopping him and was one on one with the goal tender. The latter raced forward to cut off the angle but he was too late. A mighty kick directed the ball beyond his reach and it soared into the top right corner of the net to score a point.

The crowd roared. The players leaped about in exultation. Both Klintara and Mrs. Ketchen were on their feet cheering; and, in that instant, I grabbed not one but three cookies from Klintara’s plate and took a step backwards in case she noticed and gave pursuit. She didn’t. I doubt if either she or Mrs. Ketchen would have noticed if the ceiling had given way at that moment. I bit into a cookie and it was delicious. Clearly Mrs. Ketchen had outdone herself with this batch. In addition to my appreciation for the cookies, I decided that soccer had some good points that I had never considered – primarily in acting as a diversion for stealing cookies.

The jubilation settled down and the game resumed. Suddenly Klintara glanced at the now vastly reduced plate and turned around.

Hey! she exclaimed, You stole my cookies!

Me? I asked innocently. It was difficult to speak because my mouth was full.

Yes you!

No, I replied somehow managing to swallow without gagging myself, You ate them yourself.

I did not!

Of course I can understand your forgetfulness. You were so engrossed in the game that you ate them automatically without ever taking your attention from the television. You should really learn to focus on your food. You’ll appreciate it more.

You’re dead meat, she replied.

Well, I said glancing at my watch, Amazing how time flies. Gotta run.

I made it to the door before she was out of her chair but I’ve got to admit she was pretty fast. She might have even caught me if she didn’t have to stop to quietly close the door behind her. It wouldn’t have been polite to slam it on poor Mrs. Ketchen who was so engrossed in the game she probably didn’t even notice my arrival or Klintara’s departure.

I had about a five yard lead as I was racing towards our own front door when I saw something that made me stop short. Klintara, who was closing fast, with murder in mind, also came to an abrupt stop in order to follow my gaze towards what had caught my attention. There was a large cardboard box apparently walking up the street.

Chapter 2 – A Strange Visitor

The box made rather slow progress because whoever was under it hadn’t done a particularly good job of cutting holes for the eyes; and, as a result, he had to stop after every few steps and shift it so that his eyes lined up with the holes. Still, he managed to progress until he reached our front walk and then he headed towards me. Fortunately my mental aberrations make it fairly common for me to be approached by cardboard boxes and any number of other inanimate objects; so knowing that this one was being worn by an actual person made the whole thing rather commonplace. Klintara may have had some thoughts on the subject but she kept them to herself; and, after realizing that the box was headed towards us she went inside, probably to start some tea brewing.

Are you Buck Slade? asked the box.

Yes, may I help you?

He looked around which took some time as he had to shift himself first in one direction and then in the other. It was also rather futile because if anyone had been watching us - and frankly several people were - they could easily have gotten out of sight before he was able to focus on them. At last he convinced himself that the onlookers were looking only because it was a trifle unusual - even in downtown Toronto - to see a box walking about. Therefor no-one was actually following him so he turned back to me.

I need your assistance.

Yes? I tried to smile pleasantly.

It’s about … um … an issue.

I understand. That’s frequently the case.

It’s … uh … rather delicate.

As a private investigator, confidentiality is second nature to me.

Uh … well … uh … good.

So how can I be of assistance?

Uh … well …. Once more he looked around. He was beginning to attract a small crowd. Do you think we might be better off if we … uh … that is … uh … go inside?

I looked him over. Well of course we can discuss things in my office but do you think your box will fit through the door?

Oh … oh dear!

Clearly he hadn’t considered the logistics of the thing.

Tell you what, I said, Suppose I open the door and you go right up to it. Then you can crouch down and tilt your box backwards so you can crawl out from underneath it. That way you can get into the house with your box remaining outside and it will shield you from the eyes of the crowd.

The crowd was growing too. In fact traffic was beginning to back up. You’d think people had never seen someone walking about in a box before.

Good idea! he said; so I opened the door and stood back a bit while he tipped his box back and crawled into my hallway. It was the first time a client had ever come to me on his hands and knees; although frankly I haven’t had all that many clients so it may be a common practice. I opened the door to my office and he entered and sat down.

He was a middle-aged man of about forty-five. He had a slight build and thinning brown hair with perhaps just a touch of grey but I couldn’t be sure. It was possible that he dyed it. He had a longish sort of face and his eyes darted about nervously as if he expected someone to leap out of the garbage can and attack him. His clothing, however appeared to be expensive. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit that I thought might be of an Italian cut, expensive patent-leather shoes, a white shirt that I guessed was probably Egyptian and a blue tie. The latter was the only thing that looked as if he might have picked it up at the Bay. Everything else suggested that here was an individual of considerable affluence.

Now, I said as I sat down behind my desk and tried to look vaguely competent, How may I help you?

Once more he looked around, You don’t recognize me do you?

No, I’m afraid I don’t; but I tend to live a life that is somewhat removed from mainstream activities.

Ah, I see, well my name’s Thomas Dale.

I guess he could tell from the blank look in my face that the name hadn’t registered so he continued by leaning forward and saying in a conspiratorial voice, I’m Ralph Fox’s personal assistant.

I nodded. I certainly knew who Ralph Fox was. He was the head of the Conservative Party of Ontario, who, at that moment, were in opposition to a majority government headed by the Liberals.

Well Mr. Dale, how can I help?

He looked around just to make sure that no-one had entered the closed door of the office while we were speaking and then he said, Gerald McPaine is missing!

Missing? I asked. Gerald was the head of the Liberal Party and the Premier of Ontario.

Missing! he reiterated nodding his head up and down. Kidnapped!

Kidnapping is a serious crime Mr. Dale. Surely the police are involved.

No! That’s the last thing we want! This is being kept quiet by all parties and so far no-one has noticed; but that can’t last forever. At the moment the legislature isn’t sitting, so his absence hasn’t been obvious; but once the break is over the press may possibly catch on. He must be rescued before then.

I see. Do you have any idea of who the kidnappers are or where they might have taken him?

Salajeeb.

Salajeeb?

He nodded.

Um, is that an organization or a location?

He looked surprised. It’s a country in the Middle East. I suppose it is rather a small country so I guess it’s understandable that you’ve never heard of it; but it’s a reasonably wealthy country due to oil revenue.

I see. Yes you’re correct. I’m not familiar with it.

Well like so many countries in the Middle East, they had an uprising of the people against the government. It was part of their own Arab Spring celebrations and now they’ve got a new revolutionary council governing the country.

Well that’s all very interesting of course but I don’t see the connection.

It was members of the revolutionary council who abducted our premier!

Oh … well … I see. Do you … uh … have any idea as to their motive?

He looked at me as if I was in grade one.

Mr. Slade, it’s clear that you do not understand much about politics do you?

Well … no … I can’t say I’ve ever really paid much attention to it.

Ah, that explains it. Well you see it’s like this. The new revolutionary council isn’t any different from the old government. They plan to tyrannize the populace just like any other government in the Middle East, but they’re inexperienced. Simply put, they need someone who has experience in lying, taxing, curtailing civil rights, and, in general, exploiting the downtrodden for his, and his colleagues selfish ends. And who could be better at that than Gerald McPaine?!

Oh, right! I should have realized that.

Yes, here is a man who exudes a kindly father image even while he’s looting the province, driving up unemployment, and, in his handling of the recent aboriginal crises, completely replacing the rule of law with rule by political expediency. He’s absolutely perfect for the job. Unfortunately we need him in Ontario for exactly those same reasons.

Well … yes … I suppose, but, uh … you said you were Ralph Fox’s personal assistant and Gerald McPaine is a Liberal. Shouldn’t someone from the Liberal party be coming here to see about his rescue?

He looked deeply shocked. Clearly you are a neophyte when it comes to politics. They certainly don’t’ want him back. In fact, the reason I came incognito was so they wouldn’t realize a rescue mission was in the making and try to stop it.

They don’t want him back?

Certainly not. Look, with him gone, think of the possibilities for political advancement there are in that party.

Oh, I see, a leadership convention.

Right and not only a new leader but a new faction of the party has an opportunity to take over and within any political party there are about as many factions as there are members – sometimes more.

Well, okay, that explains their reticence. But why is your party interested in assisting?

We expect there will be an election within a year – two years at the most and with Gerald McPaine as head of the Liberal party we’re pretty much guaranteed to win.

Ah! I see! So that explains it.

Right, Ralph has had discussions with Kevin Oozyton of the NDP and what’s-her-name from the Greens and together they decided to authorize me to employ you to rescue Gerald.

I see, but this kind of thing isn’t really my line of work. You see I’m a private investigator. I solve mysteries and there really isn’t any mystery here. Besides, in those Middle Eastern countries the people frequently carry guns and are more than willing to use them, and I really don’t care for that sort of thing.

Mr. Slade, we in the provincial government do have our sources of information.

Well, yes, I suppose you do.

And we know the entire sum within your bank account. In addition, we know the entire sum currently outstanding on your mortgage.

Oh I see. Well yes, that is a convincing argument.

I thought it would be. Now can you leave this afternoon?

What?!!

Well, okay, tomorrow then.

A week at the earliest.

Mr. Slade. This is an urgent matter.

You think they may harm Mr. McPaine?

Heaven’s no, but we need to have him returned as soon as possible. There’s precious little time before the next session starts.

Oh! Right! And then people would realize that he’s missing!

Uh … not exactly. Well, of course they will realize he’s missing … eventually. We figure we’ve got between six months and a year before someone notices so that’s not the reason for the urgency.

Then what is?

He looked embarrassed. Well you know that Gerald leads a majority government.

Yes.

But it’s a slim majority.

Okay.

Two seats.

Right

And one of those is the speaker so he can’t vote.

Uh huh.

With Gerald gone we’re even.

Yes.

But in the event of a tie, the speaker can cast the deciding vote.

I realize that.

The problem is that Jerry Clemmens is out with the flu and probably will be for another two to three weeks. It’s a nasty virus that’s been going around and Jerry was late in getting his flu shot and so when the session reconvenes, the Liberals will be in a minority position.

Okay.

Now you have to realize that in such a situation we and the NDP will always make sure that at least one of us is absent so that the Liberals will win on any given vote; however, there’s a certain coming-and-going of party members. It’s seldom that any party has all their members in attendance at any one time; so if we’re not very careful, we might miscalculate and bring down the government.

I suppose that could happen.

And if it did, it would be a disaster! Have you any idea how difficult it is for people to vote? Why barely fifty percent can manage it at all! It is necessary for people to travel hundreds, possibly thousands of meters to a polling station, take a ballot, somehow decipher the names on it, select one and then, however challenging it may be, mark a letter ‘X’ by the name. It’s utterly exhausting and likely requires several days to recover from the ordeal. If we inflict another election on the populous before the next regularly scheduled one they’ll rise in revolt and give the Liberals an overwhelming majority.

Ah, I see.

Right, so it’s essential that Gerald be returned as quickly as possible. With him leading the province we can probably hold off an election for a year or two; and, by then, the people of Ontario will be so enraged that they’ll send the present government into the oblivion they so richly deserve.

Well okay, I guess I could leave in four days.

Two.

Three.

Very well, three days.

Besides, I’m not sure if I can arrange for passports and visas in that amount of time.

He pulled out a passport, visa and airline ticket with my name on it and handed it to me.

Surely, I said, You don’t think I’m going alone.

You’re not? He looked genuinely surprised.

Absolutely not. For a mission like this I’ll need a team of highly qualified assistants.

Oh, I hadn’t realized that.

I’ll be travelling with three individuals, two female and one male.

That may be a challenge.

If you can take care of the airfare I can manage the passports and visas.

He nodded. I’ll have the tickets in your mailbox by tomorrow morning.

Very good. It was at that moment that the door opened and Klintara entered with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. The latter she very pointedly offered to our guest and positioned herself so that I was unable to reach them.

Mr. Dale, I said, Is a representative of the provincial government who are hiring us to rescue the premier.

Thomas winced, Please don’t phrase it like that. It’s not the provincial government who’s hiring you. It’s a select subcommittee of the Ministry of Provincial Affairs who is your employer.

But I thought the Ministry of Provincial Affairs was a federal ministry.

That’s correct; however of necessity, that ministry has close ties with the provincial governments and there are provincial and regional sub-committees. By working with them, we are able to fund payment without a paper trail leading back to the provincial government and that’s important when the auditor reviews the books.

Won’t the auditor general notice?

No because expenditures to the provinces aren’t itemized. She’ll see the payment of course but it will be buried among all the rest and won’t be large enough to warrant her close scrutiny. Governments all work better if the auditors don’t do much in the way of auditing.

I see. Well then, Mr. Dale is our liaison to the governmental organization who is acting as our employer.

He brightened, Much better.

That ended the business portion of our conversation and the mood became lighter. Thomas told us a number of amusing anecdotes about Governments raising taxes and looting the province, about individual ministers or their relatives becoming rich at the public expense, and about committees and subcommittees tendering contracts without taking bids and receiving large kickbacks for doing so. He was actually a charming individual when he was able to relax and had us laughing heartily at how the Ontario taxpayers were being victimized. At last he finished his tea and made ready to leave.

I walked him to the door and tilted his box backwards while he backed into it. Then, weaving down the walk, barely avoiding stumbling into the street and catching a glancing blow from a telephone pole he was gone.

Once I was in my office I turned on my computer and