Deadline by Stephen Maher Page A

you.”

    Rupert Knowles, principal secretary to the prime minister, sat in his office on the third floor of the Langevin Building, fiddling with the remote control in his hand. He had an image frozen on the 40-inch TV next to the door of Greg Mowat’s face at the moment he stopped walking and turned to Ellen Simms earlier that day. Mowat wore a poised, serene look, like a pastor about to begin a sermon. He hit play, and Mowat started to talk.
    “If we’re discussing Mr. Stevens’s resignation, the first thing we should do is look at what he’s done for the country,” said Mowat. “Under his leadership we have run a scandal-free government. We’ve cut taxes, rebuilt the military, got tough on criminals, managed the economy through a very challenging time, and made life better for Canadian families. I’m very proud to have worked for Mr. Stevens. He is an inspiration to us, personally and professionally. If he has, as you say, decided to step down, I think this is a good time to reflect on all he has done for the country, and not a time for personal ambition.”
    Knowles hit rewind, went back to the beginning, and froze the screen again at the moment when Mowat’s face took on the expression of pleasant anticipation. He stared for it a moment longer and went to the office door.
    “Suzanne,” he said to the middle-aged receptionist he shared with the prime minister. “Could you ask Ismael to come in for a moment?”
    He sat down and waited for Balusi, staring at the screen.
    “Hey,” said Balusi, as he entered. “What’s up?”
    Knowles gestured to the screen. “I want to ask your opinion about something. Sit down.” He nodded to the couch against the wall.
    Balusi was nervous. He got on well with Frank Naumetz, the boss’s chief of staff, who appreciated him for his hustle, his subtle communications skills, his work ethic and his partisan instincts, but Knowles made him uneasy. For one thing, they were about the same age, but Knowles had been working for Stevens a lot longer. He had worked his way from his body man – his go-fer – to principal secretary, the man who speaks for the boss when the boss can’t make the call himself, the man who can walk into ministerial offices, casually, and see what’s going on, asking questions that leave little doubt about what the boss wants.
    Unlike Balusi, who liked to party with other young staffers, Knowles went home to his family whenever he could get away from the office early, and also unlike Balusi, he had the prime minister’s personal confidence.
    Knowles pointed to the screen. “What do you see?”
    “Uh, Greg Mowat,” said Balusi, glancing back and forth between the screen and Knowles. “The minister of public safety.”
    “Yeah,” said Knowles. “How’s he look?”
    “He looks relaxed. Comfortable.”
    “Yup,” said Knowles, and hit play. They watched Mowat gave his spiel. “What do you think? Good lines, eh?”
    Balusi nodded. “Yeah. About perfect.”
    “The way Bouchard would write them?”
    Balusi thought for a minute and nodded.
    “Not like something he was making up on the spot?”
    “No,” said Balusi. “It looks like he had his lines ready.”
    Knowles rewound further, and played Wong and Donahoe’s clumsy responses and Mowat’s again.
    He pressed pause and looked at Balusi.
    “Looks like we’ve found our leaker,” said Balusi. “Mowat.”
    Knowles shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he and his little press secretary – what’s her name, Sophie – maybe they were just shooting the breeze, hashing out what Mowat should say after QP, and so he was ready for the ambush.”
    Balusi said: “Or maybe Mowat leaked so he would look sharp and Donahoe would be caught flat-footed.”
    Knowles laughed and got to his feet, signalling an end to their little meeting. “Politics is a funny business.”

    Mallorie Ashton opened a bottle of Pinot Noir the minute she got through the door of her condo. She finished her first glass as she drew