"It is done."
"A car will meet you at the Ottawa airport. Please hurry. Events are overtaking the globe. We must move to control them, if we are to profit by them."
"Until tonight," purred Anwar Anwar-Sadat, who blew a kiss into the receiver and was rewarded with a breathy return peck.
Hanging up reluctantly, he came to his feet and called out. "Christos! Book me on the earliest flight to Ottawa."
Christos came into the room and noticed the unseemly bulge in Anwar Anwar-Sadat's well-tailored crotch and averted his eyes with red-faced embarrassment.
"At once, my General," he said, saluting crisply.
CANADIAN FISHERIES Minister Gilbert Houghton was giving a follow-up speech where the Fraser River emptied out into the Strait of Georgia among the coastal pines of British Columbia. Vancouver's sparkling towers formed an impressive backdrop.
The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation was there. As were foreign press, including a solitary representative from the U.S. ABC, of course. Their chief anchor was Canadian. A good man to have in New York when the Canadian view needed putting forth.
The cold winds were out of the Pacific. They ran chilly fingers through Houghton's crisp hair. Opening his mouth, he inhaled a bracing charge of the purest air in Mother Nature.
"I have come here to our fifth province to make a firm stand against piracy and environmental pillaging."
From a packet he took up a dead fish. It lay limp in his hand.
"This is a green sturgeon. A brave, mighty and tasty fish. Here in the Fraser, green sturgeon are all but extinct." He lifted up another fish, this one white. "If something is not done, his brother, white sturgeon, will go the way of all fish. My friends, we are expecting here in B.C. a die-off of fish unprecedented in modern history. Just as the dodo is extinct, just as the whale was hunted to near extinction, we are about to lose our sturgeon and salmon. It must not be allowed to come to pass.
"It is no secret that one of the chief causes of this die-off is overfishing. In that, we Canadians must assume our rightful share of blame."
From the crowd there were boos-fishermen, many of whom were restricted from fishing in their own waters. Among these men the name of Gilbert Houghton was something to expectorate from the mouth.
"Some blame logging for injuring the habitats. Others say El Nino's warmer waters are responsible for diminishing salmon returns. While these events may have their individual impacts, there is a greater menace. Salmon return to the Fraser and other B.C. rivers to spawn. If they do not return, they cannot spawn. It is no secret that virtually all the salmon runs in this part of the world belong to British Columbia. Nor it is any secret that the salmon do not return to the Fraser and other coastal streams as they have because they are intercepted."
He let the word hang in the cold air, bitter as castor oil.
"U.S. fishermen operating in the shared waterways off B.C. are capturing salmon in record numbers. In doing so, they are confiscating the next generation of salmon before they can hatch. Confiscating our food, our livelihood and our very futures!"
"The bloody bastards!" a man cried out.
Gilbert Houghton looked out. It was a typical B.C. fisherman. But his face was painted white, and smack in the middle, resembling a blotch of fresh blood, was the red maple leaf of Canada.
Houghton suppressed a smile. A plant. There were others. They were salted throughout the crowd for the benefit of the camera.
"In the Atlantic my predecessor stepped in to arrest the Maritime cod crisis. He was a good man, but he acted too late. I have taken steps to halt the salmon crisis. For this I have been roundly and unfairly criticized."
There were boos but a few cheers, too. These came from the white-faced maple-leafers.
"What is the point of protecting the salmon spawning streams of British Columbia if the fish who seek them are captured, gutted and eaten on their way home? These fish are born in B.C. They return to B.C. These are not Pacific fish. They are B.C. fish. They are Canadian fish. And as Canadian fish, they deserve-no, they cry out for protection."
This got a rousing cheer even from the disgruntled lot waving a placard that read United Fishermen's And Allied Workers' Union Against Federal Interventions.
"From this day, I pledge the full might and protection of my office to the rescue of the beleaguered salmon. It may be too late to succor the sturgeon. But the salmon can and will be saved. My vow to all Canadians-victory will be ours! Victory by Victoria Day!"
The crowd ignited. It roared. The boos, so loud before, were drowned out. And while there were still catcalls and hoots directed at him, the TV sound equipment would register only the roars of acclaim for Minister of Fisheries Gilbert Houghton, future prime minister of Canada.
"Victory by Victoria Day! Victory by Victoria Day!"
As he stepped down from the makeshift podium to the thunderous applause of his fellow countrymen, Gil Houghton was met by an aide clutching a cellular telephone.
"It's for you, sir."
"Not now," Houghton snapped. "I am rebounding in popularity."
"She says you will take the call."
"She? Not my wife, I hope?"
"No. Definitely not your wife," said the aide.
Pressing one ear shut with a cool palm, Gil Houghton returned to his waiting Bentley and, ensconced inside, took the call.
"I must see you," said the crisp contralto voice that took the breath from his lungs.
"This is awkward timing. I'm in B.C."
"I know. I saw it all."
"And you approve?"
"I require your presence, you miserable piece of bait."
"Yes, Mistress," said Gilbert Houghton, his face contorting between misery and pleasure-both equally enjoyable sensations.
Oh, how that woman could make him squirm with delight and desire.
"I will be there directly, Mistress," he said.
When he hung up, he discovered he had his hands in his pants like a naughty little boy.
Chapter 30
The stewardesses on the Air Canada flight to Ottawa were not only indifferent, but they were openly hostile.
"You must sit in the rear of the aircraft," one told Remo, ripping up his boarding pass for a window seat.
"Why?"
"Because you are a Yank."
"I'm an American," Remo protested. "Proud of it, too."