IN SEVEN DAYS, I will be a hero to millions. People will praise my name along with other giants of Confederation: Macdonald, Diefenbaker, and even Harper. They built the nation. I will build a new one. A better one.
The tour bus droned northward along Highway 2 from Cardston, where the premier had just given a speech. Ahead, Fort MacLeod’s roads spread out like an X-ray. A spindly rib cage of dusty brown roads, tastefully decorated houses, and small strip malls, all set against the plains rising toward the distant snow-covered Rocky Mountains. In the dim horizontal light of a cloudy winter noon, the town looked like it had chain-smoked since adolescence.
Today’s media event was planned in front of the Fort, the Museum of the North-West Mounted Police. The premier would speak for fifteen minutes. The backdrop will work well, Garth thought. The NWMP, the precursor to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, brought law and order to the Prairies. They helped transform and civilize the West. Now it was time for the next phase.
Minutes after the bus stopped, Garth sat in front of the camera and began to sweat under the blazing lights. He adjusted his microphone. Nice way to cap off a good day campaigning. With a friendly network, one that sympathizes with our cause. With a few softball questions, this will make me look like a leader, he thought.
The reporter, a woman with short blond curls and a dark red dress, strode in and introduced herself. He didn’t catch her name. She was stunning. Early thirties. A trim figure that said “no kids.” Lean legs of a mountain biker, a smooth graceful neck, and a cute button nose. He would ask her out after the interview. He smiled while she adjusted her earphone and nudged her chair ahead. The red light on the camera flicked on.
“This is CTV News, and I am speaking with Garth Haynes, manager of the pro-independence campaign and former executive director of the Alberta Independence Movement. Welcome, Mr. Haynes, and thank you for joining us at such a critical time in the campaign.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“With the vote now only five days away, how are you feeling about the latest polls that put you at only forty-seven percent of the popular vote? At the start of the campaign, the premier was quite confident of victory. But clearly your support has softened.”
This was not the friendly question he expected. Garth forced a smile. “We feel it’s important to talk to the right people. Our support has consolidated. Albertans see the advantages that independence offers.”
“But don’t some see this as a desperate attempt to capitalize on a short-term bump in support due to the Supreme Court ruling?”
What kind of question is that? “There’s nothing desperate or short-term at all about our efforts. Our message is merely the natural continuation of a movement that’s taken decades to prepare. It all started with the CCF, then Social Credit, the Reform Party, and the simple cry of “The West Wants In.” Of course there’s been progress with the Conservatives in power for many years. And now it’s the East that wants in. We see a chance to improve Confederation for all Canadians. To make it fairer for everyone.”
“So for Albertans, ‘fairer’ means a separate country?”
His shock at the surprisingly aggressive questioning was beginning to dissipate, replaced with a bubbling anger, like acid in his throat. “We see a historic opportunity to correct some remaining imperfections in the Confederation arrangement. To make it better.”
She looked at him. “You mean better especially for the West —”
“We do pay the bills.”
“So it’s all about money? You have oil. The other provinces don’t?”
“Look, it’s not our fault that Canadian identity has distilled down to this, um, dichotomy.”
“East versus West?”
He held his breath in frustration. She was just trying to bait him into saying something stupid. He slowed his speech to give a fraction of a second extra before he spoke, plenty of time for his brain to double-check each word. “Quebec called the shots before, but no one cares about them anymore.”
She glanced at her notes. “So you don’t consider them a founding nation of the country?”
Garth wondered if the reporter had been switched with one from the CBC. He expected such a question from the Socialists, but not from more impartial, free-market media.
“Of course they are.”
“But they just don’t matter anymore?”
He leaned forward. Then, as he realized that the shadows thrown by the lights would make him appear more sinister, he leaned back again. “Quebec’s voice has diminished as a result of the new reality of the country. They represent a smaller fraction of the population. They’ve shrivelled to a whiny rump of Separatists, but their culture of eternal persecution remains.”
“Isn’t culture important?”
Another ambush question. The acid moved higher up his throat. “All that weird music, European statist attitude, and Cirque du Soleil flamboyance? Yes, they produced Céline Dion, but for every successful cultural export, Quebeckers have also churned out countless oddball artists reminiscing about a past that never existed.”
“You must admit, though, that they’re distinct. Isn’t independence also about preserving Albertan culture? Aren’t there parallels with Quebec’s argument in your campaign message?”
“Canada has never oppressed them.” The words were coming out faster now. He was losing control, sentence by sentence. “Canada has never tried to suffocate them or threaten their French language. But Quebeckers still complain.” He could feel his face redden, his eyes shooting daggers at her. “Westerners are creative, hopeful, energetic, entrepreneurial, and caring. Once, Easterners had hope, too, but they spoiled their chance with Liberal elite politics, squandering their manufacturing dominance. And now they’re mostly a smouldering pile of Socialists intent on confiscating the West’s bounty as their own.” He took a big gulp of air.
“So what does your party offer Albertans and Canadians?”
“Our movement is about the will of the people, the silent majority, and the control of our own destiny.” He glared at her with steely eyes.
“Wasn’t that the slogan used in the Quiet Revolution back in the sixties? Maîtres chez nous?”
Garth relaxed his cheeks, but he knew his eyes still betrayed his anger at the ambush. “We all want the same thing: to be left alone to do our own thing. Who could argue with that?”
“How about the other provinces that don’t necessarily share in the Alberta oil bounty? Wasn’t it oil that triggered your latest scaremongering about declaring an independent country?”
“Not scaremongering. Telling people the facts. It was the Montana Pipeline. Ottawa is still blocking it.”
She leaned closer. “Doesn’t Ottawa have that right? Isn’t international trade under the federal government’s control?”
“We negotiated with our southern neighbour to send oil their way. To have better access to the U.S. market after the failure of Keystone XL. It was a great deal for Albertans. And Ottawa killed it.”
“The Americans cancelled Keystone, I believe.”
He admitted to himself that she was well briefed, but he couldn’t stray from the official message at such a late stage in the campaign. “The Northern Gateway Pipeline was put on hold — it’s probably going to be cancelled — by Ottawa. The Energy East Pipeline never got off the ground, and Ottawa has delayed the Mackenzie Valley Pipeline in the Northwest Territories for decades. We’re stuck on three sides. We only have one option left. Go south.”
“You took your argument about provincial rights to the Supreme Court last year. And you lost. Many pundits predicted this outcome.”
“Premier Brewster knew the Supreme Court would rule in Ottawa’s favour. So now we take our argument directly to the people.”
“As a former member of the Prime Minister’s Office, couldn’t you have persuaded the prime minister to see Alberta’s viewpoint?”
“I chose to leave the Prime Minister’s Office at that time.”
“Weren’t you fired for publicly supporting the independence platform?”
How does she know that? Everyone agreed to keep the details confidential. “I decided to work for something I believed in.”
“Sources inside the Prime Minister’s Office say that you were given an ultimatum by the PM. Either support him or support the referendum.”
Bitch. “No comment.”
She shifted in her chair as she leafed through her notes then turned her gaze on him. “Let’s return, then, to what an independent Alberta would offer.”
“Our policy is really quite simple.”
“Not according to the latest polls. Voters are unclear about your true intentions.”
Garth put on a well-practised smile. Time to put her in her place. He wasn’t one of the good ol’ Brownshirt boys that populated the movement. He had an education, he was a rational thinker, and he had thought long and hard about how to argue for the cause. He had put together new facts to respond to the mounting criticism in the hostile, pro-Liberal media. He was sure the premier would approve.
Now it was time to reveal his sound bites that would overwhelm any opposition. “Number one, ‘Canada’ is really Ontario and Quebec. Together, with half of the country’s population, their political power is unbeatable. They will always stop any real attempt to improve Confederation.
“Number two. The Montana Pipeline, when completed, will create fifteen thousand jobs and seven billion in wealth, with another two billion per year in transport fees directly paid into the province’s coffers.
“Finally, number three. Alberta, as an independent nation, would be the thirty-fifth largest Western economy, slightly bigger than Finland’s. If Finland can do it, so can we.”
She looked at the camera operator behind him. “Unfortunately, that’s all the time we have for now. The premier is about to speak. Thank you for speaking with us, Mr. Haynes.”
That’s it? No response from her? He felt robbed. “Not a problem.”
Garth stood up and ripped off his microphone. He thought about the wasted personal opportunity with the reporter.
His iPhone began playing the Hockey Night in Canada theme song, which signalled a call from someone on a short and select list of contacts. He pulled it from his pocket and read the screen. Area code 208. Idaho.
“What?” he barked, holding the phone to his ear.
The call could be intercepted. He wanted no trail of evidence leading back to him if his plan failed. The loony left-wingers were listening for anything to use against him and the campaign. His special team used only the prepaid phones he had purchased. They used fake names. They used a short list of code words. And he used two phones, one for official campaign duties, and the other, clearly marked with a strip of blue tape, for unofficial business. That second phone would be smashed after the campaign was over.
“It’s me. Larch.”
Suddenly, Garth was no longer angry about the condescending tone of the interview. He felt serenity, hope, and sadness at the same time. He could anticipate the gravity of the news he was about to hear. He had waited so long for this moment. He hoped for some personal peace. But something gnawed at him that he couldn’t recognize or acknowledge. He paused. “So?”
“Mission complete.”
Garth let out a long, slow, tired breath. He stared at the distant podium where the premier had begun to speak.
Garth took a moment, trying to imagine the final, satisfying scene. “I’ll need confirmation before payment.”
“Of course. Check the local news sites in a few hours.”
“Payment will be delivered then.”
Silence lingered at both ends.
“Anything else?”
“There’s a problem.”
Garth said nothing.
“Potential witnesses,” continued Larch.
“And what are you doing about it?”
“I’m tracking them down.”
“Will this be a problem?”
There was a slight pause, a few seconds of static. “No.”
“You betcha. Call when you’re done.” Garth pressed end and put his phone in his pocket with his other secrets, leaving only one thought echoing in his mind: In seven days, I will be a hero to millions.