Sussex Drive: A Novel by Linda Svendsen Read Free Book Online Page B

he said.
    “Oui,”
Lise said. “You knew her the best of all of us.”
    “That’s true,” he said, then laughed. “Even though she could be hard to know. With the burka, you know.”
    “For sure.”
    “Your Excellency,” he said, “I know I probably shouldn’t ask.”
    “It’s okay,” she said. “Go ahead.”
    “Do you know why I was transferred from the PMO detail? Was there a reason?”
    “Yes, there was a reason. Rideau Hall needed you. You and your skill set.”
    “Merci,”
he said.
“Merci beaucoup.”
    “
Il n’ya pas de quoi
. Should we head back?” Lise said. Niko became impatient whenever she was late.
    That night Lise retired early, emotionally exhausted from the day and the prospect of meeting with the Prime Minister in the morning.
    Lise couldn’t get Shymanski and Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K. out of her head. The Corporal had seemed haunted.
    The whole Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha (Arabic, meaning “alive”) K. phenomenon had begun with an enigmatic photo of her on the front page of the furthest left right-wing national newspaper, there being no left-wing national newspaper. It had been back in 2006, before Greg became Prime Minister. An above-the-fold, full-colour, full-length profile of Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K., covered crown to toe in her blue burka, arm extended, and an elegantly manicured grip on Bulgaria’s very own Arcus 98 DA (Double Action) military pistol, pointed convincingly at the left margin.
    Trop fou
, Lise had thought: you expected to see a camouflaged Afghan woman offering a platter of battered figs, or tossing a couple of underweight goats around her neck—anything but this
tableau noir
. The country learned how single mother Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K. home-schooled her children and then was chauffeured to work at the ANP by RCMP counterparts (Shymanski) because Afghan women weren’t allowed by law to drive. And because of Taliban death threats.
    It was catnip propaganda.
    Nobody knew what she looked like. Nobody had seen her face; nobody in Canada or Afghanistan, not even border control, could talk about the insolent jut of a hip, a set jaw, a cast-downward glance, the rogue mole in an unforgettably delectable place.
    Mansbridge fawned, Radio-Canada
s’est fendu en quatre aussi
, and Strombo cracked the audience up when he leaned over and said, “Seriously. Undercover?” and she threw herlong limber fingers, a festival of ornate rings, toward the boom mic and laughed rather mannishly. Then she was filmed at target practice competing against the hunkish rookie Shymanski, two-legged at the time. The Liberal PM commanded Lise to throw, ASAP, a reception.
    Lise, the neophyte, complied,
tout de suite
. In a flash of populist genius, she wore her official military uniform to further the cause. Becky, then wife of the Leader of the Opposition, arrived in a lower-cut frock, white Colombian lace. Nobody cared about the redhead with the Conservative cleavage.
    Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K. was mobbed. Of course, there were finger foods, halal; Lise’s people had spoken with the guest of honour and she’d agreed to take sustenance before the function and nixed any liquor. All doable, and Lise was sailing along with full-hostess prowess until the non-Greg Prime Minister, juggling seven midget halal-burgers in one giant fist, spilled his cranberry juice down Aisha’s baby blue linen breast.
    “Suivez moi,”
Lise signalled, and led Lieutenant-Colonel K. through the imposing double doors and upstairs to her serene private quarters.
    Lise took Aisha right into her walk-in closet and unzipped a garment bag.
“Voici, madame,”
said Lise. She handed over her Afghan burka, a claret brocade, a
bonne chance
hand-me-down from the most recent ex–Governor General.
    “Shukran,”
Lieutenant-Colonel K. said. She instantly cast her damp garment up into the air. In a rustling shimmer of fabric, she ducked out from under.
    In those three,
peut-être quatre, peut-être six secondes
,