Jameson grimaced at the knowledge that corruption flourished within the department well beyond his own dirty hands. He could never recall the exact day that he woke up and realized that Goyette owned him. It was several years past. The two had met at a hockey game, when Jameson was making his first bid for a seat in Parliament. In Goyette, he had seemingly found a wealthy benefactor who shared a progressive vision for the country. The political campaign contributions grew as Jameson’s career advanced, and somewhere along the way he had foolishly crossed the line. Campaign contributions progressed to jet rides and free vacations, ultimately leading to outright cash bribes. With ambition in his heart and a wife and four children to support on a civil servant’s salary, he blindly took the cash, convincing himself that the policies he promoted for Goyette were just. It wasn’t until he was appointed natural resources minister that he saw the other side of Goyette. The public perception of him as an environmental prophet was just a cleverly designed façade, he came to learn, disguising Goyette’s true nature as a money-hungry megalomaniac. For every wind farm he developed with public fanfare, there were a half dozen coal mines he operated, his actual ownership buried in a laundry list of corporate subsidies. Phony mining claims, forged environmental impact statements, and outright federal grants to Goyette’s holdings were all jury-rigged by the minister. In return, the bribes had been steady and generous. Jameson had been able to purchase an elegant house in the upscale Ottawa neighborhood of Rockcliffe Park and accumulate more than enough cash in the bank to send his kids to the finest schools. Yet he had never intended for things to slip so far, and he knew there was nothing he could do to escape.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can support,” he told Goyette in a tired voice.

“You will support as much as I need,” Goyette hissed, his eyes quickly turning ice cold. “Unless you wish to spend the rest of your days at Kingston Penitentiary.”

Jameson physically wilted, accepting the reality with a weak nod.

Confident in Jameson’s indenture, Goyette, features softened, waved an arm toward the tent.

“Come, cheer up now,” he said. “Let us join the Prime Minister and drink a toast to the riches he is about to bestow upon us.”

Chapter 9

9

CLAY ZAK HAD HIS FEET UP ON THE PLANT MAN-Cager’s desk while casually perusing a book on frontier history. He glanced out a picture window as the thumping from the departing helicopter rattled the glass panes. Goyette entered the room a few seconds later, a suppressed look of annoyance on his face.

“Well, well, my capital planning director,” Goyette remarked, “looks like you missed your flight out.”