Children of Paranoia

by Trevor Shane

  “No,” I replied. I wished I could have said something different. “Digging you out of that hole that I left you in back there was all Jared’s doing.”

  I could feel Michael nodding at the other end of the line. “That guy’s really got his shit together. We make a pretty good team, the three of us do. I’ve got the enthusiasm. Jared’s got the plans.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, wondering what it was that I had. Wondering why these guys were still friends with me. Even though I didn’t ask the question out loud, Michael sensed it.

  “You’ve got the heart, Joe. You even called to check up on me.”

  “I’m sorry I left you at the hospital, Michael.” I had to apologize. I had to spit the guilt out of my mouth. It was a poison that I’d been holding there for days. I wish I could say that it made me feel better.

  “Don’t worry about it, Joe. What choice did you have? Staying would have screwed everything up. The cops—those cops who helped me escape—they were only able to lose me because I was alone. Losing both of us would have been tough to cover up. You had to go. Jared would say the same thing.”

  I didn’t care what Jared would have said. “Jared doesn’t know everything.” I wanted to ask him why he was so much braver than I was. Instead, all I could ask was “Why’d you come back for me?”

  “Because I’m stupid. I’m a stupid man who likes a good fight.” Michael laughed through the phone.

  “Seriously. Why’d you come back for me?”

  “We’ve all got our reasons, Joe.” Michael paused for a moment before he answered to make sure that I was serious.

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “We’ve all got our reasons for fighting. I fight for you guys. I fight for my friends.”

  “You don’t wonder about the bigger picture?”

  “Sure, I wonder,” Michael replied, “but as long as you guys are fighting beside me, it’s all secondary. You and Jared saved me when I was a kid. I owe you both.”

  “Well, if you did owe me anything, the debt’s been repaid.”

  “No, that’s a debt that I’ll never be able to repay, pal. Don’t feel bad, Joe. You did the right thing.”

  “I’m starting to think that sometimes the ‘right thing’ is for suckers.” There was an awkward pause on the conversation. Michael wouldn’t say it, but the pause told me everything I needed to know. Michael agreed with me. “So, you’re going to be okay, then?” I asked, breaking the silence.

  “Fine. Better than fine. I’m almost back to a hundred percent already. I’m going to have a nasty scar, but what do they say? ‘Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever.’”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “They don’t say that, Michael. Keanu Reeves said that in The Replacements. And that movie was a piece of shit. You do know that you kill people for a living, don’t you, Michael?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So maybe you should get some of your own lines.”

  Michael laughed. “I’ll work on it. Next time, we’re really making it to Saint Martin,” Michael said. “We’re going to find some beautiful women, and we’re going to have the time of our lives.”

  “I’m there,” I replied. “I just want you to know, Michael, if I’m ever in that situation again, I’m not leaving you behind.” I promised myself right then that I would never leave anyone I cared about behind again. That’s a promise, Maria.

  “I know.” Michael’s tone was serious, but only for a second. “Jared’s going to be pissed, though. Now he’s got to deal with two idiots instead of just me. Anyway, I’ve gotta jet. We’ll hook up soon. Stay safe, Joe.”

  “You too,” I replied. Then I hung up the phone. Two weeks later, I was on a flight to Montreal. Saint Martin never happened. I haven’t seen or spoken to Michael since that conversation. I’m starting to doubt I ever will.

  Seven

  It was early in the day when I landed in Montreal. As instructed, I took a cab to a small arcade on St. Catherine Street. I was supposed to pick up the keys to the safe house there. The name of the arcade, Casino Royale, blinked in bright neon lights above the door. I walked in and headed straight to the back of the arcade, past all of the kids with their baggy jeans, past all of the flashing lights, past the bells, the whistles, and the sounds of fake gunfire. I walked to the counter in the back where a couple of teenage employees doled out coins so that the other kids could keep dropping their allowances into the machines. I told the girl working behind the counter that I was there to pick up keys to an apartment and she passed them to me silently. The safe house was going to be empty throughout my stay. My mark was apparently too dangerous to risk anybody’s life but mine. If I blew my cover I was a dead man, but this way, the ripples wouldn’t stretch out any wider than that. I walked the two miles from the arcade, up a long, store-ridden street, to the safe house.

  The safe house was a small, sparse one-bedroom apartment with a balcony overlooking the street below. I checked out the contents of the fridge. I was hungry. Inside was some soda, a block of cheese, and some leftover Chinese food. There was a frozen pizza in the freezer and a wine rack with a few bottles of red wine against the wall. Either my host kept a sparse home or he’d emptied the place out before I got there. I put the frozen pizza in the oven and sat down on the couch. This was going to be a lonely job. There, on the coffee table in front of me, was a thick manila envelope. I had noticed it immediately when I walked in but did my best to ignore it while I got a feel for the place. I simply stared at it for another minute or two until the scent of mediocre frozen pizza began to fill the apartment. Then I tore the envelope open.

  My mark was a Canadian scientist turned businessman. Apparently, he ran a large pharmaceutical company. He was loaded. He used his wealth to funnel money to our enemies’ operations all over the world. Africa, Asia, Europe, he had money going everywhere. He also developed chemical and biological weapons for use in the War. These weren’t the mass-destruction, gas-the-enemy kind of weapons. He developed targeted, precise poisons that were rarely traceable. We knew he did it. We had no idea how many of our people had died, choking on one of his inventions. Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Almost anything was possible.

  My target generally traveled with two bodyguards. The first bodyguard had been born into the War. He was one of them. He was a trained Ranger in the United States Army. On paper, and in photos, he appeared to be a serious badass. Still, he was fair game. The second bodyguard was a bigger problem. He was a civilian. Everything in the paperwork that I was given said that he was clueless about the War. He’d basically been shanghaied. He thought he was simply being paid to protect a paranoid Canadian businessman. The second bodyguard was formerly of the Australian navy and, being a civilian, was untouchable. It was just like these bastards to use a civilian shield.

  My pizza was ready. I found a plate, threw the pizza on it, and began to read about my mark’s daily routines. Two days a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, he taught chemistry classes at McGill University as an adjunct professor. Every Monday, he had lunch in Chinatown with various out-of-town guests. Wednesday afternoons were spent at a strip club on lower St. Laurent Street, again with out-of-town guests. These weren’t pleasure trips, they were business meetings. Deals were struck during these meetings. Sometimes the deals involved our War, sometimes they involved other wars. The meetings were closely guarded. Evenings were normally spent at home.

  My mark’s house was on the other side of Mount Royal. It was a veritable fortress. Only one bodyguard stayed at home with him in the evenings and that job was rotated. The bodyguard would spend the night in a spare bedroom in the house. The next night, the other bodyguard would stay.

  I decided that I would start my recon work tomorrow. I would follow the mark for a bit and try to find some chinks in the armor, to see if the bodyguards got lazy. My plan—the only one I could come up with at the time—was to tail him for three days and then develop a better plan. Tomorrow was Wednesday. It looked like the agen
da called for strip clubs. I had no idea that you were about to change my life.

  I woke up before sunrise the next morning and headed over to my mark’s house. It was going to be a full day. I planned on following him from the moment he woke up until he went to sleep. I put a pair of binoculars in my backpack and purchased some more supplies—granola bars, water, etcetera—from a corner store on my way.

  The sun was just beginning to rise when I reached the house. I had a floor plan of the house in my bag and when I got there, I pulled it out in hopes of finding a good spot where I could spy on the morning revelry without being noticed. The place was huge. The floor plan didn’t do it justice. Every room was gigantic. The front of the house faced the street while the back had a picture-perfect view of the park. My mark’s bedroom was in the back, so I headed into the park. There, I climbed into a tree that still had enough leaves to hide me. I settled myself in the crux of two branches and pointed my binoculars at the bedroom window.

  I was a little late. I could just peer through the slats between the vertical blinds in the bedroom. The bed was empty, unmade but empty. I scanned the other windows. None of the other windows opening onto the park had shades. Two windows over from my mark’s room was the bodyguards’ room. I peered in to see one of the bodyguards doing push-ups on the floor of the bedroom. I stopped counting at eighty-five. After what seemed like about twenty uninterrupted minutes of push-ups, the bodyguard flipped over and began doing sit-ups. This, too, went on for what seemed to be an eternity. Just like it was written in my notes, this bodyguard had a tattoo on his right bicep of the symbol of the Australian navy and a tattoo on his back of a surfer being eaten by a shark. This was the civilian. You’re a long way from home, my friend, I thought to myself. I took out a notebook and wrote down the schedule. According to the Intelligence report that I’d received, the two bodyguards alternated nights. So the civilian was scheduled for Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday of this week and Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of the next. The other nights would be covered by the bodyguard that I could actually do something about. After the sit-ups the Aussie began doing dips, using a chair for leverage.

  I scanned the other windows. There was my mark. He was downstairs in the exercise room. He was on the StairMaster and was wearing an earpiece and talking on the phone as he exercised. He was animated as he spoke and it was ruining his rhythm on the machine. A couple of times, I thought he might fall off. My mark was about five eight with dark hair and a beard that was showing early signs of going gray. He wasn’t in bad shape for a businessman, but his gut still hung slightly over his exercise shorts. His eyes were a dark brown, bordering on black. I had a visceral reaction to the sight of him. I knew that I wouldn’t have second thoughts taking him out.

  I looked over the rest of the house. Next to the exercise room was a den with a purple-felted pool table. The kitchen and a gigantic living room opened onto the backyard. The entire yard was surrounded by a white metal fence. On top of a post at each of the corners of the fence was a video camera. I picked a large piece of bark off the tree I was sitting in and threw it into the backyard. At the instant the piece of bark entered the yard, both of the video cameras turned to follow it until it landed, motionless. Laser motion detectors. I looked back into the bodyguard’s room. Just as I’d thought, the movement set off a small alarm in the bodyguard’s room and the Aussie turned to look at a computer that was set up on his desk. He saw whatever the cameras saw. I focused my binoculars on the cameras and I wrote down their make and model so that I could research them later.

  At seven A.M., the maid showed up, in full maid regalia. She wore a powder blue dress, cropped just below the knees, with a white apron with ruffles on the side. Who still dressed their help like that? This guy was a real piece of work. The maid came in and began cooking breakfast. My mark had bacon, eggs, toast, and melon for breakfast. He sat alone at the table reading the morning paper. The Aussie had eggs, potatoes, melon, and a bowl of granola. He sat alone at the counter. Not a word was spoken by anyone. Then, as the maid began to clean up the kitchen, both men headed back to their respective bathrooms, showered, and got ready for their day. The Aussie wore a dark blue suit with a solid dark-blue tie, typical bodyguard gear. He also wore an earpiece through which he could communicate with the other bodyguard. My mark wore a dark charcoal gray suit, with a yellow shirt and no tie.

  At exactly eight A.M., the other bodyguard showed up. He and the Aussie were dressed identically. In their work uniforms, the only way to tell them apart was that the American had darker hair and wore a goatee. The two of them joked around a bit as my mark went back to his bedroom to get his briefcase. I could see them taking turns, talking and laughing. As soon as my mark returned, they were as stoic as statues. At eight-fifteen, the three of them were off. I made my way around to the front of the house to see them pull away in the car. The civilian and my mark sat in the backseat. The other bodyguard drove. I obviously wasn’t going to be able to keep up with them in the car. According to the information I’d been given, however, they should be heading to his office for the next few hours. I hailed a cab and followed them downtown.

  I spent the next four hours at a café across the street from my mark’s office building. I didn’t dare go inside. Going inside most likely meant putting my face on camera. I wasn’t ready for that. Instead, I just sat across the street in the café, reading the newspaper and watching the door and the garage exit to see when my mark would come out. I learned almost nothing over those four hours.

  Finally, at around twelve-thirty, my mark came walking through the door with his bodyguards in tow. I had already gotten the check, so I paid and walked outside. Apparently, they walked to the strip club. I had to assume that this was weather dependent, but it was fine with me. I wanted to stretch my legs. The mark walked with the civilian bodyguard at his side and the American two steps behind them. The bodyguards were very diligent. They could have been trained by the secret service. The bodyguard at the mark’s side looked straight ahead, making sure that no one was going to obstruct their path, making sure that nothing was coming straight at them. The bodyguard in the back did continual eye scans of all the other areas, the street, the sidewalks, even the skies. I was walking across the street from them, but even then, I had to make sure that the trailing bodyguard didn’t catch me staring at them. I walked casually, making only the random glance over to see if the bodyguards ever slipped, if they ever let their guard down. They didn’t.

  We walked down René-Lévesque until we reached St. Laurent and then we took a left. They crossed the street and continued to walk on the right side of the street. I stayed on the left. In two more blocks we hit the strip club. The facade was pretty straightforward, blinking neon signs advertising “Live Nude Girls” and “Completely Nude” and “24/7.” It was impossible to see inside from the street. There weren’t any windows. One door led to a staircase. The stairs led up to the club. A large bouncer stood just inside the door. My mark walked up and shook the bouncer’s hand. They spoke for about thirty seconds. The bouncer smiled and laughed and patted my mark on the shoulder. Then my mark slipped him some money and headed up the stairs with the American bodyguard in tow. The Aussie stayed downstairs, standing on the opposite side of the door from the bouncer. They, too, exchanged some words and smiles before getting back to the quiet business of guarding the door.

  This was too much. There was no way that I was going to stand here and wait for another three hours. I didn’t want to go into the strip club, though. First, if the American bodyguard saw me inside and recognized me from the street, he was sure to get suspicious. Second, the guy in the strip club looking at the other guys in the strip club instead of at the strippers stands out like a sore thumb. I decided just to walk up to the door and get a closer look at the bodyguard. I swear that’s all I was doing. I knew that he hadn’t eyeballed me yet so didn’t worry too much about being inconspicuous. I walked across the street. Just inside the doorway to the strip club t
here were some action shots of the strippers in various poses, all completely naked. I was taken aback. You didn’t see that sort of thing in the States, not right there on the street like that. I did my best to act casual, looking at the pictures of the girls while also trying to size up the bodyguard. The Aussie had a good four inches on me. He had a friendly face. I asked the bouncer which of the girls was working today. He told me that the pictures were mostly of their night-shift girls, but that the girls who worked during the day were pretty too. I’d played my role so far almost perfectly. That’s when you nearly blew my cover.

  I saw you walking down the street about half a block before you reached the doorway. I remember first seeing you coming, with the hood to your sweatshirt pulled up, covering your mass of dark curly hair. Your hands were jammed deep inside the pockets of your green sweatshirt. You looked cute. I was getting more of a thrill looking at you all bundled up like that than I did looking at the naked pictures of the strippers on the wall. You must have caught me staring. For a moment, we made eye contact. When we did, the skin around your big blue eyes wrinkled as you broke out into a mischievous grin. I forgot where I was. I forgot what I was doing. I forgot everything for that moment.

  “I wouldn’t pick that one,” you said.

  “Excuse me?” I responded. Then I remembered that I was standing in the doorway to a strip club staring at the pictures they had wallpapering the entranceway. Quite a first impression.

  “I wouldn’t pick that one,” you repeated. “You should go to St. Catherine’s. That’s where all the other American tourists go.” You paused and gave me a complete once-over. “Of course, most of them don’t go in the middle of the afternoon, alone.”