“Yeah, but this is Canada and I liked Jen,” Adry chimes in. “I have a lot of difficulty believing that she’s not who she says she is.”
“Good point,” I say. I swivel my chair and tap my mouse. Fifteen seconds and I’ve got what I want. I dial the number. It’s answered on the second ring. “Can I speak to Jennifer Halley please?” Huh. The answer doesn’t help. I hang up.
“What was that?” Rogan asks.
“CSIS. They said ‘There’s no one of that name on duty at the moment.’”
“Typical government bullshit,” he says.
We sit looking at each other and then he says, “You know what doesn’t make any sense? If she’s in league with the guy why would she sit with Ghost and Freddy to do a picture of him and then have us make copies to hand out to a bunch of guys on the street?” It’s a good point. Doesn’t make sense to me either.
“What if it was a distraction?” Adry says. She looks at our puzzled faces and says, “She knows that Ghost and Freddy have seen Denis’ murderer, so she does a picture with them to seem like she’s following up on it. When she told us there hadn’t been a match for his face, how do we know she was telling the truth, how do we even know she sent the picture to Ottawa?”
“But why get Ghost and Freddy to send it to all their buddies?” I ask.
“She didn’t,” says Rogan. “That was my idea. She probably didn’t want to say anything against it in case we thought it was suspicious. She probably thought that handing the picture out to a bunch of junkies and drunks wouldn’t have any effect.”
We slip into an unhappy silence.
“Goddammit!” says Adry banging her hand down on the corner of Rogan’s desk, “I really thought she was one of the good guys.”
More unhappy silence. Longer this time.
“Wait a minute.” It’s Adry again. Her face is lit up. “What about this—”
She’s interrupted by the ringing of my phone. “Nick Stammo,” I say.
“You want to buy four hundred F2000s?” It’s not Tusk. This voice is cold and hard. I hold my finger to my lips, signalling Adry and Rogan to stay silent.
“That’s right.” Better to keep the answers brief.
“How do I know this is a legitimate trade?” He speaks a bit like Rogan. “You are, after all an ex-cop.”
“Ex- being the main part,” I say.
“But you’re a private investigator now. That’s not very ex- is it?”
“It pays the bills and provides good cover for my other interests.”
He thinks that over for one… two… three… “Who’s your client? I need to know who wants and can afford four hundred of these fine weapons.”
“My client is my business. For the first shipment, I need four hundred of them and I want the fully automatic version too—not the semis that they sell to every nut-job in the States—and I need a million rounds to go with them.”
“Nonetheless, I insist on knowing who I am to deliver these to.”
My turn now. One… two… three… and four. “I need to know you can supply what I want and that I don’t get fobbed off with some sub-standard shit. So here’s the deal: you show me some samples of your merchandise and if I’m satisfied I’ll tell you who the end user is.”
Another long pause. “Fair enough. I’ll text you an address. Be there at six this evening.” The greed for a big deal wins out. He hangs up.
Six o’clock! We’ve gotta move fast.
Shit! Shit! Shit! What is it Rogan says about the best laid plans. We haven’t even started yet and I’m hooped. West end parking on a Saturday night is impossible; I had to park my truck around the corner and wheel here. And what do I find? There are twelve steps leading up to the front porch of the mansion where Susan Grey goes to work for David Fox.
I pull out my phone and reply to the number I was called on just over three hours ago.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. Four— “Yes.”
It’s the same voice. I decide to land the first punch. “Didn’t that idiot Tusk tell you guys I’m in a wheelchair? How the fuck am I supposed to get up to your front door?”
A second’s pause then, “He didn’t, I apologize. Please wait a moment.” He hangs up. Still cold but at least polite.
Within seconds, the front door opens and two bouncers come lumbering down the steps. Without a word, each grabs a side of the wheelchair and they carry me up to the porch. They don’t even take a deep breath. As I wheel through the front door, I realize there is no way for me to get out of this house without someone’s assistance. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling. I shake it off and wheel into the house. It’s just as Rogan described it; shame he didn’t remember the steps up to the porch. The difference is that there are a number of young women in expensive outfits sitting on the couches, chatting and drinking from champagne glasses which are probably filled with ginger ale. Just as well; most of them look way too young to drink alcohol. I’m really starting to dislike David Fox.
“Mr. Stammo. Welcome.” He is a stunning looking man. Tall, well built and with a face like Rock Hudson. “I’m David Fox.” He extends his hand and I shake it. “If you like what you see, I will be happy to let you take your pick, on the house, after we have concluded our business.” He’s referring to the girls so I don’t think he’d be happy with my choice. Or maybe he would. Maybe he’s like Rock Hudson in more than just looks. “Come with me.”
I follow him across the ‘showroom’, through a door marked Private, down a hallway to a second door. The bouncers follow behind me. Fox takes out a key, unlocks the door and opens it. He reaches inside and takes out a small, blue, plastic tray. “Please empty your pockets and put everything, and I do mean everything, into the tray.” It’s OK. We were expecting this. I do as I’m told and he puts the tray on a shelf beside the door. “Come through,” he says.
I wheel through the door into a small windowless vestibule. I notice that the door and the doorframe are both heavy steel. We were not expecting that. On the other side of the vestibule is another door, also steel, flanked by the two sides of a metal detector. It’s getting worse by the minute. One of the bouncers walks through the metal detector—it doesn’t beep for him—and opens the door; he reaches in and switches on a light. I can see from where I’m sitting that it leads to stairs going down to a basement.
“I regret to subject you to this indignity Mr. Stammo.” His voice doesn’t sound like he regrets anything at all. “Anton here is going to carry you through the metal detectors and down the stairs. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to bring your wheelchair down, however, there are comfortable chairs down there.”
Time to draw a first line in the sand. “Seriously,” I say. “You won’t let a man in a wheelchair have some level of dignity.” I ramp my voice up a notch. “I’m a goddam customer about to do over a million dollars of business with you and you’re going to have your man carry me downstairs into the basement like I’m a baby.”
“As I say, I do regret it but it is non-negotiable.” He erases my line in the sand. I knew he would. But that’s OK.
I stare at him before saying “OK.”
Anton comes and lifts me out of the wheel chair like I’m a quarter of my actual weight. He gently maneuvers me through the metal detector that screeches at me. He steps back. Before Fox can speak, I pull up my jacket. “Look,” I yell at him. “It’s my goddam belt buckle.” I show him the lone star state buckle on the belt I’m wearing. “Are you going to make me take this off too? How the hell am I supposed to do business with you if my pants keep falling down.” I give him my best glare.
He doesn’t speak, just nods to Anton, who walks me through the metal detector and down the staircase into an Aladdin’s cave for gun enthusiasts.
Phase one successfully complete.
Except that the metal detector squawked twice when Fox and his other heavy stepped through it.
13
Cal
I just saw the first thing go wrong. How could I
have forgotten those steps up to the porch? I recognized one of the two heavies who carried him up; he was here when I checked out the place after I’d followed Susan here. Hopefully everything else will go as planned.
Time to check out that everything’s in place. I zip up my new leather jacket and get out of the Healey. I turn away from the house and walk down to the end of the block. I take a right turn and survey the vehicles parked on the street. None of them fit what I’m looking for. I walk to the end of the block and do another right so that I’m looking down the block that runs behind the mansion. Again nothing familiar except Stammo’s truck. Now I’m starting to worry. If Stammo gives the signal, and we’re—
A blue BMW M3. It could be a coincidence. I walk closer and take a look at the plate. No coincidence. And there’s nothing I can do. Stammo has already passed the point of no return, except…
I dash to the end of the block and turn right for the third time. A wave of relief passes through me. Parked on the street are two black Transit vans and a black Dodge. I run to the latter and knock on the passenger window. The passenger’s head turns and looks at me. He hesitates for a moment and says something. The back door opens and I jump inside.
14
Nick
The armoury under the house must be close to two thousand square feet. There are shelves like in a library but they are full of guns, not books. To my right are three doors that must lead to other rooms and on my left is a door that must open out onto a garden. I’m sitting in one of those expensive leather wing-back chairs. There are three of them arranged around a teak coffee table. This place is like a freaking luxury-car showroom.
“It’s fortuitous that your client wants F2000s. I happen to specialize in them.” Now that he’s accepted me as a bona fide customer, he’s all charm and big words but I can smell the snake underneath.
“I want them fully automatic, not the FS and I want them with the grenade launcher module.”
He raises his eyebrows seeing the price going up. “We can do that.”
“Good,” I give him a nod and a smile. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He gives Anton a nod and the big guy walks down between two of the shelves and comes back with the weapon in one hand and a grenade launcher in the other. He puts them on the table in front of me. It’s time. I pick up the gun. “Exc—” I just manage to stop in time. One of the doors on my right has opened and in the doorway is a woman. I recognize her face from the photograph her husband gave us: Susan Grey.
“Who the hell is she?” I ask loudly.
Fox’s eyes narrow and the charm is gone from his face. He looks long and hard at me and I get the sinking feeling that he’s guessed why I spoke so loudly.
“Why do you care?” He says it quietly.
I scramble for a reply. “I don’t like anything unexpected,” I say, “like seeing a woman down here.” I look back at her.
She looks confused. Luckily she doesn’t have a clue who I am. “Sorry,” she says. She looks at Fox and he flicks his head at her. She says, “Sorry,” again and turns to go back in the room. The room she is going into is directly opposite the door to the outside.
“Wait!” I say. “Look it’s me who should be sorry. I kind of overreacted. It’s OK if she goes upstairs.”
Susan says, “I wasn’t going ups—”
“Just wait in the office,” Fox interrupts. “I’ll talk to you when I’ve finished with this gentleman.”
She nods and does as he asks, closing the door behind her.
Now what the fuck do I do?
15
Cal
Sergeant Steve Waters, my erstwhile partner in the VPD turns around in the front seat of the Dodge. “You were right, she’s not only in the house but she’s in the basement with Fox and Nick.”
I say, “You can’t send in the Emergency Response Team if she’s there. If Fox and his guys are armed, she might get caught in the crossfire.”
Steve turns a questioning face to the man sitting next to me on the back seat. Inspector Wardell’s a good cop. He was a sergeant when I was still in the VPD. Before he can comment, Nick’s voice comes out of the receiver on the car’s dashboard. “Sorry about that. As I say, I overreacted. Let’s get back to business. Is the grenade launcher also made by FN?”
Fox replies, “Yes, of course.”
“Show me how it attaches?” Stammo’s playing for time.
A series of metallic noises come out of the receiver.
Wardell says, “Maybe Stammo can seem to complete the transaction and get them all to go back upstairs. Then we can take them on the main floor.”
“Except that Fox offered Stammo the choice of any of the girls,” says Steve. “That means there are potentially more people who could become collateral damage.”
“Why don’t we let Stammo make the call.”
Steve and I both nod.
16
Nick
And you can provide me with four hundred of these?” I say. He nods. “OK, let’s go back upstairs and discuss the details of price and delivery.” He looks at me through slitted eyes. He’s trying to intimidate me. He just looks on in silence. He’s succeeding. “What?” I say.
“Who’s your client?”
“That’s one of the details we can discuss upstairs.”
“If you ever want to go upstairs again, you tell me who your client is.”
Fortunately, I’m prepared for this. “My client is Iranian. The goods are to be shipped to Lebanon for Hamas.”
“Really?” he says with a big grin on his face. It’s one of those grins that never reaches the eyes. “I’m afraid you’re out of your league here Mr. Stammo. You see…” he pauses for long enough to take a Smith and Wesson from a holster in the small of his back. “I just happen to know who arranges armaments for Hamas and it’s not a washed-up ex-cop in Vancouver.”
Anton’s partner follows suit and draws his weapon.
Time to pull the pin.
“Excellent,” I say.
17
Cal
It’s the signal. Inspector Wardell says, “Go! Go! Go!” As I get out of the car, the doors of the Transit Vans fly open and the members of the ERT spill out. They break into two groups; one heads up the street to enter via the front door but I follow the second team down the alley that runs behind the house. I ignore Steve’s shout for me to stop.
The lead member kicks down the flimsy back fence to the garden and his team follow him to the back door. Two large members swing the red ram at the door, just above the lock. Once. Twice. A split second before the ram hits for the third time, I hear the sound of a gun. The ram connects, sending the door crashing inwards. The guys with the ram step back as their armed comrades run inside shouting “Armed Police!” There is an exchange of gunfire lasting no more than two seconds.
And then silence.
I run towards the door only to get stopped by one of the guys who wielded the ram. He’s big and he’s solid and there’s no way I’m going to get around him. He holds me by the arm. “Just wait a minute sir,” he says. “You can go in as soon as they’ve cleared the place.”
I hear a voice shout. “Down on the ground, I said on the ground!”
Then another voice, quieter but even more urgent. “I need paramedics now!”
I struggle to break free. It’s no contest. “Please,” I plead. It’s no use.
Long seconds pass.
Finally a voice yells, “Clear!” and my arms are free.
I dash for the door and go inside.
18
Jen
What a weird dream. Aaaaah. Sooooo tired. Time to roll over and go back to sleep. Except I can’t. My wrist is stuck. Must still be dreaming. Except I’m not. Where the—? I force open my eyes. Blackness. Must be a dream. I toss my head to wake myself up. As I move, I can feel the roughness of cloth on my face. I try and move my arms and hear a familiar clanking sound. Handcuffs against metal. Each hand is cuffed to something metal. An ima
ge of a hospital bed with rails springs into my consciousness.
How?
Think!
OK.
I’m in Vancouver. Good.
What’s the last thing I remember? I was about to check out of my hotel. Good. Right. That’s when I saw the big guy. The one in the composite sketch. He waved and came over to me. I was a bit freaked out until he showed me his ID with Royal Canadian Mounted Police scrolled under the crest. What was his name?… Harvey. Was it his first name or his last? Why can’t I remember? He knew my name though, I remember that. I asked him how he knew who I was and he said that my boss had told him I was in Vancouver and that he needed to speak to me on a secure line. But how did my boss know I was in Vancouver?
I remember checking out and leaving the hotel. Then getting into his car…
Why can’t I remember what happened next?
Did we get into an accident?
Am I in hospital maybe?
But why am I handcuffed to the bed?
“Hello?”
Silence.
Not a hospital. Hospitals are never completely silent.
“HELLO!”
Nothing.
OK Jen, you’re trained to observe. Is there any sound? I hold my breath for five seconds. Maybe that’s the buzz of traffic on the threshold of hearing. Maybe.
My hands are lying on cloth. It’s rough. Not quite sacking, but if it’s a blanket, it’s an old one. I move them. I can feel the other end of the handcuffs with my fingers. They’re shackled around something metal. It’s not a rail. It’s circular and feels rough. The surface is peeling slightly. Rust maybe?
I move my legs. They don’t seem to be constrained. I bring my knees up, no problem.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set) Page 34
