The lady wore bright yellow slacks, a brilliant white blouse, and a matching yellow jacket with a jaunty yellow hat, something all the rage, called a fascinator. It was almost a pillbox pasted to her head with small sequins attached to it. The dog, a small white Scottish terrier, wore a similar jacket, and the exact same hat. Bernadette had never seen a dog dressed up to match its owner. She thought the ensemble might have looked better in a circus act.
The lady looked up as she closed her door. “Who are you looking for?” She regarded the three of them with suspicion, looking them up and down as if she was seeing a police lineup. “There’s no use knocking on the poor young man’s door—he’s dead you know.” She squared her shoulders as if the information needed a formal delivery.
“Yes, we know. We’re police ma’am,” Anton said. He produced his CSIS badge. “This is Detective Letourneau of the Victoria Police and Detective Callahan of the RCMP.”
The old lady eyed the badge, and almost spat out her words. “I couldn’t get even one policeman to come by when I was broken into a week ago—now here you’re all standing around a man’s apartment when the man’s dead. A wonderful lot of help you police are at catching criminals. Back in my day . . .”
“I’m sure the police will be by your place to take fingerprints and process your place for insurance purposes,” Bernadette interrupted. “I know that at this time they are stretched quite thin with the investigation of this poor young man’s murder.”
The old women paused in her tirade, “Yes, yes, quite right, the poor young man . . . after all no one really took anything . . . only something belonging to Paul.”
Bernadette asked, “Do you mean as in Paul Goodman, the man who was murdered?”
“Why yes, that is exactly it. Paul gave me a hardcover book, and a notebook.” She leaned forward and said in a whisper, “He said he needed it kept safe; it had important information. I was to give it to no one. I think he was worried about that little Russian girlfriend of his, met her once, never liked her, looked too fancy for me . . .”
“When did this break-in happen?” Anton asked.
“Well, last week, just before Paul was killed, but the thief was smart, jimmied the door all quiet like so as if I wouldn’t know—but I knew.” She squared her shoulders even more. “You know how I knew?” She threw a bright smile into the question, as if asking a class.
“No idea,” Detective Letourneau volunteered.
“Ha, I put a little thread on my door jamb every time I went out, just like I read in them spy novels, and one day I come back, and sure enough the thread is gone, and so is Paul’s notebook . . . but they didn’t get his book . . . they had no idea.”
“And you say they left the book behind?” Bernadette said.
“Yes they did, ha, there was no way they knew about that . . . Paul was clever,” the lady said.
“Did you happen to read what was in the notebook?” Anton asked.
The lady put her head down and shrugged her shoulders, “Well, I know I wasn’t supposed to look, but I did.” Her eyes lit up, “In case it was something to do with national security, just like in the spy books.”
Bernadette said, “I am sure what you did was fine, and did you see anything of importance?”
“Well, a lot of funny formulas, and the address of a man, with a nickname, like Mac or something like that,” the lady answered.
“The address—do you remember it?” Bernadette blurted out.
The lady shrugged her shoulders, “Sorry, just looked at it for a moment. Some Mexican name is all I recall . . . never seen the name before.”
“And you still have Paul’s book?” Bernadette asked.
“Ah, the book, yes I do.” She reached into her pocket, fished out a large jangle of keys that instantly had the small white Terrier jumping at her feet. The dog was confused. He had to pee, and the opening of the door meant that was being delayed. The little dog stamped his feet and whined to show his frustration. “Now, don’t you fuss, Dixie, you’ll get your tinkle time right after I help out these people,” the lady said.
A moment later she appeared with the book. The book was dark maroon with faded gold writing. The cover read ISSAC ASIMOV. Inside the cover, the title was The Foundation Trilogy. There was The Foundation, Foundation and Empire, and The Second Foundation. She handed it to Bernadette. “Any idea about who this writer is?” she asked.
Anton took the book from Bernadette, and ran his hands over the outer bindings, “One of the greatest science fiction writers of all time. It seems like Goodman was a fan.”
Anton opened the book and fanned through the pages. There was nothing there, no notes, and nothing fell out. Bernadette took the book from him. “You need to look for what isn’t there,” she said with a smile.
Bernadette opened the book wide, and shook it. A small piece of paper fell out of the spine. It wafted to the hallway floor like a singular butterfly just set free from its cocoon. “Yeah, now that is what I’m talking about it.”
Anton picked it up, “Um huh, we got an address in Santa Fe for a Mr. Emilio Sanchez. Thank you ma’am . . . sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
The lady smiled, “Mrs. Emma Thornberry-Masters. My late husband was an operative with M-I5 in England before he retired and we moved here.” She pulled her shoulders up, her full height now approaching Bernadette’s shoulders. “That’s why I knew to help Paul—that Russian girl, Smirnoff she said her name was . . . I knew she was a phony the moment I saw her. Never trusted the Russians.” Emma Thornberry-Masters knitted her thin brows to show her disapproval.
“Thank you very much for this,” Bernadette said taking the book. “All the law enforcement agencies are in your debt for your service.”
Mrs. Thornberry-Masters smiled brightly, looking down at her little white terrier. “Hear that Dixie? We’ve been a help to Canada, isn’t that wonderful?” Dixie jumped on his hind legs, pawing the air. He yelped, probably to get the attention of his mistress—that he really needed to pee, and the carpet was seconds away from getting it if they didn’t get moving.
The lady locked her door, and with her little white Scottish terrier prancing at her side in its matching yellow ensemble, they headed off into the late Victoria city evening.
“That was a stroke of luck, running into that lady,” Detective Letourneau said while watching the little lady disappear out the door.
Bernadette turned to the detective. “You know I find if you work hard enough, you’ll get in luck’s way.” She looked at the address Anton held in his hand. “So, who do we call first, CSIS or the FBI?”
“I’ll call Patterson first, tell him what we have. He’s got an FBI contact in the Southern USA, and a short while from now, if Mr. Sanchez is home, he’s about to get a very rude awakening from a bunch of FBI Agents.
“That’s good news; hopefully we’ll be able to locate Professor McAllen before Zara does,” Bernadette said.
Anton looked up from dialing his phone. “You think Zara Mashhadov broke into the old lady’s apartment and stole Paul’s notebook?”
“I’d count on it. I think she got Paul Goodman talking about Professor Alistair McAllen, and probably how brilliant he was and he wouldn’t tell her where he was hiding. She met our lady from next door, realized Paul and her were friends, and realized Paul may have been hiding something from her with the old lady,” Bernadette said.
Anton shook his head, “My God, your mind works in more angles than an Italian soap opera—how do you think like that?
Bernadette smiled, “Because, I’m devious, trust no one, and—I’m a woman. Now let’s get going—Zara has a three to four day head start on us, and when she runs out of Bio Bugs, she’ll be looking for the formula.”
“But she stole the formula from Goodman’s computer,” Anton said.
“Do you think that Goodman would have left the entire formula on his computer, unprotected by a password? A password that probably only McAllen has?” Bernadette asked.
&n
bsp; They walked out of the apartment building, Anton looked at his watch, “Looks like we missed the last flight back to Edmonton, but hey, I know the concierge at the Fairmont Empress Hotel. I can probably get us rooms, and there’s a great Italian seafood restaurant in the inner harbor, I’ll call and get us a table.”
Bernadette smiled at Anton as they walked to their car, “Of course you do, Anton, of course you do.”
Mrs. Thornberry-Masters watched Bernadette and Anton say goodbye to Detective Letourneau, and get into their cars and leave. Dixie was busy hoisting a leg and jetting a furious stream at the lamppost. His eyes closed in the apparent relief he was feeling.
“Weren’t they nice detectives, Dixie? And quite understanding of our predicament with being robbed of Paul’s notebook—my heavens Dixie—I just remembered something . . .” She pulled a cell phone out of her yellow purse.
She placed Dixie’s leash over her arm, and with a furrowed brow locked in concentration, she punched the keys on her screen. “Now do you remember the code, Dixie?” She smiled down at her little dog that was busy shaking his leg and smelling around for other dogs that may have left their mark there as well.
As if the answer came to her from above, Mrs. Thornberry-Masters began typing again, “Ah yes, that’s it, got it.” She typed the last few letters into the cell phone and hit send. “Dixie, it was only 2 weeks ago that Paul had me set up this thing called a Twitter account. You know he didn’t trust that Russian, don’t you know . . . and neither did I.”
Sometime just before midnight, McAllen received a message on Twitter. It was from Dixie. Accompanied by a picture of Dixie dressed in a Scots Tartan and sporting a Tam were the words, “Dixie says, the address of the second foundation has been found.”
McAllen shut down his laptop, and prepared to leave his place in Merida, Mexico. The code had been set up with Goodman some time ago. It was Goodman’s idea of using Isaac Asimov and his Foundation Trilogy as the code. The Foundation book was the one that was kept in secret. It had the address of their mail drop. It would be only a matter of time before Sanchez was leaned on and McAllen’s location found.
McAllen would take his laptop and a few clothes and be gone by early morning, long before anyone in his neighborhood was up, long before his housekeeper arrived. He already had his second place planned. He’d taken Goodman there once. He hoped Goodman didn’t write it down anywhere—he had to chance it.
“Do you think they’ll let us go to Mexico to chase McAllen?” Bernadette asked. They were back in Edmonton. Waiting outside the office of Chief Patterson.
The address they’d found in the book for Sanchez in Santa Fe turned up a very scared Mexican American who was forwarding mail from Goodman to his Aunt in Merida, Mexico. He said he only knew Goodman, and was doing him a favor. But the hunt for McAllen now led to Mexico, as far as Anton and Bernadette were concerned.
The door to Patterson’s office opened, and Anton was motioned inside. He gave Bernadette a wink, and disappeared into the office.
Five minutes later Anton appeared with a broad smile, “Okay Bernadette, here’s the deal, yes we get to go to Mexico, as observers and consultants.” Anton frowned slightly as if to put his point across, “This means we do not get in the way of the actual investigation or capture. Do we understand that?”
Bernadette leaped out of her chair, “Absolutely. Now, look I need to make a quick drive to Red Deer to repack my suitcase.”
“But we leave tomorrow morning.”
Bernadette glanced at her watch, “Look, it’s three o’clock now, it takes just over an hour and half to my place, I throw out the jeans from my bag, throw in my Khakis and a few things, and I’m back by this evening. No problem.”
Anton sighed in resignation, “Okay, okay, but if you’re not at the airport at 0700 hours tomorrow morning, I’m going solo—you got that?”
“Roger that,” Bernadette said over her shoulder as she walked out of the building.
Traffic wasn’t too bad leaving the city. It was just before five when Bernadette pulled into her driveway. She went next door to find Harvey. He wasn’t home yet. There was no sign of her dog Sprocket, so she assumed they’d gone on a walk somewhere.
She grabbed her bag out of her Jeep, and had it emptied and replaced with her Mexico travel clothes in four minutes. She was always good repacking for travel. When your wardrobe consisted of jeans and t-shirts or Khakis and t-shirts the mix was easy.
Bernadette stood over her suitcase wondering if she’d pack a pair of shorts when her cell phone rang. The call display showed Mary Cardinal, her aunt back on her reservation in Northern Alberta.
Did she have time to answer this call? Should she? What if her Aunt Mary was sick? Guilt and her love for Aunt Mary made her answer the phone.
“Hey Aunt Mary, how are you?” Bernadette said as she winced with her guilt, and closed her suitcase. She decided against the shorts.
“It’s me Louis,” came the reply on the phone after a pause.
“Louis . . . what’s up, where’s your mom, is she okay.” It was her cousin Louis that she despised.
There was a long pause on the phone. “Look my mom is fine, I just needed to talk to you, and I knew you’d never take my call if you knew it was me.”
“You’re absolutely right Louis, and I’m hitting the end button right now . . .”
“Wait—I need your help.”
“Okay, Louis, get this straight, if you’re in trouble with the law you need to remember that I am associated with the law. All I can do is tell you to march yourself to the nearest RCMP detachment and turn yourself in. I will then call your mom, my very lovely Aunt Mary and tell her that her dumbass son turned out to be as stupid as I said he was.”
“No, you don’t get it, I’m not in any trouble, but I want to get my hands on some of those Bio Bugs—I heard about it in the news—that you were on the case. Me and the brothers on the reservation, we could use them to stop the pipeline they want to put through here, and even help out other native bands. Don’t you understand, with the Bio Bugs, we’d have the power to take control of our own destiny?”
Bernadette put her hand to her forehead, “Oh my god Louis, you are dumber than I thought you could be. You are speaking to an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police about committing an intended crime. It is only because I think your mother is wonderful that I’m not going to call the local RCMP detachment and have you arrested . . .”
“You need to decide whose side you’re on. You know, come over to the side of your native roots,” Louis said. His voice was now loud, and edged with anger.
“Don’t talk about my native roots Louis. Don’t you remember calling me a half breed in the school yard, and what else did you call me—oh yeah—a baked potato, white on the inside and brown on the outside. You claimed I’d never be a true native, never be one of you, well guess what, you’re right. I’m not on the side of white or native, I’m on the side of justice. You got a problem with pipelines crossing your lands, get a lawyer, and don’t ever let me hear you’re looking for a weapon of destruction, because I’ll come up there and kick you in the balls so hard your eyes will pop out your head—just like I did in the school yard years ago.”
Bernadette didn’t wait for Louis’s reply; she shut the phone off, grabbed her bag and headed for the door. She’d send Harvey a text to let him know she’d be back in a few days.
She opened the door, and Chris was standing in the doorway.
21
Zara stood in the small kitchen, eyeing what there was for food in a tiny refrigerator and the three shelves that were the pantry. The refrigerator held some yogurt and cheese of questionable expiry dates, and the pantry had a large packet of tea. Adlan and his four Chechen fighters had lived on two things—tea and takeout.
The empty Kabob boxes where piled high outside the kitchen door, to make claim to the cuisine that had been consumed in Zara’s absence. Now as she stood making a list, she decided she would make Adla
n some of his favorites. She would start with a good, hearty borscht soup. Although it was hot outside, she would make it and they would have it cold. She would add a dollop of cold sour cream. Then she would make a Shashlik Tarka, a meat pie with lamb. Khinkali, his favourite dumplings, as well as some Golubtsy, a stuffed cabbage that was her specialty, would accompany this.
She would purchase a bottle of good Spanish wine, possibly a spicy Rioja, and perhaps even a small bottle of Arak. Adlan used to love to sip Arak, liquor that tasted of anise. He would drop in ice and some water and they would sit and talk for hours of what their homeland was like before the war with Russia.
Adlan was in the other room. He sat hunched over a desk gazing at his computer, and locked into a discussion on his cell phone with the two remaining Chechen fighters. They were somewhere at sea and Adlan was tracking their progress, looking at the best place to make the attack on the oil tanker, and questioning them about where they would place the vials.
A scientist named Ramzan and an engineer named Kheda, both Chechens, were on the other line; they were conferencing about the best place to attack. Kheda told Adlan he didn’t think the Bio Bugs would penetrate the second hull of the tanker. Ramzan thought they would. From what Ramzan had heard of the attack on the Russian pipeline, the Bio Bugs would not stop at one hull; they would go further and consume the next one. Ramzan postulated that the bugs might keep going, even in a saline environment.
Ramzan’s voice was faltering as he spoke, as if unsure of what he was reading. “The notes that your person brought back from Canada state that these organisms come from the depths of the ocean. There is a chance they may eat everything in their path . . .” He paused. You could hear him take a deep breath, “But I’m only speculating . . .”
“So you’re saying, Ramzan,” Adlan cut in, “that when my people release these bugs, they may continue going—eating everything that has metal in the sea?”
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 15
