Northern Exposure

by Michael Kilian

  “I very much doubt that dead man is Guy Porique.”

  “Right on. The autopsy report said he was suffering from severe malnutrition and a highly cirrhotic liver. Sounds to me like some wino they borrowed for the occasion.”

  “And who are ‘they’?” Alixe said.

  “Beats the hell outa me, Lieutenant,” said Joyce.

  “‘They’ is not Porique,” said Showers. “Guy Porique is no murderer. I can think of nothing more abhorrent to him.”

  “Well, somebody is,” said Joyce. “Which brings me to the bad news. Someone affixed an explosive device to that high-class car of yours, Mr. Showers, and it detonated shortly after eleven o’clock this morning outside your house.”

  “My God! Marie-Claire.”

  “Your wife? No, she’s fine. She loaned the car to a neighbor, and it’s the neighbor who was DOA all over the street.”

  Alixe gripped Showers’ hand. “What neighbor?” she said.

  “A Mrs. L. Merridew.”

  Alixe put her other hand over her eyes. “Dear God. Lila.”

  “As things stand with the coppers in the District, you appear to have left a little present for your wife and run off with the little lady next door. They’ve got a Murder One warrant out for you and an accessory charge on the princess here. It’s on an APB and the fuzz here have made the connection. I think, my man, that you better start thinking about conducting yourself like a fugitive.”

  Kodakov had taken three men with him from the wet section, all of them louts. The lout who looked and dressed most like an American he left with the car. The lout with the nimblest fingers he put to work, quietly, on the lock. The third, a rat-faced lout with Asiatic eyes, he gave the silencer-equipped fully automatic machine pistol to and stationed him a few steps behind. Kodakov himself held an American .357 magnum revolver, also with silencer, and stood just to the side of the door.

  He hoped this would be easy. It was certainly simple. With Bolshinin dead, there was no need for conversation with Frank Trench. There was need only to eliminate him, as thoroughly as possible. He could even be messy about it, leaving the body. In this filthy, dangerous neighborhood of Washington, they must have murders like this all the time. Trench’s ratty little room would be the best possible disposal place for the body.

  There was a faint click, and the lout at the lock looked up at him, nodding. Kodakov put his gloved hand on the knob, and slowly turned.

  He dropped to his knee as he swung the door open, the magnum moving with his eyes, back and forth across the dim room. The bed was empty. The room was empty. Rising from his crouch, Kodakov went to the bathroom door and opened it with the same ritual. Empty. The closet was empty. Trench was gone.

  “Get in here,” he said to the others, in Russian.

  The Soviets are the world’s very best searchers. Even the most bored customs guard at a Russian airport will painstakingly turn through every page of a passenger’s book if something strikes him as suspicious. Kodakov’s men went through everything in the apartment, including the bed frame and loose floorboards, in seven minutes. They found absolutely nothing. The only sign of Trench’s habitation was a copy of The Washington Post, folded over to the jump of the front-page story about the Georgetown auto bombing.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Kodakov, in English.

  The National Air and Space Museum was, as usual, exceedingly crowded, which is why Laidlaw had chosen it. As he rode up the long, slow escalator, he glanced just once at the tall, thin figure leaning with his back against the railing of the second level, then returned to his appreciation of the shining rocket that dominated this section of the great hall. When he reached the top, Laidlaw turned at the railing and leaned forward against it, as though still admiring the space vehicle.

  “Remember, Sputnik was first,” said Kodakov, without turning.

  “Two of these rendezvous in one week are excessive, Pavl.”

  “I have news for you, friend. Not good news. Trench is out.”

  “Out?”

  “Out of my grasp. He is still hours ahead of us. He is no doubt out of Washington. He may have discontinued this contract. He may still be active. We don’t know.”

  “Will you continue pursuit?”

  “Those are my instructions. I suppose we will try to locate Dennis Showers, and wait.”

  “I can’t answer your question yet.”

  “No?”

  “Attend to my emphasis, Pavl. I have attempted to determine if we are involved. I find I cannot say with any certainty that we are not involved. Do you comprehend me?”

  “Yes. And, Hugh, I will play fair with you, this once. Of my own organization, I cannot say the same.”

  “We have been here too long.”

  “I don’t know when we can communicate again.”

  “Another three years will be fine.”

  “I am going on the road.”

  “I will also be unavailable.”

  “I will eliminate Trench for you, as long as those are my instructions. If they are changed …”

  “Good-bye, Pavl. Enjoy the museum. You’ll particularly like the Wright Brothers and Apollo 11 exhibits.”

  “Good-bye, Hugh. Do not get killed.”

  Showers, Alixe, and Joyce, seated separately in a Greyhound bus, crossed the border into Canada at Blaine, Washington, early the next morning. After they cleared the customs check, Showers moved to an empty seat and Alixe joined him. “Did you sleep at all?” he asked, taking her hand.

  “Not really. When I close my eyes, I see Lila Merridew.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Please stop saying you’re sorry.”

  “Lila’s dead because of me. You’re caught up in this murderous business because of me.”

  “Toby. It was my decision. I came with you because I wanted to.”

  “I feel so damn helpless, Alixe. A week ago my world, my life, everything was in perfect order. All my plans and dreams were coming true, as I always expected. Now it all seems to be crumbling and collapsing. Sitting alone back there last night, before I could gain control of myself, I found I was trembling in fear, fear of my life. I’ve never done that, not even in Africa.”

  “The bomb in your car was meant for you, not Marie-Claire.”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Why? What have you done?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been hounded by a man from the Central Intelligence Agency. It may be that they’ve involved me in something, something to do with Felicity and Porique. He mentioned their names.”

  She rubbed her stiff neck with her free hand. To the east, the sky was lightening above the pines.

  “After we crossed the border, I was so relieved,” she said, “as though we were entering a sanctuary. But it’s not going to be safer in Canada, is it? The closer we get to Felicity, the more dangerous it will become.”

  “Probably. It seems to be dangerous no matter where I turn. I feel like Xenophon on his Anabasis, on an endless march through a hostile foreign land, alone, no one to help, possibly doomed. But at least I can get you out of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to get you back to your parents.”

  “But Mr. Joyce said I’m wanted by the Washington police too.”

  “Only as an accessory. Your father’s lawyers can take care of that. You don’t have to go back to Washington. You can meet your parents in New York or Boston. But you must call them when we reach Vancouver, and you must leave on the first plane.”

  “When we reach Vancouver, are you going to call Marie-Claire?”

  “Of course. She must be frightened to death.”

  “If you call her, the police will learn where you are.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Will you go back to Washington then?”

  “Alixe. Someone’s blown up my car. Someone tried to run me down. Lila’s dead. I have to do what’s expected of me.”

  “They’ll put you in jail. You’ll never
find Felicity.”

  “I … I suppose I won’t.”

  Joyce was glancing back at them, but the other passengers seemed to be paying no attention.

  “Toby. You said you were in love with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you explain that?”

  “I love you. Very much.”

  “Very much? In this short time?”

  “Alixe. What I feel for you … I can’t now adequately make clear to you. It’s a very extraordinary feeling. It’s all quite new to me, if you can understand that.”

  “Toby, if I go to my parents, if you go back to Washington, I may never see you again. Certainly not like this.”

  He said nothing.

  “Toby. I want to go on with you, on with this. At least for a little while. I want you to try to find Felicity Stuart.”

  “Alixe …”

  She took his hand in both of hers and stared at him until he turned and looked at her. “Please,” she said.

  “All right. But I will have to call Marie-Claire.”

  14

  The parliamentary leadership of Canada’s three main opposition parties—the Liberals, the Progressive Conservatives, and the New Democratic Party—gathered in unofficial, unconventional parliamentary session in a room above the King Louis Club in the Old Ottawa section of the capital. The parlor they were in actually was intended as a place of conversation, though of a different sort. Apart from the saloon downstairs, the establishment was your basic Canadian whorehouse.

  “Is this necessary?” said the PC man. “York can’t have bugged every hotel room in Ottawa.”

  “The man’s a paranoid, right?” said the NDP leader. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he bugged himself.”

  “I just don’t believe in looking for trouble,” said the tall, plump, handsome man who would be the Liberals’ next candidate for prime minister. “Let him think what he will about our sex lives. Either of you want a drink?”

  They both nodded.

  “It’s still galling,” said the PC leader. “Three years ago the man was just a backbencher history professor and his New Canada Party didn’t exist. Now we’re sneaking into brothels just to talk about him.”

  “Three years ago we didn’t have a depression,” said the NDP leader. “Or a new constitution.”

  “Trudeau could have stopped him,” said the Liberal, handing the others their whiskies. “The biggest mistake Pierre made in public life was leaving it.”

  “The biggest mistake we made was not getting him to leave at an earlier date.”

  “All right,” said the Liberal. “Where do we stand? Can this be deflected? Can the debate be put off until after the summer recess? This morning, none of us was sure.”

  “Now I’m sure,” said the PC man. “I’ve canvassed my lads. If I tried to block this debate, half my ridings would go New Canada. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to count me out.”

  “Same here,” said the NDP leader. “I’d be marching all alone, right?”

  “I’m going to try,” said the Liberal. “I’m going to open with a motion to table.”

  “That will just mean two debates, right?”

  “And exacerbate tensions.”

  “No, I’ve got to do it. I can’t let this burn its way into history with me just sitting there.”

  “Harry York thinks he’s saving Canada. At least I hope he does.”

  “And he could be right.”

  “Do you two think that, really?”

  They sat in silence.

  “None of us can be that sure about anything at this point,” said the PC man. “You can assume the best, assume the worst, assume armageddon, but it doesn’t make any difference what you assume, because it’s all out of our control.”

  “Is there another way this can be handled?” the Liberal asked. “Outside the bounds of parliamentary procedure. Some extraordinary measure.”

  The NDP man set down his glass.

  “Now you make me nervous, Mac” he said. “Now you do make me worry about microphones, right?”

  “Let’s have no more talk like that, eh?”

  The Liberal leader leaned all the way back in his chair. “Then there’s nothing more to be done,” he said.

  “Or to be said.”

  Thatcher found Mendelsohn at a computer terminal in Langley’s press section, several floors and corridors removed from Mendelsohn’s normal haunts, if any of his haunts could be so described.

  “I’ve been looking for you all over the goddamn place,” said Thatcher, relighting his cigar.

  “Which is why you eventually found me.”

  “Canada’s finally made the Watch Report.”

  Circulated only among White House, National Security Council, and assorted intelligence officials and personnel, the Watch Report was always compelling reading. It kept one informed of areas where one might soon expect an outbreak of war.

  “I don’t know that that’s necessarily a good thing, William.”

  “The president may see it.”

  “As I was saying.”

  Thatcher pulled up a nearby chair. “Debrief,” he said. “Up to the minute. All the loose ends.”

  “Dennis Showers is in Canada.”

  “Montreal?”

  “As yet, Vancouver. Miss Reston and the interesting Mr. Joyce are with him.”

  “And Hugh?”

  “Also in Canada. I don’t know where. He’s busy positioning his troops, as it were.”

  Thatcher looked at the screen of the computer terminal. “What the hell is this? What’s all this here about women’s field hockey?”

  “Smith College’s field hockey team,” Mendelsohn said. “I’ve prepared a profile on the charming Miss Reston. She’s quite bright. A taste for literature, a knowledge of history, an interest in the law, and foreign affairs. Not your run-of-the-cotillion debutante, though she was very good at women’s field hockey.”

  “I’m not sure it’s such a hot idea to have her name floating around the computer screens, Freddy. Daddy’s a buddy of the Old Man, you know. I don’t want orders coming down from the White House that we pull a retrieval. If she comes out, Showers may come out.”

  “Discretion is what brings me to this odd corner of our establishment. It’s assumed I’m putting together a file on some problem journalist, as seems to be all they do up here. Take note; I’ve entry coded her under A. Reston, New York Times. It will be presumed she is merely a relative of the eminent columnist.”

  “Why a profile on her? We know she’s clean.”

  “‘Clean’ is irrelevant. She is an estimable young woman, and she is in love. ‘And you must love him, ere to you, he will seem worthy of your love.’”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Wordsworth. She has chosen to be in love with Dennis Showers, a man fifteen years her senior, her social inferior, a man with a troubled Catholic marriage, an incipient alcoholic, a man obsessed with his past, a man embarked on a lunatic odyssey, a man in trouble. Why does she love him? Because of a childhood infatuation? Sexual experimentation? The excitement of the danger? What?”

  “Why do we care?”

  “Alixe Reston knows Showers better than any of us or any computer in the building could ever know him. If we can discern what she sees in him we can better determine if he will do what is required.”

  “I don’t want to call a go or no-go on this mission on the basis of the judgment of some smitten college girl. What I care about is what Hugh Laidlaw sees in him.”

  “Yes, but, William, it was Hugh who asked me to do this.”

  He hit the “memory storage” key on the computer console and the screen went blank.

  “Lunch?” he said. “La Nicoise?”

  “I’m in no mood for roller-skating waiters. Do you have to do every damn thing Jim Angleton did?”

  “Very well. Chez Camille, then.”

  “Half of Langley goes there.”

  “Then we shall look all the more innocent.”
r />   “We’ll take Madeleine. Then it won’t matter what we look like.”

  They left the press section, and began their long walk back through the corridors.

  “What about the police investigation?” Thatcher asked.

  “They have encountered some curiosities. I’ve not been able to learn what they are. It hasn’t changed Showers’ status. He’s wanted virtually everywhere now.”

  “I can’t think of anything more inconspicuous than a beautiful girl, a middle-aged preppie, and a black man all traveling together. All they need is a pet lion.”

  “Hugh is taking precautions.”

  “What about the wife?”

  “Madame is under her doctor’s care and is taking sedatives. One of Showers’ superiors at State, an Arthur Jordine, is also looking after her.”

  “Don’t know him. Anything else?”

  “Are you acquainted with a Gary Lesser, herein employed?”

  “Yeah. He’s with the IG section.”

  “He was. More recently he’s been working as a liason with NSC special projects.”

  “Freddy, stop being oblique.”

  “I ran three traces. There were no bumps. No one in the Agency had authorization to run Bolshinin. There was nothing active.”

  “Freddy …”

  “But there was a request to Human Intelligence Services for a contact with Bolshinin. It was made by Mr. Lesser, who I think may be lunching at Chez Camille.”

  Harry York looked up irritably as his personal assistant entered his office without knocking. The prime minister had ordered no disturbances for the remainder of the afternoon. He swore when he saw what the aide had in his hand: a piece of news copy from the wire service printer in the press office.

  “Unless that’s news of a declaration of war, you may find yourself in the Yukon tomorrow, MacKenzie.”

  The assistant simply handed him the printout, saying nothing.

  “‘Police in California have identified the body of one of the Santa Cruz Mountains shotgun murder victims as that of Guy Porique, a former Canadian cabinet minister,’” York read. He looked up, almost gleeful. “Can this be true, MacKenzie?”

  “UPI sounds very forthright about it, Prime Minister.”