by Warren Court
If she wanted to do him for rape, he knew there was videotape of him coming up to her office. But the kicker was that, in the heat of the moment on that desk, he had not worn a condom. She’d let him know that she had his DNA safely tucked away somewhere. That he could either play ball with her, get on her team, or he was through. So far, she had just asked him for information about things like Operation Carnivore, stuff that would get him kicked off the force if internal affairs found out, maybe even thrown in jail. But at least he hadn’t had to kill anyone for her … yet.
“What is it?” she said.
“Wozniak’s transponder records.”
“Goddamn it,” she said. “What are those going to prove?”
“Where he was the day his wife died. Good thing you never got on homicide.”
“You think he would be stupid enough to drive there in his work car and kill her?”
“You don’t know killers. It’s not stupidity; it’s arrogance. He was having an affair.”
“Do you blame him?”
“I have his phone records.”
“How’d you get those?”
He sipped his scotch.
“Get out of here.”
Temple’s phone buzzed in his pocket. “The records?”
“Even if I got you those records, you wouldn’t be able to prove a thing, what with her being in a vase on his mantelpiece.”
Temple gritted his teeth. He had felt no love for Sylvia, but did not like hearing her described like that.
Kindness saw this. “I’m sorry. Were you two close? You and your friend’s wife?”
“Thank you, Karen.” He got to his feet. “Let me know when you have the records.”
35
Temple checked his phone on the way out of Kindness’s office. Donaldson had texted him a phone number and a request to call him in the AM.
He got home at midnight and fell asleep, partially undressed, on his couch. He was technically off duty now, with Team Three taking on any new cases. But Temple knew that he was never off duty.
In the morning, after thirty minutes on his treadmill and weight bench and some breakfast, he gave Donaldson a call. The FBI agent sounded groggy.
“It’s Detective Temple.”
“I didn’t mean this early.”
“Just trying to close five murders,” he said.
“I have what you want. Come see me. I’m in Oakville.”
He said, “Where?”
“The Queen’s Head. Opens at eleven.”
“Negative. This has to be within the hour.”
“I just woke up,” Donaldson said.
“There’s a coffee shop, Mississauga border at Winston Churchill Boulevard.”
“I know it.”
“One hour,” Temple said.
Though Donaldson was exactly on time, he looked sloppy in a T-shirt and track pants. Temple beeped his horn and the Fed came over and got in beside him.
“Just so we’re clear, this washes it with me and Munshin,” Donaldson said. Temple detected a whiff of alcohol coming from him.
“What did he do for you?” Temple asked.
“I got in a bind; he helped me out. That’s all there is to it.”
Temple could only speculate as to the size of the card Munshin had given him. Was it something sexual and inappropriate, maybe with a minor or a prostitute? Enough to end this straitlaced federal employee’s career?
“What do you have?”
“It washes it,” Donaldson repeated.
“Yes, yes, that’s what Munshin said. He said tell Donaldson it’s a wash with him if you help me.”
Donaldson pulled out a notebook. “Your boy, the Vietnamese—”
“He’s sixty-five. Older than you.”
“Right. Came over here to Canada in eighty-two. Refugee, boat person.”
“Yes, I know that. I told you that.”
“He called the State Department and the Pentagon.”
“Uh huh.” Temple tried to keep his annoyance in check.
“State Department was no help to him. He got nowhere with them.”
“But the Pentagon?”
“I have a guy who works there, cousin of mine. He checked on it. His call was routed through to a General Markinson.”
“Seriously.”
“Yes. Somehow your guy is juiced in with this Markinson. Markinson served in Vietnam. This kid is now a sixty-five-year-old restaurant owner—”
“Dead restaurant owner.”
“Whatever. He’s got some sort of relationship with Markinson, enough to get a call through to him. Markinson is high up, works for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, military intelligence. You didn’t hear that from me.”
“Are those magic words or something? Like abracadabra?”
“You realize the shit this could get me in?”
“Is it the same size pile of shit that Munshin pulled you out of?”
Donaldson grinned. “You have no idea. Anyway, Markinson was in Vietnam. Did three tours as a lieutenant, worked his way up to captain. It’s on his website.”
“He has a website?”
“Yeah, they all do now. That’s all I have. Somehow your guy up here has some sort of connection to a Vietnam veteran. A general. I have no idea what the call was about. That would put my cousin in jeopardy.”
“Okay,” Temple said.
“No ‘thank you’?”
“I’ll pass it on to Munshin, that you said thanks.”
“Fine.” Donaldson got out of the car.
36
Temple’s prediction about Team Three catching a case fairly soon into their shift came true. There had been a shooting in Chinatown, an after-hours club run by the Mekong Delta Boys. The suspects were the same members of the Lucky Eight Society that Temple had talked to earlier in the week. It was revenge for what they saw as an attack on them. They evidently hadn’t accepted his claim that Russians were responsible.
The fifth floor was empty when Temple arrived. He fixed himself a coffee before he sat down to make his phone call.
When he dialled the Pentagon, just like the last time, he was presented with a recording that made it clear the call would be recorded and could be traced. An operator came on the line and asked how she could direct his call.
“I need to speak to General Markinson,” Temple said.
“Do you know the extension?”
“No, I do not, I served with the general in Vietnam and need to get in touch with him.” Temple realized that she was seeing the Toronto phone number.
“Hold, sir.” There was some rather militaristic holding music and then a man came on the line.
“General Markinson’s office. To whom am I speaking?”
“Hi, I’m a homicide detective. John Temple, Toronto Police Services, badge 4490. I need to speak to the general urgently. It’s a police matter.”
“A Canadian police matter?”
“Yes, that’s correct. It concerns a friend of the general.”
“General Markinson is quite busy.”
“It involves a Vietnamese man who called him a week ago. A man named Kiet Du. The general should remember.”
“Hold.”
The line started ringing again.
“This is General Markinson. Whom am I speaking to?”
Temple introduced himself again. “I’m a detective in Toronto.”
“Uh huh.”
“General, I understand that a week ago you spoke with a Vietnamese man, a Canadian national. Kiet Du. Someone you may have known over in Vietnam.”
“I’m not sure I want to talk to you,” the general said.
“You could call Toronto Police Headquarters; they’ll route the call through to me as verification. I am at my desk.” There was a pause and some muffled talking. “General, Kiet Du was murdered a few days ago. I think it has something to do with his phone call to you.”
“My god,” the general said.
“When he called you, General, was he afraid? Was someon
e after him?”
“I’m not talking about this over the phone.”
“I could be there in a couple of hours.”
“Do you know how busy I am?”
“I suspect you’re as busy as a homicide detective in a city of three million people.”
“My son’s a state trooper; bitches all the time about the paperwork and the hassle.”
“I’ll call your office back with my flight details.”
“You do that, Detective. I’ll meet you for dinner. Call my assistant back with your flight details. Don’t bring your gun; you won’t get on a flight with it. Besides, we have plenty of them down here for you if you really want one.”
Temple chuckled. “Sure, sure. My gun stays here.”
Temple checked the homicide slush fund; there was close to ten thousand dollars in it. An online flight to Washington DC was expensive because it was last minute, but it could get him in to Ronald Reagan Airport by seven.
He took off his gun and locked it in his desk, then grabbed his passport; he kept it in his desk in case he had to run across the border to pick up a witness or suspect. Those trips down to Buffalo or Detroit had always been quick ones, back in the day. Used to be all that Temple had to have was his badge and an extradition document. Now he needed his passport to cross the border, just like everyone else.
37
He phoned the general’s office from the airport just before boarding. The general’s man told him Markinson would meet him at Squire’s Pub in Georgetown at eight. Temple’s flight was one way; he didn’t know how long he would down there. The slush fund could be used for a room if needed. It would all have to be explained to Munshin when he got back, though.
Temple stepped out of the cab in front of Squire’s and it was like walking into chicken soup. He’d thought it was hot and humid in Toronto but this was something else. He remembered that Washington DC had once been a swamp, and he could see why.
Squires was probably the fanciest Irish pub Temple had ever been in. He didn’t see a single stained T-shirt or pair of ripped jeans in the entire place. The drinkers were all in power suits, both the men and women. Temple went to the bar and looked around for the general. He had a picture of the man on his phone—Markinson in his dress uniform, chest adorned with medals and ribbons. He spotted him sitting in a corner booth on the opposite side of the restaurant. A younger man with the general stood up as Temple approached.
“Easy, Harrison. This guy walks like a cop, even if he is Canadian,” Markinson said.
Temple showed Harrison his identification. “Security?” he asked as he shook Markinson’s hand.
“My aide-de-camp, if you will. Ex-special forces.”
Harrison looked thin, wiry, hard. He had that long-distance stare and a crew cut.
“Dick, why don’t you go up to the bar and let the girls feel your chest?” Harrison obligingly walked off and left them alone.
Temple sat down.
“He was one of my top guys in Delta Force,” Markinson said. “Got hurt on an op over in Iraq. I found a place for him on my staff.”
“Hurt? He looks like he could tear me limb for limb.”
“That’s quite an admission coming from a cop, but yes, he could.”
“I’m a homicide detective, not one of those vicious brutes in tactical.”
Temple and Markinson laughed. The waitress came over.
“Tiffany, please get this man a drink,” Markinson said to her. “He’s come a long way.”
Temple ordered a Manhattan and the general ordered a gin and tonic.
“I got a taste for these when I was posted to England years ago.”
“Too sweet for me.” They clinked glasses.
“General, I don’t have a lot of time; I’m going to try and get on a plane home tonight if I can.”
“I can appreciate that. I’ve spent too much time around politicians; I know how they drone on.”
Temple opened his notebook. “You spoke with Kiet Du two weeks ago?”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ll be honest, I have a connection into the FBI. When we learned Kiet Du had called you—we have his phone records, of course—we were more than curious.”
The general looked down at his lap for a second and to his surprise, Temple saw him tear up.
“I loved that man like my brother. You understand?”
Temple nodded. “In Vietnam?”
“Uh huh. He was one of my guys. He was a good soldier.”
“He was in the ARVN?” Temple said, referring to the South Vietnamese army.
“Not exactly. He was an operative of mine.” He paused. “Look, Detective I am not sure I want to get into this with you. You’ve established your credentials, but still, you’re not an American, you’re not in the government, and a lot of that stuff is still classified.”
“Look, I just want to catch the guy that killed your friend.”
“That supposed to make me break down and spill all kinds of government secrets to you? You want to know how many men who have served with me, good friends, have been killed?” the general said, then he was silent.
Temple sipped his drink and watched Markinson closely without seeming to. The general’s chin quivered as he struggled to control his feelings. The tough skin, the shield this warrior had built around himself, was slowly peeling off as he got older. His emotions were getting to him; maybe it was that long parade of dead faces he carried with him. But Temple sensed that Kiet Du’s death was a blow Markinson might not recover from.
Finally, the general looked at Temple and started to speak. “He was afraid. He said he saw somebody, up there in Toronto, that he remembered. An American soldier, a Marine, who did something terrible to him. Wanted to know if I could do anything about it.”
“What did you say?”
“I said no. First off, it was forty years ago.”
“You know what he was talking about?”
“Last days of the war. The communists were advancing on Saigon.”
Temple, when he was a kid, had loved watching Vietnam: The Ten Thousand Day War, a documentary that had aired on national TV. The images of the choppers landing on the US Embassy, the roads full of refugees, smoke billowing in the distance.
“There were no regular combat troops left, just the embassy guard and advisors, CIA types. I was trying to get my people out. Kiet Du was one of them. He was one of my operatives. I won’t go into what I was doing there in Saigon, but suffice it to say I spent more time wearing a Hawaiian sport shirt and blue jeans than a flak vest and helmet.”
He was a spook, Temple thought. Military intelligence, maybe CIA.
“He came to me just days before the final pull-out. He was in tears. His wife had been killed. He said it was one of my people; I didn’t know what he meant. All my people were accounted for. He told me it was a Marine.
“Kiet had gone to his house in Saigon to get his wife and her family ready for the evacuation. He was helping us right to the very end. I begged him to get out earlier, before the rush. He said he would stay as long as he could, to help others get out.
“The city was chaos. Our people were going everywhere, trying to exfiltrate the Vietnamese who had worked for us. We knew what was in store for them. They knew it too. When he got back to his neighbourhood, there were Marines on his street. A group of them, they were getting in a jeep. He said they were drunk; it happens in war. It was chaos. When he went into his house, he found his wife dead. She had been raped.”
Temple fidgeted uneasily but kept listening.
“He came to the embassy. Distraught. I told him to get his shit together and get on one of those choppers. There weren’t that many left. He couldn’t, he told me. He had to bury his wife first. I never saw him again. I wonder how he got out.”
Temple said, “I don’t know, but he did, eventually. Him and a friend. They came to Toronto in 1982. He must have remarried, because he has a daughter. She’s in school.”
; “Thank god,” Markinson said. He was silent again for a while. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t have anything more to say. I don’t know the name of the Marine who Kiet says killed his wife. He never knew it. And we were scrambling to get out of there. It was chaos.”
“Could you get me a list of Marines that might still have been in-country?”
“Nope, no way. And besides, there were a couple thousand. I’m sorry, but I have to go now.” The general finished his drink and dropped a fifty on the table. Temple stood up and shook his hand, and then ordered another Manhattan and a burger while he brought up flight schedules on his phone.
38
Temple caught an hour of sleep on the plane and woke up over Pennsylvania. There was a bag of pretzels tucked into the flap where the barf bag and in-flight magazine were kept. The flight attendant must have done that when she came around for drink and snack orders. Temple had passed out before they were wheels up.
He was flying business class; if Munshin had a problem with that, so be it. The other passengers, mostly businessmen and businesswomen, were now sleeping. He flipped on his overhead light and the man next to him stirred but fell back to sleep, his mouth hanging open against the wall beside his seat.
Temple started flipping through the notes he had made while waiting at the departure terminal bar. The scenario was stretching itself out now, and the more it grew the more far-fetched it sounded. Kiet Du is working in his restaurant. In comes an ex-Marine, a Vietnam vet with a hankering for some of the culinary delights he’d enjoyed while he was “in-country.” Du recognizes him as the man he thinks killed his wife. Does he confront him? Maybe. Temple made a note to go through the restaurant’s sales receipts dated just before Kiet Du had phoned his friend General Markinson.
So then the restaurant owner, a former secret agent, gets so freaked out he calls his old handler, who is now a general. The general is no help. Days later, a professional Russian hit team comes in and guns him down. But who is this ex-Marine, that he has that kind of juice with the Russians?
