With a steady, unhurried pace, he continued to move the gym bag through the air until it was positioned above the containment unit then gradually lowered it until he felt it touch the bottom. Using both hands, he gently returned the handles to a hanging position on either side. The bag now safely inside, he moved a bit more quickly, though still cautiously, swinging the container’s lid into place and securing it.
“Things just got a bit safer, folks,” he said as he removed his gloves. “Now, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
From the counter, he retrieved an extendable reaching tool with a gripping jaw on one end which he inserted through one of several narrow slots in the containment unit foreseen for such purposes. He extended the reacher several inches and grasped the bag’s zipper pull tab with the gripping jaw. Taking a controlled breath, he gently started tugging the slider, opening the zipper inch by inch. Several minutes later the task was complete and Landry produced yet another tool, a thin, flat steel rod with a fixed clamp on one end and a sliding clamp with which he spread the gym bag open.
“Cigarette cartons,” he announced, readjusting the camera’s angle to give the others a view. “Four bundles of two with a remote device attached to each. I doubt there’s any danger right now, Jon. These just seem to be stored here until whoever’s behind all of this decides to use them.”
“What would you suggest we do?” Jonathan asked, staring at the innocent looking destructive devices on the screen.
“Let me have a look inside first,” said Landry, pulling out his Eagle 5 detector once again.
He remained silent as he scanned the four bundles one by one. After a couple of minutes, he turned off and put aside the device, removed his helmet and visor then repositioned the camera and smiled at it.
“Nasty buggers indeed, filled with wood screws like the ones we found at that bastard’s apartment,” he explained. “They’d cause a lot of damage if they exploded but there’s no danger to mess with them right here and now to make them useless. While I do that, I’d suggest you call someone and have them bring us eight cartons of P.W. Enright Reds, king-size to replace these bad boys in the gym bag. After that, all you need to do is keep a close eye on this place until someone shows up.”
* * * *
Chris had returned home after his failed attempt at identifying Mahmood’s meeting partner and resumed his activities of trying to break into Mohsin’s laptop. Though unsuccessful with this task as well, he’d made enough headway to convince himself the computer’s security and encryption software far exceeded anything commercially available on the market. This, coupled with the ‘CD’ license plate he had seen at the ski resort pointed to foreign consulate or, at the very least, foreign consulate personnel involvement.
He’d searched the motor vehicle registration database and had expected a sizeable number of diplomatic corps vehicles considering the large volume of consular offices in Montreal. He’d been taken aback, however, by the quantity of Audis and other luxury vehicles in the ‘CD’ category. He also had to keep in mind that the plate he had seen might have been stolen or that he had not seen correctly. Regardless, he looked forward to the call he expected from Addley so he could share this additional information.
The phone rang and Chris was pleased to note it was Jonathan on the line.
“Good afternoon, fine sir. How’s it going?”
“Things are shaping up, Chris,” Jon replied. “I’ve got Dave on the line with some information to share as well so I figured we could all chat at the same time.”
Chris and McCall greeted each other after which Jonathan recounted his afternoon with Leslie and Paul Landry at Omar Kalpar’s home in east-end Montreal.
“So you’ve recouped the C-4?” asked Dave once Addley was done.
“Paul’s pretty sure what was there is what’s left,” said Jon. “He’ll be taking the devices completely apart to determine the total weight of the stuff but he was confident those eight cartons plus the estimated quantity of C-4 used the other night would make up the whole batch that was stolen in Vaudreuil.”
“And the fake bombs are in place?” Chris enquired.
“Yessir,” Jonathan laughed. “Leslie got out of her coveralls, took a cab to Costco and was back twenty minutes later with eight cartons of cigarettes. In the meantime, Paul disconnected the detonators and deactivated the remote controls. Once Les got back, he just put the bundles back together.”
“How are we going to keep an eye on the place?” Dave questioned.
“We, Captain?” Jonathan chuckled.
“Yes, we, Mr. Addley,” McCall replied, a smile in his voice. “I’m involved now and so is my team so, answer my question.”
“I had some guys from Surveillance down before we left, installing cameras front and back as well as inside the house which they also miked for sound.”
“So if anybody shows up,” said Dave, “We’ll see them but once they leave, then what?”
“We wait and see where they’re going,” Jonathan replied.
“How?” asked Dave as Chris started to chuckle. “Care to share the joke, Mr. Barry?”
“I’m only guessing here,” Chris replied. “Is it the cigarette cartons or the remote controls, Jon?”
“What do you think?” Addley asked.
“What are you two talking about?” McCall questioned.
“You wouldn’t want to tamper with the cartons,” Chris deduced, “And those could be left somewhere so it has to be the remotes.”
“Bingo,” Jonathan confirmed.
“Hello?” said Dave.
“Tracking devices, my dear Captain,” Chris explained. “Jon had tracking devices installed in the remote control devices. We’ll know where those devices are going, even if they’re split up among several people.”
“Brilliant,” Dave admitted. “You guys really don’t play the same game I do. Surveillance, bugs, tracking units… The bureaucracy I’d have to go through to use those makes me nauseous.”
“Don’t worry, Dave,” joked Addley. “We’ll tell you when not to look as we move forward. Anything else about Omar’s place before we move on?”
“What about his body?” asked McCall. “That is up my alley since the guy was apparently murdered.”
“We leave it for now,” Jon replied. “I have a feeling something is going down soon and I don’t want anyone having the impression that we’re onto them. A missing body might tip someone off.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” Dave agreed, “But what if someone returns to make this Omar disappear? Bodies make great evidence in homicide cases but not if you can’t find them.”
“We, uh, installed a tracking device into Omar as well,” said Jonathan. “We’ll know exactly where he is if someone takes him for a ride.”
“You guys are something else,” McCall sighed. “The Director would freak if he heard this conversation.”
“That’s why your boss doesn’t know we exist,” Addley chuckled. “Did you find out anything about that Sentra?”
“In fact, we did,” Dave confirmed. “Tim and Joanne spoke to the owner and it turns out her boyfriend does use the car to go to work occasionally. But I doubt he’s your guy unless you’re looking for a short, skinny Irishman with frizzy red hair.”
“Crap,” muttered Addley. “Nobody else drives it?”
“Not to Ladouceur’s knowledge,” McCall replied, “But one thing is interesting about her boyfriend, Ronald Gallagher. He works for the Consul General of Pakistan.”
“Are you serious?” Chris exclaimed and went on to explain his suspicions of some kind of consular involvement as he renewed his search in the vehicle registration database.
“There we go,” he announced. “Three Audis registered to the Diplomatic Mission of Pakistan. Two A6s and an A8.”
“Do you really think a diplomat would be involved in terrorist activities?” MacCall asked. “That’s a government position.”
“There have been country leaders invol
ved in terrorist activities,” Chris replied. “Listen, we don’t know anything for sure here, but we have definite links to the Pakistani consulate.”
“I have to agree with Chris,” said Jonathan, “And it doesn’t mean it’s the Consul General. It could be any of a number of people working there,”
“So, where do you go with something like this from here?” asked Dave. “To the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?”
“The last thing I’d want to do is have a bunch of politicians involved,” Addley snorted. “I want to nail whoever’s behind this as well as those four punks in Sutton. Hand this over to the government and all involved will be on planes back to Pakistan before the paperwork here is even started.”
“I can understand that,” McCall conceded. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I’ll definitely get my hands on whatever I can concerning everyone linked to the consulate,” said Jonathan, “And see if our friends in the States have anything on any of them. Past that, we stick to the little bastards in Sutton, keep an eye on Omar’s house for any visitors, track the animals down and bust their butts.”
* * * *
“The skiing was very good this afternoon,” said Mahmood as he joined Saad and Nasir in the living room and handed them each a beer. “Where is Fahad?”
“He is in his room,” replied Saad. “He does not seem in a good mood.”
“Do you know why?” Mahmood asked, placing the extra bottle destined for Fahad on the centre table before flopping down onto the leather couch.
“No,” Saad shook his head, “But he was very quiet this afternoon. I asked him what was wrong and at first he said there was nothing but when I insisted he said, ‘wait and you will see’.”
“Fahad,” Mahmood called out. “Come and sit with us. I have opened a beer for you.”
Upstairs, they heard the door to Fahad’s room open rather abruptly followed by his pounding steps as he stomped down the stairs.
“I am here,” Fahad scowled as he dropped onto the couch. “Are you happy?”
“What is the matter with you?” Mahmood challenged. “Have we done something to make you angry?”
“Saad and Nasir have not,” was Fahad’s curt reply.
“So that means that I have?” Mahmood demanded. “Tell me what I have done.”
“You tell us nothing,” Fahad shot back. “You are making us all ruin our semester by having us stay here. You make us go skiing instead of at least allowing us to do our studies and school work but you keep us in the dark. You do not share the least bit of information you have with us.”
“I have told you about the plan for next week,” Mahmood argued. “What else is there to tell? What did you not understand? It is a rather simple plan.”
“Why did you tell us you had to go the bathroom this afternoon?” Fahad snapped. “Why not simply tell us you were meeting someone?”
“Now, Fahad, be quiet and calm down,” warned Mahmood as he rose from his seat.
“I will not be quiet and you will answer my questions,” Fahad shouted, standing to face Mahmood. “Do you not trust us? If we are not good enough for you, perhaps you should look after your plan yourself.”
“I am telling you to shut up,” Mahmood raised his tone, his face displaying equal amounts of anger and fear.
“No,” Fahad screamed. “I deserve to know as do the others. Who did you meet in the parking lot? I saw you get in that Audi. Who was it, Mahmood? Tell me.”
“Be quiet,” Mahmood shrieked as he shoved Fahad, knocking him back down on the couch as the others watched in disbelief.
“I will not be quiet,” Fahad yelled back, jumping back to his feet, his fists raised. “I am tired of you acting like you are so important and keeping all the information for yourself. You have told us almost nothing and what you did tell us is probably a lie. I would not be surprised if the plan for next week is fake. What is the real plan, Mahmood?”
“Stop it, now. Both of you,” Nasir finally spurred to action, climbing over the centre table and stepping in between the two. “Now, sit down and listen to me.”
He glared at his two friends, knowing both were a little intimidated by his somewhat larger size and build, and waited a moment once they had both resumed their seats.
“I understand you are frustrated,” he said to Fahad. “Mahmood has been keeping information from me as well so I too am frustrated. However, if he has done so, I am confident it is because he has been ordered to do so. He will tell us what we need to know when it is time. Is that not correct, Mahmood.”
“Yes, that is correct,” Mahmood wearily replied.
“But when will it be time?” Fahad challenged. “What is the difference if you tell us now or next week? What difference does it make if we have this knowledge or not? Do you not trust us?”
“Yes, I trust you,” replied Mahmood. “I was told to inform you of the details at the last possible moment to avoid anyone slipping up and saying something they shouldn’t.”
“We do not speak to anyone else, even when we leave this place,” Fahad argued. “Do you think I will blab details to a stranger while I am urinating at the ski resort? Why do you not tell us here and now and show that you really do have faith in us?”
“I cannot do that,” Mahmood snapped.
“I think I understand,” Saad announced from the armchair where he had remained throughout the argument.
“What do you understand?” demanded Fahad. “I do not so tell me since you believe you are so smart.”
“I think this house is bugged,” Saad replied. “This is why Mahmood cannot tell us anything now. It is because someone is listening to our conversations.”
“Is this true?” Fahad asked as Mahmood rose to his feet and headed to the front door while shaking his head in disgust.
“At some point, you might realize you should shut up,” Nasir muttered before following Mahmood.
A moment later, the front door opened then slammed shut, leaving Fahad and Saad alone in the living room.
Fahad looked up at Saad and asked, “Do you really think this house is bugged?”
With a dejected expression, Saad replied, “Shut up.”
Chapter 17 – Friday, January 21, 2011
Saad and Nasir sat quietly at the dining room table eating breakfast while Fahad studied in the living room when Mahmood returned from a walk outside.
“Good morning, Mahmood,” said Fahad, his tone subdued, this being virtually the first of any conversation since the previous evening’s clash.
Mahmood stopped at the foot of the stairs in the centre of the open-aired space encompassing kitchen, dining room and living room and looked at the other three to make sure he had their attention.
“I propose we dedicate our morning to our studies,” he said, “And go out somewhere for lunch to take a break and talk.”
“I think that is a splendid idea, Mahmood,” Fahad replied, far too enthusiastically. “Where shall we go for lunch?”
“Why don’t we decide that once we leave, Fahad?” Nasir suggested with a glare.
“Yes,” Fahad nodded. “Yes, indeed. That is a splendid idea as well.”
Mahmood climbed upstairs to his bedroom and little further conversation was to be heard for the remainder of the morning.
* * * *
The phone rang just as Chris completed his ten kilometre run on the treadmill in their fully equipped home gym in Knowlton.
“Morning, Jonathan,” he said as he wiped the sweat from his face.
“You sound winded, old boy,” Jon replied. “Had to run to the phone, did you?”
“Yep. Ten kilometres,” Chris laughed. “What’s up?”
“Did you get a chance to look at that surveillance recording from last evening?”
“Indeed. I watched it when I got up this morning. So, now all the boys know we’re listening.”
“That makes no difference,” said Jonathan, “But they’ve now made it blatantly clear to us that they know which may help rock
their confidence. Anyhow, I just got word they’re going somewhere for lunch to talk. You up for any tailing?”
“I’m on it, buddy.”
“Good stuff. I’ll have Surveillance let you know when they go. Keep me posted.”
* * * *
At shortly after one, Chris pulled into the parking lot of the Knowlton Pub, literally minutes from their home.
He had received the call from the Surveillance Centre twenty minutes earlier to inform him the Sutton boys were on the move. On his iPad, he had tracked the Explorer’s movement and had quickly been pleased to note it was heading north on the 215 towards Knowlton, its final destination being the pub which he and Sandy frequented regularly, particularly in the summer to enjoy live music.
As he climbed out, he spotted the Explorer parked a couple of vehicles over and smiled again as he thought of how technology had made things much easier in recent years. He made his way to the main entrance where he was greeted by Serge, the pub’s owner.
“Bonjour, monsieur Barry. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, Serge,” Chris replied as they shook hands. “How’s business?”
“Oh, you know how it is,” Serge grinned and winked. “We work many hours but never make as much money as we would like.”
“Yes, life is tough,” Chris smiled back. Serge owned a lakeside property comparable in size and comfort to that of the Barrys’ Knowlton home.
“But look at the place,” Serge continued his charade. “It’s nearly empty. How can I survive without a clientele?”
Chris gazed across the dining room, noting a couple seated at a corner table, two men in suits seated in a booth nearby and the four Pakistanis just settling into a window booth along the front wall of the restaurant.
“What are you complaining about?” he asked. “With me, you now have nine customers, on a weekday, and it’s not even lunch time anymore.”
“Ahh, if you are here as a customer, allow me to show you to a table, monsieur,” Serge replied with another wink.
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