“Do you see it?” said Zeke.
“No. We’re looking for a quarter container. A small one that fits in the van. Delivered to the gate.”
Gus pulled his cellphone from his front pocket and dialed. He waited until it rang twice and a familiar voice answered, “Yes?”
“No package. Should have been here an hour ago.”
The line was quiet.
“What do we do?”
Gus waited a few more seconds for an answer. “Get out of there. I’ll call with instructions.”
“Okay.” He ended the call and glanced ahead, then at the rear-view mirror. The road was empty of traffic in both directions. “We’re done.”
He twisted the ignition key and the van sputtered back to life, lights weakly highlighting the empty road ahead. He drove back into the city, just another commuter about to get stuck in pre-lunch traffic. Gus turned right to access the Bonaventure Expressway. With a sickening metal-on-metal screech, the van spun right, popped its hood, and banged to a stop. Steam gushed from somewhere in the engine. A grey sedan had slammed into Gus’s door. Stunned, Gus didn’t react, but Zeke did. He jumped out of the passenger door, pulled out his pistol, and walked calmly to the car. Gus just watched. It was something he would have done ten years ago, acting without thinking about the consequences. To show they weren’t intimidated. He leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and removed the rental agreement as he heard three loud pops, glass shattering, and a muffled scream from inside the car.
Idiot.
SEVEN
“WHAT?” GARTH BARKED into his blue-striped iPhone as he watched the news coverage of the premier’s fiery speech at the NWMP headquarters in Fort MacLeod. It was a good speech, with plenty of sound bites that had been included in the newscast and in the major political pundit blogs. People would take them more seriously now. He gazed out the bus window as the southern outskirts of Calgary whizzed by in horizontal brushstrokes of light and dark.
“It’s Oak,” said the voice.
Garth perked up. This would be good news. Oak was the master fixer, specially hired from the U.S. Ten years working for the RightWay political action committee, the powerful Conservative political dealmaker, the one who got W. his second term by bringing in the disenfranchised Christian vote. His work on the last two Republican congressional campaigns made him the perfect man for the job. He was a master at logistics. He knew how to get things done. He had come highly recommended.
“And?” There was a long pause.
“There’s a problem.”
Garth stared blankly as the world outside flashed by. This part of his plan had to work. There could be no margin for error. He had paid top dollar. Jesus, now he had two problems.
“What happened?” Garth’s breath almost cut out.
“The operation for the second shipment was not successful.”
Garth paused and considered the consequences. How many facets of his plan relied on the packages being at the right place at the right time? He had to think fast.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
“We don’t exactly know. There are … complications.”
“The importance of the package cannot be overstated. What options are there to recover it?” He was careful not to mention the contents by name. He had warned his team that their phone calls could be monitored, given the prime minister’s displeasure at his participation in the referendum. True, they had been responsible for the triumphant return of the Conservative Party to political power after years in the Liberal wilderness. But the PM could inform the solicitor general, who would call the superintendent of the RCMP and the directors of the two spy agencies, CSIS and CSEC, and voila, monitored conversations. Everyone on his special projects team had a code name. He wanted something generic, something that didn’t have any special meaning, something that wouldn’t attract attention. He recalled that one of his excited, overeducated campaign workers with a degree in English literature said the name Garth meant something like “a person who lives in an orchard” in Middle English. He thought it was an odd thing to say, but it was also memorable. So he picked tree names for his team members.
“What happened?”
“The first shipment crossed the border on schedule early this morning. The third shipment crossed the border two hours later without incident. They will both be in Airdrie by the end of the day. But the second shipment was intercepted. It left as scheduled but it never arrived in Montreal.”
Garth sighed in frustration. “I knew that shipping it that way was too complicated. You should have sent it across the border at Coutts. It’s the most direct route.”
“As we discussed, security at all land borders is tighter than normal. It’s because of your referendum. Homeland Security has drones flying over any potential transfer point along the border. The best way to get such a large shipment across the border is to divide it into smaller pieces. The smaller deliveries are on track.”
“I’ll call you back in five minutes.” Garth ended the call then texted Ash: Confirm arrival of two shipments.
He waited a long minute before his phone pinged. Shipment #1 arrived ten minutes ago. Unloading now. Confirmed. Shipment #3 crossed border. Confirmed. Ash.
Then he called back Oak, who picked up after one ring and said, “The first one arrived a few minutes ago.”
“I know. What about the big stuff?”
“As I said, it was intercepted. I’ve lost contact with the courier. I assume it’s lost.”
Garth didn’t say anything.
Oak continued, “I can get another one on site in two days.”
Garth thought about how the missing equipment would complicate other parts of his plan. “How much will it cost?” The original shipment had cost over ten million dollars, money easily raised earlier in the campaign. However, with only four days until the vote, donations had peaked and there were now fewer potential sources of revenue.
“On this short notice, I can get a half shipment for six. I’ll break it up into two deliveries.”
It was extortion. But he had few options. Timing was key. Everything had to be in place by the morning after the referendum. He had to ensure that this shipment got through.
With a sigh that was surely audible to Oak, Garth said, “Tell them I’ll transfer the money to the same account by end of business today New York time. You know what I want.”
“Done.”
“No more screw-ups.”
Garth hung up and focused his thoughts. The source would never bail out, nor would the shipment be sold to someone else once it had been committed to him. He knew these people. They had strong recommendations from the RightWay organization contact and impeccable Conservative connections, both to the Republican Party and the National Rifle Association. They had supplied what they called “special political operations” for several congressional elections. They always delivered. He had called yesterday to confirm that the third, and largest, shipment had left Boston early in the morning. He had no reason to doubt them. There were twelve shipments in all, scattered across a range of sea and land border crossings, sent from several distribution points: Detroit, New York, Chicago, Boston, Seattle, and Helena, Montana. The suppliers wouldn’t be paid their final installment until all shipments arrived.
All had gone well … until now. What happened? And how was he going to get the most important shipment by Sunday? He was running out of time.
His fear amplified. What was there to be scared of? He was down to only one focus in his life. No more distractions. It will be easier after people join us, he told himself, after I’m a hero. To millions.
EIGHT
FINDING THE SECOND WITNESS was almost as easy as finding the first. There were only two people Larch worried about. They had both seen him as they walked out of the hotel elevator. One was clearly the hotel manager, judging from the uniform. The other was most likely the ten o’ clock appointment. He had all but made it to the stairs beside the elevator when th
e men appeared. Forrestal had not said whom he was supposed to meet. So Larch had searched for any clue and found a day planner.
Larch took a cab to his hotel near a cluster of factory outlet stores in Dartmouth. It provided the greatest number of escape-route options, with access to two highways and a direct path to the airport. His room faced a side alley where no prying eyes could see. He shut the door and emptied his briefcase. Forrestal’s day planner tumbled onto the thin mattress. The pages had all of the necessary details. He thought it ironic that the scion of Canadian high-technology start-ups would record his appointments by hand.
Larch flipped through the pages until he saw what he was looking for.
Tuesday. 10 a.m. D. Ritter. Connaught Land.
It was too easy.
Now he had the identities of his two targets. And more than two days to complete the job. More than enough time.
NINE
DETECTIVE MATT MACKINNON returned to his office after an absence of fifteen minutes according to Daniel’s watch. He handed Daniel a glass of water and switched the recorder back on as he approached the table. “I’ve spoken with the inspector. We have some new information. So I’d like to ask you a few more questions.” He didn’t sit. Instead he began to orbit the table, hands clasped behind his back.
“So you found the body only minutes after he was killed?”
Daniel sucked back the water. “I had an appointment to meet him in his hotel room. He asked me to come.”
“So you just left whatever you were doing to come meet with him?”
“Of course. I already told you. He’s a big fish.”
“He arranged for you to come, then?”
“Yes. He told me to meet him in his room at the Westin.” He held the empty glass, trying to will more water down his throat. The detective was a skilled interrogator, using the subtle, tangential questions Daniel had learned to use, too. He turned to look directly at the officer. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I didn’t say that you did. However, I find the sequence of events to be … intriguing.” MacKinnon twisted his chair so that its back faced the table. He straddled the chair and leaned forward.
Daniel put the empty glass on the table and recounted again how he had received the phone call from Forrestal, gone to the hotel in the morning, knocked on the door, and fetched the hotel manager.
“Arriving so soon after the death, perhaps you saw the killer.”
“Perhaps.”
“You went to the room earlier?”
Daniel didn’t like where this was going. The detective was asking the same question in different ways, in reverse chronological order, forcing Daniel to answer quickly. It was a good way to see if he was lying. Am I a suspect? “The door was locked and no one answered.”
“It was about the same time as he was killed.”
“I didn’t hang around. I went downstairs to get the manager.”
MacKinnon paused. “We’re reviewing footage from the security cameras. We’ll wait for confirmation of your story.”
Daniel crossed his arms, expecting a new questioning track.
“Let’s begin another train of thought. Who was with you?” MacKinnon didn’t disappoint.
“No one. It was only me.”
“What did you see in the hallway before you arrived at Mr. Forrestal’s door?”
Daniel paused. “It was surprisingly busy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Hotel corridors are usually empty. When I arrived, it was full of people. There was a young couple. A woman. She was young and very pretty. She …”
Daniel’s attention was caught by a man in a dark suit beckoning through the door window. MacKinnon turned and drooped his shoulders. He opened the door then mumbled something that Daniel couldn’t quite make out. But the response was clear.
“Suspected smugglers. Your case. First coordination meeting in two days.”
Daniel saw MacKinnon nod, a nod empty of interest. He waved his colleague away, closed the door, and resumed his seat, reactivating his professional interview face.
“Keep going.”
“Uh, there was a man. The hotel manager. He was talking to someone in another room. He was quite loud. That’s it.”
“The preliminary report says you were accompanied by the hotel manager. The same person?”
“Yes. He came with me the second time I went to the door.”
“Did you see anyone then?”
Daniel tried to recall until an image materialized in his mind. “Yes, there was a man with a briefcase —”
MacKinnon leaned closer. “Tell me about him.”
“The man?”
“Was he the only one you saw leaving with some sort of bag or container?”
Daniel replayed the scene in his mind. Chinese couple arriving. Man leaving, but with no bag. A young woman leaving. Did she have a bag? He couldn’t remember. A man leaving with a briefcase. “Yes, I believe so, but there may not be much to tell.”
“Tell me anyway. Describe him.”
“Sort of average. Well dressed.” Daniel searched his memory. He stilled his mind until the image and sounds and scents came into focus, a skill with which he was quite out of practice. “He was in a good mood.”
MacKinnon stopped writing and looked directly at Daniel. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s nothing really. He was humming a song.”
“What song was it?” He was scribbling again.
“I don’t know. One by the Beatles? The one Eric Clapton does. With the guitar solo.”
MacKinnon pulled out an iPod from an evidence bag, fiddled with the menu wheel, slapped it on the table, and pressed play. After only a few bars of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” Daniel nodded.
“That’s it. That’s the song.”
MacKinnon cut the music, shoved the iPod back into the bag, and held it in his hand. “This is Mr. Forrestal’s iPod. The song was playing when the forensic team found the body.”
“So what does this all mean?” said Daniel.
“You tell me. We didn’t find the murder weapon in the room. Or in any room on the fourteenth floor.”
“So the killer must have taken the weapon with him.” Daniel relaxed a little.
“That’s what I think.”
“The weapon, what was it?”
“A pistol. Something small.”
Something that could be carried under a folded newspaper or in a briefcase.
“So you see, Professor Ritter, you can help us after all. You can identify Mr. Forrestal’s murderer.”
“That’s good, then.”
“Yes, but the murderer probably knows this, too.”
TEN
CTV NEWS SAID THE CROWD exceeded twenty thousand. The Calgary Saddledome was bursting at the seams for one of the final rallies of the campaign. But the premier paced the green room, usually reserved for Keith Urban or other musicians waiting to go on stage, with his arms crossed, staring at the floor while Garth stood in silence. Premier Brewster stopped and turned to face his employee.
“What the fuck have you been up to, Garth?”
“We’re —”
Brewster jabbed his finger at Garth. “We’re fuckin’ five points behind, and you seem to have lost focus. We’re here to win. But we’re not winning right now. Your job is to make sure that we win while I prepare the post-referendum details.”
“We will win.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You’ve been sloppy.”
“Who says?”
“I just watched it. The interview on TV. You adlibbed, didn’t you?”
“It was an ambush.”
“Of course, you moron. I know how this game is played. I’ve been doing this for years. You fell into an easy trap. You just fuckin’ wanted to antagonize them.” He paced in a circle once, twice, then he stopped, turned to face Garth, and pointed his finger at him. “We’re bleeding support because of your bozo eruption.” He ran
a hand through his hair as he looked at the ceiling in frustration. “Jesus. Finland?”
“Law number three —”
“You just make this crap up, don’t you? The way you said it made it sound like we want to create our own country.”
“We do.”
“No, we don’t. We’ll do it if we have to, but it’s definitely not our first choice.”
Garth froze. He hadn’t expected the premier to deny their quest for nationhood. They had dreamed about it together for a decade. He hadn’t hesitated when Brewster phoned him for help. He’d gladly resigned from the Prime Minister’s Office to take a place by his side. But now he saw something new and disturbing on the premier’s face. It looked like hesitation. “Of course we do. You’re not getting squeamish now? So close to victory?”
“I know what I’m doing, Garth. Alberta as an independent country is a moronic idea. We’re landlocked and no one’s on our side. B.C. and the territories hate us, Saskatchewan can’t do much to help, and Montana doesn’t give a damn what happens. Get real. What we need is bargaining strength against the Feds. But now you have the media saying we want to separate. Like we’re another fuckin’ Parti Québécois. Davison was right. He warned me about hiring you. He told me of your work in his PMO. Your fringe group is sloppy. And you’re a bit of a whiner, too.”
“Our AIM brothers got the job done.”
Brewster stretched his back. “Not this time. We won’t whine our way out of Confederation. I’ve got a full house of supporters out there.” He pointed toward the stage below in the centre of the arena. “I don’t want your goose-stepping goons scaring people away. We’re down to the wire, and I think you’re drifting off-message.”
“I’ve made the message clearer.”
“Stick to my message. I’m the only one who gets to improvise. Not you. I pay you to manage expectations, not create new ones because you’re pissed off.”
Garth’s shock morphed into an anger he could barely control. The premier’s attitude was insulting, and Garth was realizing the premier’s true problem: he was beginning to lose his nerve now that pressure was increasing and the poll numbers no longer predicted a big win. Garth grimaced as he remembered his strategic plan. At least a new and independent Alberta would be ready to defend itself. And, if necessary, he would have the power base to take command when the premier displayed weakness.
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