Brewster said, “You do know what we’ll do when we win?”
“I want a country. I expect to be well rewarded for my service.”
“You’ll get your fucking Cabinet post.”
“I want to be minister of defence.”
“Yeah, yeah, but we have more trouble ahead between now and your new job title.”
“I’ve made contingency plans. No problem.”
“Yes, a problem. First, we have to negotiate with the Americans. Otherwise, they’ll just roll over us. Our oil will help guarantee that they have enough for at least a generation, even if there are problems with the Saudis or Iran or Venezuela. We could become their fifty-first state. I’ll become governor. We’ll have two senators and a dozen or so congressmen. But do you know what will happen if we lose this referendum?”
“You’ll still be premier. Still in power.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll be powerless. Embarrassed. I’ll join a long list of political rejects. Losers. I’ll become just a curious historical footnote. I’ll be ridiculed by schoolchildren for generations of Canadian history classes.” Brewster leaned closer. “I guarantee that it will be far worse for you. This is not going to happen. We are not going to lose. And definitely not because of you getting careless in front of the media. I want a five-point shift in our favour by Saturday night.”
Garth shook with brittle tension.
“How do you plan to fix it?” Brewster pressed closer until he was almost nose to nose with Garth.
Garth smelled the stench of steak and stale beer from the premier’s mouth, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t say a word. He knew the question was rhetorical.
“I’ll tell you. Time to play hardball. Our message has become compromised. You compromised it. We need to focus the voters’ attention on the other side. I want negative headlines about the No side. I want something spectacular. I want it far away from here. And I want it clear that the No side is behind it. Got it?”
Brewster didn’t wait for Garth to acknowledge his demand. He spun around with extra flair, as if he sported a long black cape, and left, leaving the door ajar.
Garth nodded slowly to himself. Now he knew what he should be scared of. He had his focus back. He saw new headlines materialize in his mind, and he knew what to do. He grabbed his cellphone and punched in Ash’s number. It was time for Plan B.
ELEVEN
IN THE MOMENTS SINCE Zeke shot the driver of the car that had crashed into their van, Gus hadn’t spoken. An accident maybe, but Zeke had overreacted. Their job was to remain unseen, and in three short shots, Zeke had blown their anonymity. There would be witnesses for sure. Gus slammed the van into gear and sped away, the van’s automatic transmission wheezing at the surprising demand for maximum acceleration. Zeke was also quiet. Perhaps he now realized the gravity of what he had done, but Gus wasn’t convinced.
“We have to dump the van,” Gus said.
Zeke didn’t react.
“We have to find another one. Keep an eye out.”
They tucked into a side street from Sainte-Catherine, went under the Jacques Cartier Bridge, and continued eastward toward Hochelaga-Maisonneuve. In the early evening, traffic was heavy. They passed countless parked cars but no vans.
Gus’s cellphone buzzed. He pulled it out from his jacket. “Yes?”
“It’s me.” Ash. The boss. “Get your butts moving. You’ll pick up the next shipment in New Brunswick. It’s on its way right now. You’ve got to be there in twelve hours.”
“Where?”
“I’ll send you a location. It’s on the Bay of Fundy. It’s remote and quiet. You won’t have any problems. What have you got?”
“A cube van.”
“Big enough. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Got it?”
“Where are we taking the shipment? The same place as before?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Zeke grunted, “There’s one.”
A lone unmarked white van, similar in size to theirs, sat on the far side of the street. Gus turned onto the first cross street and parked their vehicle. He wiped the steering wheel, dashboard, and door handles with a grimy towel from behind his seat. He shoved the rental agreement in his jacket pocket, hopped out, and walked to the empty van. He glared at Zeke; it was his turn to redeem himself. Zeke understood and sauntered over to the passenger’s side window, shielded the view with his hand, pulled out a slim jim, and in a few seconds had unlocked the door. Gus was impressed with the well-rehearsed smoothness of his action.
Zeke crawled into the van, leaned over, and unlocked the driver’s door. Gus slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled the ignition wires as he had done countless times before. He rubbed his hands to warm up, and in less than a minute the van sputtered to life. He shifted the gear to drive, looked over his left shoulder, then ahead, and drove east. Deeper into the mysterious plan. Deeper into this foreign land.
TWELVE
CLAIRE HAD STOOD AT ATTENTION for too long and was beginning to feel woozy. Her body still buzzed with the adrenalin rush of the failed rescue the day before. She struggled to bottle her energy, squirming, wanting to move.
She replayed in her head her encounter with the fishing boat, questioning every decision. Sending the helicopter from CFB Greenwood was just normal search-and-rescue procedure. The Kingston, steaming at high speed toward the boat, was also standard protocol. But it was more chance than part of any plan that all three vessels met at the same place at the same time.
It was only her third time as captain, solo, without a more senior officer on board to watch her every move. Captain Hall reassured her that he was developing confidence in her as an officer. He said he wanted her to build up time in command with a few routine shore patrols. One step at a time. The coming storm provided an opportunity to see what she would do in adverse conditions. But not too adverse. The patrol wouldn’t stray more than a dozen kilometres offshore.
Three hours into the patrol, the message arrived. A fishing boat not responding. A search-and-rescue helicopter was dispatched from CFB Greenwood, a scenario she had practised dozens of times. All other ships were either on duty elsewhere or in dock for maintenance. Finally, a chance to show the brass and her parents what she was capable of. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to kill the crew and sink the boat.
The captain scribbled something in a notebook on his desk. He had summoned her as soon as she returned the Kingston to port in Halifax. Claire allowed herself a small smile: Only two months into my first command, and already I have combat experience. Maybe he wants to give me feedback, maybe even give me a commendation. She loved her career, in spite of the disappointment on her parents’ faces when she had announced her decision to ditch a dead-end job, and the matching boyfriend, and join the navy. This feeling, this trembling feeling, of using the power given to her to do good — this was why she had joined. I made a difference yesterday.
Her smile dissolved as she thought about the person she had killed. She had taken a life. Maybe two. Maybe more. The man could have had a family. A child, a wife waiting, rocking on the veranda at sunset, not yet knowing the terrible news. Maybe there was someone else on board, too.
She had taken at least one life. Had she made a difference? She didn’t know. Her thoughts collided.
She had to stare straight ahead, so she couldn’t quite make out what the captain was writing, even with her peripheral vision. He was making her wait, flaunting his authority. He stopped writing, put his pen down. He aimed his eyes at her.
“Yes, sir?” Claire said.
“Marcoux, what happened out there?”
She held her mouth open for a second. “It’s all there, in my report from this morning.”
“Yes, a precise chronological list of events.” He rummaged across his desk until he held a short, stapled stack of papers. He read from the last page. “That ended in the sinking of the boat and the death of at least one person.”
“They threatened the ship.” She looke
d at the floor and then toward Hall. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Border Services says it was narcotics smuggling.” He fished out another short report from his table and held it in the other hand.
“They seemed very well armed for smuggling dope, sir.”
“More likely Ecstasy. Pseudoephedrine. Very popular at parties. Very profitable. That’s Border Services’ take on this.” He tossed both reports onto his desk.
“But we’ll never know, will we?”
The captain leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. His movement drew her attention to his bulging arms, angular chin, intense eyes, and thinning head of tightly cropped black hair speckled with grey. He was quite fit for someone twenty years older than her. Overall, a very handsome man, Claire thought. He reminded her of Denzel Washington in his prime.
“No, we’ll never know. Unless someone salvages the wreckage,” Hall said.
“It’s under hundreds of metres of water. Salvage seems unlikely, sir.”
“Depends on what the cargo is.”
“Yes.”
“What do you believe, Lieutenant Commander?”
“I’m not sure. If they were smuggling drugs they could have just thrown it overboard. We’d have had no evidence against them.”
Hall didn’t say anything.
“Sir, that boat shouldn’t have been where we found it. There were at least two people on board. At least one RPG. And it was from Boston. I don’t think it was drugs.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know, sir. Something worth keeping. Something … more serious.”
He scowled. “We’ll see. Coast Guard, FBI, CBSA, and RCMP are on alert …” He looked down, eyes averted for the first time since he’d started talking, and took a deep breath.
“Sir?” Claire felt a bead of sweat form on her right temple. Hall looked more upset than she had ever seen. She didn’t know how to respond.
“Lieutenant Commander, I need to understand something.” His eyes, suddenly burning, were locked on hers. “How do you feel about taking a life in the line of duty?”
She took a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I don’t know exactly, sir. It happened so fast.”
His eyes burned into hers. “I need to know.” He leaned forward and slammed his hands on the desk. “Now.”
She noticed that he hadn’t asked her to stand at ease. She was still frozen at attention. “I did what I thought was best to defend my ship.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. Sounded like an official bureaucratic statement. Like someone trying to cover their ass. “Sir …”
“You need time to process this.”
“I don’t need time, sir. I know how I feel.”
“No, you don’t. I expect a lot from my captains. You know that I think you’re an exemplary officer and I’ve supported your career.” He startled her as he stood up.
Her heart skipped a beat. She sucked in air in a short, sharp gasp.
“But taking a life is a major event for any military member. I have questions about what happened out there. Your mission was to assess and rescue if necessary. You seem to have changed the mission.”
She didn’t know how to respond. Her brain produced three simultaneous answers, producing gridlock in her mind. She forced one out. “Never, sir. The mission changed when they fired at the helo. They were about to fire at us, too. I was defending the ship.”
“Yes, that is your story. But I’ve heard another one.” He pulled a single piece of paper, half-filled with text, from his desk. “I received a report from Maritime Command. It includes an email from one of your crew.”
One of my crew? Who?
“The crew member says that you didn’t even try to de-escalate the situation. Barely tried to talk to them. Never tried to arrest them. You just fired. Shot to kill.”
Who was it? Who would stab me in the back?
Claire wondered if he disapproved because she failed to rescue the crew or because he hadn’t been there to sink the ship himself.
“Sir, have you ever taken a life in your career?”
He looked hard at her. “Never. I can’t help you deal with this.”
Captain Hall returned to stand behind the desk, putting physical distance between them. “You’ve put me in an uncomfortable position. Maybe I promoted you too fast. I have to consider the behaviour of all of my ship captains. This is no longer just about you. I have others to consider as well. What kind of precedent does this set? By condoning your actions this morning, am I setting a new standard of aggressive action for the other captains to follow?”
He looked down at the open folder on the table for a moment. “Do you know who asked me these questions? The commodore of the Atlantic Fleet. And he was on the phone with his boss. This goes all the way to the CDS.”
Claire couldn’t believe it. The chief of defence staff, the top general in the military, is interested in me?
Hall took a breath and continued, “I’ve been ordered to clean this up before it turns into another scandal for the navy. We’ve had too many of these recently. Remember the officer who passed Five Eyes information to the Russians a few years back? The drunk and disorderly behaviour during a port visit in Virginia? The Protecteur being towed to Hawaii after an engine fire? The commodore wants no more problems.”
“I have my duties on the Kingston. We have patrol duty again tomorrow at seventeen hundred.”
Hall shook his head. “Not anymore. Pending a formal review, you are relieved of command.”
She only heard the final few words. Relieved of command.
Captain Hall shifted his gaze to the email in his hand. He set it on his table and looked again at Claire. “There will be a preliminary investigation with Maritime Command. You will be contacted shortly.”
Claire couldn’t move. Her career was crashing down in slow motion. Short of a court martial, being deprived of command was the worst-case scenario. How did things get so bad? She had walked into the captain’s office full of satisfaction, energy, a sense of personal fulfillment. Now, she was walking out shamed and directionless, her parents’ fingers pointing. Psychologically unreliable.
“Can I get back to my crew?” she said.
“I have ordered them to stand down pending further notice.”
“But —”
“No contact with your crew. That’s an order. Take some time off. We’ll contact you.”
She looked right at him, not at the point on the wall straight ahead. She pleaded with her eyes but he was having none of it. I know I did the right thing out there. I thought you were on my side. Why are you punishing me?
He waved her off. “Dismissed.”
THIRTEEN
GARTH RATTLED IN HIS SEAT as the campaign bus rolled over another snow-covered pothole on Highway 2. The other workers were busy on their phones, their faces tinged blue from the glow. He flipped on his laptop and navigated to the CBC, Global, and CTV websites. Forrestal was the top story of the day. A headline blared: “Business Icon Found Dead in Hotel.” There was a picture of the smiling businessman taken from his company’s website, followed by a short article. Police confirmed foul play. They were investigating and seeking the public’s help to solve the crime. A contact number concluded the piece.
He felt a stupid tear emerge from his right eye, but it was not enough to stop him from opening another browser tab, selecting his offshore bank website, typing in a twenty-six-digit code, and transferring five thousand U.S. dollars to a numbered account in the Cayman Islands, the same one he had sent five thousand to a few weeks earlier. He then sent ten thousand to a new account and forwarded a confirmation message to Birch’s email address, as agreed.
Larch had kept his promise. Garth now had his revenge, his ultimate victory, over the man whose selfish actions had traumatized him for decades. But something was wrong. When playing this scene in his mind, over those many years, Garth thought in the end he might, for some obscure reason, feel sad. He didn’t. At
first he felt the relief that he expected. But it soon faded, replaced by something else, something surprising, something that had been lurking under the surface and only now came into view. Something he hadn’t felt since he was a child.
He was scared.
FOURTEEN
DANIEL RITTER’S SMILING FACE filled the screen of the smartphone. Larch had loaded the image from Ritter’s official university page. He didn’t find much information about the company mentioned in Forrestal’s diary, except that Connaught Land was based in the city of Dartmouth, the troubled cousin of Halifax, according to the news headlines. There was only one D. Ritter in any phone listing. A Google search quickly identified him as a business professor.
The picture provided the final confirmation. Mr. Ritter was indeed the man he had passed in the hallway. No doubt.
Larch realized how closely he’d missed being caught. He had been told to complete his assignment before the 10 a.m. meeting. Opening the door and fooling the security system had been easy. The target had been standing alone, shoulders hunched in grief over a photograph torn into pieces, and then turned to face him, surprised at Larch’s sudden presence by the door. Larch had had his few minutes with his target, enough to do his duty. Only a few moments separated a successful mission from a spectacular failure. Perhaps it would have been cleaner to have killed both of the men from the elevator at the time. He wouldn’t now be forced to track them down. But any trail of evidence tying his work to his client would be unprofessional, and his reputation could suffer a fatal blow.
But there was still time to clean it up. Provided the hotel manager and Ritter did not survive Saturday night, he would be able to complete a successful mission, preserve his reputation, and retrieve the final half of his payment.
True Patriots Page 5
