“I’ve arranged for two more shipments from the same source. They should be leaving tomorrow. I don’t want them touched.”
“This better be worth it.”
Garth repeated his orders. “I don’t want them touched. You make sure that no one messes with them. Got it?”
“I’m not some little shit you can spit on. I’ve been doing this for thirty years. You promised me my country. You better deliver. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Garth did need him. He was a high-ranking military officer who had arranged the shipment’s free passage from Boston. Garth backed off. “You’re right. You’re right. We’re getting close to the big finish here, and this is the time when I need you more than ever. Your country is counting on you.”
He heard a faint sigh. “I’ll need details of the ships and the routes.”
“I’ll have them sent directly to you shortly. Remember, this has to work. If we fail, we’re both screwed. No country and no future. For you or for me.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
BACK AT THE POLICE STATION, Daniel was seated in front of MacKinnon’s desk again. He patted his shirt pocket that still held Claire’s card, debating whether he should call her up later. But more pressing matters demanded his attention.
He didn’t know how to take the news of the hotel manager’s sudden death, the only other possible witness to Forrestal’s murder. He was an arrogant SOB, but he didn’t deserve to die. “What happened?”
“Shot.” Perry spoke with no emotion.
“A professional hit,” said MacKinnon.
“Like Forrestal?” said Daniel.
MacKinnon nodded. “Apparently. We believe that there may be a threat to your life.”
Daniel cleared his suddenly dry throat. “Somebody wants me dead?”
“Looks like it.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
Perry said, “More of a case of fear of what you saw or heard. Someone doesn’t want any witnesses.”
“With the manager out of the way, you’re the last one,” MacKinnon added.
Yesterday, I was just an anonymous person with enough troubles of my own.
“So what now?”
MacKinnon looked right at Daniel. “Constable Perry here will keep an eye on you.”
And today I have police protection.
Perry tilted his head in the faintest of nods and added, “We have the video capture and your description of the suspect, although it’s not much to go on, frankly. If he’s the professional that we think he is, he probably can disguise himself.”
“We have a BOLO out on him,” said MacKinnon.
Perry said, “But it’ll be difficult to find him. Whoever he is, he’s good at keeping a low profile.”
MacKinnon continued, “Perry will accompany you back home and stay outside for the night. And we’ll track your cellphone.”
Perry handed him a business card with a cellphone number on it. “If you need anything, just call me. I’ll be right outside.” Daniel wasted no time in programming it into his own phone.
“Great.” Daniel stared at the card in his hand. Would Perry be enough protection from an adversary who seemed more resourceful every day? Would Daniel be forced to deal with it himself?
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to Daniel’s apartment building on Tower Road. Perry raised his hand, signalling to Daniel to wait in the cruiser. Perry slid out of the car, looked all the way around, slowly scanning, and nodded. Daniel emerged from the cruiser into the flat light of the late afternoon, nervous about being the prey this time. The hotel manager had had no protection, and he was now dead. Perry’s presence, or perhaps the pistol at his hip, was only modestly reassuring.
Perry said, “Move fast.”
Daniel walked quickly to the door, opened it with his key, then strode into the waiting elevator. On the fourth floor, he and Perry proceeded to the door marked 409. Perry took the key, right hand on his weapon, opened the door, and disappeared into the apartment. A moment later, looking more relaxed, he allowed Daniel in.
“All clear in there. I’ll be in the cruiser all night. Don’t go out unless you tell me first. Remember, call me first.”
Daniel said, “Can I order a pizza? I’m starving.”
“Yes, but I’ll meet the delivery guy.” Perry leaned in a bit. “Whatever you do, don’t answer the door unless you know it’s me.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious. Do not open the door.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
LARCH PARKED HIS BLACK CADILLAC SRX across the street from a five-storey apartment building that looked clean and modern, but also like it wanted to proclaim something grander than it was. Gratings in front of each window simulated balconies that the residents no doubt wished they had. The lobby sprouted a waterfall along the right wall, but it wasn’t working. Through the ground floor window, a basement gym sat with two unused treadmills and a set of weights that probably had yet to feel any real sweat.
Surrounded by a gaggle of cloned buildings, it was a modest place to live. Car traffic was light, but the sidewalks were packed with students. A couple in their early twenties walked toward the building. The man was tall, moustached, with dark tousled hair, wearing jeans and a jean jacket, heaving a case of Alexander Keith’s. She was a foot shorter, brunette, in a black sweater and black jeans. They giggled as they opened the door and continued to the elevator.
They weren’t who he was waiting for.
Larch was a patient hunter. He had already heard the consequences of the first part of his plan from the park a few blocks away, with police converging to deal with trouble at the pro-No rally. His client would be pleased with the headlines sure to appear. His left hand dangled out the window. He held a Marlboro, which leaked a thin stream of smoke. Two empty Coke cans lay sideways at his feet, a scrunched Subway wrapper sat on the empty passenger seat. He looked through a pair of Celestron 7x50 binoculars at the second window from the left on the fourth floor. He didn’t react as a solo police car drove by. He knew that Ritter was on his way home from campus. The cellphone sniffer, locked onto Daniel’s number, remained silent on the passenger seat; he had made only one call so far today.
Birch had supplied him with a few details about the target’s life. But it wasn’t much. The absence of info was something that gnawed at Larch. Ritter had been a professor for only a few months, according to Birch. But what did he do before? There was little trace of him. A Google search revealed only that he had worked for a business-consulting firm in Montreal. He found a short newspaper clip that mentioned someone with at least the same first and last name involved in a minor traffic accident. In Hong Kong. What did Mr. Ritter do then? Why hide it?
Larch would have liked to have had answers to these questions, but he didn’t need them. What he needed to do was focus on the present, on getting the job done. Now was all that mattered.
He was expecting to see Ritter walk up to the building, since his source had told him that the professor usually walked between his home and the university; however, today his target didn’t. He arrived in a police cruiser.
The cop got out first to check out the scene. Then, Ritter appeared and ran a few steps along the far sidewalk, collar up on his winter jacket, and chin tucked in against the cold. He carried a plastic bag in one hand, a dark backpack in the other. The policeman followed closely. A minute later, Larch saw the light flick on inside Ritter’s apartment. The cop soon returned to his cruiser and waited there, about thirty metres from the main entrance to the building.
The fact that Ritter now had police protection meant that it was going to be more difficult to deal with him. It was time to tie up this loose end fast.
He slipped out of the car, backpack in hand, and walked directly across the street, a block behind the cruiser. He pivoted on the sidewalk and approached slowly, trying to appear as casual as possible. Two young women walked into the lobby just before him. One of the women, the taller blond one, apologized
for not holding the door open for him. He muttered something meant to be unremarkable. He waited until the shorter woman with a black toque pushed 4. He pushed the floor above.
In the awkward silence between floors, one woman’s cellphone chirped. She didn’t answer it. After he got out on the fifth floor, he took the stairs back to the fourth and slowly opened the door into the hallway. It was empty. He walked along the corridor, noticing which doors had light leaking from under them and which did not.
Light spilled along the floor from room 409. He banged on the door twice. No answer from 409. He must be in there, he thought.
Ritter’s door didn’t open, but then a man appeared behind him, holding a pizza in one hand.
TWENTY-NINE
“AT EASE, CAPTAIN,” said the man seated in the leather chair. Commodore John Miller, head of Maritime Fleet Atlantic. Captain Hall remained stiff and upright in front of his boss; he assumed the proper stance by clasping his hands behind his back. Hall did not appreciate being summoned because of the actions of one of his ship commanders. To focus his energy, he mentally reviewed his career: twenty-six years in the navy, a full captain, and responsible for a sizeable part of the Atlantic Fleet, with three thousand under his command. Not bad for a dorky kid from North Preston.
The commodore held a slim report, flapping it in the air as he spoke. “I want to know more about what happened with the Kingston out there. Your report says it was a rescue gone bad.”
“Yes, sir. She answered a distress call. The vessel fired on the rescue chopper from Greenwood and then threatened the Kingston. The Kingston’s captain did what she had to do to protect her ship.”
“Yes, Captain, that’s what I read in your report. But I’m concerned.”
“About what?”
“Overreaction. It was her first tour of duty as captain without oversight.” He leaned closer. “You promoted her too fast, did you not?”
Hall nodded. “I’ve relieved her of duty pending a board of inquiry.”
“Was she caught by surprise?”
Hall took a moment before answering. “No one, even with experience, would have expected a ship in distress in sea state 7, a full gale, to resist being rescued.”
“Sounds like we need some practice out there, Captain.”
“Sir?”
“One of your captains sinks a ship instead of rescuing it, and you’re not worried about crew effectiveness?”
“The crews are well trained and ready for any contingency.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I think it’s time to see what they can do. I want them all out at sea by tomorrow night, ready to engage in a surprise warfare exercise.”
“Where, sir?”
“Grand Banks.” Two hundred kilometres off the coast of Newfoundland. “What’s available?”
Hall knew his fleet. “Three frigates, sir. The Ville de Québec, the Charlottetown, and the Montréal.”
“Any coastal patrol vessels?”
“They’re either in the Caribbean on drug interdiction duty with the U.S. Coast Guard or in dry dock for repairs.”
“And the Kingston?” Miller pressed.
“Off duty, pending the results of the formal review.”
“Very well. As soon as the review is complete, I want the Kingston to join the exercise.”
Hall replied only after a noticeable moment of silence. “Aye aye, sir.” It sounded half-hearted.
Miller began to turn away from Hall, then he stopped and faced his subordinate. “You have concerns, Captain?”
“That would leave us with no assets covering the American border.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Our southern flank would be exposed. We’d have no ability to support the Coast Guard or Border Services.”
“We’re not at war. CBSA can cover it. I’m more worried about undertrained ship captains who are caught by surprise and overreact during a crisis situation. Lives could be at stake. I have personally vouched for the fleet to the minister on this.”
Hall knew the discussion was over. The commodore wasn’t much for chitchat.
Walking back to his office in the adjoining building, something gnawed at Hall. The commodore expressed a valid concern, but Hall wondered about the exposed southern flank. With no navy ships available for rapid deployment, either in Halifax or steaming anywhere near Nova Scotia or New Brunswick, the Canadian Border Services Agency’s patrol craft — oversized dinghies really — would be severely stretched to monitor and protect from a wide range of threats from the south. He remembered what CBSA had said earlier: the ship that the Kingston sunk likely had been smuggling drugs. The commodore must have faith in the CBSA, otherwise it felt like an open invitation for anyone to come on in.
THIRTY
DANIEL IGNORED THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR. Perry had told him to. Probably someone with the wrong apartment number. He was hoping it might have been the pizza guy, but he hadn’t arrived yet. And Perry would have come with him or at least called to say he was on his way. He left another voice mail for Vanessa, explaining that he would miss his flight back to Montreal.
He heard the muffled conversation in the hallway behind his locked door. My neighbour Rachel on another date? he wondered. But the tone of the conversation seemed strained. Maybe she hadn’t chosen well again. Maybe he should see how she was doing. She had a bad record when it came to choosing men: they didn’t usually last more than a couple of dates before she tossed them, or they hit her. It really wasn’t his business, and he was no expert in sustainable relationships.
They had met often in the elevator, and they had developed the relationship one does in the same apartment building. Friendly, but you didn’t want to know too much about the other person. She was pretty, but she wasn’t his type — a Pandora’s box of trouble, for sure. He sensed that he wasn’t her type either. He didn’t want to reveal too much anyway.
Maybe a short, simple intervention would help this time.
But Perry had told him not to open the door.
He peered through the peephole in the door and saw a short man with his pizza arguing with another man. No Rachel anywhere. The delivery guy took a step back from the door and knocked. The other man had his back turned, so Daniel couldn’t see his face.
He picked up his cellphone and pushed redial. Perry answered.
“Pizza’s finally here.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. Wait until I get there.”
“I’ll be there in a sec,” Daniel said through the door. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial since his interrogations with MacKinnon. He peered again through the peephole and saw the other man walk toward the elevator at the far end of the hallway.
Free and clear, Daniel’s stomach took over his decision-making process. He creaked open the door until it left just enough room to pass a pizza through, careful to stop the door with his foot. “How much?”
“Twelve bucks.”
Daniel reached into his pocket and handed over a twenty. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.”
Daniel grabbed the box. Over the delivery guy’s shoulder, Daniel saw the other man turn suddenly and walk briskly toward him. The man pulled the pizza guy out of the way, slammed him against the wall, and punched him in the stomach. The pizza guy slumped over, dropped to his knees, whining in agony.
The image of the man in the hotel hallway, humming the tune, suddenly flashed in Daniel’s mind. The toque on the head, the black coat.
He was the killer from the hotel.
Not a word was said. The man pulled out a pistol from his right pocket.
Daniel pivoted and pulled back into his room, dropping the pizza on the hallway floor, slamming the door shut, and locking it. He swerved around the bag on the chair, grabbed his coat, and slid open the door to the balcony. The front door shuddered with a loud whoomp. And then another. And another, until the bolt gave way under the massive stress of someone kicking the door down.
He rammed open the glas
s window, hopped over the faux balcony railing, and swung over to the one below, just as he felt a bullet whiz to his right. He heard a ping along the wall of the adjacent building, followed by the sound of gravel hitting the pavement below. Adrenalin drove him forward.
Daniel swung down to the next balcony, and the next, until he slammed onto the gravel of the driveway. He ran to Perry’s car waiting outside on the street, but another bullet whizzing by his head forced him toward the back of the building. Where’s Perry?
He ran to his own car in the crumbling parking lot. The decaying yellow Hyundai hatchback hadn’t fared well in its half-dozen or so Atlantic winters, in spite of what the used-car salesman had bragged. The door opened with a creak. The lock didn’t work anymore, but then again, there was no point in locking it now. He jammed the key into the ignition and twisted it into life. It complied with a reluctant wheeze from the engine. He jammed the manual stickshift into reverse, and the car screeched back from its parking spot. After a desperate three-point turn in the confined space between parked cars, he squealed onto Tower Road.
Daniel scanned for any pursuing car, but the street was quiet, the snow muffling any sound. A few dark shapes were scattered along both sides of the street. He spun the car left. The back wheels slid on the snow until he corrected the steering and sped the two blocks to the end of the street.
The police cruiser was still there. But there was no sign of Perry. He took another left along South Street.
Where the fuck is Perry? Probably in the elevator on the way up. He shook the questions away and focused on the single priority: to get maximum distance between him and the shooter, no doubt Forrestal’s killer. He had to get back to the police station.
Traffic out of the city was bumper to bumper at eight in the evening. The remnants of the party after the demonstration around Victoria Park didn’t help. Daniel only got a few blocks from his apartment before he became glued in a traffic jam. A long line of red brake lights streamed into the blackness ahead.
True Patriots Page 10
