Daniel’s curiosity shifted into overdrive. Forrestal was famous for “rescuing” high-tech failures and transforming them into winners. Thousands of people owed their livelihoods to his financial wizardry. He demonstrated an uncanny ability to team up with local experts who could master completely unrelated technologies. He had purchased a company that made video display cards for computers, another that developed a vaccine that the World Health Organization hailed as a lifesaver for the Third World, even a Calgary restaurant that had just won its first Michelin star. A few years ago, he had bought a start-up that developed and sold a smartphone application that teenagers around the world used to maintain private chats out of the purview of their governments and their parents. All winners.
But he wasn’t listed as a director with any of these companies.
Why didn’t Forrestal join the boards of companies that he had saved? They would have been grateful and certainly would have offered him a board seat. Or they would have been vulnerable, and he could have just taken a seat. But he hadn’t. Daniel wrote a note on his pad to figure out the answer.
Daniel couldn’t shake a nagging feeling. Who is Patrick Forrestal? He had started his company twelve years ago. That was all Daniel knew so far. He got the distinct impression that Mr. Forrestal had liked to keep his life private. Now he was curious to know why. Private and rich spelled trouble.
A new Google search revealed nothing else of substance about his life. All links returned to his corporation’s bio page. He tried other search engines, with similar results.
Forrestal’s main business wasn’t technology. It was akin to company “first aid”: identify the patient, diagnose the disease, treat the disease, make the patient presentable, and then sell the patient to the highest bidder. This was his formula for business success. And judging from the Google search results, he had done it at least a dozen times over the past decade or so in several countries. A stunning track record of success.
The money to pay for the companies he fixed came from his second business: stock portfolio investments. He had some proprietary combination of stocks on all of the major exchanges around the world. He consistently outperformed the markets by a few percentage points. Even the 2008 financial crisis barely dented his spectacular track record of generating profits. And it was these profits Daniel assumed that he channelled into his company “first aid” business.
Daniel decided to search for news clippings mentioning the man. Being so prominent, he must have been noticed in the media. A Lexis-Nexis query revealed hundreds of articles in the national news. After reading a sample of them, Daniel knew no more about the mysterious Mr. Forrestal than before.
As far as he could tell, Mr. Forrestal sprang into life twelve years ago.
THIRTY-TWO
CLAIRE, DRESSED IN HER SPOTLESS white uniform, with one colourful ribbon over her left breast pocket, stood at attention while three naval captains entered the small room. Beside her stood her appointed defence lawyer, Commander Colin Rowe, whom she had just met. In the hallway earlier, he had counselled her to just tell the panel the truth. He did not expect any sanction. Worst case, maybe a letter in her personnel file. He would fight to keep her captaincy, but he warned her to be prepared for the possibility that it might be her last.
She put on a brave face as the four-stripers sat at the table at the front of the room. Claire and Rowe remained standing at attention until she heard “Please sit.”
“Lieutenant Commander Claire Julie Marcoux, we have reviewed the evidence to determine what, if any, action the navy should take regarding the events of last Monday morning. Recommendations range from nothing to court martial. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There is no one present from your immediate chain of command. This is an external review of the events. We will now begin asking you questions.”
Claire sighed as she resigned herself to a long and tortuous hearing to save her career.
After a long shower, Larch changed into a black jacket, white shirt with a sharp collar, blue jeans, and his brown cowboy boots. Sandrine said that he cleaned up well. He looked whole again. Reporting to his antsy client about his missed opportunity to clean up the mess would wait. His customer didn’t need to know just yet. He would fix it soon anyway.
The night before, he had cleaned the Cadillac and ditched it in a ravine, then caught a cab back to the hotel. He wasn’t worried about being linked to the SUV, as he used a credit card in another name: Walt Kowalski. The home address was in Michigan.
It was time to figure out the situation.
He went to Starbucks to get a coffee and checked what Sandrine was up to. She had left two emails. The first asked when he was coming home. A week was too long. The second said she was going with her friends Monique and Estella to St. Thomas for some snorkelling. It was boring all alone at the villa. He tapped a short reply. Have fun. Back next Wednesday for sure. Almost done. Miss you. It was a short but affectionate answer that gave no hint of what he was doing.
He looked at the coffee mug and realized that he shouldn’t drink so much caffeine. His aim degraded after too many cups.
His cellphone buzzed in his pocket. The number, with its 403 area code, looked familiar. “What’s the situation? Is the problem solved?” Garth didn’t wait for “hello.”
“Almost.”
An uncomfortable silence lasted way too long. “That’s disappointing. What are you doing about it?”
“The target is full of surprises.”
“He’s a bookworm. A professor. How difficult can it be?”
“Are you sure you know his whole background?”
“He did some industry work then went back to school to become a teacher. There’s not much to tell, frankly.”
“I’d say there are some important gaps in that story.”
“A reliable source told me.”
“It’s not the whole story.”
“It’s a reliable source.”
“I need to know everything.”
“What happened?”
“He drives like a madman.”
“So?”
“I had him dead in my sights and he got away. By jumping off a fucking balcony. He just leaped off as if he’d done it many times before. It was a reflexive action for him. Then I had him again, and he drove away. I need to know how he can do that.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll find out.”
“Why are you calling me?” Lloyd seethed. The surprise of Garth directly challenging him had yet to dissipate. His stress level spiked when he saw the Alberta area code on his desk phone display.
“I left you three voice mails this morning. You didn’t reply,” said Garth.
“What’s so important?”
“Are you sure you told me everything about Ritter?”
“Of course.”
“I have information that suggests he’s not who he seems to be.”
“Give me a break. He’s not even a professor. He’s an assistant professor.”
“What’s the difference?”
“He’s junior. Untested.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Since he started here.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A couple of months.”
“What did he do before?”
“Like everyone else, he taught a few courses somewhere else. Did well enough. Now he’s doing it here.”
“And before that?”
“I don’t know. Some industry work. He’s a bit older than our regular professors, but that can be good in a business school. It doesn’t matter anyway. I want to put our project on hold. Without Forrestal, we really don’t need Ritter anymore. Take the money and run, I say. Forget him.”
“It’s too late for that.”
Lloyd took a deep breath and looked at the snowy landscape outside his office window. “What have you done?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. Do you know what he did before he work
ed there? I need to know.”
“Something about consulting.”
“Do you know what he did as a consultant?”
“Not that I remember. I’m sure he told us in his interview. But nothing stands out. I can check his CV. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”
Lloyd replaced the phone, opened a window on his computer, and searched for the CV Daniel had used to apply to the university. He called back.
“Got it,” said Lloyd. “Like I said, he worked for a business consulting company based in Montreal.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Duhamel, McWhirter & Lin. Worked seven years in their Montreal and Beijing offices. Before that, he taught English in Sapporo, Japan, for a year. That’s it.”
“Doesn’t tell me much. What else?”
“He claims to have several years of experience dealing with offshore acquisitions in several countries.”
“Which ones?”
“The States and China. It makes sense, though. Nothing special about that.”
“Tell me about China.”
“It doesn’t say much. He was in Beijing. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why are you asking so many questions? What’s the problem? He’s a junior professor. Nothing to get excited about. I met your guy. Calls himself Larch. He asked a lot of the same questions. Seemed a bit gruff.”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“I’m not. Look, I’ve done my part. We don’t need this deal. Without Forrestal, we don’t have a front man. Let’s just cash out and close up shop.”
Daniel remained quarantined in the hotel room, unable to leave for his own protection, with his new protection officer, Detective Touesnard, looking bored on the sofa. Daniel continued to browse the web on his laptop. He gasped as he scanned the news websites.
The picture was not flattering at all. There he was with Claire on Amoeba Man, who was clearly knocked out. Daniel’s gaze focused on his elbow squishing the man’s face on the sidewalk. He seemed to grimace in a distorted, Tony Blair sort of way, while Claire, looking to the right, appeared freaked out. Their expressions were etched raw, overexposed. The picture had been sold to Canadian Press, who distributed it to all of the national news sites that he checked.
CBC quoted a witness as seeing a man and a woman taunt and attack a man who only wanted to be left in peace. It was unprovoked aggression, they were quoted as saying. The National Post headline blared “Anti-Alberta Aggression.” On the front page of the Toronto Sun: “Strong-arm tactics against democracy.”
People from Vancouver to St. John’s would read that two anti-Alberta protesters, one of whom was a professor named Daniel Ritter, had attacked a bystander. Claire was called the “unidentified woman.” The Canadian Press article said he harboured “radical, left-wing political views” and strongly hinted that those views were what prompted him to attack the bystander. Daniel reeled from the article on his screen as if it were contagious. He felt bile bubbling up, producing an acid taste in his mouth.
He pulled out Claire’s card and dialed her cellphone. She should know about this. When she didn’t answer, he left a message telling her to check the news and call him back.
An image of her face flashed in his mind and he felt transported into another state of anxiety, this time more pleasant. She smiled. She leaned closer, breaking his invisible shield of personal space, where he would only let those closest to him enter. She did it naturally. She began to whisper. And the image dissolved.
He caught his breath and surprised himself by calling again, this time leaving a message asking her out for dinner.
How did the reporters get the story so wrong? Somebody gave the press that innuendo. One name sprang to mind.
In the business school building, which hogged one corner of the campus like an overgrown mushroom, Daniel ran down the hallway, laptop in his left hand, freeing his right to punch the asshole in office 225. Touesnard, running by his side, counselled keeping his cool. He had agreed to this short, supervised visit to campus to get at least one answer, since all other inquiry tracks had so far proved fruitless. Daniel didn’t knock, just swung the door open and walked right in. Touesnard stayed outside, watching the hallway.
“You did this.” He slapped the computer on the desk, opened it, and turned it so Lloyd could see the photo from the CTV Atlantic website. “Why?”
Lloyd moved in slow motion, lifting his glasses off, blinking at least twice, and taking a long look at the picture, exaggerating each reaction. He scowled, looked pensive, and finished his performance by raising both eyebrows in a look of feigned disappointment. He replaced his glasses and spun around in his chair to face his own desktop computer.
“Why are you bothering me?” He started typing, keeping his back to Daniel.
“I saw this on several news sites. My name is there.”
“So?” More typing.
“How would they know?”
“They have reporters. I assume they do research. They’re clever.”
“That research included you?”
The only sound was his typing. Then he spun around to face Daniel. “A reporter called me, asking to confirm your name. What’s the big deal?”
“So the reporter already knew who I was in the picture?”
“Yes. He wanted a confirmation.”
“How did he know?”
“Your TV show? How should I know?”
“And what about this horseshit about me having radical, left-wing political views?”
Lloyd glared directly at him but said nothing. The accusation in his stare was clear. Daniel understood the chasm that divided them. Lloyd’s animosity was no longer limited to affairs of the academic department.
Touesnard wedged the door open, cutting the tension.
“Yes, Detective?” said Daniel, still engaged in a staring showdown with his new nemesis.
“You need to come back to the station for some further questions. We have new information from our colleagues, and we hope you can help us interpret it.”
Lloyd returned to typing on his computer.
Daniel turned to the detective. “This is not finished.”
Daniel looked out of the cruiser window as they pulled away from the campus and onto the road north toward the police station. Why would Lloyd discredit me to the press? Is this no longer just about academic jealousy? He felt angry. Of course, none of this compared to his other problem. The hit man’s still out there, waiting for another chance to kill me. He’s tried twice and failed. He’ll try again.
As they drove back to the main road, Daniel glanced at a solitary man in a Chevrolet sedan, parked just outside the campus limits. But deep in thought, he ignored him.
The clerk emerged in the hallway and beckoned them to return. The hearing had lasted just shy of two hours. The captains had spent a further three hours in closed-door deliberations, and they were now ready to render their verdict. Claire re-entered the room, with Commander Rowe in tow, and saw the official-faced senior officers were avoiding looking at her. She stood at attention and awaited her fate.
She tried to distract herself for a moment so she wouldn’t burst into tears or lunge at the nearest officer in a fit of rage.
“Lieutenant Commander.” The grey-haired captain, seated at the centre of the row of officers on the far side of the table, rose. “We have reviewed the events with your testimony and with that of your direct superior, Captain Hall.” He cleared his throat. “Your actions in the attempted rescue on Sunday were clearly irregular, unorthodox, and even aggressive. However, we commend you. We unanimously agree that you demonstrated the necessary leadership in such a challenging situation.”
Claire wheezed. Her throat felt dry.
“We do not concur with the assessment of the situation anonymously provided by one of your crew members. However, we believe that you clearly lacked the requisite experience to deal with such a complex combat situation. You are ordered
to undergo further training in combat operations.”
She blinked. She could hear the stream of words from the captain, but her brain took a few seconds to process them.
“And you are hereby reassigned as captain of the Kingston with immediate effect. Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander, and well done. Captain Hall will be instructed to accelerate your training at his earliest possible convenience.”
She turned to look at Rowe. Did I hear that right? He didn’t move.
“Dismissed,” the captain said.
She saluted sharply, turned, and marched out of the room with Rowe. I’m back! The joy felt as if it would burst through her chest at any moment.
It was during precious victories like these when she felt loneliest. She needed to talk to someone. No one waited for her in the corridor outside the courtroom. Her parents would find some way to transmit their eternal disappointment at her choice of vocation and lack of partner. Her brother would be no help, no doubt running to some beach and brothel in Thailand to drown his disappointment at not being invited to hockey training camp. So, family was off-limits. And she had no real friends since she’d started her new command.
Then her mind drifted to a surprising image. It was Daniel, picking himself off the sidewalk, about to be pummelled. He was vulnerable, but not. And strong, but not. And when he looked at her, he looked through her. That man, certainly unlike any professor she’d ever met, the one she helped at the demonstration. Daniel. Could she share this one with him?
Rowe stared at her.
Was I staring into space? she wondered. She gave him a brief hug. Yes, it was unprofessional, but she had to share this win with someone.
Any trace of a smile evaporated as she thought of the next step: a meeting with her commanding officer who had ripped away her “home” but would soon be ordered to reinstate her.
THIRTY-THREE
BACK AT THE POLICE STATION for a third time, Daniel felt more comfortable now that he knew he was no longer a suspect. However, he was surprised as he was led once again into an interview room. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head back. Two rows of fluorescent light bars buzzed on the ceiling.
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