The other three customers at the café didn’t talk. They watched the television over the lunch counter where a news presenter sat in Victoria Park, surrounded by an image of the carnage. A large CBC headline read “Terror Attack in Halifax.” Daniel and Claire moved to a table close to the TV so they could hear. He ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, two chocolate dip doughnuts, and another large coffee. The server at the cash noticed their rapt attention and turned up the volume on the television.
… RCMP and Halifax Emergency Response Teams have isolated the scene that, around noon today, tragically turned from a protest march into mayhem and death. Police confirm four p eople were pronounced dead at the scene. The army has been asked to guard critical infrastructure. The Halifax Infirmary has treated thirty-three casualties. They warn that they have implemented their mass casualty protocol and will not accept any Emergency patients for the time being.
Daniel noticed in the video many more police in the background, including several holding automatic weapons. Some soldiers in battle gear milled about. It must have been taken not long after he and Claire had left for the hospital.
“We have political commentator Phil Robertson from Ottawa on the line. Mr. Robertson, how do you respond to today’s event in Halifax?”
A bald, middle-aged man with a bushy moustache protruding from an otherwise unremarkable face stared into the camera. His eyebrows strained to show how serious he was. “It’s a real tragedy. These were people assembled to march in support of the Alberta vote on Monday. We don’t know how many were killed or injured.”
“We just heard that there were four people killed. Are you saying they were deliberately targeted?”
“Clearly, yes. Only a few days earlier there was a counterdemonstration at the exact same place.”
“Are you suggesting there was a connection between the two demonstrations besides one supporting and one against the vote?”
“It seems like the most likely conclusion.”
“A deliberate attack from one group on the other?”
“It was murder. Worse, terrorism. This was a terrorist attack on Canada. They don’t want the referendum to happen. They’re scared about a Yes victory.”
“But why attack Halifax? It’s pretty much the farthest place from Alberta. The march was small, less than a hundred or so. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to stage such an attack in Toronto or even Edmonton, where more people would notice?”
“The target seems obvious. Last night, as you know, the Yes side announced a series of speeches across the country to explain their message to Canadians. The first speech will be delivered tonight at the Scotiabank Centre. There is a lot of media attention. Whoever targeted them knew exactly when to strike. Everyone would be watching.”
“What are you saying?”
“We have to ask ourselves who’d benefit most from a disrupted pro-independence rally?”
Daniel saw his meal waiting on the counter, and he suddenly felt the instinctive urge to eat. He focused on the food, leaving the interview to dissolve into a background of noise. Whatever happened next, he needed to be well fed. His instructor yelled in his memory: How can you fight if you’re too hungry? Eat when you can. The sandwich was gone in four bites. He ordered another.
Claire got a sandwich and a doughnut, stirred her coffee with her good hand, and stared at the carnage on the screen.
Daniel thought that the reporter posed the right question: Who would benefit from bombing a pro-Yes rally? It was a cowardly act. All they had to do was to put a simple bomb in a bag, leave it at the statue in Victoria Park, and push a button. Garth killed his father. And he suspected that he would kill his own supporters just to discredit the No side. He shuddered in repulsion. Can Garth be so cold and heartless?
There was only one way to be sure. It was time to end this. He needed to talk to MacKinnon.
SIXTY-ONE
GARTH WAS MASTER OF the cameras that stood before him. The crowd numbered fifty or so Yes supporters, who dreamed of their own separate Acadia, either as a country or as a New England state. Not bad for a sympathetic audience so far from home.
The premier wanted him to clean the mess up. And he was doing it. Supporters had sent the word out. Many now openly accused the No campaign of using or at least tolerating terrorism to achieve their political goals. And with the last witness out of the picture, Larch had redeemed himself. The plan, his plan, was working. He felt good. He had persevered and won. Now it was time to close the deal, first here on the East Coast, then moving west to Quebec, Ontario, the Prairies, and finally British Columbia. He would speak to each part of the country in one final twenty-four-hour publicity blitz.
Of course, the police and the army had cancelled the rally due to the bombing at the park. So now he stood, proud, defiant, on a small elevated stage in the lobby of the Westin Hotel. He was surrounded by a charged phalanx of television cameras and reporters thrusting their microphones in his face, jostling for the best location to capture the important words he was about to say. Two soldiers stood outside the main entrance while two uniformed police officers milled about keeping an eye on a few dozen supporters and hotel guests.
He unfurled his notes onto the small podium and said nothing for a few seconds. He could still get his message out.
“Thank you, Halifax. Thank you for a warm and friendly East Coast welcome. I must first say that I was shocked to hear about the cowardly attack earlier today. Such evil has no place in our society.”
He rustled his notes on the podium.
“Nova Scotia, I have come to you with a simple message.” He raised his right hand. He did his best to look earnest. “Do not be afraid. Embrace your destiny, and help us as we make Canada what it should be. Tomorrow will be the start of something wonderful, and I want to tell you about it.”
The reporters followed every word. He felt the cameras closing up on his face. He continued, “We want to make our own choices. Don’t you want to make Nova Scotia the best place it can be? Control your fisheries? Natural resources? Economic policy? Control your borders to keep undesirables out? Well, so do we.”
He took a gulp of water from the plastic bottle on the podium. “And who knows better than those closest to you, the citizens? You know what you want. You know what’s important. You know better than a bureaucrat in Ottawa.
“Did you know that you’re sitting on one of the world’s true bounties? You know about your forests already. You’ve got fisheries. You’ve got oil and natural gas in the Gulf, and you’re a world leader in tidal power, too.
“But who really benefits? It’s not you. It’s people in Toronto. People who have profited from the gravy train for a generation. Now they cry for your help. You’ve got it too good, they say. So Ottawa penalizes you.
“This is what we in Alberta have suffered for too long. We just want to be able to make our own decisions. We love our kids. We love our families. Just like you. We want a say in what kind of schools to send our kids to and which companies to help.
“You can do this, too.
“We can help you. Once Alberta controls its own destiny, we will be very happy to tell you all that we’ve learned.”
Another gulp of water. “You’ve no doubt heard the cries of those on the No side.”
Shouts of “Terrorists!” and boos emanated from people gathered in the hotel lobby behind the clutch of reporters.
He waved his hand to calm them. “They mean well, but they don’t understand. They’re not evil, just naive. And they’re desperate. Desperate people do desperate things. I won’t say that they were behind the bombing this morning. I have full confidence in the police to identify and prosecute those responsible. But clearly only desperate people would do this. Desperate to stop the will of a people when they couldn’t otherwise win through the logic and passion of their arguments. When their tired pleas fail to convince the people, some turn to more extreme measures. They mean to hurt you. To kill your family, your friends, your children to
get what they want. No matter what the cost.
“We’re not like that. We’re like you.”
He looked directly into the nearest camera. “So, tomorrow night, when the referendum results are decided and we, the people, win, please join us.”
The clapping from beyond the reporter group started even before he had finished his last line. He looked down and checked his cellphone. Larch had just sent a message: Need to talk.
Now came the hard part. He had to take a few questions from the reporters; most, if not all, were hostile to his party’s goal. He had known what to do. Stretch out his planned speech as long as possible, squeeze the Q&A to a few minutes, and scoot out of the building before the crazies started ranting.
“I will now take a few questions.” He pointed to the two microphones, where a short line had already formed. A woman in her thirties, professionally dressed in a dark jacket and skirt, and holding a notepad and her own microphone, approached first. Garth nodded.
“Sarah Glenn. Global News. Mr. Haynes. Can you comment on the bombing this morning? Are you saying it was the No side who did this?”
Garth smiled. She looked hot. Maybe after the speech … But no, he had things he needed to do.
“It was a cowardly act of cowardly people. I send our deepest condolences to those families affected. I have heard that at least ten people have been killed and dozens injured. This is the worst act of terrorism in this country since the Air India bombing. The worst in a generation. There are really no words that can express how I truly feel. It was just cowardly.” He looked pointedly at one of the television cameras set up low and directly in front of him. “I say to all Albertans that voting Yes means voting for a renewed Confederation, a new Alberta, where terrorists and their sympathizers will never get power. They will be punished for their heinous crimes.”
The supporters in the foyer clapped as loud as they could.
His phone vibrated. Another text message from Larch: I’m next.
What does that mean? He swung to face another hand held higher than the others. A man stood at the microphone, leaning heavily on his right foot.
“Mr. Haynes. You’re a coward.”
He tightened his focus on the man he didn’t recognize. His right hand and head were bandaged, his hair dishevelled.
Garth squinted beyond the camera lights. “Am I?”
Daniel’s world tilted a bit to the left. He heard ringing in his right ear and every sound was muffled. His whole body jittered, barely holding itself together. Two Advil and his head still throbbed. Standing sucked up most of his energy. Symptoms of a concussion? He kept going.
“Who do you think is responsible for the bombing?”
“Which news service do you represent?” Garth looked beyond the cameras.
“I’m a private citizen.”
“Well, I don’t know who is responsible, but I have faith in the police to find out.”
“I’m surprised you don’t know.”
Garth pasted on his professional politician’s smile, looking deeper into the crowd of reporters for another question to answer.
Daniel didn’t stop. “You’ve managed two campaigns. One that everyone can see, but there is also a second one, one that has remained very much below everyone’s radar.”
“Thank you for your comment, but the gentleman in the back, you have a question —”
“I’m almost done. We’ve,” he said, pointing to Claire, “been caught up in your second, secret campaign. By accident, of course.”
Garth tried to encourage another question, but Daniel pressed on. “The bombing was just the final act of your second campaign.”
Garth glared at him. “That’s a serious charge. I had nothing to do with it. Nothing whatsoever.”
The crowd in the foyer turned against Daniel. They didn’t believe him. They lobbed shouts of “loser,” “must be a sympathizer for the No side,” and “wacko” at him. But he pressed on.
“Your bomb missed me, Garth. As you can see.” Daniel held up his bandaged hand for the crowd to see. “You got very close, but you or your lackey set the timer too early.”
“Probably a No sympathizer,” said a voice from the crowd.
“You’ve left quite a trail of destruction trying to stop me. I think you’ve killed at least six people according to my count.”
Garth began to panic. He looked left, looked right. He was under the glare of the media spotlight, broadcast live, and this was another ambush. How does this person know so much? Shadows moved at both edges of his vision.
The man stood closer to the microphone so every word, every breath, every gulp boomed throughout the room.
Garth ignored him and scanned for someone else to ask a question.
“You still don’t know who I am? Here, let me help you.” The man punched a few keys on a cellphone.
Garth read the text message. The police are waiting for you.
“How did you get that?” he barked.
The man held high the cellphone. “It belonged to your assassin. I believe you called him Larch.”
Garth stared at it, his mouth open in disbelief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You hired a professional hit man to hunt me down like an animal. He got close. Tried twice. But then he got sloppy.” Daniel stared directly into Garth’s eyes. “Your man is no longer on the job.”
Impossible. It can’t be him. Larch confirmed that Ritter was dead. “You,” Garth spit the word out like venom. “You’re Ritter?”
“Full points.” Daniel would have clapped if his right arm weren’t wrapped in a bandage. “I’m sure Professor Fanshawe told you about me. He won’t be joining you either.”
Daniel was beginning to enjoy himself, even though his head throbbed with each word. “But these are only small parts of a much bigger plan. Your plan. At first, I didn’t see it at all. I thought it was a murder of a famous businessman. Patrick Forrestal.” The rising crowd murmur made him pause. “And I happened to be near when it happened. And I wasn’t the only one. That’s where your Mr. Larch came in. You hired him to kill Forrestal, and when you worried about being tied to the murder, you ordered him to kill me and the only other potential witness, the hotel manager.”
Daniel looked around. A hush had descended on the crowd. Even the political cheerleaders, scattered throughout the hall, had quieted. All cameras pointed at him.
“Of course, there was much more going on. I didn’t see it. But others did.” He gestured to Claire, still propping him up by the arm. “Together, we busted your weapon smuggling ring. Biker gangs and members of your old right-wing group, the Alberta Independence Movement, doing your dirty work. Does the premier know about this?”
Garth said nothing.
Daniel pushed on. “And those weapons were military grade. What, for your personal army? Do Albertans know this?”
“We have heard of these perhaps overeager patriots. We do not condone these actions. An independent Alberta —”
“They reported to you. They took orders from you, just like Mr. Larch.” Daniel held the cellphone high again. “It was you who coordinated all of this. From this phone.” He waved his good arm toward the crowd and the cameras. “And you took revenge on the man who hurt you most. Your father.”
Scattered gasps emerged from the crowd.
“Patrick Forrestal was your father. He abandoned you when you were a child, changed his name to hide his crimes. And you killed him for it.” Daniel took a deep breath. “What kind of country would Alberta be under people like you? You murdered your father for revenge. Why go after me? I’m nobody to you.”
“You were supposed to be easy to deal with.”
“This is how you’d treat the little people in your little Albertan … Jonestown?”
Garth bolted to the left, followed by his two-man security detail.
No fucking way he’s going to get away this time, thought Daniel. He turned to see the two police officers give chase. MacKinnon wo
uld be on the hunt, too. But with his bum leg and a chest burning with each breath, Daniel couldn’t chase him. Claire shot him a quick look saying I’ll be right back and then dashed off, too.
The podium stood empty, the reporters’ energy unfocused. The same one who’d asked questions earlier thrust a microphone in Daniel’s face. “Sarah Glenn. Global News. Those were serious accusations. Mr. Ritter, is it?”
“Daniel.”
“And what is your relationship to Mr. Haynes?”
He didn’t know how to respond. “Our paths crossed.” He felt his grip tighten on the microphone stand. “I got caught up in Mr. Haynes’s plans. With the help of the police, we were able to stop him.” He looked for Claire at the far end of the lobby, without success.
A CBC reporter shoved a mike above the Global one. “What plans?”
Daniel gulped and stared into the nearest camera. He knew his words would capture for eternity every nuance, every hesitation. He had to make a clear message directly to the people of Alberta. They had to know the truth. “Tomorrow, Albertans are about to decide on whether or not to become an independent country. They need to know some important facts before they vote. Until a few days ago, I was a regular person with a regular life. And then I got in the way of Mr. Haynes’s plan. He wanted to build an army in secret. And he killed anyone who got in his way. Mr. Premier, did you know about this?”
In spite of the pain, Daniel felt himself stand straighter under the spotlights.
Someone in the foyer shouted, “Sounds like a lefty conspiracy to me.”
True Patriots Page 24
