Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  “What’s that?” Vertesi asked.

  “Special Forces learned a lot from the Taliban. The best of them could build an IED faster than the insurgents.” He looked up at MacNeice. “I think that lane is mined, booby- trapped, tripwired . . . If he’s really good, he can make it blow with the flick of a switch inside the house.” Maracle circled the infield to the left of the driveway. “And going through there might get really ugly too.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Montile.

  “Affirmative. Manserra, or whoever he is, probably doesn’t have an off switch. His on switch is on all the time.”

  “So you think we should go in heavy, with Tactical?”

  “Heavy, light . . . That might not matter much to him.” Maracle released the toggle. “In a way he’s become the thing he hunted. He thinks like a Taliban.”

  “You mean he’s not afraid of dying?” Williams asked.

  Aziz looked up from her notebook. “Whatever his mission is, he believes it’s glorious. And after he completes it, I think he expects a glorious death. Let that be a warning to cops who want to go home to their families at night.”

  “What are the chances of an airstrike?” It was hard to know if Williams was serious. A second later, the sound of a large hand hitting metal resounded through the cubicle, followed by Swetsky yelling, “Fuckin’ A!” Arms spread wide, his jaw locked in triumphant determination, Swetsky pointed to the computer on Ryan’s desk. “Get that thing ready, son. You’ve got mail.” He crossed his arms and stood above Ryan as he opened the Falcon’s email screen.

  “Our ship is about to come in, and you won’t want to miss it.”

  Click, click, click. Ryan tapped Enter and moved out of the way as best he could. An image began to appear from the top down. Hills, a sand-coloured Light Armoured Vehicle — “LAV III,” Maracle said. There were four men, all with camouflaged helmets and beige scarves wrapped loosely around their necks. They wore packed-out tactical vests, bug-eyed sunglasses, camo gloves, and smiles.

  Everyone in the cubicle recognized the wide mouth and tight smile. “That’s V. That’s him!” Williams shouted.

  “Wait for it.” Swetsky put his hand up as if he were stopping a kid from crossing the road.

  Each man was carrying an assault rifle with a laser sight. They appeared to be going out on patrol, or possibly just returning. If it was the former, their smiles suggested they were keen to mix it up with the Taliban. And if they were returning, those might be smiles of relief, but MacNeice doubted that was true. They looked like men who enjoyed combat. Each had a side arm strapped low on the thigh. MacNeice leaned in to see if a name was stitched on the Kevlar vest.

  “No need, Mac, we got a caption,” Swetsky said. “Just wait, it gets better.”

  A second image followed, with a slow reveal of the Canadian flag. “Official portrait,” said Maracle.

  Head like a block, extremely close-cut hair, and a clean-shaven chin. No smile. He was gritting his teeth, forcing the tendons that supported his jaw to make a beeline for his cheekbones. “Richard Carlos Venganza, master sergeant, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. Twenty-nine years old in 2010; that makes him thirty-seven now.”

  MacNeice looked more closely at the image. “Charlie, what are those decorations on his chest?”

  Ryan enlarged the image for Maracle. “Campaign ribbons, sir. Every soldier who was in Afghanistan got one of those. But these three are the Medal of Bravery, the Star of Military Valour, and an oak leaf, which signifies ‘mentioned in dispatches.’ Those three are impressive. If this guy walked into a Legion Hall wearing these on his chest, people would either get out of his way or buy him a round.”

  “Ryan, amend that alert or send out an update with his portrait and name.”

  Swetsky glanced down at his notebook. “He enlisted in Montreal in January 2000 and was honourably discharged in October 2013 — not from the PPCLI but from CSIS.” All heads turned his way. “Yep, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. He was seconded to be an operative. My source says we won’t get anything more than that, though he told me on the sly to approach with extreme caution.”

  “A spy and a super-killer. Can this guy get any scarier?” Williams asked.

  Swetsky turned to Ryan and asked him to scroll back to the group photo. “Okay” — pointing with his ball-point — “we’ve got Venganza here on the left. Next to him is Patrick Manserra, and next to him is David Muller. The guy on the right is Master Corporal Steven Wozinsky, a local boy from Dundurn. He left the service, and he’s the only one in that photo other than Venganza who’s still alive — but even that’s a maybe. Veterans Affairs doesn’t know where he is, and neither does his mother. Since 2015 his cheques have all been returned to sender. They’re probably piling up in Ottawa somewhere waiting for him to surface. And he hasn’t had a job or a visit to a doctor under his own name.”

  The phone rang. Ryan picked it up and looked over at MacNeice. “Sir, I’ve got an Audrey on the line. No last name.”

  “MacNeice.”

  “Your DC has asked me to check on you, MacNeice. If you’re available now, come and see me.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It is to him.”

  “I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “Precisely why he wants us to meet. If you’d prefer, I’ll tell him that —”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Ryan waited for him to hand back the phone. “Sir, before you go, here are the keys to your new car. I’ve loaded in all your gear. It’s a light blue one this time. Sazabuchi says your radiophone will be installed tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Stepping out into the parking lot, MacNeice could feel his heart racing. His breathing was shallow and he had to force himself to inhale deeply. Pushing the button on the key fob, he listened for a responding beep. He found his new car parked along the treeline, but he was too distracted to look for the cardinals.

  You’re frightened, aren’t you.

  “A bit. More than a bit.”

  Why this time?

  “I’m not sure. Too many loose ends? We’re going on the offensive but it feels like defence.”

  That sounds like a smart strategy to me.

  “It’s not, my love. Montile is my best barometer. He’s as courageous as any cop I’ve known. When his spider sense gets triggered, I need to pay attention.”

  But the others?

  “We all have that sense. He’s just the first to express it. Those twitches can save lives.”

  What makes this one different from the rest?

  “The man we’re hunting hunted and killed men as a profession. We’re office detectives grinding through our days chasing leads, gathering evidence, conducting interviews. While we’ve been honing our intuition, he’s been learning better ways to kill. It’s something he does without hesitation.”

  It sounds like you’re going to war.

  “We’re being drawn into one. The tactical team pretty much guarantees it. I just want to talk to the man.”

  * * *

  The sheers in Dr. Sumner’s office were billowing, lifted by a sighing breeze. Perhaps it was unintended, but the motion encouraged him to breathe gently. By the time she’d entered the room and handed him a glass of water, his jangly anxiety had subsided.

  He drank and set the glass down on a coaster, aware that she was watching him, aware too of how calm she seemed.

  “Do you know why DC Wallace wanted you to visit, MacNeice?”

  Other than thinking he didn’t have time to be sitting in her office, he was more relaxed than he’d been all day. He was enjoying the calm, knowing that an earth-eating storm was on the way. That was it. “Maybe he wanted to make sure my head was on straight.”

  She smiled but said nothing.

  “The pace of events is being dictated b
y this suspect, and so far we’ve been several steps behind. It’s moving exponentially now.”

  She might have asked what he most feared — losing Venganza or catching up to him. That would have been difficult to answer. For several cases now, it seemed to MacNeice that there was always a combat-seasoned suspect somewhere in the mix. With street thugs, even those who qualified as hitmen, there was an unwritten playbook shared by them and the cops. Stealth and sophistication in killing weren’t the issue. It was hit-and-run, followed by the chase. In that scenario, the betting money favoured those who chased — that is, if time wasn’t a factor.

  “Well, for my part, Detective, I ask myself how I can help.”

  “I hope you have an answer.”

  “I think I might.” She opened his file, which was thicker than the last time he’d seen it on her desk. “I’ve been reading through my session notes —” Sumner changed her mind and closed the file so suddenly it startled him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to be so dramatic. What I’d like to know is, what does Kate say?”

  MacNeice sat up in his chair. He struggled for a moment to remember what he’d told her about Kate. His conversations with her were private and personal, even sacred. Now he could feel the lump behind his ear throbbing.

  She smiled. “In your own way you’ve been sharing this with her, consulting with her, no?”

  “Yes. But Kate abhorred violence, so I spare her the details . . . to protect her.”

  “And does it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kate’s dead, MacNeice. Her death had nothing to do with your work. There’s no earthly reason to shield her from it now.”

  The air suddenly left his body as if it had been punched out of him. He took several short breaths to get it back, but inside he was panicking.

  “You see, though she’s dead, Kate is still your intimate partner, someone with whom you can share everything.”

  He still couldn’t speak, but he nodded like the toy beagle in the rear window of his father’s car — slowly, continuously, pointlessly. He wanted to say that it would spoil their relationship, but he knew that would sound ridiculous.

  “You still want to protect her . . .”

  “Yes . . . yes, I do.” He swallowed hard and choked back tears, worried that he was about to come unstuck.

  “But you can’t, you see. Kate died. She may be ‘alive’ and available to you now almost as a way of making up for that.”

  He pinched his eyes, wiping away the tears that were now falling on his pant leg. “I can’t go there now, Doctor. Honestly, I can’t talk about that.”

  “You don’t have to, MacNeice. Just consider it. I think what troubles you about this man and the power he has over you is the need you have to protect your people, because you weren’t able to protect her. You’re terrified that this time you may not be able to.”

  A raw truth delivered like a weather report has the potential to open doors that may be impossible to close. MacNeice shook his head, not wanting to hear any more.

  “And yet you continue to protect her from the truth, just as you would have when she was alive. Perhaps now, however, it’s time to let her protect you. Tell her precisely what you’re afraid of, and ask for her help.”

  It was clear that Sumner had reviewed the notes from their sessions and linked his relationship with Kate to his decisions as a detective. Events that had occurred or actions that were about to occur were filtered through his conversations with Kate. They allowed him to function. But in the absence of full disclosure, they couldn’t be completely effective. It was perfect — and painful.

  MacNeice’s cellphone rang. He apologized but said he had to take the call. He quickly stepped out of the office. “MacNeice.”

  “Hello, Detective. It’s Agnes Gagnon at Le Hibou. He’s here now. They’re just starting their boeuf bourguignon.”

  “They?”

  “He’s with a woman, a Parisienne. Jean-Marc spoke to her. Apparently she runs a gallery on the Left Bank. Jean-Marc knows it, and he said it’s infamous. I asked if he meant famous, but he meant what he said.”

  “I’m on my way. If possible, find out the make and model and plate number of the vehicle he’s driving. Where is he sitting in the restaurant?”

  “They’re in a booth at the end of the bar. He’s wearing a baseball cap and aviator glasses. We’re quite busy, Detective. Promise me there won’t be any violence.”

  “There won’t be. Save me two seats at the bar, as far from him as possible. Out of interest, does he understand French?”

  “He doesn’t appear to, no.”

  “His back is to the wall?”

  “Yes.”

  [54]

  MacNeice was in the division parking lot, putting on his clay-covered boots and stowing away his suit jacket and tie, when Aziz came out. He rolled up his sleeves, closed the trunk, and opened the door for her. “Hungry?”

  “Yes, as always.” She looked down at his boots, “You’re dressing down a bit for lunch, Detective.”

  “I’m a contractor. You’re my customer.” He didn’t say much more until they were on the 403 heading for Ancaster. “Venganza’s at Le Hibou with a gallery owner from Paris.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “We’re going to have a meal. We won’t confront him or even look at him. We’ll order and leave after them. If possible, we’ll follow him. If not” — he tapped his password into his phone and, when the screen lit up, handed it to her — “we’ll have Michael and Montile follow him farther down the road.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Call Agnes at Le Hibou to see if she’s got the licence-plate number and make of his vehicle. Give it to Michael. They’re not to engage, just follow from a healthy distance. If he sees or even feels a threat, he’ll take evasive action, whether that’s a U-turn on the highway or tearing down some suburban street where kids are playing road hockey.”

  Aziz took out a notepad and pen before putting the phone to her ear. She looked sharply towards MacNeice and put the phone on speaker. Agnes said, “Sorry, he just left. They didn’t finish their meal. I asked if there was a problem and he said, ‘No, it’s just time to go.’ But — and this is weird — he left a note for you, Detective MacNeice.”

  MacNeice and Aziz exchanged glances. “What does it say?” MacNeice sped by a truck, forcing an oncoming driver to flash his lights and veer onto the shoulder.

  “It’s a folded piece of paper. On the outside it says ‘MacNeice.’” He could hear Agnes say “wow” under her breath. “It just says, ‘So sorry to disappoint you.’”

  “Keep it. And his vehicle and plate number?”

  “It’s an old white Econoline van. It has Ontario plates that begin with BLXN, followed by numbers, but he left so fast I couldn’t get them in time.”

  “Thank you, Agnes.”

  MacNeice switched on the flashing blue lights. Checking the rear-view mirror, he cranked the wheel and swung the Chevy into a U-turn.

  “Where are we going?” Aziz was pushing against the console and bracing herself on the dash.

  The sweet new-car smell gave way to a smell of burning rubber and the tinny complaint of a new engine as MacNeice pushed down hard on the accelerator. “To Valens Road. Hopefully we’ll get there before he does.”

  “But we’re still committed to no contact, right?”

  “Correct. I noticed a narrow dirt road on the aerial photo, farther down on the other side of Valens. If I can get in there before he arrives, at least we’ll be certain the property is his.”

  * * *

  MacNeice switched off the flashing lights when he left the regional road and turned onto Valens, slowing only to look for the white van. He couldn’t see it, though Venganza might have already parked it in the garage.

  He backed into the narrow lane ac
ross the street and farther down. The new wheels struggled to find the ruts, and when they did, tall weeds licked at the Chevy’s underside and doors. When he felt that he had enough cover, MacNeice opened the windows and turned off the engine. The car filled with birdsong and metallic clicking from the car’s overheated engine.

  They put their cellphones on mute and waited. MacNeice opened the glove compartment and took out his folding binoculars, happy that Ryan hadn’t missed a detail. He removed them from their case, which was badly scorched, and handed them to Aziz. “Focus on his licence plate.”

  “What do you think tipped him off?”

  “I don’t know. He may have overheard Agnes on the phone.”

  “But that phone is at the cash desk fifteen feet away, in a busy restaurant.”

  “Superior hearing?” MacNeice put up his hand. Through the fragments of brush and sapling leaves he could see the white van approaching. As it turned into the lane, it stopped.

  “BLXN 398. Has he made us?”

  MacNeice released the safety on his weapon and held his breath. “Maybe.” His heart was in his throat as he waited, considering whether to make a run for it. A moment later, the van moved slowly down the lane, stopping several times until it was out of sight.

  MacNeice waited for several minutes, hoping that would give Venganza time to get inside before he started the engine. When he’d eased the Chevy back onto Valens Road, he continued slowly in the direction away from the farmhouse to avoid being seen. Until he left the sideroad, MacNeice constantly checked his rear-view for a fast-approaching Econoline.

  Once on the highway, he turned on the blue lights and increased his speed. “You’re still hungry?”

  “Famished, but now I’m also frightened.”

  He looked over at her to see if she was serious. “Venganza?”

  “Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid of that man, but I was referring to your driving.”

  He eased off the pedal and slowed to the speed limit. “Sorry, Fiza. Is your back giving you trouble?”