He turned around so quickly it startled her. His left hand was resting on the body’s shoulder. “He’s covered in tattoos. A lot of men in uniform do that, even a few of the women — though I can’t speak to where they get them, except for their forearms.” He meant that comment to be light or funny, but he could see it only made her more frightened. “Don’t worry, Chanel, I’m not into tattoos — either getting them or inflicting them.” He looked down at the ones on Wozinsky’s chest; the grizzly bear standing defiantly on its hind legs took up one pectoral. It faced an equally terrifying cougar depicted in mid-leap towards its foe. Fangs, claws, speed. “There’s a story behind them, of course, but now the stories are lost, and they look deflated too.”
Below the animals was the PPCLI regimental insignia. On his lower ribcage, in black, was a Harley-Davidson logo, and next to it Smoke, his smiling black Lab, sat on its haunches above its name. Lower down, in beautiful calligraphy, was the name Doreen, surrounded by so many flourishes that it suggested a romantic swoon. Below them all, in Gothic script that spanned his abdomen, was Woz’s personal credo: Heaven is hell. War is hell. Heaven is war. Thank God for the Pats.
“Swagger dies with the man.” While the ink remained vibrant, the tattoos looked as if they were printed on a worn-out T-shirt. Much sadder than death. “Tattoos lie. Woz wasn’t invincible.”
Shaking himself free of the moment, Venganza pointed to the platform with all its drapery. “That’s where you’ll be. It’s on casters so I can move it around for lighting purposes. I’ve built up what looks like a grey rock and a seat that will take your weight and Wozinsky’s. You’ll be dressed more or less like Mary. And because you’ll be asleep, I’ve got a frame that will keep your back, head, and neck where I want them — or, more precisely, where Michelangelo put them. There’s another set of supports for Mary’s right hand that takes the weight of Christ’s upper body, while her left is raised slightly off his legs.” He mimicked the position of Mary’s hands. “It’s either a gesture that expresses her agony or it’s starting to point to heaven. I’m not sure if anyone knows for sure.
“Jesus will be wearing these worn-out fatigues but not the military-issue boots. They’ll stand at the bottom of her cloak. Woz died of an overdose, but he really died in Afghanistan. By the end, he was feeling as low as a snake in a tire track.” He turned to see if she recognized the phrase, but she didn’t. “The painter Philip Guston said that.”
He took a moment to shake off his thoughts. “I’ve got a structure to support his upper body and head and props for his hips. They’ll fall between your legs.” Venganza leaned against the table and focused his attention on the mountains of grey cloth piled high on the plinth. “Funny thing, until I started building this, I never realized how big Mary’s gown is. Sleight of hand, I guess.” He believed it provided Michelangelo with an opportunity to demonstrate how well he could create fabric from marble. But, more important, the crisp folds would contrast with and emphasize the soft, lyrical form of Christ’s body lying limp on her lap.
“Michelangelo understood misdirection like a great magician. He wanted you to see what he saw. Even as your eyes wander, he keeps pulling you back to the faces of Christ and Mary. That was my epiphany.”
[56]
Tactical sent three men, two sergeants and a lieutenant. They seemed to fill the interview room. They wore black caps with DPD/T embroidered in black above the peak, and loose-fitting black jumpsuits with zippered pockets, black holsters, and side arms. dpd tactical was printed in white block letters across their backs. In MacNeice’s opinion, the look was stylishly unsubtle, functionally dubious, and utterly un-Dundurn.
Ryan had loaded the Venganza files, including a Google Map aerial photo of the property, and stitched it together with videos from the Valens Road drive-by. It took the better part of an hour to review all the material. The three sat quietly, asking only a few questions for clarification. Their very presence seemed to whisper, We’ll take it from here.
MacNeice and Swetsky sat across from them at the table. Maracle was at one end with his leg outstretched; Vertesi and Williams sat at the other, ready to take notes.
When MacNeice finished reviewing the digital file, he turned the meeting over to Lieutenant Sadler.
Sadler nodded before speaking. “Because this man is ex-military, you’ve assumed he’s booby-trapped that property?”
“Obviously we don’t know, but yes, that’s our suspicion.”
“No evidence?”
“Strictly instinct. Further to that, we assume he chose this property because there are ways to secure it. And while the woman may not be a hostage, we’d prefer to take them alive, even though we suspect he wants to end this with a loud bang.”
“Have you had contact with him?”
“No. But as I was getting close, he left a written message for me.” From his file folder MacNeice pulled out Venganza’s note and handed it across the table.
“How’d it happen that he made you, Detective?” Sadler asked, handing the note back.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“How about Mac’s arrest record? Maybe Venganza did his homework and figured out who was coming for him.” Swetsky’s face was flushed with anger.
MacNeice intervened. “What else do you need? What is the strategy, and what can we do to conclude this without violence or injury?” MacNeice put his palms down on the table and looked at Sadler.
For the next half-hour, Sadler and Sergeant Baker did the talking. The third man, Sergeant Washburn, took notes. Even though his eyes were gentle, MacNeice suspected Washburn might be the toughest man in the room. His hands were massive; only the tip of his pen rose above the crotch of his thumb and forefinger. His knuckles were criss-crossed with old scars.
Sadler began a summary. “With regards to ‘violence and injury,’ that’s entirely up to him. If he surrenders, he goes to jail and we all go home happy. If he doesn’t, we will suppress and eliminate the threat by every means available. If he’s ex-military, that’s okay. Almost a third of my men, including myself, are ex-military.”
Maracle, who’d been quiet throughout the briefing, felt compelled to respond. “With respect, sir, Venganza’s not just ex-military, he’s an alpha predator. And I promise you, that property is mined.”
“I understand, Detective. I’ll be in a command unit equipped with thermal detection drones. We’ll have two armoured vehicles in front, as well as spotters and backup on Valens Dam Road. All in, we will deploy eighteen highly trained assets.” Turning back to MacNeice, Sadler added, “And of course we’ll have you and your men as additional backup.”
“Thermal detection can be blocked by foil blankets, and he can get those in packs of ten at any surplus store,” said Maracle.
“Thank you, Detective. Yes, I know.” Sadler’s voice betrayed him. From the sound of it, Maracle figured he’d been an officer at a desk.
MacNeice sensed that Sadler was digging in, so he said, “Returning to the possibility of mines and booby traps . . .”
“This isn’t Afghanistan, Detective MacNeice,” said Baker.
“It may still be Afghanistan for Venganza, though. And Sergeant, it’s Detective Superintendent MacNeice.” He struggled to keep his tone collegial as he turned back to Sadler. “Where will you deploy us?”
“On Valens. Hang back fifty yards from the driveway. You’ll be connected to our headsets. We’ll call you in as needed.” He looked over at Maracle and added, “Through our network, Detective, we would have heard about anyone stockpiling explosives. They’re highly controlled in Canada.”
“With respect, sir, you don’t understand IEDs. Venganza knows how to build and disarm them.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Sadler turned quickly to MacNeice. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. Remember, my goal is to bring them in unharmed.”
“We will accommo
date him either way, DS MacNeice,” Sergeant Baker said.
Washburn snapped a narrow-eyed look Baker’s way, clearly not a fan of his gung-ho banter. “We’ll meet at the depot on Burlington Street at 0430 and leave Dundurn at 0530. We’ll roll down that driveway at 0600. Understood?”
Everyone but Maracle nodded. MacNeice handed Sadler a memory stick of the entire file. Though they hadn’t opened the video of DeSouza and Grant being killed, he was hopeful that someone would, and take notice.
“Make sure you have EMS support, Lieutenant, both ground and air.”
“You seriously think he wants a bloodbath?”
“I think he won’t hesitate to respond to a perceived threat.”
As the three men stood to leave, MacNeice gave Williams and Vertesi a quick head-tilt. The two detectives intercepted Sadler and Baker in the corridor to ask for some clarifications, while MacNeice rounded the table to speak to Washburn, who was putting away his notebook and pen. “Sergeant Washburn, are you ex-military as well?”
“Military?” He chuckled at the thought. “No, sir. I’m ex-football, Michigan State.” His voice was low and soft. He was at least two inches taller than MacNeice, tall enough that he was looking down at him.
“You’re American?”
“Yes, sir. Detroit.” Coming from him, it sounded like Dee-troit. “I fell for a Windsor girl and ended up in Canada.”
“Where will you be tomorrow?”
“The first unit coming in off Valens, sir.”
“I hope we stay in touch.”
Washburn smiled and put a finger to his ear. “We’ll be connected. Call me Wash.”
They shook hands and MacNeice watched him leave, turning as he went through the door to avoid contact with his shoulders. For a man his size, he moved with ease.
[57]
MacNeice could hear wind buffeting the speaker when Wallace answered the call. After a few minutes of trying to hear and be heard, he asked the Deputy Chief if he could step indoors. A minute later, Wallace asked, “You’re calling about the meeting with Tactical?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sadler just beat you to it. I didn’t answer his call; I wanted to speak to you first. So tell me.”
MacNeice gave what he thought was a measured account of the meeting, after which he spoke about his concerns. And because there were so many ways the operation could end badly, he took the time to elaborate each of them. At the end there was a long pause before Wallace responded. “I’m out at Chedoke doing eighteen holes with the mayor, trying to pry loose a few more shekels for our budget.”
“Good luck.”
“Yeah . . . Look, Mac, it’s a tossup as to the best way to handle this, whether it’s with desk cops or the jocks with big guns and body armour. But if you’re right about this suspect, he has the ability to wipe out my entire homicide division.”
“He could, but even if you throw eighteen men at him, the results might be the same.”
“Point taken, though Tactical is at least an assault team with assault weapons. They have snipers where you have side arms and shotguns. They have virtual tanks and you have beefed-up Chevys. You follow?”
“I do.”
“I’ll speak to Sadler and reinforce that you are to be consulted every step of the way.”
“Consulted but not considered?”
“He’s in charge of the operation, Mac. What are the chances this can end peacefully?”
“Zero to none. But I’m concerned about the safety of the woman with Venganza. I don’t think she knew what she was getting into.”
“So you think he hasn’t killed her already?”
“Aziz’s theory is that she’ll play a role in his next piece. He might want to keep her alive for that. Also, she apparently owns the gallery in Paris that’s showing his work. That will change the moment those armoured units dust up the lane.”
“Yeah, but where she’s concerned, it might not matter whether it’s three Chevys or two of those tanks, whether it’s right now or at dawn tomorrow, when he’s sleepy.”
“If he sleeps at all.”
Wallace was finished talking and asked if there was anything else before he hung up.
“Yes, sir. I’d like your permission to include Aziz in their mobile command unit. She could prove helpful if we do have the opportunity to talk to him.”
“Agreed. I’ll let Sadler know.”
[58]
“What time is it?” Chanel Bourget had fallen asleep. She woke in a darkened studio with a dry throat and a terrible urge to pee. She could feel the knotted gag hanging around her neck.
“1600. I’ve made dinner for us. After that we’ll get ready. I’m going to take the ties off your wrists so you can use the bathroom.” He looked into her eyes. “I think you have enough sense not to try to escape.”
She nodded and asked, “Do you have my purse? My makeup is in there.”
“Yes, it’s in a safe place. For now, just use water and soap. Remember, you’re Mary, so no mascara.” He tossed the plastic ties in the bin.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Maybe.”
“Please, don’t make fun . . . Are you?”
“Actually, I haven’t decided. Are you asking me to decide right now?” He smiled and turned back to the kitchen. “Well, as you’ll be playing the mother of Christ, your prayers may be granted.” Walking off, he said, “Dinner’s in twelve minutes.”
She shivered when she saw the gun in the beige nylon holster strapped to his thigh. Chanel stood up shakily and quickly made her way to the washroom. She closed the door behind her and looked in the mirror. Her face was twisted by fear and stained with mascara. She turned on the cold-water tap and wiped it several times, until it was clean. When she looked up again, a frightened young girl looked back. Burying her face in a towel, Chanel desperately tried to muffle her sobbing.
When her crying stopped, she took several deep breaths and started thinking about how she could escape. She’d offered money but he hadn’t responded. She could offer sex, but she saw no sign that he was interested. Possibly, if she simply undressed as she would on the beach at St. Tropez, naturally carefree and confident, he might be tempted. But then what?
She realized that the only leverage she had with Venganza was his work. And as horrific as the reality of it was, the images were still very beautiful. She could tell him that the exhibition would still go ahead. That no one would be the wiser. They’d say, It’s such brilliant, edgy work. RCV is daring, a tremendous artist. Just look at that flawless execution.
When she emerged from the toilet, Venganza was busy serving out two large portions of pasta. The table had been set. Cutlery, napkins, water glasses, water bottle, salt, pepper, grated Parmesan, and a large bowl of chopped basil leaves were all placed as if on a grid. The chairs too were centred and equidistant from the table. The hard case with the exhibition prints was nowhere in sight.
She stood with her arms crossed in front of her. “Shall I undress?”
He put the pot back on the stovetop and looked at her curiously. “No. Why?”
“I do not know why. . . . I thought you would want to see what Mary looks like.”
“No, I don’t. Sit down and eat your dinner.”
As he pulled out her chair she asked, “Is this to be my last supper?”
“Cute. I take making pasta seriously, so don’t let it get cold.”
“No wine?”
“No wine. We’ve got work to do.”
She wolfed down the meal, occasionally wiping tomato sauce from her mouth. Venganza was impressed. He ate at a slower pace, glancing her way as the bottom of her bowl emerged.
When she was finished and the bowl empty, she stood up and took off her dress, laying it over the back of the chair. Venganza looked her over, then turned away, slipping another forkfu
l of pasta into his mouth. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not, and found herself pulling in her tummy. Though he seemed to be looking down at his bowl, he said, “Your stomach’s fine, Chanel.” He put down his fork. “Your body’s lovely. You’ll be a great Mary.”
“And the underwear, take it off?” She was reaching for the bra clasp behind her.
“No, that’s not necessary.” He took his bowl and the glasses to the sink before turning to her. “Now please, no more jokes. I’m Catholic. This work is reverent. So am I.”
“Je suis desolée. I’m sorry, I am very anxious.”
“I know. We’ll fix that soon.”
“When will I know if you are going to kill me?”
“When you don’t wake up.”
He led her over to inspect the grey mountain with its strange tubular framework going this way and that. He showed her Wozinsky, dead on the table. She was shaking before she got there, but he put a hand gently on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Woz is gone. He’s not in pain. He smells a bit, but just try to think about the man he was.”
Venganza put his arm around her, the way a big brother would, and started telling her again about Wozinsky. About his tattoos, about the tremendous soldier and friend he’d been. He pulled a creased photograph from the pocket of Wozinsky’s fatigues. “That’s Woz on the right, me on the left. Manserra and Muller, the two in the middle, and Denis Charbonneau, who took the pic — they died together over there.” He handed her the photo. “Woz has been carrying that around for years.”
“Triste.”
“Hmm?”
“Sad. It is very sad.” She studied the photograph. “This man, Woz, he was very handsome.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Every combat soldier he knew had understood there was a possibility that he or she might not come home in one piece, if at all. And even though they knew IEDs were the low-cost, high-return weapon of choice for the Taliban, they’d prepared their bodies as if they were about to engage in hand-to-hand combat and emerge triumphant. Bodybuilding was their naive attempt to tilt the odds. The theory was simple. If you could run longer, climb faster, and lift more weights than your enemy, if your equipment was better, your strategies and tactics professional, your air support lethal — you might survive. No one could argue against that logic, even if it was fatally flawed. The Americans and Soviets didn’t argue, nor had the British long before them.
Vantage Point Page 26
