by Linda Hawley
When Joe left, I opened the envelope.
September 29th
604-555-4424
I knew more details would come later. I looked at the date again. That gives me some time. Reading through the job date and contact number a few more times, I memorized them and then set the envelope and paper on fire in my new fireplace.
Sitting on the floor with my six-inch Kindle Elements wireless computer in my hands, I began to set up preferences for Sinéad—like whether I wanted her to open the garage door when I arrived home or whether I wanted to park in the driveway. When I was finished, I clicked Save, and immediately a voice spoke throughout the house.
“Would you like to take a bath now, Ann?” Sinéad asked in an Irish lilt.
I laughed at Joe’s smooth work. An Irish accent, I thought. Nice.
“After I move in,” I responded.
“Okay, Ann.”
This is gonna be fun. I chuckled.
With Joe gone, I set to work planning the other project I needed to complete before moving in.
It wasn’t until the next day that I was able to go to the hardware store to get the supplies I needed. After the trip, I piled them in my bedroom closet.
Kneeling in the closet, I pulled up the carpet and pried out the floorboards that gave me access to the unfinished, unofficial cellar beneath my house. I turned on the flashlight, illuminating the space under the house, then hopped down. The air was slightly cool and moist. The space was about a foot shorter than I was, so I had to stoop. With my head popping up out of the access hole, I dragged down the supplies I bought, then moved them twenty feet, towards the middle of the foundation.
With a flathead screwdriver, I removed the industrial staples that secured the plastic moisture barrier covering the loose earth beneath my house. I retracted the plastic to my pre-designated site. Then I grabbed the shovel and dug a hole that was two feet square. With boards I’d had precisely cut at the hardware store, I constructed a box to line the hole. It felt good, fitting the pieces together, hammering the nails in.
As a final touch, I attached a large, steel gate handle on the cover of the box, for easy access. After checking the fit, it felt snug. Leaning over, I slid the box into the hole, packing dirt into the space between the edges of the hole and the box. I was almost finished.
I went back to the closet and grabbed the bio-encrypted combination safe that I had purchased. Returning to the hole and its newly embedded frame, I carefully stowed the safe inside.
It was my back-up box, a safeguard many GOG members installed where they lived. I tossed in a stash of cash I’d been holding on to, then placed my homemade cover over the frame.
Standing up, I brushed the dirt from my knees, then covered the site with a padded piece of plastic. As a final step, I took a thick black marker and drew a small X on the sub-flooring of the bottom of the house directly above the safe. Replacing the plastic moisture barrier, I then re-stapled it. I cast my floodlight over my work to make sure nothing looked out of place. Nice job, I confirmed to myself. When I needed it, this hidden strongbox would be a lifesaver.
Chapter 6
BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON
The Year 2012
Elinor and I moved in near the end of September. Though I’d been caught up with unpacking boxes and stocking my kitchen cupboards, GOG and my new assignment were never far from my mind. The twenty-ninth came sooner than I expected.
“Well, let’s make the call,” I announced to no one.
I went to the homebuilder’s safe that came with the house, in the wall of the master bedroom. I dialed in the code and withdrew two of the three throwaway phones that Joe had given me. Phones from GOG always came disassembled in Ziploc bags, with a pair of textured fingerprint-proof gloves. Assembled phones were traceable almost immediately. I put on the gloves and constructed one of the phones, immediately dialing the Vancouver, B.C. number indicated in the note Joe had given me.
“B40 for job, instructions needed,” I said, leaving the message.
I hung up the phone. Someone from GOG would get my message and call me back within the next two minutes. If I didn’t get a call within that time, then the job was off, and I would destroy the phone. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the screen. I couldn’t help but count the seconds as they passed.
It always made me nervous to have a live phone in my possession, even if it was only for a few minutes. The truth was that most governments considered GOG membership a treasonous act, which was why the organization took such extreme measures to protect the anonymity of members. The government saw us as a threat, but we saw ourselves as the chance to return America to her roots of “we the people.”
American GOG members knew the first amendment by heart, mostly because in recent years, the U.S. government had violated most of its principles without even attempting to conceal its actions. Ironic as it was, we were fighting for the same rights our forefathers had fought for so many years before: freedom of speech, freedom of the press, the right of the people to peaceably assemble, and the right to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
As I thought about GOG and the reasons I was a member, the phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Code?” he asked.
“Salmon,” I replied.
“Victoria,” he confirmed.
We’re safe.
“Nine thirty p.m. The Gaslight Brasserie…in the private back room…Newton…walk to the restaurant. Questions on your role?”
“What’s Newton?”
“Code to get in.”
“Got it,” I confirmed.
“Stay safe,” he concluded.
We both hung up.
I turned off the phone, pulled it apart, crushed it with my foot, and then tossed it in the bathroom sink and turned on the water. I’d dump it in a public garbage can on my way out.
“Sinéad, give me details about the Gaslight Brasserie in Vancouver.”
“The Gaslight Brasserie is a restaurant located at 210 Carrall Street near the city’s waterfront, in the Gaslight District. It was established eighteen years ago.”
“Stop,” I said, halting the stream of information. “What four- and five-star hotels are nearby?”
“There are two four-and-a-half-star hotels within a four-minute drive: the Fairmont Waterfront and the Pan Pacific Hotel, which—”
“Stop.”
I was only fifteen when the Pan Pacific Hotel opened, and I remembered that Princess Diana and Prince Charles had visited the same hotel.
“What’s the best rate on a single queen or king bed at the Pan Pacific?”
“Two hundred and eighty-nine dollars Canadian, with a harbor and mountain view, king bed.”
“Book it for tonight.”
“Yes, Ann.”
I had no intention of driving back into the U.S. over the Canadian border around midnight. I had done that only one other time, and it was a fantastic mistake. Late at night is when the Tactical Terrorism Team, part of Homeland Security, manages the U.S. border, and they always err on the side of suspicion. A friend of mine, who had been dating a Canadian, came back over the border at one a.m. on a Saturday, and before she knew it, they had her spread-eagle, face down on the floor inside the facility, insisting she was smuggling something because she came over the border so frequently. When she tried to explain that she was dating a Canadian, the interrogator screamed, “Shut up!”
Those are not people you screw with, I told myself. I’ll stay at the Pan Pacific.
“Sinéad, tell me about the Pan Pacific Hotel and its vicinity.”
Sinéad answered almost instantly. “The Pan Pacific sits on a pier that overlooks the Vancouver harbor in downtown Vancouver. The Coastal Mountain Range surrounds the harbor. The rooms themselves are luxurious, with world-class facilities, including a spa with a heated outdoor pool. Pan Pacific’s overall service is rated five stars—”
“Stop.” I paused. With
my reservation made, my next question was superfluous. “Do they have Eggs Benedict and smoked salmon on their room service breakfast menu?”
“Yes, Ann.”
Mmm—a nice room that overlooks the water, plus breakfast in bed, I imagined. What could be better than that?
I got out my overnight bag and began packing the clothes I would need, and then I threw in my bathing suit, cover-up, and sandals, just in case I wanted to swim some laps in the pool. I added my toiletry case, Kindle Elements, and iPod. I was done packing in ten minutes. After taking one last inventory to make sure I had everything I needed, I stowed my bag in the back seat of my car. I was off.
On my way out of Bellingham, I stopped by a park and dumped the water-laden pieces of the GOG phone, then got on I-5 North. Forty-five minutes later, I was at the Peace Arch crossing. After waiting in line for fifteen minutes, I reached the Canadian border. I pulled up to the border-control booth that had the stop sign. There were electronic sensors facing each side of my car, and once I stopped, a robotic arm immediately swept out under my car.
“Hello,” I said once my window was down, handing the Canadian border official my passport.
He was a lean man with a serious face. His dark uniform made him look grimmer as he looked at my passport. “Why are you coming into Canada today?” he asked, looking at me.
“I’m visiting the city.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Pan Pacific Hotel.”
Serious-face looked more intently at me.
“How long will you be in Canada?”
“One night.”
“Do you have any gifts to leave in Canada?”
“No.”
“Are you bringing alcohol or tobacco into Canada?” he droned on.
“No.”
“Do you have any weapons, including pepper spray?”
“No,” I lied.
He looked at his computer, then turned to me. “Alright then,” he said, dismissing me quickly by gesturing with his hand for me to move on. He then turned his attention to his computer.
Slowly, I pulled out of his station, paranoid about keeping the speed limit, considering the two Tasers that I had taped to the underside lip of the back seat.
I made my way up Highway 99, and after fifteen minutes of driving, I started to relax. A few minutes later, I took an exit to find a gas station. While I was stopped, I pulled the Tasers off the underside of my back seat and put them in my purse.
Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into valet parking at the Pan Pacific. It was one p.m.
Taking my purse, I let the valet grab my overnight bag from the back seat, and he followed me in. The lobby was three stories high, filled with a mixture of glass, light, marble, and white columns. It was minimalist in furnishings, but grand in style. It was so vast that a game of basketball could be played in the foyer.
“It looks like your room has been upgraded,” the redheaded clerk informed me. “You are now in a suite, but you’ll still have a water view.”
Sometimes GOG had a way of fixing things like this; I didn’t ask why. Thanking the clerk, I confirmed that the outdoor pool was open. Taking my bag from the valet, I tipped him and then made my way to the elevators. My suite was on the twenty-second floor.
After opening the door to my room, I saw the sweeping view west to the Burrard Inlet and the distant North Shore Mountains through the wide windows. It was a perfect day without a cloud in the sky. I could see the islands covered with evergreen trees and imagined their pleasant smell; it made me wish I was on my sailboat taking it all in. The suite was pure luxury, with a tan leather contemporary sofa on a neutral color palette spiked with greenery. Its eight hundred and fifty square feet was covered in marble, with a rug placed by the seating area. Entering the bedroom, I saw that the king-sized bed also faced the water. I smiled at the thought that tomorrow morning I could enjoy my Eggs Benedict while enjoying this view of sea and snow.
I plopped down on the bed, checking its comfort. It passed the test.
Wandering into the bathroom, I expected the ordinaries but hoped for a big tub; I wasn’t disappointed. There in the middle of the bathroom sat a tub surrounded by picture windows. I could imagine lying in the hot bathtub, stargazing on a clear night.
Moving to the bedroom, I shed my clothes, unzipped my overnight bag, and retrieved the blue and brown tankini swimsuit. After putting it on, I pulled a cover-up dress over my head and then slipped a pair of sandals on my feet. I grabbed a towel, my Kindle, and the room key and then headed to the elevators. I felt content as I descended. It was a beautiful fall day, the sun was shining and warm, and I was in a foreign country.
I got off the elevator at the eighth floor and headed toward the door to the pool deck. After swiping my room card, I caught my breath once again as I was taken in by the panoramic harbor view and snow-capped mountains. The view extended across the harbor to the city of North Vancouver; to the west was Stanley Park with its majestic forest standing at attention. Surrounding the pool deck was a clear glass partition, which allowed for an unobstructed view while visitors lounged. It was a comfortable seventy-two degrees outside, which was uncharacteristically warm for late September in Vancouver.
There were only three other people on the deck and a man swimming some fast laps in the pool. Taking a lounge chair on the far side, I faced the harbor, where shrubs gave me some privacy. As I lay there gazing into the distance, I noticed a seaplane was starting to take off. I had only seen this once before, when my husband and I were sailing near North Pender Island in the San Juans. I’d forgotten how special it was. The seaplane started off slowly across the water, and then as it increased speed, big splashes started forming on the sides of its pontoons. Soon it lifted off the water and was airborne. I continued to watch the activity in the harbor until I decided to swim some laps, since the pool was now empty.
The laps were invigorating. When I was finished, I bent down to grab the towel from my chair. As I turned around, I bumped into a man and started to apologize.
“I knew it was you,” he exclaimed.
In reflex, I pulled up my towel, looked up, and was shocked to find my basement co-worker.
“Paul. What a coincidence,” I spat out, wondering what he was doing here.
“What are the chances of us being here at the same time?” he asked, beaming.
“Highly unlikely. Are you following me?” I cautiously teased, trying to ignore my natural instinct toward suspicion.
“Guess I’m busted,” he said, his smile showing off his perfect teeth. He winked before going on. “I came up here to meet with a software developer who’s doing some design work for us, and since Bennett’s paying, I figured I’d stay the night, instead of rushing back.”
“I guess you’re not my stalker, then,” I teased. “Was that you doing laps earlier?”
“Yeah. I can see you’re a swimmer, too.”
“I love to swim. But your laps were faster than mine. I bet you used to swim competitively,” I said, keeping my voice conversational.
“Yeah, in high school and college.”
“I only knew you’d been a runner.”
“Swimmer, runner, geek. Now you know everything about me.”
I laughed. He was funny.
“What do you think of this sweltering weather?” I asked.
“I guess seventy degrees is pretty hot for Vancouver.”
“Not right after you get out of the heated pool,” I said, noticing that he was checking out my backside as I dried off. “Wanna come sit with me? I’m over there,” I said, pointing to the far end of the deck.
“Sure. It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, gesturing to the view.
“Yes. Just before my laps, I saw a seaplane take off. I haven’t seen that for a long time. It was cool,” I said conversationally as we walked to my spot.
“Have you ever flown in one?” Paul asked me.
“No. Have you?”
“Yeah. Ab
out a year ago I took an air tour of Vancouver—”
“Wow. What was it like?” I interrupted excitedly.
Paul explained what it was like to fly in the seaplane and see the islands from the air. After we had chatted for twenty minutes, he asked, “Do you wanna grab an early dinner in Gastown?”
I gave it some thought.
“You know, I’d like that. But on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That it’s not a date. We work together, so—”
“Oh, you thought I was asking you out on a date?” he teased.
I smiled in response. “I’ve never walked around Gastown. Do you know it very well?” I asked, deflecting the subject.
“I took a tour here. It’s the best way to see the city, especially if you’re alone. How about we meet in the lobby in a half hour? I’ve got to shower off the saltwater pool and of course blow-dry my hair,” Paul said, shaking his blond-covered head.
I smiled at his joke. “Half hour sounds good, because I do need to blow-dry my hair.”
We got up together and made our way over to the elevator.
Later, I was brushing on mascara while the iron heated. I had only brought the clothes that I’d intended to wear to the meeting later that night, so that was the only choice of what to wear now. I ironed my Patagonia black hemp pants and a blue-gray, button-down-the-front cotton top. Putting on my pants, blouse, and watch, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.
Adding my Keen walking shoes and some lip gloss, I grabbed my small purse and was off down the hall.
Just in time, I thought in the elevator, realizing I was five minutes late.
Once I stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, Paul quickly found me.
Good, he’s not late.
I really did like to be punctual and didn’t like it when others were not. I once had a date with a lawyer, and when he showed up twenty-five minutes late picking me up—without an apology—I decided right then that it would be our last date. Thank goodness we had only seen a movie. When he brought me home, I made for my front door as if I were bolting from cannon fire.
