by Linda Hawley
“You look great,” Paul commented, beaming at me.
Cute.
“So do you,” I said, noticing his white cotton shirt and khaki pants with pockets everywhere. “We goin’ fishin’?”
“Huh?” he asked, perplexed.
“That’s a lot of pockets for dinner in Gastown.”
“You never know when you might need extra storage,” he offered playfully.
I smiled.
“Ready?” he asked, motioning to the exit.
“Yes.”
The doorman opened the door, and we were out of the hotel and onto the cobbled streets.
“So are you gonna be my tour guide of Gastown?” I inquired.
“Nope.”
“Aww, come on…” I pleaded as we walked side by side.
He chuckled. “You’re not easy to say no to.”
“Well that’s a good sign, isn’t it?” I teased.
Paul smiled and then began to tell me about everything we were seeing. When we got four blocks down from the hotel, we reached Water Street, and Paul stopped at the Gastown steam clock.
“Oh good, it’s five till. That’s perfect,” he exclaimed. “This clock is powered by an actual steam engine,” he began with his tour-guide voice.
“No way,” I responded, feigning surprise.
He played along.
“It is. There are only six operating steam clocks in the world. This is one of them. The others are in Japan, a museum in Indiana, two more are here in British Columbia, and there’s one in London, England, at the Chelsea Farmer’s Market there—”
Just then the clock woke up, interrupting Paul as a crowd suddenly appeared—materializing out of nowhere. Fantastic blasts of steam were released as chimes began to play. The crowd’s attention was on the clock as it tooted its little tune. Ending the spectacle was a deep foghorn sound.
“I feel like I’ve witnessed a piece of history,” I remarked.
“Well…I hate to burst your warm-and-fuzzy bubble, but it was actually built in 1977.”
I laughed.
We walked on as Paul pointed out old buildings and their places in Gastown’s history. We stopped for dinner at Finch’s; it was a small French café that reminded me of the small neighborhood restaurants in Paris. The café was shaped like a wedge on a Y corner, and we sat near a window. Paul had a baguette filled with Brie, prosciutto, roasted walnuts, and tomato. I also had a baguette, but mine was filled with Brie, avocado, red onion, cucumber, lettuce, and tomato. We sat and talked as we ate. Finally, we walked back to the Pan Pacific. When we got to the hotel elevators, I turned to him.
“Thanks for dinner, and for being my tour guide. I had a really nice time.”
“It was my pleasure,” he offered sincerely.
“Do you think we can keep our meeting here a secret between us? I really don’t want to be the target of office gossip, especially since I’m a new employee at AlterHydro.”
“No problem. I can understand that. But just so you know, Ann, I’m pretty good at keeping secrets—”
The elevator opened, interrupting Paul, and people streamed out. I thought I recognized an Asian man who passed by me as he got off the elevator. I turned to get a better look at him but could only see his back. I felt that I knew him, but I couldn’t recall from where.
Paul got into the elevator, and I followed him, distracted.
“So I’ll see you on Monday,” he offered formally.
“Yeah.”
We stood in silence.
The elevator opened on his floor, and he got out.
He suddenly turned and held the elevator door, looking at me, and said, “Thanks for going with me, Ann.”
“You’re welcome…I had fun. Bye,” I warmly offered with a little wave of my hand.
He reluctantly removed his hand from the door, and it closed.
I rode up to my floor. I had two hours before the GOG job, enough time to soak in the tub.
Chapter 7
BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA
The Year 2012
After my bath, I ran the iron over my clothes again and redressed. I left myself twenty minutes to walk to the Gaslight Brasserie, having spotted it during my walk with Paul. I made my way down Cordova and onto Water Street, past the steam clock, and then walked two more blocks and turned right onto Carrall Street. It was only a block down from there.
It was a lively place this Saturday; it looked full from the outside. I headed toward the back, guessing that’s where the room was.
I asked a passing waiter, “Can you tell me where the private room is?”
“Right back there. See the guy at the door?” he nodded with his head.
It looked like a door to the bathroom. As I got closer, I could see that it was marked Private with a stout man standing guard.
“Hi,” I offered, feeling him out.
“You’re expected?” he asked, serious.
“Yes.”
“And?” he asked.
I leaned to him. “Newton.” I confirmed the passcode.
He offered a forced smile of recognition, then opened the door.
Here goes nothing.
I entered a small room with a single, round wooden table surrounded by chairs. The walls were brick; there were no windows. I could see the pingers.
Pingers were electronic devices that measured manmade energy, like bugs, cell phones, wires, recording devices, cameras, or anything that transmitted or received a signal.
Two of them sat opposite one another against the walls to the left and right of the entrance, drawing an invisible line between them. They created an electronic barrier that everyone would have to pass through before reaching the table.
GOG meetings like this were always conducted sans any electronics; it was for everyone’s safety. I carried a purse with my room key and the two Tasers but left everything else in my hotel room. Along the front entrance wall, there was a temporary magnetic privacy shield erected, preventing any peekers from penetrating the meeting. The shields reminded me of the science fair displays I created as a kid in school.
The lighting in the room was very dim. Three people sat at the table—two men and a woman. Nearest me sat the woman. She looked to be in her late fifties, with short, curly gray hair and a round face with a ruddy complexion; she was a bit on the chunky side. Wearing a suit, she looked like an intense, intelligent woman.
She doesn’t look GOG. Caution tingled my observations.
They all looked my way. Both men stood as I entered. One was very tall, and one was very short, about five feet. Shorty must have been the candidate—he looked a little eager when he saw me. The tall man was about 6'9" and in his midfifties. He was the spitting image of Tom Chambers, the famous Hall of Fame basketball player.
He had blond hair that was graying a little. He too wore a suit. The Tom Chambers look-alike approached me, bearing a bright smile, his hand outstretched. I crossed the barrier, then shook his hand.
“Welcome,” he offered.
“My pleasure,” I responded.
In GOG meetings like these, there were no introductions, no names—only a mission. The formal greetings we exchanged were standard, like the best of secret societies.
“Would you like to take a seat?” he offered, smiling at me.
“Thank you,” I replied and sat.
With my eyes adjusting to the light, I could now see Shorty better. He looked to be in his sixties and had very bushy eyebrows, beady eyes, and very little hair. He put out his hand for me to shake. I shook it.
The serious woman nodded at me, and I returned her nod. No hand was offered.
“Now that we’re all here, would you mind explaining why you’re interested in the organization?” the Tom Chambers clone asked Shorty.
Shorty looked back at him, then looked from me to the other woman. He took a slow, deep breath.
“When I was a boy,” he began, “my father had a substantial gun collection. He hunted. When we were old enough, Dad
taught me and my brother how to hunt.” He looked over at the Tom Chambers clone, whom he seemed to feel comfortable with, and, meeting his eyes, went on. “We needed the meat, so it was a practical thing, but it was also something fun we did together. By the time I was twelve, I had my own rifle. Dad spent hours teaching me how to shoot it. My brother and I—we were good with our guns, smart and responsible.” Shorty then stared down at the table, his face revealing the memories as he recalled the past. “But then the government started restricting who could own guns. By ’77, even though we’d been using guns responsibly our whole lives, we had to get permission from the government to buy them. It was a slap in the face. People like me aren’t the people the government should be afraid of, and the people they should be afraid of are going to get their hands on guns whether they’re restricted or not.”
“So it’s because of guns that you’re interested in the organization,” Tom stated.
“No, not just guns,” Shorty replied. “Canada has always been known as a country of liberty—it’s our history. I know that I should have a right to bear arms, but the government is now controlling that right. When my dad died, I inherited his gun collection. Then the government informed me that I needed to have each of the guns registered.” He paused. “I refused—”
“I can understand that,” Tom interrupted.
“I didn’t see any reason why I needed to. They were my guns, most of them hunting guns—not handguns—and it’s not like I take them everywhere. But it didn’t matter to the government. One day, I came home to find Lila, my wife, arguing with the local police, who said they had an order to confiscate all my father’s guns. I couldn’t believe it—they took every single gun from my house.” He looked down at the table, gathering his thoughts. “I hired an attorney to fight the order and get the guns back, but it took too long.” Shorty took in another deep breath. “My case wasn’t scheduled till four months after they took them. One month before the court date, Lila and I woke up in the middle of the night with intruders in our home. They grabbed us from our bedroom—with Lila screaming—and tied us to our own dining room chairs while they ransacked the house.”
He stared at the table again with a lengthy pause. “They were not professionals. They didn’t know what they were doing. One of them said to leave us there. The other said to kill us because we’d seen their faces. In the end, they decided to kill us. I watched Lila die, with no way to help her. Then the men heard sirens. I guess one of our neighbors had called the police after hearing Lila’s screams.” Shorty looked at me steadily. “I’m not a killer, but if I’d had a gun, I would have been able to defend my wife.”
“I’m sorry,” I sincerely offered.
Shorty looked at me with grief.
“But it’s not just that. Last year, it became law that all passports would contain a Radio Frequency ID chip, including a digital eye scan. If you have a passport, then the Canadian government can track you. This year, the RFID chip was required in all new driver’s licenses. If I attend a gun show now, all the government has to do is hold an RFID reader within a few hundred feet of me, and he could identify my presence at those events because my driver’s license is in my wallet. Since it’s illegal not to have your driver’s license with you when driving, it’s really not a viable option to leave it at home. All these things are an invasion of my privacy, my autonomy, and my rights. I was born here—this is my country—yet I see Canada following in America’s footsteps with the über control of its citizens. What’s next? The Patriot Act, Canadian-style? I want to be able to go wherever I want within my own country, for whatever purpose I want, without being tracked by my government. It’s my right to do so—not because I want to do something illegal, but because I have a right to my own privacy.” Shorty paused, wiping spittle from his lips as he swallowed. He was passionate, eyes alight with indignation.
I thought about how to challenge him. “The government can cut you off at the knees by being a part of this organization—they like to use the word treason,” I began.
“They can call it whatever they want. If I don’t fight, I think my wife will be very upset with me when I get to the other side,” he replied, certain.
“What is it that you want to do about it?” the Tom Chambers clone asked Shorty.
“Anything. I want to do absolutely anything that will fight these bullies and change Canada’s future. I have nothing to lose—Lila is dead—my children are grown and have families of their own. My bank account is full, and there is nothing I can think of that I want to spend it on. I have two things that are most dear to me: the memory of my wife and my memory of what this country used to be. I figure I’ll do what I can.”
“If you’re caught being part of this organization, you’ll be seen as a terrorist by the Canadian government,” I warned him.
“It’s a risk that I’m willing to take,” he said flatly.
I nodded, more to myself than anyone else in the room. He seemed to understand the consequences.
Pressing him, I tried to see if he would break. “The government has endless legal resources, including the ability to change the law to suit their needs. Can you handle that?”
“I tried fighting them once using the legal process, and they killed Lila.”
“They killed your wife?” I asked.
“As far as I’m concerned, yes. The feds prevented me from having my gun by my side, where it had been year after year, as protection. If it had still been there, I’m confident that my wife would be alive today. The reason I want to be a part of this organization is that I don’t believe legal recourse has any chance of changing anything. I want to change things, and that’s why I’m here.”
“The Canadian government is serious about pursuing our organization. Do you think you can keep your emotions in check, in order to accomplish the tasks that you’re given?” I asked.
“There was no one, besides Lila, who knew how I felt about what our government was doing to Canada.”
Then the woman interrupted, nodding to Shorty. “I’ve known him for more than thirty years. He’s the most decent, honest, and forthright person I’ve known in those years. His passion is fueled by honest-to-goodness patriotism. He’s an idealist, like most of us here. He is worthy to be a member of this organization, which is why we’re all here now.”
“I have two hundred and six bones in my body, and I will fight the government with all of them,” Shorty passionately added.
I like him. It was simply a feeling in my gut. He was right for GOG.
The Tom Chambers clone and I looked at one another, silently agreeing.
Time for me to go. We had pushed him as much as we needed to.
“Thank you,” I offered Shorty, along with my hand. He shook it.
I stood and then nodded at Tom Chambers and the woman, turned, and walked out the door. I passed the door guard on the other side of the room and made my way through the restaurant, toward the front door.
Outside the restaurant, I stopped to set my watch to clock the time. I was expected to call into GOG by phone exactly thirty minutes after I left the meeting. I set my watch alarm to go off in twenty-five minutes, to make sure I got back to the hotel to retrieve a safe phone.
As I left the Gaslight Brasserie, I breathed in the night air. Listening to the passion of a new GOG candidate was exciting. Here he was, literally willing to risk his life for his country. I’d call him a patriot, and yet his own country would call him a terrorist, a coward. He was a hero in my mind.
I gazed at the full moon, leisurely walking back toward the Pan Pacific. Full moons were always special to me; they had marked some of the most important events of my life. I people-watched as I walked, seeing couples connect, talk, and laugh. It was life.
Two blocks from the hotel, something from the corner of my vision got my attention. Then I heard it—two car doors slamming at the same time.
Casually, I looked to the side, verifying my suspicion. Two men in intelligence-issue black suits
had gotten out of a black SUV and were following me.
Oh crap.
As I picked up my pace, so did they.
Who alerted the Canadian authorities? The woman? I considered my options. I didn’t know anyone that I could trust in Canada. I did have GOG’s local contact number, but the safe phones were still in my hotel room.
Please don’t make me fight you, I silently warned the men.
Pulling a Taser from my purse, I looped the strap around my wrist and armed it.
I remembered the Gastown steam clock and how the crowd suddenly gathered. I looked at my watch. Two minutes till the hour. Turning the corner, I sprinted toward the clock as fast as my runner’s body would take me. As I did so, I turned to see if they were pursuing me. I saw one man run after me, while the other ran back to the SUV.
Reaching the steam clock, I saw the crowd gathered. I stooped down lower than the height of the crowd, hiding, then quickly made my way through the crowd, hunched over as the steam erupted.
Once on the other side of the crowd, I took off running as fast I could on Cambie Street, heading toward the Vancouver harbor as I heard the whistles signaling the end of the clock’s display. I knew that direction was my only choice if I were going to lose my pursuers. As Cambie Street ended, I turned east, sprinting behind the shops that lined Water Street. Looking back, I didn’t see any agents. I figured that I had about a mile or so to run before I reached the cutoff toward the waterfront, which would take me to Portside Park. I knew that I could run in an all-out sprint for that distance.
I reached Carall Street and ran smack into one of the agents. He grabbed me by the wrist that my Taser hung from, pulling the weapon loose.
“You’re quite the runner, Ann,” he snarled, painfully twisting my wrist.
He knows my name.
I did the only thing I could. I put him down as the CIA trained me to. While he held my right wrist with his right hand, I turned so that my left side was toward his front, picked up my left leg, and stomped down on his right knee as hard as I could.
