by J M Dolan
Early morning work demanded comfort. Jamee snuggled into a pair of lined, washed-out jeans. Thick, red striped socks and a plushy soft, white merino wool sweater followed.
She’d let her hair dry naturally. It had a tendency to curl without the use of a hair dryer. Short, honey-coloured wisps with highlights of red fell onto her brow, twirled around twinkling diamonds studs in her ears and brushed the nap of her neck. An intricately engraved locket on a delicate golden chain nestled at her throat. Dressed, and more than a little desperate for caffeine, Jamee descended the elegant spiral staircase to the main level.
She pushed open the swinging door to the cheery blue and white kitchen and got a start on coffee. She liked her coffee the old-fashioned way. Cowboy coffee, brewed from fresh roasted ground beans poured steaming hot into a gaudy mug and paired with a good glug of rich cream.
Jamee stood gazing out the kitchen bay window, coffee cup in hand. Overnight, a moist band of air from the west coast had crossed the Rockies bringing with it a dump of wet snow. Prairie weather could be brutal and amazing. Right now, that snow was pristine and pure. The scarlet berries of the mountain ash were vibrant in contrast. Cedar Waxwings, perched together in tight little groups waiting for the fruit to thaw, shared body heat in the sudden cold. By afternoon a Chinook would be blowing in warm dry air to eat the snow, raising the temperature several degrees before returning the autumn landscape.
Jamee took her coffee and a plate of penny sandwiches she’d spread with homegrown and handmade, crab-apple rhubarb jam on flax bread and headed into her office. It was six, bloody hell a.m. Time to get to work.
When she was a lass, the goal of a lot of girls was to be prettier. Jamee just wanted to be smarter, for sure thinner, and maybe a better singer. On the other hand, there was Rule Number Seven — when you don’t have money it ranks right up there with oxygen. Jamee had worked hard and the money seemed to follow. Strength, loyalty, goodness, and integrity were words she lived by. Duty fit her too, but she often found duty burdensome and a kind of self-imposed guilt. Take her sister for example. What to do about that mess? It was beginning to look like a train wreck.
Her calls and emails to the placement agency continued to remain unanswered. Jamee liked being in the driver’s seat and sitting around twiddling her thumbs in the hope someone would get back to her was maddening. Maybe she could do something about that. Over the next couple of hours, she used her computer skills to examine placement agencies both in Canada and overseas.
It wasn’t necessary to hire an immigration consultant. Using one wouldn’t get the application special attention or guarantee its approval. All the necessary forms and information were available for free on the Citizenship and Immigration Canada website. Which didn’t necessarily mean it was a cake walk.
Immigration fraud was a problem that at the very least slowed down the processing of valid applications, and in Canada, was a criminal offense.
Not that any of that would have mattered to Jeff. He once bragged to her about the women, men in the camps were finding on International internet dating sites. Word around was that foreign women made better wives – more obedient and easier to please. That was according to the rig pigs, an expert group to be sure.
She had checked with Abi and it didn’t appear there was even a contract in place. The only thing Jeff had in writing was the information the agency provided, and it was all related to Odessa’s suitability for the job. Anything legally binding was in the forms Abi filled out for Immigration. It was infuriating. Nothing like dealing with a problem where the solutions had all gone kaboom.
It was looking more and more like Jeff, and therefore Abi, had been fleeced. Even more disturbing was that somehow this whole fiasco was possibly related to the loss of a woman’s life.
Having found nothing concrete in her internet surfing that might tie Jeff’s consultant or the represented agency to Odessa’s death, Jamee branched out. She would look to her own network. She couldn’t shake the suspicion that the people Jeff hired weren’t on the up and up. André had been her first call. Franie would be her next.
Franie Le was a CIC Enforcement Officer whose greatest satisfaction was to deliver the letter of the law. Franie hated cheaters, but she was also fair, honest and surprisingly compassionate. Franie, was Jamee’s go to gal at Immigration and friend for life.
She and Franie had been pals for years, starting when their paths had crossed while working for the city police crime lab. Both had just graduated from College eager to start the working part of their lives. Grabbing the cordless phone out of its cradle, Jamee moved to the velveteen chase lounge in front of the fireplace. It gave her a view out the window and allowed her to put her feet up. Cuddled under a tartan patterned lap blanket she made her call. The number was a guarded secret.
“Yo, Franie Le,” she sang out when the line picked up.
“Dia dhuit, mo charaid and piuthar”
“Hello, my friend and sister, to you too.” Jamee laughed. “Your Gaelic is improving.” Her voice took on a teasing note. “Good teacher, I’m guessing.”
“Oh, you’re always chin-wag’n for a complement,” rebuked Franie.
Jamee snorted. “It’s straight out talent is what it is.”
“So,” drawled Franie after a short pause. “Is this call personal or business?”
“A bit of both. First, I have a cockamamie situation for you that surprise, surprise centers on that horse’s petute, Jeff. He’s proven once again that he’s a troll who lives under a bridge. I should have punted him before he ever had a chance to date Abi. Now it’s like the song, Earl Has to Die, just change the name.”
“What’s the douchebag done now?” Franie snorted.
“I’ll give up the details over soon to be had cocktails,” promised Jamee, “but suffice to say, the caregiver thing is all mucked up.” Jamee purposely kept it light. She didn’t really want Franie to realize how very angry she was with Jeff.
“The caregiver went missing, turned up dead and police are ruling it a possible suspicious death. It’s all very circumspect, but I’m working the case with Samuel Craig, through the Attorney General’s Office.”
“What…what! Did you just say your care-giver is dead?
“As a door mat.
“Cripes, Jamee.” Franie exhaled sharply. “How do you wheedle yourself into these states of affairs.”
“Never my fault.”
“Maybe, but it’s too much drama. How can you cope?”
“Easy,” Jamee shot back. “I add scotch to my morning cup of tea. It gives you gonads. And, what the hell.” She threw caution to the wind. “I might as well call it as it is, when I see that bloody Jeff I’m going to chew him a new asshole.” So much for holding back her true feelings.
“It’s looking like he hired the caregiver from an unauthorized consultant agency and that’s, just for start. I need a favour Franie, but it’s a big ask.”
“Jamee, you slay me. Give me the caregiver’s name and the agency and I’ll do some digging,” said Franie. Jamee knew her friend wouldn’t question the favour. Franie, Colette and André had become the sounding board for her work as a government contract specialist. She could trust them to keep her confidences and set boundaries.
“You’re a pal. The caregiver’s name is Odessa Nadiya Koval, she’s from Ukraine. Everything I have will be in an email. I’ll give you another name as well, Veronika Kaminski. Sorry, I don’t have a middle name. Both women entered Canada through Montréal and were twice on the same flight.
“Kaminski’s name comes up on a flight manifest that shows the two women traveling from Toronto to Calgary, several days after their arrival in Canada. It might be just a coincidence, but I’d like to track Kaminski as well,” said Jamee.
“Veronika Kaminski, that sounds Russian,” suggested Franie. “She may have gone State-side with a new passport – a kind of a get out of jail card. It’s been done before. Leave it with me. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be picking up the tab fo
r the cocktails and throwing in dinner.”
“You know it,” said Jamee. Jamee was aware she had good instincts and skill, but it was nice to have back up even if it was arm’s length.
While they were talking, Jamee’s email arrived in Franie’s inbox.
“Jamee give me a minute, I’ll scan through the details and initiate cross-referencing the name of the placement agency into the system.
“I can call you back.”
“No need, here’s what I can tell you after a quick search” said Franie. “The CBSA notified us of charges laid against said agency and the female consultant Jeff hired. The woman was alleged to have been acting as an authorized immigration consultant, when she’s not. She’s been charged with fraud and faces two offences under the Immigration and Refugee Protection Act and, two offences under the Criminal Code.
“The agency was representing, for a fee upon completion, a large number of work permit applications for corporate and individual clients. Some of the applications, while they were completed and the fees collected, were never submitted for processing. The clients received forged, substituted documents purportedly from CIC, instead of valid visas. Evidence of fraudulent letters, stating the clients were authorized to work while awaiting work permits was found. These letters were provided to employers, when in fact the client was not authorized to work in Canada. In some cases, the employers were fictitious. That purpose may have been to gather a surplus of workers. It’s also alleged, that the agency misrepresented individuals who were seeking live-in caregiver status. More charges are pending.”
Franie paused for impact. “The kicker though, is that when CBSA agents raided the consultant’s office to bring the agent into custody, the place was vacated — nothing left but office furniture. Any electronics, computers and such, were missing. By now they’ve likely been destroyed and any evidence of an agency and the phony consultant has disappeared — like smoke into the wind.”
“Bloody hell,” Jamee cursed. “That Live-in Caregiver program is just too tempting. It invites misuse. I surely believe in the need for caregivers, my own sister is a case in point, but it’s way too attractive a way to get quick permanent status. The program is a magnet for abuse and ripe for exploitation.
Jamee knew she was up on her soap box but she just couldn’t help herself. “After two years of work, caregivers are able to apply to become permanent residents. Other groups aren’t given that latitude,” Jamee let out a burst of pent up air. “It boils down to priority treatment, when in my mind all workers have the same worth. You know equality for a job well done. Why should there even be a separate immigration stream for live-in caregivers.” The question was rhetorical. Jamee wasn’t expecting Franie to give her the answer.
“One other thing,” continued Jamee with no less passion. “Equally concerning to me is that many live-in caregivers are women who in a lot of cases leave young children and husbands behind. I realize most come of their own free will to provide a better life for their families,” said Jamee, “but it’s a hard sell for me.
“You don’t have to convince me,” responded Franie. “I see it every day. The reality of these outrageous processing times is hardship and cruelty. When family is involved reunification can be an agonizing
It’s not surprising to me,” continued Jamee, “that there is wiggle room for fraud to surface.” She was warming to her indignation of the situation. “It’s no longer the Wild West Franie but still, there are bad guys waiting to take advantage of desperate circumstances. And,” she railed, “when it was the Wild West at least Jessie James worn a mask and carried a gun.”
“More due diligence before and after is warranted,” agreed Franie, “but we don’t have the manpower to meet the processing targets, let alone making sure promises and morals are adhered too. I’ll admit it’s something that keeps me awake at night. Oh, and since I have you all fired up,” said Franie, “one last thing. Besides the fraudulent caregiver visa, most of the other work permits obtained through the agency were approved for employment with massage parlours, escort agencies and bars with exotic dancers. This isn’t definitive, but my guess is that your two names will fall under that category. If Koval didn’t activate her visa, there seems to be only one other line of work the agency was involved with.
“Oh no.” Jamee held up her hand. “I’ve had my one per phone call soap box rant. Don’t get me started on massage slash spa parlours, escort agencies, exotic dancers and how that leads to human trafficking. That’s a whole other level, and surely not in this case.” Exasperation made her voice terse.
“Well, you’re not wrong on what you’ve said,” acknowledged Franie. “Yet, equally a part of your rant about the abuses, is the flip side I see. Thankfully, I believe that there are lots of kind and caring people employing foreign workers who have the same compassion for them and their families, as you.
“Thank God, for the decency in most people,” agreed Jamee.
“That report on the investigation of the placement agency came from the CBSA. You could reach out to André,” Franie suggested.
“In the meantime, I’ll let you know as soon as possible the status in Canada of both women you’re investigating. Tioraidh, for now.”
“Tioraidh,” chorused Jamee.
* * *
Jamee exchanged her cordless, for the old-fashioned land line and dialed the number. The old school phone boasted better audio than her cordless, was leaps and bounds superior to her cell, and was much harder to trace.
“André”
“Mon Cherie, a pleasure,” André’s resonating, French-Canadian accent came clearly over the line.
“Any chance you remember the names of the two women we spoke about the other day?” asked Jamee.
“Qui, I’ve been expecting your call since a certain report crossed my desk. A Canada Border Services Agent issued the two women in question Temporary Work Permits at the Montréal point of entry. Everything else in regard to the CBSA agent has gone quiet, pending an anticipated internal review. Our department was already investigating the Immigration Consultant Agency, but our cross referencing is what brought up the two women’s names and pointed to an inside man. I’m getting credited for some heads-up work. So, thanks to you for that pat on the back. Still not letting them in on the fact I’m sharing,” cautioned André “can’t be seen as flying too close to the flame in this line of work. Gotta appear part of the team or things get right uncomfortable around here.”
“Hard to dispute the truth in that statement,” Jamee said with sympathy in her tone. “Law enforcement has always been a tight ship, understandable in most cases but not all. That’s for sure not, when a bad banana shows up. Then it’s hard to be the good guy, so thanks a bunch, pal.”
* * *
Across town Franie started a deeper, system search for data regarding both Odessa Koval and Veronika Kaminski. It took time to comb through the layers. She had a passing thought as she looked for Kaminski, that it might be easier in a country like Russia, where GPS technology was actually allowed in order to tag citizens — both their own and those from abroad. Entering the names one more time, Franie hit the search key. It would take several minutes to process the multi-level hunt and seek so she might just as well grab a coffee.
The coffee bar was a popular spot and she looked forward to a bit of light conversation while she got her refill. Franie was disappointed to see she was about to miss one of her favourites when her co-worker Marge passed her in the aisle. Marge was a vivacious brunette that Franie sometime engaged in a bit of chit-chat. They weren’t well acquainted, but the woman always had a bright smile and an upbeat story to share, good qualities in a co-worker. Today, Marge gave her a cheery wave as she paused behind Franie’s desk then headed towards the side door her coat slung over her arm. Must have some errands to run was Franie’s passing thought.
***
The Wolf stepped from the side of the CN Tower, easily blending in. There was a multitude of pedestrians on the st
reet. Tourists, who with heads tipped back, stopped to gawk at the imposing needle-like structure with its sky high revolving restaurant mingled with workers rushing to get to their lunch. He slipped into the alley adjacent to the beige Federal Immigration building. His tan slacks and classic caramel-coloured, Melton wool coat blended into the outline of the wall, creating an illusion of invisibility. The street was full of activity, so the alley was an easy side-step not likely to be observed by passerby’s.
The Wolf stuck to the perimeter and kept his pace brisk, a silent shadow, a reminder of his namesake. His contact was waiting in the alley doorway and joined him. Neither spoke until they turned the corner leading to a sheltered maintenance area.
“I am your servant, Reynaldo,” whispered the woman, providing the code phrase confirming her identity as his Canadian contact.
“Polonius, your master,” responded the Wolf.
The woman was a sleeper agent and a key plant. They’d been fortunate to place her so strategically. His hope was today they’d be rewarded for their investment and she would earn the monthly off shore bank account that had been set up for her under her true identity. Other subversives with code names borrowed from the tragic figures of Shakespeare’s plays, rounded out the operation.
Reynaldo provided the information that allowed him to find targets worthy to risk spying on and the Wolf connected with them through phony immigration recruiters and immigration staff that were open to his incentives The organization worked in compartmentalized teams and only he knew each one’s purpose and identity. And, no one knew his. Living within a hidden identity wasn’t a sacrifice to the job — he liked the cloak and dagger.
The women pulled a cigarette from her purse. He took the lighter from her hand and producing the flame, held it to the tip. She shivered from the cool wind and stepped further into the shelter of the maintenance building wall.
