Everything was an escape back then, and now, he was escaping again.
When he’d arrived, he did a loop of Kahnawake to get a feel for his old stomping ground before parking. He drove up past the MIT building, along the dusty stretch of Highway 132 that snaked through the thin birch forests lining the reservation. Then he hooked back under the rusting trusses of the Mercier Bridge that spanned from this side of the river to Montreal Island. There were no street addresses on the reservation. Mohawks didn’t believe in owning the land.
Jake showed up in the reception area of the MIT building and asked the guard if Dean was around. The guard, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised at an unscheduled drop-in, told him to wait a few minutes in the lounge. Dean’s smiling face had appeared moments later. Before Jake could say anything, or even explain why he’d randomly dropped in after all these years, Dean took him on a whirlwind tour of MIT.
“Five server rooms now, and this whole building used to be a coat factory.” Dean opened a door and stepped onto an electrostatic mat for collecting dust. He brushed back his mop of black hair. A year older than Jake, Dean was edging forty, yet he didn’t have a fleck of gray. He had the aquiline nose and olive skin distinctive of the Mohawk tribe here. “We’re getting new customers faster than we can expand.”
Dean spoke in perfect English, even if this was the French province. Quebec didn’t have a French ‘quarter’—eighty percent of the population spoke it. Many Quebecers didn’t even speak English. In the middle of this French place, the Mohawks still spoke English, with one good reason being that even though they were located in Canada, the Mohawks had dual American and Canadian citizenship; they were North American citizens.
“Nice.” Jake followed Dean into the next room, also filled with more servers.
Many native Indian communities operated casinos on their land. It was a way of raising money for the community. But casinos tended to attract a certain type of person—they invited in the criminals, organized crime, prostitution and everything else that came with it. There was only one type of casino that didn’t bring people like that into the community: online casinos.
In 1998, the Mohawks of Kahnawake filed paperwork to create a legal international framework for operating online gambling. They were the second jurisdiction in the world, after Antigua, to open for business as a provider of web-based casino services, and outside of the state and provincial systems, they were still the only one in North America to be legally operational.
“And here’s why it all works.” Dean tapped a door labeled ‘Data Communications Link.’ “We’re global now.”
A fat data pipe running through the reservation, explained Dean, connected to the main fiber optic link that carried most of the data from Eastern Canada down into the US, straight from Montreal to New York, then branching out into Europe and the rest of the world. That connection made it possible to handle a mind-boggling amount of business.
This MIT wasn’t a university; it was a technology center. Dean explained that over three hundred online casinos ran out of the Kahnawake facilities, and the Mohawks now operated installations in Gibraltar, Singapore, London, Paris, all over the world. But this facility was their crown jewel, their home base on their home land, located in the twenty-five square miles of the Kahnawake Mohawk tribe’s land that they’d hung onto for the past four hundred years.
It was an unassuming crown jewel.
From the outside, the MIT building was a squat cinder-block building sitting next to the Red Wolf gas station and plaza, along a mostly deserted stretch of road dotted with small shacks advertising discount cigarettes and fireworks.
Dean continued with his tour. He led Jake into the UPS room. “Doesn’t mean United Parcel Service,” he laughed, “this is the battery back-up in case of any power failures.” He pointed out the back door. “And out there are three fail-over generators. We can keep power going for two days without refilling, and there’s a diesel station next door, too.”
“Nice.” Jake did his best to appear enthusiastic, but impatience was getting the better of him. He needed to know if Dean knew anything. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” Jake took a deep breath. “I’m here illegally, you should know that first.”
Dean stared at Jake. “Oh yeah? Because I don’t need to remind you that the last time you were here, you got me thrown in jail.”
▲▼▲
Jake looked around as he pushed through the swinging double doors of the Kicking Horse. Regulars were already stacked shoulder to shoulder at the bar, and the whole joint smelled of stale beer and damp carpets. At least this place hadn’t changed. “How did you hear about Sean’s death?”
Trailing in behind Jake, Dean nodded at the bartender and held up two fingers. “Through Mark. He was doing steel work on a building upstate.” He led Jake to the side of the bar where their two Budweisers were delivered. “He found out from Sean’s aunt. You know the one.”
Jake nodded. “Can I borrow your phone? I want to check my messages.” He took Sean’s warning seriously, so his phone was still in Schenectady.
“Sure.” Dean handed him his phone, then picked up a beer.
Jake dialed his own number. It would go to voicemail after five rings, and Jake could tap the # pound key to get into his voice message system and enter his password.
One ring, then two. Jake took a sip from his beer, waiting for the voicemail to pick up, when someone answered, “Hey there, this is Jake.”
He choked on his mouthful of beer. “Hello?” Jake answered. Had someone answered his phone?
“Please leave a message after the tone,” continued the voice, his voice.
He frowned and pulled the phone away from his ear, then typed in his password. Put the receiver back to his ear. No messages.
“Everything okay?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, I, um, yeah.” Jake stared at the phone. Was that the voice message he’d left on his system? He wasn’t sure, but then again, he’d set it up years ago. He handed the phone back to Dean.
“Any messages?”
“None.”
“You okay?”
Not really. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
On Jake’s psychopath scale, Dean barely registered. He was caring. Thoughtful. It was one of the reasons Jake had liked him so much, but Dean also had an uncomfortable way of sensing what other people were feeling.
“If you say so.” Dean took a sip of his beer, watching Jake carefully. “You know, the reason I’m in tech is because of Sean. He got me into all this stuff after my deployments. He even redesigned our payment system and the automated agents for our international money exchanges. Really helped us.”
Jake hadn’t known that. He shifted in his seat. “So what did you hear?”
“Heard that Sean had an accident in London.”
“Anything else?”
“And I heard that you had some”—Dean paused to choose his words carefully—“legal problems.” He put his beer down. “Sorry for dragging you on that tour. I wasn’t thinking. I was excited to see you. You know. To show you I did good.”
Jake grimaced. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
As teenagers, they’d gotten caught up in smuggling tobacco across the border. It was a big business in Kahnawake. After a few years of making good money, Dean had wanted to up the ante by smuggling drugs and even guns.
At the time, Sean had just gotten a scholarship to Columbia. Jake wanted Dean to come with them to New York, told him that smuggling guns and drugs would get him killed. They had a huge fight. In the end, Jake called in an anonymous tip to Quebec Police that got Dean arrested and thrown in jail, but at least it was as a juvenile.
Of course everyone knew who did it.
Dean picked up his beer and finished it off. “It took me a few years to realize it, but you did me a favor.”
When Dean got out of juvenile detention, Jake heard that he joined the US Marines. There weren’t a lot of opportunities for young Mohawks back th
en. To outsiders it might seem strange that a Canadian Mohawk could serve in the US military, but having dual American and Canadian citizenship encouraged many of the young Mohawks to do just that. Ex-Rangers and Special Forces filled the local legion hall. As the saying went around these parts, every family had at least one Marine.
Dean leaned across the table and put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “I forgive you.” He smiled. “How’s your family?”
“Everyone’s good,” Jake replied after a pause. “Or I mean, everyone’s the same.”
“And Eamon?”
“Just got out of Attica.”
Dean forced a smile, then motioned to the waitress for two more beers.
“How’s your dad?” Jake asked, deflecting the focus away from his family.
“Good.” Dean snorted. “You know the men in my tribe, he’ll live to be a hundred and drink and smoke every day of it.”
Jake smiled. He did know. Dean’s grandfather was born in 1866, before the Battle of Little Bighorn, even before the formation of Canada. He fathered Dean’s dad when he was seventy, and lived to be a hundred and six. Dean’s curious surname, Albany, came from his grandfather, who was born on a train between the stations of Albany and Schenectady. Mohawks had no surnames, but one had been given to the child on his official birth certificate—Albany. Over forty people in Kahnawake now shared the name.
In an indirect way, Dean’s surname was the reason Jake and Dean became friends.
One hot summer night when he was thirteen, Jake’s brother had sent him to get cigarettes from a gang of local Mohawk kids outside the Double Deuce poker hall, where their dad was gambling. Jake asked for Dean’s name, and when he said Albany, Jake replied that Albany sucked. Dean took offense and threw the punch that started their first fistfight. By the time both of them had bloody noses, Jake managed to explain that he’d been referring to the town of Albany, at which point they both broke into laughter.
“And your brothers?” asked Jake.
Dean shrugged. “You know, still in the tobacco business.” Still smuggling was the unspoken subtext. The waitress arrived with two more beers and Dean paid for them.
Two men came up behind Dean. One slapped him on the back. “How you boys doing?”
Jake looked down. One of them had a gun on his hip, and wore the Mohawk Peace Keeper police uniform.
Dean spun around. His face lit up. “Doug, Daniel, nice to see you.”
The guy who wasn’t in uniform turned to Jake and held out his hand. “Doug Hamer.”
The Mohawk Peace Keeper policeman held out his hand as well. “Peace Keeper Daniels.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Jake shook both hands. “Uh, Mark…Mark Smith.”
Dean frowned, but let it go. “Doug here is our local RCMP junior liaison. Helps run community activities with the kids, even coaches one of the Kahnawake soccer teams. And Officer Daniels”—Dean smiled—“heck, I served in the Marines with this bastard.”
Peace Keeper Daniels smiled. Jake did his best to smile back.
“Nice to meet you,” Doug said to Jake. “Listen, didn’t mean to barge in, and we gotta go. See you at your place later,” he added to Dean, clapping him on the shoulder. They both turned and walked out the front door.
Jake waited for them to disappear through the doors. “I thought there were no outside police here? Isn’t the RCMP like the FBI of Canada? What’s he coming to your place for?”
“Relax.” Dean turned to Jake. “He’s not here as an officer. He’s the junior liaison, working with the Peace Keepers. And he’s dating my daughter.”
Jake almost spat out a mouthful of beer. “Your daughter?”
Dean grinned. “She’s joining the Marines next year.”
Jake hadn’t even known Dean had children.
“We have some catching up to do.” Dean took a swig from the new beer. “She’s seventeen, I found out her mother was pregnant with her after I signed up for the Marines. I always tell her that by the time I was nineteen, I’d crossed the Indian and Pacific Oceans twice, done two humanitarian missions. She wants to be like her dad.”
Shaking his head, Jake offered up his beer bottle for a cheers. “Congratulations.”
“I heard you have a little one.”
“Yeah.” Jake smiled, but felt his insides drop away.
Dean had a family, just like he did. Did he have the right to drag Dean into this mess? Sean’s note said that Dean might be able to help him. But how? Had Sean talked to Dean? Jake put his hand into his jean pocket, feeling the two memory keys—one from Sean, one from Donovan—and his Silver Eagle dollar coin.
It was time to lay things out. “Dean, I’m not supposed to be here. I’m out on bail from the rape charges, and the SEC is investigating me in the Atlas fraud. They already arrested my boss.”
A tiny grin crept onto Dean’s face. “You ain’t standing on Canadian or American soil now—you’re in the Mohawk Nation.”
Jake understood what he meant. This was sovereign territory. They had their own police force, the Peace Keepers, as well as their own unofficial militia, the Mohawk Warriors, to defend themselves and their land.
A few years ago, the Canadian government had tried to ride roughshod over Mohawk burial grounds. Tensions escalated, leading to an armed standoff between the Mohawk Warriors blocking the roads and bridges into their territory and the Canadian military. Eventually, the Mohawks had won the day. The Warriors were an active and important part of the community.
“Did Sean talk to you lately?” Jake asked.
Dean shook his head.
“Because Sean asked me to come and talk to you,” Jake continued, “and he told me to go up to an address up north.”
“What did he want you to talk to me about?”
Jake reached into his pockets and produced the two memory keys. “I’m guessing that he knew I’d need help figuring out what’s on these.”
Dean nodded and reached for them, but Jake pulled back.
“One of them is from Danny Donovan, something he asked me to hide. There’s a federal investigation into Atlas. Might get nasty.”
“Sounds like fun.” Dean grabbed them. “You mean your boss, the guy they arrested?”
“Yeah. He said that Sean did some work for him before Anna was born. I think Sean did it to help me out, but he didn’t say anything. Donovan said it’s why he gave me the job in the first place.”
“That sounds like Sean.” Dean inspected the memory keys. “Did Donovan say what it was?”
“I looked, but all I understood was a listing of a bunch of shell companies. Most of it seems to be directories of software, and I have no idea how to interpret it. The other one, the black one, that’s from Sean.”
“From Sean?” Dean held the memory key up. “He gave you this before the accident?”
Jake looked straight into Dean’s eyes. “That was no accident. And he’s not the only one who’s dead.”
He pulled Vidal’s death certificate from his pocket.
16
Northern Quebec
“No offense, bud-dee, but you going to need warmer clothing. There nothing up ‘ere but black bear an’ ca-ree-boo till Russia!” the pilot said in his thick French Canadian accent, erupting into a phlegmy smoker’s laugh.
Jake could barely hear him over the roar of the plane’s engine. He peered out of his side window. Thousands of feet below a carpet of green forest and blue lakes swept by. He’d read somewhere that Canada had three million lakes, more than anywhere else on the planet. The pilot skimmed underneath a ceiling of clouds that dotted the sky to the horizon.
The Super Cub bush plane was at least thirty years old—a two-seater, the pilot in front and Jake in back. With floats on, it topped out at ninety miles an hour, but it was the best Dean could come up with on short notice.
“She’s old, but she’s reliable,” the pilot said, patting the instrument panel. “Just how I like my women!” Another throaty cackle. He said something else, but Jake co
uldn’t tell if he was speaking in English or French. Sounded like a mix.
Past the red Canadiens hockey team baseball cap on the pilot’s head, Jake stared at a screwdriver shoved into the ignition switch, the exposed wiring wrapped together with electrical tape. Maybe this was a bad idea. The interior was bare metal and webbing, smelled of engine oil and rotten fish, not to mention the sour odor of last night’s whiskey. Jake smelled the booze—had nearly been knocked over by it—the moment he’d opened the side door to get into the cockpit. He would’ve gotten right back out, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
This was a favor.
“I fly, too!” Jake yelled over the engine.
He tried to convince himself that he could take over if it came to it, but that was a stretch. The pilot was only half the problem. The plane was falling apart. Jake had seven hours of experience in a Cessna with his trainer, and had never landed by himself. Bringing this rickety thirty-year-old bush plane down on the edge of the Canadian arctic was a bit out of his comfort zone.
“Oh yeah?” laughed the pilot. “You want to take over?” He let go of the flight stick between his legs and made as if to unbuckle his straps.
“No, no!” Jake shouted, alarmed, but from the roar of laughter up front he realized the old guy was kidding.
Smiling and nodding in recognition of the joke, Jake leaned back in his seat as the pilot kept talking. Someone had once asked him where on the planet he thought the biggest herds of animals existed. Thinking of the video footage he’d seen of the massive wildebeest migrations in the African savannah, he’d made that his answer. But the correct response was Quebec. There were herds of over a million caribou—what people in the rest of the world called reindeer—that roamed the tundra of northern Quebec. It was another world up here.
Jake was exhausted, but three hours of bone-jarring vibration kept him awake.
That, plus his fear of the pilot passing out.
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