The Fourth Betrayal

by Bruce Burrows

  I nodded and looked contemplative. The man in shirtsleeves waved his drink in my direction. “Glad you dropped in, Mr. Johnson. I’m Arnold Moody, Dr. Moody to these guys. What’s your take on the shooting? I gather the police aren’t making much headway.”

  “It doesn’t make much sense. Gerry was such a sweetheart of a guy, no enemies at all. I can only guess the motive was robbery. Gerry did occasionally deal in large amounts of cash.” There was a reverent pause, presumably at the mention of money. The other two introduced themselves, and I unfortunately forgot their names, remembering only that one was “in communications” and one “in manufacturing.”

  Ernhardt led me over to another group and we did another round of introductions. One guy announced himself as Tap Dickens of Crude Operations Inc. and gave me a coolly appraising look from behind steel-rimmed spectacles. Broad-shouldered, he was younger and fitter-looking than any of the others. As we went through the standard small talk, Dickens continued to look me up and down. At the first pause in the choreographed inanities, he took half a step toward me and said, “Mr. Johnson, I’m afraid I’m not as impressed by your friend Mr. Steadman as these gentlemen are. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I think he might have oversold himself. My contacts in Beijing have never heard of him.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “China is a big country, and there are numerous different factions, none of them fully aware of what the others are up to. There are three different factions in the central committee, there’s the politburo, and the army is also a major economic player. And on top of that there’s the rise of regional semiprivate industrial concerns.” Where the hell did I get all this stuff? It just flowed out of me.

  Dickens frowned at me. “You seem remarkably up-to-date on Chinese affairs. Where do you get your information?”

  “I’ve always been interested in China. My great-uncle was a friend of Norman Bethune. Black sheep of the family, of course, but any connection is a good connection, eh?” It was almost as if I was possessed, my mind hijacked by a glib, smooth-talking operator.

  Ernhardt certainly liked my act. He put his arm around me and said, “I think we’re really lucky you contacted us, Jimmie. It’s important that we reestablish the link with Gerry’s Chinese clients, and I think you can do it.”

  I nodded humbly and glanced at Dickens. He wasn’t buying it. Oh well, you can’t impress everybody. During the course of the next half hour, I was introduced to and schmoozed with all of the members of the Committee. There were the other “collectors,” each of them displaying the same wide smiles and narrow eyes, and the assorted businessmen who bent my ear about the immorality of “entitlements” while promoting the “rights of capital.”

  And then there was the other economist, a columnist for the National Post. He went on for an excruciatingly long time about how all the problems of First Nations communities could be solved by giving individuals the right to own land on their reserves. I couldn’t help but think, or maybe it was Dougie thinking with my brain, that First Nations people needed a hell of a lot more than ownership of their meager allotment of reserve land. What they really needed was ownership of some of the resources in their territories. I shook my head to get Dougie out of my brain and flashed a generic smile all around. “Damn right. Economic policy shouldn’t be racially based.” But Dougie again (damn it, man, get out of my head—I’m trying to concentrate) insisted on the last word. “But economic policy was racially based for years. First Nations weren’t allowed to commercially fish or vote or consult lawyers.” Dougie! Get out of my head. I’m doing a high-wire balancing act here and I don’t need anyone jiggling the wire.

  I almost felt him give me the familiar punch on the shoulder, and then I was left alone with a bunch of people I didn’t really want to be with. But I smiled and I nodded and I agreed and I acquiesced, and, having passed through the valley of the shadows of falsehood, I was eventually presented to the Chairman.

  He was sitting in a chair by the window. Two acolytes attended to him, leaning over as if trying to inhale the man’s essence, the pheromone of power. He had obviously transcended the need for the standard suit of business blue and was dressed in beige slacks, brown tweed sports jacket, and—I swear this is true—a maroon ascot. He must have been over seventy, but he was militarily upright in the chair and regarded the room with the unblinking calm of a tortoise king.

  Ernhardt introduced me, and when the Chairman spoke, I felt a chill as I recognized his voice. It was the unknown voice from Dougie’s tapes, the voice I’d heard pontificating about introducing genetically engineered salmon to the West Coast and also about guaranteeing bureaucratic endorsement for Chinese access to Canadian oil. And, I uncomfortably recalled, the need to eliminate opposition to the Committee’s interests.

  The Chairman was staring at me, and I realized I hadn’t heard a word he’d said. However, I’d had enough drunken bar conversations with spacey girls dancing to loud music to realize that conversation doesn’t necessarily need to be coherent. I summoned up a knowledgeable smile and threw out a word at random: “Absolutely.”

  That seemed to do the trick, for the Chairman continued in his quietly forceful voice. “I was shocked, as we all were, by the death of Mr. Steadman. I want—we all want—his killer caught.” His gaze never wavered from my face, and I was afraid he was reading me like a laser beam reads a DVD. He continued, “It is my sincere hope, our sincere hope, that his death was in no way, in absolutely no way, connected with the project that we were engaged in.” He continued to rake me with his eyes. “The fact that you shared so much history with Mr. Steadman gives us a degree of solace, if I may use that word, on two counts. Firstly, you may be able to shed some light on the circumstances that led to his death, and that would relieve the totally unwarranted but nevertheless distracting attention that is being focused on Mr. Ernhardt.” He was momentarily diverted by a slight cough and, clearly annoyed at this hint of weakness, covered his mouth with the back of one hand. One of the acolytes offered him something in a glass, and he indulged in the smallest of sips before relocking his eyes on my face. “And secondly, if Mr. Steadman confided at all in you, you may be able, to some degree, to resume his role, or should I say his responsibilities, in respect to the project we were engaged in. Do you think you could do that, Mr. Johnson?”

  I put both hands in my pockets and gazed at the ceiling. After a suitably deliberative pause, I nodded slowly. “Gerry confided in me to the extent of revealing some of his contacts. Hell, it was the least he could do after what we’d been through together. Given time and the necessary resources”—here I paused and looked the Chairman in the eye—“I believe I could pull something together.”

  The Chairman looked at me for a long time. “Mr. Johnson, you need to know three things. My name outside of this room is Paul Salinger, the business that we are engaged in is of the absolute utmost importance, and we can tolerate absolutely no interference.”

  I resisted the urge to grovel and placed my feet a little farther apart. Bending over slightly, I stared back at the Chairman with what I hoped was an equally intimidating stare. “My friend is dead. Your project may be dead unless I can reconcile certain people’s reluctance with other people’s ambitions. Let me see what I can put together.”

  The Chairman may have nodded. I’m fairly certain that I felt relief flood my body. But there was no doubt about Ernhardt’s gentle pressure on my arm as he led me back to the bar. My glass was empty, and, in the only thing I will ever say to Ernhardt’s credit, he refilled it. “You made an impression on the old man. I can tell he liked you.”

  “It was good to finally meet him. Gerry and I came up through the minors together. He made the majors before I did, but I’m a first-line player too. A smart GM and a smart player can help each other’s careers, know what I mean?”

  Ernhardt smarmed a grin at me. “The Chairman and the other guys totally support you. The only dissenter is Tap Dickens, who’s being a hard-ass because, I don’
t know, maybe because he feels left out or something. Why don’t the three of us get together for a coffee tomorrow and try to get comfortable with each other?”

  “I’ve got a 2:00 PM flight, but sure, I wouldn’t mind talking to Dickens. We all need to be working out of the same playbook. Let’s say nine thirty, in the coffee shop at my hotel. And now, Cliff, if you wouldn’t mind calling me a cab, I should start making calls to Beijing.”

  “No need for a cab. There’s lots of drivers outside. Let me get you set up.”

  Which he did, in a Mercedes something or other driven by a pleasant gentleman who seemed not at all unhappy with my tense silence and who delivered me in the most efficient manner possible to the Hotel Chateauvert.

  I had a hard time getting to sleep because I was excited about flying home the next day. I’d never been away from Oshie and the kids for this long, and I could feel myself diminishing. Maybe that’s why the character of Jimmie Johnson had been able to overtake me so completely.

  Morning found me in the coffee shop waiting for Cliff Ernhardt and Tap Dickens. When they arrived I could see that Dickens’s mood hadn’t improved since the previous evening. He was still suspicious and hostile, and his attitude was clearly worrying Ernhardt, who babbled nervously about upcoming tax legislation while I tried to look interested. Dickens sat across from me and said nothing. Even when the waitress took our orders, he just shook his head silently. Finally I decided that Jimmie Johnson should be irritated.

  “Dickens, what’s your problem? I’m doing my best to help you guys out and all I get from you is static.”

  Dickens looked at me for the first time. “I don’t think you’re trying to help us as much as you’re trying to help yourself. I never met your friend Gerry Steadman, and no one I know has heard of him. I think he was a small-timer playing over his head. The problem is, Mr. Johnson, that this is the big leagues. We can’t afford minor leaguers. I’ve got a lot riding on this project, a hell of a lot, and I can’t afford anyone dropping the ball.”

  I appealed to Ernhardt. “Cliff, was Gerry’s money minor league?”

  “Oh no, Jimmie, the money was major league. No doubt about that.”

  This placated Dickens somewhat and his intensity diminished by a couple of decimal points. “All right, I’m going to assume that we’re all on the same team. But I want to be absolutely crystal-fucking-clear that if anyone screws this deal up, I will be very angry. And so will my Chinese contacts. They want this pipeline. Hell, they need it. And they’re not as namby-pamby as we are. I feel sorry for anyone who gets in their way.”

  I was saved from having to make an immediate reply when the waitress arrived with my corned beef hash and a poached egg for Ernhardt. Only after I’d swallowed a healthy forkful did I respond to Dickens. Waving my fork vaguely in his direction, I said, “Tap, I may have been born in the country, but I’ve been downtown ever since. And I’ve been around the block ninety-nine times with no plans to make it a hundred. Know what I mean?”

  I wasn’t sure what I meant, but I congratulated myself for sounding impressively tough without actually making any threats. I returned to my corned beef hash. Ernhardt ignored his poached egg while chattering on about the need for teamwork and “parking our egos at the door.” Dickens listened in silence and had the decency to refrain from glowering. I quickly disposed of my breakfast, and as we stood to leave, disaster struck.

  I was standing at the till when I saw Alex Porter, the reporter with the Ottawa Times, walk in. He saw me and, probably because I was standing a little apart from Ernhardt and Dickens, didn’t realize that I was with them. He approached with a grin. “Ollie, I haven’t seen you for a few days. Any luck finding that story that Dougie was working on?”

  Ernhardt’s eyes widened and Dickens’s narrowed. They stared at me for just a moment before deciding to put as much distance between us as possible. I was left alone with Alex, who seemed to realize that something had just happened, even if he didn’t know exactly what. He gave me a blank look and spread his hands. “What?”

  Mentally cursing, I forced myself to smile and say something pleasant. “Hi, Alex. I’ve been busy. Gotta go.” And I went. Back in my hotel room, I started a damage assessment. Jimmie Johnson was obviously dead, but that was okay. Jimmie was expendable. I’d used him to get close to Ernhardt, and I’d learned some valuable things. One: Dougie had been posing as a player named Gerry Steadman, and his act had gained credibility from the fact that he’d been able to splash around a million dollars in “access fees” or “consulting fees” or whatever was the current terminology for bribery. Two: He’d gained access to Cliff Ernhardt and the Committee and the Chairman, and had insinuated himself into the political machinations around Chinese access to Canadian oil. Three: For some unfathomable reason, Dougie had been trying to set up Cliff Ernhardt for some kind of a fall, which had turned out to be, obviously unintended, Dougie’s, AKA Steadman’s, murder.

  So what was my next move? Should I go ahead and fly home, or did my blown cover mean I should stay in Ottawa to deal with whatever consequences came howling out of the darkness? It occurred to me that I should probably report to Staff Sergeant Stala. He was in his office when I phoned. “I met a bunch of interesting people last night. Every one of them is a moral black hole capable of worse things than murder. First of all, there’s the fourteen members of the Committee, which includes Ernhardt. Then there’s the Chairman, Paul Salinger. That’s his voice on tape number ten, asking in a very circumspect, roundabout way if Gerry Steadman, through his Chinese connections, could provide killers to remove opposition. There’s one other player, Tap Dickens, a hard-ass from Alberta who owns Crude Operations, the pipeline company. He was with me and Ernhardt when my cover got blown, and he was none too happy about it.”

  “Your cover was blown? Now you tell me. What happened?”

  I explained the unfortunate incident. “I can see Ernhardt and his gang going to your boss with a complaint that Jimmie Johnson was vetted by you.”

  “I can take care of myself. But what about you? You’ve pissed off some pretty heavy hitters. What if they come after you?” He paused for thought. “I’m going to have to let my boss talk to you. If you need protection, he’ll have to authorize it. I’ll set up a meeting, but we’ll never get him tomorrow. It’ll have to wait for Monday. In the meantime, don’t leave your hotel room. If there’s any attempt at contact from any of these guys, call me immediately. I’ll leave my cell on all weekend. All right?”

  “All right.” I hung up and morosely considered how I was going to tell Oshie that I wouldn’t be home today. She took it really well and managed to dissipate most of my guilty feelings, but then I talked to Daiki and Ren and the guilt came back with reinforcements. I spent a miserable evening with sleep denying me her comforting ministrations.

  And the evening sky imagined our fate.

  Fifteen

  I GOT THE PHONE CALL Sunday evening. It was Phil Trimmer. He was trying to sound angry but couldn’t hide the fear. “Swanson, you asshole!”

  My stomach churned uncomfortably. “What’s the problem?”

  “Ernhardt and some of his friends want to know why, when they sent me to follow Jimmie Johnson, I neglected to tell them that Jimmie Johnson was actually Ollie Swanson, best friend of that fucking reporter, Dougie Tarkenen, who was working on a story that could be extremely embarrassing to Ernhardt and his friends.”

  “Which friends?”

  “You wouldn’t know them. They’re from a long way away.”

  “China?”

  “You’re a smart guy, Swanson. Anyway, I need you to get over here and help dig me out of the shithole you’ve got me into.”

  “Are they with you now?”

  There was the slightest pause. “No. They want the two of us to go meet them.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t know. I’m supposed to phone them when you get here.”

  “What number did they give you?”

  “Chr
ist, Swanson! I’m in enough trouble already because of you. Just get the fuck over here.”

  He hung up before I could ask more questions. I immediately dialed Stala’s cell. It was shut off. Shit! He had promised to keep it on. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I could always try Stala’s number later. I grabbed my jacket along with the keys to Dougie’s dirt bike and left.

  I rode the elevator down to the parking garage, found the bike where I’d left it and took off for 721 Belmont Street. I followed the same route to Phil’s house as before, but this time I didn’t stop to buy a baseball bat. I didn’t think the Chinese would want to play ball.

  Just like the last time I’d visited Phil, I parked the bike half a block away, but now I approached the house from the back alley. Within two minutes I was standing behind a black minivan, staring at Phil’s backyard patio. I made another attempt to phone Stala, but his goddamn phone was still off. I went back to staring at the rear of Phil’s house. The inside lights were on, but the back porch light was off. I watched for maybe five minutes, which seemed like an hour, and there was no movement or sound. I took a deep breath and ran crouched over to the back window. I risked a quick peek inside and saw nothing. I forced myself to stand up and take a longer look, and I wished I hadn’t.

  Phil Trimmer was lying on his back in the middle of his kitchen floor. He was covered in blood. I scanned the room but saw no sign of anyone else. I looked behind me and saw no one. Finally I approached the back door and tried the knob. It was unlocked, so I opened the door and forced myself to enter the house. Phil hadn’t moved, and as I crouched down to feel his pulse I could see that he had been badly beaten.

  I had my fingertips pressed to what I thought was his carotid artery and my face close to his chest, trying to detect signs of breathing, when something shrilled in my ear. I leapt like a startled deer, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Landing in a defensive crouch, my intentions oscillated wildly from fight to flight to fainting with fear. After interminable milliseconds my rational human brain wrested control from my gibbering animal brain, and I realized that the sound was Phil’s cell phone. Following a pause for reset and recovery, I bent down and gingerly extracted it from his pocket. I flipped it open and said, “Hello.”