October 1970

by Louis Hamelin

  “Bidasses?”

  “It’s slang for ‘soldier.’ Don’t tell me you’ve never heard it before?”

  “Sure I’ve heard it, but … What’s the link with Coco?”

  “Oh, he was friends with a couple of soldiers. Everyone’s pretty tight on the South Shore. There was a base in Saint-Hubert, you know, Mobile Command and all that … I even went to Ottawa with Coco one time. He told me he was going to meet General Jean-B. Bédard to talk about a project they had together, that’s all I remember. And tulips, of course, I remember tulips because while he was at his meeting, I took a walk along the Canal, and — okay, so maybe I’m inventing the tulips — but the year was 1968. I remember because of Dalida’s Le Temps des Fleurs, you know, Those were the days, it was always playing on the radio …”

  And Mme. Corps, her cheeks red, closes her eyes and begins to sing.

  Those were the days, my friend

  We thought they’d never end

  We’d sing and dance, forever and a day

  We’d live the life we choose

  We’d fight and never lose

  For we were young and sure to have our way

  “Samuel? Are you listening … Samuel?”

  DEER PARK

  FRED IS DRIVING HIS SMALL car through the pretty countryside. The tender green of newly unfolded leaves, beech trees, a few oaks, a landscape grown over the alluvial plain by the first few folds of the Canadian Shield. A few kilometres before Sainte-Béatrix, he turns left and drives along Saint-Paul Lane. Horses, three, four of them, powerful legs, muscular haunches and large necks, are galloping in the pasture, a golden light behind them. Past the fields, he slows when he sees the large wooden sign, painted in bright red with a silhouette of a doe drawn on it, just before the turn on the access road whose curve hugs the side of the hill next to the forest.

  DEER PARK

  He sees a large house built lengthwise, invisible from the road until he passes under a gated arch in the wall and ends in an inner courtyard. A few buildings lie around like discarded children’s toys: a garage, shed, cabin. Then a flotilla of vehicles: tractors, ATVs, minibuses, pickups. A bit farther off, a decent-sized pond where ducks play bumper cars at the feet of an old statuesque man scratching at a piece of bread. Benches carved in tree trunks, long chairs, and a windowed kiosk are disposed around the pond. On the benches, more white-haired folk.

  Barely out of the car, Fred sees the director come out of the door and walk toward him. He recognizes him by his nose.

  “Mr. Falardeau?” asks the director, offering his hand.

  “Mr. Langlais?” Fred asks.

  He takes the proffered hand and shakes it.

  Dominating the enclosure, the observation post is both viewpoint and watchtower. It is accessed by a staircase of pressure-treated wood. Thirty metres up from it, in the middle of a clearing in the undergrowth, the feeding post consists of a pile of apples and carrots, a salt lick, and an automatic corn distributor. The pond’s discharge stream sings as it slides between the stones that mark the edge of the clearing, ensuring a supply of water even in winter (the Deer Park director adds).

  “Call it zootherapy if you want. I personally have no problem with that. What’s for sure is that we’ve noticed a link between the aesthetic pleasure that our residents take from their observational activities, and the positive results in their cognitive tests. It also has positive effects on memory tests. A stimulating effect, performance-wise, that’s for sure.”

  “Fascinating. And when I think that I wondered whether there’d be a link with Louis XV …”

  “With …” The director’s surprise is obvious. “Louis XV?”

  “Yes. The Deer Park. It was the place, at Versailles, where Mme. Pompadour would store the young women destined to fulfill the king’s baser instincts.”

  “Really? I didn’t know … it’s a period I don’t know so well.”

  “You should. A fascinating character, Louis XV. To govern, he preferred to trust his spies and secret diplomacy rather than the officers of his own government. The Chevalier d’Éom, you know, the famous transvestite prince of secrets, worked for him. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure.”

  The two men face each other in the summer house. Still not a deer in sight.

  “Let’s go to my office,” the director offers.

  They’re in the office. We won’t describe it here or we’ll never see the end of this book. But it’s a director’s office in a long-term care facility for people suffering from Alzheimer’s.

  “Tell me a bit about your father,” François Langlais asks.

  “He’s a historian … David Falardeau. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “His most famous work is on the Battle of Eccles Hill (that’s near Frelighsburg) in 1870. Irish Independentists who’d hidden out in the United States tried to invade Canada more than once. That time, they were met with solid resistance, in great part because the man who looked after their supply of ammo, a French doctor called Henri le Caron, was in fact an English spy called Beach. After the Fenians’ defeat, he was captured and brought to Ottawa, where those who knew his actual role welcomed him as a hero.”

  “And … your father.”

  “Had a real passion for the Second World War. And was a great admirer of the British Secret Service. Before working on Eccles Hill, he worked on another story having to do with the Fenians: the Victoria Jubilee Plot. Officially, it was an Irish nationalist scheme to attack the monarchy, but it was defeated at the last moment by the authorities. In reality, it was an entire ploy set up by the British secret service to penetrate terrorist groups and compromise the legal independence movement …”

  Director Langlais puts his pen down, leans back into his ergonomic chair and, chin cupped in his hand, looks at Frederic attentively.

  “Okay. Well you’re not here because of your father’s Alzheimer’s …”

  “No. I’m here to talk to you about Pierre.”

  The Deer Park director begins to lift himself out of his chair.

  “I know no one of that name. You’re wasting my time.”

  “Sure, ask me to leave. I knew you would …”

  Fred takes a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, folded in eight. He unfolds it slowly and pushes it toward Langlais, who can’t stop himself from looking down.

  “The Rosetta stone,” Fred says, answering the unspoken question.

  The director picks up the photocopied page and, adjusting his glasses on his nose with his forefinger, brings it closer to his eyes.

  KEY WITNESS DETAINED

  SECRET FLQ MEETING HELD ON NIGHT OF NOVEMBER 3–4

  He lifts his eyes up from the article for a second or two to stare at Fred. Then he lowers his eyes and reads through the text. His expression betrays nothing as his mouth sketches a dreamy pout halfway through the article.

  The two cells of the FLQ that have claimed responsibility for the kidnappings of the British diplomat John Travers and the Minister of Labour Paul Lavoie linked up on the night of November 3rd and held a meeting that lasted until early the next morning, two trusted sources close to the Sun’s reporter have indicated.

  The accuracy of the information previously given by these two sources, as well as their professional honesty, cannot be called into question.

  “The man who led the meeting is still under our control,” one of the sources indicated.

  “He’s already testified, and we didn’t learn much, but we’re convinced that he still has much to tell us. And he doesn’t know that we know.

  “We’re keeping him isolated for now from a number of other individuals we’re currently holding as witnesses.

  “He’s convinced that we don’t have any other questions to ask him. And that’s exactly what we want him to believe.

  “But, when the time is right, we’ll bring him back in front of a judge and he’ll have to answer much more direct questions.

  “He won’
t be expecting it. We’ll surprise him when his guard is down, and he’ll confirm everything we already know.

  “Such a corroboration of the facts already in our possession will no doubt be quite a boon to the investigation.

  “The only problem is, we still have to wait before bringing him back to testify. But we don’t have a choice. Our reasons, when made public, will appear reasonable,” one of our sources has claimed.

  [ … ]

  “We have no assurances that Mr. Travers is still alive. What we do know, however, is that there have been important disagreements between both cells.

  “Of the two groups that have committed a kidnapping, one is radically opposed to the death penalty, applied to whomever: be it themselves, or their hostage,” the source added.

  He places the sheet of paper back down.

  “That’s very strange …”

  “Mr. Langlais, do you go snowshoeing? Have you seen fox tracks in the snow?”

  “I wouldn’t recognize them.”

  “In my case, it was my friend Sam Nihilo who taught me. If the track zigzags, it means the fox is hunting. If it’s going straight, you know it’s heading back to its den. Sometimes you can follow the tracks all the way back home. When tracking humans, it’s always a bit harder. And I know what I’m talking about, since I once spent three months following Goupil in France and England …”

  “Are you sure your father doesn’t have Alzheimer’s?”

  “Quite sure. Now, Mr. Langlais, you have good reason to listen to me. You want to know how far I followed the tracks in the snow …”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Doesn’t matter, it’s a fable. It’s called The Fox, the Deer, and the Penguin. Oh, and there are wolves, also. In the end, the fox is left hanging from a fence, as an example.”

  Langlais remains silent.

  “That Sun article you read,” Fred says, pointing to the photocopy. “For the longest time, I couldn’t understand it. The only thing it seemed to demonstrate was that the antiterrorist police, or the secret service, or both, had been there on the night of November 3 on chemin Queen-Mary. And that they had followed the man they’d seen leaving the apartment, so they knew about the base of operations in the northern part of Montreal, and also knew, a week before his being freed, where John Travers was being held. But the entire business of your role in the story remained rather obscure to my eyes. Why did the anonymous sources insist that the messenger (you!) was in the authorities’ hands in November of 1970? I couldn’t understand …”

  Fred slides his fingers over the photocopy.

  “There was an element missing. It was in the previous day’s paper, a couple of paragraphs, an unsigned news item that told of a young FLQ kid exiled in London who’d hanged himself in his cell, in Reading, just before being questioned by the police.”

  Fred stops himself. Through the window behind Langlais, he sees a skunk walking across the parking lot with a grass snake in its mouth.

  READING GAOL, GREAT BRITAIN,

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1970

  The prisoner, plunged into a state of lethargy, was already breathing with difficulty when the man knelt over him on the bunk and placed both his gloved hands around his throat. He was serious, had stopped all his sinister jokes (on the high quality of the drug and the colour of the young man’s shirt: pink). In one quick movement, he tightened his grip around the boy’s throat, breaking his larynx. Then, holding on despite the violent shaking and jerking of the dying man on the bunk, he maintained the pressure until complete asphyxiation.

  “Fucking queer,” he said when it was all over.

  Unsteadily, he moved away from the bunk, let himself fall to his knees in front of the toilet bowl, a bit farther off, and emptied his stomach.

  His accomplice, who’d been standing away from the whole scene, came closer and picked up the shirt that had fallen to the floor. Bending over, he slipped one sleeve around the victim’s neck, keeping his eyes away from the man’s face, and tied a knot. Realizing he hadn’t kept a long enough length of sleeve to double the knot, he undid it and began again. Knotting the sleeve with care, he doubled the knot and pulled it tight. The pink shirt looked to have been made out of something like silk. He saw the other man next to the bowl, wiping his mouth.

  “Are you okay?”

  The man nodded.

  Turning back to his work, the other man picked up the body in his arms and, holding it under the armpits, lifted it toward the bars as if he were a bouncer dragging a drunk out of the bar who couldn’t stand up on his own two feet. The young androgynous man he was holding between his arms smelled of sperm and shit. He held the body against the wall for a moment to catch his breath, arms straight, before raising it a few inches to allow his partner to thread the other arm of the shirt through a crack over the door. It took a few attempts to make it work. The man who’d tied the knots joked that he felt as if he were slow dancing with the faggot. Closing the door a little, the killer finally managed to wedge the extreme end of the sleeve into the crack while his accomplice, grunting, slowly let go of the hanging man. He dangled at the end of his pink rope. His feet barely grazed the ground.

  As they closed the door, careful not to wedge the sleeve out of its perch, the entire body shook in a final death spasm. One of his arms dangled, making it seem as though the corpse were pointing to the toilet bowl in the corner.

  “Jesus Christ …”

  They looked at each other. They’d forgotten to flush.

  “In Europe,” Fred continued, “I traced the Goupil family and gained access to the coroner’s report. In addition to the unclear circumstances of his arrest and the bizarre way in which his shirt sleeve had been wedged in the door, there was a troubling detail: Goupil was on medication in prison. He took two Phenergan tablets every four hours. Promethazine hydrochloride is a powerful sedative, used, in the past, as a birthing sedative for women. Phenergan acts on the respiratory system, leading, in some cases, to anoxic issues in newborns. What Goupil was taking every four hours was a hundred milligrams of the stuff, the recommended daily dose. In other words, he was completely drugged …”

  “Of course they killed him!” Langlais suddenly shouted out, livid. “Scotland Yard’s Special Branch … you think I don’t know? They’re the antiterrorist cops over there. They made it look like suicide, of course. Another day’s work for those assholes. You’ve no idea what they’re capable of …”

  “I have no idea. But you do …”

  The two men looked at each other for a moment in silence. Fred continued: “During your time in England, you became a creature of the British secret service. There’s a fine line between an agent and an informant. What I think is that you were what is now called an agent-informant. In fact, you might have been a French agent when you started working with the British. Or was it the RCMP, through your friends in Algiers? They don’t call it the intelligence community for nothing: there’s always an overlap of interests in that world, and there are no rules about having more than one master. To what extent you collaborate voluntarily, or are under constraints, or are manipulated, depends on your handler. In any case, the British. You were talking to them, but they didn’t have you under absolute control yet …”

  Langlais smiled. Fred continued: “A terrorist group preparing a violent action is, for secret services, a bit like a breakaway in a cycling race: the best way to avoid surprises is to place a man in the midst of it. In the Rebellion Cell, you might not have been the only one. Lancelot had his share of questions, and nobody would be surprised if we find out that Mansell was the CIA’s man. In any case, there was at least one other agent that autumn in the Jesuit’s apartment: the hostage. We now know that Travers was cozy with MI5. At the time, we took it for granted that Soviet embassies were full of KGB agents, and we went around acting as if we believed democracies behaved differently. Now, suppose that after having foiled a couple of kidnapping plots, the boss of the Combatants in CATS,
after having linked up with the RCMP’s security service and military intelligence, had said: ‘Next time, let’s give them a bit of time to threaten the established order. Of course we’ll arrest them, but all in good time. Better yet: let’s help them. We’ll give them the hostage …”

  “Yes. A trap, and a good one, from the start. Travers’s kidnapping went through without a hitch. Lavoie’s kidnapping wasn’t predicted at first, but his death was an unhoped for boon, one that multiplied the psychological effect a thousand times over. But it might have also slightly worried your contacts in London. A regular diplomat could have been sacrificed, but Travers was a buddy and you know what? Buddies are sacred. What if those crazies hurt him in the end? Trudeau might have had his political reasons to let the crisis degenerate, but they probably weren’t appreciated by the British. Suddenly their confidence in you and your little friends wasn’t as strong. But they had you under close enough watch to know that you read all the papers, and, hey, what a surprise, they were well connected through the media …”

  Fred picks up the Sun article and waves it at the other man defiantly.

  “When I came back from London, I was convinced that Luc Goupil had been brutally assassinated while incarcerated. It’s almost by chance that I reread the article about the meeting on the fourth of November, and then everything became clear. It was as if I were reading with another part of my brain. Everything that had been muddled fell into place. I understood the emphasis the article put on the detention and the frankly strange allusions to the death penalty at the end. The article was a coded warning, which pointed toward a man hanged in his cell …”

  Frederic stops, out of breath. He notices that his left leg is shaking from thigh to foot. He places his hand on his knee and squeezes it, then looks Langlais in the eye.

  “The text was difficult to understand because it was written for a single man. Someone who knew what those people are, as you say, capable of. Because he knew all about the killers …”

  The sheet of paper is now shaking in Fred’s hand. He places it down on the table and slaps his hand on it. If this keeps up, he won’t have enough hands to stop himself from shaking. He takes a deep breath and adds: