Then I didn’t want to picture it anymore.
Back at the hotel, we told Ryan about our visit to Micheline.
“And your client, Moscoe, he doesn’t know any of this? Doesn’t know his long-lost son turned out to be a right-wing redneck?”
“He would have told me if he’d known,” I said.
“Well, I wouldn’t tell him now,” Ryan said. “Probably give him another heart attack.”
“Maybe that’s why Sammy didn’t tell him. Arthur lived through a lot of anti-Semitism in Montreal in the thirties and forties. He saw first-hand what ultra-nationalists were capable of.”
“But Sammy promised Micheline he wouldn’t write about it,” Jenn said. “Not while she was alive.”
“It doesn’t mean he never broached the subject with the Lorties,” I said.
“He’s moving,” Ryan said.
I said, “Who?”
“The Syrian. His car is heading south.” He was sitting at the desk where my laptop was open, pointing at the pulsing image being sent by my transponder.
Shit. I had forgotten about the planned meeting between Mehrdad and Mohammed. “We’re going to have to finish this later,” I said to Jenn.
“Where are you going?”
“A prior engagement.”
“To which I’m not invited?”
“To which you can’t come.”
“It’s dangerous?”
“I don’t think it’s going to be civil.”
“Okay,” she said. “Fine. I’m going to go downstairs and book a room.”
I said, “Oh.”
“What?”
“They’re full up. This holiday weekend—we only got in because there was a cancellation.”
“The Sheraton isn’t far.”
“They’re full too.”
“Do we call up for a cot?”
Somehow I couldn’t picture the three of us sharing a room. Just Ryan and I made it crowded. And Jenn was not a small girl: six feet of solid Estonian farm stock.
“I have an idea,” I said, and called Holly Napier.
“You changing plans on me?” Holly asked.
“I was actually calling to see if you had room for a house guest.”
“Uh, Jonah … I like you well enough so far, but I’m not sure I’m ready to jump into bed with you.”
“It’s actually for my partner.”
“Ryan?” she said. “Are you nuts?”
“My real partner. Her name is Jenn Raudsepp and she turned up in Montreal unexpectedly and hotel rooms are impossible to find.”
“Oh. Well. Okay, I guess. But I’m heading out to catch the end of the parade and the concert.”
“Hang on a sec.” I covered the mouthpiece and said to Jenn, “Want to go to a concert? It’s big and it’s free.”
She shrugged and said, “Why not? I’m in Montreal, I might as well do what they do.”
I asked Holly if Jenn could meet her at the press pit.
“It’s going to be crazy near the stage,” Holly said. “What does she look like?”
“Tall and blonde. Wearing a blue shirt and blue jeans.”
“The right colours, at least. So is she your business partner or partner partner?”
“Business,” I said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s all.”
“You and I still going to meet later?”
“One way or the other.”
CHAPTER 20
Whoever said you should cross that bridge when you come to it wasn’t thinking of the Champlain Bridge. After forty years of salt and weather damage, and the beating it took from handling fifty million vehicles a year, it was undergoing major repairs, narrowed to one lane going south. The northbound lanes had reopened, cars speeding along new asphalt with burring sounds, but we were bumper to bumper. A soldier crab-crawling on his belly would have left us in his painstaking dust. The only saving grace was that Mohammed al-Haddad’s car couldn’t go any faster. The transponder showed he was ahead of us by a few hundred yards, creeping just like us.
Halfway across the bridge, another two miles to go, the black water of the St. Lawrence River swirled against the pilings of the huge concrete supports. An endless line of cars inched along next to an equally endless line of orange pylons, on the other side of which sat empty construction vehicles, the workers long gone for the night.
“I don’t even know why we’re following this guy,” Ryan said. “You seem pretty sure one Lortie or another killed Sammy.”
“Pretty sure isn’t the same as certain. It’s still possible the Syrians did it. Sammy could have known about their business.”
“It was Luc’s van in the alley that night.”
“We think.”
“You think. I know. The way that little fucker ran us off the road, then tried to pry my leg apart.”
“And Mohammed and his brother came after us with guns. So let’s stay with him for the moment. We have no idea where Luc is right now, but we know where to find Laurent later.”
“Yeah, at a concert with a hundred thousand people.”
“He’ll be getting up on the stage at some point,” I said. “We’ll just listen for the sound of booing.”
Ten minutes later we were off the bridge and into the South Shore town of Brossard, following the silver Lexus as it exited onto Boulevard Milan and then curled east to Boulevard Grande Allée. A few blocks later, the car turned right onto Chevrier. We hung back on Grande Allée, not wanting to get too close. The transponder showed the car turning right on the next major street, Boulevard Lapinière, and coming to a stop. We moved ahead slowly past a hydro transmission station, transformers grouped like soldiers awaiting orders, and made the same turn onto Lapinière. In the shadow of an elevated stretch of the Eastern Townships Autoroute was a small group of warehouses and industrial buildings.
“Right there,” I said. The Lexus had parked outside one of the warehouses and Mohammed himself was getting out of the driver’s side. Three other men, including Faisal, got out the other doors. A sign on the warehouse wall said Entrepôt de Tapis. This, then, was the warehouse Mehrdad Aziz had spoken of. We saw Mohammed ring a bell outside the entrance. When it opened, he and two of the other three entered. One took up position at the door.
We crept north on Lapinière until we got to a service road and stopped. No one from the warehouse would see us there. Its north-facing wall was all brick, no windows. And the only car Mohammed had seen us in was the Charger, not the Jeep.
Ryan didn’t offer me the Baby Eagle this time. He kept it in its ankle holster and got me his Beretta from the gun case. I wasn’t going to argue about carrying it, not if we were entering a place bristling with armed men.
“This one has a safety where’d you expect it,” he said.
“I see it.”
“On or off?”
“On.”
“Take it off.”
“Okay.”
Off we went, walking slowly and quietly under the scarred belly of the highway overhead.
We approached the warehouse from the south, creeping in the shadows cast by neighbouring buildings, our footsteps drowned out by the rush of cars along the highway to our left. There was a loading dock at the rear, its doors rolled down to the concrete lip. An unmarked half-ton truck was backed up to it, the cab empty, the engine silent. Next to the dock was a metal door, lit by an overhead light, where the fourth brother stood with one hand at his side, the other inside his jacket. I didn’t think it was there so he could scratch himself.
Ryan whispered, “You think you can come up on him from his left?”
“If he’s distracted.”
He took out his Glock and threaded a suppressor onto the barrel. “I’m nothing if not distracting. Watch the light over his head. When it goes out, make your move.”
The building that faced the south side of the warehouse was a manufacturer of storm doors and windows. It clearly had a night shift operating; its parking lot was hal
f full and the windows I could see were all lit. On this long summer night, the sky was just beginning to darken and the moon was not yet up. I moved along its wall until I came to the next street, then turned north, staying in whatever shadows I could find.
When I could see the truck, and not the guard, I turned left. If I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. I hoped. I kept the Beretta where it was, in the small of my back, and crouched forward slowly. I avoided pebbles, bits of broken glass, food wrappers, anything that might make a noise underfoot. When a string of tractor-trailers roared down the highway, I moved a little faster and made it to the side of the truck. I peered under it and saw the legs of the guard at the door. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Restless. Bored. I moved to the very back of the truck and waited. Getting myself ready for a fast break.
When Ryan shot out the light over the guard’s head, all I heard was pfft, no louder than a cough. Then the sound of glass falling and the guard’s grunt of surprise. I came running around the back of the truck while he was still brushing bits of glass out of his hair. He saw me way too late. Before he could raise his weapon, I threw a hard left into his solar plexus, taking every bit of breath out of him, then stepped into the back of one knee, forcing him to the ground. As he fell, I caught the machine pistol he’d been hiding under his jacket. It had two grips, one at the rear and one at the front. A long ammunition clip stuck out of the rear.
Ryan jogged up to my side, put the barrel of his gun against the man’s head and said, “You going to stay quiet or take a bullet?”
He gasped for air, still winded.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Then he holstered his gun and said to me, “Let me see that a sec.”
I gave him the machine pistol. He turned it over in his hands. “This is nice. I really fucking like this.”
“What is it?”
“The Steyr TMP. I’ve seen the civilian model but this is genuine military. We get out of here alive, I’m taking this home.”
“You are truly a man of the world.”
“Just not the right world all the time.”
“Ready?” I said.
“Get your gun out. Then we’ll be ready.”
I hauled the guard to his feet and held his jacket collar. Ryan eased the door open and went in first, pointing the Steyr ahead of him. He didn’t fire so I assumed there was no one there to shoot and followed him in, moving the guard ahead of me. His legs were still wobbly from a lack of air so I kept enough pressure on his neck to propel him forward.
The hallway ahead was plain drywall. For a moment, I thought back to the corridor we’d walked down in Boston, so richly panelled in wood, lined with portraits of the men who’d built that business. There was nothing like that here, no investment of time or taste. The only thing on the walls was one calendar held by a push-pin.
Ahead we heard voices, loud ones, hiding nothing.
“If this is an arms deal,” I whispered, “we could be walking straight into a shitstorm.”
“When guns come in crates,” Ryan whispered back, “they’re never loaded. They could have a hundred AK-47s, it don’t fucking matter if we can get the drop on them.”
A hundred AKs. Why didn’t I find that comforting?
We moved as silently as possible along the tiled floor, no carpet here to absorb the sound, past an office on one side, a washroom on the other. The voices grew louder. At least two men talking. But I knew there’d be more. At least three Haddad brothers, and probably three on Mehrdad’s side. Getting the drop on them sounded good in principle. How the fuck was it going to work in practice?
Whatever space lay ahead of us, either the main storage area or a showroom, was behind double doors that could open either way. Perfect for pushing hand trucks or dollies through in either direction.
“I’ll go first,” Ryan whispered. “You come in right behind. If we need to get their attention, settle them down, I’m gonna fire a burst at the ceiling. Or rip a pricey carpet. Ready?”
My heart said no but my lips whispered, “Yes.”
Ryan pushed his hip against the door and went through it, the Steyr gripped in both hands. I charged in behind him, ready to blast a carpet or ceiling tile.
“All of you fucking freeze!” Ryan yelled.
I took in the scene in front of us. A large open space lit by fluorescent lights in fixtures that hung on short chains from a concrete ceiling. The walls I could see all had built-in bins stacked with rugs wrapped in brown paper. Halfway across the room were six men huddled around stacked wooden crates, examining the contents.
Mohammed al-Haddad held an AR-15 assault rifle that gleamed with a light sheen of oil. So did his brother Faisal and a third man who must have been one of their brothers.
Mehrdad Aziz was there too, his jaw agape as he saw Ryan and me. The two men from his store were behind him.
I hoped Ryan was right about the weapons being empty.
“Put the guns back in the crate,” Ryan said. “Now.”
Mohammed said, “What you did to my brother, asshole? You hurt him, you motherfucker?” There were deep blue bruises under both his eyes, and the left was shot through with blood.
I shoved the guard ahead and he stumbled and stayed down on one knee. Mohammed said something to him in their language and pulled him up by the elbow.
“He’s fine,” I said. “Just winded.”
“So what is this, a hijack? You here to steal our guns?”
“No,” I said. “Just to ask you something. Since I have you and Mehrdad in the same room.”
“Just to ask!” Mohammed laughed. “You assholes try to kill me yesterday, you break in here like this just to ask? Fuck your ask and fuck you.”
“If we’d tried to kill you, you would have been dead,” Ryan said. “So put the guns down. The trigger on the Steyr doesn’t need much pressure. You should know.”
Mohammed tossed his rifle carelessly into the crate. Faisal set his down more carefully and wiped his hands on the seat of his pants. The third man hesitated and Ryan pointed the gun at the ceiling and fired a burst. Plaster fell where they stood, dusting their hair and the shoulders of their jackets.
“Okay, okay,” the third man said and he stowed his rifle on top of the others.
Ryan said to me, “Pat them down.”
While he held the Steyr at waist level, I stowed the Beretta in the small of my back and patted Mohammed first. He had a pistol in his waistband, a Beretta clone called a Taurus. Faisal had one too. Maybe the same guns they’d had at the Jean-Talon Market, if they’d had time to recover them. Maybe others from some private stock. The third man wasn’t carrying anything, just a wallet that showed he was Sayeed al-Haddad. That meant the outside guard was Omar.
Neither Mehrdad nor his boys had guns. Careless? Or faith in this particular Mohammed?
I put all the guns on a table behind me and looked into the open crate, in which at least a dozen AR-15s were stowed. One other crate, also open, was filled with more of the Steyr machine pistols. The other crates were still nailed shut.
“Now we can talk,” I said.
“Let me guess,” Mehrdad said. “You have more wild accusations to make. More murders to accuse me of.”
“No. I want to ask about Sammy Adler.”
“Ask the crack of my ass,” Mohammed said. “You are not real police. I don’t have to answer you nothing.”
My phone vibrated and I debated letting it go but knew I had to at least check.
Lucienne.
“Keep them covered a minute,” I told Ryan.
“What the hell is this about my brother having an accident?” she said.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Where—at the offices of Radio-Canada,” she said. “I’m going to be on air when my father delivers his speech. Now what about Luc?”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No, I haven’t been able to reach him. His cellphone is off and he never came back to the office. Was he r
eally in an accident?”
“Yes. A car accident.”
“Oh, God—”
“Relax,” I said. “He wasn’t hurt. He caused the accident.”
“What!”
“He ran a car off the road. One I was in at the time.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Not for lack of trying.”
“Where?”
“Up in the Laurentians, around nine this morning.”
“But that’s impossible. He was picking up brochures and posters from our printer and taking them to Parc Maisonneuve for our volunteers.”
“Maybe that’s supposed to be where he was, but trust me, he was on a country road east of St-Sauveur, driving an old white van.”
There was a brief pause and she sounded less strident, less sure of herself, when she said, “St-Sauveur?”
“A small cabin with a dock and a boathouse. You know it?”
“Hey! You!” Mohammed called. “You going to be all day? If that’s your mother on the phone, tell her I’m going to fuck her, right after I fuck you in the ass.”
Lucienne said, “What was that?”
I covered the receiver and said to Ryan, “If he opens that toilet again, shoot him.” Then to Lucienne, “Nothing. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know the place. My grandfather left it to Luc when he passed away four years ago.”
“Just to Luc? You don’t share it?”
“No. Grandpère knew Luc had fewer opportunities than I. That he would need something to provide stability, or an income if ever he needed it.”
“I was there today, inside,” I said. “I searched it.”
“And?”
“I think he’s making a bomb. A big one.”
“Luc? That’s crazy. What would he know about bombs?”
Not would he make one, but could he?
“I don’t have time to go into it right now, but I found both ingredients and directions.”
“He’s not that kind of—”
“He’s exactly that kind. You didn’t see him when he smashed our car window with a crowbar and tried to gut my partner with it. You’ve heard of Anders Breivik?”
“The Norwegian killer?”
“He and your brother would make great cellmates.”
Miss Montreal Page 20
