“I remember that,” laughs Bliss, and he continues to warmly hug the old lady, saying, “All’s well that ends well.”
“But what about Minnie? And what about all the others who killed themselves?” asks Daphne, breaking free.
“Oh! I was supposed to call Peter,” says Bliss, checking his watch. “He said he had a lead.”
“Well?” queries Daphne.
“It’s nearly two in the morning there,” he says, making it clear that he won’t be calling till later. Then he turns coldly to Montague. “There’s obviously something very dodgy going on up at that monastery place.”
“That’s why I tried to warn you off the other day,” admits Montague.
“Brilliant,” says Bliss. “And I was supposed to know that?”
“Okay, point taken,” says Montague. “But I didn’t want to jeopardize the establishment’s cover if it was an authorized operation.”
“Well, is it?”
Montague hesitates, reluctant to disclose that he’s not in the loop. “We’re getting a fix on that,” he says, giving nothing away.
“So what exactly are they doing?”
“Now, that would be classified.”
“Even if it’s a rogue operation?”
“Especially if it’s a rogue operation,” says Montague, adding with an embarrassed laugh, “Come on, Chief Inspector. You don’t really expect me to admit that some of my colleagues may have gone off the rails a little, do you?”
“My guess is that it’s probably a zealous bunch of CIA creeps with a scheme to circumvent inconvenient legislation,” suggests Phillips as he pulls Bliss to one side.
“Would they do that?” questions Bliss.
“Hey, what won’t rogue CIA types do? Ollie North sold missiles to Iran and got away with it. He even ended up running for the presidency.”
“And what does that tell you about the so-called leadership of the free world?” Bliss wants to know.
“Nothing changes, Dave. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. You know that,” says Phillips. “Christ, the CIA were involved in Watergate, Whitewater, Irangate and Monicagate in the last few years alone, so why should they be upfront about some dodgy enterprise just because a couple of inconvenient busybodies stumbled across it?”
“I’d love to know what they’re playing at.”
Station Chief Montague would also like some answers, and he has slipped into the customs office to report to his deputy director — the head of the Operations Directorate in Langley.
“Our involvement has to be kept out of this,” the deputy director warns him sternly before he’s had a chance to explain his findings.
“But you told me to look into it.”
“And now I’m telling you to forget it, Martin. Just get back to your station ASAP and keep your head down, all right?”
“So the Firm is involved, then?”
“Martin, it’s not under my purview. That’s all I can tell you,” says the deputy, while not admitting that, since Bliss’s performance at the press conference, papers are being shredded and hard drives wiped throughout the CIA headquarters building.
“I’d still like to know what’s going on,” presses Montague. “It may not be our department, but it sure as hell affects our clients.”
“Sorry — I’m not at liberty to tell you, Martin, although it’s been put on the admin director’s radar screen. He’ll deny all knowledge of course, although God knows what he’ll say if the White House starts asking.”
“Is there a lid on it?” Montague wants to know.
“Man, there’d better be. Our credibility is still in the toilet after the Iraqi deal.”
“Hey, that was nothing to do with my section,” protests Montague.
“I know that. But the whole house stinks when someone shits on the floor.”
“So what happens now?”
“I understand there’s a team of cleaners going in as we speak.”
The “cleaners” have been on the move since Bliss’s early morning outburst. Four carloads of heavy men lugging giant sports bags — pro footballers en route to a game, perhaps — had flown into a quiet corner of Sea-Tac Airport in Learjets, well away from the throng of regular travellers. And if any of the air traffic controllers happen to comment on the sudden increase in hastily arranged flight plans, they will be firmly reminded of their responsibilities as federal officials.
Further south, in the fenced compound of an industrial warehouse near Portland, Oregon, a fleet of blank-sided removal trucks are being warmed up for an overnight excursion by drivers who don’t have to be told of the need for secrecy.
Montague is also doing his best to quieten things down at the border, and he pulls Bliss aside and holds out a hand in reconciliation.
“I just want you to know that I’m sorry about the other day, Chief Inspector.”
“No problem — water under the bridge and all that,” says Bliss, though inwardly he’s seething at his waste of three anxiety-filled days.
Montague senses the stiffness in the Englishman’s hand and decides to sweeten the pot. “By the way,” he says, drawing a chequebook from his pocket, “we’d like to pick up the tab for the damage to your rental car.”
“Thanks…”
“How much was it — five thousand?”
“Yes…”
“And what say we add a little extra for all the inconvenience,” he muses as he makes the cheque out to “Cash.” “Now. Is there anything more I can do?” he continues as he hands it over.
“Actually, there is,” replies Bliss, folding the cheque into his pocket without a glance, and five minutes later he’s in possession of a three-month U.S. visitor’s visa with a promise that it will be renewed as often, and for as long, as he requires.
“Please enjoy the hospitality of our wonderful country,” says Montague with an expansive grin, but Bliss barely masks his sour thoughts as he sneers, “That’s very kind of you, but my girlfriend goes back to France tomorrow morning, and I leave Sunday.”
“Oh, well. Come back and visit any old time.”
That’s interesting, Bliss muses silently as he walks away, feeling odd that, in middle age, he is still referring to his current love interest as a girl.
The commotion on the southern side of the border has spilled northwards to Canada, drawing Roger Cranley and a few of his colleagues to investigate.
“I brought the van back, as promised,” Mike Phillips tells Cranley as he points down the highway to where the fire department is dampening down the smouldering heap by the side of the road.
“Oh, great!”
“Don’t blame me. It was friendly fire,” Phillips steps in quickly, and he points to Montague as the villain. “By the way,” he queries, “what’s happening with the two CIA men?”
“Don’t ask,” sighs Cranley in exasperation, then explains. “We had to hand them over to their own people.”
“What?”
“The U.S. was threatening to shut down the border and inflict various other unspecified punishments if we didn’t.”
“So, what’s the story with the Koreans?”
“We don’t know, and we’ve been ordered not to interview them.”
“Who says?”
“Whoever’s squeezing the prime minister’s balls.”
“CIA?” questions Phillips, and he gets a nod in response.
“It’s almost certainly a case of trafficking; plus, we’ve got no idea where all the money came from.”
“Maybe I should call Peter after all,” says Bliss, recalling his son-in-law’s mention of a Canadian connection.
“Christ, Dad, do you know what the bloody time is here?” moans Samantha a few seconds later.
“Yes. Sorry, love, but it’s important.”
“It’s nearly three in the morning, Dave,” moans Peter Bryan once his new wife has woken him.
“I didn’t expect you to be asleep,” jokes Bliss. “You’ve only been married a few weeks.”
“Very funny
, Dave. But what the hell have you been up to?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” laughs Bliss, once he has explained that Daphne and Trina are back in the fold.
“Well, you won’t believe this, either,” says Bryan, then he summarizes Maurice Joliffe’s bungled bank heist before explaining that the elderly man had planned on sending the money to Canada to free up his lottery winnings.
“Oh, my God…” breathes Bliss, catching on immediately. “Minnie Dennon’s round-the-world trip.”
“Exactly, Dave. What’s the betting that she also got a late-night transatlantic call — and why settle for half the winnings if all it took was her life savings and a small bank loan to secure the lot?”
“And the admonition to tell no one would make perfect sense,” carries on Bliss. “After all, who needs a demand from the taxman or a pile of begging letters anyway?”
“I think that amounts to the same thing,” agrees Bryan with a laugh.
“Hah! What a con,” says Bliss, imagining the embarrassment the elderly woman would have suffered if she had been forced to admit to Daphne that, not only were they not going around the world, but for the rest of her life she wouldn’t even be able to afford to take the bus to visit her friend. “No wonder the poor old soul killed herself.”
“We think they’ve probably scammed hundreds — maybe thousands,” carries on Bryan. “Although I’m guessing that many will be too mortified to admit they’ve been taken, and some can probably afford it. It’s only the ones that can’t that are ending up on the tracks or in the canal.”
“And let me speculate,” says Bliss. “Mr. Joliffe was supposed to send the money to —”
“CNL Distribution of Canada,” says Bryan, beating him to the punchline.
“Peter’s cracked the suicide problem, Mike,” Bliss tells Phillips, once he’s drawn the detective away from the rest of the group. “Daphne’s friend, Minnie, won ten million dollars in the Canadian National Lottery.”
“And then she killed herself?”
“Seems like it.”
“What a strange thing to do — wait a minute… there is no Canadian National Lottery.”
“I guessed that,” says Bliss, and he waits a moment for his colleague to catch on.
“Okay,” says Phillips. “What’s the scam?”
“It was still murder,” insists Daphne, once Bliss has given her the news. “Whoever took Minnie’s money threw her into the path of that train just as surely as young Ronnie Stapleton.”
“If it was classed as murder we’d have the highest homicide rate in the world,” replies Bliss. “Do you realize how many people get scammed and never report it because they are too humiliated?”
“Most of them don’t kill themselves, though.”
“True,” admits Bliss, “though con artists never think about what happens to the mark when they’re chasing a fast buck.”
“Oh, David,” laughs Daphne. “You’re beginning to sound very American and you’ve only been here a week.”
“Four days,” he reminds her, “though it seems more like a month.”
The past few days have also stretched to eternity for John Dawson, and as he and his partner take the road back to their cloister in the forest he is praying for some kind of salvation.
“We’re finished if Montague or the women go public,” he warns Bumface, as if he’s just had a revelation.
“You should’ve let me drop ‘em when I wanted to,” replies the passenger without compassion.
“I wish I had.”
“It’s that cop who bothers me most,” admits Bumface. “I can’t see Montague saying anything — not outside of the Firm anyway — and who’s gonna believe a couple of dozy women who got lost in a freakin’ bathtub? But if Bliss keeps shooting his mouth off…”
“Yeah, I know,” starts Dawson, but the approach of a convoy of limousines in his mirror stops him. “Don’t look,” he warns, and he slows and pulls to the side to let the cars speed past.
“Let’s let Allan do the explaining, shall we?” says Bumface, reaching over to put his hand on the wheel and indicate that they should turn around.
“What about the cash?”
“I chucked about half a million in the trunk. It’ll do us for a while, and we can always phone for more.”
“Very clever,” says Dawson, preparing to turn, though he has a wary eye on his colleague as he adds, “I hope you weren’t thinking of taking off without me.”
“John!” protests Bumface, though his apparent denial lacks conviction.
“I’d better get back to my wife,” says Phillips, and he turns with a smile for Trina and Daphne. “Can I give you two ladies a ride to Vancouver?”
“What about you and Daisy?” Trina asks Bliss. “I’ve got a spare bedroom in the basement suite, if you’d like.”
Bliss is holding firmly onto to Daisy’s hand and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks, Trina,” he says, shaking his head, “but I expect we can manage in our little wooden shack in the forest just for tonight.” Then he turns seriously to Daphne. “Perhaps you should come home with me on Sunday after what’s happened.”
“Hey, are you kiddin’?” she says with a passable American accent. “I was promised a holiday, and I’m going to make sure I get one. Anyway, Trina wants me to help plan the kidney marathon.”
“You’re not still going ahead with that, are you?” asks Bliss incredulously.
“Of course,” says Trina. “People didn’t stop needing kidneys just because we had a little problem. Anyway, I’ve had this brilliant idea — though I’ll be needing a lot of volunteers.”
“Oh, I’m sure David would like to help — wouldn’t you?” says Daphne, dragging Bliss into the spotlight.
“Well…”
“It’s not until next summer.”
“Go on, Daavid,” encourages Daisy. “It is for a good cause.”
“Maybe,” he says warily. “You’ll have to let me know what you would want me to do.”
chapter seventeen
The warning shrieks of bald eagles electrify the tree-tops as they look down from their high perches in the foothills of Mount Baker and see an approaching car.
“Eagles!” calls Bliss excitedly, spying the piebald birds in the crimson blush of the setting sun as he and Daisy drive up the long track to their remote lodge.
“Zhis is so beautiful,” whispers Daisy, craning to see into the canopy of the rainforest.
“I just hope they haven’t re-let the place,” Bliss laughs, only half-jokingly, as he pulls up to the door of the log cabin in the fading light, then scrabbles under a pot of geraniums for the key. But nothing has changed: the fresh smell of pine mingles with the smoky memory of a log fire; the evening light streaming through the west-facing window adds a comforting glow; the view from the balcony, across the valley to Puget Sound and the distant snow-capped peak of Mount Olympus, has not been marred by the days of stress. And, while the maid might have suspiciously eyed the unruffled bed and untouched toiletries each morning, she had not informed the proprietors of the lovebirds’ apparent absence — after all, an hour’s pay is an hour’s pay — so the luxurious cabin is as neat and clean as it had been on their arrival.
“Oh, Daavid, zhis is so romantique,” says Daisy as he makes a play of carrying her over the threshold into the cozy nook.
“Finally,” he says, kissing her gently, then laying her on the settee in front of the fieldstone fireplace. “Now, you just stay there,” he tells her. “I’ll light the fire, open some champagne and get the food from the car.”
The kindling catches quickly, although the room is already warm from a few hours of evening sun. The champagne, a Veuve Clicquot which has been cooling its heels in the fridge since Monday, bursts exuberantly into chilled glasses, and an assortment of Chinese goodies, cooked up by a real Chinese chef in Seattle’s Chinatown, is being re-energized in the microwave.
“It’ll only take a minute or so,” says Bli
ss, slipping into the living room to place chopsticks on the table as an excuse for another kiss.
“Shall we eat on the balcony?” suggests Daisy, reaffirming her Mediterranean preference for everything en plein air, and Bliss is quick to agree.
“I’ll grab some candles,” he says, bouncing joyfully back to the kitchen.
The waning moon, still beneath the eastern horizon, leaves the stage to the stars and, un-shadowed by city lights, the heavens put on a show that takes the couple’s breath away.
“Orion, the Big Dipper, Mars, Jupiter…” points out Daisy as her finger traces the sky, then Bliss takes hold and steers it to his favourite planet.
“Venus,” he says softly before guiding the finger to his lips.
“Oh. Daavid,” Daisy giggles, but she stops when the splash of headlights lazes through the forest from the road below. “Is zhat a car?”
“Probably another cottager,” says Bliss, scanning the surrounding hillside for signs of occupation, though finding none. “Or someone who is lost.”
Bliss is wrong. The car’s occupants know exactly where they are going, though one of them, John Dawson, isn’t convinced it’s a good idea.
“I just wann’a few words with him, that’s all,” snarls Bumface in the driver’s seat. “Make sure he keeps his freakin’ mouth shut in future.”
“And you’re sure this is the right place?”
Bumface nods. “It’s what he put on his visa application.” But Dawson is still wary. “Look, Steve,” he tries. “We’ve got some money. We’re in the clear. Why screw it up?”
“C’mon, John. How long d’ye think it’ll take ‘em to find us?”
“South America’s a big place, Steve. Anyway, we only did what we were told.”
“Well, the lottery thing wasn’t exactly kosher…” carries on Bumface, tuning out his partner.
“Plausible deniability, they call it, Steve,” mutters Dawson, also not listening. “As far as I was concerned, it was all okayed by the White House.”
“It was fun though, wasn’t it?” laughs Bumface, continuing his own conversation. “Congratulations, Bob — you greedy freakin’ moron — you’ve just fallen for the oldest trick…” he cackles with the same infectious enthusiasm he’d employed to scam Minnie, Joliffe and the dozens of other victims, then he turns to Dawson with a smile on his face. “Can you believe how freakin’ happy they were, John?”
Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. Page 24
