Six Degrees of Freedom

by Nicolas Dickner

  Strewn around the computer are a black leather briefcase, an invoice made out to Rokov Export and greasy wrapping paper flecked with grains of salt, the sole remnants of what for a short time was a double cheeseburger.

  Zooming out still farther, one comes across a trail of clothes leading away from the Eee: a pair of high-heeled shoes, a leather jacket, a grey woollen pantsuit and a pearl-coloured blouse with the price tag still attached (SALE $39.95). Another couple of metres and one discovers an RCMP badge in its textured leather case purchased on eBay for $24.99, forty-eight-hour delivery. A collector’s item, not exactly identical to the badge used by officers in Montreal but indistinguishable to the uninitiated.

  Pull back and pan across: the trail of apparel continues—nylon stockings, panties, bra—and ends in the bathroom, where Jay has been marinating for nearly an hour, eyes shut, submerged up to her nose in scalding water. One more centimetre and she would need a snorkel. The adrenalin level in her blood has dropped back to normal for the first time in three days. She has a feeling of post-orgasmic plenitude; she never would have believed that the invoice of a transport company could bring her such joy.

  The water level rises and falls imperceptibly with her breathing. All is calm. Jay is barely aware of the sound of a soap opera playing on the ground floor.

  In a recess of her consciousness, she wonders if it is wise to interfere with an RCMP investigation. She has only two (2) years, three (3) months and eight (8) days left to go—not very much longer. When she gets caught—and she will get caught—they’ll drag her back to Joliette to serve out the rest of her sentence. Come to think of it, how much time would be left? The Parole Commission must use an equivalency algorithm, like the one that converts bonus points on an Air Miles card. If it comes to that, she has six years of jail time left with no possibility of sentence reduction or another parole—and that doesn’t take into account a new trial with a fresh batch of charges. Using forged documents. Identity fraud. Breach of conditions. Breaking and entering. Obstruction of justice. Obstructing police work.

  Jay takes a deep breath. She feels good.

  Then suddenly she feels hungry. The double cheeseburger wasn’t double enough.

  Stepping out of the bath, she wishes she owned a bathrobe. At what age does one start wearing a bathrobe? She pulls on a pair of pyjama pants and an old grey hoodie. As she dries her hair, she grabs a handful of menus from off the fridge and spreads them out on the counter, like a musical score. Symphony number three for fried foods and pickle.

  As she compares the respective merits of bacon poutine and the egg roll combo, the telephone rings. The display shows a number in the 450 area. Jay is surprised to hear Laura’s voice, since she doesn’t recall giving her her phone number. After three days of sick leave, her co-worker began to worry.

  “They say you’ve got a cold?”

  “Some sort of virus, aching muscles. I’m starting to feel better. I’ll be back at work Monday morning. Have I missed anything important?”

  “I can see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

  At the far end of the apartment, the bathwater can be heard gurgling down the drain.

  “Actually, now that you mention it, we did get some news about Papa Zulu.”

  “You found it?”

  “Yes and no.”

  This is one of Laura’s favourite answers—along with hmmm…yesss and it’s complicated—which usually precede long, nuanced explanations.

  “You remember what they did at the Montreal terminal?”

  “Like hacking into the database?”

  “Yes. The famous ‘one-two punch,’ as Mahesh puts it. First they redirected the container, then they erased it from the database. They did precisely—very precisely—the same thing at the port in Caucedo.”

  With a look of mild disgust, Jay hesitates between the tempura sushi combo number seventeen and the Hawaiian pizza with extra pineapple.

  “It took them a week to confirm that?”

  “It’s a case of an old backup on tape. And maybe some bad faith too. In a nutshell, Papa Zulu arrived with a transshipment code for Brazil. It stayed in the Caucedo terminal for forty-eight hours, then it was redirected to Long Beach, California.”

  “You think they’re trying to get it into the States?”

  “Not likely. They would have already tried at Newark–Elizabeth. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough. It was supposed to be unloaded about ten days ago…”

  “If it was in fact unloaded at Long Beach.”

  “…if it was unloaded at Long Beach, naturally. Everyone’s on the case. The FBI, Homeland Security, Border Services. Montreal is a bit peripheral, but there’s more and more pressure to find Rokov.”

  Jay pushes away the menus; geopolitics is incompatible with the goings-on in her stomach.

  “There’s a problem.”

  A brief silence ensues. Laura was about to wrap up the call and wasn’t expecting this new development.

  “What problem?”

  “According to Mahesh, it’s impossible to hack the shipping industry. Not because it has a high level of security but because the systems are too diversified. They’ve got numerous software layers and all sorts of redundancies. Information is spread over many databases that are under the jurisdiction of multiple administrative bodies: customs, the port, the longshoremen, border security, shippers, exporters. Everyone operates with different kinds of software and protocols. There are a large number of standards that are not necessarily compatible. Not to mention backups and photocopies.”

  “Yes, Mahesh already talked to me about this. He says that ports practise security through opacity.”

  “Right. So when he saw that the Cast Terminal’s database had been tampered with, he immediately assumed it was an inside job: one or more infiltrators with passwords and the security certificate, capable of modifying the database on site. But…”

  “…but it’s a little far-fetched to imagine that Rokov could have infiltrated several security zones in the port of Montreal and in Caucedo simultaneously.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Far-fetched, but not impossible.”

  Laura’s voice modulates in a way that betrays her uncertainty. She will investigate further.

  When Jay hangs up, a faint smile flickers across her face, as if she were playing a complex game whose rules she is just now beginning to understand.

  AS SOON AS SHE SETS HER duly unshod foot in the sanctuary, Lisa senses a definite change in the atmosphere, although at first glance everything looks the same, except perhaps for a slight hint of untidiness. Perched on the bookcase, the budgies are hatching a plot.

  Éric sits cross-legged on his bed; he’s thrown the comforter over his head to make a tent/bunker. The power cord of his computer snakes under the comforter, like an umbilical cord brimming with electricity, and there’s the muffled sound of fingers on the keyboard. Without asking permission, Lisa slips inside.

  The glow of the screen and the purring of the fan create a cozy ambience. It feels like the inside of a high-tech igloo. Lisa squeezes in next to Éric, who stops typing. Stacked on the screen are lines of very compact code flanked by lengthy, incomprehensible comments.

  “I was just talking with your mother.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Not much. The basic details. Engagement to Anker. Two-year contract. Copenhagen.”

  “Copenhagen.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  He shrugs. “This winter.”

  “Does your mother speak Danish?”

  “She can get by. She’s been learning it for months. I didn’t clue in.”

  “You mean she was preparing without talking to you about it?”

  “She swears she wasn’t. She said it was just to surprise Anker.”

  “You believe her?”

  “I dunno. Yeah, I guess.”

  Outside the tent, the budgies can be heard cooing, flying around the room and returning to their usual
perch. With the tip of his forefinger, Éric toys with the cursor. Makes figure eights over the whole screen. Then abruptly tires of it.

  “Did she say anything about me?”

  “No.”

  There’s nothing more to add, and they stay there, sitting side by side, without saying a word. The computer screen goes to sleep and suddenly they are plunged into darkness. There’s no sound except for the purr of the fan and the budgies squabbling. Lisa wonders how long their oxygen supply will last.

  “Can you suffocate from carbon dioxide poisoning under a quilt?”

  “I can google that if you like.”

  He brings Google up on the screen and keys in submarine + single-seater + endurance + “carbon dioxide.” Out of the corner of her eye, Lisa sees him smile. Well, that’s something, anyway.

  THE SAINT-LAURENT INDUSTRIAL PARK is as calm as a Japanese print. All that’s missing is some bamboo and the silhouette of Mount Fuji on the horizon. No sign of life anywhere along the short length of Gibson Street, aside from the white van approaching number 230, which rolls by very slowly before disappearing at the corner of Griffin Street.

  Then, silence once more. It is 7 a.m. on the last Saturday of November. Nothing stirs, not even a sparrow. This place is Montreal’s blind spot.

  After a minute, the van comes back in the opposite direction and stops in the parking lot of the former Aeroflot office, a hundred metres kitty-corner from number 230. The engine stops running, and the street once again sinks into a prehistoric calm.

  It’s an ideal vantage point; from here, Jay can see all of the Autocars Mondiaux garage while maintaining a healthy distance just in case. She slides her seat back and turns the radio on very low.

  As she half listens to the news, she reaches for her binoculars and carefully scans the decrepit surroundings. The landscape is filled with a blend of warehouses, workshops and garages. Stretching down the north side is a windowless distribution centre perforated, however, by a series of loading docks with a trailer attached to each one. The south side is occupied by the Total Sexe bar, teleported to this hole by a species of incompetent aliens. Directly opposite lies an empty lot guarded by a lonely hydrant, which seems to be dreaming of faraway fires.

  The Autocars Mondiaux garage looks especially dilapidated in the low-angled dawn light. Jay examines the building carefully, sees no camera, no trace of human activity. She does not want to take any risks; the reflections in the windows prevent her from seeing inside.

  Deep in thought, she lowers the binoculars. She’s studied this location so much on Google Street View that it now seems strangely familiar to her, like a false memory.

  Jay tilts her seat back slightly. This rental van is as clean as an operating room. It smells of solvents and new carpet. Not a scratch, inside or out.

  On the radio, they’re recycling the annual Black Friday story. Customers pressed against the windows as they wait for the stores to open. Trampled kids, sprained ankles, cracked ribs. In order to reach a pyramid of marked-down Xboxes, a woman in Los Angeles cleared a path using pepper spray. Next year, tasers will be in vogue. And then Molotov cocktails, machine guns, bazookas. You can’t stop progress.

  The news ends with the weather. Sun in the forecast. It’s zero degrees at Trudeau airport. The van will start to freeze like an old can of food with holes in it; in fact, the windshield has already begun to frost up. The highs and lows of stakeouts. Jay opens her window a crack, zips up her parka and takes out the Thermos of coffee. Holding the steaming cup, she is beginning to enjoy her situation. She settles comfortably into her seat. She has no lover, no children, no future. She can take as long as she wants to spy on haunted garages.

  The hours drag by, empty and static. No sign of life at Autocars Mondiaux. The entire neighbourhood would look deserted if not for the patrol cars. Garda, Montreal police, Sûreté du Québec, Contrôle routier—even the RCMP monitors the area, no doubt because the airport is so close. No one takes any notice of the van.

  In the passenger seat, Horacio fiddles with a dead Cohiba.

  “¿Esos coches, tendrán cámaras?”

  Jay frowns. Good question: patrol cars are now equipped with cameras. She congratulates herself for parking the van so that the licence plate can’t be seen from the street.

  Aside from the unhurried patrols and the occasional UPS truck, the area is decidedly lifeless. Uninterrupted dead calm. Evidently because it’s a weekend. The only sound is the noise of airplanes taking off from the nearby airport at regular intervals. When she hears an Airbus flying overhead, Jay realizes she rented the Dodge Charger near here a few days ago. She sits up in her seat and, looking west, spots the apple-green lampposts of the Park’N Fly. The rental office is located somewhere in that direction, just a five- or six-minute walk away. Horacio chews on his cigar with a teasing expression.

  “No hay coincidencias, Pequeña.”

  Jay shrugs.

  The day goes by, the sun describes its habitual parabola and sets behind the airport control tower. The neighbourhood is as quiet as ever, as if it were trying to crush Jay under the weight of boredom. No such luck. Seven years with the RCMP have made her monotony-proof. She bites into a Portuguese chicken sandwich without taking her eyes off the garage.

  When the sun goes down, the neighbourhood shifts like an Escher engraving.

  To the west, the Park’N Fly lampposts go on. The first trucks gradually show up. At the Total Sexe bar, the pink neon lights start winking and very soon the parking lot is full. Jay points her binoculars and examines the cars. Audi, Mercedes, Jaguar. Apparently, the Total Sexe is used as a hangout by airline pilots. Wednesday special for co-pilots: bonus Air Miles on cocktails.

  Still no sign of life at Autocars Mondiaux. The garage is completely dark and a municipal lamppost floods the parking lot with an orangey glow that makes it appear especially bleak. The trucks and tractor-trailers multiply, arrive and drive off again, guided by distant and mysterious dispatchers.

  The supply of sandwiches runs out toward midnight. A radio interview with a hockey analyst drones on. Jay gets out to stretch her legs under a mandarin-coloured sky. She notes the warehouse next door, with its loading docks arrayed like intergalactic portals. She takes stock of the situation: seventeen hours of surveillance and zero human activity at number 230. She can move on to the operational phase, but not without a night’s sleep.

  She climbs back into the van, locks the doors and unrolls a mummy sleeping bag rated -40°C. The floor is made of corrugated steel, but she has slept on surfaces even less hospitable. She eases herself into the sleeping bag and rolls up in a ball. A few minutes later, she is fast asleep inside the down.

  A little before 7 a.m., she is awoken by the cold and discomfort. She sits up and rubs her eyes. What was she dreaming about a few seconds ago? The action took place in a cornfield. She can’t remember anything else. She wants a steaming hot shower and a coffee. The Thermos has been empty since the night before. Her teeth chatter as she gets dressed. The temperature dropped below freezing during the night.

  Outside, the neighbourhood is deserted again. Other trailers, other containers stand at the loading docks. Different, but indistinguishable. Not a single car remains in the Total Sexe parking lot.

  The roar of the first Airbuses of the day can be heard as they arrive from Europe. On board, passengers yawn, brush the crumbs off their laps, roll up their headphone cords. Soon they’ll pass through immigration and customs. Take the shuttle over to the Park’N Fly to retrieve their cars. Return to normal life.

  Jay stretches, cracks her joints. She is shivering from the cold, hunger, caffeine withdrawal. She starts the van and heads off in search of a place where they serve coffee at dawn on a Sunday morning. She ends up at the drive-through window of a Tim Hortons. Whatever—it’s civilization. Orders a large, double cream, and a bagel. The coffee smells burnt, the bagel is a crime against humanity. Whatever. She eats while driving back to Gibson Street. Still not a soul.

 
She backs up the van in front of the Autocars Mondiaux garage, cuts the engine and slips into the back. She pushes the sleeping bag into a corner, squats down by a knapsack and pulls out a mechanic’s coveralls, a cap and a black plastic pouch.

  She opens the pouch. Inside it are a hook, a half diamond and a few torsion wrenches—the classic set of a dozen instruments. She bought them at the last minute on Kijiji, and it’s easy to see they don’t compare with Horacio’s tools. The old bandit fashioned all his hooks himself, like a luthier, using windshield wiper parts and umbrella ribs. Jay will have to make do with this beginner’s set.

  She slips on a pair of nitrile gloves and, after quickly scanning the environs, steps out of the van looking busy and professional. She has to decide which lock to pick: the glass entrance door or the huge garage door. There may be a way to get in through the back, but for Jay time is of the essence.

  She approaches the main entrance and looks inside. No keyboard, no indicator light. The peeling Alarmes GPR sticker must date back to the seventies. She tries the doorknob. Locked, of course. She strokes the lock with her thumb. An old Weiser deadbolt. Nothing exotic, but Jay has the jitters all the same. She opens the tool kit, chooses a torsion wrench and a simple hook and pick. The torsion wrench instinctively drops into place between the fingers of her right hand.

  Without even noticing, Jay begins to whistle an old Antonio Morel merengue tune.

  She tests the cylinder. It turns counter-clockwise. She inserts the hook and gently probes the pins, making two or three passes. The fabric of the universe contracts around the lock: Jay’s attention is wholly focused on tiny sensations, minuscule clicks. She works with half-closed eyes, clenched teeth, convinced that over her shoulder Horacio is watching her every move. She can smell the tobacco and rum on his breath. The lock is slightly clogged and the pins don’t slide easily. Without releasing the tension, Jay sprays some lubricant into the keyhole. Then, still whistling, she takes hold of a half diamond.