by Sheena Kamal
The other person was muffled, pleading, as the man with the voice that haunts my nightmares turned away. Footsteps moved down the hallway. Quiet, confident footsteps. The steps of a man who knows his orders to dispose of my body will be obeyed.
And they were. In a ditch somewhere, out of the city, where no one would stumble upon me.
But someone did.
Mike Starling did.
25
Whisper and I get home just as dawn breaks. I make a fresh cup of coffee because I’m too jazzed to go to bed. My hands are shaking. I don’t remember them ever doing this before, but I realize that it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a body with violence done upon it. I’m shaking because of what I’ve seen tonight.
Starling is dead.
His eyes, wide open and unseeing, follow me even here. Would anyone even blink twice at the idea of him committing suicide? Divorced, broke, living in a shithole, an old-school reporter in a world where social media and the Internet have turned the old boys’ club of journalism on its head. Who wouldn’t be tempted to slash their wrists? But Starling was too miserable and argumentative to go out like that. Would anyone else pick up on that?
I pull out my laptop and start searching. Whisper has been somber since we got home and refuses to meet my eyes. Now that we are back to life inside our basement, she’s likely regretting her tryst with the street mutt and is cleaning herself with an intensity bordering on obsessive, starting from her front paws and working her way back. This isn’t unusual for her and I’m not worried because I know it will pass in a few days and she’ll remember that she’s the boss.
It only takes a few minutes to find that Syntamar, once based out of Vancouver, is now defunct. There isn’t much more information about it online, other than what Starling had found. There’s an article talking about its diversification of mining tenures, a few joint ventures in Canada and a rare earth minerals mine in the Congo, but nothing that points to why Starling was so interested in it before he died. You would think that if you’re leaving dire messages on someone’s phone, the last thing that you research might have something to do with your sense of danger.
I look up the name written on the newspaper clipping and find that it belongs to an associate professor at the Environmental Sustainability Center over at the university. Fancy. I find him on the staff pages of the institute’s website and call his department. It takes only a minute for the call to be transferred. I brace myself because I know that, once again, I’ll have to be more evasive than usual. But Starling is dead and the girl is still missing. I don’t have much of a choice now.
“You work with Sebastian Crow?” the warm, masculine voice says, when we’re connected.
“Yes,” I reply. “I assist him with research.” (This is true.)
“And you want to know some specifics about a particular company?”
“Syntamar Industries.” (Also true.)
There’s a brief pause. “Well, yes, I could help you out. Anything for Mr. Crow. I really enjoy his work.”
It’s interesting when someone knows a particular investigative journalist by reputation, enough to say that he’s familiar with Seb’s work. But, of course, this man lives in the world of academia, where knowledge of things outside of the public scope is part of his job description.
We arrange to meet on the university campus the next morning before his classes. I’m excited by this, despite the nature of the visit. I’ve walked through that campus many times. It’s a world of its own, set within university endowment lands near some of the priciest views in the city. The elitist area is a turn-off but the campus itself is something special. There’s a different feel to the air there and even my frigid heart can’t help but be moved by it. Youth. Thirst for knowledge. Hope. Possibility. The things that wither and die when time gets its hands on you.
“So,” he interjects, before we hang up. “Will Mr. Crow be there?”
“No. He’s away at the moment, but he asked me to reach out. He read your last paper in Science and found it illuminating.” (A big, steaming lie. I’m getting better at them, at least.) Science is one of the most prestigious journals around. You can guess the subject matter.
The flattery works to disarm him. His voice takes on a full, throaty note of anticipation for a rewarding professional—maybe even personal—relationship with one of the country’s most dedicated journalists. There are speaker’s fees to collect. Interviews and panel discussions to participate in, all of which he is well aware of. “Well, it will be a pleasure speaking with him when he gets back. In the meantime, I look forward to meeting you, Nora.”
Okay, there are some things you realize about journalists like Seb if you know anything about them. The first is that even if they do have research help, they rarely have other people conducting interviews for them. They prefer to do the legwork personally. Second, only the most unscrupulous in the field need to resort to shameless flattery to get in the door. Third, and perhaps the most important point on this list, they can hold grudges.
By using Seb’s name to get this man to talk I have firmly crossed a line that I will not be able to uncross, with one of the only people in my life who has consistently given me the benefit of the doubt.
26
I sleep for the rest of the day and wake up just as evening sets in. Since I need to be presentable for my meeting with the academic, I slip upstairs after Seb and Leo have gone home for the night. They haven’t changed the locks, which I’m grateful for. After leaving Seb in the office that night, I’ve proceeded onto the premises with caution. He didn’t say I wasn’t welcome, but he expects answers that I don’t have.
As I step into the room, I’m acutely aware of the bottle of whisky that may or may not still be in Seb’s office. I let out a deep breath and turn left instead, into Leo’s office. He has a dark green cardigan draped just so over the back of his chair and a gray scarf that is soft as butter hanging on the coatrack. I snatch both and, on my way out, I also snag the leather wing tips that he leaves by the door for when he removes his rain boots.
Back downstairs, I put a steel pipe the size of my arm on the cot next to me and then crawl under the covers. Whisper jumps up and arranges herself at my feet. Even though it’s a small cot, there’s still room for the both of us. Maybe she senses how scared I am or maybe she’s seeking out my warmth. Whatever it is, I’m glad she’s there. And then I sleep.
The next morning, after I walk Whisper, I slip into Leo’s shoes and throw the cardigan and scarf on over my cleanest shirt and jeans. I am pleased by the result. Studious butch is what comes to mind here, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
I say goodbye to Whisper, who ignores me because this is her nap time, and leave through the basement door. Leo’s clothes have pleasant top notes of sandalwood and leather and they give me a peculiar feeling that I’m someone else, off to meet a respectable individual for a cup of coffee. I manage to catch a bus just as it’s departing and settle into a rear window seat. For the bus ride to the university, this fantasy takes over, fueled by Leo’s good taste in cologne and shoes. There is little traffic this time of day, and it has started to rain, but people are still out on the streets going about their business.
I’m in such a good mood that I think about my youth, which is rare for me. I usually think in terms of Before and After. I’ve mostly drunk the After away, and I’m not ashamed to say that I really don’t remember too much about it. Before, naturally, is a special place where I am so innocent that those memories lie in my gut like a lead ball, pinning me down with shame. My father’s sister, before she got sick, was employed by a wealthy family in Winnipeg who ran a chain of grocery stores. She was a cook and sometimes a nanny. She would bring home old books for me and Lorelei, though I always let Lorelei have at them first because I knew she would eventually ask me to read them to her. Some of my fondest memories were of opening a carry bag and pulling out the castoffs from these rich kids whom I never met but only glimpsed from a dista
nce every now and then. For a while these secondhand books and toys were treasures, until Lorelei got old enough to realize that they were just charity and didn’t want anything to do with them. I agreed with her at the time, but would still read the books when she went to sleep, to avoid any arguments. These old books with their torn bindings and stained pages were the best we ever got. Well, the best I ever got. Lorelei always expected better for herself and, through sheer force of will and natural good looks, she has managed to achieve it.
The bus glides along the well-maintained roads toward the university. The fantasy of being someone else evaporates as I disembark from the bus and stand on the pavement to get my bearings. It’s important to get my story straight. I walk into the coffee shop we agreed to meet in, which is also an art gallery. The art on the walls consists mostly of bright landscapes of the city in the summertime, which is a cruel joke on the patrons, considering that we haven’t seen the sun for weeks. I spot the professor, whom I recognize from his staff photo. He pumps my hand vigorously when I get to the table, which is already filled with binders stacked neatly, three deep, and a cup of coffee.
“You must be Nora. I’m Angus Holland,” he says, still pumping away. He has a broad forehead and pale Nordic features to go with his equally pale eyes. They are either blue or gray, but even in this well-lit space, designed to give you a good view of the coffee and art, I can’t tell. Everything about him blends into the white walls behind him, the spaces in between the art, everything but his red cheeks, which make him look like a naughty schoolboy. When I squint, he even appears to have a twinkle in his eye. Imagine that.
I give him a professional but still friendly nod, meant to indicate that he should let go of my hand but keep up the high spirits. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure, Ms. Watts?” He trails off, covertly glancing at the front of my cardigan for signs of breasts. He comes up empty, as I have been for the past twenty years. If you want fleshy on me, you have to look to the back. Even there you’d have a hard time of it, but you’d eventually find something to reward you for your efforts.
“Yup.”
“You’ve got a very deep voice there, Ms. Watts.”
I’m not a contralto for nothing, but people usually don’t comment. Holland looks somewhere over my shoulder as we sit down, and I turn to see a student stride in, wearing makeup, with two pigtails peeking out from under a bicycle helmet. The bicycle shorts that the student wears leave no doubt of anatomically male genitalia, but the makeup and pigtails tell a different story. I suddenly understand the Ms. comment and the observation of my voice. For some reason, my vocal cords are thicker than the average woman’s and he thinks I’m trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He’s not wrong. I am. Just not about that.
“The campus is a very safe space,” he continues, seeing that I’ve noticed Bicycle Shorts. “No one has to hide who they are here.”
“Except if you’re a large mining company, right?” I say cheerfully, seeing that this meeting is quite close to being derailed by my apparently ambiguous gender identity. Perhaps studious butch wasn’t the way to go after all. I pull Leo’s scarf off my neck to show a little clavicle. It’s not much, but it’s the best I’ve got. “They must be persona non grata around these parts.”
He clears his throat, all business now. “On the contrary. We have a robust mining engineering program here at the university. It is the job of the center to look at issues of, among other things, the social and environmental impact of the extraction industry. So is Mr. Crow doing a feature article or are we looking at a book?”
“We’re just at the research stage of some feature work at this point, but we’re open to expanding the project if we get the money. We won’t know until he pitches it to his publisher.”
“Why Syntamar, though? There are quite a few Canadian companies doing damage overseas and in country. I wouldn’t put it at the top of my list.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure, either. There are a lot of moving pieces here and I just do what I’m told.” Enough of Seb’s work over the past few years has had the byline With contributions from N. Watts for me to sell this line to Holland.
Something I’ve said amuses him. He chuckles into his mug and his cheeks turn even redder. “Sounds a lot like my job. Teach this but not that. Research this with our money, but the other stuff you do on your own. Would you like some coffee?” He gestures to his cup, as if he’s about to share.
“No, thanks. I’ve got a bit of a deadline to get this in to Mr. Crow.”
“Right, of course. Syntamar, then. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the Congo mine.” It was the company’s only project outside of Canada.
“Okay.” He glances down at the binders in front of him but doesn’t move to open them. He doesn’t need to. I get the feeling that he knows this material inside out. “Syntamar had a tough time getting off the ground outside of Canada. They went in a couple of times with shady promoters who were raising money for projects that were never viable. This was before Canada implemented the NI 43–101 . . . Sorry,” he says, off my look. “Not sure how much background you’ve already got here. Basically, mining can be shady and Syntamar lost a lot of money in ventures that were never going to pan out, projects where the promoters would raise the capital two times over, make twice the money in different markets, and then leave their investors high and dry. Syntamar had a couple of successful projects in Canada but they made some bad choices before going in to the Congo.”
“So they were desperate to make it work.”
“Yes, they were.” He stares at a painting on the wall. In shades of red, a couple in love, mouths intertwined, hands clasped. “Do you know what the most difficult part of the mining process is?” He doesn’t wait for an answer because he’s gearing up for full lecture mode. I lean back in my chair. His mood has changed, going from pleasant to unexpectedly grim in a matter of seconds. “It’s not getting the permits or acquiring equipment or skilled technicians. It has to do with the human and environmental cost of this process of digging deep into the earth and bringing out raw materials that some say may be better off left there. Extraction can ruin the environment around the sites that are being used. There’s no denying that. And they are most toxic and harmful in the immediate vicinity of where the mining or the drilling or the fracking takes place.”
“The local populations.”
There’s that twinkle again, but it disappears almost immediately. “Exactly! Nobody wants a damn mine or drilling op in their backyard, but sometimes they’re steamrolled by governments that are in the pocket of industry. Some jobs are thrown their way. People are initially cautious but need to eat and there’s no denying that some income is better than no income at all. It’s when the animals start dying, the people start getting sick, and the water in the area is not safe to drink that turmoil happens.”
I nod. “And they don’t always treat local employees well, do they?”
He sighs and drains the last of his coffee. “No, they can’t even get that right. In Canada, not so much. We’re not perfect and unions don’t really have the bargaining power they used to, but we have some safeguards here. Overseas is a different story. Our mining companies in particular have a horrific record of human rights abuses. Just terrible. A report from a nonprofit think tank several years ago showed that Canadian companies are some of the worst offenders. Not exactly in line with our polite, peacekeeping reputation, is it?”
This is all very interesting, but I don’t see the connection. “Where does Syntamar fit into this picture?”
“Like I said, it’s not the worst, but how can you qualify what is bad abuse and exploitation and what isn’t? The Congo had more than a few companies operating there. In the region where Syntamar had their gold mine, there were also two American projects and one Chinese. The Canadian outfit was smaller than the others and ran into some trouble both with their workers and the local population. Strikes, protests, general unrest. The
y were losing money fast and, by chance, a militia that was used to quell unrest in another mine suddenly appeared at Syntamar’s a few months later. Many local reports suggested that the perpetrators were the same. The protesters and striking workers were brutally treated in a manner that is too horrific to speak of here within these walls, my dear.” He looks away for a minute, lost to his thoughts.
I don’t look away, though, because I’m suddenly flustered. What I had initially thought of him over the phone was very wrong. I seem to have misjudged him terribly.
“So both Syntamar and this other company used the same militia to get a handle on the situation.”
“Yes. The mine was profitable for a little while and then Syntamar suffered a hostile takeover by an American company several years later. All of its existing rights were handed over, except for two, both in Canada. Both became joint ventures, with Syntamar taking a backseat role. One in the northern tundra, which has become a hotly contested region since that time, and one for a copper mine on Vancouver Island.”
“Wasn’t this unusual, that they sold the company but someone else got the other two projects?”
“Not really, but there was something about it at the time that made it stand out for me. Backroom deals happen all the time, but those two projects had the potential to be very profitable in the long run.”
“You’re saying Syntamar offered up those projects to another company in return for help with the Congo mine.”
He sighs. “There’s no way to know for sure because there are no official records of who financed those militias . . . but I strongly suspect that’s the case.”
“If there was bad blood with the Americans, then that leaves the Chinese company.”
He smiles. “You’re very good. When they needed help in the Congo, they turned to their only other option. Zhang-Wei Industries. They moved their headquarters to Vancouver in the late nineties. Up until then they weren’t publicly traded so we didn’t have a lot of information on them.”
