“One question, detective,” he said. “Did Max say anything about who pushed him?”
“I told you, Mr. Phillips, we can’t discuss the case. I will tell you that we’re not looking at anyone specific.”
“So, that’s a no, Max didn’t say anything about the pusher.”
“Funny, Mr. Phillips.”
“Just one more thing.”
“You said one question, Mr. Phillips. But, go ahead.”
“Did anyone other than me visit Max in hospital?”
“We always check visitor’s logs, Mr. Phillips. You could probably do the same so I’ll tell you he had visits from an ex-wife and from someone at your company. A fellow executive.” She told Jackson the name.
The detective said, of the ex-wife, “She wanted to know if he had sent the last alimony cheque before being run over. If not, she wanted him to sign one she conveniently had in her purse - with her own pen. He went to sleep before she could give it to him.”
Jackson made a face to himself and pushed his luck. “What did the executive say?”
“She was only there a few seconds. Just long enough to see if Blax was still there. But, Mr. Phillips, there are limits.” There was frost in her voice.
Mindful of the tone, Jackson thanked the officer after setting a meeting time for late the next day.
Jackson made his way back to the control room. He met Payne and Mariah coming out. He herded them back and gathered them and Brownley into a circle around the couch and coffee table on which he perched. “It’s consistent,” he told Brownley. “A probable - even if it’s not positive.” Brownley’s face fell. “Congratulations - we’re farther than we’ve been, Bill.”
Payne offered to buy them all lunch as a grisly form of celebration. They trooped off leaving Leona and David with their sincere thanks and four hours of overtime each. Brownley also asked the two to keep watch on their banks of H.Q. cameras ‘just in case.’ In case of what, Brownley had no idea.
Over lunch and not surprisingly, they dissected the discoveries of the morning. While there was disbelief, none could explain how all the signs pointed at one person as the best candidate for thief of the year at JPI.
Mariah was already planning how the company could explain how a senior executive stole code from JPI and offered it for sale to the Russians. “Difficult but not impossible,” was her opinion.
“First, we hope it doesn’t come out but, if the police lay charges, it will be impossible to avoid publicity so we admit everything. Second, if it does come out we can now point to the stolen code as slated to become obsolete quickly. Third, we can say it was a plot to dupe the Russians into paying a bundle for a card full of junk code.”
Payne, Brownley, Rebecca and Jackson turned to her with disbelief in their eyes. “Kidding,” laughed Mariah. “At least on the last one. We may have to admit everything but, thanks to Jackson’s brilliant idea, we can say what they got was raw code headed for the dumpster.”
“Sucking up to the boss,” Rebecca said with a smirk, “Jackson’s ‘brilliance’?” Even Jackson smiled at that.
Jackson then said, “There is one thing we can add. The source code was, indeed, stolen but it was never delivered to the Russians or anyone else.”
“My god, is that right?” Mariah brought her hands together in a clapping motion.
“According to our pal Petrenko, it is,” Jackson answered.
As if on cue, his phone chirped. “Should have shut it off.” He picked it out of his pocket. “Phillips.”
“Mr. Phillips, we really do have to get together.” It was Detective Sergeant Jaya Kumar. “You, me and Detective John Chambers, a colleague of mine.”
“Is it urgent?”
“You could say that, Mr. Phillips. Do you know a Roman Petrenko?”
“I know who he is, Detective. But, don’t forget, I used to be with CSIS. There are certain things I can’t talk about, especially not on the phone.”
“Nice try, Mr. Phillips. But CSIS was a while ago and Roman Petrenko was murdered early this morning. I don’t think there’s a conflict. Do you?”
“Oh,” said a very surprised Jackson Phillips. “Murdered. By whom?”
“A good question. But I’d rather ask it in person. Detective Chambers has the case and has a lot to do with the preliminary investigation. We can get to you tomorrow. You will be available, won’t you, sir?” Despite the politeness, there was no challenging of the police woman’s orders.
“Yes, detective. I’ll be at JPI any time you want me tomorrow.”
“No, Mr. Phillips. You’ll be at 53 Division station any time we tell you to be. Goodbye, sir.”
He told the group what the officer had said and what she was commanding him to do.
Mariah piped up. “How could they connect you to Petrenko, Jackson?”
“We, uh, paid Petrenko a call last night. Me and some of Bill’s people. But we didn’t kill him. We didn’t touch the little crook. I think the cops know that or I’d be getting a ride in a car with locking back doors. What’s the real story?” He threw up his hands. “Not a clue.”
After lunch, Jackson and Bill Brownley returned to the security unit’s offices at JPI. Jackson spent the afternoon there mostly with David and Leona in the control room. Jackson tried to recall as much as he could about the advanced surveillance capabilities the operators were putting to use.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
At about 5 p.m., Jackson took public transit again to Toronto Western Hospital and walked through a number of hallways and rode elevators to reach Max’s room. The man himself was seated in a chair at the side of his bed. He was bandaged but without tubes. A nurse was just leaving. “We have him sitting up to prevent bedsores and other things. But it doesn’t mean much,” she warned.
“Hi, Max,” said Jackson, not expecting an answer.
“Hello.” The voice was weak but audible.
“How are you feeling, Max?”
“Fine.” The word was slurred. “I am fine.”
“Great. I have a question, Max.”
“I am fine.” The phrase came again in exactly the same way.
“You wanted me to say you were sorry to someone. I forgot who that was, Max. Can you tell me again who you want to apologize to?
Max lifted his head and stared at Jackson. His eyes lacked any spark; they were dull and seemingly covered with a thin film. “I’m sorry,” he slurred. “I’m so sorry.”
“To whom, Max?” Was it…” Jackson whispered a name into his ear.
“I am fine,” Max said with the robotic voice he used the first two times. “I am fine.”
Jackson made a few more attempts to get more from the CEO but Max soon drifted away into a semi consciousness and said nothing more than “I am fine” half a dozen times.
A doctor came into the room and Jackson turned to him. “Ah, doctor. We’ve just been having a good chat.” Jackson introduced himself and shook the doctor’s hand.
The white-coated doc took in Jackson with a skeptical look. “Is that right?”
“No, it isn’t right. He just says ‘I am fine’ over and over again. I’m his replacement as temporary CEO at his company so it’s crucial that we know what’s happening.”
The doctor wrestled with his sense of confidentiality before answering. “As I’ve discussed with Mr. Payne, there isn’t any brain damage that we can find, from the traffic accident.” The doctor didn’t term the accident a ‘crime’. He continued. “There is, however, a brain tumour unrelated to the accident. It has been there for an estimated six months. Unfortunately…” The doctor dropped his voice and turned his body away from Max’s slumping figure. “… it is a very aggressive tumour that is difficult, if not impossible, to treat. The shock of the accident to the rest of his body has kicked the tumour into high gear or, rather, his body into low gear. That’s why he is, er, unresponsive.”
“Are you saying it’s terminal?”
“We never say that, Mr. Phillips. We’re planning
on moving Mr. Blax to Princess Margaret’s. That is a superb cancer hospital, as you might know. Maybe they can do something for him.”
There was very little hope in the doctor’s words. Jackson left the hospital thinking of the uncertainties of life. Maxim Blax had been a highly intelligent, motivated, energetic man a year before. Now, he may be dying, with a grasping ex-wife and an undelivered apology his memorials.
CHAPTER FIFTY
On a bright, warm, Friday morning in July, Jackson got to the JPI office early and feeling great. He had risen at sunrise, ran and bicycled on exercise equipment in the condo gym, showered, had a full breakfast and had driven from his condo in Forest Hill to his newly-reserved parking spot in the JPI building on Queen’s Quay. He ran a few steps in the garage to the elevator and bounced up and down in the elevator car as it rose to the executive floors.
There was no reason for Jackson’s high spirits except for the weather and the fact that he was free of aches and pains. Physical and mental exercise had given him pep and purpose. The vision of Max in hospital bothered him when he let it intrude but he was pushing it from his mind with thoughts of re-development work ahead at JPI.
He moved his laptop and a few paper files from the boardroom where he had his temporary office into Blax’s CEO suite of offices. He had ordered Mrs. Laybourne to clean the office of the man’s personal belongings and mementoes as well as some of the more garish decorations. He couldn’t do much about the desk, which he disliked, but he like the view over the big lake and several islands rimming Toronto’s harbour.
Jackson fielded a phone call from Bill Brownley who asked him to come to his offices. When he arrived, Brownley shepherded him into David and Leona’s lair again. The two were fixed in place.
“Hi, guys,” Jackson greeted them. They twiddled their fingers over their shoulders while keeping their eyes on their monitors. It seemed every screen was in play.
Bill stood over the two while speaking to Jackson who stayed a few steps back. “My colleagues here,” there was fondness in his voice. “They have been watching a military parade of sorts. They have been using facial and voice recognition with images and recordings provided by your CSIS contacts. Thank them for us.”
Jackson moved closer and found himself looking at zoomed-in views of a certain type of men mingling with the crowds on the sidewalk. Each man was dressed in white Tees and jeans with New Balance running shoes in different colours. There were four separate men on four monitors. The rest of the dozen or more monitors in front of David and Leona held more general shots of people on their ways to work or boarding streetcars. Bicycles and cars whizzed by.
“This is live,” said David over his shoulder. The men are all GRU operatives based at the Embassy in Ottawa. That’s according to the images we got from CSIS.”
“Wait,” David added with an urgent tone. “See this guy.” A new scene appeared on yet another monitor. “This is Captain Vasily Zaytsev. He’s head of the unit. A clever cookie, CSIS says.”
Leona watched her monitors as she interjected. “Each one is armed. It looks like pint-sized flat automatics tucked in their jeans under the shirts. The software tagged the guns but they’re not really visible to the naked eye.”
Jackson and Brownley leaned toward the monitor showing Zaytsev. “They’re all pretty fit guys. Spetsnaz?”
Bill Brownley replied to Jackson’s query. “Yep. CSIS says they all were soldiers before moving to the diplomatic service. I have a hunch they’re not all that diplomatic.”
“Do you think they’re the ones who knocked off Petrenko.”
“I doubt it.” David took the question. “They don’t have the body language of men who have killed someone recently. They look focused on whatever their task is. No nerves. No remorse. No excitement that you get in thrill killings.”
“I’d forgotten a lot of what the software will do,” Jackson said as he recalled his days at CSIS and then helping to develop JPI software. “Too much soft living on Georgian Bay.”
“And there’s a new catch,” said Brownley suddenly. Everyone looked at the monitor to which his finger was pointing. There was a red line around a man who was walking along with a gang of office workers. “That’s a GRU man from the consulate here in Toronto. His name is Sokolov. Serge Sokolov.” Brownley was reading from a block of type overlaying Sokolov’s image. “CSIS has him as a handler. Wait a minute.” Brownley read farther. “Well.” He drew out the word. “He was Petrenko’s handler.”
“Holy…” Jackson stared at the young man who had stopped on the sidewalk and was now looking around, as if seeking something or someone.
Sure enough, Sokolov met Captain Zaytsev on the sidewalk to one side of the JPI building.
Leona’s hand was hovering over a level. “They’re speaking English. Probably to blend in with the crowd. Do you want to hear them?”
“Of course,” said Jackson with some glee.
Her hand pulled the small lever down and the audio came up.
“… so, we’ll scope out the ground. You’re set for the meeting at 4 p.m. in the lobby of the Westin.” Jackson watched a monitor as Zaytsev’s hand came up and his finger pointed in the direction of the large hotel a few blocks east of the JPI headquarters. “You two will meet in the lobby in a conversation area to the left of the reception desk. We can keep that area in sight. You understand, Serge?”
Sokolov nodded. “I understand, Captain. How will I know this person?”
“Our thief?” Zaytsev laughed in derision even as his voice dropped to a whisper. “The great and powerful Voice. Nothing but a cheap thief in the end.”
“Not so cheap, Captain.” Sokolov was bantering. “Twenty million dollars is not cheap.”
Zaytsev skewered Sokolov with a penetrating look. “What did you say, Serge,” he said in a low, threatening tone and in Russian.
In the A/V studio, Leona switched on a new feature, instant translation from Russian to English. It wasn’t a perfect translation but close enough.
“Nothing, sir. I didn’t mean anything…”
Whatever Zaytsev muttered was short and not at all sweet. Sokolov fell silent.
“The thief will say, ‘My mother has been very ill but now she is better.’ You will reply, ‘Please give me your full name and address and I will send flowers. Roses.’ If you see anything wrong, you will say ‘lillies’ and both of you will move away as quickly as you can. Get the card with the source code and meet me immediately afterward. Can you remember all that, Serge?” Zaytsev studied him with cold eyes.
“Lillies? But what could go wrong?” Sokolov was close to panic.
Zaytsev slapped the young man on his back. “Nothing will go wrong Serge. I will not allow it. Everything will come up roses.”
He told Sokolov to go and wander around the waterfront. Have lunch. Go to the art gallery. Watch the girls. Zaytsev waved him off with a stern admonition to be in place on time.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The three GRU men gathered around Zaytsev. He had picked up a paper bag from a bench along the sidewalk. He led them to a square of grass under a small tree. There was some shade in the 33-degree heat. He told them, with the JPI staff listening in via a shotgun mic on the side of a nearby building, that they had come to Queen’s Quay early for two reasons. One was to ensure the safety of the Westin Hotel as a meeting spot for the thief and Sokolov. The other was to try to spot the thief before the meeting.
“If we can discover the identity before the meeting, we will have an advantage. If The Voice does not give Serge the card or provide a real identity, we will already know who this person is. Maybe we will have Serge greet this Voice by name. This would underline the message that this person had better help us in the future or else. We can find out anything.”
“It’s not like Serge Sokolov will issue much of a message,” Andrei said with a snide chuckle. “Maybe he should break a leg or an arm of this Voice. Make certain this thief will continue working for us.”
“How can we identify this person,” Niki asked.
“Just ask,” said Zaytsev. When his men frowned in puzzlement, Zaytsev explained. “We have here (he handed each man a sheet of thumbnail pictures) the pictures and names of executives and managers at Jackson Phillips. Study them and, when you see one on the sidewalk between 3:30 and 4:00 p.m., walk up and say, “Do you have a card?
“If the person is calm and asks you what you mean or simply walks by, just hold up this.” Zaytsev reached into his paper bag and pulled out a stack of cards bearing an advertisement for a Cuts R Us hair salon on King Street. He had dug the cards out of a local dumpster the day before. “The person will think you meant this card.”
“However,” Zaytsev held up his index finger, “if the person looks frightened … tries to hurry away … says something strange … this is probably the person we want. If that happens, choose the one it was from your sheet of pictures. Then call me on the cellphone and tell me who it was. I will get information from the embassy and we will know everything about this person before the meeting.”
One of the men looked worried. “But,” he asked, “won’t this scare the person away from the meeting with Sokolov?”
“Nyet,” Zaytsev dismissed the idea. “This person wants ten million dollars and won’t be scared away by a card from a barber shop. Just make sure you show it after you have asked ‘do you have a card?’ and watch what our brave thief does.”
“What a clever idea.” Jackson Phillips was punching a fist into his open hand.
Brownley bent over his operators and explained they would piggyback on Zaytsev’s idea and, if it worked, find the identity of the software thief at the same time as the Russians.
“And, if it doesn’t work, we’ll just blame the Russians,” quipped David.
The Russian Crisis Page 18
