Ice Angel

by Matthew Hart

  “That’s not an answer, Lily.”

  She unfolded a metal stand from the back and stood the mirror on the desk. She uncapped a lipstick and leaned toward the mirror. “Christian Louboutin,” she said, applying a smoldering scarlet to her lips. “Ninety dollars a stick.”

  “So a Chinese investment in Jimmy’s company could be part of a larger plan.”

  “Mwa.” Lily smacked her lips at the mirror. “Mwa, mwa.”

  “The Chinese,” I prompted.

  Lily tossed the lipstick on the desk, folded the mirror, and put it away. She swung the big chair around and parked her suede boots in my lap. She splayed her ruby-tipped fingers on either side of her beautiful mouth and gave me a wicked smile.

  “Investing in Jimmy,” I plowed on. “Part of a larger plan.”

  “Alex, they’re Chinese. Everything is part of a larger plan.”

  3

  Somewhere over the north the sky cleared. The moon slashed a silver stripe across the black sheet of Great Slave Lake. Here and there on the ragged coast, the light of an isolated cabin stabbed a pinhole in the darkness of the forest. The small jet shuddered as it dropped through a layer of turbulence.

  We banked for final. Yellowknife appeared in the window, glowing on the shore. From the air it looked like a toy city unpacked from a box and set up in the wilderness—a cluster of office buildings, some traffic lights, suburbs, and a mall. Everywhere else, pressing at the edges of the town, the dark unbroken forest.

  The undercarriage unfolded with a thump. A river glittered in the trees. A thread of gravel road wound along the shore of a long bay. A pair of headlights bored a tunnel through the night. We scraped in across the city and landed.

  At that hour the airport had a desolate appearance. A single jet with the logo of a diamond-mining company on its tail waited at the passenger terminal. Miners heading out to start a rotation at a distant mine trudged from the departure gate and made their way across the tarmac. The intercom clicked on.

  “Directed to the RCMP hangar,” the pilot said.

  We turned off the main runway and headed to a far corner of the airport. On the way we passed a floodlit parking ramp where a pair of Canadian F-18s stood with their canopies open. Cockpit ladders hung against the sides. The network of cables that keep a fighter jet ready to scramble coiled across the pad. Just past the jets, in the shadows beyond the lights, a soldier in camo stood beside a military truck and watched us taxi past.

  The engines whined down as we turned off the taxiway. A woman wearing ear protectors and a reflective vest stood in front of a white hangar, pointing her orange batons to guide us in. Above the hangar doors, a buffalo wreathed in maple leaves lowered its head at the world. But I didn’t need the official crest of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police to identify the guy waiting for me.

  A shock of hair fell across his forehead, almost hiding an ugly scar. He had a satanic smile, dark eyes, and a feral restlessness, like a wild animal pent up in a cage. He paced back and forth on the oil-stained pavement, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a dark blue trench coat. The fury of his movement almost disguised the slight limp. His mouth twisted into a crooked grin as he daggered glances at the plane.

  We rolled to a halt. The steward wrenched up the handle and pushed the door open. As the seal broke, the inrush of cold air filled the cabin. Lily pulled on her red leather jacket, pocketed the lipstick, and slipped on her Akris techno-fabric shoulder bag. Thirteen hundred dollars at Bergdorf. Easily big enough to hold the makeup Lily had looted from the stash on the plane, with plenty of room left over for her Glock Slimline subcompact and the two extra clips she always carried. Talk about ready for an evening out.

  “Yankee bastard!” the man in the trench coat roared when the stairs deployed and we left the jet. He strode forward and grabbed my hand in a crushing grip. “Where have you been hiding! Trying to sneak in without telling me, eh?”

  “This is Inspector Luc Savard,” I said to Lily.

  He turned to her with his savage smile. “And the famous Slav Lily too,” he thundered before I could complete the introduction. “This is a bonus!” He stepped in close and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “You’re much better looking than that Belgian mug shot.”

  He put his head back and roared with laughter at his own joke, then gave me a thunderclap slap on the back.

  “Belgian mug shot,” he repeated, still laughing. When he was through he took me by the arm.

  “We have a car for you,” he said to Lily. “I’m going to borrow Alex for an hour and beat him up in the basement.” He flashed his evil grin. “I’ll return him later.”

  “Make sure you wipe off the blood first,” Lily said. But she didn’t like the way Luc was deciding who went where any more than I did.

  I wasn’t surprised to see him, but not this soon. He was based in Ottawa. The regulation notice Tommy had sent to the Canadian government just before I left was supposed to make my trip seem like a bureaucratic errand. Also, it was as long a flight to Yellowknife from Ottawa as from New York. Yet he’d been there ahead of me. And never mind the laughing and kidding around. When a cop decides where you’re going next, you’re in custody.

  “I don’t remember asking for a ride,” I said.

  “Hospitality is in our blood, Alex. We’re a warm and welcoming people. It says so in the tourist ads.”

  A constable held open the back door. When I was in, he slammed it shut. Something I couldn’t have done myself because there were no handles on the inside. When considering how warm and welcoming Canadians are, remind yourself that they invented hockey.

  The constable got into the driver’s seat. Luc climbed in on the other side. A Plexiglas panel separated them from me.

  Every cop car smells of vomit. The stench kept me company while I thought about Luc. By referring to Lily as Slav Lily, as she was known in the diamond world, he wanted me to know he’d run her through the files.

  Another thing. The Belgians hadn’t taken a mug shot of Lily that night at the airport or at any other time. If the Canadians had a headshot of Lily, they’d taken it themselves.

  * * *

  It was two A.M. We drove to a small building close to the passenger terminal. We parked, got out, and entered a shabby gray room with scales and a baggage-inspection counter. Luc sat behind a metal desk and motioned me to a chair.

  “Remind me of the official reason for your visit, Alex?”

  “Routine inquiry,” I said. “Didn’t the office send an advisory? Just checking up on an American-listed company. Dot some i’s and cross a few t’s.”

  He carved a grin into his hard face, but his eyes weren’t joining in.

  “You flew in on a government executive jet. Unless your bosses are treating you better than they used to, I wouldn’t call that routine.”

  He made a gesture with his hands. They were large and badly scarred. When Luc played semi-pro hockey in Quebec, his blistering slap shot had earned him the nickname “Boom.” But it wasn’t the slap that gave him the scars, it was his temper on the ice. That’s how he’d picked up the limp too. He’d had an opponent’s top scorer against the boards and was hammering away when one of the guy’s teammates skated up and cut a two-handed slash to Luc’s right knee.

  “The notice came from Tommy Cleary,” he said, “so I guess he’s running things now.”

  I tried to think of a clever remark about two guys with bum knees but decided maybe not.

  “Here’s where I’m having a problem,” Luc said. The chair creaked as he leaned back and laced his thick fingers behind his head. “You work for FinCEN. FinCEN is a bureau of the US Treasury. Its mission,” he said, clearly reciting something he’d just read up on, “is to protect the financial system, combat money laundering, and promote the national security of the United States through the strategic use of financial authorities and the collection of financial intelligence.” He studied the ceiling. “OK so far?”

  The constable came into the room c
arrying my bag. He dropped it on the floor beside the desk. It made a loud clank. The constable gave me a look, but Luc ignored the sound.

  “And then there’s you,” he continued. “FinCEN added your department, Special Audits. There’s a short clause somewhere in the legislation that describes your task as ‘enhanced data capture.’ What it comes down to is: you’re spooks. When certain people use the American financial system to further a crime, and they’re not the kind of people bothered by court orders and threatening letters, it’s you who shows up.”

  He slid the chair forward and splayed his hands on the desk.

  “That’s why you’re here, Alex. Something is fishy, and probably dirty. And bad enough to scare somebody high up in Washington.”

  He held out his hand, and the constable gave him a thick blue folder with the RCMP crest stamped on it in red.

  “We’re supposed to be allies. You and me—we’ve worked together before.” He held my eyes with an unwavering stare. “So I’m going to show you something.”

  He took out some glossy eight-by-tens and laid them on the table one by one. While I was looking through them, he continued.

  “A week ago, a hunting party arrived in Yellowknife. They had licenses for the Barrens. They’re allowed to bring in their own weapons. The fish-and-game guys check the luggage to make sure they’re not bringing in prohibited weapons, such as assault rifles or anything that’s fully automatic. This one”—he tapped a picture—“is semiautomatic, which the hunting regulations allow, as long as the clip holds no more than four rounds.”

  I put a finger on the corner of one of the glossies and turned it so I had a better view.

  “Care to guess where the hunters were from?”

  I took my time with the photograph, but really, there was no mistaking it.

  “The rifle is a QBU-88. People’s Liberation Army,” I said. “The Chinese military’s go-to sniper gun. Gunsmiths call this the bullpup configuration, where the magazine is behind the trigger. Rated accurate to a thousand yards. But it’s got a five-round clip.”

  He nodded. “If they show a modification, they can get it in.”

  “Sure,” I said, “and then restore it to the full five later.”

  He pointed to the other picture. It was the top-line spotting scope from Kunming Shunho Optics.

  “And they were cleared to go ahead?” I said.

  “They were.”

  “Then you’ve got a Chinese kill team in the Barrens, Luc.”

  He raked the glossies into a neat stack and put them away.

  “So you can understand why I wonder what you’re doing, turning up here to investigate a company with recent Chinese investment, just at the very moment that we ourselves are trying to find the right answers.”

  “Or even the right questions.”

  “Just so.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes what, Alex?”

  “Yes, I can understand you wondering.”

  Luc had already erased any sign of friendliness from his expression. He had a message, and he’d delivered it. He knew about Jimmy Angel, and he knew about the Chinese. Agreements between our countries meant that he would let me operate. He would give me the rope. If I hanged myself with it, that was going to be OK with him.

  Luc shot me a sour look. He nodded to the constable, who grabbed the material from the desk and followed him outside. I grabbed my bag and followed too, but they were already driving away by the time I got outside. Somebody turned the lights out in the terminal, and I heard the door lock snap.

  4

  Veils of mist rose from the forest. I made my way around the abandoned terminal. A direct-line phone to a taxi company hung on the wall outside the exit doors, but before I picked it up, a cab with a yellow roof light pulled to a stop and flicked its lights. I walked over and stood by the driver’s door until he rolled down the window.

  “Somebody call you?” I said.

  “Mister, this ain’t Chicago. They ain’t a lot of air traffic at the moment, case you didn’t notice. I seen that little jet come in.” He had a reedy voice and a greasy ponytail held together with an elastic band. “I figure, hey, maybe some guy needs a ride.”

  Fine, I thought. Somebody knows I’m in town and sends a mutt to get me. Let’s see what they have in mind. I tossed my heavy bag in the back, climbed in, and gave him the name of my hotel.

  He took the main road into town, but after half a mile he turned off. We passed a few houses, a single-story building that advertised tours to see the northern lights, then nothing but woods.

  “What’s with the back road?” I said.

  He shot me a mean little glance in the rearview. “Shortcut.” He shrugged, not caring if I believed it.

  So I already had my bag open and a clip snapped into the SIG when I heard the motorcycle coming up behind us. I lowered the window. The cold air blew in.

  The rider coasted alongside and backed off on the throttle. His big Harley made that potato-potato-potato sound that’s part of what you pay for. The predawn light was seeping into the sky, and the small round lenses of his sunglasses flashed pink.

  If you typed “mean biker dude” into your request to central casting, the guy on the Harley would be who they sent. Black T-shirt torn off at the shoulders. Black jeans. Leather vest. One of those small, token helmets that doesn’t mess with the flowing hair. And of course, the flowing hair.

  His powerful arms were covered in tattoos. He pulled a Walther PPK from his belt and waggled the barrel at us to pull over. The cabbie shot me an ice-cold glance.

  “Hey, bud,” he said. “No choice here. I gotta stop.”

  “You bet,” I said, snicking off the safety.

  The tires crunched on the gravel shoulder. Harley guy gave me his killer look, the Walther held loosely in his hand. We were just rolling to a stop when the rider flicked his pink lenses at the road for a second, and I hoisted the SIG and blew away the back end of the bike. The tire exploded, and the saddle dropped backward. The frame hit the road in a trail of sparks. The bike shot sideways into the ditch, and the rider snowballed along the pavement like a load of laundry.

  “Holy fuck!” the taxi driver screamed. “Holy Jesus Christ!”

  “Put your right hand up where I can see it and open the door with your left.”

  “I never seen that guy!” he screamed. “I never seen him before!”

  I poked him in the back of the head with the barrel. “Open the door. Then both hands up. Get out of the car and lie facedown on the road and lace your fingers behind your head. Or I’ll kill you right here.”

  He gaped at me in the mirror. “I had nothing to do with this, man.”

  I gave him another jab.

  When he was on the pavement I got out and patted him down. “You got a piece in the car?”

  “Under the seat, man,” he said in a pleading voice. “It’s for protection. I swear, I never seen that fucker.”

  He had a Baby Browning .25 under the seat. Tough guys call it a mouse gun, but it can kill you, and so could the .38 I found under the dash. I shoved them both in my belt and came around and yanked his head up by the ponytail.

  “Listen,” I said. “Don’t move until I say. I have a fresh clip in the SIG.”

  I banged his face into the pavement and went to check the biker. He lay motionless beyond the twisted motorcycle. Road burns on his face and arms. His right foot stuck out at a bad angle. The helmet had shattered. Blood was seeping into his hair. I felt worse for the Harley.

  I made the driver drag the unconscious biker to the car and load him in the trunk. Then I told him to climb in too.

  “Mister, so help me God, I had nothing to do with this. Them guns is just for personal protection.”

  I emptied the pistols and wiped them down and dropped them in the trunk. I kicked the Walther into the ditch. Give the cops something to play with when they find the Harley.

  I drove into town. Near the floatplane dock, a public boat launch slan
ted down into Yellowknife Bay. I backed down until water was lapping at the rear bumper, put the car in park, and set the emergency brake. I opened the trunk and let the driver have a look. A breeze was kicking up, and waves licked at the bottom of the concrete ramp.

  “I need to know who you work for,” I told him. “Otherwise I shut the trunk, put the car in neutral, and release the brake. Your call.”

  It didn’t take long. The cabbie and the biker dude were pretty far down the criminal food chain. He was a low-grade mule for a local gang, and the Harley guy was muscle for hire.

  I locked the trunk, left them there, and walked uphill to the hotel. It was six o’clock when I checked in and went upstairs. Lily had the covers pulled over her head. I stepped out onto the balcony and slid the door closed behind me.

  The rising sun was spilling crimson light onto the bay. A tug was coming slowly up the channel, towing a massive barge. A woman in overalls came out of the wheelhouse and walked back to check the tow.

  Tommy answered on the first ring. I filled him in on what had happened.

  “Were they pros?”

  “As opposed to what?” I snapped. “It was a cash contract. Local gang.”

  “Who hires clowns like that for a hit?”

  “You’re the mastermind with the big office. You tell me.”

  “Did you find out how they knew when you were getting in?”

  “Aren’t you skipping a step? Isn’t the first question: How did these jerks even know who I was?”

  Tommy grunted. He knew where this was going.

  “But they did know. Then all they had to do was watch the airport. US government jet comes in. Not hard to guess that’s me.”

  “And you obliged by getting in a cab you didn’t call for.”

  Lily slid open the balcony door and stepped out, wrapped in a blanket. The thrum of the tugboat’s diesels reverberated in the air. A sharp breeze came off the water.

  “I got in that cab, Tommy, because the sooner we can all get used to how totally your masterful Jimmy Angel operation has been blown, the better. What were you using for your secret communications, Facebook?”