Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 4, 5 & 6 (Box Set)

by Robert P. French

  The door clicks closed behind us.

  Silence.

  “Hello! Anyone here?”

  Silence.

  The door clicks a second time. I turn around. Cal looks at me and tries the door. It doesn’t open.

  “Excuse the security,” a voice says.

  We both spin around.

  This is Markus’ RCMP mole? She’s short and kind of frail looking. Her clothing is… well, the kindest word would be old-fashioned. Her grey hair is tied back in a bun and her lipstick is bright red. But by far, her most striking feature is the silenced Smith and Wesson held unwaveringly in her left hand.

  45

  Nick

  Ping. It’s a text. I grab my phone. “Mr. Stammo?” it’s the cute nurse. I smile. “We’re going to move you out of acute care into a regular ward,” he says. “My colleague here is going to take you.” He indicates an orderly who looks like he plays fullback for the BC Lions. He grabs my bag of clothes and puts them onto the foot of the bed. I take the book I’ve been trying to read and put it in my lap with the phone..

  He cranks me up into a sitting position, moves behind the bed and pushes me out of acute care. We’re joined by the uniformed cop who has been assigned as protection after I shot the guy who was trying to kill me. I knew Carl Smith when I was on the job. He’s a good, solid cop but without a lot of imagination. “Hey, Carl, how’s it going?”

  “Good. They’re moving you then?” Good observation Carl.

  “I guess so.”

  We proceed down the corridor in silence and take a right at the end. The next corridor is empty except for a patient at the far end, walking towards us. He’s in a dressing gown and is pulling one of those things on wheels with all sorts of plastic bags of medications and drips hanging from them. Poor guy’s hobbling along with his head hanging down onto his chest. As he shuffles along, I see that one of his pant legs is up and the other one’s down. It makes him look odd; all part of the indignity of hospitals. When they let me get out of bed, I’ll probably be wandering along the corridors looking like that. Maybe I should ask Adry to pop over to Mrs. V’s and get me some pyjamas.

  Pyjamas!

  “Carl,” I say. He looks at me, his face questioning my tone of voice. “I need you to trust me on this. Get out your weapon, right now and fast.” Carl may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but he knows how to take orders. He has his gun out in double-quick time. I point at the patient. “YOU!” I yell. “FREEZE.”

  The head snaps up. In one fluid motion he pushes the drip thing away and, as if from nowhere, an Uzi appears in his hand. A movement beside me catches my eye. Carl is pointing his Beretta and steadying his firing hand. He fires twice and the patient flies backwards, the Uzi falling from his hand and clattering on the floor.

  Carl runs forward and stands over the would be killer. I thank the heavens that the VPD sent Carl to protect me. When I was a cop, he was the only man on the force who could outshoot me on the range.

  “Let me see your hands!” Carl shouts.

  Good, he’s alive. Maybe we’ll get some answers when he’s questioned.

  My smile dies as thick fingers grab my throat from behind. The orderly! His thumbs are pushed into the back of my neck and his fingers are crushing my windpipe. I try to shout for Carl but nothing comes out. I look at him but he’s still covering the fallen man and is calling in for back up. My fingers try and pry the hands off my throat and I get a sharp pain in the back of my hand. It’s the shunt they’ve put in to connect to my saline drip. Stars are starting to appear in front of my eyes. I grab the shunt and pull. With a tearing pain it comes out. I can no longer see Carl as the darkness starts to creep in. With all my strength I jab the shunt into my attacker’s right hand. I feel it sink into the flesh and I rotate it hard to maximize the damage. I hear him grunt out as he yanks the hand away. His left hand is still a vice on my throat. But the shunt is still in my hand. I jab it into his left hand but he doesn’t let go. Everything is darkness now. I pull the shunt back and try again for his hand but feel a sharp pain as I miss and spear my shoulder.

  The blackness gets deeper. I don’t even see stars.

  Just a white glow getting brighter and brighter.

  46

  Cal

  My surprise at seeing the woman whom I thought was General Matherson’s maid is eclipsed by the shock of seeing the gun in her hand. For an instant, I think of doing the unexpected and rushing her, but everything about her says she knows how to use that weapon. Then any thought of physical resistance is dissipated by the two men who appear from the office behind her.

  One face I recognize. I saw it for the briefest instant at the nurses’ station at VGH, as Adry and I helped Jen to the exit, then afterwards as he made a phone call to report the failure of his mission. The other I’m not sure about; he could have been one of the men on the porch of Harvey Clegg’s house.

  They work quickly and efficiently. In minutes Jen and I are bound into two of the folding chairs. They are professionals; we are not going to escape from this. Gags have been applied and our captors are seated across from us.

  The Smith and Wesson is cradled in the maid’s lap. Ready for instant use.

  We wait.

  I feel a short buzz against my thigh. It’s my phone.

  I fervently hope it’s Tina and that at least she has seen my text and quit the Holiday Inn for a different hotel.

  Someone’s phone beeps. One of the Special Ops guys pulls it out of his pocket. He gives a couple of taps then gets up and goes to the door. There’s a quiet knock. He opens it and a woman enters. She is in sharp contrast to Matherson’s maid. She is young and athletic-looking and wearing a nurse’s uniform. My heart accelerates wildly when I see she is helping a patient into the room. Tina.

  She staggers slightly and her eyes are glassy from the drugs that she has obviously had administered.

  I struggle in my chair. It’s a futile thing to do but I can’t stop myself.

  The nurse puts Tina in a chair. The Special Ops guys bind her in, as securely as Jen and I are bound, and they gag her. Her breath snorts through her nose and I want to shout at them to remove the gag until she’s fully conscious, but it just comes out of me as a muffled moan.

  The nurse opens her purse and takes out a syringe and gauze. She swabs Tina’s neck and I get the sharp tang of alcohol in my nose. She slaps the skin and injects the needle. Tina snaps upright and her eyes are like saucers. She looks around; confusion is wreathed about her face. Finally her eyes settle on me and a recognition dawns. She’s breathing heavily but without the snorting from her drugged state. She looks at me again and I imagine that she is trying to smile.

  The nurse leaves and the guards sit down again.

  We wait in silence.

  I scan the room. There’s no clock on the wall. I need to know how long we’ve been in here. I’m guessing around twenty minutes. Nowhere near long enough. Hopefully the wait will be longer this time.

  But it’s not.

  The same routine. The guard’s phone rings, he stands by the door. But this time, the routine is different. The 'maid’ and the other guard also stand. I know who’s coming now. As before, a soft tap on the door. He walks in but it’s not who I think. He’s tall with grey, wavy hair and glasses. I’ve never seen him before.

  I can see from how his minions are standing to attention, even General Matherson’s maid, that he is someone high in the conspiracy.

  His face is set in a rigid glare. He strides over and with a mighty swing, he back-hands Tina across the face, almost knocking her and her chair to the ground.

  I moan and struggle against my bonds as my blood rises to boiling point.

  Tina’s head is sagging onto her chest. I think he must have knocked her unconscious. I will make him pay for that.

  He turns to the maid. “Hold your gun to her head,” he snaps. The order is obeyed in double time. He grabs a chair and swings it in front of me, sitting down in one smooth movement.
“Make any noise and she dies. Do you understand?” I nod. He reaches forward and yanks the duct tape from my mouth then pulls out the cloth gag.

  I struggle to hold back all the things I want to yell at him.

  “Under pain of death, her death,” he jerks his head at Tina, “you need to answer my questions honestly. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  He fixes me with a stare. I sense he has done this before. Lying is not a good policy with this guy. He’s likely well schooled in the interrogation arts.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He jerks his head towards Tina again. “Apart from the article she wrote in that online rag she works for, has she posted anything else?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  He looks over at Tina and I follow his gaze. Her head is upright and she is looking at him.

  He takes the gun from the maid and touches the end of the silencer to my forehead. I feel myself tense, waiting for the click of the trigger, the last sound I’ll ever hear.

  “Have you posted anything else?” he says. She shakes her head. He keeps staring at her. She shakes her head again desperately. He stares. One Mississippi, two Mississippis, three— He hands the gun back and it is again trained on Tina.

  He turns back to me.

  “What else do you know that wasn’t in her article.”

  “That you or your people engineered the bombing to kill Annalise Lamarche.” And a bunch of innocent bystanders, I think.

  He just nods.

  “Who else knows anything about this whole business?”

  “My partner.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  He smiles. “Good. Your partner doesn’t count. He’s already dead.”

  Before I can worry about his words he snaps, “Who knows you’re here?”

  “No one.”

  He looks long and hard.

  “It’s a shame,” he says.

  “What is?”

  “…that I didn’t meet up with you years ago. You’re resourceful, smart and tough. You would have been a good addition to the team. Too late now of course.”

  He’s given me an opening. I need time.

  “Why kill all those innocent people?” I ask.

  “Collateral damage.” He looks at me as if trying to make a decision. “Canada has become weak,” he says. “Our current PM is the most feeble in a line of increasing feeble predecessors. Look around the world Rogan. Democracy is a failure. The politicians in the United States are so caught up in bickering with each other that they can’t get anything done and the populace is so confused with identity politics that they’ll vote for anyone with a pulse and a good line of talk. The UK, the seat of modern democracy, is no better. They’re still spending all their efforts squabbling about Brexit and will continue to do so even after the deal is done—if it ever is.” He leans forward. “We are not going to let Canada go in the same direction.” He stands up. “Here’s how it’s going to unfold. After a series of terrorist bombings the military will have to take charge. A state of emergency will be declared. Several politicians will be shown to be involved, starting with the late Neil Harris. Parliament will be dissolved and the country will be run by sensible people with vision.”

  “You being one of them,” I say.

  He looks down at me.

  “Yes, Rogan. Me being one of them.”

  “What about General Matherson? You can’t use him now. Tina’s article has blown his cover.”

  “You’re naïve, Rogan. We’ll just attribute that to fake news from the gutter press and move on; we’ll say that the End User Certificates were part of a sting operation. After an unfortunate accident to his boss, General Matherson will be put in charge of the Armed Forces. The only thing her article has done is to accelerate our schedule.” He gives a big creepy smile. “Do you know what this building is used for Mr. Rogan?”

  It’s a question out of left field. “No. Why would I?”

  “It’s right across the street from Parliament Hill. Many members of parliament and cabinet ministers have their offices in this building. During lunch hour it’s full of them.” He looks at his watch. “At twelve-thirty, the second terrorist bombing is going to turn this elderly building into a pile of rubble, sadly, taking with it a great many of the key players in Canada’s Parliament. Not to mention you three. You’ll be vaporized in the explosion.”

  He walks to the door. “Carry on,” he says.

  One of the Special Ops guys steps over and stuffs the cloth gag back into my mouth and reapplies the duct tape. The tape doesn’t seem to stick as tightly as before. I might just be able to—

  “Goodbye Mr. Rogan.” He smiles and leaves.

  His minions kick into full gear.

  The men start taking the boxes of paper from the piles beside the reception desk and cutting off the shrink wrap. The 'maid’ disappears into a back office. As they remove the lids from the boxes, I can smell the fumes. There’s what smells like gasoline but there’s another smell too. I can’t identify it, but it is nothing good. From a seminar long in the past, the word ANFO springs into my mind; Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil. It’s the explosive favoured by terrorists because it’s easy to get the ingredients. They could have used more sophisticated explosives but this one spells terrorist not government cabal.

  While they open the boxes and place them in a square on the floor, the old woman struggles out carrying a heavy box. She starts to pull out cylinders with wires attached. I know what they are. She sticks one deep into one of the boxes.

  While our three guards are working, I flex the muscles of my jaws and am rewarded with a prickling, as the duct tape starts to peel away from my skin. It only feels like a tiny amount but if I can keep this going…

  The team’s working fast; already half the boxes are open and half of them have the detonators placed inside them. Every time I’m sure they’re engrossed in their work, I flex my cheeks and jaw muscles. The duct tape is so loose now that I have to stop. I don’t want it to fall off my face just yet. I sit still and watch the team at work. When they’re gone, I’m going to scream this place down until someone comes.

  I hear a thump. One of the Special Ops guys has brought a heavy box out of the room. Now all three of them are attaching the wires from the detonators to terminals of the box. It’s the trigger device. When they finish, they survey their handiwork. Then one of them moves something on the side of the box facing away from me. Controls for the trigger, I’m guessing.

  He stands up and nods to his companions. They all check their watches, then pick their way around the boxes and make for the door. I’ll give them three minutes to get out of earshot, then this duct tape is off! I’ll spit out the gag and be screaming the place down. The men leave and Matherson’s maid stops in the doorway, turns and gives one last sweep of the room with her ancient eyes. She focuses on us, calculating something. But what? She checks her watch again and nods to herself. She steps into the hallway.

  But the door doesn’t close behind her.

  I hear the murmur of voices.

  In seconds, she walks back into the room followed by the men.

  “Check them,” she says.

  The men make their way around the boxes. They check that Jen and Tina are both firmly attached to their chairs. When they get to me, they are doubly careful. They turn and look at her.

  She looks at us and nods, then her eyes lock onto mine. She picks her way past the boxes to the reception desk. I see her objective and my stomach sinks. It’s a new reel of duct tape. She takes it and returns. In seconds, she has wrapped the tape across my mouth and behind my head three times. She does the same for Tina and for Jen.

  “On their backs,” she orders.

  One of the men takes the back of Tina’s chair and pulls it back and down until he drops it on the floor with a small thump. Then Jen. Then me. I’m tied in a chair, on my back looking at the ceiling.<
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  I hear them move away. Then the door closes and the lock clicks.

  I feel my phone buzz. Please be Stammo. Let him still be alive. Please let him survive the latest attempt on his life. If I die and he lives, he’ll get to the bottom of this somehow. King Lear comes unbidden to my mind. No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even, The natural fool of fortune. As always the Bard hits the nail on the head but it is of no comfort to me.

  I wonder if there is a digital readout on the side of the box that will trigger the explosion. In the movies, you always see it counting down towards zero. I don’t know what’s better: to see or not to see; to know or not to know.

  Ay, there's the rub!

  47

  Nick

  The sound of the shot and the release of my neck are simultaneous.The pain of the air rushing down my throat is excruciating.

  Nothing ever felt so good.

  As the mists clear, I see Carl looking at me through a long, dark tunnel. And I hear his words. “Thank God.”

  “Amen,” I say but no noise comes out.

  I’m waiting for the X-Ray results. I’ve been given strict instructions not to try and talk, which is really bugging me. I want to thank Carl for saving my life. No one else could have made those shots. Best of all, both perps are alive and in custody. Maybe we’ll get some information from them. As if reading my mind, Carl walks into the room. I give him the big thumbs up and point to my throat. He nods and smiles. “How did you know the guy walking towards us was going to try and kill you?” he asks.

  I look down. Through it all, my phone is still in my lap. I grab it and open the Notes app. I type, He had one pant leg down. He was wearing pants, not pyjamas. And he was wearing leather shoes. I turn the screen towards him.