I showered, and got dressed in my international travel gear while George and Therese dunked cookies together. Grey flannel trousers, white shirt with a button-down collar, black socks, burgundy Gucci loafers, and a double-breasted navy blazer. All topped off with an abstract hand-painted burgundy silk tie. When I looked in the mirror I wished Cynthia had been here to see me off. Definitely dapper. Just thinking about Cynthia made me smile, changed my whole mood. Curious. The sound of the shower started up again in the bathroom.
I walked down the hall and dropped my bag by the door. Then back to the kitchen. Therese was nowhere in sight. George gave me the once-over, and nodded his head. Then he caught my inquisitive look, and said, “She’s in the washroom. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I see. Well, I’m ready to rumble.” The coffee machine was still on, so I turned it off. The carafe still had a cup or two left in it and I felt that more was better than less, so I poured myself another one. Black this time. George declined. I sat down at the table across from him, and then he started in on me.
“You look better. Good. Now, give me your guns.” I stared dumbly for a moment or two. Then I shook my head. My voice was quite low when I answered him. “What?”
He knew what my reaction was going to be, and he was ready to explain himself. He put on a patient voice. “Your guns, Jeff. Go and get them and give them to me. And ammo. A full set of your clips, there’s not going to be a lot of ammo shops carrying your calibre in Europe.”
“I thought I was going to Switzerland.” Even as I said it I could tell that I was being obtuse.
George continued to be patient with me. “Yes, you are. But in case you’ve forgotten, it’s only a stones-throw from the Swiss border to about twenty other countries, so…” He finished the thought for me in case I couldn’t flesh it out for myself. “you need to bring your own ammo.” He gave a slight shrug.
“Uh, I don’t mean to point out the obvious to you George, but I don’t actually have an international permit for those cannons. And I don’t like them anyway.” A tone of belligerence was creeping unwittingly into my voice. George picked up on it immediately, and rushed in to cut it off before I took it into my head to turn mulish. He’d known me for a long time, and he came at me strong.
“This is not about what you like or don’t like. Jeff, be flexible, please. I’ve committed you to this trip. You wanted to carry on with the case, well this is how you’re going to do it. Your background with Security Intelligence Service gives you credibility and clearance. It allows for you being assigned as accompanying agent for the material witness, being Therese, and for being assigned this investigation vis-a-vis Ted Dawson, under the auspices of the Toronto Police Force, Special Services Department, on loan to the R.C.M.P., Intelligence Division. You’ll be accompanied by an Inspector from the RCMP, by the name of Godsen. Lapierre has ‘requested’ it, which makes it a closed discussion command. Godsen will be tracking down an open Swiss-related case, with a few new leads that happen to have come their way in the course of our discussion earlier this evening.” He corrected himself. “This morning, I mean.”
“On paper, you’ll be reporting to the RCMP Officer in Charge, Godsen, but in reality, you’ll be in charge of the Ted Dawson portion of the case. As for the guns, I don’t think you’ll need them either, but if by some sad twist of fate, you do need them, then I want you to have them. That’s the way it has to be.” He took a deep breath, and let it out long and slow.
“The paperwork we’re going downtown to take care of will include a special Interpol carrying permit, issued to you under the umbrella of RCMP Intelligence Operations.
The job is three-fold. In the first place, you are required to bring our existing material witness back alive. Someone is gunning for her, according to the brother of the deceased fiancé of the material witness. In the second place, you are required to bring back the gentleman who should be able to shed considerable light on the case, including who killed J.D. If you should happen to be successful in your mission, then you will also have succeeded in placing yourself into the potential line of fire.”
I was stunned. I was also very tired. My ears were telling me something that my mind was having a tussle with. The training I’d been given years ago, and the service that I gave to my country subsequent to that training was all ringing bells in my head. You don’t fly international with a set of guns. It didn’t matter if you were a cop, and I wasn’t. The Air Marshall carried a gun onboard aircraft in flight. That was the short list. There was no other list that I was aware of. And Switzerland, for that matter most countries in Europe, seriously discouraged the carrying of personal handguns by the public. Usually by forcefully implementing the law. The Swiss were one of the only people that I knew of in Europe who allowed, even encouraged, all families to keep a military rifle in their homes. All Swiss men were subject to spend a minimum of eighteen months in the military at the appropriate age. Then they took their gun home when they left, so in effect, they had the largest army of reservists going. Per capita, of course. Switzerland is a beautiful place, but it is rather small. I think we could hide it in Lake Superior in a pinch. But they don’t allow handguns. I don’t like guns, and I was getting a sour taste in my mouth about this whole adventure. Then this issue of an RCMP inspector accompanying me. It wasn’t bad enough I was taking Therese. Now, was I supposed to take orders too? I still didn’t quite get it.
“Inspector Godsen? Guns? Swiss-related case? What are you trying to do to me here Georgy boy?” My tone must have touched a nerve somewhere, because he softened a bit, became almost apologetic.
In the background I heard the muted roar of a hair dryer in action.
“Well, um… there is one thing about Godsen…” I broke in quickly, my apprehension growing by leaps and bounds.
“What?”
“Godsen is one of their best people it seems, second in line for the head of the whole Intelligence Division, but… uh…”
“For God’s sake man, out with it.” Now I was getting grumpy.
“Okay. Okay.” He gave me a pained look. “Godsen has thirteen years’ experience with the force, and is qualified in several areas of expertise exclusive to the Intelligence Field Force, such as marksmanship, hand-to-hand, demolition, weapons in general, computer sciences, counter-terrorism, etcetera.” I could see the ‘BUT’ coming like it was painted on his forehead in neon, so I said it for him.
“But.”
“Right, but, it seems there has never been an occasion when the good inspector has had the opportunity to perform in the field.” He looked up at the wall clock, then back at me, and raised both his hands palm outward. “Godsen’s the best one for the job, Jeff. The case we discussed that requires follow-up in Zurich and Geneva has been under Godsen’s control since it started, about three years back. What I’m trying to say is that I want you to keep Godsen out of any potentially conflictual situations.”
I quickly summarized, “You’re sending me out armed so I can babysit this Godsen character, who’s nothing more than a well-informed pencil-pushing desk-jockey. That’s the upshot.”
“Well, that would be the third-place part of the assignment, yes. It would be… distressing, let’s say, if you were to come back with Godsen in a bodybag. Can’t take the chance Jeff. We just can’t take the chance. Full stop. So, give me your guns. I’ll get them tagged for the mission, back at HQ.”
“This means I’m going to have to be in two places at the same time. I have my own agenda. Our agenda. That’s the purpose of the trip. We have to bring in Ted Dawson. How can I do that in a week time frame if I’m running around with an RCMP pencil pusher, pursuing unrelated issues?”
“The time frame has been extended, and Godsen will determine the validity of extensions in a daily report to Lapierre. The only thing that you have to do is add an acceptable justification to the daily report when Godsen files it. The first week is an open agenda when you can follow up on the issue we want resolved. Meeting
with Ted Dawson, and returning him to Toronto. We need his testimony. If he carries the info we expect him to have, your job will be to convince him to join in the team spirit of the affair voluntarily. If he lacks team spirit, well, then you have the papers and the authority to do it the hard way. The extradition papers will be a last resort. They contain a high-level subpoena issued by the RCMP, and backed by Interpol and the Swiss authorities. Godsen will back you all the way. The catch is that you have to back Godsen, preferably in a manner that will not lead to any risky confrontational situations. Having Godsen will make your job easier, not harder. The Interpol connections on the few cases that will be on Godsen’s agenda will facilitate matters relevant to our case, and the advantage outweighs the complications. The bottom line is to not let Godsen get killed. No field experience means mistakes. You know the difference between classroom theory and applied theory. Godsen probably thinks it’s the same, but set in a different locale, that’s all. You know better, so it’s up to you. You’re going to have a status that would be unobtainable any other way. This will allow you a freedom of operation that we wouldn’t have been able to offer otherwise. I believe the trade-off pays its way.”
“What if I find our target on day one, and have to extradite him? What about Godsen’s case load then? Do I fly back to Switzerland after I deliver him into waiting arms, or what?”
“You don’t leave Godsen in action alone. Period. It’s part of the price of this level of cooperation. We will have an RCMP Officer available to escort Ted Dawson home via Air Canada, should you land him before Godsen’s done.”
“Great, so then I get sidetracked just as we start to get somewhere.”
“It won’t take Godsen long to wrap up the RCMP issues, I’m pretty sure you won’t end up staying longer than you want to.”
“Pretty sure, eh?”
At that point Therese returned from powdering her nose, so to speak. The effect was impressive. She looked refreshed, and had changed to a business suit, designer for sure. A pale charcoal number that looked expensive. She even had a tie on, loosely arranged. She wore glasses, and sensible patent leather shoes, flats, with a classy leather purse to match. Her hair was done up in a French Twist. It somehow managed to make her look like a business woman, which obviously was the intent. For a ballerina, she made an impressive businesswoman.
She was carrying a small gym bag, which must have contained the change of clothes she was now wearing. The wrinkles that should have been obvious from crumpling the suit up in the gym bag were not apparent. I never understood how women did that.
Stopping in the middle of the kitchen, she did a slow pirouette, then smiled at us. “It is possible, non?” I answered first.
“You mean passable, and yes, it is.”
“Oh, oui, c’est ça. Passable.” She had composed her inner as well as outer self, apparently.
George checked the wall clock again, then nodded at me. “Go, do it.” I stood stock still for a heartbeat. Then two. Three. Four.
“You’ve worked this out and it’s the way you want it played?” I had to check this one last time.
George’s answer was strong and firm, leaving no room for doubt. “Yes.”
I nodded my head and turned and walked out of the kitchen. In my office I have a very durable and fireproof safe. It’s small, but it’s a good one. It sits in the bottom of my regular four-drawer filing cabinet. The bottom drawer face folds down instead of pulling out, and then the safe door is accessible. I kneeled down in front of the open bottom door and spun the dial on the safe locking mechanism. My mood had changed again, and not for the better this time. The last tumbler clicked into place and I turned the handle and pulled. The door swung open on a short arc, silently, revealing the odds and ends that I considered worth stashing away. Mostly papers, documents, certificates of achievement that I’d gathered across the years, awards for this and that, five thousand in crisp new bills, ‘emergency money’ and my will. I never liked looking at that particular document. It reminded me too directly of my own impermanence in this world. Everything went to Sarah. I always thought it was a simple thing, but I had been convinced a few years back that it didn’t hurt to be prudent. A close call with the ‘Grim Reaper’ will do that to you. Behind all of the papers sat my guns. Twin Colts, that I hadn’t handled for some time, other than taking them out for a cleaning and oiling. That was done very thirty days.
Guns. I knew a bit more about guns that your average alley cat. Starting from an early age. I grew up in the big city, or big by the standards of Canada at least. In the fifties, Montreal and local environs, I mean Montreal Island, had about two million, give or take a few. It was big, and it was full of character. Chock full, thanks to our French heritage, and I took every advantage and opportunity that passed my way to explore and understand it. Both the city and the heritage.
I was always big on travel. Places to go, things to see, people to meet. When I was only four and five years old I used to go up and down my street, and ‘round and ‘round my block every day. My mode of transport at that time was my trusty “Trail Duster” wagon. It had a lacquered wood finish, with metal hardware done in candy apple red, as was the logo. It also came with removable fitted slat side extensions, which when they were on, allowed the wagon to haul an extremely fine load. This was made for great tips ferrying groceries home for the good housewives of our neighbourhood. When I got a little older and was allowed to wander as far as the supermarket. That was about three blocks away from home. In winter the wagon got put away, and I pulled out the old sleigh and shovel. Winter was even better for tips. Home was a third-floor walkup with the stairs on the outside. Typical for Montreal architecture at the time, but unusual for any other city or town with the kind of winters we had in Montreal. Twenty-five degrees below zero Fahrenheit, with snow up to your nose, for example, was quite commonplace. Cozy. This meant of course that someone from each family in the area had to spend about a third of their waking hours shoveling snow and keeping the stairs clear. I saw this as an excellent opportunity for making money. Which I did. It was amazing how many people were willing to pay someone, even a very little someone, to do this particular chore for them. I was pretty rich for a poor kid.
When I hit ten, I finally got some serious transportation. A brand spanking new Raleigh three-speed two-wheeler. It went like the wind. It also took me places that I had never known existed before my bike extended my theatre of operations. Through the sin of omission, meaning I never asked permission, and never talked about it after the fact, I began exploring the city in earnest. I think that I managed to cover more territory on that three-speed than most kids with their first car. I got to know my city pretty well, and by the time I gave up on cycling, by then having graduated to a ten-speed racer with curl-under handlebars, I got around. The busses were cheap, and they took you anywhere you wanted to go. I spent a fair portion of my youth in the heart of the city. I knew people who knew people who were actually connected, and thereby gained a certain amount of protection by the tender age of fourteen.
Montreal wasn’t just a beautiful city. It was also a tough one. You could get killed pretty easily if you were stupid. And if you hung out in some of the east-end joints that I did. My personal gift was being smart enough to know when to keep my mouth shut, and being able to understand the code of the street. I ended up being on familiar terms with a lot of people that I probably shouldn’t have. I learned a lot. But that was just the city. Urban life.
Then there was the farm. Approximately eighty-five acres of paradise, one hundred miles north-east of the city in the Eastern Townships. It had arable fields (mostly gone to weed), lightly wooded land (great for walking in), actual forest (much tougher to walk through), and its own little waterway, called Salmon Creek, replete with a natural waterfall—about a sixty-foot drop—and the remnants of an old-fashioned crisscross link-and-lock log dam. The forest land on the other side of the dam was part of the farm property as well. Our rights extended inland from
the ravine for about a half mile or so. The forest lands in the region were made up mainly of pine, spruce, fir, poplar, and white birch.
The dam had been built in order to harness the hydroelectric potential for the local area. It had one main chute, about fifteen feet wide, starting at the top of the dam and ending up in the splash pool at the foot of the waterfall. The Power House had been built like a concrete bunker at the top of the ravine, on the side of the creek that had the house and shed and barn. It had been decommissioned by a demolition team when the new Power House came on-line further down the creek, close to where it flowed into the St. Francis river. There wasn’t much left really. Just a few pieces of foundation, sitting high and alone on a ridge that stuck out over the edge of the ravine, and the water below. The dam itself had been blown at the same time, but only the centre section, about fifty feet across. Both of the side sections of the dam were still intact, and it made for great sport trying to cross that centre section without getting washed off your feet and bounced into pieces against the rocks on your way to the splash pool at the bottom. Needless to say, this was a highly-discouraged activity for all the kids in the extended family. Seeing as how my grandfather had managed to coax fourteen children out of his wife before she’d had enough and put a stop to it by sending him off to live alone on the farm he had bought as a young man, while she stayed at the family home in the city, there were quite a few of us kids around. Coming and going, spending summer holidays, school breaks in the winter, weekends, whenever. The house was big, with four bedrooms upstairs, and two downstairs, with a pull-out sofa in the living room. There was room for all. The house sat on the high ground, about a half a mile from the gravel road that connected Kingsbury with Richmond/Melbourne. Richmond/Melbourne being the real towns—across the St. Francis river from each other—and Kingsbury being a few homes and one general store. Kingsbury was one mile to the left once you hit the gravel road, and Richmond/Melbourne was seven miles to the right. We walked up to Kingsbury all the time, just to get this or that from the general store, and I’d made the march to Richmond and back as well a couple of times. That one was a bit tougher. The last couple of miles on the way back got seriously tiresome. The whole area was hills and valleys, and on the way back it seemed mostly uphill.
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 20