And there he was. Across the street, opening the door of the condo entrance. Larch waited a few moments. The light flicked on in a condo on the second floor. The one he expected. He knew the target lived alone.
It was time to move. He stood up, parked his empty coffee mug in the grey plastic tub, strode out the door, and crossed the street busy with passing cars. The lock on the outer door was easy to pick, no more than ten seconds. He shifted, so he looked like he was fumbling for his key. In the morning rush, he was sure no one would notice him.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal a short hallway, a small mirror on the opposite wall, and doors to two condo units. Light seeped from under the door on the left.
Larch knocked five times in a broken rhythm so the sound would jump out from any background noise of the city. He heard footsteps from the other side of the door. The handle turned, and the door opened to reveal a middle-aged, balding man in a wrinkled white shirt and black slacks. There were dark circles under his eyes, evidence of a long, uninterrupted shift at the hotel.
“Yes?” His expression was one of unfamiliarity, surprise, or maybe disdain.
Larch didn’t give him any time to react. He pushed the man aside, stepped into the room, and closed the door behind him.
“What are you doing? You can’t just barge in,” the man said.
Larch put a finger of his left hand to his own lips, ordering the man to be quiet, while his right hand fumbled in his jacket pocket.
“You don’t know me, Mr. Carignan, but we need to have a chat.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Please sit down.” Larch pulled out his Beretta and pointed it at the man. He motioned to the chair behind him. Mr. Carignan sat compliantly, while his face betrayed the shock of finding himself in such an incomprehensible situation.
Larch grabbed a short, black cylinder from his other pocket. He began to screw it onto the muzzle of his pistol while he walked to the only window in the living room and checked over his shoulder for any sign that he’d been followed.
“You’re the hotel manager at the Westin, are you not?” A police car crawled southward in the morning traffic.
“How do you know that?”
The cruiser moved down the street and then out of range. Satisfied that he could detect no suspicious movement along Barrington Street, he turned to face his target.
“Yesterday, you saw a dead body at your hotel.”
“Who told you that?”
“There was another man with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man who was in the elevator with you.”
“You mean poor Mr. …?” Carignan’s expression went blank for a moment, and then anger stressed his eyebrows, chin, and cheeks. “Oh, him.”
“Tell me about this other man.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I do.” He waved the gun.
“He said he was a colleague of Mr. —”
“Forrestal. Go on.”
“Yes, Mr. Forrestal. This guy bothered the entire front staff. Very pushy.”
“So you just let him in the room?”
“I asked him whether he had a relationship with Mr. Forrestal.”
“Did he?”
“Not at first. But then he did admit that he was worried about Mr. Forrestal’s health. He wanted to be sure that he had taken his heart pills for the day.”
Larch’s mouth dropped open. “And you believed it?”
“We have provided Mr. Forrestal with special services before. He had a wide range of, let’s say, diverse personal needs.”
“So you opened the door, just like that?”
“He thought that Mr. Forrestal had forgotten his pills. I had no reason to doubt him. He seemed to know a lot about him, things even I didn’t know.”
Larch’s eyes narrowed. This professor was no bookworm with limited social skills. He was able to convince the manager of a five-star hotel that he knew about the private medical condition of a very prominent and powerful businessman. The professor deserved further investigation. “And it was you who called the police?”
“Who are you?”
Larch raised the pistol, aiming it at the man’s chest. “I’m just cleaning up a loose end.” He only needed to fire once. He fired three times, picked up the ejected shell casings with his handkerchief, and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. He was a professional, after all.
TWENTY
RESIDUAL IMAGES OF Vanessa and Emily slashed at Daniel’s attempts to sleep. His mind generated snapshots of them at the beach: Emily eagerly building a sand castle, Vanessa lying on a towel, head up, watching proudly through sunglasses the artistic talent of their seven-year-old. His mind flashed forward to see the Emily of the future, staring at herself in her bedroom mirror, taking one last, nervous look before meeting her prom date waiting awkwardly downstairs. There she is at eighteen, tall, beautiful, strong, and ambitious — ready to take on university, ready to take on the world. Vanessa putters nearby, making last minute adjustments around Emily’s dorm room. She places a small family picture on the windowsill. Mother and daughter. Another picture with Emily and probably a best friend, arm in arm. As the scenes scrolled by, he wondered, stepping outside of himself, where was he? Had he left any trace of himself in her life?
Around seven, he gave up, climbed out of bed, and tried to scrub away the sadness with a shower and shave. He resolved to be part of Emily’s life, no matter what separated them. Tonight, he would tell her himself.
Daniel emerged from his apartment building dressed in his professor uniform: a dark grey shirt and black jeans covered by a heavy Gore-Tex coat, with black leather oxfords, and a brown leather backpack swaying from his shoulder. Walking ten minutes to campus, Daniel replayed the security camera image in his mind, trying to note the distinguishing characteristics of the murder suspect, and blocking out images of Emily. The black clothes. He was tall, over six feet. He filled out his coat quite well, suggesting he was in good physical shape. The black toque was odd. Maybe to cover his hair? Or he was bald and self-conscious? The man’s face wasn’t clear in the image. He tried to recall seeing the man walk to the elevator while humming a tune. He had only had a brief glance, and he hadn’t been paying attention. He had been focused on preparing to meet Forrestal. What did he look like? A fuzzy image of a man in dark clothes slid along an ill-defined corridor. The dark apparition moved into the elevator. And he had never turned around. Normally, one would turn to face the panel and push the right button. But he hadn’t. Of course. It was deliberate. The man hadn’t wanted anyone to see his face.
Daniel had a few minutes to freshen up before class. He walked through a crowd of people in the main hallway to the Sobey School of Business building and darted into the busy men’s bathroom, pushing through three men on their way out.
Larch followed the second target into a men’s bathroom. He stopped in front of the nearest sink, turned the faucet, sprayed some water onto his face, and watched the target enter a stall and close the door. A half-dozen students lingered at the other sinks; another two stood at the urinals. His reflection in the mirror stared back: just another stressed professional who had left the office in a hurry to make his class.
He tried to look forgettable. Some would call him lanky, a bit tall and a bit too thin. It was part of his trade. He lived with considerable stress, far more than the average executive. But he handled it exceptionally well.
He didn’t just manage people’s lives; he managed their probability of living. His job was to make that probability equal to zero at the right time, and he had already done that twice in the last twenty-four hours.
He specialized in taking a life in a way that was difficult to trace. His targets were not victims, since that implied innocence. No, these people deserved their fates. They were important people but also people who had harmed his clients. He was very discreet, obsessed with leaving no evidence, not even a fingerprint that could b
e traced. Five years of success had given him a special reputation in his field. And he charged appropriately. Only the very wealthy or well connected could contact him and afford him.
In the mirror, he saw a face that looked older than his thirtysomething years. Long, streaking wrinkles crinkled around his sallow eyes. He still had his black hair, although grey had begun to seep in along the sides. A Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap and black-framed glasses disguised his face just enough. A SMU sweatshirt, blue jeans, and white sneakers completed the older-student look.
Taking a life was not easy, but he had deadened his empathy with extensive research of the targets to understand why they deserved to die. Also, an expensive taste in rare cognac, the experience of multiple kills, and a comfortable fortune in a Cayman Island numbered account helped him remain indifferent. He had considered buying a small island once but had decided that doing so might attract too much attention. That was the last thing he wanted.
He was getting tired of the lies, though. His girlfriend, thirteen years his junior, waited for him at his beachside house in Mustique to complete his next “road trip.” Sandrine knew nothing of his profession, of course. Maybe after a few more assignments, he could think of cutting down on his workload and spending more time with her.
He had seen much of the world in his travels, but hadn’t really seen it; he had only really paid attention to his work. Paris had been three passports, an airport, a hotel, one street in the neuvième arrondissement, three silenced shots, then a metro ride to the Gare de Lyon, followed by a quick TGV trip to Geneva. Maybe he could take Sandrine to see the Champs-Elysées, the Tour Eiffel, and Les Jardins du Luxembourg. He smiled at the image of the happy tourists, and longed to join them in their ignorance.
His smile dissolved as he returned to the task at hand. He had been sloppy, and if he didn’t fix it soon, his reputation would suffer. His client had proved to be a surprise. Referred by the Washington, D.C.–based group he had worked with several times, the client had at first seemed to him to be yet another senior political operative, seeking specialized competence in direct and targeted action. The assignment seemed more to involve something personal, though. This made it different than his other jobs. In any event, the business case for the job was clear-cut. The original target, a coward, had crossed an un-crossable line, and he was deservedly punished. Targets deserved no sympathy, but collateral targets were a different matter. They had done nothing to harm anyone, yet they had to be dealt with — just another contingency. Another unpleasant aspect of being a professional; it just had to be done.
With a few photos and contact information in hand, he only needed one phone call and an hour on the internet to find his new target. Birch had provided the rest. The target had a class beginning at noon. He had waited patiently until the target appeared.
The target emerged from the stall, washed his hands, dried them with a few sharp flicks, and walked toward the exit. Two students remained at the urinals.
Larch kept his gaze lowered to avoid direct eye contact. He reached into his jacket pocket with his right hand and walked up to the target, as two middle-aged men barged through the door and brushed the target aside. Then a herd of younger men, students, sporting T-shirts with the abstract logo of the university, flowed into the bathroom.
It wouldn’t be easy now. He couldn’t finish the job here. He couldn’t do it in the classroom either. He needed to isolate the target so he would have total control of the situation. No surprises. No witnesses. No evidence. He was a patient hunter. He would keep following and his chance would come again.
Daniel returned to his office, gathered his lecture material in a binder, and closed the door behind him as he proceeded to the classroom in the adjoining building. His attention was focused on three questions with no answers. Why was Forrestal killed? Would the killer know my identity? Would the killer look for me now?
His cellphone buzzed. The display said HRM Police. It was MacKinnon.
“Yes, Detective?”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to class. On campus.”
“Are you alone?”
“Of course.”
“Get over here. We need to talk. Now,” said MacKinnon.
“What’s going on? I’ve got a class in a few minutes.”
“Your life is in danger.”
TWENTY-ONE
GARTH HAD FINISHED BARKING his morning orders to the campaign team. The minions returned to their desks to start working on their new assignments. As he snapped shut his binder of notes, his secret cellphone buzzed with an incoming text message.
Check email.
He swiped a few screens and read the email waiting in the draft folder. The message had been updated only minutes earlier.
Confirming instructions. Will create headline event at No campaign demonstration, as ordered. Regular fee. Ash.
He erased the email and replaced it with Approved. Must be complete by dinnertime today.
Time to start disrupting the enemy’s campaign. Garth leaned on his desk. He hyperventilated thinking of the successful conclusion of his plan; his vision compressed until only a small, thin tunnel of light remained.
TWENTY-TWO
“ARE YOU FREE?”
The driver nodded. He didn’t speak; he just sat like a lump, a large lump, one who after a long career of professional sitting barely squeezed behind the steering wheel. He was over sixty and unshaven, and he stared at Daniel from the rear-view mirror. Apparently, his eyes did all the talking that was necessary.
Daniel ignored the eyes and gave the police station address. The cabbie shifted into drive and accelerated with a jolt. On the radio, an annoying, know-it-all all-news-channel host ranted about politics, immigration, and unemployment in quick succession.
Once they turned onto South Park, the cabbie spoke. “There’s something going on ahead. Looks like something big.”
“Can’t you get around it?”
The driver shook his head. “I don’t know if I can get you to the station. That’s a big crowd. Where did they all come from?”
Daniel slid the window down and stuck his head into the frosty air. Hundreds of people spilled out from the Public Gardens to occupy the street. A few cops were scattered around and trying to corral the crowd away from Victoria Park and onto Spring Garden Road, but they seemed outnumbered and overwhelmed. Cars were jammed between the crowd ahead and the traffic behind. The cab lurched to a stop at the curb.
Daniel grabbed his backpack and opened the door. “I’ll get out here and get another cab on the other side.” He paid the fare in cash. The eyes in the mirror did not approve of the modest tip.
Daniel stepped out into the low sunlight and sighed at the swarm of humanity not fifty metres ahead. Drums banging. A cacophony of a hundred simultaneous conversations, each trying to be heard over the others. A bright red sign proclaiming “We love you, Alberta!” caught his eye. Beside it, smaller ones: “Keep my Canada together,” and “Vote No!”
Parts of the crowd chanted something with a bunch of vowels that rhymed after a few beats, but Daniel couldn’t make out the words. He walked through snow and slush, approaching the crush that flowed between him and his urgent appointment with MacKinnon.
The crowd was still thin where Daniel walked. Where the mass of people surged down Spring Garden, the road seemed impenetrable. But there was plenty of room in front of the café where he stopped. At first, he didn’t notice the man to his right, as he was lost in his own thoughts about how he was going to navigate the horde ahead. Then he spotted him. The man was around thirty, at least six foot five. Two hundred pounds of death, wrapped in a leather jacket, black jeans, and black boots. Daniel imagined dense, dark tattoos on both arms, commemorating each kill. He could easily pass for a biker gang member. Yet his arms seemed oddly too short for his frame. A massive amoeba of a man, used to getting his way.
The man threw a rock at the café window, and it shattered, spraying pieces of glass onto
the sidewalk. “Mind your own fuckin’ business,” he said to no one in particular.
Another man approached. “What are you doing?” He was in his late thirties, holding a “We love you Alberta!” sign high on a flimsy stick. His head only reached the shoulders of the first man.
Amoeba Man walked right up to him, pushing his finger into the other man’s arm. “Keep your fuckin’ nose out of my business.” He jumped, ripped the sign from the stick, and stomped it into the ground. “Alberta is for Albertans to decide.”
The second man turned around. “Stop. You can’t do this.” A woman standing nearby, with her own “Vote No!” sign explaining which side she was on, joined the fracas, shouting a surprisingly loud “Hey, fuck off” at Mr. Amoeba.
He didn’t take it well. He grabbed the stick from the hands of Small Man, held it high, and glared at the woman, who was not intimidated and glared back at him. The small man hip-checked the massive brute, trying to retrieve his stick, but Amoeba just thwacked him on the head with it.
The woman reacted immediately. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Daniel didn’t care about the referendum. He did know that Alberta wanted to secede from Confederation — it was the news headline for the past few weeks — but he no longer took sides. He had his own problems to deal with. On the other hand, the man represented an immediate threat.
Daniel sensed that the aggressor would be within his defensive circle in a few more strides. Daniel could move to the right, off the sidewalk, and into a low pile of dirty snow to allow them to argue unhindered. Tempers were sure to flare. Any fight would be short and would end only with the shorter one getting a broken nose or, worse, splayed unconscious on the road. He kept walking straight ahead. The other man would have to move to his right to avoid the collision with Daniel and his backpack.
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