Touesnard nodded slowly. “But the early ones are under a different company name. And look who signed them off. A different person.”
Daniel looked closer and shook his head. “The same person, the same bank account. Forrestal used a different name then.” He turned to face a confused MacKinnon. “Says here he used to be called Robert Haynes. So why did he change his name?”
FORTY-NINE
LLOYD FLIPPED ON HIS COMPUTER. He thought maybe marking a few student assignments would help him get a jump on next week’s teaching load. An email notification popped up on the computer screen. He wouldn’t normally pay any attention to it, but for the heading: Account activity detected.
He ignored the first assignment and clicked on the link. His Cayman Island bank had received an official request for account details from a bank in China that he had never heard of. Someone was snooping in his private account. The timing was suspicious. His heart rate increased. His forehead began to sweat.
He punched a memorized number, never to be stored, into his cellphone. He didn’t wait for the customary hello.
“They’ve found it.”
“What are you talking about?” Garth said. “Remember this is an open line. Someone could be listening.”
“Don’t patronize me. Someone is poking around in my bank account. The one I don’t want them poking around in.”
“How would they even know about it?”
“No idea. But they do. What is Larch doing about it? We don’t need Ritter anymore. Tell him to back off.”
“Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
FIFTY
“SIT, COMMANDER.” Hall’s deep voice, at times reassuring, confident, and terrifying for her, resonated in his sparsely decorated office. Claire hesitated, looking at the lone chair in front of his desk. She had always stood at attention, a stark symbol of his authority. “Sit.” He pointed.
She lowered herself into the seat, back straight, unsure of what was next.
“Spit it out,” he said.
Claire didn’t know how to react.
“There’s something that you want to ask me.” Hall leaned forward, cupping his hands over his desk. “It’s consuming you. Get it out.”
How does he know?
“Yes, sir. It’s about our support for Border Services. Why did you order me to support Lansdowne?”
Hall rubbed his crewcut. “Because I thought he was our mole. And I wanted you to stay close and watch him.”
“A mole?”
“The smugglers are a step ahead of us. They knew we were waiting for them —”
“Not the first time I found them.”
“No, that was a fluke. But someone has been telling them our plans since then. And I thought it was our CBSA colleague.”
“But he’s not?”
Hall shook his head.
“He sure is an asshole.”
Hall smirked. “And he won’t be the last you’ll have to deal with. It’s part of the deal of being in command.”
Claire paused. She considered Hall’s statement for a moment. “So who is the mole?”
Hall raised his index finger as his phone chimed. He put the RCMP on speaker.
“Hall? Cliff Whitby here.” It was the Detective Inspector whom Claire had met at the operations meeting.
“What have you got for us, Cliff?”
“Congratulations, Captain. We intercepted the smuggler’s boat. The other crew member surrendered without a fight. He was terrified after your fireworks display. He’s not talking much. Yet. However, the suspect you captured is Zeke Snow. Twenty-four years old. From High River. He’s a junior member of the Alberta Independence Movement, a fringe group in southern Alberta. He’s got only one prior arrest, for assault. He and his partner were on the beach to pick up a shipment. That’s what he said.”
“There was also another man,” said Claire. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Hello, Lieutenant Commander. Yes, the one who was killed on the beach. We don’t have his name yet, but we’re pretty sure that he worked for a private military contractor in the States.”
“Private military?” said Hall.
“Yes.” Claire heard Whitby take a quick gulping drink. “Now, the interesting thing is, I think Mr. Snow was surprised to learn that the shipment was high-tech military weaponry.”
“So what are the weapons for?” Claire said, eliciting a surprised look from her superior officer. Let the man finish.
“Not for what, but for whom. The military contractor was hired by a middleman. The FBI knows the guy. He does the dirty work for some extreme right-wingers in the U.S. We also know, courtesy of Mr. Snow, that they had a strict deadline to deliver to a location north of Calgary by Sunday night.”
“Airdrie?” said Hall.
“Correct.” Whitby nodded.
“What’s so special about tonight?”
Claire was suddenly excited. “It’s a day before the Alberta referendum.”
“Could be coincidence,” said Hall. “There are probably lots of other things going on at the same time.”
“We need to ask the right question,” said Claire.
Hall crossed his arms. “Which is what?”
Whitby offered, “Who in Alberta, sensitive to the referendum date …”
Claire finished the thought: “Wants anti-tank weapons and machine guns by the dozen?”
“And can afford them?” said Hall.
“Twice,” added Claire. “Remember, we sank the first shipment. They had to order another one. So they’ve paid twice.”
Hall seemed to ignore her. “Cliff, what’s your take? You must have seen something like this before.”
“It looks like anti-government freedom fighters in the U.S. They believe in the Apocalypse. The biblical one. End of days and all that. They believe that any government is effectively tyrannical. They wait for some sort of government or societal collapse. So they stockpile food, weapons, and ammunition, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. They isolate themselves in small communities to maintain social control and avoid contamination of their values.”
“Sounds a bit nuts,” Hall said.
“Right,” said Claire. “Are there any of these groups in Alberta?”
“Sure, a few. They’re small. And they’ve been pretty quiet, too, except that Mr. Snow admitted to being a member of the Alberta Independence Movement.”
“What’s that?” Claire said.
“An anti-government survivalist group. They’re petty smugglers. But it’s usually small stuff. Handguns. Narcotics. They’re small-time. We don’t know why they would bother to go to the opposite side of the continent to smuggle weapons when the Montana border is next door. This is a very well-financed operation, way beyond their abilities. It’s much bigger than these groups could pull off,” said Whitby. “If they’re that well financed, they might be getting more from other routes. We’re checking. And we’ve increased manpower on all border crossings along with CBSA.”
Claire had never seen Captain Hall look so concerned. “So someone is worried that something bad might happen after the referendum.”
She leaned closer to the phone. “Or that same someone will make sure something bad does happen.”
FIFTY-ONE
BACK AT THE SAFE HOUSE, Daniel, Touesnard, and MacKinnon scoured the web on their separate laptops to assemble a biography of Forrestal under his earlier name. After four hours and six coffees among them, Daniel sat back. “Have we got enough to put a picture together?”
MacKinnon bobbed his head while reading from his notes. “Forrestal used to be called Robert Haynes and developed real estate in Edmonton in the ’80s, during the oil boom. He built strip malls and apartments. It seems he was married to a Sharon Mills —”
“The password on his iPhone,” Daniel and Touesnard said simultaneously.
MacKinnon continued. “And he had one child, a boy. In ’89, one of his buildings caught fire. The headline in the Edmonton Journal mentioned
construction shortcuts and sub-standard building material. Tragically, a family was killed.”
Touesnard continued, accelerating the pace as if they were speeding toward some important milestone. “Then Haynes went dark. He had millions stashed away in this Cayman Island account by that time. No trace of him for two years until he withdrew money from Belize. Then a few scattered withdrawals to accounts in Eastern Europe, this time under the name Forrestal.”
“After the Berlin Wall fell. They were boom years for reconstruction. He’s quite shrewd,” added Daniel.
MacKinnon said, “So, let’s see if I understand. Mr. Forrestal runs an offshore business in the Caymans, out of the reach of the Canadian and U.S. authorities. He runs this with Professor Fanshawe, who joined in 2002. Two days ago, the account paid out the ten thousand dollars meant to be given to you.” He motioned to Daniel, who grunted in reply. “It also issued money transfers to three other people in the last month. Dave, any leads?”
Touesnard continued as he read from his screen. “One was for three million paid to another offshore account. Ms. Lu just sent us the owner information. It’s owned by a Calgary lawyer named Evans.”
“Alberta comes up again,” said Daniel.
“Another was to a second account, this one in Bermuda, generic name, Express Wilderness Inc., withdrawn at a Canadian bank in Alberta. Airdrie branch.”
“How much?” MacKinnon rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache.
“A million and change.”
“Any idea what for?”
Touesnard and Daniel shook their heads.
MacKinnon said, “What about the third money transfer?”
“This one was given in two pieces. Ten thousand, three weeks ago. And another five on Tuesday. Same destination. A company called Professional Solutions Inc. based in Mustique, an island in the Caribbean.”
“Wait. I have a website for Professional Solutions,” Daniel said, typing on his computer. A website came up. He swung the computer around so MacKinnon and Touesnard could see. “It’s cute. They talk about contract disputes and professional conflict resolution. But it’s a euphemism, just a polite way to say professional killers. Lloyd Fanshawe paid for an assassin.”
The two officers eyed Daniel. Touesnard said it first. “How do you know that?”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Because I used to have to deal with them. Not this particular company, but others like them.”
“As a professor in a Halifax business school?” MacKinnon choked on his words.
“Before that. When I was in China. I told you I negotiated complex business deals between Canadian and Chinese manufacturers. Sometimes one side would resort to extreme ways to up the pressure on the other. Sometimes that included violence.”
“You’re joking.”
“I had to deal with them a couple of times.”
“And how exactly did you ‘deal’ with them?”
“Professionally.”
“You’re being evasive again, professor.”
“They threatened me and my partner.” Daniel hesitated to recall the images of that final assignment. Mr. Wang’s car, a Bentley, malevolent black to hide in the night, narrowly missed ramming into him and Xiao Ping walking on a sidewalk in Kowloon. The car screeched to a halt a few metres ahead, and Mr. Wang’s driver burst out from the right-side door, waving a pistol in one hand, ready to finish the job. He only took four steps before Daniel put two rounds from his Glock into the man’s chest. His mind fast-forwarded to the final scene, with a surprised Mr. Wang sweating and standing still at the far end of the same pistol held firmly by Daniel. “I had the training. I knew what to do. I removed them from the picture.”
The officers’ mouths were agape.
MacKinnon snatched his phone and dialed. “I have to tell the command team about the money trail.”
FIFTY-TWO
LARCH WAS A PATIENT MAN, but his client was not. Mr. Haynes had phoned with more details of his target and needed it dealt with by midnight. Larch didn’t ask why, and Haynes didn’t explain. Haynes only repeated the importance of securing the target and not missing the deadline. Larch began to worry. There were more surprises than normal with this contract. He had already accomplished his first task. But still there was a loose end. Now a second, surprise target. With less than nine hours until the client’s absolutely-must-be-done-no-excuses deadline, he felt he had no choice but to pursue riskier options, involving non-targets if necessary.
The target was well protected, always accompanied by a plainclothes cop. To find a protection gap, he brought his mobile device identifier, essentially a cellphone sniffer. A small box connected to his phone, it intercepted the unique electronic identity number of any cellphone. Police used them regularly. He obtained his through his regular American channels. He had already tracked the target’s phone to several locations. He could also read the numbers of the people he called and could listen to unencrypted calls. Tracking calls since Tuesday revealed a number in Montreal, several calls to the local police, and a reoccurring number to a woman living downtown. Text conversations suggested a possible girlfriend and an upcoming date. It was unlikely the cop would stick close by when the target and the girlfriend were together. He was running out of time as his client, ever more nervous, wanted the target dealt with now. He had failed twice with his regular tactic: detect, hunt, and eliminate. It now seemed like the highest percentage play he could devise would be to make the target come to him.
An easy search revealed the location: the apartment that he now faced across the street. She finally came into view in her green hatchback. She scooted into a parking spot near the main entrance of the apartment building he had been watching. He had been meticulous researching the professor. But his client insisted on rapid action this time. He didn’t know much about her, and he didn’t like improvising. She walked to the main door with a confident stride, wearing a black parka, dark pants, sunglasses, and with a grocery bag in each hand.
He timed his arrival at the front entrance of the building with Swiss accuracy. He dropped his two Superstore shopping bags and pretended to search for his door keys while she fumbled for hers. She jabbed and twisted the key into the lock, opened the door, and moved straight to the elevator. Larch followed and stood beside her as the elevator door opened. She pushed 2 and he pushed 3. It was unlikely that she would be very familiar with anyone living a floor higher, since she probably either went straight to her apartment or took the stairs. A building with four floors was big enough to provide a distant, formal atmosphere, where few tenants would recognize each other. Her lack of suspicions proved his instincts correct.
At her floor, the door pinged open, and the woman walked out. Larch peeked around the corner and confirmed that she stopped at number 211 before the elevator door hissed shut. He darted out at floor three, bounded down the flight of stairs, and peered through the small window of the fire door at the end of the hall. No police officer in the hallway.
He would have one chance to do this right. He sensed rising urgency in his conversations with his client. He was beginning to dislike Mr. Haynes very much. He resolved that this would be his final mission for him. An image of his pastel-coloured beach house on Mustique flashed in his head. Sandrine would be waiting for him. Maybe it was time to slow down a bit. Spend more time with her. She had been very patient, too.
He shook the images from his head and returned his attention to the stairwell and the task at hand. From one of his shopping bags, he pulled out a pair of work gloves, a short black box, and his lock pick tools. He closed the briefcase and opened the fire door. He only needed sixteen steps to reach the door of suite 211. He waited, listened to the silence, looked at the gap between the door and the floor to check for any movement of the shadows. Nothing. She must be stationary somewhere in the apartment.
He jammed the lock tool, flicked it to the right, and after a few moments of feeling the pins, heard the lock cylinder click into place. He kneeled, weapon pulled from
his jacket pocket in hand, and gently swung the door open.
Satisfied. Claire felt drop-down-in-your-chair-and-cross-your-arms satisfied. She had stopped the smugglers and had showed Lansdowne how it was done. Hall was on her side. He seemed pleased and ordered her to go home and recover. Emerging from her bedroom, she was dressed in a dark brown T-shirt that matched her eyes and black Roots track pants. She felt refreshed after a short but deep sleep, a quick trip to the store to stock up on food, and a military-speed shower. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Were those worry lines around her eyes? Thirty-one and she still didn’t look like a ship’s captain. But yes, she had the respect of the people who counted on the Kingston. Except one.
And Daniel had texted again. Dinner date in a few hours. She offered to come over to his hotel where he was holed up. After his protest and plea for escape, she invited him over. Not something she would normally do, but he did come with his own police escort. Did she even have enough of a romantic track record to have a “normal”? A few rebuffed offers from a paltry five men, mostly navy, inappropriately positioned somewhere in her chain of command. Then there was Alexandre, but he took off when she signed up. There was something about Daniel she liked. Yes, he was handsome, but there was something else, a future perhaps, waiting to burst out from inside. At a minimum, he was worthy of further investigation. Did she dare hope for some sort of a connection tonight? She would take it slow and boot him out if she saw any signs of —
She froze.
Was that a noise from the front door?
It might be Mr. Skyler, the nice retiree who regularly forgot that he lived in 213. He would fiddle with the lock, and when it didn’t respond, he would realize his mistake. But this sounded like the door was opening. The landlord? Maybe she should have listened to her voice messages after all. She didn’t remember any messages from him. She shoved her head into the hall to see what was happening at the door at the far end.
True Patriots Page 19