Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series

by Helin, Don

  The meeting would begin in an hour, so he had to hurry. Marcel opened the back door of the farmhouse and stepped inside. The musty smell nauseated him. He hated clutter, but he wasn’t about to spend time and money fixing up this dump.

  He had rented it three years ago under an assumed name and planned to burn it down after the June meeting. That was only three months away, so he had to pick another site soon. If the government bureaucrats found out the FLQ was on the move again, they’d try to stop him. He could tolerate no leaks until he was ready.

  A rat scurried across the floor, startling Marcel. He pulled out his Glock 21 pistol and shot it, the sound reverberating throughout the room. Ah, he thought, I’ve still got the touch. He retrieved a broom and dustpan from the closet, swept up the intruder, and tossed it outside.

  Taking his notes out of his briefcase, he pulled open a drawer in the cabinet next to the refrigerator and slipped it inside. It wouldn’t do to have anyone see the briefcase. They might be able to identify it later if under pressure from the bureaucrats.

  Marcel strode to the closet, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. Opening the door, he looked with pride at his uniform, ready and waiting for him. He slipped on the dark green shirt with the epaulets of a colonel. He sat down on the rickety bench and pulled on the green trousers and black combat boots. He’d placed inserts in the boot to help add another half-inch to his height. The black, wraparound sunglasses, patent-leather helmet liner, and gray goatee completed his disguise.

  Marcel looked in the cracked, grungy mirror and smiled. Yes, the FLQ was on the move again. After twenty-five years. I’ll bring the government to its knees, Father, just like you wanted. My destiny is near.

  He looked at his watch. The cell members would arrive in twenty minutes. He got out the tape recorder and hung the FLQ flag.

  Soon he heard the sound of an engine, then a knock on the door.

  A slender man, his green uniform immaculate, stood in the entranceway.

  “Good evening, Four,” Marcel said.

  Four saluted Marcel. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Be seated. We’ll start in seven minutes.” His soldiers knew better than to arrive late for a meeting.

  As if on cue, cars pulled around behind the old farmhouse. More people entered, all dressed in the same green uniforms.

  Marcel looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock; time to begin.” He glanced around at the twelve men and four women. All of them wore dark, wraparound sunglasses. “Stand, please.”

  He pushed a button on the tape recorder, and they sang the French national anthem. Marcel led the FLQ pledge. “We vow, on our life, that Quebec will be free from outside interference and loyal to those who have come before.”

  Marcel turned and faced the group. “Report.”

  Each member provided a short update of the week’s activities.

  The woman known as Seventeen stood, her voice loud with pride. “The professor told me the time is near.”

  “That is correct, Seventeen,” Marcel replied. “You will play a key role. Please stay after the others leave. I’ll brief you on your tasks.”

  The others glanced at one another, questioning looks on their faces.

  “All that we’ve prepared for is at hand. I have been coordinating with our American allies. Soon we’ll have the weapons to carry out our mission.” He stood and saluted the flag. The others immediately followed suit. “Quebec will be free of English imperialism.”

  A cheer rose from the group.

  Marcel ensured the meeting never ran longer than one hour. At the appointed time, the members filed out, each saluting Marcel in turn. When Seventeen approached, he pointed, “Step over there and wait for me.”

  She saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  When they were alone, Marcel motioned for her to sit on a wooden chair across the kitchen table from him. “I’ve selected you for a special mission.”

  Seventeen straightened up. “Yes, sir. Anything.”

  Marcel liked the way her breasts pressed against her green shirt, but he pushed that thought from his mind. “A Colonel Thorpe will arrive in Montreal tomorrow evening. He has been designated to transport the professor to the United States.”

  Seventeen smiled. “Where will the colonel be staying?”

  Marcel’s voice sharpened. “That is not for you to know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Seventeen looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You are to meet him at the Pasta Basta at nineteen hundred hours tomorrow. Tell him that the professor will be ready for transport Friday at zero eight hundred hours. He will meet Colonel Thorpe at the hotel.”

  “What hotel?”

  Marcel’s tone sharpened again. “I repeat: that is not for you to worry about.”

  Seventeen looked at the floor again, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Marcel hated weepy women. “I will give you a second chance, but do not ask questions. If I want you to know something, I will tell you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are to use the code name Carla. Colonel Thorpe is a tall, muscular man with short black hair. If something doesn’t seem right, call me at this number. Don’t let him see you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  Marcel stood. “You are dismissed, Seventeen.”

  Seventeen saluted. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Marcel returned the salute. “For Quebec.”

  Seventeen called out, “For Quebec.” She turned and hurried out the front door. Soon he heard a car start and drive off.

  Marcel sat for a moment, then moved to the cabinet and got a bottle of his favorite brandy. He filled a glass, stood in front of the mirror, and raised his glass in a toast. “To Quebec.”

  In his heart, he toasted his brother and father.

  Bob O’Brien leaned back in the black leather chair and watched Captain Jeffrey enter the conference room. Jeffrey’s silver bars reflected the muted light as he stood ramrod straight in his red and blue Royal Canadian Mounted Police uniform. His full mane of white hair, with a slight curl in the back, gave him a distinguished look. O’Brien thought he looked a little like a stuffed shirt.

  O’Brien stood and reached over the conference table to shake Jeffrey’s hand. “Bob O’Brien.”

  “Stanford Jeffrey.”

  O’Brien pointed at the brown-haired agent sitting to his left. “This is Agent Sandra Monar, and,” pointing to his right, he said, “Agent Mark Stoner. We appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Welcome to Montreal.” Jeffrey sat at the head of the oak table and folded his hands, looking a little like the Buddha. “How exactly may I be of assistance to you?”

  O’Brien had his story ready. “Tomorrow evening, Colonel Sam Thorpe and Ms. Jackie McCarthy will arrive here in Montreal. He’s to attend a meeting, but we’re not sure exactly what will transpire. I suspect he may be asked to transport someone back to the States.”

  “Why?” Jeffrey had bushy eyebrows that, from the side, looked like tiny ledges.

  O’Brien paused. “It’s part of an undercover operation we’re conducting. I can’t emphasize enough that we must not blow his cover. It’s critical that we track his movements, but in no way can we let anyone see us.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “Do you have any idea of the link to Quebec? Why is the meeting here?”

  “Frankly, no,” O’Brien replied, “but it’s got to be related to something here. Do you have any ideas?”

  Jeffery rolled his tongue under his lips when he talked as though he had something caught in his teeth. “Can you tell me anything about this operation? Help me see possible connections.”

  O’Brien looked down at his notebook. “The undercover operation is focused on a group of extremists. We believe they may be plotting some terrorist event against our government.”

  “I see.” Jeffrey rubbed his chin. “Have you heard of the Front de Liberation Quebecois,
or the FLQ?”

  “Weren’t they active back in the ‘60s and ‘70s? But I understand they’re defunct.”

  “We thought so until about six months ago.” Jeffrey began to scribble on his notepad. “Now we’re not so sure.”

  “What can you tell me about them?” O’Brien asked.

  “You need to understand a little background. Toward the middle of the last century, the Quebec government encouraged new businesses in the province, but did little to combat corruption. To make matters worse, most of these industries were owned by English Canadians or U.S. business interests.”

  “Ah,” O’Brien said, “the ugly Americans.”

  “Not quite that bad.” Jeffrey stood and walked over to the silver teacart standing against the wall. “Tea?”

  O’Brien would have preferred a cup of coffee, but he glanced at his two agents. Both nodded. “Please.”

  Jeffrey reached for the white china teapot and dropped five teabags in it. He placed the pot, four cups, and cream and sugar on a silver tray, then brought it to the table.

  He sat down and folded his arms again, then continued. “As a result of these businesses interests, Quebec society underwent significant changes in the 1940s and late 1950s. A clash between the old and new developed during the last years of the regime of Premier Maurice Duplessis. He was an economic conservative and arch Quebec nationalist.”

  “Didn’t he die about that time?” Agent Monar asked.

  “You know your history.” Captain Jeffrey smiled. “He died in 1959. In June 1960 the Quebec Liberal party, under Jean Lesage, came into power.”

  “The Quiet Revolution,” O’Brien added. “And enter the FLQ?”

  “Not quite yet,” Jeffrey replied. “Not until 1963. They became active in response to what they perceived as attacks on traditional Quebec values. Over the period of the next seven years the FLQ conducted a number of operations, 174 to be exact—bombings, armed robberies, and kidnappings.”

  O’Brien took notes. “Any of this classified?”

  “None of the background,” Jeffrey replied, “but the possibility that they may be trying to return to power is highly classified. Luckily, your office called in advance to obtain clearances for the three of you. I’ll need you to sign confidentiality certificates.”

  Agent Monar reached for the teapot. “May I pour?”

  Jeffrey smiled. “Please.”

  “What next?” O’Brien asked.

  “After the Liberals were defeated in 1966, the differences between the groups became more extreme. The Liberal party supported a federalist platform. An active minority of leftists based primarily in Montreal broke with the Liberals and began advocating independence. From their efforts came the Parti Quebecois with a platform of secession from Canada.”

  “Tell me about the kidnappings,” O’Brien said.

  “It started on a small scale and grew. Some of the leaders of the FLQ, inspired by immigrants from Algeria and Cuba, began advocating terrorism. We even had reports that some FLQ members trained in Palestinian terrorist camps. The FLQ kidnapped a British diplomat in the fall of 1970. That didn’t cause a big flurry, but when they kidnapped and killed a popular Quebec province minister, there was quite a backlash.”

  “Isn’t that when the prime minister of Canada invoked the War Powers Act?”

  O’Brien asked.

  Jeffrey nodded and sipped his tea. “Students were boycotting classes. Many in the province supported the FLQ.” He stroked back his thick white hair with his right hand. “The government became concerned over what price the FLQ would demand to end the hostage situation. On October 15, the Quebec government asked the federal government to send in troops.”

  Captain Jeffrey’s cell phone rang. He reached down to his belt, looked at the number, and muted it. “Sorry.”

  “Sounds like some of our protests in the U.S. during the same period,” Agent Stoner said.

  “The difference,” Jeffrey continued, “was that kidnappings had never occurred in Canada. Terrorism always happened somewhere else. Prime Minister Trudeau proclaimed a state of insurrection in the province. He had to go back to 1914 to find the power to suspend a number of civil liberties.”

  O’Brien tossed his pen on the table. “I’ll bet the civil rights groups were livid.”

  “Yes. Anyone suspected of belonging to the FLQ, or even supporting the FLQ, was arrested. In a period of a few days, federal troops jailed about five hundred people. Few of these people, however, ever faced charges.”

  “Why do you think they might be trying to make a comeback?” O’Brien asked.

  Jeffrey paused.

  O’Brien picked up the hint. “Let me tell you what we’re facing.” Then he proceeded to brief Jeffrey on the Patriots, leaving out any reference to names or actual locations.

  “I see.” Jeffrey stood and began to pace around the room, his hands behind his back. “We have nothing concrete to substantiate the possibility that the FLQ is coming back, only some chatter on the Internet and,” he smiled, “some intercepted calls.”

  O’Brien nodded. He knew how sensitive intercepting calls of Canadian citizens would be if word leaked out. “If we work together, we might both benefit.”

  Jeffrey stood. “Let us break for lunch. I’ll take you to my club. Then you can tell me what you have in mind.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jackie held the door open for Sam. “Right on time. Come in.”

  Sam managed a weak smile. “You know me.” Her long black hair touched her shoulders, and the dark gray suit offset her blue eyes. “You look great.”

  “My assignment clothes.”

  Jackie’s mother came down the stairs and kissed his cheek. “My goodness,” Evelyn McCarthy said, “you’ve got a long trip ahead of you today.”

  The door opened with a squeak and Senator McCarthy walked out of his study. “Morning, Thorpe. I’ve got to hurry. I’m on my way to Harrisburg for an appropriations committee meeting. Trenton will be picking me up in a few minutes.” He slapped Sam on the back. “I understand that the company you are working for is a major campaign contributor. Maybe you’ll be able to direct some money my way up here in Pennsylvania.”

  “Sorry, Senator,” Sam replied, “I don’t have those types of contacts now. Maybe later.”

  “Oh.” The frost descended again. Sam would stay on the outside of the Senator’s circle, with “Trenton the turd” part of the “in-group.”

  Sam reached over to pick up Jackie’s suitcase. “We’d better get started.” After loading the car, he waved to Evelyn, steered the Explorer out of the circular driveway, and turned left onto King Street.

  When he reached Route 202, Sam turned north and fought his way through the rush-hour traffic past the King of Prussia Mall. He followed the mob of frantic drivers onto the expressway and ran immediately into total gridlock.

  Tapping his foot in frustration, he said, “Thankfully, we only need to creep along here for a couple of miles to the Northeast Extension. Maybe then we can get out of this mess.”

  Jackie nodded.

  “I can’t imagine how commuters spent the first part of every day glaring at each other over a steering wheel and calculating how to beat the next guy out. No wonder people get attacks of road rage.”

  Jackie didn’t reply.

  When he had lived with Jackie, they had commuted into the Pentagon early enough from Old Town to beat the worst of the traffic up the George Washington Parkway. When he moved out, Sam got lucky and found a room in the BOQ at Fort Myer. He made it part of his early morning routine to jog around the post, ending up at the Pentagon officers’ athletic center for a quick shower; then he’d change into his uniform.

  Once they reached the Northeast Extension, the traffic heading north eased up, though the southbound lanes were still bumper to bumper. It didn’t take long before they were past Allentown; then another half hour and they intersected with Interstate 81 at Scranton.

  There were long periods when neit
her of them spoke but simply listened to the Boston Pops on one of Sam’s favorite CDs. Sam had always been comfortable with silence. Jackie was, too.

  About the time they reached the southern tier of New York state, the air turned colder and it started to rain. A foggy mist hung on the mountains, covering the birch, aspen, and maple trees with a thin layer of gray. The frost along the side of the road gave a mystic quality to the landscape.

  Sam and Jackie drove through the downtown section of Binghamton just over the border into New York state and stopped at Mom’s Restaurant for a late lunch.

  According to their waitress, high-tech industry in the area had replaced shoe manufacturing, the dominant industry there in the early twentieth century. But there was nothing high-tech about Mom’s. The smell of grease permeated the restaurant, though the dozen or so bright red-checkered tables were clean.

  While Jackie looked over her menu, she commented to the waitress, “I saw so many gold, onion-domed churches. They’re beautiful.”

  “You’ll see them throughout Broome County,” the waitress said, snapping her gum at a feverish rate. Scribbling down their orders, she hurried off to the kitchen with a final pop of her gum.

  Jackie opened the AAA tour book again. “Look, the Finger Lakes point north like fingers of a giant monster.”

  Sam chuckled. “Hopefully, they’ll point toward a winery. Understand there are a bunch of them around here.”

  “I’d like to pick up some wine on the way back.” She looked down at the table, then back up at Sam. “Now, can we cut through the BS? What’s going on?”

  Sam had expected this and was surprised it had taken until lunch. He leaned forward. “You know I’m undercover. Did Alex give you background on Quentin Oliver?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been asked to attend a meeting in Montreal tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”