He had the presence of a man who could bat away a black bear, like other people swat flies, and I found myself slipping into my mousey mode under his piercing eyes.
“Yes.”
“Right, so we’re onto it already.”
He folded his massive arms and glared at me.
“Okay. Thank you, then,” I said backing away with a bow.
I turned and bolted out the door.
My cheeks burned with shame. The mayor’s threat to have the police arrest me for trespassing had undone me completely. With a bent head, I broke into a half trot to put as much distance between myself and the station as quickly as I could.
I never saw the cop coming.
All I knew was that, suddenly, my right arm slammed into something soft, and my entire body buzzed, as if I had been zapped by a bolt of lightning. I lost balance and tumbled into someone, my vision capturing a beard, and the silver buttons and pockets of a dark uniform, and a cell phone clattering onto the ground.
The cop grumbled at the impact.
I righted myself in a flash, and immediately dashed around the corner, out of sight.
Back in the car, I gripped the steering wheel, trembling and feeling utterly foolish. The entire morning seemed like a failure.
I had a couple of hours left before I needed to return the rental. My camera was under the passenger seat. The lens was long enough that I could stay far away and still get good shots. “A picture was worth a thousand words,” they said. If I got good visuals, maybe I could get some newspaper or website interested in the spill.
Highway 103 was empty. I pressed down hard on the gas, ignoring the speed limit, and reached the turn-off in under an hour. I got onto the parallel route and made a left into the road I’d mistakenly thought was the highway the night before.
I didn’t get very far before I came across two florescent orange wooden horses in the middle of the road. A rope suspended between them carried a sign with a skull that said, “Danger. Keep Out.”
On either side of the road were two permanent metal signs: “Private Property. No Trespassing. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.”
I hadn’t seen the permanent signs the night before. But then again, it was dark and raining and I’d been focusing only on the arc of light from my headlamps.
The camera looked forlorn on the passenger seat where I’d placed it, anticipating that I would need it within easy reach in order to sneak in a few quick shots. It begged to go beyond those barriers, where something was definitely up.
The roar of the flood from the night before came rushing out of my memory and back into my ears. It had filled me only with terror at the time, but, now, the sound made my blood boil, and my heart sink.
I imagined the devastation the gushing waters would have caused. The flood would have cut through the land, uprooting majestic trees and tossing them aside as if they were matchsticks. Any animal that was too young, too old, or too sick to get out of its path would have been swept away. Fish would have been suddenly engulfed by murky waters that turned their natural habitat into a toxic grave.
Osgood was right. Greedy bastards had raped and pillaged Mother Nature and left her for dead.
I couldn’t let them get away with it.
The wooden horses didn’t seem heavy at all. I imagined myself easily shifting them just enough to squeeze the car through.
And then I pictured Mayor Demetriou’s scowl, and the big cop’s glare, and my fingers hesitated on the door handle.
I grit my teeth. “I’m doing this. Can’t be a coward all my life.”
The matter, though, was decided for me. In the distance beyond the barrier, headlights snaked toward me. Someone was coming this way from the site of the spill. I did a quick three-point turn and hightailed it out of there.
On foot, after surrendering the rental, I went to the radio station. I had heard from a reliable source that couldn’t be named, I said, that the dam with toxic sludge burst up at Syron Lake. The story must have been true, I added, because now there was a roadblock with a danger warning sign.
The baby-faced reporter scribbled notes feverishly. “This is great! Sounds like a major story,” he said. He told me to listen for the news, which was carried at the top of every hour.
The newspaper editor was less enthusiastic. “We heard from the mayor’s office. We’re checking into it.” He didn’t even assign a reporter to interview me.
Back at home, with the radio going, I called the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources. I was on hold for half an hour the first time. When the clock ticked past three-quarters of an hour the fifth time I called, I gave up.
Two newscasts passed. Lots of “news“ about the upcoming arts tour, and a poker run, and a mayoral debate in a week. But nothing on the tailings.
“My boss killed the story,” the baby-faced reporter said when I called. “Said we can’t run with anything until we get confirmation that it was a spill.”
I suspected that the mayor had gotten to the radio station boss too.
Somewhere in the circuitry of my brain, the uncomfortable sensations I’d felt during my encounter with Demetriou got tangled up with the imprint of what actually happened. So any time I recalled the incident (which was often that day), it was with a vague notion of having been slapped about the face in the mayor’s office. Now it felt as if I’d been slapped all over town.
It never felt good to be mousey.
It didn’t feel good now. And it certainly didn’t in childhood, when I’d flee under the bed whenever my dad came home late from the bar and would raise an angry fist at my stepmother, who, having downed a few glasses of rum while waiting for him at home, would put up a screaming, raging fight that often left housewares and furniture broken, and, occasionally, brought concerned neighbors rushing over. Nor did it feel good when I was cowering and trying to shield my face from lashes from a leather belt, which my stepmother reserved for teaching me lessons about how to behave properly.
What had felt good was hanging on to Adam Levy’s coattails as he had fought his battles. It was he who had sent me out to all those environmental rallies, where the mass of bodies and the fiery voices supplied me with courage I’d never known before as I joined whatever fight was on.
How could I tap that courage again?
I flipped through the local phone book. There was only one listing in the community groups section under the heading “Environment.”
I rang the number.
“I agree with you; the mines shouldn’t be allowed to hush up something like that,” the woman with a frail voice said after I’d explained all.
“So can we get some kind protest going?” I said.
There was silence on the other line.“I’m sorry, dear, but that’s not really our thing.” The delicate voice practically dripped with politeness. “We’re all retirees in the Syron Lake Field Naturalists Club. We put up bird feeders, go on walks, have monthly meetings, that kind of thing.”
I sighed.
“We’re having a meeting tonight at the Moose Lodge,” she said. “Starts at eight. Why don’t you come? You could talk to Osgood. He’s on our board and he’s running for mayor. Maybe he could help you.”
I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter 13
The meeting with Angus Firestone was at two-thirty in the afternoon. The venue was a sandwich shop at the end of a street lined with tiny, rundown former loggers cottages. It was in Hull, on the Quebec side of the river, across from Ottawa.
Benoit Dromel drove across the Alexandra Bridge thinking the encounter would be a little too close for comfort to the bachelor pad he kept secret from his common-law wife,
Bernice. But, as he was quite sure his clandestine life there was unknown to anyone other than his paramours and the tall, skinny kid he jokingly referred to as his majordomo, he had agreed to Firestone’s request.
The appointment had been arranged and canceled at the last minute twice before in the last month. Things had come up on both their parts. Now, he was determined that it should happen. He was curious to know why the prime minister’s chief of staff wanted to see him, and at such an out-of-the-way location, too.
When he arrived, Firestone was already seated on a tall stool in the empty eatery, studying his Blackberry. Dromel had come across his fair share of political operatives over the years in Ottawa, and he knew this type. At thirty-seven, Firestone was just under two decades younger than Dromel; he had risen fast in the world and exuded the cockiness Dromel associated with a power-behind-the-throne syndrome.
They introduced themselves, then ordered vegetarian wraps, which they took to the most isolated booth in the joint.
“How’s your chairman coming along?” Firestone said.
“Slower than expected.”
“When does he get back?”
“Not sure. It’s looking like his recovery might take longer than first thought.”
“Your deputy chair’s got the Saskatoon hearing, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re doing Syron Lake?”
“Yeah, sure,” Dromel said after a pause.
For the first time since he’d arrived, he began to feel uneasy.
Two weeks earlier, he had tied up talks with the stranger in the expensive suit. He had secreted off to Belize for a quick, little holiday. The agent who registered his offshore company and set up an offshore account in Singapore said neither would be traceable to him.
Half the amount the stranger had written on a napkin had been wired to his account just six days earlier; the other half was promised for when the panel’s work was done.
Now the PM’s Office was pulling him aside, asking questions. What did they know?
Firestone crunched loudly on cubes of cucumber. “The outcome of your review has great significance to the companies involved.”
“That’s no different from any of our hearings,” Dromel said.
“Look, it’s come to our attention that certain entities have certain specific objectives in mind, and it’s absolutely crucial that they be realized.”
Dromel kept his eyes on the tomato slices in his wrap.
“As you know,” Firestone continued, “a chairman of any proceeding usually has enormous sway.”
“As someone who’s served on many panels, I’m not sure you could make such a claim.”
“Well, it looks like that’ll be the case with Syron Lake, given that it’s a three-man affair, and your colleagues are newbies.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call Percy Drysdale a greenhorn. He’s been with the CNRA for eleven months.”
“Yeah, but he’s been on a panel only once before. And that other guy….”
“Victor Rigby.”
“Yeah, that one. The PM appointed him just four months ago. This will be his first hearing won’t it?”
“They’re both highly qualified and competent. And they’re independent thinkers, too.”
“Come on, Dromel. You know very well that every man is subject to persuasion.”
Dromel shifted his weight and turned sideways; he stared at the exit.
“What are your plans when your five-year term is up?” Firestone said. He had finished his wrap, and now rubbed his long, bony fingers with a paper napkin.
“That’s a couple of years down the road. Haven’t given it a whole lot of thought.”
“You should.”
Dromel stared at Firestone.
“Lots of ends of terms on various boards coming up down the road,” Firestone said. “There will be openings. We’re talking about full-fledged chairmanships, with all the perks. Or, you might want to consider slipping back into the public service. What were you before you took up this post? Director of something or the other, right? What about going back, but in the upper echelons, this time? Deputy minister, let’s say. The possibilities are endless, understand?”
Dromel nodded slowly.
Firestone raised his left eyebrow and leaned toward Dromel. “But possibilities are open to those who can deliver desired results. Those who run against the grain also run the risk of being left by the wayside…or worse.”
Firestone stood up. “I trust you’ll consider all of this carefully during the Syron Lake review.”
Dromel forced a smile. “I always take all important information into consideration.”
“Good.” Firestone slapped Dromel on the shoulder and left.
On the drive back to his office, Dromel shook his head every few minutes.
Why was the prime minister trying to influence his decision? After all, Firestone was nothing if not the mouthpiece of the PM.
Whose bidding was Peabody doing? Was there a second company out of the five that was looking to get at him? Or was it the same company behind the payment he’d already received that didn’t trust him and was trying to send a message through Peabody?
If it was the same company that had wired him the cash, Dromel didn’t know which was more disturbing; being doubted by them, or receiving covert inducements on their behalf from Peabody.
He hated the man. He had never forgotten that day from their time at the University of Toronto when Peabody had squeezed him out of a debating team that went to Ottawa for a tour of Parliament.
Dromel always wondered how his career would have turned out if he hadn’t missed out on that trip. That particular “what if” inquiry had tormented him for decades. Going there usually resulted in him reaching for a glass or three of gin or vodka.
Back at his desk, he lazily scanned his Inbox.
The email that caught his attention was short, not more than five lines. It was addressed to the CNRA’s emergency response department, which had forwarded it to him.
An acute natural event or Act of God — namely, a severe rainstorm the night before — had diminished the effectiveness of a barrier at the former uranium mine operated by Syron Lake Resources in Syron Lake, Ontario.
The situation was under control, the company’s email said. Emergency clean-up operations were well advanced. The spill was contained with no discernible environmental impact on the surrounding communities. The company would bear full responsibility for the cost of remediation.
Dromel leaned back and rocked in his chair.
That had to be it.
Syron Lake Resources had to have been the company behind all the clandestine meetings.
Now it made sense that they had sent Peabody as a messenger boy with a bag of goodies even after they’d slipped something to him under the table.
He smelled desperation.
It was not unwarranted. The terms of the agreement his panel was reviewing gave the authorities the power to demand the company pay for and manage a clean-up operation in circumstances such as this. Sure, the company was making the right kind of PR statements about taking full financial responsibility in the initial moments of the crisis. But Dromel had the power to stick the costs to them indefinitely.
Perhaps Syron Lake Resources had cut corners in their maintenance work over the years and saw a disaster like this coming. And, even in the face of it, they wanted to hand back their license and pass the burden of any long-term clean-up operation onto the government and taxpayers.
He had every reason to deny them their request.
Suddenly the balance in his Singaporean account seemed inadequate.
If this company was powerful enough to get the prime minister of Canada to drop hints about plum positions, they would surely be able to cough up more dough.
A payment of the magnitude he had in mind would mean he wouldn’t need to be hanging around hoping Peabody would come through with his promises. Dromel hadn’t put much faith in Firestone’s vague offers, anyway; personal history had taught him better than to bank on anything Peabody said.
With the payment he had in mind, he probably wouldn’t even have to serve out his term as a CNRA commissioner.
He could retire early, and leave behind the whole Ottawa lot with their intrigue and backstabbing. He could spend the rest of his days in some warm place on the beach with Bernice at his side, if she wanted to join him. If she didn’t, he was sure his fattened wallet would make it easy for him find a replacement, or two.
He clasped his hands and cupped the back of his bald pate. His thumbs massaged the base of his skull, sending a tingle of excitement throughout his body.
Yes, he was due for a bigger payday.
Chapter 14
Director Hutton stood at the window of his office watching the bare trees and the swirling carpet of yellow and crimson on the sidewalk. In past years, the shifting play of colors as the wind tossed about the fallen leaves had provided a welcome distraction for a brain overloaded with the murky secrets of an entire nation. But now, this autumnal tableau brought only thoughts of decay and death.
Hutton sighed.
He hadn’t been himself since the summer. Not since he started having those chest pains, the shortness of breath, and those all too frequent dizzy spells. His wife, Valerie, was now near exasperation over his delay in going to see his doctor. Too busy, he kept saying. The truth was that he didn’t want to know the truth.
He didn’t turn around when Spike Simmons knocked and entered. He had been expecting him. He had found that dealing with this lower level agent on the Mahler case suited his purpose better than consulting Simmons’ superiors.
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 8