I had built a life for myself as a single woman through honest, hard work; it mortified me to think that wanting to follow my heart could lead to public disgrace.
Good sense told me this possibility, alone, should have made me forget about Benoit Dromel. But how much happiness as a woman had restraint and good sense brought me so far? I was so unacquainted with words like “love” and “passion” that I struggled to make any headway with my romance novel.
My conservative self had battled with my desire ever since the moment Benoit Dromel had winked at me. The previous night, as the temperature outside had warmed and the rain had come down like shards violently pelted from the sky, I had sat at my computer with a firm resolve to settle the matter. And I had determined to do so in the same way that I had got ahead in my career: by copious research.
I read scores of blogs and agony aunt columns at the websites of traditional newspapers; I tapped the wisdom of relationship gurus hocking their latest tomes, and scrolled through hundreds of forum entries from ordinary women — and men.
The hands on my watch had ticked well past midnight when I had finally shutdown the computer.
No one out there had the answers as to how to deal with my exact situation.
But in a few intense hours, I had run through the gamut of human romantic relationships and the challenges they faced, from a lack of money to too much of it, from drug addiction to terminal diseases, from orbiting former flames to partners with roving eyes, from confusion over sexuality to reluctance to reproduce, and a whole lot more.
Those who had things easy — the fortunate ones who had met their sweetheart in high school and from there, sailed on smoothly to marriage, raising a family, and growing old together — were few and far between. For most of us, this thing called love was a messy business, and if you wanted it, you had to take a chance…and fight for it.
The sun had risen to an angle at which it pierced the ice encasing the branches in such a way that the rays split into the colors of the rainbow. All around me, the scene shimmered with a fragile beauty. I drew in a deep, cold breath that gave me a twinge as it coursed its way down into my lungs.
I made up my mind then and there.
I had a meeting with a class action lawyer in Ottawa the following week; it would provide the perfect “I was just in your area” cover if — when — I happened to run into Benoit Dromel.
Chapter 54
The knob clicked once, twice; Dromel followed the movement of the door as it creaked slightly ajar.
“You there, Mr D?” The voice was hesitant.
“Of course,” Dromel snapped.
“You left that door open, man?” The skinny kid entered, closed the door, turned the lock, and swaggered over to the sofa where Dromel sat.
An enthusiastic hand raised for a hi-five made contact with a reluctantly-offered palm. The skinny kid didn’t seem bothered by this. He pointed at the door.
“That’s not wise, man. Not wise at all. This is a nice neighborhood and all that, but if I was you, I wouldn’t go leaving my door unlocked.”
“I left it open because I was expecting you,” Dromel said sharply.
He shook his head and wondered how he found himself now having to explain himself to this guy. The dynamics of this connection were changing in a direction he wasn’t liking. He wanted to rid himself of this uncouth, over-familiar lout; but he knew his supplier knew too much about him to be simply discarded. Besides, he needed him now more than ever.
The business with the payout of a lifetime in exchange for his approval of the Syron Lake Resources license ate away at his mind. All through the day until he hit the pillows, staring at the ceiling at night, he swung between delirious fantasies about spending his new-found riches and terror that he might end up garroted and left for dead in some abandoned mine site where his body would never be discovered.
He needed something to steady him through these uncharted waters.
“You got the stuff as usual?”
“What do you mean if I’ve got the stuff? Have I ever let you down?”
The young man bent over Dromel and grabbed his right hand. He reached into his jacket pocket, then slapped a small plastic bag of white pills into Dromel’s open palm. He stood up and grinned.
Dromel exhaled loudly and pursed his lips. He could do without the dramatics from this fellow. He made a quick count, then slipped the packet into his pocket.
“And what about the recorder?”
“Got it right here.” The young man took a slim box from a pocket deep inside his puffy winter jacket. He flicked open the lid and shook out a matte, black pen with silver finishing.
“See, you get it going by twisting the top section here. Then to start recording, press down the clip. Piece of cake.”
Dromel reached for the pen.
The skinny kid made as if handing it over; but as Dromel attempted to close his fingers around the instrument, the young man whipped it up higher. Dromel reached out again, only to have the prize pulled away at the last moment.
“Just give me the damn pen,” Dromel shouted. The indignities he had to put up with!
The younger man threw his head back and cackled.
“Ease up, man.” Sill laughing, he dropped the pen into Dromel’s hand.
He walked toward the door, then stopped and turned around.
“Next month, you can just double up on what you usually give me for the rent. That’ll cover everything.”
Dromel turned the pen around, examining every inch of it.
“You hear me?”
“Yes. Sure,” Dromel mumbled.
The cost was outrageous. Some majordomo, he thought. Robbing his employer like a highway bandit. But the meeting at which he would put this to use was in less than two hours; he was in no mood to fight over a few hundred dollars when so much more was at stake.
“So what’s that for anyway?” The young man opened the door and hesitated. “You turning undercover cop or something?”
“Just mind your own damn business.” Dromel didn’t look up.
The skinny kid shook his head.
“Hey, man, whatever crap you get yourself into, just watch out for yourself, you hear?”
Dromel finally looked up at the skinny kid. He thought he’d heard real concern in the guy’s voice.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt or killed, okay? You’re my best customer. Peace.”
With that, the majordomo was out the door.
Dromel was already on edge about the mission the pen would help him accomplish; the kid’s words hadn’t helped to calm his nerves.
Chapter 55
He sat in a quiet corner of the room at the Chateau Laurier. It was minutes to midnight and he had been waiting for five hours. He had missed dinner and was not in a good mood.
He leaned forward and scribbled on the pocket-sized note pad on the table: “Patience is a virtue!!!”
Those were not the words running through his mind. No, that piece of real estate was currently occupied by very colorful language. But he had to exercise restraint, in case the security detail scrutinized his notes.
A soft click came from the other side of the room. He looked up. The door opened and Firestone strode in. “Good, you’re here.”
“Yes,” Dromel said coldly. “I arrived at seven, actually. Thought I’d do the polite thing and show up half an hour early.”
The sarcasm flew right past Firestone.
“He’s not going to be able to come up.” Firestone walked over to the door and opened it fully, motioning an unseen person to enter. “Something’s come up and his whole s
chedule’s gone haywire. You’ll have to talk to him in the car. He’s got a flight to catch.”
A young man with cropped hair, who wore a dark, cheap-looking suit, entered.
Firestone looked at his watch.
“Make it quick; we’re running late,” he said.
The young man approached Dromel with both arms stretched out in front of him, palms up. He waved his hands upward; Dromel rested his pen on the table and got to his feet. As the man patted him down from the front, Dromel noted the officer’s red, droopy eyes.
“Let’s go; let’s go,” Firestone said impatiently.
Dromel turned around and the young man hurriedly patted him from behind.
“Let’s make a move,” Firestone shouted, then disappeared out the door.
Dromel bent and whisked up his pen and notepad and walked briskly toward the door. The young man followed, shuffling his feet.
Poor sod, Dromel thought, having to work like a dog for long hours to protect that hideous man.
Outside, Firestone opened the rear door of the Chevrolet Suburban, then trotted to the black sedan parked in front of the SUV. Dromel climbed in and the young man with the cheap suit got into the front passenger seat.
“Benoit Dromel!” Prime Minister Peabody said with a wide grin. He sat in the far corner of the backseat with his arms folded as he watched Dromel strap on his seatbelt. “I believe we were at U of T around the same time.”
The tone of mock friendliness mixed with dominance grated.
The man could not have got off to a worse start, Dromel thought. Given their history, bringing up their university days was bad enough, but the callousness of suggesting he was so insignificant as to not have staked a place in Peabody’s memory just riled Dromel.
He swallowed hard and focused on fastening the buckle.
When Firestone had called the day before and said the prime minister needed to speak with him, Dromel was quite sure he knew what the subject would be. Now, he kept quiet and braced himself for what was to come.
The four-car prime ministerial convoy snaked unhurriedly along in the streets that were almost empty at that hour.
“Okay, Dromel, I’ll get straight to the point.” Peabody shifted to face him directly. “One of the companies in the Syron Lake hearing you’ve chaired has offered to continue to take full responsibility for operations at its site indefinitely.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you have to see that that’s a good thing for the public purse. It’s not every day the private sector shows such sterling corporate citizenship and makes such a generous gesture. Think about it; approving their retention of their license will in all likelihood save the taxpayer millions of dollars.”
“Actually,” Dromel said, “if you look at it from a broad perspective, it may not be an ‘either,’ ‘or’ situation.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“For instance, we’ve had a concerned citizen suggesting that the license for that company, Syron Lake Resources, should be revoked and that on top of that, they be made to bear the financial responsibilities.”
The prime minister snorted.
Dromel ignored the sound. “In such a scenario, the day-to-day management of the tailings would fall to others, such as a government agency or even an NGO. So the taxpayers are relieved of the burden, while the surrounding communities have peace of mind that the waste is being managed by an agency that has a vested interest in their safety, rather than in keeping costs down for a private company.”
Dromel saw Peabody’s face twitch. The prime minister’s grin was gone.
He would rub it in a bit more.
“The idea is worth exploring,” Dromel said, “especially since, as that intervener put it, the recent spill makes one question the company’s competence to manage such dangerous waste.”
“Let’s not play games, here, Dromel. I think you know what’s expected.”
“Prime Minister, I was appointed to the CNRA to ensure the safe handling of all nuclear material. Our mandate is to safeguard human health and to protect the environment, and I hold that as a solemn duty.”
“You’re aware your appointment is revocable, aren’t you?”
Dromel looked out the window.
“You worked in the private sector for just three years, didn’t you?” Peabody said, breaking the silence. “Other than that, you’ve spent your entire working life as a public servant, haven’t you? You’ve got, what: ten, twelve years before retirement? What’s your next move after your term on the CNRA ends? Hoping for the security of the public purse, no doubt, eh?”
Dromel turned to face Peabody; their eyes locked in a cold stare.
The prime minister sneered. “I can make it so that you never again work in any federal capacity while I’m in office.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it however you will.”
“As an arm’s-length body, the CNRA is supposed to be free of political influence. So if you’re threatening me, I think I should inform you, Prime Minister, you’re totally out of line.”
Peabody’s nostrils flared. He glanced quickly at the driver and the security officer in the front passenger seat. Transparent wires ran from their ears, down into their collars; their heads were stiffly facing the windshield. They apparently had not heard that affront. They couldn’t have, not with the soundproof barrier up.
Peabody’s cheeks burned as if he had been slapped. And by whom? Some obscure, low-level public official only temporarily given a taste of power because his superior was in the hospital. He wasn’t going to let this little runt jeopardize his post-prime ministerial plans.
“I’m not trying to influence you, Dromel,” Peabody said through clenched teeth. “I’m ordering you. Let Syron Lake Resources keep its license, otherwise your sorry ass will be out in the rain for as long as I can manage it.”
The prime minister pressed a button on the armrest of his door. A red light flashed on the dashboard. The SUV slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder.
“Now, get out of my sight,” Peabody said.
Dromel hopped out of the vehicle and stood at the side of the road. Firestone emerged from the car ahead, which had also stopped, and brushed past him to take the seat he had just vacated. Three cars from the convoy continued on.
The fourth, which had been at the rear, pulled up beside Dromel. The window wound down.
“Want to get back to the hotel?” the driver asked.
Back in his own car in the garage at the Chateau Laurier, Dromel grasped the steering wheel to steady his trembling hands. He bent his head forward; his breath exploded past his lips as he exhaled.
His shaking right hand dipped into his pocket. He pulled out the pen. He manipulated it, held his breath, and listened.
“I’m not trying to influence you, Dromel. I’m ordering you…”
The pen recorder had worked, just as the skinny kid had promised it would.
Chapter 56
Peabody had ridden in complete silence for twenty minutes. Now, words tumbled off his lips as he stared out the window.
“First thing when we get back, I want you to arrange with CSIS to put Dromel under surveillance. I want any dirt we can find on him.”
He was giving instructions to Firestone, but mostly thinking aloud.
He knew, for all his bluster, his threats had been largely empty. He couldn’t just yank Dromel’s position away from him. It would cause bad publicity and who knows what the snooping media hounds would find.
No, in order to ensure cooperation from Dromel, he needed leverage.
Everybody had secrets, those proverbial skeletons in the closet. He would unleash the national intelligence apparatus to ferret out Dromel’s skeletons. He would use the agency to bring Dromel to his knees.
He wanted to send CSIS after the insolent cur, just because he could. He would relish stripping the mangy mongrel of any right to privacy he may have imagined himself entitled to. What was the use of being prime minister if he didn’t take advantage of such power that was at his disposal?
“Did you get that Firestone?” Peabody said. He turned to face his chief of staff, whom he had found unusually quiet.
“John, it doesn’t work like–”
“Is every bloody person I talk to tonight going to defy me?”
“I’m just saying–”
“Just get it done.”
Chapter 57
Nadia’s bare knees clutched him from behind, at the hips, as he sat at the edge of the bed. She pressed her body against his back. Her fingers kneaded into his shoulder muscles, through his shirt, bruising yet soothing the flesh there. She timed her breathing to match his. As their bodies heaved and fell in unison with every breath, he felt himself yielding to her touch.
Yet, Daniel Greene didn’t want to be soothed; he didn’t want to yield. She had teased him all night about being grumpy. What did her attempt to pacify him mean? That he wasn’t entitled to his anger?
He shoved her back on the bed, and got to his feet.
“What?” Nadia lay on her back, her skirt hiked up, her blouse undone. “I don’t please you anymore?”
“You’re beginning to make this complicated.” He lit a cigarette, took a puff then held it between his fingers as he poured himself a shot of whiskey. “And you know what? If it get’s complicated, it’s over and done with, and you’re out that damn door.”
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 23