Rojas groaned softly.
Simmons continued as if he hadn’t heard that. “A couple of good ol’ American entrepreneurs are among our prime suspects in a murder we think might be linked to a former mining operation here in Ontario.”
“Geez, Simmons, haven’t you heard of official channels?”
“Look, trying to go through official channels would take time and would get me only so far; I need to go as deep as this can go, and then some. And like yesterday, too. I’m tapping all my contacts where these people do business.”
Simmons was silent for a while. “I’m desperate, man.” His voice was raw. “Director Hutton asked me to keep on top of this case. Seems he’s taken some kind of personal interest in it. I’m directly in his sights with this one and I feel this could either make or break me.”
Rojas glanced across at Simmons. Even from the side, he could see the wild look in Simmons’ eyes as he stared out at the desolate road.
“I don’t know if I can help you,” Rojas said after a while. “But I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Don’t go thanking me just yet. We don’t know if I’ll find anything useful, or at all. But, tell me about your globe-trotting, American entrepreneurs….”
Chapter 61
By force of habit, he stopped at the convenience store five streets down from his Riverside Drive condo. He bought a packet of mint chewing gum and walked toward the washrooms, next to which was a payphone.
This place served his purpose well; there were no security cameras anywhere, and the manager — whoever he or she was — seemed incapable of keeping counter staff around for more than three months. It was from here that he checked his voicemail at the Hull house, and once or twice had called to arrange a rendezvous with a paramour. The chances of Bernice ever cluing into what he was up to were almost nil.
Bernice — now, there was a scab on his existence.
He had just dropped her off at the airport. She had come home for Christmas and their two weeks together had been anything but joyous.
He had first noticed a subtle change in her attitude toward him the previous time she had been back, when they met for one night after the Syron Lake hearing. What was this new element that tainted all their interactions now?
Was it contempt? She was beginning to feel surer now of securing her permanent position and spoke incessantly about flying all over the place, meeting important figures on the world stage. She had barely remarked on his first appointment as chair of a hearing.
He doubted it could have been suspicion about his activities at the Hull house; he had taken all the precautions he could think of to conceal this part of his life.
Could it be that she was seeing someone else? Every time the possibility tried to enter his mind, he blocked it out immediately. That was unthinkable.
She’d said it was just stress from such a demanding job. But whatever it was, it had driven a wedge between them. The holidays had been spent with long periods of silence with each retreating to their own corner to sort out bills, read novels, or catch up on office paperwork. When they did speak, the exchanges rang hollow, and more often than not, ended in fault-finding, angry words, and cold stares.
Things would work themselves out soon, he thought. She would get her permanent post, and he would retire with a nice, fat balance in the account of his Belize offshore company. He would join her in Europe and her big salary would provide the perfect cover. He would take life easy, enjoy all the pleasures money could buy; and if their relationship continued to fray, well, he could just install himself with his million dollars on the Cote d’Azur and he’d have women half her age throwing themselves at him.
He picked up the receiver and dialed. He wasn’t expecting to hear anything in particular; he thought maybe one or two of his ladies might have remembered him and left a holiday greeting in between trimming the tree and preparing the turkey dinner for their family.
He listened to his voice prompt and pressed the numbers to playback the messages.
“Hi, it’s Stella, um, Stella Jacob,” the voice said. “Just called to wish you a happy new year, and also happy anniversary. You can call me back at….”
He grinned broadly as he jotted down the number on the packet of gum.
Usually, he would not drive to Hull in his own car. Anytime he went to his love shack, he would arrange for the skinny kid to drop off the leased car for him somewhere in Ottawa. But it was the first week of January and the streets were mostly empty, and besides, he was not eager to encounter the guy that early in the year. He parked his car a few streets down, then walked to the place.
He plopped down on the sofa, took out the packet of gum and began to dial.
He was a little uncertain about this one. Was she for real, or was that girlish naiveté just an act? His Hull ladies had become his paramours because they had caught his fancy with their sexual assurance, their complete abandonment to what they fully understood to be naughty, forbidden.
But this one had sought to make him confirm, first up, that he was not married and not in a committed relationship.
He felt comfortable that he had answered her truthfully. No, he and Bernice had not exchanged vows, so he definitely was not married. And neither was he in a committed relationship; he no longer felt committed to Bernice, and theirs had ceased to be a mutually exclusive relationship since the day he’d got under the sheets with his first lover.
Well, he would run with this, see how far it would go. She was young, slim, attractive, and did seem quite taken with him. He smiled at the memory of their encounter in the bookstore; her wide, frightened, yet eager eyes, and that pair of luscious, willing lips that he had been sorely tempted to devour.
She picked up after only two rings.“Hello, Stella Jacob here.”
“Hi, Stella. It’s Ben. Happy New Year to you.”
Silence.
“Hello? Stella? What anniversary were you referring to in your message on my voicemail?”
“Hi, Ben.” She sounded flustered, he thought. “Your appointment.”
“What?”
“Your appointment. I read in your bio on the website that your appointment to the CNRA took effect on January the eighth, four years ago.”
“Wow,” he said with a chuckle. “Thank you for noting that. I think you’re probably the only person in all of Canada who did.”
There was silence on the line again.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have laughed. He had been charmed and that had been his spontaneous reaction. But maybe his laughter had made her feel foolish. She seemed like the sensitive sort.
“Um, Ben? We discussed certain things the last time. I was just wondering, did you…did you see the Ethics Commissioner?”
“Yes,” he said.
Okay, it may have been the case that he had neither spoken to the Ethics Commissioner nor laid eyes on that gentleman’s person since he and Stella Jacob had run across each other in the bookstore. But he did see that particular official at conference for members of regulatory bodies the previous May. So, yes, he did see the Ethics Commissioner.
“And?” she said.
He was amused by the excitement, the suspense in her voice.
“Well, you were absolutely right, Stella. Recusal would be necessary. And, like you said, I’m sure my colleagues on the panel can look at the public record and come to the right decision about Syron Lake Resources, even if I’m not part of the process.”
“Yes. And, like I said, you wouldn’t have to recuse yourself from the other four decisions, and those involve bigger operations.”
“Absolutely.” He was positively
enjoying himself.
“I’m really glad to hear you’re comfortable with that, Ben.”
“Oh, I can go with the flow.”
He was on a roll. “Now, the advice I’ve received is that even if I’m off the Syron Lake Resources matter, things would have to be discreet. I mean, it won’t do to go flaunting a connection like this. Otherwise you might get some horrid media types sniffing around and looking to sensationalize the situation, just to get a big headline, when there’s no story there.”
She laughed. “Hey, I used to be one of those media types, remember?”
“Were you? Oh, yes; that’s right. You mentioned it in your email requesting to be a presenter at the hearing. A newspaper out West, right?”
“Yes, The Sentinel, out in Vancouver.”
“Well, then you should know better than me how something innocent can get twisted by a newshound desperate to get his byline in the papers. Next thing you know, the important work of the panel gets buried and all you have is a crazy media stampede to see who can get the biggest scoop on some imagined scandal.”
She laughed again. This time she sounded somewhat uncomfortable, he thought.
“I’d really like to see you, Stella.” He went for a mellow, earnest tone. “But if we see each other, we’d need to be very, very discreet.”
Silence.
“Okay,” she said, finally. “We’ll be discreet.”
Chapter 62
Prime Minister Peabody closed the wooden shutters behind his desk, blocking off the only source of natural light. The resulting dimness better matched his less than jovial mood.
It was a Monday, the last day of January. More importantly, it was the first day back out to work for Angus Firestone. He had taken the previous three weeks off to spend time with his twin preschoolers, whom his ex-wife had carried , out West when she’d moved back in with her parents in Victoria.
Peabody had a long list of matters he needed Firestone to put his devious mind to. And first, he wanted to talk about Benoit T. Dromel.
“I bumped into that cur, Dromel, last night.” Peabody leaned against the oak-panelled wall. “It was at the opening of some play by my wife’s niece. Gloria dragged me there, of course.”
“You said you bumped into him?”
“Not literally. When we arrived, he was in the foyer. Our eyes met. He pretended not to see me. I think he turned away with a sneer. In fact, I’m sure that was the expression on his face.”
“Probably it was best you two didn’t get close enough to exchange words, then.” Firestone had an idea where the conversation might go, and he was hoping to avoid it.
“Insolent cur.” Almost two months on, Peabody felt his cheeks go flush at the memory of their conversation in the backseat of his Suburban. “So what dirt has CISIS found so far on him?”
Firestone coughed.
Peabody stared at him.
“Well, they haven’t actually been digging,” Firestone said, finally.
“What do you mean by that?”
“They haven’t been watching him.”
“And why not? I specifically told you I wanted him under surveillance.”
“Actually, it’s all my fault, John. It just completely slipped me.” Firestone lied. He hadn’t forgotten. He had doubted he could get anywhere with an arbitrary request like that. Even a cursory inquiry with an official in the CISIS Director’s office had elicited guffaws. He had dropped the matter and hoped his boss would forget about it too.
“That’s a big slip, Angus. I don’t expect that from you.”
“Sorry about that. But, you know, it’s not so easy to make someone a surveillance target. There’s a whole process. It has to go before a committee for approval.”
“And just who’s on that committee?”
“The Director, the Deputy Minister of Public Safety, senior CSIS officers, and representatives from the Department of Justice. The Solicitor General must be consulted, too.”
“These are all our people, or they should be. I can’t see why you think this would be a problem.”
Firestone bent his head and pinched that area of his nose where it met his forehead. His boss seemed to forget that he had occupied this wood-panelled office for less than two years and that his party had been in opposition for a dozen years before the last election. He may have been the most important official in Canada now, but his sphere of influence was not as wide as he seemed to think.
Firestone sighed.“There has to be proper justification for targeting citizens, John. There has to be a threat to the nation.”
“Damn it, I’m the prime minister of this nation and I’m saying Benoit Dromel is a threat. Tell them that. The prime minister’s word must count for something.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“No! You will see to it. No ‘ifs’ or ‘buts.’ When I ask for something to be done, I expect you to get it done.”
Peabody pulled his chair out. He sat and leaned back as far as the chair could go. He spoke more to himself than to his chief of staff.
“I mean, you’ve come through brilliantly for me for so long. It still boggles my mind how you pulled off my victory at the polls that last round. Twenty points behind with one week before the election. Then you came up with the cancer leak. That was pure genius.”
Peabody stared at the white molding of the ceiling as his mind wandered back to that watershed moment. The Cancer Leak. It was the last act of desperation of a campaign that faced certain doom. He had been reviled in his riding because he had done nothing to support a protest against the closure of a ketchup factory in his constituency. The hundred or so affected workers had managed to sour his relationship with Ian Brunton, the biggest union boss in his mostly blue-collar riding. Without Brunton’s endorsement, Peabody was certain to lose his seat.
The stakes had become higher than ever because he had only months before got the job as leader of his party. Winning meant he would get to be prime minister; and losing when that plum prize was within reach would have increased the sting and shame tenfold.
For weeks he’d made desperate overtures to the union boss and had got nowhere. Peabody had almost resigned to being drummed out of office when Firestone, acting then as his campaign manager, had burst into the campaign office with a plan. He had learned from a friend of a friend who worked at the hospital that Brunton had been diagnosed with prostate cancer.
Before the end of the day, Peabody had fainted at a campaign event — of course one where lots of cameras were rolling — and had to be rushed to the hospital. Word somehow got out that there were worries that Peabody’s cancer had returned, after several years in remission. He spent the night in the hospital, during which time further details emerged of the previously unknown radiation therapy Peabody had undergone; local radio talk show hosts speculated that that could have explained how pale and listless the MP and newly-minted Opposition Leader had seemed the previous winter.
He was thronged by reporters upon his release from the hospital the next day as he walked hand in hand with a reticent Gloria Peabody. He refused to answer any questions about his medical condition.
But he made one statement: “My doctors gave me a clean bill of health, today. I will not go into my medical history. Everybody has their ups and downs with their health. We all have battles that we must face with courage. I’m not going to talk about myself to get sympathy votes. I’ve been dedicated to my constituency for eight years and, I want to say I am here to continue to give it my all, and to fight for my constituents for years to come.”
He had delivered the lines with a mix of hesitation, humility, and self-assurance, just as Firestone had coached him.<
br />
The clip played over and over on the radio and made the weekend news, even showing up on a Monday morning television talk show.
His next appeal for a meeting with Brunton met with enthusiasm. The reconciliation resulted in a suddenly strong bond between the two of them and led to a hastily arranged workers’ rally, at which Peabody received Brunton’s endorsement, four days before the polls. His numbers ticked up and up. At his victory party on elections night, he hugged Firestone almost as long as he had embraced his wife.
“You’re capable of such brilliance, Firestone.” Peabody sat up and looked at his chief of staff. “Once, you were fearless, invincible even.”
Firestone pretended to scribble into his daybook.
“I don’t know what’s got into to you in the last year or so,” Peabody said. “Is it the divorce?”
Firestone shot his boss a wounded glance.
“Look, I already said I would take care of the Dromel surveillance, didn’t I?”
Chapter 63
Just over one month after his first ever visit to Ottawa, Spike Simmons was there again. This time, he came better prepared, with a puffy down coat that swallowed up his slender frame.
Thankfully, Pablo Rojas had been a bit more considerate in his arrangements. He had instructed him to go to a roadside steakhouse that was less than ten minutes from the airport. Simmons slipped a couple of twenties into the bill folder for what had been a hearty dinner of Alberta sirloin and PEI potato skins.
He went outside and headed around to the back.
A red hatchback with dark, tinted windows flashed its lights as soon as he turned the corner.
“I liked your other wheels better,” Simmons said as he settled himself into the passenger seat.
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 26