Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  “I’m sorry, Director Hutton. But three men attacked Benoit Dromel. Now he’s dead. And one of them is still alive. I can’t agree to let that man just walk free.”

  “He won’t, I assure you.”

  “But I’m probably to only witness who can–”

  “Miss Jacob, fom what I understand, Trinidad, the jurisdiction in which this incident occurred, doesn’t have any information to go on to even begin to link Dromel’s killing to the three men who attacked you in the warehouse. It’s doubtful the prosecution you’re hoping for will ever see the light of day.”

  I pursed my lips.

  “Sometimes it’s necessary to be coldly practical, Ms Jacob.” Hutton spoke with a patient voice. “Sometimes you need to consider only the objective and remain open to the possibility that it can be achieved in ways that may not be immediately obvious.

  “While the Trinidad shooting may be a difficult matter to prosecute, there’s a strong case against Vincent Williams in the homicide of a Daytona pensioner. There’s also an assortment of other offenses…possession of stolen vehicles, stolen arms.

  “There will most certainly be a plea bargain. And he’ll get a reduced sentence for cooperating. But he’s headed for the penitentiary, and you can rest assured that he’ll not be getting out anytime soon.”

  The tone of the director’s voice and the expression on his face took me back to my days at The Sentinel. My editor had told me about certain unfortunate convicts who went in, thinking they’d be back out on the streets at the end of their sentence. But then, things happened, my editor had said. It would be either through their own hotheadedness, or because a fellow inmate or a prison guard didn’t take to them, or it would be at the behest of some higher authority, perhaps the prison warden or some outside figure. The best case scenario was that their run-ins would tack on additional years to their sentence and they would be old, spent forces by the time they got out. A not unlikely scenario was that they would be found face-down on the shower floor, a sharpened screwdriver or some other makeshift weapon driven through their back.

  “Did Paul…did Detective Sergeant Parker agree to sign something like this?”

  “We had a fruitful discussion.”

  “And what about Jacques Tremblay? He knows half of this stuff.”

  “It’s all been arranged.” The director gave something approaching a smile. “He’s agreed to go into a protection program as soon as he’s released from the hospital.”

  I tilted my head and tried to catch the significance of what he’d said.

  “If that’s what you want, that can be arranged for you as well, Ms Jacob. New identity. Somewhere decent to live. We could set you up in a new career. It would be a whole new life, and you could forget that you’d learned anything about this matter.”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. The last couple of years had been pretty crummy. But it was all part of being who I was. I was not about to give up my identity.

  It was a different matter when it came to Jacques Tremblay, though. The teenage girl at the campground with the braces and a woman’s body flashed before my mind. Jacques had been lucky to have so narrowly escaped getting into a situation where he could have ended up being arrested for child kidnapping – and worse.

  Going into an FBI protection program was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to him. Left to his own devices, he was a tragedy waiting to happen.

  I was still not buying this, though. “But all this still leaves the company off the hook. Here we have irrefutable evidence that a mining company breached its own dam and I’m supposed to stay quiet?”

  The director looked at me with patient eyes.

  “Ms Jacob, you’ve filed a class action lawsuit concerning this spill, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you know anything about the corporate world, you’ll understand that few companies would exist without credit. And creditors hate lawsuits with the potential for huge damages. I can’t say more, but I can tell you that the parent company of Syron Lake Resources is unraveling as we speak. The real corporate culprit has gotten its comeuppance.”

  “But–”

  My throat tightened. I could hardly form the words. This was it. This was precisely the kind of scenario I’d feared when I’d spoken at the hearing. I’d thought that Syron Lake Resources itself might go bankrupt, but its parent company going bust was much worse. I had not been able to find any information on exactly which entity owned Syron Lake Resources and had given up trying as I’d quickly realized that it was hidden under layer after layer of paper companies. Now that parent company was about to pull off a disappearing act and escape all of its responsibilities.

  Hutton studied my face. “What’s troubling you, Ms Jacob?”

  “If they go bust….”

  “The Bureau is not without influence in this area,” Hutton said. “The assets of the parent company will be sold off. Remember, the word ‘credit,’ Ms Jacob. At this level, nothing happens without it. That makes for incredible leverage in a situation like this where the worlds of law enforcement and business collide, and law enforcement has the bigger picture. I’m sure it can be arranged that the new owner is required to agree to a reasonable settlement of the class action.”

  “Shouldn’t my lawyers be in on this discussion?”

  “What’s there for them to discuss? Their battle is with an Ontario company as it now exists, and their battleground is the Ontario courts. They have nothing to do with the FBI and whatever influence the Bureau may be able to bring to bear in the investment banking community in the US.”

  “Well, what about the tailings pond itself? Will Syron Lake Resources, or whoever eventually owns it, still be trusted to control that site?”

  “That’s in the hands of the remaining members of the panel of your nuclear authority. I’ve been briefed on your presentation at the hearing and I’m well acquainted with your concerns. The Bureau can’t control what the panel will decide. But, perhaps, in any settlement to the class action the new owners could agree to relinquish day-to-day management of the site. And even if the nuclear authority doesn’t allow that, the settlement could include a commitment to at least bear the financial burden for a period of time, say, twenty years or thereabouts.”

  I looked at the sheet. None of this was included there, on that a one-sided agreement requiring me to keep my mouth shut.

  Hutton seemed to read my mind. He sat back and looked at me unblinkingly. “I give you my word on everything we’ve said here.”

  “Yes, but–”

  “Miss Jacob, even if you have doubts, put them aside for now. I am certain you will come to realize this is the best outcome that could be hoped for.”

  He clasped his fingers and rested this hands on the table. The discussion was over.

  After he’d gotten my signature, Hutton left me alone in the bare room. I stared at the walls as I tried to process what had just happened.

  I’d thought Benoit Dromel had power. This was power of a whole other magnitude.

  I’d raised my concerns. But really, there was no negotiating with a man like Robert L. Hutton. I was sure that even if I’d worked up the courage to use them, the womanly wiles I’d learned would have had no effect on him. A woman could not so easily master a man of his position and experience.

  He was one of those select few in the world who had only but to give a command, or even merely make a suggestion, and things got done that affected the lives of millions.

  There was no reason for him to listen to me. And yet he’d answered all of my concerns.

  Just like that, he was making it all happen: everything I’d set out to do; everything th
at Osgood would have wanted.

  I understood, now, how this worked.

  It was all about Hutton’s iceberg.

  Things I couldn’t see were happening below the surface. The results Osgood and I had sought had been opened up because they somehow aligned with the agenda of a powerful man who could get things done.

  Osgood and I were so far removed from anything resembling power, I couldn’t even get an eager, cherubic-looking radio reporter to broadcast one sentence about the tailings spill. As the powerless, we could achieve nothing.

  And yet, if I hadn’t started the process of applying to speak at the hearing or to get class action lawyers at Osgood’s prompting, there wouldn’t even have been any of Hutton’s promises.

  The realization was encouraging and daunting at the same time. We had gotten through because, for whatever reason, someone in a position of power wanted the same things we did.

  It made me wonder if the powerless ever stood a chance of having their demands met if their goals never somehow meshed with those of the powerful.

  I sighed.

  And then, another realization about Hutton’s confidentiality document suddenly struck me. Everything I’d discovered through this experience, and everything I’d said and done, was going to be kept under a tight lid.

  That meant my unfortunate involvement with Benoit Dromel would also never be made public.

  My name would be spared.

  Chapter 110

  The Farm was a sprawling Maine property that had served as a presidential retreat going back three administrations. Fewer than a dozen people knew that the term “The Farm” was also an oblique reference to the tiny shack that straddled the US/Canada border.

  The double meaning was shared by only those at the very top of any administration, and it served to facilitate clandestine tête–à–têtes between the two North American neighbors.

  The official activity logs would say the occupant of the White House had visited the country residence for some rest and relaxation, and would even record a rambling drive through the Maine countryside.

  What would not appear in any official records would be the detour along a long, winding road, whose entrance bore a nondescript sign that said, “Private Property: No Trespassing.” There would be no mention of the visit to the property that was guarded 24/7 by officers from an operational unit that did not officially exist.

  Hidden among conifers and shielded from satellites by an overhead net, the shack was surrounded on both the US and Canadian sides by two acres of forest enclosed by an electrified fence.

  Almost two decades earlier, in the run-up to creating a free trade agreement, an administration under enormous pressure from all sides felt it necessary to meet and talk face-to-face with northern counterparts, away from the public glare. And so, the shack came into being, allowing both sides to secretly craft deals worth billions with the requisite intricate structure to ensure the greatest benefits flowed to those who mattered.

  The months of horse trading came and went, and the treaty was eventually signed. But the administrations on both sides of the border saw it fit to keep this channel of communication open for times that required the utmost secrecy.

  Riding in a secret service-chauffeured SUV, with only Kathy Wang at her side, Secretary of State Angela Roseau felt this was such a time.

  It was highly unusual that she would have use of The Farm. But she had apprised the president fully of the situation and had persuaded him that it was best that he not get involved, and that she alone could accomplish the required task.

  Her old friend, Hutton, had come through for her. In the briefcase that sat on the seat between her and Wang was all the information and evidence from the Syron Lake investigation. During the helicopter ride to Maine, she had rehearsed in her mind every word she would utter, every expression she would let show on her face.

  Now that the headlamps of the SUV pierced the pitch-black road as they neared the shack, her heart pounded in her chest and her palms itched at the thought of what she was about to do.

  Even in the darkness and privacy of the vehicle, she would not let those human frailties betray her. She held her facial muscles steady as she fingered the strand of pearls around her neck.

  Her party was the first to arrive. The room had no windows, only two doors, one on each side of the border. It was bare, except for two green, plastic chairs and a cheap, wooden table that the original users of this place thought amusing to sit at as they discussed billions of dollars in commerce.

  The one bulb in the shack was powered by a generator. Roseau listened to it hum softly outside. The cone-shaped lampshade hung low in the center of the room and concentrated light on a small digital audio recorder and a closed manila file which sat on the table.

  Kathy Wang and the security detail stood in the darkness, against the wall. Roseau stood behind the chair, on the US side. With her arms folded, she stared in the direction of the door on the Canadian side.

  She waited. Far longer than was reasonable. But she was patient. She would not have wanted to miss what was to come for the world.

  Suddenly, the door on the Canadian side creaked open. Multiple footsteps followed; minders and security types who would occupy the outer darkness on the other side, Roseau thought.

  John J. Peabody marched out of the darkness and stood before her on the opposite side of the table.

  His propped hands on his hips and his jacket flaps splayed open like small wings. “I was in a meeting with First Nations leaders when the president called.”

  “I think you’ll find this a matter of urgency that warrants your attention,” Roseau said.

  “I think you fail to appreciate how important that meeting was. We’ve been trying to tie up negotiations that’ve been dragging on for decades with those people. And where’s the president, anyway? Why isn’t he here already? I’m half an hour late getting here as it is.”

  “He couldn’t make it.” Her voice was cool, bereft of emotion.

  She saw his eyes narrow. She had expected that he wouldn’t have been pleased to realize that this was between him and her alone. No, he wasn’t pleased about that at all.

  Peabody huffed.“So what’s so important that we have to go to these lengths to meet here?”

  “I believe you will want to hear this.”

  She picked up an earbud that was attached to the digital recorder and held the cord out to him.

  Peabody inhaled and hesitated. Roseau did not budge or say anything further, and the cord dangled between them. Finally, Peabody grabbed the cord, then stuffed the bud into his ear.

  Roseau pressed the play button. She observed the muscles under Peabody’s left eye twitch as he listened to Dromel’s recording of their conversation about Syron Lake. Peabody’s lips parted and his chest heaved with every breath.

  The Canadian prime minister tugged at the cord and the earbud slipped out of his ear. His face turned chalk white as he stared at Roseau. His hard gaze from earlier was now replaced by a wild look in his eyes.

  “You know, of course,” Roseau said matter-of-factly, “that this official was shot shortly after this discussion.”

  “I had nothing to do with his death,” Peabody said, raising his voice.

  Roseau felt the corners of her mouth turning up into a smile, and she held herself back. She had him against the ropes and she was enjoying it. But she had only begun.

  “If you care to listen, there’s something else on there,” she deadpanned. “It’s audio from a video confession by a man named Eric Tremblay, a maintenance worker with this Syron Lake mining company. The spill was deliberate, you see.”

  Peabody jerked back his head. The fact that she�
��d played his fateful words back to him was enough to convince him that there was indeed such a confession, she thought. He didn’t need to listen further to the recording.

  She pushed the manila file toward him and opened it. She spread out its contents on the table: photocopies of Dromel’s bank book; the Florida police reports on the warehouse attack on the three Canadians, and the murder of the pensioner; photos from the Syron Lake police investigations into Eric Tremblay’s and Marcus Osgood’s deaths.

  Peabody’s eyes darted across each piece of the gruesome display. Any blood that was left in face receded completely.

  “Rather nasty business,” Roseau said. It was like twisting a knife that had been rammed into his throat. “Besides the spill itself, there’s bribery of a public official; three, possibly four, murders; attempted murder; illegal arms; auto theft. Not the kind of thing a prime minister would want to be associated with, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What do you want?” Peabody chewed his lower lip.

  She wanted to burst out in a laugh. She restrained herself. The man was so pathetic. He seemed to think he could bargain with her.

  “Either you jump or you’ll be pushed,” Roseau said.

  Peabody’s eyes told her he didn’t understand, or chose not to.

  “Go quietly,” she said, “and this will be kept under wraps. You’ll walk away with your reputation intact and you can salvage what’s left of your career.”

  Roseau glanced down at her watch and then returned her eyes to Peabody’s. “You have six hours before this begins to leak out to the press.”