Spiked

by Randall Denley

  Sharpe slipped into his seat opposite Derek Hall with a nod, no handshake. Young Hall was famous for his bone-crushing handshakes. It was a juvenile way to intimidate others, and Sharpe wasn’t interested in games. The waiter caught his eye, and Sharpe gave a small gesture with his hand, declining the option of a drink. He was abstemious in all things, always had been. Drink was a weakness, and weaknesses were little cracks that others would eventually prise open and use against you.

  Sharpe had seen a legion of Derek Halls come and go in his time in service. They always thought they knew every secret there was to know, just because they knew which MP was a drunk, who was getting some on the side, and the devious moves necessary to keep them all in line.

  The kid knew a lot of things, but not as much as he imagined. There were whole layers of secrets that never came through a political office, even the top one in the country. When it came to the big stuff, the things that could really rock nations and change the course of events, the Derek Halls knew very little at all. Like the prime minister himself, they had to be managed so that the work that kept the country safe could be conducted as it had to be, without worrying about polls and the short-term political future.

  “How can I help you, Derek?” Sharpe said.

  “We might have a situation with the Chinese. I hear one of their nationals might have been murdered in town earlier this week and from what I gather, she was working in your line.”

  “I’m retired, as you know. Perhaps you should ask the minister over at Global Affairs, or the current national security adviser.”

  The minister was Luc Champagne, who thought the Chinese were his friends and the new security adviser was a recent diversity hire who had told him there was nothing to it, just an accidental death. Derek had been quite willing to take another problem off his plate until Vanessa had come rushing to him with new details. The idea of an intern knowing something he did not almost made Derek’s head explode. Surely it couldn’t be true, but it was going to be a shit storm of colossal proportions if it were. His job was to make sure the PM knew what forest fires were coming and to squelch them whenever possible.

  “I have raised it with them, but they seem completely unconcerned. Then another source brought me additional information.”

  “What source would that be?” Sharpe said.

  “One of my assistants.”

  “Is she reliable?”

  “Primarily as a collector of gossip. I need this looked into a little further by someone who knows the ropes.”

  “I take it you are not offering to retain me?”

  “I’m sure we can both agree that this is best kept off the books. We can find a way to make it up down the line.”

  Sharpe considered the situation. A marker with the PMO was always handy to have, even if he loathed the current PM. “Tell me about this girl.”

  “She worked as an interpreter at their embassy. Jumped off a roof on Elgin Street, or so it seemed. Then the Chinese made a big fuss and spirited her body away. Full war party from the embassy. It seems to have aroused some media interest.”

  When it came to acting ruthlessly in their own interests, there was virtually nothing that the Chinese government and their gang of Ministry of State Security agents in the Ottawa embassy would not do, Sharpe knew. Their weakness was the predictability of their self-interest. This, however, was uncharacteristic. If there was a reliability issue with one of their agents, she would simply have disappeared. The bare facts that Hall described suggested that something had gone awry. He found himself mildly intrigued.

  “I could make some inquiries,” he said. He already had a few names in mind.

  “That would be much appreciated, by myself and the PM.”

  “Have you apprised him of the situation?”

  “Not yet. I need to know more. If this proves to be something where Champagne has to field questions, careful ground work will have to be done.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “He’s a Conservative turncoat, although a very useful one. Clearly a man who puts himself ahead of the team. The PM has asked me to keep a close eye.”

  “Wise advice.” Sharpe had long experience of working with politicians, and as a group he found them narcissistic, unreliable and unable to put the big picture ahead of their own electoral prospects. Certainly not people one would want to trust with any knowledge that could damage the country.

  Sharpe looked at his watch, a modest Timex. “I’ve got a meeting,” he said, rising and departing without so much as a farewell.

  Derek had grown somewhat accustomed to Sharpe’s peculiarities. The man certainly lacked even the most basic social skills. Or maybe he just didn’t need to bother with them, in his line of work. Derek wished he knew a little more about what Sharpe did these days, then realized that it was probably better that he didn’t.

  If there was anything to Vanessa’s story, Sharpe would get to the bottom of it. With reasonable luck, this would prove to be another of those problems that dropped to the bottom of the list as the attention of what was left of the Press Gallery drifted elsewhere. That would be vastly preferable to a story that might run under a headline like “Chinese Spy Murdered While Government Sleeps.” Avoiding those kinds of problems was both the best and worst part of Derek’s job. He sometimes thought of it as like walking on a tightrope over a pit of fire. If someone was going to burn, political staffers were first on the list.

  Derek wondered who Vanessa had been talking to. It would be useful to know. He was pretty confident that a couple of drinks and some make-up sex would reveal the secret. His job wasn’t all bad.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Were it not for the changing of witnesses, one day in court could seem remarkably like another. The lawyers and the judge, of course, were always in their robes. The spectators sat in the same seats, wearing their best court outfits. The room was windowless, so even the passage of time was not visible. Despite that, I thought and hoped that Wednesday would be different from Tuesday. If Sharon Faulkner’s next witness wasn’t better than Vikram Gill, she had a problem.

  The morning had been taken up with Faulkner bringing Gill back to the stand to try to reduce the damage Bernstein had done to his testimony. I hadn’t rated it a particularly successful effort. Her day would depend on the testimony of Thomas Fung. He was the other barrel of Faulkner’s shotgun. If he didn’t fire any better than the first, this case was going down.

  I had been looking forward to Fung’s testimony and it quickly became apparent that I wasn’t going to be disappointed. Most witnesses came down the aisle to the stand sombre, serious and worried about whether some smart lawyer was going to trip them up. Not Fung. He was grinning and waving to people in the audience like he was about to receive an award.

  Fung wore one of those super-slim suits in a luminous blue material and a thin black tie, white shirt. It was a look that not many could pull off, but somehow it worked for Fung. The guy was as thin as a pool cue and didn’t look a day over 25. With his carefully cut black hair and bold, red-framed glasses, he looked more like a fashion designer than a businessman.

  The first words out of his mouth to the Crown attorney were, “Call me Tommy,” like they were meeting for drinks. Clearly, Tommy was the charmer, the deal-maker, while his partner Vikram Gill provided the development and political connections.

  Ignoring the offer to call him Tommy, Faulkner said, “I would like to quickly establish your background, Mr. Fung, before we get to the heart of your testimony. Could you briefly tell the court about your line of work?”

  “Entrepreneur,” Fung said, smiling like that was something special.

  “Perhaps not quite that brief, Mr. Fung. What kind of businesses are you engaged in?”

  “My specialty is cutting-edge green technologies. I am what you could call a middle-man, connecting investors with opportunities in wind, solar and other renewable technologies.”

  “So your specialty is just the kind of deal that brings
us here today,” Faulkner said, underlining it.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “And you have an engineering degree from the Harbin Institute of Technology, is that correct?”

  “Yes, and an MBA from Wharton.”

  Faulkner had gotten hung up on Gill’s fudged credentials. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. I hoped she didn’t expect people to believe that Fung couldn’t be a crook because he had been to prestigious universities.

  “How many renewable energy deals have you done, Mr. Fung?”

  Fung gave a look of concentration, as if he was doing a big calculation, then said, “Twenty-three.”

  Like he didn’t know the exact number as well as his own name.

  “So you have considerable experience in the field. Tell us how this particular deal with Mr. Gill and Mr. Sandhu got started.”

  “Objection,” Bernstein said. “The Crown hasn’t shown that my client was part of any deal.”

  “Sustained,” Justice Macpherson said. “Let’s stick to the established facts, shall we Ms. Faulkner?”

  “Of course, your honour. Now Mr. Fung, tell us how your deal with Mr. Gill got started.”

  “I research land ownership records online to find owners of significant parcels, businessmen who might be willing to use their land for an energy project. In fact, there had been some media coverage of Mr. Gill’s attempt to develop his land near Brampton. I called him up and told him that I might be able to get him a better deal.”

  “Better in what sense?”

  “Once the wind turbines are up, you just watch the blades go round and the money come in. And the environment benefits, of course. I envisioned a turnkey operation where Mr. Gill would be paid a substantial annual fee for the use of his land. I would put the deal together with a wind power company and take a percentage of the profits as my commission.”

  “That all sounds pretty easy. Was there a holdup?”

  “Well, as you might imagine, there are a lot of others trying to do the same thing. Some of them far larger players than me, companies with deep pockets. For this deal, a federal green energy grant was a big sweetener, a sign to potential investors that the deal was sound and would go ahead.”

  “So you had the land and the plan, but you needed someone to back it up. What was your strategy?”

  “This is where I got a bit lucky,” Fung said. “It turned out that Vikram, Mr. Gill, was well connected with the Conservative Party and he knew Mr. Sandhu as part of his cultural community. I was happy with that because Mr. Sandhu was parliamentary secretary to the industry minister. He seemed like a man who could move things along.”

  “And how about you, Mr. Fung. Did you have any connection with Mr. Sandhu?”

  “I did. I knew him personally.”

  There was a murmur of excitement in the courtroom and the media started to light up Twitter. This was something new and potentially troubling for Sandhu. Bernstein flipped through his binders, getting ready for the counter-attack.

  “And how did you come to know Mr. Sandhu?”

  “I knew him socially, but not well. Some of the lobbyists I deal with in Ottawa had a Friday night poker game. Mr. Sandhu would sit in occasionally.”

  “How was his luck?”

  “Not very good I am afraid,” Fung smiled. “He lost every time I saw him play.”

  “What kind of amounts are we talking about?”

  “I saw him drop two or three thousand most nights.”

  Faulkner shook her head, feigning surprise. “All right, but Mr. Sandhu is a man of considerable financial means. Did he ever indicate to you that those losses were a problem?”

  “We went out and had a couple of scotches one night after the game. I think Mr. Sandhu had a few others at the table. Anyway, it was like he was looking for someone to confide in. He told me that he could handle the losses at our game. He had a pretty good salary. But there was another game, dodgier players, and his luck wasn’t any better. He told me he was down $25,000 to one of the guys from the game. To clear it, he would have to get money from his wife and own up about his gambling situation.”

  It was starting to become clear why Sonny Sandhu was in court. Motive had been the weak part of Faulkner’s case. Maybe not so much now. Sure, $25K wasn’t a lot of money to a guy like Sandhu, but it was if he had to go crawling to his wife and explain that he was a problem gambler. Gail Rakic didn’t strike me as the kind who would just give him a hug and write a cheque.

  Bernstein remained studiously unconcerned. Lawyers were paid not to look worried. Of course he would have known this was coming, but it was a body blow all the same.

  “And did Mr. Sandhu seek your financial assistance?” Faulkner asked.

  “He did ask if I could help him out, like a favour, just between the two of us. He said he’d owe me. I said that I couldn’t.”

  “And what did you take the words ‘he’d owe me,’ to mean?”

  “That he’d do something for me.”

  As if anticipating Bernstein’s line in cross-examination, Faulkner said, “But isn’t that what you wanted, Mr. Fung?”

  “Not like that. I keep a clean set of books. Look, I’m from China. I know how it works over there, but I didn’t expect this in Canada.”

  “How did Mr. Sandhu take your refusal?”

  “He said, ‘What if there was another way, a legal way?’”

  “And did he propose one?”

  “He suggested that Mr. Gill could organize a fund-raiser. He and I could ensure a good turnout at top dollar. Mr. Sandhu said the money would go to his riding association, but he would take care of it from there.”

  This time there was an actual gasp in the courtroom. I looked at Sandhu and Gail Rakic. They both sat ramrod straight, eyes forward. This was the bad day they knew was coming. That didn’t make it any easier when it happened.

  “And what did you take that to mean, Mr. Fung?”

  Bernstein was on his feet. “Your honour, this calls for the witness to speculate on matters of which he has no direct knowledge.”

  “I take it you will bring a witness to describe that next step, Ms. Faulkner,” the judge said.

  “I will, your honour.”

  “Then let’s move on.”

  “One last point, your honour. Mr. Fung, did you help organize a fund-raiser for Mr. Sandhu?”

  “I did.”

  “And after that, Mr. Fung, how did the deal proceed?”

  “Well, we got confirmation of the federal grant very quickly, but then Mr. Gill ran into all kinds of problems getting approvals for the project. The community was opposed and in the end, Mr. Gill decided to proceed with housing instead.”

  “And did you have any financial interest in that project, or make any kind of commission on it?”

  “I did not. Once the wind deal fell through, I was out. I’m not into property development. In the end, I got nothing out of this deal.”

  And there was an important point, if you believed it. One could choose to think that Fung had been duped by a crooked politician and a shady business partner. It was a bit of a stretch, but Faulkner had been smart to put Gill on first. He was such an obvious liar that Fung looked like Mother Teresa in comparison.

  Faulkner had made major progress if Fung’s testimony held up in cross-examination. She hadn’t shown yet that the money had ended up in Sandhu’s hands, but she had shown motive and intent.

  Faulkner looked at her watch and said, “Nothing further for this witness, your honour.”

  “I sense that you will want a bit of time with this witness, Mr. Bernstein,” the judge said. “Do you want to have at him now or start fresh in the morning?”

  Bernstein quickly conferred with his second, Pitman. The choice was between trying to quickly undo some of the damage Fung had done or own the media coverage with a day of cross-examination tomorrow.

  “I think we will wait, your honour,” Bernstein said. “I intend to examine Mr. Fung’s testimony with a highly skept
ical eye and that will take some time.”

  It was the smart move. Bernstein had lost the battle today, but the outcome of the war was far from certain.

  It had been a tough day for Sonny Sandhu, but I was happy. My column would practically write itself and I was pretty sure that the odds of Gail Rakic opening up about Luc Champagne’s involvement had just gone up substantially.

  The big picture was starting to become a little bit clearer. I didn’t believe in coincidences. I believed in connecting dots. Luc Champagne had played some kind of role in Sandhu’s downfall. The guy who had triggered the Sandhu deal was Chinese. So was Mae Wang. Champagne had been seen entering my apartment building, the one where Mae had died, just a week before her death. I didn’t know how all those dots connected, yet, but my experience said they did. I just had to figure out how.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Tony Yam came out of the kitchen of his Chinatown restaurant, spotted Suzy and rushed through the crowded chaos of tables to give her a big hug, greeting her like a long-lost daughter. He was a small man in his early 60s, but he was surprisingly strong.

  “Suzy, so good to see you. I hope that it is not bad news that brings you here today.”

  “Not compared to what you went through, Tony. I just have a few questions about a girl who died, a member of the community.”

  Suzy had gotten to know Tony pretty well when she covered his son’s murder, a drive by right on Somerset in the heart of Chinatown. The killing was a case of mistaken identity. The killers thought Philip Yam, an engineer who lived in Kanata, was part of a gang. Suzy’s legwork had helped reveal the identity of the killers, who now had a minimum of 25 years to reflect on their stupidity.

  If there was one thing that she had learned covering that murder five years before, it was that the Chinese community in Ottawa was small and tight. Chinese people knew who was who, and nobody knew more than Tony. If anyone could fill her in on Mae Wang, it would be him.