Once he saw me zeroing in on him, Champagne returned my smile with one of his own. It was a dazzler, and it wasn’t just the perfect white teeth. I knew a smile was an essential part of any politician’s mask, but Champagne’s actually looked genuine. It didn’t stop at his mouth, but extended right to his eyes, which were the kind of blue that never looked quite real. He looked as if I were a particularly welcome sight.
To say that Luc Champagne was handsome didn’t quite capture it. His face was long, his cheekbones high, his nose a bit too big and twisted slightly to the right, as if he’d taken a punch somewhere along the line, perhaps from an angry husband. His hair was dark and swept across his high forehead. His suit was navy, expensive, his shirt a fine blue pinstripe with a red tie. I knew him to be 45, but he could easily pass for a decade younger. He had the obsessively lean look of a long-distance runner.
Once I was within range, Champagne reached out a long arm and grasped my hand in his own. It was warm and surprisingly soft.
“Luc Champagne. Good to see you,” he said, as if he really meant it. His words implied that we had met, but I knew it was just a politician’s trick to avoid saying “good to meet you” to a person whose hand they had shaken before.
“Kris Redner. I saw you looking at your watch. Party starting to drag?”
“Only in the predictable way. I admire your directness Ms. Redner. It is what I have come to expect in your columns,” Champagne said in flawless English.
Another politician’s trick. Some flunkie had probably briefed him on the guest list so he could appear to take an interest in the people he met. Flattery was disarming, for most people. I hoped he would pretend to know something about my family, so I could tell him that they were all dead.
“Really? I’m surprised to know that you are a reader.”
“Not all the time, I will admit. You seldom write about politicians.”
“Only when they get caught, minister.”
Champagne smiled again. “Please, call me Luc. I have been following your coverage of the Sandhu trial. Very insightful. Really a shame to see Sonny in that situation. He was an exceptionally promising man.”
And there was my opening. “Quite a fall from grace. You must have known him well, since he was your parliamentary assistant.”
“Should I assume that we are talking casually at a party, not on the record?”
“You should assume that,” I said, not to say that I would necessarily share the assumption.
“Sonny was exceptionally ambitious. Perhaps he just reached too far.”
“It’s a curious case, though. What was his motive? Why would a guy with so much money ruin his career over $25,000?”
“I understand that the money in the family was his wife’s. That can be uncomfortable for some types of men. But who knows? Perhaps the trial will explain that. I can only assume so. Of course, I shouldn’t say too much. It is before the courts.”
“Sure, but we’re just chatting at a party. I hear that you might be called to testify. Anything to that?”
“Well, we will see what the future brings. I doubt I can add much to the case for either side. But this is a party. Let’s not spend our time talking shop. You see, I am motivated to keep engaging you in conversation. The minute you walk away, I will be besieged by yet another diplomatic representative with a special need he hopes Canada can fill. As soon as we stop talking, that boy over there in the cheap suit will tap someone on the shoulder and send them my way.”
“Must be tough work, spending taxpayers’ dollars that way.”
Champagne sipped his drink, a white wine. “I gather you are not a huge fan of government, Ms. Redner.”
“Since we are apparently on a first-name basis, call me Kris. And you’re right. I think that government does a lot of harm under the guise of doing good and mostly benefits the people at the top. Do you disagree?”
“Ah, a firebrand. I was one myself, once upon a time. And no, I don’t disagree. One does one’s best, but it’s always better to be the guy in the limo than the guy paying the bill.”
I found myself getting sucked in by his apparent frankness. In my mind, I had cast Champagne as the villain, a lecher who had imposed himself on Mae Wang and certainly knew something about her death, even if he didn’t do the job himself. But then, life was seldom that black and white. I wondered if Champagne was just reflecting back the attitude that I was showing him, if he had so successfully mastered the politician’s skills that they seemed natural. I decided to try a different tack.
“Actually, I’ve been looking into you,” I said. “You’ve had a fascinating career. Started out with the PQ, those being your firebrand days, I presume. Then the Conservative cabinet, now the Liberal cabinet. You’re quite a flexible guy.”
“I am a Quebecer, Kris. I do what’s best for the people of my province, in the moment. As for the Parti Quebecois, anyone with a soul believed in that cause once.”
“Not anymore?”
“Clearly separatism is no longer in play. The party now is nothing more than an opportunity for a few people to strike poses. Myself, I live in the world of practicality.
“I am curious as to why you are researching me. Do you think I am about to commit a crime?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you already have.”
“Is this my opportunity to confess, throw myself on the mercy of the media?”
I laughed at that. “That would be like throwing yourself on a bed of nails.” Then I thought of Mae Wang and her version of the bed of nails. “No, I was thinking of doing a profile of you. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Please do.”
“I have written a crime column for a long time. Maybe I have had enough of the criminals, the lawyers and the so-called justice system. The same people and the same problems are cycling around again and again. Writing about federal politics is the big game in this town and a lot of the old men who cover it are retiring. There is an opportunity there. If I were to become a columnist on the Hill, it would mean more money, more exposure and more opportunity. I could go with whatever media organization gave me the best deal. So, a substantial profile of you, the real story of your climb to the top, would be a big boost to my career.”
“So you are also a pragmatist.”
“I think we have both outgrown idealism, don’t you?”
“I try to retain just a soupcon of it, but I take your point. What do you need from me?”
“Exclusive access. All the time required to explore your story in depth. Contact info for the people who know you best.”
“So, you want me to bare my soul.”
If he had one. From the look on Champagne’s face, I could see caution and vanity were engaged in a struggle. He finished his wine, set the glass down on a round-topped table and said, “All right. Let’s do it. Let’s start right now.”
That took me by surprise, but I always carried a notebook in my purse. “What about all your eager supplicants?” I asked.
“They will still be eager next week. Come on up to the tenth floor. I will show you my office. Very few journalists have ever been there. I will be happy to answer any questions I think appropriate.”
I suspected my list might be longer than his, but Champagne’s offer was irresistible. One way or another, he held the keys that would unlock both the Sandhu story and the Mae Wang story. I didn’t expect him to spell it out for me, but I also knew there were two types of men. Some valued discretion and would take secrets to their graves. Others couldn’t resist sharing their inside knowledge, to show that they had it. I was prepared to bet that Champagne was one of the latter.
“All right. That sounds good. Just let me text the guy I came with.”
“Colin Wendover?”
“Yes, my boss. I was the plus one. Wouldn’t want him to think that I had gotten lost.”
I texted “Going to C office. tenth floor. If not out in 30, come in shooting.”
THIRTY-TWO
Mike Reilly ea
sed his Crown Vic into a tight parking spot on River Lane. Unlike the fancifully named lanes of the suburbs, River Lane really was a lane, a road a single car’s width that ran through the gentrified neighbourhood of New Edinburgh, just three blocks from the governor-general’s grand residence, Rideau Hall. It wasn’t the most subtle place for a stakeout but the lane gave a view of Suzy’s house on Queen Victoria, about 100 feet away. The house was a small red brick Victorian with a green verandah running across the front. It cost far more than a Citizen reporter could afford, but Suzy’s family had money. Reilly imagined her old man must have jumped for joy when she rid herself of her aging cop lover.
The view of the house was partly obscured by a line of lilacs just coming out in flower, but Reilly could see there were no lights on. It wasn’t the first time that he had sat in this spot looking at Suzy’s place, but it was the first time in months. When they broke up, he would sit there hoping for a glimpse of her and, to be honest, keeping an eye out for any new men. He knew it was creepy at some level, but that’s how obsessed he had been. He thought he was better now, somewhat, and he had a good reason for being there tonight. He hadn’t been able to reach Suzy for two days and he had news to share. Farrell had come through.
Reilly had phoned Kris Redner earlier, to tell her to call him on the burner, but she hadn’t responded to his call or a subsequent text. That wasn’t really a worry for him, but the lack of communication with Suzy was. He had been trying to reach her since Friday. Suzy needed to know what Farrell had told him about what they might be up against and the likelihood that their phones and computers were being monitored.
Even though they weren’t together any more, she was normally good about returning his calls. Reilly wasn’t sure whether to attribute that to residual feelings, politeness or the possibility that he was calling with something work-related. If he had to make a bet, it would be the latter.
For all he knew, Suzy could be out of town or shacked up with someone. It wasn’t like her to ignore her phone, though. It was like a part of her body. That phrase sent his mind in the wrong direction. Reilly remembered every square inch of her body, but it wasn’t just the sex he missed. It was having a woman who actually understood him in a way that his first wife Jenny never had. It was almost scary at times, like Suzy could get right inside his head. He had never had quite the same ability where she was concerned.
Reilly was sure that she would be excited by Farrell’s news. He had been able to access the entire CSIS file on Mae Wang, or Zhao Mei as she actually was. Reilly didn’t ask how Farrell had achieved that, but he was going to owe him big time. It was easy to see why the RCMP and the spy boys wanted to put a blanket over Mae’s death. According to the file, she was working for the Ministry of State Security. In other words, she was a spy. That wasn’t unusual, but it was the why that was interesting. Her father was a bigshot defence lawyer who had been imprisoned for doing his job. It didn’t take much imagination to see the leverage that the Chinese spy agency would have had over Mae. All that had changed a month ago, when her father died in prison. It seemed likely that the Chinese had decided to shut her up, once they could no longer control her. Something still didn’t add up, though. Why stage a public death, then go to so much trouble to get the body back and spirit it out of the country? Unless the goal was to make it look like it was someone else who killed her. Once you started peeling down through layers of deviousness, it was always hard to know when you had gotten to the core.
The RCMP and CSIS had been sharing surveillance on Mae, but there had been some interagency fuckup the day before her death. They had lost track of her on a shift change, then no one had picked her up the next day.
The exact nature of Mae’s mission remained a mystery. The identity of her target or targets was beyond the security clearance of Farrell’s source. Either Luc Champagne or Mr. Thursday, Reilly was sure, whoever the hell Mr. Thursday was.
It was clear that the primary line of investigation had to be the apparent connection between Champagne and Mae. The foreign affairs minister and Mae showing up regularly in the same building on the same night couldn’t be a coincidence. Champagne was a big fish, though, not the type you could reel in without something that would set the hook deep. Right now, he didn’t have that. If either Suzy or Kris would bother to tell him what they had found out, maybe he would be making more progress.
Reilly shook his head. After 35 years on the job, he shouldn’t be depending on the media to do his legwork for him. He told himself it was a unique situation, with the way the force had put the clamp on the case. He wondered if the brass had any idea what was really going on, or if they were just playing along with the standard national security line to keep the feds sweet for the next time the Ottawa force went looking for extra federal money. If he had been chief, he’d have told the Mounties to fuck themselves and gone after the killer full out.
Reilly knew he could sit for hours, maybe days before Suzy showed up. It wasn’t the most productive use of his time. He considered going in to her house for a look. Her locks were easy to bypass. Then he rejected the idea. She’d be pissed if she ever found out.
Reilly had just started his engine when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and saw it was Suzy. Relief flooded through him. He connected the call, but what he heard next turned his blood cold.
Suzy’s voice was high-pitched, hysterical. “Mike, Mike. You’ve got to help me! He took me Mike. He did things to me! I’m naked. I’ve been hurt. I ran. I’m in the woods. I don’t know where. Oh God Mike, come quick!”
Reilly felt a blast of adrenalin and anger unlike any he had experienced in his life. He was squeezing the cell phone hard enough to crush it, but he knew he needed to sound calm. “OK Suzy, I’ve got it. Are you badly hurt? Are you bleeding?”
“A little. I don’t know. He beat me, Mike. I’m just, I can’t think.”
“Stay where you are Suzy. Leave your phone on. We’ll triangulate it. Keep very still. Don’t let him hear you. I’ll find you. I’ll send an ambulance and every fucking car that’s on the road.”
“No, Mike. This can’t come out. You have to come alone! Just hurry, please hurry.”
THIRTY-THREE
As Luc Champagne swung open the door to his office, it was clear from the look on his face that I was being offered a very special treat. I expect he had the same expression when he took his pants off, a treat I certainly intended to avoid. My response, naturally, was to appear completely unimpressed by his inner sanctum and it wouldn’t have mattered if his office had been an exact replica of the Sistine Chapel.
In fact, it was a lot closer to a rec room, circa 1975. The office was not overly large, about 20 by 20, but the walls were panelled in an oppressive teak that hadn’t been in since the last time people thought Denmark was hot. At least the abundance of art on the walls helped cover the panelling,
“So this is it, where I help guide the affairs of the world,” he said. His grin told me the remark was tongue-in-cheek.
“Rather a small office for such an important task.”
“Ah yes. All the grand offices are in the Centre Block, but the lonely foreign affairs minister is relegated to Fort Pearson. I think the room reflects all the charm of the ’70s, not that I remember that decade so well.”
“You were born in the 1970s though, right?”
“Yes, in a little town in the Eastern Townships, but I expect you know that.”
“I think I read it somewhere.”
Champagne opened a cabinet built into the wall and said, “Do you want a drink? I have my own bar.”
“Sure. White wine.” I’d have preferred a single malt, but I couldn’t afford to dull my wits any more than I already had.
“I have a nice Sauvignon Blanc.”
“That will be fine.” I pretended to take an interest in one of the pictures on the wall. As near as I could tell, it depicted an explosion in a paint factory.
“Are you an admirer of modern art?” he asked.
>
“Hardly. You?”
“Not in the slightest. These are on loan from the Canada Council’s art bank. I don’t even select them.”
“At least you aren’t blaming the choices on the previous government, but of course, you were a member of that government.”
“Yes, that does offer a degree of complexity when I answer questions in the House. I have never been one to blame my predecessors, though. The media covers that rather well. I will say that I have made one change in the decor. There was a rather large portrait of the Queen. I have sent that out for restoration. Could take years, I am told.”
“Colin would be shocked. You know him well?”
“Not really. We meet at diplomatic affairs from time to time. I view him as a voice of reason.”
“Me too.”
Champagne handed me a glass of wine and said, “It seems that Colin and I have similar taste in women.”
Here we go, I thought, and said, “Really? I must be the flavour of the month. You are the second man to hit on me tonight.”
“What? Who was the first?”
“The Chinese ambassador. Very friendly fellow. He invited me back to the embassy for a drink after the party.”
“Ambassador Li’s wife is back in Beijing. I understand he gets lonely on a regular basis.”
I saw an opportunity to start my interview in the forthright manner that Luc Champagne said he admired so much. I settled into one of the two red leather armchairs in front of his desk and he took the one beside me, no doubt to make sure I continued to feel the power of his aura.
Taking my notebook from my purse, I said, “So let’s start the interview then, Luc, and I’d like to pick up on what you just mentioned. What about your own loneliness? You’re single, you work a job that is stressful and demanding, the hours are long. Who do you rely on for support?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. He took a sip of wine, then said, “That is an unusual question.”
“Not really. When I write a profile, I am interested not just in the biographical facts, but what makes a person tick. I want to get to know the real you.”
Spiked Page 20