Spiked

by Randall Denley

  “If his connection with Mae started after he was already foreign minister, would anyone have known?” I asked.

  “You would hope so,” Farrell said, “but once they’ve passed the test, they’re in and you’ve got to trust your foreign affairs minister. He’s the main link between cabinet and the security agencies.”

  “So they aren’t going to be looking into their boss, and if they are, they aren’t going to write a report about it,” Reilly said.

  Colin had been pacing the room while he took all of this in. Then he said, “I see a two-part strategy here. Farrell, are you willing to meet with Leggett and Platt, see what more you can find out?”

  “These guys are diplomats. We can’t charge them with anything. Where’s our leverage?” Reilly asked.

  “That’s why I am suggesting that we do this unofficially,” Colin said. “Farrell, I take it that you are comfortable in the grey zone.”

  “Absolutely. Maybe I will take them for a little ride, show them the countryside, get to know them better. Mike, you in?”

  Reilly hesitated for just a second. It was one thing for a guy like Farrell to play outside the rules, but I knew it could be a careerending move for Reilly. Then he said, “Wouldn’t miss that party.”

  “Good,” Colin said. “Try to get on that as quickly as you can. Let us know what you find out and the less we know about how you did it, the better.

  “Now, on the journalistic side, I think it’s time we tried a burning arrow approach,” Colin said. Mike, Suzy and Farrell looked at Colin as if he’d just started speaking Greek. Unlike me, they didn’t know that Colin had a passion for Hollywood westerns. He had quite an impressive collection. I thought I knew what he meant, but said “You’d better spell that out.”

  “Right, sorry. I am being a bit oblique. Anyone here watch Westerns?”

  Both Reilly and Farrell nodded.

  “Think of a situation where the ranch house is surrounded by hostiles, but those inside are well-armed and their cover seemingly impregnable. What happens next?”

  “The Indians fire a burning arrow into the roof, set the place on fire, see who comes scrambling out the doors and windows,” Farrell said.

  Suzy appeared confused, no doubt some combination of the concussion and not having sat through hours of cowboy movies with Colin. “Wait a minute,” she said. “We are the hostiles?”

  “You’re damn right we are,” Reilly said, “and these assholes are about to find out just how hostile we can get.”

  “What I’m thinking,” Colin said, “is that we use a story as our burning arrow. Kris, I think it’s about time we got a piece in the paper on Mae Wang’s death. Tell the public who she really was, what the Chinese did to her father, her connection to the embassy and the fact that the homicide investigation has produced no tangible results, or even any real action. For now, we leave out any mention of Champagne and the U.S. angle, but we put out enough to make them all squirm. Let’s see who tries to cover their own ass at the expense of the others.”

  “I like that,” I said. “I can have something together by the end of the day.”

  “Good. Joint byline with Suzy.”

  The story would actually be all my work, but we were a team now. And what an odd team we were: three journalists, a cop and a guy from the murky underworld of espionage whose motives were unclear. The hostiles. It was a good name for our little group. The other guys had controlled the play. Now we were coming for them. It felt good.

  FORTY

  Among the many fixed points in Derek Hall’s day was his 11 p.m. perusal of every news source online, bracketed by his next look at 6 a.m. Not to say that his world couldn’t go to hell between 11 and 6, but he had to sleep some time.

  He rolled out of bed at 6, eager to take a piss, switching his phone on as he stumbled to the bathroom. He scanned the Toronto Star, The Globe and Mail and the CBC. All quiet, except for the premiers continuing to whine about not getting enough additional healthcare dollars. Some of them were even refusing to accept what they had been offered. As a negotiating tactic, it was the equivalent of taking yourself hostage. Nothing he couldn’t handle there.

  Derek set the phone down on the countertop, then took a long, satisfying piss. Then he turned to the Citizen’s web site. There hadn’t been a lot to worry him there since the financially challenged newspaper company had cut its staff on the Hill to the bare minimum, but you never knew.

  The top story on the web page hit him like a recurring nightmare. Chinese Spy Dies Mysteriously In Centretown Love Nest, the headline ran. Jesus Christ. Everyone had told him there was nothing to worry about. Everyone except Vanessa. He should have listened.

  Derek quickly scanned the story. What a mess. The PM could expect a flood of national security questions in Question Period. The Conservatives loved nothing more than to rail on about national security.

  Derek flicked on the bathroom light and glanced at his watch. It was 6:10. If he was on schedule, the PM would be enjoying his morning run. Derek had maybe a half hour to get on top of this before the first angry phone call. He rushed to his closet and started to get dressed. He chose a navy blue suit. He’d need to project an image of competence.

  He’d have to call the RCMP commissioner and Hakeem Agbaje, the useless tool of a national security adviser who had obviously been asleep at the switch. He should call Luc Champagne, too, see what he knew and if he sounded spooked. Derek had no trouble whatsoever believing the rumours that Champagne had been banging some girl from the Chinese Embassy. Please God, let it not be this one. Every news organization in the country would be chasing the story, pushing for more. Hell, not just the country. This would go international.

  Derek went to his contacts and tapped the number for Elise Joly, the press secretary. Elise had spent five years on the Hill for CTV, then joined the PM’s staff back when he became party leader. At 30, she was starting to get old in Hill years. In a couple more years, she would leave to join some big consulting firm downtown for three times the money. That is, if she didn’t replace him first.

  Elise picked up on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up? I just stepped out of the shower.”

  Derek tried to erase that image from his mind. Elise was fit, dark-haired and was at least a 9, maybe a borderline 10. He’d certainly given her some thought, but it would have been just too complicated.

  “You see the Citizen yet?” he said.

  “The Citizen? No, have they got something?”

  “Here’s the headline: Chinese Spy Dies Mysteriously In Centretown Love Nest.”

  “Fuck. Anything pointing our way?”

  “Not yet, but he’s going to have to be ready for questions in the Commons. We should probably do a media avail.”

  “You want the National Press Theatre or maybe better to do a scrum?”

  “Probably scrum unless we have something solid.”

  “What’s our line?”

  “I haven’t worked it out yet. Some kind of informed ignorance, I expect. We need to steer clear of this one.”

  “How come we haven’t heard word one about this until now?”

  “This was the young Chinese woman who supposedly jumped off a building on Elgin. Remember that?”

  “Vaguely. I thought it was a suicide.”

  “My sources flagged this one at the time so I checked it out. I was assured that there was nothing to it, a simple suicide of a low-level embassy employee.”

  “Yeah, well. I guess your sources weren’t so hot. Why didn’t you bring me into the loop?”

  “It seemed to be nothing at the time.”

  His sources, Derek thought. In other words, Vanessa. That hadn’t ended well. He could call her now, see if she had heard anything more, but it would be awkward.

  “Who’s the reporter?” Elise asked.

  “Kris Redner and Suzy Morin.”

  “That’s bad. They’re crime writers. Those people are hard to bullshit and they don’t owe us any favours.”


  “Look, I’ve got to get moving. I will have to brief the PM shortly. Can you get to work on some generic talking points about Canada not getting involved in foreign embassy matters? I think we’re probably going to have to go with something about being unable to substantiate the story at this time. All of that.”

  “Sure. I’m looking forward to trying to keep the media mob at bay with that. Try to get me something solid. Are they saying this woman was spying on us?”

  “It doesn’t spell that out, but presumably. It happens all the time. Not that we want to say that. Look, I will touch base with you as soon as I can.”

  Maybe either the commissioner or the national security adviser could contribute to some kind of bland statement. Any sort of quote would give the impression that the government was on top of things.

  He could look after that from the office. The one important call, though, he had to make right away. Sharpe. That cagey old bastard would know something. Obviously, he should have pressed Sharpe sooner. No doubt he’d want to extract some favour or reward in exchange for his information. Whatever it was, Derek was prepared to pay the price because his house was about to be set on fire.

  Sharpe was in the kitchen making himself his morning toast and tea when the phone rang. Call display told him that it was young Derek Hall. He’d obviously read the morning paper. Sharpe had been expecting his call.

  “Derek, no surprise to hear from you.”

  “I guess you know why I am calling.”

  “No doubt. I am going to text you a number for a secure line. Call me back on that.”

  Sharpe hung up, then texted the number. He had a decision to make.

  * * *

  Chip Leggett looked out at the Chateau Laurier, which dominated the view from the window of his office in the U.S. Embassy. The morning sun was reflecting off the old railway hotel’s copper roof, but Leggett was in no mood to appreciate the architecture.

  “Bitch is holed up right across the street,” he said to Don Platt. “She’s too stupid to turn off her cell phone. You’d think she’d know we can track those things.”

  “Anything interesting on the intercept?” Platt asked.

  “No, and she must be using some other computer. We’re getting nothing there either.”

  “Maybe she just stashed the phone in a potted plant to throw us off,” Platt said.

  “Jesus, Don. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. We know she’s not in her apartment and she’s not in her boyfriend’s apartment. A big hotel offers them safety. It makes sense.

  “Our problem right now is her story in the local rag. Washington has already been all over my ass for a sitrep. Thank God the ambassador is golfing this morning, but when he comes in, he’s going to start raising holy hell.”

  “It’s about the only thing he’s good at,” Platt said.

  Ambassador George Pickwick had been CEO of a dodgy oil company until he was rewarded for writing big cheques in the last presidential election. In Platt’s opinion, he knew nothing about diplomacy and less than nothing about their line of work, but that didn’t keep him from shouting and demanding results. Asshole. Platt was glad it was Leggett’s job to deal with him.

  “Copy that, but we’ve got to spike this before it goes any farther,” Leggett replied.

  “That’s going to be a challenge. That reporter is out for our balls and she knows way more than she should.”

  “Maybe, but I think she was fishing.”

  “That a chance you want to take, Chip?”

  “No. We’ve taken too many chances already. I never should have let you talk me into trying to turn that Chinese girl. She was a low-value asset, not worth the risk.”

  “So this is my fault now?” Platt said. “You’re the one who was running her. If she was so low-value, why did you keep going back? Were you getting a piece on the side?”

  “No, but I wish I had been. At least I would have gotten something out of this mess.”

  “You think they’ve really got pictures showing you going into that building?”

  “Probably. There’s CCTV all over the place downtown. That’s why I wore that fucking hat.”

  “Maybe that’s why you never got a piece.”

  Chip Leggett glowered at Platt. His number two was a smart ass and he’d never liked a smart ass. Just what you’d expect from a guy from New York City. Platt was probably already working out his odds of getting Chip’s job if this all went south. What a mess that would be. It was his first field assignment after five years at Langley, and he knew he only got it because his father was a major donor to the Republican Party. Ottawa was supposed to be a nice safe niche that would give him the field experience he needed to climb the ranks.

  “I might have been running her,” Chip said, “but you’re neck deep in this one, too. If this blows up, we’ll both be posted to some hot, sweaty country where bombs are going off. And that’s the bestcase scenario.”

  Platt nodded. “So what’s our move?”

  “I’m working on that.” In truth, Chip wasn’t sure what to do next. Why had this Kris Redner held back so much information from that story? Had she been bullshitting them about what she knew, or was she just playing it out to get even more headlines? The only good news was that there had been nothing in their conversation or in her article to suggest that she knew anything about the real story. Compared to that, Mae Wang was small potatoes. If their whole operation was revealed, he’d be lucky to get a job as a security guard at Walmart.

  “I hope you’re not considering tuning up this one, too,” Platt said. “That really backfired. I see Suzy Morin’s name is on this story, too, and what you did to her has got her pal Redner all fired up. I told you that would never work.”

  Chip looked down at his bruised knuckles and remembered how he had gotten them. That Suzy Morin was a sweet-looking woman. It had been a shame to have to mess her up. Tough, too. He figured a little rough stuff would be enough to get her to give up whatever she knew. Wrong again.

  “Yeah, you did.” Chip said. “I’m beginning to think that is your only real value, Don, to second-guess me after it hits the fan. What do you think we should do next?”

  “Seems to me we have to find out what else Redner knows, so we can plan the containment. Maybe it’s time to use our source.”

  “Fuck, that’s risky. We don’t want her to make that connection.”

  “Sure, but maybe the source has got some ideas on how to handle this. It’s his ass on the line here, too.”

  “Let me think about that,” Chip said, not wanting to look too eager to accept Platt’s idea. It was risky, but he wasn’t seeing a lot of escape hatches. One thing for sure, he couldn’t sit on his ass and do nothing.

  How had this gotten so turned around? The Chinese were the bad guys here and he was just doing his job, trying to protect his country’s interests. Now he was being tied in knots by a couple of women working for a newspaper. He just couldn’t allow that to happen.

  FORTY-ONE

  I called Luc Champagne at 8 a.m. at the cell-phone number he had helpfully scribbled on the back of his business card. The minister had sounded so relaxed and friendly that I assumed he hadn’t read the paper yet.

  I assumed wrong. He handed me a line about being glad the story would increase the likelihood of someone being held responsible for the poor girl’s death. He assured me that he could give me some exclusive insight into the “Chinese situation.”

  It smelled like bullshit to me, but if he was prepared to open his door, I was prepared to enter. In fact, I was in a cab on my way there now. Champagne had suggested coffee at 9 in his office.

  The problem with Colin’s “burning arrow” approach, as he liked to call it, was that the resulting fire attracted quite a crowd of onlookers. Every other media organization was aiming to match my story and get out ahead of it if they could. I had even had a call from Trish Porter, who I used to work with at the Star, hoping that maybe I could give her a few contacts, jus
t as a sisterhood kind of thing. She really didn’t know me very well.

  Having started the fire, the pressure was now on us to produce a fresh second-day angle to stay ahead of the pack. By on us, I meant me. Suzy was in no condition to contribute, although she would continue to share a byline.

  Colin and I had agreed that it was time to bring in the Champagne angle. Luc Champagne was going to be tomorrow’s story, one way or another.

  The atmosphere at Fort Pearson was considerably less festive than it had been the last time I visited. The colourfully dressed diplomats had been replaced by an army of grey-suited men and women with serious looks on their faces. The security guy at the main desk gave me a suspicious look, which I guess was his job. His ID badge said he was Allard and his square jaw, trim moustache and heavy build said he was ex-military.

  Allard had a brief conversation in French with another minder on a higher floor, then said, “You’re cleared to go up. You know the way?”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  Up in the minister’s outer office, security was a little less impressive, consisting of a young male assistant who was perhaps 25. He had lovely dark hair and, I was sure, a splendid education. Before he could speak, Luc Champagne himself came out of his inner office. His suit jacket was off and his red tie askew. The only thing missing from the classic politician’s look was the rolled-up sleeves. Maybe he was saving that for later.

  He welcomed me like a long-lost friend, giving me his A-level smile and opening his arms to offer a hug. Perhaps it was a cultural thing. I declined.

  “Kris, so good to see you,” he said, settling for a handshake that was reassuringly warm and firm. I didn’t expect his pleasure to last long.

  “Let’s go into my office,” he said, ushering me in ahead of him.

  The reception boy followed close behind with a tray containing two black coffee mugs, a silver pot and a bowl of creamers. I assumed I wasn’t getting the best diplomatic china.