“Smart move on his part. So what do you think? Is what he said true?”
“I’m sure at least part of it is, but the best lies always contain a generous helping of truth. I don’t see how we are going to sift one from the other.”
“Neither do I, but I think our choice is simpler than that. If we don’t buy the story, we publish. If we think the story is true, then we have a difficult editorial decision. He’s right about the repercussions.”
“The repercussions aren’t really our problem are they? This is the biggest story to come out of this town in years. We know Champagne was having it off with Mae on a regular basis. The PI’s pictures and tapes prove that. In itself, that’s a huge story. Add in his explanation and all the cloak-and-dagger lead-room stuff and we’ve got a story that’s going to run front page and top of the newscasts around the world.”
“Yes, but we can’t prove any of what he told you this morning. Didn’t he say he would deny it?”
“He did. Why don’t we let the readers decide?”
“There’s certainly a case for going with what we’ve got, let the chips fall where they may. I’m going to have to pass this one in front of our lawyers and corporate, though.”
“Corporate? Who’s corporate these days? We don’t even have a publisher.”
“No, but there’s a senior vice-president in Toronto. He’s the one who will fire me if this whole thing blows up.”
“You worried about that?”
“Not really. Like I said, our job is to do the right thing, but we also have to do the thing right. We have to get as close to the truth as we can. We’re probably just about there. Write what you have, but I want you to take one more run at this Gail Rakic. She has been playing a cat-and-mouse game with us. I think she knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Agreed, but what’s our leverage to get more out of her?”
“You’ll think of something. I also want to see what Reilly and Farrell learn from those two embassy types. Their involvement is a disturbing unexplained element here.”
“I hope we’re going to burn them for what was done to Suzy.”
“We will. It’s just a case of being judicious in applying the flame.”
I wasn’t totally satisfied with Colin’s caution, but I wasn’t surprised either. This was the kind of story that caused lawsuits to pop up like mushrooms in a damp forest. We needed to get it right.
I put in a call to Gail, got her voice mail and started to put together the story of Luc Champagne’s bizarre confession. For this draft, I decided to attribute Champagne’s version of events to “a highly-placed source in the minister’s office.”
I looked at my watch. If I hurried, I should be able to rough out this draft in time to get over to court and try to grab Gail on the break. I wasn’t sure yet how I would squeeze her, but I knew I’d squeeze her hard.
FORTY-THREE
Reilly and Farrell sat in the blue panel van, watching the wipers slap across the windshield. The day had started out sunny, but a spring storm had blown in just after 11:30. They were parked illegally in front of a four-storey condo on Clarence Street in the ByWard Market, facing the U.S. Embassy.
“Shitty weather,” Reilly said.
“Yeah, but just right for what I’ve got in mind. The worse the visibility, the better for us.”
“I hope so. What’s your plan exactly?”
“In about 10 minutes we’re going to see a black Suburban pull out of the embassy parking garage and hang a left onto Sussex. Those will be our boys, Leggett and Platt. They are going to drive a few blocks down Sussex to Boteler, turn right and then pull into an underground parking garage below a high rise.”
“You a psychic now?”
“No, I just know some useful people at the embassy. Usually, we’re on the same side. Turns out Leggett isn’t too popular, bit of an asshole. Wasn’t that hard to find out that he has been boning one of the interns, grabbing a nooner every Tuesday. Girl’s name is Joni Brooks. Her dad is a senator from Iowa, Leggett’s home state.”
“Where does Platt fit into all of this? Please tell me that it’s not a three-way.”
Farrell laughed. “No, Platt is just the cover. He wanders back to the Market and grabs a sandwich while the boss gets his wick wet. About 1:30, Platt returns to the building and drives them both back to the embassy.”
“The girl’s going to be a complication isn’t she?”
“Not if we time it right. We grab our boys in the parking building, take them for a little ride. Joni’s not going to phone back to the embassy wondering where Leggett is, since he was never supposed to be there in the first place.”
“What if they don’t want to come along?”
“I always find that a gun barrel in the ear is pretty persuasive.”
“We need to set some limits on this thing, Farrell. You know I want to beat the shit out of these guys, but our goal is to get some information out of them.”
“We can try. These are probably not the two smartest or toughest agents the CIA has, but they are trained to resist interrogation. I’m not optimistic that they are going to roll over unless they think the other choice is seeing their brains splattered on the wall.”
“You’re probably right, but let’s agree that we are not going to go that far. If I can tell Suzy they paid a price, I’ll be happy. Anything they tell us is a bonus.”
“All right, you’re the boss, but at least let me see if I can make them wet themselves.”
“I’m in for that.”
Reilly and Farrell saw the Suburban surge from the embassy parking garage at the same moment, the rain beading on its shiny black paint.
“OK,” Farrell said. “Let’s have some fun.”
They accelerated quickly around the corner, then fell in behind a beige Camry that was almost on the bumper of the Suburban. The Camry had Quebec plates and was in a hurry. It was a useful distraction on the off chance that the guys in the Suburban were paying attention to the rear-view mirror, Reilly thought.
It was a short drive to Boteler, no more than three minutes. When the Suburban turned right, the Quebecer gave it the horn and finger combo, then roared past. Farrell slowed and pulled up on the street in front of a 12-storey apartment building, distinguishable from the many similar buildings in the city only because it was brown brick, not poured concrete. The United Arab Emirates Embassy was just down the street, a squat, fortress-like structure with an RCMP car parked outside.
“Let’s give them about 30 seconds,” Farrell said. Then he pulled away from the curve and down into the parking garage. The layout was simple, with one-way traffic and only two floors of parking. Reilly could just see the tail lights of the big Suburban as it turned and descended to the second level.
“OK, now’s the tricky part,” Farrell said. “We need to get them into the van quickly and quietly and hope that no one comes down to get their car.”
“What if they do?”
“You badge them and say there has been a report of a stolen Suburban with embassy plates. Then we figure out it’s all just a mixup and drive on.”
Reilly pulled on a pair of Oakley tactical gloves he kept in the pocket of his windbreaker, and flexed the hardened knuckles. There was some hand work coming up.
The Suburban had just pulled into a parking spot. Farrell drew the van in tight across its tail, locking the Suburban in place but leaving his own door clear.
Chip Leggett got quickly out of the vehicle, raised both arms in outrage, and shouted, “Hey you assholes. You can’t park there.”
Farrell jumped out of the van and covered the distance between himself and Leggett in two long strides. Reilly went up the passenger side of the vehicle, just a step behind him. As he got there, Don Platt swung the passenger door open hard. Reilly jumped back, then drove all of his weight forward, shattering Platt’s nose with a solid right. Platt was stunned, half in and half out of the vehicle. Reilly grabbed him by the collar, dragged him out of the car and
slammed him face first into the side of the vehicle.
“Back off, we’re U.S. diplomats” Leggett shouted, like that was a get-out-of-shit-free card. Leggett reached into his suit coat, going for a gun, but he was too slow. Farrell already had the barrel of his Beretta in Leggett’s ear.
“Let’s just calm down now, Chip,” Farrell said. “My friend and I just want to take you and your colleague for a little drive, get to know you better.”
Leggett swung back with an elbow, trying to knock the gun from the much-larger man’s hand. He might as well have driven his elbow into a tree. Farrell didn’t even flinch. Instead, he drilled the gun harder into Leggett’s ear and reached up to grab the CIA man by the balls.
“Have I got your attention now, Chip?”
Leggett nodded, wild-eyed. The guy had probably been looking forward to someone laying hands on his equipment, but life didn’t always work out the way you hoped, Reilly thought.
“Here’s the way it’s going to play, Chip. You’re going to come along like a good boy and I’m going to make you and your buddy comfortable in the back of my van. You’re going to keep nice and quiet while we do that. Play your cards right, and you might even live to pop your girlfriend next week.”
Farrell pulled the gun from Leggett’s shoulder holster, then manhandled him to the back of the van. Reilly did the same with Platt, who was stunned and wiping at the steady stream of blood coming from his nose and staining his white shirt and grey suit coat.
When they got to the back of the van, Farrell pulled the door open, picked up a piece of duct tape he already had stuck to the interior wall, then wrapped it over Leggett’s mouth. Reilly saw that there were two rings welded to the floor of the van, each one with a set of handcuffs attached. Farrell lifted Leggett up into the van like he was a child and hooked him up. Leggett was bug-eyed and, when Reilly looked at the spy’s light grey pants, he saw a dark stain spreading down the right leg.
“Well look at that,” Farrell said. “Didn’t I tell you this would be fun?”
The two of them shoved the wobbly Platt up into the van, taped his mouth and clicked the other set of handcuffs firmly on his wrists.
“I don’t know if you boys believe in Jesus,” Farrell said, “but you might want to use the next few minutes to get straight with him.”
Then they slammed the back doors of the van and were off. Less than two minutes had elapsed.
FORTY-FOUR
It was turning into the kind of day that Derek Hall sometimes experienced in his nightmares, except that waking up screaming wasn’t going to get him off the hook. Question Period was at 2:15, less than two hours away, and he still hadn’t put together a plausible response for the PM.
Derek had briefed him on the situation quickly that morning, but it hadn’t gone well. The PM’s main question was, “Why the fuck am I only hearing about this now?” He had a good point. Derek had broken his own no-surprises rule, and he was going to own that, no matter who else had screwed up. That much was clear when the PM had sent a laptop flying at his head. Derek had ducked just in time and backed out of range of the man’s fists. Everyone knew the boss thought he had a lot of punching prowess, but Derek didn’t intend to become his speed bag. There were limits to the shit he would take to keep his job, although he realized as soon as he thought it that those limits were pretty elastic.
He had Elise Joly on his back, too. The media calls were coming in, but so far the intensity hadn’t been as bad as he had feared. It helped that the story was broken by two local crime writers, not one of the distinguished members of the Press Gallery itself. Gallery members could be a bit sniffy about people who weren’t part of their club, and that had helped when Elise tried to put them off by pointing to the source and raising a skeptical eyebrow. She was making good use of the fact that the words “love nest” were in the headline, suggesting that it was the kind of lurid tabloid trash that would be beneath the dignity of the worthy thinkers who covered the federal government.
That was only going to last so long, though. The real problem was the opposition. All parties would be on their feet expressing outrage and demanding answers. For their purposes, it didn’t matter whether the story was true or false. It was in the media and it put the government in a bad light.
Derek stared at his computer screen, then looked out the window of his Langevin Block office at Parliament Hill across the street. It was a great view. He wondered how much longer he would have it.
He had called in every favour on this, but no one was coming to his rescue. Robertson, that withered old prick of an RCMP commissioner, professed to have nothing to add beyond the fact that an investigation was under way. Robertson had been appointed by the previous government and knew he wouldn’t be renewed by the current one. Derek figured this was his way of saying “fuck you.”
Agbaje, the national security adviser, was predictably useless. He had a bunch of geopolitical points about relations with China that had nothing to do with the current mess whatsoever. Derek was considering putting him in front of the media in hopes that he would bore them to death.
The biggest disappointment had been Sharpe. After all that spy shit about phoning back on a secure line, he hadn’t given him anything that would have been controversial on Twitter. The old bugger was holding back on him. Every instinct Derek had told him that. Even after Derek had said that he would be extremely grateful for any help Sharpe could give him and went even further to say that it would be very worth his while, he got nothing more than a promise to look into it.
Fat lot of good that did, because Derek’s world could come to an end in two hours. If there was one thing the PM hated, it was being sandbagged by the opposition. He wasn’t good if he got off script, and right now, Derek didn’t have a script.
He had even swallowed his pride and called Vanessa, who had been shipped off to be a flack in Agriculture. He apologized profusely for not taking her more seriously when she had told him that a Chinese spy had been murdered. Was there any chance at all that she could connect with this Suzy Morin, see if she could find out where the story was going next? She had told him to fuck himself, which seemed redundant given the way the day was going.
It was Redner and Morin he really had to worry about. They had fired only one barrel. The chances of them having nothing juicy for a second-day follow were nil. If they were using standard media operating procedure, they would wait until they saw what the PM said in the House, then prove him a liar.
Derek pulled open the drawer of his battered oak desk. So many previous chiefs of staff had suffered behind it that he was surprised there weren’t blood stains. He took out the manila envelope that contained his resignation. He had written it on the day he had gotten the job, hoping that it would never come out of the envelope. He put it in the pocket of his suit coat. Better to leave under your own steam than to be fired.
Right now, that was about as close to a good outcome as he could imagine.
FORTY-FIVE
The gravel in the parking lot crunched as Farrell pulled the van into a National Capital Commission parking lot just off Timm Drive, where Leggett and Platt had taken Suzy. The lot was shaded from the road by a stand of scruffy cedars. Rain still fell, enough to blur the view from the windshield, but Reilly knew the spot. They were surrounded on three sides by a stunted evergreen forest full of rocky outcroppings and little ponds of water. It was the kind of place where a couple of guys who got lost could stay lost for quite a while.
Reilly listened to the ping of the cooling engine for a minute and then either Leggett or Platt started to kick at the side of the van. “Forget it boys,” Reilly said. “No one can hear you out here.”
Reilly then motioned for Farrell to get out the van, so they could discuss what to do next without sharing it with their prisoners.
Pulling up the hood on his waterproof jacket, Farrell said, “This is your show. How do you want to play it?”
Reilly sensed that it was one of those moments where h
is future hung in the balance. His instinct was to give the two CIA assholes everything Suzy had got, with interest. The problem was that, unlike Leggett and Platt when they had manhandled Suzy, he and Farrell were not wearing ski masks. They could be identified. He needed to figure a way to make that unrewarding.
“We’ve got two goals,” he said. “First, we try to find out what they know about this Chinese girl’s death. Why were they warning Kris off? Second, we square up what they did to Suzy.”
“I’m not optimistic that they are going to tell us anything, not unless we do them serious harm.”
“I can’t go that far.”
“Right, but they don’t know that.”
“OK, let’s work with that.”
Farrell opened the back door of the van. Despite his smashed face, Platt looked defiant and ready to fight. Leggett had already clued them to how tough he was when he pissed himself. They would start with Leggett. Reilly pointed at him and Farrell released him from his cuffs and dragged him out of the back of the van. Leggett landed in a puddle, then struggled to his feet. The rain quickly started to soak whatever he hadn’t already soaked himself.
Back on his feet and uncuffed, Leggett began to get back a bit of his edge. “You two fools are in way over your heads here. Platt and I are with a branch of the government that you just don’t want to fuck with. You’re going to end up in body bags, you hear me?”
“Look Chip, we know you’re with the CIA,” Farrell said. “You can imagine how impressed I am. My friend and I just wanted to ask you a few questions about that dead Chinese girl, Mae Wang.”
Now Leggett appeared confused, wiping the water from his face and looking quickly from Farrell to Reilly, struggling to understand. “I don’t get it. What does she have to do with you?”
“We have a professional interest,” Reilly said. “I think you know why Mae Wang died. We’d love to find out. Think of it as interagency sharing.”
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