“Corporate, as he calls it, believes that anyone young who has ever so much as played a video game has special expertise that will help them out of their nasty financial problems.”
“Sounds like sucking up to the government is a bigger priority than good journalism.”
“I expect it is, for the moment. To be fair, they are in a fight for their lives.”
“Not to mention their annual retention bonuses. You don’t think he has a point do you?”
“Hardly. He’s a nasty little canker. If this company is going down, it should go with all guns blazing.”
“So now what?”
“We get more. You need to get me something. I don’t care what it is or how you get it. Then we rework the story, keep it 95 per cent the same and call it brand new. That generally works with his sort. I expect his real goal was to show me he’s boss. Once he sees that we are happily licking his boots, he will come around.”
Great. I had pulled together every fact and plausible rumour already. I had held nothing back. I needed a new strategy and I needed it fast.
FIFTY
I was awakened by the ring of the land line in the hotel suite. I looked at the bedside clock. It was 6 a.m. Colin was still snoring beside me. I shook my head in a futile attempt to wake up and clear my mind. Colin and I had drowned our sorrows in a bottle of Glenfiddich last night. It seemed a good idea at the time and I had resolved to wake up with a fresh plan of attack, but not this early.
I picked up and heard an unfamiliar voice, older, the tone curt and commanding. “What happened to your story? There’s nothing in the paper.”
I was used to crank calls from angry readers, but not at this hour or in this location.
“Who are you, and how did you get this number?”
“That’s immaterial. I think you might need some help.”
That caught my attention, although I didn’t think there were strong odds that the mystery caller was going to provide the salvation I needed. It was more likely he was a conspiracy theorist who wore a tinfoil hat to protect himself from the voices in his head. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that you have some kind of inside information,” I said.
“In fact, I do. Information that I think will astonish you.”
“OK. I like to be astonished. What’s your information?”
“It’s not something to be shared over the phone.”
Now I was thinking the caller might be a creepy stalker rather than a tinfoil hat guy, although there was nothing saying that he couldn’t be both. Or maybe he was a pal of my friends Chip and Don.
“Look. I don’t know you or anything about you. You apparently know that I am at the Chateau. Courier the information to the front desk and I will take a look at it.”
Colin was awake now, sweeping his grey hair back and giving me a quizzical look. I shrugged, pointed at the phone, then tapped my forehead. Colin nodded, recognizing that I was probably talking to a nut.
“My name is Sharpe,” the man said with a brusque tone. “Google my name and national security. If you want the story of your life, meet me at the Rockcliffe Park Pavilion at 7 o’clock. Don’t bring any of your beefy friends. I am no threat to you.”
I didn’t know exactly where the Rockcliffe Park Pavilion was. Rockcliffe was the swankiest neighbourhood in Ottawa and I hadn’t spent a lot of time hanging out there. I guess I would be Googling that, too. The idea that this guy Sharpe had something that was actually useful was a desperate long shot, but I was desperate and I didn’t have any other shots. Besides, he sounded pretty sure of himself. But then, the crazy ones usually did.
“All right,” I said. “See you then.”
“What was that all about?” Colin asked.
“Some guy called Sharpe. Says he has info about my story. Something that will astonish me, as he put it. Wants to meet me at the Rockcliffe Park Pavilion in an hour. I’m to come alone.”
“Sharpe? What did he sound like?”
“Old and very sure of himself.”
“There is a former national security adviser named Sharpe. I can’t remember his first name off the top of my head. The guy has been around the secret world forever. Maybe we just got lucky.”
“OK. You know where this pavilion is?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s go then. Drop me close but don’t hang around. He said I shouldn’t bring any of my beefy friends.”
Colin smiled, not sure whether I was giving beefy a positive or a negative twist.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I don’t want to scare the guy off. I’m sure I can handle one old man.”
It was just before 7 when I reached the park. It was shrouded in fog. It was going to be an unseasonably warm day and was already 20 degrees. I supposed the fog must be rising up from the still-cold Ottawa River. Whatever its cause, I didn’t like it. I could see barely 30 feet in front of me. I looked back and saw the tail lights of Colin’s car disappear into the gloom.
I had told Colin that I could handle one old man, but how did I know that he hadn’t brought any of his own beefy friends with him? I felt sweat start to trickle down my back. Maybe this wasn’t a smart play.
Colin had said that we were very close to the pavilion, but all I could see were huge old oaks and maples standing like eerie sentinels in the fog. I was sure the park must be a magnificent place, on a sunny day. I started to walk tentatively in the direction where I hoped I might find the pavilion. The dewy grass soaked my shoes after just a few steps. Now I couldn’t even see the road. I knew enough to keep going in a straight line. Eventually that would take me somewhere.
There was a sudden gust of wind and I saw the outline of what must be the pavilion no more than 100 feet ahead. It was a substantial stone structure, open at the sides, with a verandah-style railing all around. It reminded me of the kind of whimsical lakeside thing rich people had back in the Adirondacks, when I was growing up.
Just as promised, there was a grey-haired man sitting on a bench in the pavilion. He wore a blue sports coat over a grey button-down shirt, no tie. His black horn-rimmed glasses made him look like a professor or an accountant, certainly not a spy. Or maybe that was what spies looked like in real life.
We made eye contact as I walked up the steps. I could tell he was assessing me, but his neutral expression didn’t tell me whether I had passed. Then he gestured for me to sit beside him. I did, but not too close. This was clearly the guy I had Googled but that didn’t mean I could trust him.
‘I’m Sharpe, as I’m sure you have assumed.”
“I have, and I did Google you.”
“I hope it was reassuring.”
“That depends on what you’ve got for me.”
“Luc Champagne. He is the real focus of your inquiry, yes?”
“I started out to tell Mae Wang’s story, but it seems that Champagne is closely entwined with it.”
“Indeed.”
“Is this the part where you are going to tell me how closely?”
“That depends. The documents I am going to give you are authentic. You can ask your friend Farrell to verify them if you like. My one condition is that my name never enters into this.”
It freaked me out that he knew about Farrell. How many different spooks had been watching me?
“You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I still work as an independent contractor in my old line. I have a lifetime of contacts. That’s how I was able to obtain what I have for you. Is my condition acceptable to you? I am giving you a story that is pure gold and I want nothing in exchange.”
“Come on. You must want something.”
Sharpe scanned what little he could see around the pavilion, then he said, “I was the senior guardian of this nation’s secrets for many years. Then I was rudely cast aside. That in itself is not sufficient motivation for what I am about to do but, as you will see, Champagne has to be stopped.”
“I’m all for that. What’s the story?”
“In my couple of discussions with him, it was clear that he likes to be mysterious.”
“He does. It’s one of the things that draws people to my game. Champagne’s life of mystery began when he was in grad school at Harvard. He had dabbled in separatist politics while at McGill, before continuing his education in the U.S., as so many of his type do. At that time, American security agencies had quite a concern about Quebec separation and its ability to destabilize their safe northern border. Naturally, they were looking for people with connections to the movement, people who might be able to feed them information for a price.”
“You’re telling me that Luc Champagne was some kind of American agent back in university?”
“He was. That’s documented. It was harmless enough at the time. He was just another student with generic information to sell. It did cover his Harvard tuition, however. As the threat of separation faded, so did the CIA’s interest in Luc Champagne. He went dormant for years. He doesn’t come back on the radar until his first successful run for Parliament. Then the CIA approached him again, wondering if he could offer some insight into the thinking of the Canadian government, even though at that time he was only a parliamentary secretary. Champagne wasn’t interested. His star was on the rise. He was young and good-looking, and more important, one of the few Conservative members from Quebec. His CIA friends explained that it would all be rather embarrassing if his past were leaked to the media and all they were asking for was the scuttlebutt in the halls of Parliament, not state secrets.
“Faced with the end of his political career, Champagne agreed to work with them again. He was quickly promoted to minister of industry and now the CIA was far more interested. Trade is really the only thing about Canada that’s important to the Americans and now they had a direct pipeline into Canada’s strategies, and even better, the minister himself in their pocket.
“Champagne was trapped at this point, as so many others around the world have been before him. It’s classic tradecraft. A clever operation, I have to admit.”
“So you’re telling me Champagne is a victim?”
“Not quite. Champagne played along and, as time went on, he started to like his double life. Like so many Quebecers, he feels a weak attachment to the rest of Canada. It’s not as if he was betraying his real homeland. When he decided to start positioning himself for the Conservative leadership, his handlers were thrilled. What began as a modest investment in a graduate student had the potential to turn into owning the Canadian prime minister. It would be the next best thing to annexing the country.”
I found myself gripped by the story that this old man was telling, even though he was delivering it in a matter-of-fact way. It was the story of my career, without a doubt.
“There was only one problem in the way of the plan.”
“Sonny Sandhu,” I said.
“Indeed. Internal polling was showing that Sandhu had a solid lead on Champagne. He was just as charming and good-looking and was a huge hit with ethnic voters. It seemed an obstacle Champagne could not overcome, so he turned to his CIA friends for some help. It was simple to plant some money in one of Sandhu’s accounts, then find a couple of dodgy characters who would sell him out in exchange for a bag of CIA cash under the table. Whatever the ultimate outcome of the case, it would take Sandhu off the board.”
“Then the whole game changed when the PM decided to fight one more election.”
“Yes. That’s when Champagne and his handlers got really creative. They are fortunate that, in Quebec, switching from one party to another is commonplace. Champagne jumped to the Liberals, they won the election and suddenly he was foreign minister. Not as good as owning the PM, but a close second.”
“If everything you tell me is backed up, it sounds like Champagne will be the one going to jail.”
“It’s treason, without a doubt. How that will play out remains to be seen.”
“But what about Mae Wang? Where does she fit into this?”
“She was coerced to approach Champagne in Beijing. He met with the CIA station chief there and they discussed how it would be played. The thinking was that Champagne should pretend to fall for the Chinese ploy and the Americans would use him to feed misleading information back. Too clever by half, in my opinion. They ended up burning a major asset for minor gains.
“Then that poor girl jumped off the roof. One can hardly blame her. There was simply no way out of her situation.”
Sharpe reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a thumb drive.
“Everything is here,” he said. “One additional condition. You need to use it within the next 24 hours or I will have to take the story elsewhere.”
“That’s not a problem. This will be online within hours.”
“Excellent. I will watch with interest to see how all of this unfolds.”
“I expect we won’t speak again.”
“We have never spoken at all,” he said. Then he stood up, pulled a pipe from his pocket, lit it, then stepped into the mist. Within seconds it was as if he had never been there.
I put the thumb drive into my jeans pocket and started out through the still-thick fog in what I hoped would be the general direction of the road. I hadn’t gone more than 30 feet when a limping man suddenly appeared in front of me.
“Hello Kris,” he said. “Remember me?”
Fuck, it was Chip Leggett. I pulled out my cell phone to call Colin, but Leggett lunged for me. I turned and ran, only to slam into Don Platt. He grabbed my arm and twisted it. The cell phone fell on the wet grass and Platt stomped it with his foot, shattering the glass.
“We understand you are in possession of some very sensitive state secrets,” Leggett said. “Our friends in Homeland Security would like to take that up with you. It’s time for a little ride across the border.”
Sharpe looked on, a murky figure in the fog. A secret was like a gun with one bullet. Once it was fired, it became useless. It had taken him a while to work out the optimum strategy, but in the end, he had come up with a plan that gave him an extremely significant marker with the Americans while retaining leverage over the PM, leverage he could use as often as he liked. It was too bad about the reporter. She was well-intentioned, but really, everything had worked out rather well from his perspective.
FIFTY-ONE
Reilly had thought Suzy’s idea of going out to the newsroom to help put together the final story was premature, given the state she was in. He wasn’t going to argue with her, though, not when he thought there was some kind of chance of reconnecting.
As they pulled out of the Chateau Laurier parking lot, he could tell by the awkward way she was sitting that she was still in physical pain, and that was probably nothing compared to the lingering mental effects of what she had been through. The bruises would fade, but the horror of being sexually abused was like a stain that would never go away.
Still, she had tried to pull herself together. Reilly had helped her with her hair and she had put on a lot of makeup, then sunglasses to hide her black eye. She had even put on a red dress, loose-fitting, and a pair of black shoes with a modest heel. From a distance, she looked something like herself.
“Are you sure you are up for this?” he asked.
“Not really, but I’m going to do it anyway. This is my story as much as Kris’s. I want to be there when it all comes together and I want to read it before it hits the paper. Also, I want to look that twit Putnam in the eye. If he tries to block this story again, he’s going to feel my claws.”
Suzy had been furious when Colin and Kris had told them that this corporate toady was afraid to run the story, and why.
“You heard anything from her about that lead this morning?”
“Not yet,” Reilly said. Kris had texted him first thing, saying that she had a source that was going to deliver the documents she needed to lock the story
down. She was meeting him at seven. He thought he would have heard something back by now, but maybe she had gone straight out to the newspaper building to start putting it together.
He had been taken aback when Kris had related Gail Rakic’s version of what happened to Mae on the roof. So maybe there was no homicide, if what Rakic said was true. It was a pretty self-serving story, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t how it happened.
Even if Mae had jumped, it was Champagne and her Chinese masters who had taken her to the edge. Someone had to pay for that, even if it wasn’t in a court of law.
Suzy picked up Reilly’s phone off the console. He knew she wanted another look at the pictures of Chip Leggett naked in the mud.
As she flicked through them, she said, “He’s got quite a set of man boobs, that Leggett.”
“He does. His best feature, really.”
They both laughed at that. Reilly was encouraged that she could find some way to laugh after all she had been through. It was a start.
“It’s early,” he said. “We probably don’t need to be in a huge rush. You want to stop at Gino’s, get some breakfast?”
Gino’s was a diner on Elgin, only two blocks from the central police station. It was a place they used to go to most weekends, back when they were together.
“Maybe not there,” she said. “I don’t want to run into people I know, not any more than I have to. How about Sonny’s?”
It was a second-rate roadhouse in a shabby strip mall near the newspaper, but Reilly didn’t care where they went, as long as they were together.
FIFTY-TWO
Leggett grabbed my face in his meaty right hand, and twisted my head so that I would have no choice but to look at him. His face was so close to mine that I had a hard time focusing. I could see angry eyes and flaring nostrils. When he spoke, I could feel his spittle on my face.
“You really are fucked now,” he said. “The information on that thumb drive is going to put you away for a long time. And we have a witness who saw you meeting with the Chinese ambassador. I think you’ve been working for them the whole time. You are going to have a hard time proving that you weren’t.”
Spiked Page 30