The Fourth Betrayal

by Bruce Burrows

  The two of them phoned me on my birthday and sang “Haaaapy Birthdaaaaay” loudly and badly, not that it’s a melodic masterpiece at the best of times. Whoever wrote it made a concerted effort not to waste too many notes, and certainly not any good ones.

  When I talked to them after the performance, I detected hints of disillusionment. Dougie and Danny both sounded just a little tired, a little less vital. Danny had gone back there to save the fish and Dougie was trying to save, I don’t know, the nation’s virtue or something. It sounded like progress was not being made. Pierre Trudeau had died and Preston Manning hadn’t, and my friends talked as if the forces of darkness were gathering. I pictured a gargantuan vampire looming in the sky, sucking away their energy. But they were not completely daunted and we made plans to reunite in Sointula for Christmas. When I hung up, I hugged Oshie and went looking for Daiki and Ren to hug them.

  Shortly after that, a present from Dougie arrived in the mail. It was a drawing, indicative of Dougie’s mordant wit and, more disturbingly, I feared, indicative of Dougie’s state of mind. It purported to be a map of Ottawa, done in an ancient cartographic style. And like those ancient maps, it more accurately expressed social attitudes than actual geography.

  Oshie’s family wasn’t big on Christmas, saving their celebratory energy for Shogatsu, the Shinto New Year bash. So we packed two carloads worth of stuff into one car, remembered to include both kids and embarked on the day-long journey to Sointula.

  The Christmas holidays in a resource town like Sointula always seemed less artificial than in the city. Fishing was over for the year and logging was usually shut down due to snow. No one had to decree that you got a few days off work. Everyone simply enjoyed the leisure that was a natural seasonal occurrence.

  Families drove onto the back logging roads to select and cut their own Christmas trees, pastries were baked rather than purchased, and the bird of choice was often a wild goose instead of a tame turkey.

  There usually wasn’t a lot of snow, just enough to get the sleds out and make a few snowmen. The ice on Big Lake was carefully monitored until one of the elders declared it safe. If that didn’t happen, there was always Malm’s Pond, which was only two feet deep, so falling through the ice was half the fun instead of a potential tragedy.

  It never occurred to Daiki and Ren to play the big-city sophisticates. They were having too much fun with their multitudinous cousins. The days were spent keeping one eye on the kids, visiting with old friends and family and slowly wading into the gentle current of small-town life.

  Dougie and my cousin Danny were both home from Ottawa. Danny had cast off whatever malaise was afflicting him the last time we had talked. Dougie hadn’t. Every time I saw him, his smile seemed a little forced, his attention not quite there. I knew we should get off alone together. I really wanted to, and I think he did as well. But it just didn’t happen.

  New Year’s Eve, everyone was at the big party at the hall. Dougie arrived drunk and never slackened in his valiant struggle against sobriety. After Oshie and I had exhausted ourselves with three dances in a row, she sat down to chat with my mom and I went looking for Dougie. I couldn’t find him and the next morning he was gone. I regretted that for the rest of my life.

  But in the meantime, life went on. And 2001 was a challenging year for Dougie. He viewed with distaste and trepidation the march of the right wing across the unsuspecting and undefended borders of Canadian civil society. But he had pledged allegiance to the journalistic code of “objectivity.”

  He complained about it every time he phoned me. “Jesus, Ollie. I’m supposed to be writing the truth, but every story has to have ‘on the other hand’ or ‘opponents say.’ If I was writing about the crucifixion, I would have to say ‘Judas’s alleged betrayal led to what some have seen as a crucifixion’ and then do a follow-up on whether it was thirty pieces of silver or just twenty and whether it was a legitimate consulting fee.”

  I tried to console him. “Most people get it, Dougie. You keep writing the stories and they’ll connect the dots.”

  “I don’t know, Ollie. We live in a complex world and most people prefer simple. I should have been a sports reporter, or done Hollywood gossip. That’s what people like to read, if they read at all.”

  Dougie was right. What was wanted was simple writing for simple people. After all, the Reform Party had mutated into the Canadian Alliance under the leadership of a man who believed the earth was only six thousand years old. It was enough to depress the Friendly Giant. But I had my family and fishing was good, so I turned a blind eye and ignored the writing on the wall and didn’t pay attention and lived in my own world. I guess that makes me culpable as much as any cross-border shopping, CNN-watching Bud-swiller.

  The year didn’t get any better as it progressed; regressed is probably a more accurate word. The Summit of the Americas in Quebec City pounded several more nails into the coffin of democracy. Then 9/11: an attack on Americans by a religious thug in Afghanistan legitimized an attack on everybody by a religious thug in Washington, DC. The Liberal Party of Canada, as always, got things half right by keeping us out of Iraq but began our fatal involvement in Afghanistan. And to top everything off, the NDP in BC was defeated by a malicious weasel (I know this is unfair to real weasels) who was determined to transfer even more money from those who worked hard to earn it to those who didn’t and were already rich.

  In the spring of 2002, Dougie filed a series of stories about Stephen Harper becoming leader of the Canadian Alliance. And the following year he muted his outrage sufficiently that his editor didn’t kill his story of how Peter MacKay became the leader of the Progressive Conservative Party—on the basis of a promise not to merge with the Alliance—and then merged with the Alliance. Dougie described MacKay as being “in quality, if not in quantity, the greatest liar in the history of Canadian politics.” His editor changed it to: “The merger has led many observers to question Mr. MacKay’s veracity.” Indeed.

  In 2003, thousands of Canadians were infected with avian influenza, and a year later the new Conservative Party of Canada was infected with Stephen Harper, who, in the only policy that Dougie and I agreed with, had once proposed the implementation of “a firewall around Alberta.”

  “Quarantine,” Dougie said. “It’s our only hope.”

  Dougie phoned one Friday evening and, in a laughing-to-keep-from-crying sort of mood, regaled me with behind-the-scenes stories of the Ottawa press club. One Halloween a well-known columnist decided to dress in drag. The costume featured a small compressed air tank that could be used to inflate the breasts. The columnist had the foresight to bring a couple of spare tanks, because even before the party, he amused friends in a number of bars by deflating and inflating his bosom. (The sophistication of our national capital is difficult to underestimate.) When he got to the actual party, security personnel inspected his purse and inquired as to the purpose of the air tanks. Our hero, at this point in the evening, was somewhat diminished in his usual verbal facility. After a few fumbling attempts at explanation he lost patience and screamed, “Tanks! Tanks for the mammaries!” The guard said, “I’ve never seen you before” and radioed for backup. The columnist, in a last desperate attempt to explain, opened the air valve too far and blew up both breasts. The guard dove for the floor, and the columnist’s friends spirited him away before the situation deteriorated further.

  I laughingly accused Dougie of making the story up, but he swore it was true and demanded to speak to Oshie. She steered the conversation to more important matters and elicited the information that Dougie did not have a girlfriend but he did have a canoe. Evidently, the need for wilderness therapy had become acute and he was spending weekends exploring Ontario’s waterways.

  Oshie passed the phone back to me and Dougie and I insulted each other for a while before making vague plans for a reunion and then saying goodbye.

  The next year, 2005, Daiki turned ten and Ren was eight. My kids were growing up and I still didn’t feel gr
own up. Maybe that’s normal. But if I wasn’t grown up, what the hell was I doing playing with the big boys? Couldn’t that get a guy hurt?

  And the evening sky imagined our fate.

  Ten

  WHEN I WOKE UP THE morning after meeting with Alex and finding Dougie’s journal, I didn’t have a hangover. It had me—in a painful submission hold that felt like a raging full-body toothache. At least I knew it wasn’t a stroke. Building on that bit of good news, I seriously considered getting out of bed. Twenty minutes later, I did so.

  At approximately 07:10, investigative activities recommenced with three cups of coffee and other necessary nourishments. Subsequent to that activity I rendezvoused with my colleague at the establishment of Custom Electronics. We spoke at length with an employee who informed us of the following.

  Regarding the computer tower: Over the past twelve months there had been some deleted e-mail that Custom Electronics had restored to a file titled “Restored e-mail.” Regarding the laptop computer: Over the past twelve months there had been some deleted e-mail that had been restored to a file titled “Restored e-mail.” We took possession of the two computers and returned to my hotel room.

  I hooked up Dougie’s computer tower to the television again and Alex booted up Dougie’s laptop. I started scrolling through the file of deleted e-mail messages. Most were innocuous spam, but one leapt up and down and waved its arms at me. It was from Cliff Ernhardt, sent November 21, 2004.

  Mr. Tarkenen, Sir:

  I’ve been following your career at the Ottawa Times with some interest.

  Your stories are consistently well researched and well written, and I think they, and you, deserve more attention than you’ve received.

  There are a couple of emerging issues that I think should be aired out for the Canadian public, and I know you could do a good job of explaining all the ramifications.

  Give me a call and perhaps we can get together.

  Regards,

  Cliff Ernhardt

  I showed it to Alex and he reacted with a sort of familiar contempt. “That’s what we call ‘flashing the wallet.’ He’s got something he wants you to do or say, but he frames it like he’s doing you a favor.”

  Still, I was excited. This could be the entrée to Ernhardt and his pals that I’d been looking for. “What do you say we call him up, tell him we’ve taken over Dougie’s files and we’d like to meet him? Mind you, I’d like to get the tapes back first. I’m sure there’s more dialogue with Mr. Ernhardt that I should hear.”

  Alex nodded. “I agree we really need to get those tapes back. I’m not seeing much of anything here.”

  I finished scrolling through the incoming e-mail, then clicked Sent. A pertinent address popped into view: Lou Bernier. I almost said something but bit my tongue when I read the title. The Story So Far. I quickly read the body of the e-mail.

  What do you think of the story so far? Pretty explosive, eh? But I want to follow it to the end before we publish anything.

  Don’t lose that memory stick because it’s the only record. I don’t keep anything on my computer because I’m getting as paranoid as hell.

  Doug

  Suddenly I wanted Alex gone. There was stuff I had to think about. Christ, there were emotions I had to feel, like betrayal, anger . . . and fear. Lou Bernier had sworn he knew nothing about Dougie’s story. So he was playing some type of double game, and Alex in all probability was his mole.

  Somehow I pretended to attend to Dougie’s computer for the next twenty minutes. At last Alex stood up and stretched. “I don’t see anything relevant on the laptop. I need to put in some time at the office. Call me if anything comes up or if you need anything.”

  At last he was gone, and I called room service for a printer. When they brought one up, I plugged it into Dougie’s computer and printed off the e-mail. Then I phoned Danny. When I’d updated him on everything, I almost cried into the phone. “Jesus Christ! You can’t trust anybody in this town. How did you stand it here for six fuckin’ years?”

  “I’m tougher than you. And remember, I did warn you not to trust anyone. But don’t panic. We can play this to our advantage. You now have some leverage over Bernier. If he’s sold out to Ernhardt and company, and it looks like he has, we can threaten to expose him. He’s still a well-respected newspaperman, and exposure would kill him. And if Alex is a mole, and he’s probably at least an unwitting one, we can use him to send false info.”

  “Bernier must have known we’d discover that e-mail. Why would he claim to know nothing about the story?”

  “Simple. He forgot about it. The important thing was that Dougie told him he’d given him the only record of the story. When Dougie disappeared, Bernier figured it was safe to kill the story, which is probably what he’s being paid to do. People always make little slips that eventually sink the ship.”

  After my conversation with Danny, I was slightly mollified but still uneasy. I wasn’t used to living without trust. I was beginning to understand Dougie’s paranoia and I felt deeply and painfully alone. So I called Oshie.

  I unburdened myself and she soothed me and reminded me that I’d made considerable progress and I felt calmer and she told me about the kids and I felt warm and when I hung up I felt strong again.

  I realized now that I couldn’t trust Alex. I’d have to go over Dougie’s laptop to double-check that there was indeed nothing on it pertinent to the case. There wasn’t. You can’t rely on people you don’t trust to deceive you.

  I paced around the hotel room for some time before a cunning little plan crept stealthily into my brain. I phoned Capital Investigative Services and spoke to the same gentleman I’d spoken with before. “You talked about planting tracking devices on certain items rather than continuing personal surveillance on the storage unit. Are they undetectable and are they reliable?”

  “Completely,” he assured me, “and extremely.”

  “Can you come to my room this afternoon and plant two devices inside a couple of computers?”

  “I’ll be there at two fifteen.”

  While I waited I watched a Jays game on TV. It was early in the game and the Jays sometimes won the first five or six innings. It was unfortunate and unfair that they were forced to play nine. I was glad when I heard a knock on the door because the Jays were up by four and about to bring in their best reliever. I knew they probably wouldn’t get a save but more likely a steaming pile of what you would normally expect from a bullpen.

  When I opened the door I met Jim Hernandez, junior partner in Capital Investigation Services. He was neat, polite, and exuded competence, and I knew that an hour after he was gone, I would have difficulty describing him. So I won’t bother doing it now.

  It took him about fifteen minutes to unscrew the backs of the two computers and install in each a miniature hockey puck that he assured me was a transmitter. When he’d closed the computers up, he took out a receiver and turned it on. Both transmitters were working. “How long will they last?” I asked.

  “At least three months, probably longer in warm weather.”

  “Perfect. Tomorrow I’m going to phone you . . . no, better you phone me, just after twelve, and I’ll tell you to reduce surveillance on the storage container to nighttime only. That’s what I want my lunch date to hear, so you can ignore it. But if those computers move, I want to know, and I want to know where they end up.”

  He nodded, shook hands and left. I phoned a cab and took the computers, along with the bag of paint-stained T-shirts I’d gotten from Dougie’s landlord, back to the storage container. Dougie’s possessions looked lonelier than ever, so I left them some company.

  I then made the mistake of going for seafood at the best seafood restaurant in Ottawa. The fish was overcooked and the potatoes were undercooked. Fortunately, the portions were very small. As I dawdled over one more glass of wine, I thought back to Jim Hernandez and hoped his equipment was as reliable as he was. And, despite a concerted effort, I realized I couldn’t remember wh
at he’d been wearing or much about his features.

  First thing in the morning I phoned Danny. It was handy having a cousin with a cop for a wife. “I need a couple of things from Louise. I’m assuming you know her better than me, so I’ll let you make the approach.”

  “Good planning, cuz. What do you need?”

  “I need to know who’s in charge of the Gerry Steadman murder investigation and then I need Louise to phone that person and explain that I’m known, you know, to the police. Not known to the police, but some of the police, like Louise, know me, you know?”

  “And I guess you need this ASAP?”

  “As ASAP as you can manage.”

  “Consider it done.”

  It was too early for a Jays game, thank God, but I managed to find a rerun of the previous night’s Toronto FC game. You had to admire a city that, when faced with the challenge of naming its beloved football club, of stamping it with a moniker that would sum up the cultural identity of said city, of giving the warriors representing the city a title that they could wear with pride, a title with verve and dash that encapsulated the very character and unique aspirations of said city, came up with the name Toronto Football Club.

  Their opponents were not very good but managed to stumble to three goals by halftime. The burning question seemed not to be whether Toronto would win, but if they would score a goal. I was glad when the phone rang.

  It was a Staff Sergeant Carl Stala of the Ottawa City Police. “Mr. Swanson, a few days ago I had a call from Corporal Mayhew of the OPP about you. Fifteen minutes ago I had a call from Staff Sergeant Louise Karavchuk of the Richmond RCMP about you. I think we need to talk.”

  “Absolutely. If it’s okay I’ll come in this afternoon. But first, I’m going through all my friend’s e-mail, looking for something from Gerry Steadman. It would be easier if I knew Steadman’s e-mail address.”