“Luc is the complete opposite of—”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s shy and quiet, keeps to himself. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’m telling you, he’s going to set off a bomb somewhere and blame it on Muslim extremists. To prove your father’s point about them, rally public opinion against them, and help him get elected. And there’s a good chance he killed Sammy Adler.”
I heard Mohammed laugh and say, “Everybody killed this Adler. A fucking popular guy.”
“What possible reason would he have?” said Lucienne.
“Sammy knew about your father being adopted. And who his birth parents were.”
There was a long pause, long enough I thought the connection had been lost. “Lucienne?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? That your real grandfather was a man named Arthur Moscoe?”
“That’s what Mr. Adler claimed. Without proof.”
“Forget proof for a second. Did Luc know about it?”
“Possibly.”
“Just possibly?”
“We didn’t talk about it.”
“But he’s around you and your father all day. He could have heard something.”
“Like I said, it’s possible.”
“Say he did know. Would he have done something about it? To please your father, eliminate a threat to him?”
“You’re asking me if my own brother is a murderer. Or a mad bomber of some kind.”
“That drawing,” Ryan said. “Ask her about baseball.”
“Lucienne, does your brother have any connection to baseball?”
“In what sense?”
“I don’t know. Did he play it? Was he ever kicked off a team?”
“Luc? No, he was never one for team sports. He was strong but not well coordinated.”
“Did he attend games?
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“There was a drawing in his cabin that resembled a baseball field. A large rectangle with a semicircle down in the left corner.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “But—but that’s impossible,” she said.
“What is?”
“I am looking at an image like that right now.”
“Where?”
“On a monitor at Radio-Canada. They’re showing a map of Parc Maisonneuve, where the parade is ending and the concert will begin. That’s just what it looks like.”
“Hold on a minute. Ryan,” I said, “give me your phone.”
“I don’t believe this,” Mohammed laughed. “More phone calls.”
“He told me to shoot you if you spoke again,” Ryan said, handing me his phone. “Don’t think I need to be told twice.”
I opened his browser and found a satellite map of Parc Maisonneuve. As I zoomed in, I saw images of the park as it normally was, a large green rectangle. Then an image of the way it had been set up for the concert, with a large bandshell in the southwest corner. A half-circle that looked like a baseball infield.
I said to Lucienne, “Get hold of your father.”
“I’ve been trying ever since I got Gabriel’s voice mail but Papa’s phone is turned off. He does that when he’s in interviews.”
“Keep trying. Tell him to stay the hell away from the park.”
“You really think that’s Luc’s target?”
“Why not? It would be the worst atrocity in the history of Montreal. And if blame is placed on Muslim extremists—it would play right into your father’s hands.”
“But Papa could be killed too.”
“Not if the bomb goes off away from the stage.”
The drawing. Rays shooting out of a sunbeam. Not near what had been, in my mind, the infield. Off to the top side. Where he would take out even more of the crowd.
“Oh Christ,” she said. She’d been so cool, so controlled when I’d met her at her office. Now her voice was soft, almost breaking.
“When is your father due to go on?” I asked.
“During Johnny Rivard’s set.”
“Who’s that?”
“An old-time star in Quebec. A rock-and-roller, you would call him. He shares some of our views and agreed to call Papa up at the end of his set.”
“What time?”
“He’s one of the last acts. Radio-Canada expects him to go on around ten.”
It was just after eight.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Not to the concert.”
“Yes. I have to.”
“Wait!”
“For what?” she said.
“Do you have a picture of Luc? Something you can email me?”
“I—yes, of course.”
“Send it,” I said. “Right now.”
As soon as I ended the call, I called Jenn’s cell. Got her voice mail. Fuck!
“Get out of the park,” I said. “The minute you get this message. You and Holly both. Call me and tell me you got this message, okay? But get out of the park first. Get completely clear of it.”
I tried Holly’s phone too. More voice mail. I left her the same message.
I was about to dial Reynald Paquette when a crazy thought took hold of me.
I put my phone away and stowed Ryan’s too, so as not to distract him.
“Change of plan,” I said to Mohammed and Mehrdad. “Forget Sammy Adler for the moment.”
“How can I?” Mohammed said. “No one shuts up about him.”
“I need your help.”
“My help!” Mohammed roared. “To do what? Go fuck yourself? Kill yourself?”
“To stop an attack that will kill hundreds, maybe thousands of people. And made to look like Muslims did it.”
Mehrdad said, “What are you talking about?”
“Have you heard of Laurent Lortie? Québec aux Québécois?”
“Of course,” he said. “I read newspapers. He and his daughter, they are the party of hatemongers and Islamophobia.”
“That was the daughter on the phone just now. And her brother is going to detonate a bomb at tonight’s big concert.” I unfolded the creased pamphlet I had found in the lane outside Sammy’s apartment, the one purportedly from the Quebec Muslim Liberation Front, and handed it to him. “He’s going to put the blame on you Muslims to help his father get elected. By this time tomorrow, the city will be out for blood.”
“The West has been out for Muslim blood for centuries,” Mohammed said.
“Not like this. Nothing like this. Young people are going to die in this blast. Teenagers, children, all civilians.”
“What kind of help are you asking for?” Mehrdad asked.
“Looking for him. And getting two friends of mine out of the park.”
“Watch,” Mohammed said. “He’ll ask you to throw yourself on the bomb while he helps the friends.”
I ignored him and the urge to tell Ryan to let her rip. “You do that, I won’t call the cops here to bust up your deal. The amount of guns you got here, you would do serious time.”
“You call the cops here,” Mohammed said, “there is nowhere you can hide from me. From any jail in the world, I can order you killed.”
“Just help us find him,” I said. “There are seven of you.”
“Let the police do that instead of coming here. That’s where they should be. I pay fucking taxes.”
“I will call them. From the road. Now come on.”
“Cops if I go, cops if I don’t go. I tell you what I think. I think I take my chances right here.”
Mehrdad said, “My men and I will come.”
That got two fast conversations going, one in Dari and the other in Arabic. Mehrdad shushed them. “It’s the best way,” he said. “The wire transfer is complete. We three will come with you to help. Mohammed can stay out of it. No police are called here. Deal?”
CHAPTER 21
We drove out of the industrial park and back toward the bridge, the three Afghans stiff and silent in the back. The smaller of Mehrdad’s helpers
was Rashid, the big one Kamal. When I dialled Paquette’s number, I got voice mail. Same with his cell. Why didn’t anybody answer their phones? What was the point in having one if no one fucking answered?
I had promised Sierra, promised Jenn, that nothing would happen to her, and in trying to keep her out of danger I had plunged her right in the middle of it.
I used the browser on my phone to find the general number for the Major Crime Squad. Someone there said, “Un instant,” and a dial tone burred in my ear.
“Crimes Majeurs,” a man said. “Chênevert à l’appareil.”
Great. The partner from hell. “C’est Jonah Geller.”
It took a second for the name to click, and it must have clicked loudly because he practically snarled in my ear: “Geller? Qu’est-ce que tu veux maintenant?”
“Votre aide.”
“Ah, oui? Avec quoi? Ton Italien?”
“Detective, please—”
“We have an Italian investigator on our team, you know. He explained to me what your friend said. Minchia, he called me, yes? And a few other things? My friend here says they were all big insults.”
“Forget that, okay? Someone is planning to bomb the Fête Nationale concert tonight.”
“Paquette told me you had a crazy story about a bomb builder. Luc Lortie, you said?”
“It’s not a story, it’s the truth.”
“Based on empty bags in someone’s cabin?”
“It’s his cabin. His sister just confirmed it. And the bags held enough ammonium nitrate to build a massive bomb.”
“What reason would he have for this alleged plan?”
“To blame it on Muslim extremists. Help get his father elected. You need to get people out of the park. Then send in bomb technicians. Dogs that sniff out explosives.”
“Or other dog’s assholes. Which would take them straight to you.”
“Shut up and do something, for Christ’s sake. You want this much blood on your hands?”
“I’ll see if I can find Paquette,” he said. “I’m not authorizing nothing just on your word.” And he hung up.
I closed my phone and screamed, “Fuck! How does a moron like this become a cop!”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” Ryan said.
I tried Jenn. I tried Holly. Why weren’t their phones at least on vibrate?
No one called back. Ryan shifted lanes to get around hogs. The arc of the bridge took us closer to the darkening sky. Maybe ninety minutes to detonation. A hundred thousand people in harm’s way.
“How did you get mixed up with Mohammed?” I asked Mehrdad. “Running guns to a gangster, that’s not the impression I had of you.”
“No, you took me for a murderer.”
“I told you, I don’t believe you killed Sammy.”
“Not now, maybe.”
“Back to my question.”
“Mohammed is sending the weapons home to Syria, to help the people fighting the regime there. The odds are so much against them. They need support, modern weapons, and he is providing whatever he can.”
“And you just happened to have a few crates full?” I said.
“No. This is not my business, not usually. But I still have contacts back home, people with access to weapons. And I understand what it is like to fight an enemy who hates you for what you are. Just like you Jews, right?”
“Yes.”
“The fight against the Soviets, that was before my time. When they left in 1989, I was still young, not even a teenager. The Taliban, though, them I remember very well. You want to talk about hate, fanaticism—you won’t find anywhere people more filled with hate. Families like mine, with education, with culture, we became the enemy in our own home. In Kabul, especially. Having to leave our country, run away first to Pakistan, then here. I know what the Syrians are going through. Just because they are not Alawite or members of the Ba’athist party, they have been oppressed, tortured, murdered.”
“You did it all for the cause?”
He smiled and said, “No. I won’t pretend that. Mohammed is paying me very well. And the irony—that is the right word?—the irony is that he first came to me to take money from us. Protection, he called it. There was no way I could pay him. No way I would. That is not how Afghans are. But times have been very hard for us. Since the economy became so bad, people are not buying rugs like they did before. We were in danger of losing our business. So we came to a different arrangement.”
I was going to ask him how exactly that had happened when my cell rang. Unknown number. I was hoping it was Holly Napier, telling me she and Jenn were well away from the stage.
It was Paquette. “What were you telling Chênevert about the Fête concert?”
“That’s Luc’s target. I’m sure of it.”
“Based on what?”
“A drawing I found at his cabin. It’s a sketch of the concert site.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s enough. He wants an atrocity he can blame on Muslim extremists. What better target than this?”
“Where are you now?”
“On the Champlain Bridge. Trying to get to the site. Is there a way you can clear the area?”
“Of a hundred thousand people? Not without a stampede. Or a riot. And Montreal has had enough of those this year. There’s nothing else I can go on?”
“His sister believed me,” I said. “And she knows him better than anyone.”
“Merde. Okay. I’m going to go there myself. When you’re going to get there?”
“Less than half an hour, I hope. Which gives us less than half an hour to find the bomb.”
“How so?”
“I think Luc will set it off while Lortie speaks, which is around ten-fifteen. A singer named Johnny Rivard is supposed to bring him up on stage.”
“Christ.”
“Tell your people to look for a white van, might be parked along the north side of the park.”
“Why there?”
“Luc can blow up the crowd but not the stage where his father will be. Listen, his sister just emailed me his picture. I’m sending it to you right now. Get some plainclothes men to look for him. The van is an older Safari with recent damage on its left side.”
“Which matches the paint on my fucking car,” Ryan said.
“I’m putting the plate number in the email,” I said.
“Good. There’s already a big police presence there. They can start to search the crowd.”
“He’ll be somewhere on the fringes. Close enough to see the blast, far enough he doesn’t get caught in it. Or the stampede it causes.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m on my way. See you at the party.”
Once we were finally off the bridge and heading east on Notre-Dame, I called Jenn’s cell again and was surprised to feel tears in my eyes as I dialled the familiar number. When it went to voice mail, I hesitated. I wanted to tell her I loved her. That I wanted her to be safe and happy, content with Sierra, thriving in her work and her life. All that came out was, “Call me. Please. Tell me you’re safe.”
At ten o’clock, we were at the corner of Sherbrooke and Pie-IX, as close to the park as we were going to get by car. Ryan pulled onto a side street and blocked a hydrant, and we spilled out into the warm night, all five of us, the Afghans looking cramped and hobbled as they pulled themselves of the back seat and took their first steps. We walked north in the shadow of Olympic Stadium, its concrete shell and unfinished tower looming cold and grey against the starless sky. Up ahead to our left was Le Jardin Botanique, Montreal’s botanical gardens, silent, mostly deserted, except for people walking toward the park. Still a few acts to catch.
Still a climax to come.
Straight ahead I could hear electrified fiddle music and see blue strobe lights flashing from the bandshell. Crowds of people walked along with us; even more were streaming out of the park, having already partied long enough. Some looked sunburned, some looked drunk, their arms around each other. Faces painted blue a
nd white, hair dyed bright blue, many wearing identical white T-shirts with blue hearts in which was written, “Québec à nous.”
Quebec for us.
How different was that from Laurent Lortie’s idea that Quebec belonged more to some people than to others?
Across Sherbrooke, the crowd was massed like an army awaiting orders. I’ve been at Canada Day parades, Israeli Independence Day festivals, but never in my life had I seen so many waving flags. Every other person seemed to have one, forming a sea of blue and white, moving back and forth as if a conductor somewhere was directing them with a baton. I saw huge puppets made of papier mâché towering over the crowd. Some were familiar figures from Quebec’s past, like René Lévesque and Maurice Richard. Others went much farther back in time, wearing the rough clothes of voyageurs and explorers.
I tried to make out where the press pen was, but the area close to the stage was completely jammed with people shoulder to shoulder, bouncing up and down to the music, waving their arms, transported by the sound, the closeness of others, the community around them.
They could all be dead in minutes if we didn’t find Luc’s van. If that was the vehicle he was using to deliver the blast. It could also turn out to be something entirely different: something stolen, rented, borrowed or bought.
“Mr. Geller!” a woman cried.
Lucienne Lortie was moving along the sidewalk toward me, pushing people aside, ignoring their angry glances. Her face still bore pancake makeup from the television interview she had been preparing for. Tears had streaked down her cheeks at some point, turning the powder to something like clay. “Have you seen my father? Or Luc?”
“We just got here.”
“I have to find them,” she said, her chin trembling. “My father, I think, is waiting behind the stage until Johnny Rivard goes on. My brother—he could be anywhere.”
“We’ll find him,” I said. “Now stand a little to your right.”
“For what?”
“Just hold still.” I took out my cell and took her picture with the stage and its blue lights clear in the background.
“What’s that for?”
“Just something I might need. Go find your father. And keep him off the stage. If Luc is waiting for him to go on before he sets off the explosion, maybe it will buy us some time.”
Miss Montreal Page 21