And she felt tired, so tired: the endless search and chase of the past days only to hit the brick wall of the Donatiens’ calamitous news, then the jolt of the policeman by her car right on its back. She felt totally drained, no reserves left to struggle on.
She leant her weight heavier against the wall by the phone and softly exhaled. ‘I think you’re right. I should send Lorena back. With nothing on Ryall and the sessions heading nowhere – no point in holding on to her here any more.’
Gordon said ‘Sorry,’ he didn’t catch the last part, and Elena turned into the wall to shield from the echoing bustle behind and repeated herself. Gordon asked when, and she said ‘Probably first thing tomorrow. I think it’s too late to arrange anything tonight.’ Then after a second another thought struck her: ‘The only problem is that as soon as I send her back, Crowley will know where I am and alert the Canadian police.’ She felt unsettled having voiced it: that the only reason she might keep Lorena there was to serve her own aims, once again she was putting those first.
‘Well, if you didn’t send her back till tomorrow morning – you’d probably get a good twenty-four hours grace overall, what with the flight and then time for Crowley to make contact.’
‘I’d probably need a hell of a lot more than that to sort out this mess with Georges: several days or even weeks, that is if I’m going to be able to get to see him at all.’ Elena glanced around to see Lorena heading back towards their table from her direction. She must have been back at the food counter for something or to the toilets to one side.
‘When will you know for sure?’ Gordon asked.
‘I arranged to call Claude Donatiens in just over an hour. He said he’d have phoned the police by then and got their initial reaction – not only for me possibly being able to see Georges, but if and when they might be able to see him.’
‘I know it sounds trite – but good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And if you are able to go for it, you appreciate the risk you’re running – because you’re certainly on police computers somewhere.’
‘I realize.’ She’d thought of little else since leaving the Donatiens and then hearing about Crowley’s new deadline. Originally, her fear was that as soon as she made contact with the police about Georges, her name would come up on the RCMP’s computer. Now it was like Russian roulette: it might come up, it might not. But if she didn’t make contact before Crowley’s deadline, even that chance would be gone: the gun would once again be loaded with six bullets.
‘There’s also the possibility that Crowley was bluffing just to create an extra pressure deadline: he could have put out a grade one alert immediately.’
‘I see.’ And now a factor she hadn’t considered: the gun could already be fully loaded. In that moment, doubt once again seized her: she was crazy to think she could go through with it, she turned to a quivering jelly just at the sight of a passing squad car – she’d never be able to brave contacting the police over Georges. She should just throw in the towel and head back to England with Lorena. ‘Well, maybe Claude Donatiens will just say it’s a ‘no go’, so it’s not something I’ll even have to –’ Elena broke off as she looked around: Lorena wasn’t at their table. Her eyes darted like a pin-ball: not at the food counters, not by the toilets, not by the shops to one side. Then she surveyed quickly back through the other tables and the crowds milling around. She was nowhere to be seen! ‘Oh Jesus!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Lorena. I left her at a table… and now she’s gone. I can’t see her!’ Her breath was falling hard and fast. ‘Sorry, Gordon – I’ve got to go now. Got to find her.’
She hung up halfway through Gordon replying ‘I understand, we’ll–’ and started working her way deeper through the tables, trying to see if Lorena was perhaps obscured by some of the plants and pillars. Nothing. She recalled then Lorena heading back to their table from her direction: Lorena had probably heard her talking, heard her mention sending her back to England and Ryall!
Oh God, that’s what this was all about. She became more frantic, her step quickening and her breath staccato as she scanned furtively through the milling crowds, then rushed and checked the washroom and the shops in each direction, finally stopping at the fourteenth checked: Lorena surely wouldn’t have gone this far and she’d no longer be able to see her if she suddenly appeared and returned to their table. Still nothing, nothing. Elena returned to where she’d started by the phone, still frantically scanning. Her breath fell laboured and heavy with the exertion and panic, and her chest ached as if a nail had been hammered home dead centre. She’d asked herself what else could possibly go wrong on the way from the Donatiens, a whimsical escape valve from the ludicrous, impossible problems with Georges: now she had her answer.
She stood in the same position with her breath easing as her stomach sank deeper with each passing minute, until finally after almost fifteen minutes she felt nauseous, the rest of her body little more than an empty, numb shell with the realization that Lorena probably wasn’t returning. She’d lost her.
Grey-blue water iced over, white in patches where the snow had settled from last night. A ring of pines encircled in an oval half a mile away, stretching into the distance as far as one could see.
Right now the snow and ice gave the lake a hostile, barren feel, but Georges imagined that in a month or so that would all melt and it would be almost idyllic. Azure blue water and rich green pines stretching endlessly, straight out of a ‘Canada Wilds’ vacation brochure. Difficult for Georges to think of it in terms of being his prison for the next six or seven months, maybe longer.
He guessed from the ice on the lake and the dusting of snow overnight that they were somewhere further north: Northern Quebec or Ontario, perhaps even Manitoba. The ice and snow had mostly gone around Montreal, but further north it took longer to shift.
That, apart from the two-hour small plane journey and twenty-minute car ride following, was the only clue to where they were. He’d had to put on a headset with blacked-out visor the minute they were airborne and wasn’t allowed to remove it until they’d arrived. Chac, Chenouda’s side-kick designated to accompany him for the first two weeks, wore the same, as would Chenouda apparently when he came out for his first briefing in a couple of weeks. S-18 were taking no risks. It wasn’t a matter of trust, Chenouda enlightened when they’d initially run through procedure, it was just the fact that the three of them, by necessity, would have contact with other RCMP staff over his investigation and could inadvertently give away clues to his location. Any such contact by Georges would obviously only be by phone: secure line, Chenouda was eager to add.
The others on the plane out, the pilot and two Detective Constables, were all S-18 travelling without headsets: the safe house was already well known to them and they’d stay with him one month on, one off, swapping duty with an alternate set of three S-18 guards. Chenouda went to great lengths to explain how they were a clandestine elite, cut off from all other RCMP contact or even discussions with their own families about their movements. ‘The secrets of the Kingdom have got to rest with someone, and their record is second to none. They’ve never lost anyone yet.’
Georges knew that Chenouda meant well, but it was going to take a while for his unease to shift, if it went at all; and the danger he was in was only part of it. This level of remoteness, being cut off from all other human contact, was totally alien to him; he was a city dweller, used to the hustle, bustle of downtown Montreal and a crammed, stopwatch-timed business day. This lakeside retreat with nothing but empty time on his hands was going to take some getting used to and, whether partly because of the time to dwell on it or not, already he was starting to miss Simone.
What hadn’t helped was his phone conversation with Chenouda the day before. The mention of the secure line they were on led him to raise the subject that he’d like to phone Simone. ‘One last call, a sort of goodbye, if you will. I never did get to say goodbye to her, you see. And also t
o tell her that I was sorry and put her mind at ease that I wouldn’t be testifying directly against her father – that this was all just about Roman.’
Chenouda was vehemently against the idea. Simone would be one of the first they’d expect him to phone, along with his parents. ‘We can use whatever scrambling and encryption codes we like – but a skilled guy the other end can always crack it.’ And under no circumstances did he want Georges giving away what he might or might not say in testimony. ‘It’ll just give the Lacaille’s defence lawyer ammunition to use against us.’
His three S-18 guards – Clive, Steve and Russell, he’d been given only their first names – had done everything to make him feel at home, and the house was spacious and comfortable enough to stave off claustrophobia: a stunning wood and glass contemporary with five bedrooms, family and games room with snooker table, and even a small gym and jacuzzi. A first-floor verandah stretched its entire length facing the lake, and on his first look around in daylight it was easy to see why this particular house had been chosen: the lake ran each side and then cut back in to join a hundred yards back, so that effectively the house was on a peninsula with only a single bridge connecting. And the study was apparently crammed with monitoring equipment, with the guards taking it in turn to watch its screens: views over the lake from all directions and the connecting bridge, plus motion and weight sensors on the bridge and dotted around the first five metres of land in from the lake.
This was a fortress; and as much as that made him feel more assured about his safety, he couldn’t escape the final key-turn that gave to his sense of isolation. He was kept apart from the world outside as much as it was kept from him. A gilded and comfortable prison, but a prison nevertheless.
He shuddered slightly, recalling his feelings as he’d first approached the house. With the blackened visor and the bumpiness of the last stretch of track before the bridge – suddenly he was back in the van with the hood on. He wasn’t sure what upset him most recalling it now: that in those moments he’d faced death head-on, given up all hope, or than now it represented his last moment of freedom. The pivotal event after which his life could never be the same again.
Roman sat with Funicelli in his car forty yards back from Elena Waldren’s hotel on Rue Berri. Roman had instructed Funicelli not to break off from watching her, not for a second, so the only option had been for Roman to come and collect what he had on tape so far.
Roman couldn’t resist a faint smile as the cassette tape rolled. Funicelli had related the substance of this woman’s conversation at the Donatiens when they’d spoken almost two hours ago, and he’d immediately relayed it to Jean-Paul – but listening to it first hand the impact came home harder, tugged at the heart-strings. Separated at birth, the son she hadn’t seen in twenty-nine years. Pure gold-dust. If anyone had a shot at seeing Donatiens, it was her.
The light was fading fast as Roman listened, and Funicelli found himself squinting slightly, wondering if the street-light was enough to see if she came out of the hotel or whether he’d have to pull closer.
‘The strangest thing was with the girl,’ Funicelli commented absently. ‘I saw everything from where I was… saw exactly where she’d gone. But I couldn’t say nothing. Makes you wonder what was going on there.’
‘Yeah, strange.’ Roman was too absorbed with the tape to shift his concentration much.
When the Donatiens started talking about family background and how long they’d lived in their current house, Roman fast-forwarded. On the second wind-on, Funicelli prompted as Claude Donatiens’ voice on the phone came across.
‘This is where he phones the RCs to find out the lay of the land.’
Roman re-wound a fraction. After some preambles with another RCMP officer, Roman recognized Chenouda’s voice straightaway. Chenouda commented that he was glad of the call, because they were in fact about to call the family anyway to brief about the current situation.
‘We’ve instructed your son not under any circumstances to make contact with you, because you’d be one of the first places the Lacailles would look. So if anyone contacts you asking questions, anything suspicious at all – you’re to let us know. Anything like that already?’
Roman held his breath and looked sharply at Funicelli; but Funicelli looked relaxed, had already heard the tape.
‘No… not that I can think of,’ Claude Donatiens answered.
Probably his wife hadn’t even mentioned the telephone engineer calling; or if she had, he didn’t see it as suspicious.
‘Well, that’s good. Good. It’s probably too early yet for them to react, they’re still scrambling for what to do.’
Roman nodded and smiled at Funicelli. ‘Always said he had big balls… but they sure ain’t fucking crystal.’
‘But you’ll let me know the moment anything changes?’
‘Yes, certainly – I will.’ Then Claude Donatiens came onto the main reason for his call: if and when they might be able to see their son. He sounded hesitant; Chenouda’s opening about Georges being instructed not to contact them had obviously put him off his stride, bade the worst.
But Chenouda listened patiently and didn’t completely pour cold water on the idea. He explained that the idea of the programme was that their son would have no contact with family or friends. ‘But that’s not to say that a meeting couldn’t be arranged at a later stage – if we can put the right safeguards in place.’
It was difficult to tell if Chenouda meant what he said or was letting the Donatiens down softly, didn’t want to tackle right now the thorny truth that they might never get to see their son again.
Roman sat forward as Claude Donatiens came to the topic of the woman who’d visited them. Chenouda was off balance at first and it took a couple of questions for him to get things clear in his mind. Then he was circumspect, raising the coincidence of the timing.
‘Surely this comes under what I mentioned initially – things out of the ordinary, suspicious. People making contact out of the blue and asking questions.’
‘No… no, I don’t think so. She came across as very genuine, and she showed us some papers from England. Birth certificate, something too from a search agency. She’s been looking for him for a month or so… way before any of this happened.’
Chenouda fell silent for a second. ‘Well, whether or not she’s genuine I suggest you leave to me to decide – after I’ve had her checked out and seen for myself what papers she’s got.’ Faint resigned sigh as Chenouda asked and made note of her name and where she was staying. ‘I’ll speak to her.’
Roman glanced up at the hotel ahead. Perhaps she was talking to Chenouda right now: if only they could get a bug inside there as well. The uncertainty, not knowing for sure, was stifling, had his nerves on a razor’s edge.
He told Funicelli to phone him the minute anything new broke or she left the hotel, then took the tapes and headed off to see Jean-Paul.
Jean-Paul looked up thoughtfully as they finished. ‘What do you think?’
Roman shrugged. ‘I think that if she lays it on thick like she did with Claude Donatiens – we’ve got a chance. Thing is, it’s our best and only chance right now.’
Jean-Paul nodded. ‘Maybe so. But this Chenouda sounds more than a little reticent, was very non-committal.’
‘Yeah, true. It’s all in the balance – could go either way.’ But Roman was more confident than he made out, because what Jean-Paul couldn’t take account of was how Chenouda arranging Donatiens’ abduction could now play a vital card in their favour. Cutting Donatiens off from his family, friends and past was bad enough – but being responsible for him never being able to meet his natural mother added an all the more poignant, crushing burden; hopefully the straw to break the camels back.
Roman had been blind with fury when it first dawned on him what Chenouda had done. Not just the sheer cheek of it or that someone else apart from him was suddenly playing under the table with an extra deck, but the fact that he’d been first to fall in the fram
e – which Chenouda would have known all too well. He’d been made to look a fool and a liar with Jean-Paul. Despite his protestations last time and him making good now, Roman was sure Jean-Paul still harboured doubt. Chenouda had probably had a good laugh up his sleeve at that: getting Donatiens to testify and at the same time putting him and Jean-Paul at each other’s throats. But now hopefully there’d be some divine pay-back in store for Chenouda.
Roman grimaced tightly at Jean-Paul. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see which way he finally jumps.’
‘If there was any way to avoid sending you back, I would, Lorena. But there’s nowhere left for me to go with this. Can’t you see that?’
‘Yes, I… I suppose I can.’ Lorena eyes flickered down and she bit lightly at her bottom lip.
The first acceptance, perhaps even a shade of guilt at the trouble she’d caused. But it had been a tough few hours to get there, Elena contemplated.
Lorena had heard her on the phone and at first thought of running away. She went out of the mall and got as far as sixty yards down St Catherine St before the confusion of people and traffic passing made her realize that she’d be lost and alone in a strange city. She returned to the mall and stood inside a shop doorway, trembling, trying to frantically think of what else she might do. She could just see Elena from where she was, but was careful to duck inside the shop when Elena turned. Then, as Elena appeared about to give up and go, she rushed over and clutched on to her and burst into tears, saying she was sorry, sorry, sorry. Between the tears she explained what had happened and begged and pleaded for Elena not to send her back tomorrow.
The Last Witness Page 46