Within half an hour of the squad car coming to pick her up, she was in pieces again. A two hour meeting to explain away a lifetime. She was back again to frantically working out what she would say. Where would she even start? Would she open with how sorry she was or just plough into explaining then apologise later? Would she hug him first, or again wait till later and the moment felt right? Or, if she felt the same as right now, would she just stare at him dumbly with her whole body shaking – too numb to put into words the nightmare she’d been through to finally get to see him – then break down into tears and weep out her catharsis on his shoulder before she could even utter a single word.
Elena kept her eyes closed for a moment and listened to her own breathing as she sunk deeper down into her own private darkness, trying to keep it even, get her nerves steady again. They’d be hitting the city outskirts soon and she’d have to put on the blacked-out headset: she’d have a couple more hours then for her own private contemplation. Wished she could be so brave. She thought she might get some images from the chine to guide her, tell her what to do, but there was no longer anything there. Only darkness. She was on her own.
‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’ Roman hissed into his mobile. He’d already pressed ‘end call’ from speaking to Jean-Paul. He gave the phone one last clench before tucking it back in his inside pocket.
‘We got company,’ he said in a flat tone to Massenat.
‘Yeah, I gathered. Either it’s Maria’s mother or someone else you’re not to keen on.’
‘Look, Frank – leave the fucking jokes to me, okay?’ Roman was slow in pulling his stare from Massenat to look blankly ahead again through the car windscreen. His temples ached with tension, and he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘Some fucking bright torpedo from Toronto Jean-Paul wants to ride along with us. Santa-fucking-something, one of Giacomelli’s golden boys.’
‘Oh, right.’
The silence following said it all. They had a problem. Roman cursed Jean-Paul: either he suspected something, or just wanted to make doubly sure everything went right. All these years of being pushed deeper into the background, but this was the final insult: when it came to something important, one of Giacomelli’s pet school monitors sent along to keep tabs on him.
Roman had protested, but not too strongly – that would have made Jean-Paul all the more suspicious. Roman said that he already had one of Roubilliard’s best along to fill the last place on the plane. Jean-Paul fired back that they didn’t come any better than this guy and, besides, they were relying on Roubilliard too much as it was: the pilot plus a few more of his men at the other end when they discovered the plane’s destination. Anyway, it was all cut and dried. ‘Art has already agreed to send him – and I wouldn’t want to let him down. He’d be upset.’
Let down. Upset. Roman felt the extra pressure like a leaden shoulder yoke. Giacomelli wasn’t the sort of person you upset. Jean-Paul probably thought he was being clever, the perfect dilemma to keep him in check: don’t think of stepping out of line, because now you’ll not only be putting my nose out of joint but Art Giacomelli’s as well. But Jean-Paul had no idea the extent of that dilemma. Jean-Paul’s death would be bad news as it was to Giacomelli, though he’d put that down to Cacchione. But one of Giacomelli’s own going down was quite another thing, and Giacomelli would no doubt then also link the two and point the finger at Roman.
Roman was careful to shield his worries when forty minutes later he greeted ‘Santa Dave’, but with each passing minute of weighing his options in between his nerves had pulled tauter. One more thing to worry about just when he didn’t need it, and no simple solution that he could see. If he had any remaining doubt or guilt about what he was doing, it went in that moment: once Jean-Paul was gone, he wouldn’t have to worry any more about dancing to his tune.
Thirty-five minutes later they were rolling, following an unmarked RCMP grey Buick Century with Elena Waldren accompanied by two plain-clothed officers Roman didn’t recognize. No Michel Chenouda visible.
As they took the turn-off for the Pont Victoria, Funicelli realized they were probably heading for St Hubert airport. It took just under thirty minutes to get there. Funicelli was happy that it wasn’t one of the major airports: better and closer access to the perimeter fence, and less aircraft activity. He observed patiently through night-sight binoculars for almost twenty minutes before he saw them emerge and head towards a plane: a Piper Saratoga.
‘Okay, gotya. Number is: SXR35467.’
Roman relayed the number immediately to Guy Campion, waiting the last thirty minutes in a phone kiosk two blocks from Dorchester Boulevard. He made a note of the number and type of aircraft, but had to return to his office to make the enquiry. An access code number had to be given by computer to get the information from the ATC* central computer, but it was generic for the main server at Dorchester Boulevard. Campion was confident that it couldn’t be traced.
He keyed in the aircraft type, registration number and place and time of departure, and asked for its destination. Two minutes later it came up on screen: Cochrane, Northern Ontario. Campion left the building to make the return call, said only those few words, and hung up. The whole exercise from Roman’s first call had taken only twelve minutes.
Roman phoned Roubilliard with the destination. After a moment consulting a map, the closest chapter Roubilliard could see were the Lightning Bars based in Timmins, about fifty minutes bike-ride away. ‘I’ve done a bit of business with them before, but best thing is I phone and see if they’re up for it. The other option is a team I know well based in La Sarre, but it’s almost two hours away.’
‘Mmmm. Cutting it too fine to their plane landing,’ Roman mulled. ‘Let me know how you go with the Timmins guys.’
They were close to meeting up with Mel Desmarais at Point aux Trembles airfield by the time Roubilliard called back with the news that he had a green light from the Lightning Bars. ‘Their head honcho, a guy called Jake Kirkham, says that he’ll go himself with two men. Sounded keen: don’t think they get too much excitement up there in Timmins. They’ll watch for the aircraft landing and follow from there. So maybe a couple of hours to get back to you with where they’ve gone.’
‘Yeah, looks like it.’ Roman checked his watch. Their own flight would probably be about fifty minutes to an hour behind, so they’d learn the final destination halfway through. Forty minutes or so to check the lay of the land and prepare, then they’d move in. ‘Catch you later.’
With the quick-fire volley of calls back and forth, Roman’s adrenalin was racing. The feeling that he was in control, in the hot seat. His left hand tapped repeatedly on his thigh, beating out the rhythm of the mounting nervous tension in his body. As they swung into the Point aux Trembles airfield, a figure waved as the car headlamps fell on him. Trench coat with fur collar, wild wavy-red hair and beard, and a large silver crucifix dangling from one ear.
‘All we need – the fucking Red Baron,’ Roman remarked, bringing a chuckle from the car to help ease the tension. The plane behind Desmarais looked hardly big enough to carry the five of them and the wind was still sharp, flurrying tree branches and Desmarais’ hair in its wake.
There was only one thing left to make that control complete, Roman thought, looking at ‘Santa Dave’ ahead of him as they got in the small plane. There’d been too much else going on for them to exchange anything more than a few words – but now he needed to draw ‘Santa Dave’ out more, get him to open up. Like an undertaker measuring, try and weigh up whether or not he could get away with taking out ‘Santa Dave’ without at the same time making a coffin for himself courtesy of Giacomelli. There wasn’t much time left now for Roman to decide what to do.
Barry Crowley sent Sally to escort Lorena from Montreal. She had the best French in his department and he felt it was a task more suited to a woman’s touch.
But apart from light, incidental conversation about what food or drinks Lorena wanted or the in-fl
ight movie – Sally felt stuck for conversation.
Normally with an abduction or missing person, she’d have been able to ask if they were looking forward to returning home. Although Crowley hadn’t gone into detail, he’d shared enough that she knew there was some problem with things at home. Crowley had a plan afoot to tackle it, which also involved sending a couple of officers to see Lorena’s sister at Durham University. It was a subject to be avoided.
So all that was left was to ask a few tame questions about what she’d seen in Montreal and whether she liked the big brown bear in a Mountie’s uniform Sally had brought for her at the airport during the two-hour wait for the return flight.
‘Yes, he’s very nice. And very big – probably the biggest teddy bear I’ve ever had.’ Lorena looked down wistfully for a second. ‘Though I haven’t had one for a couple of years now.’
‘Right.’ Sally nodded and smiled. The measure of how much Crowley knew about ten-year old girl’s tastes: his own daughter was only seven and he probably thought the fluffy toy stage lasted until they were young teenagers. But he had made a strong point of her picking one up, and also to make sure that it was large. ‘Something that could have been given to her by the Canadian police rather than Mrs Waldren, and could sit taking pride of place in her bedroom.’ Bear in a Mountie’s uniform was ideal. Crowley was worried that if Ryall thought it was from Elena Waldren, he wouldn’t let Lorena keep it.
Though while Sally had tip-toed around whether Lorena was looking forward to returning home, she suddenly realized that the mention of the bear was a reminder of what the girl had yet to face. Lorena was doing a good job of putting on a brave face, but as she looked ahead towards the movie screen, Sally could clearly see the shadows working beneath the surface. The girl was petrified.
Sally didn’t know what else to say, so after a moment just reached across and gently clasped Lorena’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be okay.’
THIRTY-THREE
‘And she’s already left?’ Claude Donatiens asked.
‘Yes, just about forty minutes ago.’ Michel glanced through his office window to the squad room clock. Seventy percent of the staff had already left, but a faint hubbub rose from those remaining. He’d made so many calls in the past few hours that some of the activity had spilled over. ‘She’s staying overnight and returning tomorrow.’
‘And you’re sure that’s she’ll bring a message for us.’
‘Yes, sure. That was the deal made. Messages for both you and his fiancée.’ Michel had been more concerned with Georges’ fast-growing cold-turkey with Simone, but he’d extended it to cover his parents as well. In only a few months Georges could start to feel the same way about them. The ideal halfway house: Georges gets to meet his long-lost mother and gets messages to his loved-ones as well. Two birds with one stone, and who better for poignancy to pass on the messages. Michel dropped his voice a note. ‘There was just too much danger attached to either yourselves or Simone seeing Georges. This was the best compromise I felt we could make. I hope you understand our position.’
‘Yes, I… I understand. I just hope she keeps to what was agreed and brings the message.’
‘I’m sure she will.’ Listening to the strain in Claude Donatiens’ voice, Michel wondered how much he really did understand, or any parent could. After the note, nothing but wilderness. No contact at all. It was a pretty poor substitute: a single note to fill the space of the long years they’d never see him. Again Michel felt a twinge in his chest at what he’d done, but then what other option had there been? With Georges dead, that loss would have been more final and heart-rending. ‘I’ve already spoken to Georges about the message, and it’s very important to him. And I’ve also got one of my men there to remind him. I’m sure it won’t get forgotten.’
There was a faint buzz and crackle on the line towards the end, and Claude said that he was sorry, ‘I didn’t quite catch that last part. We had a telephone engineer call a couple of days back about a fault, but it seems worse than ever.’
‘I said I’ve got one of my men there as well, so I’m sure the message won’t –’ Michel stopped mid-track, a lightning bolt running through him. ‘What was that you said? A telephone engineer?’ Michel’s voice was suddenly high and strained.
‘Yes…. uuh, called a couple of days back. Maybe three.’ Claude stumbled slightly with the fresh sharpness to Michel’s tone.
‘I thought I told you to let me know if anything unusual happened. Anyone called to your house out of the blue.’ Michel’s voice was raised; he was almost shouting. A couple of heads turned form the squad room.
‘Yes, but… but this happened before you told us. Before it had even been announced about Georges’ attempted abduction and him testifying.’
‘How long before?’
‘Well, uh, the day before… maybe two days.’
The lightning bolt ran deeper through, hit the pit of his stomach. He felt physically sick, and his hands were shaking so hard that for a moment he feared he might drop the receiver. He should have realized! He’d marked the announcement of Georges testifying as the pivotal point, but Georges had already been missing two days and his stepparents’ home was a logical place for him to make contact. Michel slowly closed his eyes. There was still a chance he might be wrong.
He answered, ‘I don’t know yet’ to Claude quizzing ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘…I’ve got a few calls to make.’ He signed off hastily, looked up Bell Canada’s number, and dialled straight out, giving them the Beaconsfield address and approximate time to check their records for an engineer calling. They said it would take five minutes or so. They’d phone him straight back.
Michel burst out of his office like a whirlwind. He spotted Maury in the corner and signalled him. ‘Grab a guy from Dauphin’s department who knows anything remotely about electronics and head out with him to this address in Beaconsfield.’ Michel hastily wrote down the Donatiens’ address. ‘And if he’s got anyone else spare, they should at the same time head here to check.’ Michel wrote down the Montclaire hotel address underneath and ripped the page from the notepad. ‘I’m looking for telephone bugs planted at each – like now! Pronto! So separate cars to each if Dauphine can spare anyone.’
Maury grabbed his jacket from his chair-back as Michel whirled away. One of his office lines was ringing. Michel grabbed it on the third ring. It was Bell Canada. No, they had no record of a call made at that address or indeed in that street in the last week.
‘Last noted service call in that street was eighteen days ago, at number 1426.’
Michel’s stomach sank like an express elevator, and for a moment he felt dizzy, his legs unsteady. His own voice sounded distant as he said ‘Thanks’ and hung up. Maury was only halfway down the corridor, and already he knew most of the answer. But it was enough to alert S-18 to stop Elena Waldren before she got there, or get a message to the safe-house. By the time Maury got out to Beaconsfield to fully confirm a phone bug, it could already be too late.
But when he got hold of the S-18 control room operator, she advised him that she didn’t have any of that information on her computer, the only people who had that information or could authorise contact were Superintendent Mundy and Inspector Graydon.
‘Then put me through to one of them.’
‘They’re not available right now. Inspector Graydon’s on a week’s break, but I might be able to get a message to Superintendent Mundy later on tonight if it’s urgent.’
Michel ascertained what she meant by ‘later’, then asked her name. He eased a weary sigh. ‘Look Constable Fuller, or Melanie – whatever you’d prefer. In two hours it will be too late. It’s that simple. The mark that Mundy and your department have gone to so much trouble to protect will be dead! Unless you can somehow get a message to Mundy right now, or find some other way to contact the safe-house or the team heading out there now to warn them.’
She started stumbling under the pressure. ‘I… I’m sorry. I’m doing t
he best I can with what I have. The operation is top security-coded, and there’s just no other information on screen.’
‘I know. I know.’ Michel backed off a step, clutching at his hair. He’d simply got the stone-wall protection he wanted, and there wasn’t a single frame of reference he could think of to guide her. Two S-18 men who apparently made up next month’s guard shift had flown up from Ottawa to pick Elena Waldren up from her hotel and escort her all the way. No idea where they were flying from and no names; nor were any exchanged in the few conversations he’d had with the safe house. That was the whole ethos of the operation.
Constable Fuller drew fresh breath. ‘All I can do is try and raise Mundy. He says that he’s not available – but I don’t whether that means he simply can’t be contacted, or just doesn’t want to be. If he starts shouting, I’ll blame you.’
‘Thanks. But quick, huh. Every second counts on this.’
‘I think I’ve got that clear. I’ll phone you back in ten minutes if I can’t raise him on his phone or bleeper – sooner if I can.’
‘So just the four jobs, huh?’
‘Yeah.’ Santagata shrugged. ‘And then this one now.’
Roman’s mind was racing. Four contracts? Didn’t show much of an allegiance. But then if they were key contracts, ‘Santa Dave’ could be one of Giacomelli’s stars.
‘All pretty much the same as this?’
‘One the same, backing up. The other three hits.’
They fell silent again. Roman kept his gaze straight ahead, watching wisps of mist drift past the plane’s window as they battled through the night sky. He’d asked the questions nonchalantly, as if it was only of passing interest; and he didn’t want to press too hard or ask too many questions. Santagata might latch on that he was angling at something. Guys like Santagata usually had natural antennae for warning signs: it’s what kept them alive. Roman could feel Santa Dave’s eyes on him for a moment before he looked back ahead again.
The Last Witness Page 52