by Mary Moylum
The young man’s face crumpled at the sight of the FBI and RCMP agents entering the shop right behind Nick and Rocco. He looked close to tears. “I have nothing to do with that. I only photocopy what I’m told to copy. Owner handles that stuff. Not me. Please! It’s true!”
Nick could see he was telling the truth. He took him into a back office to question him further.
“Your name?”
“Ismet Bakir, sir.”
“Where’re you from?”
“Turkey, sir. I’m studying at the university. Tuition is expensive and here is the only job I could get. Please believe, sir!”
As an interrogator, Nick was relentless. It was clear the clerk didn’t know much, but any information he could get out of him would be useful. This kid was Turkish, the detainee he had interviewed in New Jersey was Sri Lankan, Li Mann Vu was Vietnamese. International borders were either disappearing faster than he thought or the case was morphing in three or four different directions. The implications of it all made his head spin. In frustration, he smacked the palm of his hand across the employee’s face.
“What’s the name of your employer?” asked Nick.
“Thu Li Mann. Sir, I only work in this print shop,” howled the boy, tears running down his face. “I only see owner twice in all fifteen months working here. He comes when shop is closed and I gone home. This is true, I swear!”
Bingo, thought Nick. Thu Li Mann and Vu Li Mann were too close to be two different people.
“Tell me what you know about the man who hired you. This Thu Li Mann. Where does he live? Does he live alone? Does he have family or friends here in Windsor? Have you seen or know of his family or friends?”
“I know nothing about him. Nothing!” Ismet howled.
“Rocco, get the sketch of Li Mann. Show it to him.”
The boy held the sketch between trembling fingers. “It could be Mr. Li. I think maybe it is. He hardly ever comes. My job is to run the photocopy shop for customers, students. I print and they pay. My pay-cheque is deposited directly in my savings account. It’s the truth, sir.”
Several minutes later, Rocco butted in on Nick’s interrogation session. “I ran him through the computer, boss. He’s clean. No priors and picked up his Canadian citizenship card last year.”
One of the FBI agents handed Nick several blank identity documents. “Found these in the back room.”
Nick saw that they were blank drivers’ licences and health cards.
“Too bad we can’t deport the sucker.” Nick gave his terrified victim a chilling look. “Okay. Watch him. I’ll talk to him again later. Seize every piece of paper. I want bank statements, cancelled cheques, customer files, shipping records and tax information.”
The agents had boxed at least two hundred forged blank Canadian citizenship cards, forged American and Canadian passports, three hundred lamination kits to produce European passports, and an assortment of blank identity documents.
Nick closely examined the five photocopiers. All top of the line. He noticed a particular model of Canon photocopier. Dubois had told him that certain organized crime groups favoured that model in printing fifty and hundred dollar bills that were a reasonable facsimile to the real thing. “Get his ass back in here again,” he ordered.
Rocco dragged Ismet Bakir in for another round with Nick.
A thought struggled to surface in Nick’s mind as he stared at the packed boxes. It glimmered in his subconscious but it refused to emerge into the light. He felt only frustration which he took out on the frightened young man. “You do know something,” Nick raised his hand again. “I want to hear it. How did you get the job?”
“Advertise in campus newspaper.” His voice rose and cracked. “It’s true what I say. Job in paper and I apply. I get two hundred dollars pay a week. Money deposit automatically in my bank account.”
“The bank records for the business. Where are they kept?”
“The owner takes them away once a month.”
“When was the last time he was here?”
“Last month. But I did not see him.”
Nick pulled out a photograph of Sun Sui. “Look carefully, Ismet. Ever see him before?”
“No. Never. I swear it!”
Damn! Couldn’t link Sui to the printing of phony documents.
Nick studied Bakir. He was a permanent resident, grateful to have a job, who wasn’t going to rock the boat by asking his employer too many questions. His job of running the photocopy shop supported his education at the nearby university. It wasn’t a crime to keep one’s nose down in order to keep a job.
“This your correct apartment address here?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Mr. Bakir, I’m letting you go on your own recognizance. Your employer was involved in serious crimes and your employment here makes you an accomplice. My suggestion is to find yourself a lawyer. You’ll be hearing from us when we need you to answer more questions pertaining to your employment in a criminal organization. Because membership or participation in any kind of organized crime activity is a serious offence in both Canada and the U.S. In the meantime, if the owner contacts you, you call me right away at this number. If I find out that you didn’t comply, I’m going to have your ass deported back to Turkey. Hear me?”
“I will. I too grateful.”
Before Nick could stop him, Bakir fell to his knees and kissed the tips of Nick’s shoes. Nick backed away fast, and barked an order to his officers. “Tell the driver to back the Ryder truck at the back of the store. Then I want you guys to load all the cardboard boxes and shut the place down.”
Nick could see from the sheer volume of documents that clearly, what he was fighting wasn’t just the crime of illegals entering North America. This was a business. These people made incredible profits smuggling people wherever they wanted to go. Some governments made it too easy to obtain machine-readable travel documents, passports, visas and identification cards. In Canada, you could apply for a passport in the mail. If you were running a criminal organization, you couldn’t get a better system than that, Nick thought cynically. Li Mann’s passports and work permits were like tickets anyone could buy. There were even FedEx envelopes for out-of-town customers who needed their phony documents in a hurry.
On one hand he felt elated that he had finally connected with his quarry, Li Mann. The evidence — the phony papers they had seized here and in Montreal were sufficient to charge Li Mann Vu with running an international human trafficking network that spanned the globe. On the other hand, he felt weary and beaten by the sheer volume of evidence. And what good was it if he couldn’t find Li Mann Vu? And he had nothing, not one shred of evidence, to prove that Li Mann and Sun Sui were in any way connected. Riffling through a stack of papers, Nick swore under his breath. On the one hand he had a suspect — he knew where Sun Sui was, and he could arrest him at any time — but he didn’t have enough evidence.
When he stepped out the door a microphone was thrust in his face. News of the raid had brought out the press. Looking straight into the television cameras, Nick threw out one scrap. “All I can say at this juncture is, the raid today was in connection with an ongoing criminal and immigration investigation of a people smuggling operation which claimed the life of a senior immigration officer. Beyond that, I can’t get into specifics.”
As he loaded a few confiscated items into the jeep, he had the maddening sense that Li Mann Vu was watching him from somewhere. He used so many names: Thu Li Mann. Thu Mann Vu. Lee Mann Vu. It seemed that every time Nick took a step forward, the ground shifted under his feet and he was back where he started.
Before getting on the highway for the trip back to his office, he crossed the bridge and stopped off at the INS border office to file and sign off reports for the use of U.S. Customs Service and INS officers. He also retrieved his messages. Dubois had called and left his RCMP number. Maybe he had tracked down some information on Wa Sing. Nick made speed the whole way back to Toronto.
He wanted to s
top and call Grace, but something told him not to.
The night was unusually warm. The radio announcer had said something about a heat wave gripping the eastern seaboard. Right about that. Li Mann moved the telescope, set the crosshairs on the man parking the jeep in the parking lot. The image was so clear he felt he could almost touch him as he walked across the street and into the diner. As he waited for the immigration officer to reappear, he idly examined his hands. The scars, old and new, told a tale of war and experience. He was proud of them. At the base of his left fourth finger was a scar an inch long. There was another scar on the back of his right thumb, and half of the little finger on his right hand was missing. Lost in Vietnam. He felt the calluses on the palms of both hands; they were thick and rough. The softness had gone out of his hands long, long ago. Yes, his hands were like a badge of honour. Those who met him for the first time knew it, felt it in his handshake.
After an hour and a half the immigration officer came out of the diner, climbed into the jeep and drove it across the parking lot to the front entrance of the condominium tower. Li Mann swung the telescope around and adjusted the magnification for a better look at what was being unloaded from the trunk. There were no security guards or police in sight. It would be easy to kill the man who had violated his home and place of business. He would pay. Not now, but soon.
The General smiled. It had been a long time since he had found a worthy opponent. He loved the thrill of the chase, it pumped him full of adrenaline; it was a drug, better than opium. He knew that the Immigration officer was ruthless in pursuit of a goal. He had observed him from the beginning, when he had entered the Mandarin Club. Li Mann had been sitting in the karaoke lounge, nursing a mai tai and trying to take his mind off work and the pain in his body. It was pure luck that he had managed to slip out of the club before the raid began.
Li Mann Vu also followed the story of his botched smuggling operation through newspapers and the nightly news. He knew his opponent had no compunction about violating other people’s rights and liberties in doing his job. This immigration officer had fingerprinted and detained people with impunity for crossing borders without proper visas and passports, and had ignored criticism from his country’s bar association for his actions and decisions. Yes, a worthy opponent. They were two men who took pride in their work. Unfortunately a lasting relationship would not be forged, because the sanctity of his home had been violated.
The temperatures cooled the following day.
Two men in light summer suits walked along the gravel path towards the pedal boat rental booth. By the time they got there, the afternoon sun had already dipped behind the row of crab apple trees that lined the south end of the island. Sailboats dotted the margin of the long meandering shoreline. Behind them was the expressway, which was clogged with cars in the evening rush-hour traffic. The Caucasian and his slightly shorter Asian companion stood in the rental queue. Surrounding them were tourists in Bermuda shorts, armed with cameras and maps.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” said the Caucasian.
“After we’re in the boat.”
They fought the wind as they pedalled out into the water. The air carried the smell of cow manure. Once out in the open water, it was the perfect place to hold a conversation without eavesdroppers. The nearest sailboat and water craft was a good half-mile away.
“Grace Wang-Weinstein has been assigned to the case,” said the Caucasian.
“Will she do what she’s told?”
“I believe so, but we can never be a hundred percent sure.”
“I need to be sure. What good is she to us if we can’t control her?” His enunciation revealed him to be an educated man. His tone was soft but unyielding.
“I don’t know if this will do you any good but I’ve made copies of her bio and file.” The Caucasian handed the accordion file to his boating companion. “A word of advice. If you think the case is shaping up to be a negative, then it must not be concluded. Because once a decision is made, it’s final. There is never any judicial review of exclusion orders.”
The Asian understood. “What strategy would you recommend?”
“If legal issues get sticky, personally, I would recommend a strategy of delay and adjournment. And maybe abandonment. Giving up entirely the claim for asylum.”
“What’s the reason to abandon? Why would I do that? How can I set up shop in North America if I don’t have permanent status? That’s why Canadian citizenship is important to me. I need that Canadian passport.”
“If it looks like the immigration officer has uncovered damning evidence against you, then you must give up the claim. To keep a decision from being rendered on a case. You can always make an application to have a new asylum claim heard.”
They pedalled hard against the wind.
“I can do that?”
“Yes. It says so in the Immigration Act.”
“Can she be bought? Bribed?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to assign a judge who could be controlled?”
The Caucasian didn’t enjoy the criticism implied by the question. He kept his gaze on the water. He had never been one-hundred-percent comfortable with this man. Now as they sat side by side in the pedal boat, he strained to interpret his companion’s every nod, smile, and frown. Even though he was a China watcher and friend of China, he blamed it on cultural differences. The Asian’s arrogance drove him crazy. But he kept his frustrations to himself. “I thought you wanted someone of your race,” he said, peevishly.
“No, I didn’t say that. I said I wanted someone we could either compromise or influence.” The Asian crimped his lips into a tight line.
“There may be other ways we can influence her,” said his Caucasian companion. He was trying to sound confident but even he could hear the uneasy tone in his voice as he made the suggestion. Under the circumstances, he decided it wasn’t the right time to raise the issue of a fee increase.
“No, I think we need a fallback plan.”
The Caucasian turned sideways to stare at his boating companion. “What kind of fallback plan are we talking about here?”
“I may have to move south of the border. If I fail to resolve my status here, then it’s important for me to seek citizenship in the States. I want you to contact the U.S. Administration. Tell them I have information that they’re interested in. The Americans are always interested in ensuring their military might. I’ve information on China’s sale of missile and nuclear technology to Pakistan and Iran.”
“And what if they want to meet you before the IRC makes a decision on your case?”
“Have you never played mah-jong? We take it one step at a time. First call them and locate the right person to pass this message on to. Then get back to me. Then we will formulate our second step. It’s pointless to second-guess what their move will be.”
chapter sixteen
The air smelled like rain. For a long time she stood on the dock of the Hawthorne Yacht Club watching rowers and kayakers as they skimmed across the water. It looked like fun. Now, there was a word that hadn’t been in her vocabulary for a while now. What was she doing here? She should never have agreed to meet him. Stupid, stupid. She could have made an excuse. As she argued with herself, she saw him coming towards her. He was late. She didn’t expect an apology; nor did she get one.
Wa Sing greeted her warmly, but carefully. “How are you, my dear? I’m glad you could come on short notice.”
She submitted to a kiss on the cheek. Up-close and in sunlight she noticed that his skin was pale and blotchy with age spots. Money and power couldn’t buy you everything. For some perverse reason that pleased her.
“Why couldn’t you talk about this on the telephone?”
“You can’t be sure these days. I hear the police are tapping phone lines all the time. Privacy no longer exists.”
She waited. She had a pretty good idea what the meeting was all about, but she’d let him broach the
subject.
“I’m leaving the country tomorrow. First I’ll stop over in Vancouver. Drop in and say hello to Kim. It’s been a while since we dined together at our favourite dim sum restaurant.”
The heavy, serious air with which he made this statement about her mother was strange — it seemed more like a threat than a passing remark. She made no reply as they climbed the external stairs of the glass-and-redwood structure. Briefly, they traded community gossip until she asked him directly, “Last time we met, you said nothing about leaving the country. Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to go to Singapore and Malaysia. I’m buying property in the downtown core. A redevelopment project. I’ve been advised to leave the country for a while.”
They stood on the upper deck, looking out on the water. “Advised by who?” Grace interrupted.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Wa Sing continued, “The political opposition wants to embarrass the government over campaign contributions. I’m told that my name is on the list of those to be subpoenaed. My contributions were all entirely legitimate, of course, but appearances may be against me.”
He was obviously getting his information ahead of the public. She pulled her eyes from the water to look at him. He met her gaze calmly and suggested they sit down and order something cold to drink.
Grace followed him to a table with a view of kayakers training for the big race.
“Who’s your source? Can you count on the quality of his information?”
“Like you, he has benefited from my support. It’s in his best interest that I don’t testify at the inquiry. Nor do I wish to.”
By process of elimination she tried to figure out who this source could be, but his words pulled her back.
“If I stay in the country, there is a possibility that I’ll be charged with influence peddling.”
She knew Section 121 of the Criminal Code well enough to know that it was an indictable offence, carrying a maximum five-year sentence.