The Snakeheads

by Mary Moylum

  Of course, that’s what this was all about. His job. “I assure you that I’m not having an affair with him.” That was not quite a lie. He hadn’t called her back, after all. It seemed that he was no longer speaking to her. Which meant that everything was off.

  “You should have disclosed everything to me when I handed you the case.”

  Like a queen bitch, she argued, “I thought my personal life was my personal life. I didn’t think the state had a right to intrude on who I was seeing. Or who I was fucking! And for your information, when I was handed the file, I didn’t know that Mr. Slovak would be representing the minister’s office personally. I thought the assignment would go to one of his officers. I assure you I have never discussed that case or any other case with any unauthorized person.”

  The commissioner mulled over her words and as he looked at her. He could see the anger hovering around her clear brown eyes. He hated to fight with her when she was a bitch because it diminished his reputation as a supreme adjudicator. At the same time he had to consider his political reputation. Nothing else mattered to him.

  “All right. It’s probably best to keep quiet about this. But you will not see him again, privately or publicly, until this hearing is over. If we stay out of the papers and just do our job, the ministries will have to leave us alone. If not, they can close down the entire commission. If General Accounting doesn’t do it first. The public isn’t happy that they’re footing the bill to allow more newcomers in. Never mind the ones who are committing crimes. Watch your step.” He wagged his finger at her. “Don’t fuck up, Grace!”

  Fuck you too! She coolly studied him. He looked old and tired, but that’s exactly what he was. An aging asshole who spent his energies spinning his lines to justify his own actions to the press, public and powers that be up on the Hill.

  She cut the tension by raising the issue of Piraro’s performance again.

  “I know, I know.” He tried to brush aside her criticisms of Piraro’s weakness in the hearing room. “He’s a good lawyer but he’s a rookie RCO, Grace. He needs practice.”

  “Christ almighty!” That was too much. She blew up. “I’m taking it on the chin every day from the media on a public case like this, and you assign me someone who’s wet behind the ears! So he can get some practice?”

  “If you overlook exclusion, you’ll be fine with him on inclusion.”

  “That’s no fucking way to conduct a hearing! And I can’t overlook exclusion.” They tried to stare each other down again. “Why the hell wasn’t Raymond Fong assigned as my RCO?” she demanded.

  “We asked him, but he declined. He said he didn’t want to be blacklisted from his own community if he cross-examined too hard and the claimant got turned down.”

  “That’s real swell! And you had no fucking qualms about dumping it on me and forcing me to accept it!”

  “That’s different! You’re a judge. Paid to take heat and flak. An RCO is only an in-house lawyer, paid to do our bidding. At a much lower salary, I might add.”

  She glared at him, but he ignored her. He put on his bifocals and flipped through a handful of transcript pages of the Sun Sui case.

  “I’ve been following the hearing closely.”

  Now what?! She knew her body language was bristling with impatience and anger, but he was oblivious.

  “It seems to me that you’re wasting time on a weak exclusion case. It looks as if he has a very strong case for asylum. Am I correct?”

  Who was presiding in the hearing, her or Cadeux? Calm down, Grace, she told herself. Don’t lose your temper. You could have your ass hauled before the judicial discipline committee. And all because of a brownnosing slimeball like Jean Cadeux? Not worth it. She took a deep breath.

  “The case does have some merit on some of the inclusion issues.”

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for? Rubber-stamp him in! If there’s merit on the inclusion issues, why are you making the claimant go through rings of fire?”

  “Because there’s a hefty package of documents on exclusion. Evidence of alleged criminality runs almost five hundred pages. While the evidence is yet to be tested in …”

  “Those damn documents were tested and tossed out by the court of appeals. We are not the goddamn police! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “In all fairness, sir, I’d like the minister’s rep to briefly canvas his issues before we make a determination that his evidence carries no weight.”

  “Almighty Christ, Grace, if you really want to believe in fairness, you might as well quit and go join the peace corps.” His eyes locked on her. They sat in awkward silence. Grace looked away first. Why challenge him? Just don’t give in.

  “Sir, I’d like to think that I know how to do my job.” Her words were dry and precise.

  “Job? Don’t give me that, Grace! You know and I know that this political appointment of ours is a way station.”

  Was he trying to bribe her now, after his threats hadn’t brought her into line? “I’m not sure I understand, sir …”

  He cut her off before she could finish.

  “I think you do understand! We didn’t get into public office without being political animals.” He slapped both hands on his desk and stood up. “Our politics may not be the same but I’ve no intention of letting you make me look like a fool!”

  “It’s not my intention to make either of us look like fools.”

  “Then let’s get one thing clear. This man has fucking influence. We’re only doing this because of a fucking technicality. If this had happened a year or so from now, he’d already be in. He’d be a citizen and this hearing wouldn’t be happening. The fact that he’s been granted investor immigrant status says a lot. The fact that he sits on three corporate boards in this country also says a lot.” His eyes flashed as he leaned forward, hissing at her like an angry snake. “Money talks, Grace. This claimant is here to stay, whether you like it or not. All you and I can do is ensure our own survival. Do I make myself exceedingly clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Are we finished?” She returned her attention to the computer screen. It was the clearest signal she could give that she no longer wanted to talk about it. Their meeting was over.

  He turned his back and stormed out of her office. She left the building and joined the thronging flow of people on the sidewalk. She walked fast, not caring where she was going; she just wanted to get away, to work off her anger, to lose herself in the anonymity of the crowd. But even here she thought she felt eyes drilling into her back. She looked around, fully alert. A whirl of faces passed. She studied the Asian faces, looking for Li Mann.

  What about Harry Kitchin’s partner? The police didn’t have a name or a composite sketch, so how could they ever locate him? And the undercover officer Dubois had assigned to her for the past four days had reported that everything was quiet. So much for trying to bolster the argument that she was being stalked.

  Still, she had been somewhat successful in containing her hysteria. For the past several days she had managed to shoehorn her anxiety into a side compartment of her brain so she could think about the larger problems of work. But in the open like this, her nerves were screaming. Today, of all days, the feeling of being watched was overwhelming. She was sure that one of them was on her trail again. Which one? Kitchin’s partner? Or Li Mann?

  Get with it, Grace! When your life is being threatened, who cares about the identity of the assailant?

  Would he try to kill her here in broad daylight? On a crowded street? It had been done before. Desperate for a diversion from her thoughts, she walked towards the outdoor blues concert in Majors Hill Park. Finding an empty bench underneath a row of elms, she sat and turned the facts and events of the past three days over and over in her mind. Finally, picking herself up, she walked south toward Sparks Street. The summer music festival was still on, and the streets were crowded with tourists and the sounds of rhythm and blues, and jazz. She took careful note of the faces until she was satisfied that
the picnickers, office workers, street musicians and other pedestrians had no devious intentions against her.

  She crossed four lanes of traffic, which was bumper to bumper. She passed a man with a ferret on a leash, and a young woman with a Mohawk cut walking her Rottweiler, all muzzled up. The crowds of people suited her fine. They made it easier to blend in, lose anybody who might be watching her. Periodically she glanced back over her shoulder, searching the sea of faces for a pockmarked Asian man, scanning the street constantly for a white van. If only she had gotten a good look at the other assailant.

  She entered the World Exchange Plaza and crossed the atrium. The lines in front of the tellers were six deep. It was lunch hour. A bad time to go to the bank, particularly if you wanted to deal with a human being. She marched up to the service and reception counter and pushed her way to the front.

  “Excuse me, but I need to get into my safety deposit box. I’m in hurry. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Everybody’s in a hurry these days. Join the club, lady,” snapped the clerk.

  So much for the customer being right.

  The vault of safety deposit boxes was set behind the counter to the far left. A set of massive metal doors gleamed like polished silver. She caught the eye of the manager, who recognized her, and sent someone to help her.

  “Follow me,” said another, friendlier clerk.

  They entered a small windowless room filled with files and metal cabinets. Sitting behind a desk was an elderly man, who looked to be only a couple of years from retirement.

  The clerk pointed her towards the desk. “Talk to Thomas.”

  Thomas, the clerk, entered her safety deposit box number into a terminal.

  “You Grace Wang-Weinstein?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Here’s my ID.” She handed him her driver’s licence.

  He gave it a cursory glance. “I believe ya.”

  No, please, don’t believe me. Trust no one. I’d sure hate the thought of someone stealing my key and getting access to my box.

  “Would you like my social insurance number so you can match it to whatever’s on the screen?”

  “Okay.”

  She recited her SIN number to Thomas.

  “Good enough. Follow me.”

  He guided her through a set of doors into another room which was really a vault. Outside the vault stood a security guard wearing a sidearm. Thomas walked past him and found the K boxes. He stuck the bank key into the slot, then pulled out the box and dumped it on a wooden table.

  “How much time you need?”

  “A minute or two. I’m just getting some jewellery from my box.”

  She waited for Thomas to leave, closing the door behind him. Then she inserted her key and lifted back the lid. Inside were only three items: a handgun, a box of ammunition, and her wedding ring. She wrapped her hands around the cold blue steel of the Sig Sauer .38. Once upon a time in El Salvador she used to wear the .38 as part of her uniform. Between her thighs, tucked neatly under a garter belt, and no one was the wiser. No need for that now. She loaded a clip of ammunition then dropped the gun into her bag.

  “I’m done,” she called out as she gave the key a good turn.

  She watched Thomas insert the bank key and slide the box back into its slot. Then she left. On the way out, she counted the number of security cameras. There were twice as many security guards. You’d want to think twice before robbing this bank.

  She walked back to the office. It was amazing how safe an illegal, unregistered gun could make you feel.

  BJ glanced at his watch as he stood in the throng of picketers across the street from the IRC. He had a frontrow seat for the show; the press ambushing his target on the steps of the IRC. He followed her, on the opposite side of the street. He watched as she grabbed a cab. He put the stolen car into gear.

  He remembered how, when he was a teenager, he and his uncle had stalked a moose for over a week in the forest. A week of crawling on his stomach, sleeping out in the open, being eaten alive by deer flies, black flies, and mosquitoes. Compared to that, this was nothing.

  The uniformed man behind the glass at passport control pulled him out of the line. He was asked to wait in another line, while the man picked up the telephone. Wa Sing saw himself reflected in the glass divider. He knew that he would soon feel the sting of humiliation. Staring at his reflection, he was glad that he was dressed in the elegant navy blue silk suit, white shirt, and a tie that he had picked up in Milan last year. It would not do to be splashed across the international dailies looking like a poor man, a failure. Looking like a rich businessman caught in a government sting operation was better. He would still be able to hold his head high.

  The customs officer hung up the phone and waved to someone off to the side. Wa Sing did not bother turning his head. He knew. A moment later, two policemen with submachine guns slung over their shoulders approached him. One of them motioned to him to rise from where he was sitting.

  “Please, sir, come with us.”

  Wa Sing obeyed. At least they were polite. They didn’t grab him and rough him up the way policemen usually do. Passengers moved aside quickly, staring hard at him as he walked past.

  As Wa Sing followed them meekly through the passport control booths, he saw his two guards visibly relax. One of them entered a security code into a black keypad and waited. A buzzer sounded and all three men wordlessly walked through a pair of automatic sliding doors. They passed a series of doors before one of them knocked on a steel door. A moment later, Wa Sing entered another room where another group of uniformed policemen were already waiting. His passport was taken away from him, and handed to an officer who, though a very young man, looked like the commanding officer.

  “You’re Wa Sing?”

  “Yes.”

  Wa Sing noticed that the inspector spoke English with a perfect American accent. He must have attended an American school, or had gone abroad for his education. His eyes remained on the inspector as he examined the passport carefully, page by page.

  “I’m Inspector Ben Lim. I see that you’ve been here for several days. Do you mind telling me where you’ve been staying? We searched for you but you weren’t registered at any hotels.”

  “I was staying with some friends at their home. You know Chinese hospitality…” Wa Sing smiled and shrugged.

  Inspector Lim smiled back. “Yes. There’s no need to explain further.” He glanced at the door and said, “I’m sorry, sir. The RCMP officer at the Canadian embassy here has asked me to detain you for questioning. I’m to turn you over to them now.”

  “Could you please tell me what this is all about?” asked Wa Sing.

  “They told me that it’s a political matter.”

  “Why can’t I answer these questions over the phone?”

  “I don’t know. An RCMP officer should arrive shortly. You can ask him that question. As far as Singapore is concerned, your passport is in order, and you haven’t committed any crimes in our country.”

  Inspector Lim handed Wa Sing’s passport back to him. Wa Sing slipped it into his pocket. The two men waited together. Then the door slid open, and the Caucasian face of an RCMP officer appeared.

  “Mr. Wa Sing, we need to ask you some questions. You’ll have to accompany us to the Canadian embassy.”

  “Please, I’ve a plane to catch, why not ask your questions here?”

  “We can’t do that. We’re acting under orders. Gather your things and follow me.”

  chapter twenty-six

  He stood in front of the peephole, so she could see who he was. After a moment the lock was turned and she came out of her house wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair wet and slick down her back.

  “Nick.” She looked at him uncertainly, but a smile was pulling at her lips. Was she laughing at him? “What a pleasant surprise,” she said, and leaning forward she kissed him lightly on the lips. “Close the door behind you, I was about to have dessert. How about an ice cream cone?” Her voice was soft, pleasa
nt to the ears.

  Nick closed the door behind him. He remained silent and followed her into the kitchen. As she turned to speak to him, he dropped the black-and-white photographs of her and Wa Sing on her kitchen table.

  “Look at these.”

  She stared at them, a stunned look creeping into her face.

  “You had answers to most of my questions all along. I could have saved days in my investigation if you hadn’t withheld vital information. Or lied to me outright.” His voice was bitter and coiled tight as a piano string.

  She clutched at the opening of her bathrobe. “I can explain.”

  “Good God, Grace. I trusted you. I believed in you. Instead I found out you’re a liar. A fucking liar!” She crumpled into a chair. “Worse, I fell in love with you. Fell for you. I was blinded by that.”

  “Please, Nick. I can explain everything.”

  “You mean if I hadn’t found out, then I wouldn’t be worth an explanation?”

  “No, that’s not how it is.”

  “God, you must’ve been laughing at what a jerk I am.”

  He walked towards her and lifted his hand as if he meant to strike her but instead he pulled her out of the chair and against his chest. “I confided in you. Told you everything about my work. Tipped my hand way, way more than I should. All that time, what were you doing? Using that information against me? Was that it? Did you give this Wa Sing a blow-by-blow account of my movements?”

  “Nick, stop it! I may have withheld some information from you. But I had good reasons. And I never lied to you. Not once did I ever jeopardize your safety. Or the safety of your officers.”

  “Fucking me was convenient for you and your friends.”

  “Shut up!” she screamed. “Sit down and shut up. You want the truth? I’ll tell you the truth.” She knew a lot was riding on her answer. He was asking about faith and trust, and their future together. She knew it was important that her answer be honest yet correct.