The Spy I Loved

by Dusty Miller

  Ronnie Speck was very well connected in the arms industry, although nothing had been proven. The intelligence had paid off in some smaller seizures of illegal arms shipments, always going through intermediaries. Watch Ronnie’s friends long enough and sooner or later, something turned up. The real problem had always been nabbing the big one.

  When one of their informants got cold feet and tried to bolt, Ronnie’s boys or someone very much like them had slit his throat and tossed him into a drainage canal.

  His body was found after an estimated three weeks in the Rhine. The chain of logic was simple. It was also sheer speculation, but the reasoning was good. Sixty crates of FN rifles and other light military equipment slated for shipment to a troubled state in central Africa had been recovered on that occasion. Ronnie or one of his subordinates must have gotten wise and started watching the employees a little more closely. A tramp steamer of Liberian registry had been forfeited as well. Small potatoes, and yet there was Speck’s name and face hovering in the background.

  Jackson’s file was similar and just as extensive. They’d done hard time together, the last big stretch Ronnie did in the eighties. That often formed a lifetime bond if one didn’t exist before.

  The word was that a bruiser named Lenny Wickham had attacked Speck in the shower with a sharpened toothbrush. Everyone in there must have seen Jackson grab him from behind. No one could remember a thing when questioned by investigators. When asked if they were too frightened to testify, a tactic that sometimes elicited additional intelligence, (totally off the record of course) the other prisoners mostly shrugged and said no. All that really meant was that they were good with Ronnie Speck.

  They didn’t have a problem, with Ronnie Speck.

  Jackson, or somebody else in there that day, had broken Wickham’s neck with one good twist.

  It was an old and familiar story.

  ***

  The operation had entered a new phase. They were still being discreet. The local people were still asking questions and not getting too many answers. Once the news conferences regarding the satellite downing were over, the radio stations, regional and national TV had quickly forgotten all about it. With no fresh news coming out of the area, it had dropped off the media radar scope.

  Ab Jones had stopped in to see Dale, which he did every so often. They’d been friends for a lot of years. They were both avid fishermen. They’d even partnered up a time or two back in their younger days, following the regional tournament trail. Dale hardly got out anymore, knowing the local waters so well that he rarely came home empty-handed. Once he’d had a few beers and caught enough to eat for a couple of days; that was usually enough for Uncle Dale.

  Ab, as he was universally known in these here parts, was a bit of a fixture. Abner still loved fishing, still breathed fishing, and still went fishing with all the enthusiasm of a barefoot fourteen year-old boy skipping school with a bamboo pole, cotton thread, a bent pin, and a handful of night crawlers. It was hard to miss Ab, with his sweat-stained Tilley hat and bib coveralls, rubber boots, yellowed old undershirt and as hairy as a gorilla.

  Ab was always trying to drag Dale off on some fishin’ mission to this here lake forty miles east or that there lake fifteen miles west. The trouble was that Dale was getting creaky in the joints. He had the camp to run and didn’t like to go too far from his armchair, his kitchen and his bathroom so much anymore. The pair of them could talk fishing all day long, or boats, or hockey or baseball.

  Women was always a sore subject, although neither one seemed to have had one in years.

  “There were more of them explosions yesterday.” Ab looked around as if to spit.

  “Sure there were.” Dale was hardly listening. “Like, who cares.”

  Ab’s brilliantly-clean dentures always made him look so much more cheerful than Dale.

  The store was busy, with people at the snack counter and going up and down the grocery aisles. It was raining lightly although the morning had begun with a real downpour. The two men were seated at one of half a dozen aging restaurant tables on the right front side of the lobby. Round, heavy and with one or two odd chairs in the mix, Dale had bought them from a café owner in town when their store folded due to lack of year-round trade.

  They had been doing all right in the summer months according to all the talk. The place had been a bit upscale and pricey for the locals, who already had their preferred watering holes. The patronage of a dozen or so ladies who craved something better and were prepared to pay wasn’t enough to save the Coffee Nook. Tourists didn’t exactly seek out Espanola in winter. Though there was plenty of snowmobiling, this particular demographic group didn’t tend to stop and partake of tea and crumpets.

  Dale nodded encouragingly.

  Ab went on.

  “They’re saying it was the seismic testing. That’s bullshit. There’s no oil within a thousand miles of here.”

  Dale scowled into his mug. It was already well into the day, but not too many people were going out on the river.

  More than anything he needed a beer. Ab would probably take one too. Lifting his eyes, turning his head, he watched as Lindsey and one of the other girls—he had the devil of a time remembering their names these days, served the counter and the little grocery section on the far side. His eyes slid across, past the clock in a hopeful fashion, but it was still too early.

  Dale was slated to mop floors in the store, do the back rooms and then go into town to pick up their orders at the grocer’s wholesale. Then there was the liquor store. Since it was a weekday and he was going into town anyway, he might stop in at the doughnut shop and see who was there. He must not forget the bank, and there were one or two bills to pay. A quart of oil for the truck and some new wiper blades would be good. He had plenty on his plate without this persistent badgering from Ab.

  Their coffee wasn’t any better than his, but he might see someone he knew downtown.

  It was early in the season and weather was always an unpredictable part of the equation. Dale was hoping it would clear up and they could get some of these people out of his hair and into money-spending mode. He made fifty cents on a quart of milk and a hundred dollars a day renting a boat with all the accessories. His gas was ten cents higher than the stuff in town. Boats went through a lot of gas these days. That was the difference. With normal occupancy and a good season, the cabins paid the taxes and the basic bills. The rest of the operation was what they lived on, and he had his alleged retirement to think of. It was their profit, as he had patiently tried to explain to Ab and more than one friend over the years.

  A man came in the door, he’d seen him with one of their guests. He looked around and Dale politely nodded, making friendly eye contact and taking another sip. The fellow turned away. He made his way to the back of the queue, Dale having dodged a bullet—most likely it was a question that Lindsey could handle well enough.

  “So what do you think it is?”

  “Shit. How the hell would I know. But what, two or three days ago, they say a bomb or a rocket or something fell off a chopper.”

  Dale’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Yeah—so?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Dale. I’m just saying…”

  There were three groups waiting for service in front of Ian Spencer.

  “Well, they can’t all be falling off.”

  The first people bought their smokes, newspapers, candy and a dozen other items, then the next crew, a father with two boys about ten and twelve stood and haggled over what they were allowed to have and what Dad said and what Jimmy did and what Johnny was always doing.

  Then came the next customer.

  Spencer took it patiently enough, this was why he was here after all. Most of the world was trivialities, the stocky agent thought with a small grin. They were good-looking kids, with a strong resemblance to dad.

  Next customer.

  An elderly lady in a sun-hat was looking for skin crème and the girl led her off into the little general stor
e to his right.

  He could see the boys growing up just like the old man. They might be a little more slender, perhaps a little taller, perhaps getting a good college education where dad was so obviously not. Skilled trade, thought Spencer. Ironworking, boiler-making, tool-and-die making, or maybe welding, judging by the thick and ropy forearms. He noted half a dozen colours in some intricate but not particularly well-done tattoos. He had no idea what he was supposed to be looking at sometimes.

  They were completely self-absorbed, perfectly innocent in a world that was becoming increasingly connected, ever-smaller, and in too many ways, more threatening, more dangerous.

  This is why we’re here. It sort of gave him a good feeling.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  The father stood off to one side. The boys wandered the store, picking at the wrappers and peeling out whatever was in those bright packages.

  “Ah. Yes.” This was the one—the one Liam had mentioned, going slightly pink in the cheekbones as he was impaled by those wondrously clear blue eyes. “My name is Spencer—Ian Spencer, and—”

  “Spencer, Ian Spencer?” Those eyes glittered at him from across the counter, yet there was just the hint of an edge to it. “As in tea, stirred, and hopefully not shaken?”

  It was pure nonsense. No one else would have caught it. She was damned well serious, too.

  Sudden heat came to his cheekbones. There was a real good brain in there.

  “Ah, yes.”

  “And what can I do for you?” He wasn’t a guest, and yet she’d obviously seen him with Liam.

  The bell over the door rang and her eyes shifted, then came back to him. There was a message there. There were two sets of feet approaching from behind.

  “Well. I would like to rent your largest boat. That’s one thing. But the other thing is that I already have a boat, it’s from Murray’s, just on the edge of town. Basically, it’s a bit small.”

  “Oh. Sure, this is your lucky day.” Lindsey stepped back and picked up the phone. “Not too many people going out today.”

  Across the way, through the big front windows, she could see the man himself, sitting in his little booth by the gas pumps on their main pier. Mark liked word puzzles and was probably doing one right now.

  Picking up the phone, she pushed the number two. Three rang back in the kitchen, four was their home extension.

  He picked up immediately.

  “Hi, Mark.” Lindsey explained what the gentleman was looking for, as two pairs of filmy blue eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses looked on in frank interest. “He has a boat he wants returned to Murray’s. Can we do it?”

  Ian waited patiently for the verdict as they consulted.

  Uncle Dale or I could maybe do that later…okay.

  Standing behind Mister Spencer, Lindsey had the impression the newcomers were listening intently even as their eyes finally traveled elsewhere in response to her quick glance.

  “He has an eighteen-footer, that’ll be enough for three or four big guys—how many are in your party?”

  “Ah, yes. That’ll be about it.” He nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  Three or four guys then.

  She kept her jaw firmly closed for a second as Mister Spencer’s eyes had dropped and he studied…no, identified the people standing behind him. It was a combination of their reflections in front of him, the sloping angle of the glass, perhaps even catching a sight of the woman’s very distinctive running shoes out of the corner of his left eye.

  She tried not to grit her teeth. This was getting to be a bit much.

  The runners were all the rage, slim uppers on flaring wide plastic or rubber bottoms. Molded and dyed in bilious shades including black, blue, purple and neon pink, Lindsey could get exactly the same thing in town for less than twenty bucks. The shoes looked brand new, but that wouldn’t last long. Not in this rain, and not around here.

  “The boat’s standard equipment includes two life-jackets, two paddles, and an extra fuel can. Fuel is extra. He said it’s got a hundred and thirty horse-power…”

  “Perfect, that will be fine.” Ian turned and nodded pleasantly to the couple behind him at the counter.

  They smiled up at him, the woman holding her purse in front of her waist with both hands and the man stepping back slightly due to the proximity of a much larger male. The woman was wearing Bermuda shorts, a thin white blouse with baggy long sleeves, loafers with no socks and yet she carried that garish large purse in shiny black patent leather with studs and metal-ringed holes punched every which where.

  “Good morning.” Ian Spencer grinned pleasantly. “Are-ye-ketchinennie?”

  Mister Bernstein’s eyes lit up and he nodded eagerly. The two men exchanged a few polite words about the weather. The fishing was good, they agreed.

  Lindsey quickly made up the receipt, explained about the deposit, and then ran his card through, as all the while Spencer chatted with his new acquaintances. She still couldn’t quite figure out if they were Dutch or German or Danish or what. It came to her that they were Estonian—Latvian, somewhere up there along the Baltic. That explained the odd accent, being neither one thing nor the other. Spencer scribbled a quick and unreadable little signature and that was it.

  She handed him the paper.

  “Take that out to Mark and he’ll fix you right up. Now, before you go out there in the rain, is there anything else you might be needing?”

  ***

  Recovery number one had gone badly. Two enemy killed were relatively good news, bearing in mind that dead men couldn’t be interrogated, but a missing satellite maneuvering motor assembly was relatively bad news. Going by their electronic data and the remaining mass, the item was mostly in whole condition. It was a prize for someone.

  With additional resources in the vicinity and the neutralization of the attack-boat threat, Liam wasn’t taking too many chances. They were drafting in people from everywhere. Telephone and electrical crews, municipal and country work crews were hastily employed along major highways for a hundred miles in each direction. Additional surveillance cameras were being installed at major intersections. It might be a little late, but the funding wasn’t outrageous and the system would eventually be integrated into a road/weather monitoring system. With a bit of luck, they might capture the image of a person of interest on camera, and get a license plate and vehicle description at the same time.

  It was beautiful on the river.

  With Liam’s first big hit still uninvestigated, they had decided on a night dive. They were using three boats. A still and moonless night, they had seen a half a dozen other boats on their cruise from The Pines. The widening of the river slowed the current. There was a dam or weir further downstream to keep levels high. This was typical of many northern rivers, it was for both logging and power generation. It was fairly deep on the downstream run to the target, which was in a bit of a hole where the channel fell over a shelf of submerged rock. What made river diving so interesting was the different currents at the bottom. Visibility would either be very good or very bad, with rarely a happy medium.

  It was dangerous enough.

  Boat One with Jenkins and a new fellow, Bryan, had the lead. Bryan had the look of hired muscle, but came straight from administrative duties in Ottawa. He seemed glad enough to be there.

  Boat One had the magnetometer. They cruised along at six or seven knots, heading right for the GPS coordinates recorded by Kimball. Liam was dressed in a wetsuit, riding in Boat Three. They had four sets of scuba gear in the following two boats. Another new guy, Edward, was in the second boat with Ian. Jenkins and Kimball brought up the rear. Three people would go down, three people would stay on top. It was their strongest showing so far.

  It sent a certain message. The night aspect of it had its own psychology. It showed confidence but also a certain urgency.

  This site was not too far from the town of Espanola itself. A straggle of lights just downstream, denser than the typical cottage-country shoreline,
showed where the town began. There were other boats a hundred metres downriver, hanging in the prime spots. Red, green and white lights showed which end was which. To see all three colours meant it was coming or going. Liam watched his depth display even as the boys in front adjusted their course and slowed their speed.

  Jenkins would man (or woman, rather) the boat, keeping dry, so she wore the earpiece and microphone combination.

  Liam saw her lips move and then Jenkins turned.

  “Yeah—they say there’s something down there.” She looked at the bottom on their ninety-nine-dollar fish finder—the genuine article this time. “It’s not very deep, is it?”

  If the opposition had any kind of detection equipment and any kind of manpower, any kind of budget, this should have been a piece of cake. Only the major coincidence of major components falling in water had saved them. Even that hadn’t lasted long. Following Liam around blindly as they had been, they had missed the bus on this one.

  Liam throttled back, steered left, letting the current take them past the first boat as they circled. All boats turned into the current, something oddly good to see. The nose of Boat One went hunting back and forth at low throttle in the current. The motor was gunned a couple of hundred revs, and the bowman dropped an anchor. Carefully pulling the line taut, with a little throttle from the skipper, she inched up. The bow finally started to come down as the bowman pulled and that was about as close as they were going to get.

  Liam edged his boat into the side of theirs. Ian and Edward’s boat came around from the right. The three boats were anchored and lashed together. The motors were shut down and quiet was restored. Using a minimum of light, the agents in Boat One showed him their findings. There was definitely something down there. There was a nice little spike in the radiation count when they passed over it as well. This was the target.

  Keeping noise and talk to a minimum, leaving on the navigation lights of Boat One, the three who would be going down quickly pulled on their rigs. Each gave the equipment a quick safety check. One by one, they dropped backwards over the side. Turning on their lights, the divers checked their gauges and then descended into darkness.