by Medora Sale
“That’s right. Harriet Jeffries.”
“Harriet?”
“Right again—Harriet.” She repeated it with force. “I’m sorry if you don’t like the name, but it’s the best I can do. I refuse to manufacture an awful nickname just to get rid of it.”
“No, I like it. It suits you.” He looked at her critically for the first time. She was a little older than he had thought and had dark brown hair that hung straight almost to her shoulders. Her face was long and thin and dark, but the eyes that looked directly at him were a bright shade of green. Contact lenses, he thought skeptically, but when she turned away to look at a passing waiter, they changed colour again. Real. “I’m not fond of up-to-the-minute names,” he added.
“Mmm,” she said, “you have a point there. It would be infinitely worse to be called something from a soap opera, wouldn’t it? But I am a photographer, mainly architectural, and I’m in Ottawa on an assignment. I’ve been in the city since . . . oh, around February, off and on, and hope to be back in Toronto this summer. And I’m single, thirty-two, don’t smoke, and prefer living alone. There, my life history in a single breath.” She moved an elbow to make room for the mugs of beer. “What do you do? Obviously if you were a surgeon or a cabinet minister you would have told me already, assuming that I would be impressed. So you must be—let’s see . . .” She cocked her head to one side and looked intently at him. “Maybe a teacher—of something that makes people nervous, like math—or a dentist, and you’re tired of people making bad jokes about what you do.”
“You’re very perceptive,” he said. “But it’s worse than that. I’m a policeman.” He braced himself for the usual coy mock alarm, or, perhaps, chilly disappointment.
“Really?” she said, quite calmly. “You mean there’s a police convention in town? How bizarre.”
“Why bizarre?”
“Oh, I don’t know. In Ottawa? I would have thought Calgary . . . or maybe Milwaukee.”
“I don’t see why,” he said, somewhat nettled. “Anyway, it’s not so much a convention as a meeting. There aren’t very many of us. I doubt we’ll be getting in your way. Anymore, I mean.” As he picked up his beer another thought struck him. “At least I don’t think there are very many of us. I haven’t actually made it to the meeting yet, and . . .” He looked at his watch. “I’m late enough now that it doesn’t look as if I’ll get there tonight.”
“You seem to give up very easily.” Harriet’s eyes narrowed with amusement, although the rest of her face remained devoid of emotion. “Obviously you’re not a Mountie.”
“I’m not,” he said. “And I’m usually pretty persistent. But I’ve had a total of about six hours’ sleep since Saturday, and right now I don’t care whether I find my group or not. You wouldn’t know some place with food that would taste good to someone half-dead from exhaustion, would you?”
“How about Turkish?” she asked. “It’s within walking distance, and I’d say it’s good enough to revive the corpse at a wake. You finished your beer? Let’s go.”
“Are you coming, too?” he asked, surprised.
“Why not? I like Turkish food.”
Ian MacMillan walked into the hotel bar and looked around for a familiar face. There were several. Most of them were politicians or senior civil servants whom he knew only because at one time or another in his career he had poured over their files or wearily traced their movements. Tonight he didn’t particularly care who was sharing their tables and listening to their indiscreet ramblings. Over in a far corner lounged a tall man with dark hair that stood out from his forehead at a rakish angle. He raised one hand in greeting, and MacMillan made his way over to his table.
“To what do I owe the honor of this particular summons?” asked the man at the table. “And by the way, since you made definite remarks about buying me a drink, I have been waiting here for you to turn up for a good five minutes as dry as your boss’s undershirt.”
“How’s it going, Andy?” asked MacMillan as he pulled out a chair and settled himself into it.
“Not bad. Overworked, underpaid, nothing new—except that this had better be short. I have something interesting turning up at my place hoping for dinner later on tonight.”
“Jesus, Cassidy, on a Monday? You never stop, do you?” said MacMillan.
“I should hope to hell not,” said Cassidy. “Use it or lose it,” he leered. “How about you? It’s too bad about you and Susan—or is it? Jesus, it’s been a long time since we talked, hasn’t it?” He leaned over in the direction of the waiter and ordered two beers and then turned back to MacMillan. “Two, three years? How’re you making out?”
“Not bad,” said MacMillan. “I’ve got a reasonable sort of apartment—no goddamn snow to shovel, nobody whining when I’ve been working late, lots of broads. The only problem is, they all have that little house, yard, and snow-shoveling look in their eyes. You gotta move pretty damn fast to avoid getting caught again.”
“You still got the chalet for dirty weekends?” asked Cassidy idly.
“Who has time to ski?” MacMillan poured his beer and took a large gulp. “Besides, all that expensive stuff belonged to Susan—her old man left her a bundle as well as the property.”
“You seem to be doing all right,” said Cassidy, reaching out and flicking the lapel of MacMillan’s suit.
“Susan’s got plenty to live on,” MacMillan said. “And when you’re not paying off a fucking house and all that crap, you can afford a new suit every once in a while. For a change. Look, Andy, there’s a problem.”
“Yeah? Yours? Or the division’s?”
“It sure as hell isn’t my problem. But Deschenes has been going through all the stuff you bastards have been sending over since he got sick, and he says it doesn’t add up. Is that possible?”
Cassidy shrugged. “Of course it’s possible. We screw up all the time. How doesn’t it add up?”
“There’s a blank. We aren’t getting anything in connection with the conference. That true? Nobody cares about this thing but us?”
“How should I know? I don’t see the reports. I just collect data and send it on. Jesus, Ian, you know how it is. Somebody up there decides how much you deserve to know and that’s what you get. Nothing’s changed since we were all working in the same building.”
“What have you collected, then?” MacMillan asked. “Maybe if we knew that we could figure out what’s happening.”
Cassidy leaned back and frowned unhappily. “You know I can’t pass any of that on. Besides, it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing in the state I get it in.” He looked at his watch. “Christ, I gotta go. Samantha’ll be turning up all hot and hungry and I won’t even be there if I don’t hurry. Nice seeing you, Ian. Thanks for the drink.”
In a pretty woodland area some twenty-odd miles from the Turkish restaurant, Superintendent Henri Deschenes was walking slowly along the broken asphalt at the edge of the narrow paved road. The ground beside the road was carpeted with trilliums in full blossom and birds were bursting their lungs in song. Deschenes seemed oblivious of the beauties of nature, however. He kept his eyes on the grassy verge until he stopped beside a group of three men and a large German shepherd. All five of them stared fixedly at an object lying in a slight hollow in the earth beside the path, the men silent, the dog whining softly.
“When did you find him?” Deschenes asked finally.
“At five-thirty-five, sir,” said the man nearest to him, a corporal, tall, lanky, and redheaded, with freckles and a worried expression. “We called in as soon as we could get to a phone. We’ve been instructed to avoid radio communication—”
“Yes, yes, McInnis,” Deschenes muttered impatiently. He turned to the man in command of the small group. “Do you know if anyone’s been in contact with the local police, Sergeant?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
Deschenes grunted. “We�
�d better look after that pretty soon,” he said finally.
“Couldn’t we, uh, just move him a little farther away?” Deschenes shook his head.
“Stop and think a minute, Carpenter. Even they might notice the body’s been moved.” He squatted down to get a closer look. It was lying awkwardly on its right side, facedown, with both arms projecting slightly backward. Its dull black hair was matted with darkened blood that had attracted a swarm of flying insects. It was dressed in a blue work shirt and heavy jeans out of which a pair of bluish-white bony feet protruded stiffly. Deschenes reached out and touched the shoulder. Nothing happened. “Dammit,” he muttered and stood up again.
“Dembrowski found his wallet in the ditch on the other side of the road. Money was gone, but his driver’s license and so on was still in it,” said Carpenter. His voice was controlled and wooden. “Name of Donald S. Bartholomew. Address in Brockville. His pockets have been turned out, and we figure his arms got like that when his assailant pulled off his jacket. And his boots and socks.”
“Anyone recognize him?” Deschenes said.
Carpenter stopped for a moment. “It’s difficult with his face hidden, sir, and we didn’t like to move the body. Before someone else got here, I mean.”
“Quite so,” Deschenes murmured. “Beginning to get stiff already, isn’t it? Just ease him over a bit so we can get a look at the face and then we’ll leave him there for the regional police. Sergeant, you and Dembrowski hoist him up and turn him over. Come on, we haven’t got all night.”
Dembrowski was standing closest to the head. He bent down, grasped the body under its arms, and turned, his face reddening with the effort. They stared into the face; it was partially obscured by broken leaves and bits of twigs sticking to it; Deschenes reached down and gently brushed aside a leaf clinging to the cheek.
“Goddamn,” said Carpenter softly. “Jesus, it’s Steve Collins. I didn’t even—”
“It’s Donald S. Bartholomew,” said Deschenes coldly. “Put him down.” The other two gratefully eased their burden back onto the ground.
“And we’re supposed to think he was hit on the head by a vagrant who then stole his boots and jacket,” said Deschenes. He shook his head. “Well, maybe he was. Is that possible, Sergeant? Have there been any vagrants around here?”
“No, sir,” said Carpenter. “We’ve been keeping a careful record of all persons within a mile of the security perimeter. No one like that. Only the people in my reports, sir. And if there was a vagrant and we hadn’t seen him, Horace would have,” he added, giving the big dog a pat.
“And where were you and Horace when this happened?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Carpenter unhappily. “Whoever he was, he came with Steve. He had to. What I mean is, Steve must have had some reason to bring the man onto the property with him. Maybe he was trying to figure out what the guy was up to. And if he was with Steve, then Horace wouldn’t have raised the alarm. He remembered him too well.”
“I see. Who has the wallet?”
“I do, sir,” said Dembrowski.
“Good. Put it back where you found it.”
“Put it back?”
“That’s what I said. Put it back. If you found it, so can the regional police.”
Dembrowski gave Deschenes a sideways look, but his expression did not alter. “Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Now, is this the way he was lying when you stumbled across him, McInnis?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the way he was lying,” said the redhead.
“Good. You have just discovered him now,” said Deschenes, looking at his watch. “At nineteen-oh-seven hours. That will go in your report. He is one of the workmen and he has been robbed and murdered by a vagrant. We will do our utmost to assist the regional police in tracking the man down. You will now inform the proper authorities.”
“But we can’t just leave him here like this, can we?” said the redhead. “I mean, he was—”
“You will inform the proper authorities, including, of course, headquarters. His name is Donald S. Bartholomew and he worked on the construction site. Understood? Anything else is going to attract a dangerous amount of notice to this site and destroy its effectiveness as a secure area. Thank you, gentlemen.” And Henri Deschenes turned and walked, erect and unyielding, back to his car.
Sergeant Carpenter pursued him to his car. “Has anything gone wrong?” he asked abruptly, holding the door open. “Back in town?”
“Not at our end. Not yet.” Deschenes shook his head. “But it’s getting busy. One of the delegations got here three days early—arrived this afternoon.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Austrians. They’re throwing a concert and a party and they wanted to be all rested up. I’ll have to start bringing in more personnel from somewhere; we’re stretched a bit thin right now.” He sounded desperately tired. “And I’m sorry about Steve, Frank, but surely you can see that we’ve got to leave it this way.”
“I didn’t even recognize him, lying there like that. With his hair that colour,” Carpenter said bleakly. “I should have—I knew he was around. I’d seen him lots of times. And so had Horace. It was hard to keep Horace from jumping on him like an old friend. But they never told us what name he was using. You know what this means, don’t you, sir?”
“What’s that, Carpenter?”
“There really were people nosing around the site a couple of weeks ago. Just like I said. And Steve connected with them. Goodbye, sir.” And he turned abruptly back into the woods.
Andrew Cassidy put down the telephone and considered what to say now. The steaks were sitting beside the frying pan, the potatoes were in the microwave, the salad was washed but undressed, and the wine was already being decanted into the girl. He didn’t know her well enough to leave her alone in his apartment; he certainly didn’t know her well enough to tell her why he wasn’t able to stay and cook her a steak. And judging by the slightly glazed look in her eye, she was just tanked up enough to react strangely to being told it was time to go home. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given her those Bloody Marys. Meet it head-on, he thought. Decisiveness was the only way.
He jumped to his feet, took two steps into the kitchen alcove, and started wrapping up the steaks in aluminum foil. “Sorry, Samantha,” he said, stashing things efficiently into the refrigerator while he spoke. “That was the office. The main computer crashed and all hell is breaking loose. If I’m not there in ten minutes I’ll be out of a job. The whole company’ll be out of a job. Here’s twenty bucks,” he said briskly. “Order yourself some dinner. I’ll drop you off on my way down.” He removed the wineglass from her hand and draped her coat over her shoulders in the same gesture. “I’ll call you tomorrow, if I can. This’ll probably take all night. Come on, sweetheart, time is money.” And he hustled her out the door.
Now he was sitting at his desk in the central offices of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service staring at the report on the death of Donald Bartholomew, construction worker, and cursing the blank walls around him. What in hell had gone wrong out at the secure site for the conference? According to his last few reports there hadn’t been enough action out there to worry about. No recurrence of the phantom strangers the RCMP thought they had seen. One randy bastard had been sneaking off to see his girlfriend once or twice a week, but she had been a waitress at a local restaurant for the past ten years and didn’t seem likely to be in the pay of some hostile intelligence service. Of course, Steve hadn’t reported in for several days, but on an assignment this dull, that shouldn’t have been significant. Unless . . . He paused and tried to get his mind working on something beyond the material on his desk. Was Steve still messing around with the Charbonneau killing after all this time? It was possible. No one else in the department would still be spending time and energy on the death of a lousy little informer like Maurice Charbonneau, but you couldn’t tell
with Steve. He had that nasty, stubborn streak in him.
A very slight smile creased Andy’s lips and he shook his head. No. His death had to be . . .
His death had to be connected with the secure site. Because if you believed that some wino had managed to jump Steve Collins and kill him for the sake of his jacket and boots, and a few bucks in cash, you’d believe anything. Cassidy slammed his fist on the desk. It hurt. “Jesus, Cassidy,” he said to the walls, “can’t you think of something more original to do? Like look at his desk and see what he thought he was working on.” He stood up and walked to the door, rubbing his throbbing hand against the rough tweed of his jacket.
A black Lincoln picked its way carefully through the quiet streets of Sandy Hill and pulled up smoothly in front of the entrance of the Austrian embassy. Karl Lang, entrepreneur, patron of the arts, scion (on the maternal side) of ancient and now outlawed nobility, slipped out, murmured a few words to his chauffeur, and headed in to the reception. He was greeted cheerfully enough by the staffers darting tensely back and forth; he was hardworking, conscientious, and affable, the sort of businessman you did a few favors for and then felt you’d helped save the national economy. For months now he had been setting up a network of independent franchise outlets for the sale of Austrian sports equipment and clothing in Canada, and the Austrian embassy staff had all become rather used to seeing him drop in for coffee, news, and gossip. This evening he entered the large reception room and paused unobtrusively to line up his targets. He noted that the ambassador’s wife was firmly tied up in conversation with someone from External Affairs and abandoned her until later; instead he wandered over to the cultural attaché, a handsome, brown-haired, not particularly cultured skier with an enviable body. Herr Bleibtreu’s twin obsessions were mountains and money, and he had spent many idle hours that spring with the ever-sympathetic Herr Lang, spinning out ingenious schemes that combined life above twenty-five hundred feet and getting rich. As far as he was concerned, Herr Lang could do no wrong.