Jack sat in silence for a minute, then he said, “So Ed might have had something on Donahoe?”
“I don’t know,” said Sophie. “I guess so.”
“So we still don’t know who tried to drown Ed,” he said. “I’m pretty sure that Dupré is the guy who held him under the water, but we don’t know who gave the order.”
Sophie got out of bed, naked, and walked over to the ugly bureau where Jack had left Ed’s BlackBerry. He watched her move, and suddenly stopped thinking about his predicament.
She picked up the cell phone and weighed it, and turned to Jack. “We need to know what’s on this,” she said.
Jack jumped out of the bed onto his knees in front of Sophie. “I have a plan for that,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. He kissed her belly.
“It had better be a good one,” said Sophie.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” he said, and ran his tongue down her belly to her loins.
She stepped back. “Whoa, la,” she said, pushing his head away with her hand. “How about you tell me your plan, then we take it from there?”
Dupré didn’t say a word during the drive to the station, and he said little as they got out of the cruiser and rode the elevator up to a meeting room on the third floor.
Zwicker came in as the three of them sat down. He shook Dupré’s hand and introduced himself.
“Nice that you’ve agreed to help us out here, Inspector,” he said. “Duncan Wheeler is arriving shortly and he and I are gonna chew the fat a bit.”
“My pleasure, inspector,” said Dupré. “Always glad to lend a hand to Ottawa’s finest.”
“Why don’t you help Ashton and Flanagan here,” said Zwicker. “Tell them what you know, and I’ll have a little chat with Wheeler. We’ll look in on you in a few minutes.”
Dupré was smiling and nodding. “I’ll do everything I can, within the limits of operational security, to help your officers, sir,” he said, with the big smile again. “A pleasure.”
He sat down across from Ashton and Flanagan. He smiled up at the video camera in the corner of the room.
“I want to thank you again for coming in,” said Ashton. “I don’t like to interrupt your day off, but we think you might be able to help us with our case.”
“Anything I can do, I will,” said Dupré. “Shoot.”
“Okay,” she said. “To start with, can you tell me your whereabouts this afternoon, between one and three?”
Dupré smiled. “You know, I can see where we might have a bit of difficulty here. Oh boy.”
“How’s that?” said Ashton.
“Even as we get started I see that I run into questions of operational security.”
“Does that mean you won’t tell us where you were this afternoon?”
“Put it this way,” said Dupré. “Until I get a chance to talk to Deputy Commissioner Duncan Wheeler, I can’t be sure – not completely sure – what might constitute operational security and what might not. It’s just not my call. Chain of command.”
Ashton smiled and looked down at her notepad. “Well, if you were off the clock, building a birdhouse in the basement, that wouldn’t be operational security, would it?”
“Let me put it this way,” said Dupré. “That’s a call that I wouldn’t be comfortable making. Okay? That decision – to tell you about my birdhouse – I don’t think I should make that call. For example, if I was on an anti-terror stakeout this afternoon, that would be classified, right? Follow me? Under no circumstance could I share that information with you. That would put me in violation of the Security of Information Act. As much as I might like to help, I could say nothing.”
Ashton kept smiling. “So are you saying that you were engaged in anti-terror surveillance this afternoon?”
Dupré grinned. “You see? You see where my problem is? How can I answer these questions without getting clearance? I need permission from Duncan Wheeler, who is having a chat, maybe a coffee and a doughnut, what have you, with Inspector Zwicker right now. If he were to give me the thumbs up, give me the clearance, no problem. But it’s not my call. Not on that kind of question, if you are asking about anti-terror surveillance.”
Ashton stretched and flexed her fingers.
“Okay,” she said. “Tell you what. Why don’t you wait here and we’ll wait out there, and when Zwicker and Wheeler are finished, maybe we’ll have another go.”
Dupré’s grin turned cold. “Hey,” he said. “You’re the boss.”
Ashton and Flanagan left him in the meeting room, asked a uniformed cop to keep an eye on him and went to find Vierra, the officer putting together the pieces on the Wamala case.
“Have you got anything?” asked Flanagan. “Any way we can link Dupré to the masked man?”
“Fuck all,” said Vierra. “We had lots of guys down there, looking for witnesses. We found a lot of people who saw the guy in the balaclava, but nobody who saw him without it. The people who saw him shoot the bus say he went back down the stairs and skated down the canal like a bat out of Hell. My bet is he got out of sight and pulled off the balaclava.”
“Then he put it in the Buick,” said Flanagan.
“What’s he say?” said Vierra. “Was he skating today?”
“Said he can’t tell us anything without the say-so from Wheeler,” she said. “Operational security. He’s laughing at us.”
Vierra rolled his eyes. “I got to tell you two, this all puts me outside my comfort zone. Know what I’m saying?”
“You and me both,” said Flanagan.
Then Zwicker called Ashton and asked her and Flanagan to return to the interview room where Dupré was waiting.
Wheeler was sitting next to Dupré. He was short and pale, with grey hair, sharp features, heavy glasses and an air of bureaucratic resignation. Both he and Zwicker were dressed in nearly identical Sunday casuals: khakis, button-down shirts and crew neck sweaters.
Zwicker introduced them.
“Inspector Dupré is going to leave with the deputy commissioner,” he said. “He assures me that he will debrief him and get back to us as soon as possible to see whether the RCMP can be of any help to our investigation.”
Flanagan said, “What?”
Zwicker cautioned him with a look.
“We found a black balaclava and skates in his car, director,” said Flanagan. “We have a 911 caller naming him as the perp. He has refused to co-operate with our queries and would not consent to a search of his car. The skates still had ice on the blades.”
“I know,” said Zwicker. “That’s why we asked him to come down here, Detective Sergeant. I’ve explained that to Deputy Commissioner Wheeler, who feels, because of operational security matters that he is not free to discuss with us, that the RCMP should immediately initiate their own investigation. The chief agrees with him. Do you read me, Detective Sergeant Flanagan? The chief is of like mind.”
Ashton put her hand on her partner’s arm. He was shaking his head angrily.
“Inspector Dupré,” she said. “On behalf of the Ottawa Police Service, I’d like to thank you for your help here today.”
“Oh no,” said Dupré, rising to his feet. “It is no bother at all. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” He moved around the table, and extended his hand. Ashton shook it. Flanagan turned his back. “Believe me, I look forward to sharing with you all the information that operational security allows.”
Mr. and Mrs. Sawatski told Sophie they didn’t think Ed would feel like chatting this evening, since they’d pushed him hard in the afternoon, but he’d only blinked a bit.
“I’ll try my best,” said Sophie. “It will just be nice to be with him, and you two need a break.”
They embraced, and Sophie turned off the Newfoundland music, which was starting to drive her crazy, and went out to talk to the nurse.
“Salut, Sophie,” she said.
“Salut, Elizabeth,” said Sophie. “J’ai une question pour toi, mais c’est u
n peu délicat.”
“Oui?” said Elizabeth.
“Ben, je me demande si je pouvais passer un peu de temps avec Ed maintenant, tout seul,” she said, and she blushed.
Elizabeth, a matronly franco-Ontarian, also blushed when she realized what Sophie was getting at.
“Mais oui,” she said. “C’est ton chum, n’est pas? C’est normal. Aucun problème. Ferme la porte et je vais surveyez ca pour toi.”
“Peut-être que ça pourrait l’aidez,” said Sophie.
“Et toi aussi,” said Elizabeth, and gave her a saucy wink.
Sophie closed the door firmly, and put her own iPod in the little stereo, and put on “Wake Up,” by Arcade Fire, which Ed loved. She went to the side of the bed and spoke to him softly. His eyes were closed and they remained closed when she kissed him and whispered in his ear. Then she pulled back the covers, pulled up his hospital gown and took his penis in her hand.
“Ed,” she said. “Ed.” She started to stroke him. He hardened and his eyes popped open.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said, and gave him a beautiful smile, then kissed his limp lips, pushing her tongue into his mouth.
He was awake now, staring straight at her. He blinked.
She pulled open her blouse, and climbed onto the bed, straddling him.
“I love you,” she said. “Je t’aime.”
He blinked.
“You love me?”
He blinked again.
She crawled backwards down the bed, and caressed him until she could feel his excitement build. Then she stopped, climbed off of him and sat by the side of the bed.
“Ed,” she said. “I want to fuck you now. Okay?”
He blinked once.
“You have to do something first, though,” she said. “It’s very important. I need the password to your BlackBerry.”
She reached down and stroked him.
“Stay with me, Ed,” she said. “Please.”
He blinked.
“Do you remember it?”
He blinked again.
She squealed with pleasure and kissed him. “Okay,” she said. “Blink when I get to the right letter.” She started to recite the alphabet.
Some time later, Elizabeth blushed when she heard – quite clearly through the door – the sound of Sophie crying out with pleasure.
11 – Good news, bad news
ISMAEL BALUSI PASSED the morning alone in his office, trying to keep one step ahead in the perpetual media war with the opposition: going through clippings, sending emails to communications staffers, imagining problems that he couldn’t see coming, working his way through an extra large coffee. He was an hour into it, and the coffee was mostly gone, when Suzanne, from Knowles’ office, called to say that her boss wanted to see him.
Balusi traipsed down the hall, a little nervous, as always when Knowles wanted him.
“Hi, Ismael,” he said, shaking his hand and gesturing to the couch. “Tell me. How’s your day look?”
Ismael blathered for a few minutes about media lines and ministerial newsers before Rupert cut him off. “Doesn’t sound like anything that Geoff couldn’t handle, if push came to shove,” he said.
“No,” said Balusi. “I suppose not. Why? What’s up?”
“Well,” said Knowles. “The prime minister would like you to go over to the party office today. The election readiness team there has worked up a Campaign Rapid Response Kit. You know about this thing?”
Balusi nodded. He hoped it wasn’t an impatient nod. “I helped Chris and the kids debug an earlier version,” he said.
“Great,” said Knowles. “Great! So that means it won’t take you forever to figure out what the fuck they’re talking about. Those kids are smart but they aren’t always very good at explaining their treacherous computers to lesser mortals. Anyway, someone must have been whispering in the boss’s ear about it over the weekend, because he comes in this morning and wants to know exactly how it works, whether it works, everything. You know what he’s like.”
“Sure,” said Balusi. “I can do that. I like the idea of CRRK, but I was never convinced it could stand in for experienced political operatives. It’s like a logic tree. Pump in the variables, answer the questions, and it finds the appropriate media lines for an issue. If it works, it could save a lot of time for all of us during an election campaign. What I’m afraid of is someone starts using it –”
Knowles cut him off. “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you run down there now, put the fear of God into the kids, and be ready to give the boss a thorough report on it tomorrow.”
“Sure,” said Balusi, getting to his feet. “Are they expecting me?”
“They will be. I’ll call as soon as you leave,” said Knowles. “ Just one other thing.” He picked up a white cardboard box from his desk. “I’ve got you a new BlackBerry here. We need to take yours, likely just for the day, for a security thing. So this one is ready to go.” He slid it across the desk to Balusi.
“A security thing?” said Balusi. He pulled his phone off his belt, placed it on Knowles’ desk and picked up the cardboard box.
“That’s right,” said Knowles, ushering him to the door. “See you tomorrow.”
Balfour was drinking coffee in front of his computer screen at home when his BlackBerry buzzed. It was an urgent alert – another one – informing him of the location of the missing BlackBerry.
He opened the map screen on his computer and found the dot, flashing at 88 Peel Street, which, he recalled, was the residence of one Jack Macdonald. He checked the log. It had been online for two minutes. While he was watching, it pinged again.
Twice in the past twenty-four hours the Berry had been briefly activated. The first time, in the afternoon, it had been used in the Byward Market, at York and Parent, for a bit more than a minute. He had called his contact, then had to tell him that it had gone off line while they spoke. The second time was later last night, when it was activated, again for about a minute, on the Queensway. It pinged three times, each time a bit north of the previous ping, suggesting someone briefly used it in a moving vehicle. He had again called in to report the phone had been turned off.
This time, it was holding. He called his contact.
“The Berry’s been online now for three minutes,” he said. “You can check it on the program I loaded on your phone. It has been stationary, though, at 88 Peel Street.”
“Macdonald’s place,” said the voice.
“That’s right.”
“Good. Keep tracking it, please, and call me if it moves.”
Ashton was at her desk, drinking coffee and going through the witness statements from the canal shooting, when Zwicker called.
“We have another 911 call for you,” he said. “Same thing as yesterday. Muffled voice. Refuses to identify himself. From Sawatski’s BlackBerry.”
She sat bolt upright. “What’s he say this time?”
“I quote: ‘Tell Detective Sergeant Mallorie Ashton that an armed and dangerous perpetrator is about to break and enter at the residence of Jack Macdonald, 88 Peel Street, apartment 3.’ Then he repeats it word for word.”
“Jesus,” said Ashton.
“I want you and Flanagan there as soon as you can. Call me from the scene. I’m sending a backup car.”
“Roger that,” she said, hanging up, standing and grabbing her coat all at once.
“Hey, Flanagan,” she said. “You’re going to like this.”
The call came in while Wheeler and Dupré were going over the investigation report from the night before. Dupré hung up the phone and ran to his office to change out of his uniform. He was in black civvies in under two minutes, behind the wheel of his Buick in four and in front of Macdonald’s building in ten. He ran up the stairs, then stopped and listened at the door. There was no sound. He pulled his pistol from his jacket pocket, screwed on the silencer and picked the cheap lock.
He pushed the door open and stood in the doorway in his shooter’s stance.
There was nobody in the living room. He darted to the bedroom, the den, the kitchen and the bathroom, clearing the apartment as he had been trained.
Back in the living room, he approached the coffee table. The BlackBerry was sitting on it, in front of an open laptop. He unscrewed the silencer, put the pistol in his parka pocket, pulled out his phone and dialled in. “Apartment is empty,” he said. I’m looking at a BlackBerry.”
“Good. Grab it and get the fuck out of there.”
“Roger that,” Dupré said.
When he reached for the Berry, the laptop screen suddenly came to life. Jack Macdonald’s face was on the screen. “Inspector Emil Dupré,” he said. “What are you doing in my apartment? Why are you stealing my property? Why are you breaking and entering?”
Dupré froze in his tracks.
“You are being recorded by web cam right now,” said Jack.
Dupré could see the camera now, resting on the coffee table, a round plastic eye, out in the open. How could he have missed it?
“Please put down the BlackBerry, leave my apartment and call your lawyer, because I intend to have you charged with attempted murder,” said Jack.
Dupré froze for a moment, staring at the computer, unable to process what had just happened.
“Who were you just talking to on the phone?” Jack said. “Who’s directing you? No matter. I bet the police can find out from your phone records!”
Dupré scowled and sprang into action. He slammed the laptop shut, yanked the web cam from the side of the computer and called in.
“Dupré reporting,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I have the BlackBerry, sir, but I have been recorded taking it,” he said. “Jack Macdonald left a web cam set up, and he has filmed me taking the phone. He accused me of breaking and entering and theft, and says he intends to have me charged with attempted murder.”
“Oh dear God.”
“Yes,” said Dupré.
“Get out of there.”
“Yes,” said Dupré. “Should I bring the BlackBerry or leave it here?”
“Bring it. And get out.”
Dupré jammed the phone into his pocket, cursed and ran out into the hallway. As he turned to go downstairs, he froze for the second time in as many minutes. Flanagan and Ashton were on their way up. Flanagan had his gun drawn.
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