Deadline

by Maher, Stephen

  “Mr. Macdonald. Are you willing to share all this evidence with me, with the government?”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Under certain circumstances,” he said. “Yes.”

  Mowat leaned back in his chair. “Sophie, I need you to do me a favour now. I want you to go have a chat with Claude, fill him in, give him the broad strokes. We need to figure out how exposed we are.” He turned back to Jack. “And I will have a chat with Mr. Macdonald here.”

  Dupré wouldn’t say anything except: “You’re making a big mistake.”

  He said it several times during the short drive to the station when they asked him what he was doing in Macdonald’s apartment.

  Zwicker intercepted them in the lobby as they were about to take him downstairs to be fingerprinted and photographed.

  “Take him to Interview Room Number 2,” he said. “We need to talk. You can process him later.” In the elevator on the way up, Dupré whistled “Three Blind Mice.”

  They left him in cuffs in the interview room, locked the door, asked a uniform to watch him and rode up to the fourth floor. Zwicker took the evidence bags holding the pistol, silencer and BlackBerry, and all three walked back to his office, where Wheeler was waiting. Zwicker tossed the evidence baggies on his desk.

  “Deputy Commissioner Wheeler, you’ve met detectives Ashton and Flanagan,” he said. “I wanted them to sit in our meeting. They have just apprehended Inspector Dupré, as you know, in the act of committing a break and enter.”

  Wheeler glowered at them. “I think it would be better if we met alone,” he said.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you think,” said Zwicker. “Excuse my French. But these two have been working their holes off to investigate the attempted murder of Ed Sawatski, the shooting of Miko Wamala, who has diplomatic status, and now we have a break and enter. Inspector Dupré is a person of interest in these investigations, and he has refused to co-operate with our officers. When they apprehended him today he had a pistol with a silencer – which is a prohibited firearm, as you know. Why would Inspector Dupré be carrying a silencer, deputy commissioner?”

  Wheeler looked at Zwicker and sighed. “This is a national security investigation,” he said. “We went over this yesterday. We have launched an investigation to make certain that the appropriate procedures were followed.”

  Flanagan’s laugh sounded like a bark.

  “Detective Sergeant Flanagan finds that amusing, Deputy Commissioner Wheeler,” said Zwicker. “So do I. We all find it amusing, and also confusing. What was Inspector Dupré doing with this cell phone? Where was he on the night that Sawatski was drowned? Why does he have a silencer?”

  Wheeler said nothing. Zwicker got to his feet. “In the course of what kind of national security investigation would an inspector, an inspector with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, have cause to have in his possession a silencer?” he asked.

  Wheeler glared at him.

  “Maybe it is evidence,” said Zwicker. “That might explain it. Maybe Inspector Dupré apprehended the man who shot Miko Wamala. Is that right Deputy Commissioner? That would explain it. I wonder if that’s right. I wonder if we test this pistol if we will find a match with the slugs we pulled out of the canal.” He started to laugh. “I bet that’s what we’re going to find. I am willing to bet my two saggy old balls that we’re gonna get a match. So what I’m fucking wondering, you bag of shit, is where’s the suspect? What kind of deputy commissioner of the Royal Canadian Cocksucking Mounted Police would keep the suspect from us, the officers with jurisdiction over the case?”

  He turned to Ashton. “Detective Sergeant Ashton,” he said. “Where do you think the suspect is?”

  “Sergeant, I believe he’s in Interview Room Number 2,” she said.

  “Thank you, Detective Sergeant,” he said.

  Wheeler stood up. “I think this exchange might better take place at a higher level,” he said, and walked out.

  Zwicker walked over and slammed the door shut as hard as he could then sat down behind his desk.

  “You want to stick around?” he said to Ashton and Flanagan. “The chief will call soon.”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I should actually call him,” he said. “Maybe you should leave, now that I think of it.”

  Ashton and Flanagan got up to go.

  “Good work, you two,” he said. “Excellent work. I’m proud of you.”

  He spoke again when they got to the door. “Bottom line here, just between us, I’ll likely have to let them spring the Mountie, at least until we get the ballistics results, but there’s no fucking way I’m letting them have the gun or the phone.”

  Ashton and Flanagan looked at each other and Ashton cleared her throat to speak. “Thanks, boss,” she said.

  “They can have my fucking badge first,” said Zwicker.

  Mowat folded his hands in front of him and smiled brightly at Jack. “You’ve been through the ringer, young man, and come out the other side no worse for wear,” he said.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Jack. “I don’t have a job, for example.”

  “How long have you been a reporter?” said Mowat.

  “Five years”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got quite a story on your hands now. Several stories, in fact. Huge stories. I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks,” said Jack. “Yours alone would be explosive, no doubt. I keep thinking of the headline: Sex Tape Blackmail Linked to Drowning.’”

  Mowat chewed that over, the ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

  “It would be quite a thing,” he said at last, and pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the window. He pulled up one of the blinds, and winter sunshine filled the room. He stood for a while, looking at the frozen Ottawa River, across to Parliament Hill, where the Maple Leaf atop the Peace Tower whipped in the wind.

  “So the police likely have the BlackBerry now?”

  “Yes,” said Jack. “But they don’t have the password.”

  “Are there any other copies of the video?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” said Jack. “Just the one on the BlackBerry and the one on this laptop. One with Sophie’s lawyer.”

  Mowat walked back to his desk. “So what are your plans now? Back to journalism?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Jack. “I think this story would be hard to tell, in many ways. There are a lot of national security implications. I’m not sure what to do. In fact, I’ve been thinking about a change.”

  Mowat smiled. “Really?”

  “Yes, minister,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about politics.”

  Mowat laughed. “You want to come over to the dark side? Well you wouldn’t be the first reporter to do that. Are you interested in communications work?”

  “Well,” he said. “No. Not exactly.”

  He inhaled, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. He felt himself blushing.

  “Sir, in April, Senator Barry retires,” he said. “It will be the first Senate vacancy the new prime minister will fill.”

  Mowat furrowed his brow. “Senator Barry,” he said, searching his mind. “Senator Barry.”

  He walked to the window again and looked out across the river.

  “How old are you Jack?” he asked.

  “I turn thirty next month, sir.”

  “Are you a conservative?” he asked, turning so his back was to the window, gesturing with his hands. “Philosophically, I mean. I know as a journalist you have been non-partisan, but what are your political views, on a personal level?”

  “I would describe myself as a small-c conservative,” Jack said. “But I’m not the type to seek publicity for my views. I’m more of a low-profile type.”

  “I see,” said Mowat. “You like to stay below the radar, eh?”

  “That’s right,” said Jack. “I’m interested in public service, but I’m not the type to seek the limelight.”

  Mowat nodded, as if deciding something.

  “You k
now,” he said, “the next prime minister would be lucky to have a fellow like you working for him in the Senate. And you could be a valuable addition to my campaign team. I think I’d like you to spend some time with Claude, see if we could use your research skills, behind the scenes, on the campaign, maybe in our Toronto operation. What do you think about that? How about we fly you out there tonight? Put you up in the Royal York?”

  “That’s a very appealing offer,” said Jack. “And at the end of the campaign?”

  Mowat went back behind the desk and again laced his fingers together and stared at Jack.

  “I could see you as a senator, but I have to tell you, Jack, people will wonder why I’m appointing you,” he said. “You see the problem, do you?”

  Jack nodded. “It won’t make sense to them.”

  “That’s the kind of thing we need Claude to handle,” said Mowat. “It’s a delicate problem and he’s got a deft touch with delicate problems. I rely on him greatly.”

  He stared until Jack grew uncomfortable. “I understand, sir,” he said.

  Mowat scowled suddenly and so fiercely that it made Jack start.

  “For instance, if one of your reporter friends asks you about your appointment, what would you say?” said Mowat.

  Jack bit his lip. He could feel the force of Mowat’s gaze boring into him. It was unpleasant. “Whatever Claude tells me to say.”

  Mowat nodded at him, still scowling. “What will you do if the Ottawa police want to interview you again?”

  Jack shrugged. “Whatever Claude says I should do.” He spread his hands out, palms up. “I am a neophyte. I would consider myself very fortunate to have Claude guiding me. He tells me to jump, I’ll say, ‘How high?’ ”

  Mowat nodded again and suddenly the scowl was gone and he was on his feet and smiling and his hand was extended.

  “I’m going to get Claude in here now, get him to take you to his office and debrief you thoroughly while I go over a few things with Sophie. What do you say?”

  “Thank you, minister,” said Jack. “I would be very happy to work for you, until April 15, when Senator Barry resigns.”

  Mowat laughed and took his hand.

  “Of course,” he said. “After April 15, you’re going to have other things on your plate, Senator Macdonald.”

  Fred Murphy gestured to Ellen Simms to stick around after the morning news meeting. “Something I have to talk to you about,” he said, after the other reporters left his office.

  He walked behind his desk, opened a folder, pulled out a sheaf of papers, placed it on the desk in front of him and spread it out so that she could see what it was.

  He sat down to wait while she leafed through the printouts of the emails and PINs she had exchanged with Balusi about the Meech II speech, and the transcripts of both versions of the speech, with the Meech II section highlighted. It took her about five seconds to realize the importance of the documents.

  “How did you get this?” she asked. “You have no right to access my PINs!”

  He looked at her with concern.

  “Ellen,” he said. “This is tough for both of us, but long story short, you’re out of the bureau.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “This is such bullshit. You’ve never liked me. You see me as a threat. How did you get access to my PINs?”

  Murphy closed his eyes briefly, put his fingertips together, as if in prayer. “No, I’m very fond of you, on a personal level. This has nothing to do with that,” he said. “But I have evidence here that you deliberately misrepresented the facts to our viewers. You can’t work in my newsroom anymore. And your buddy, Balusi, is out over at PMO.” He tried a warm smile. “This must come as a shock, but you might be better off seeing it as an opportunity. We want you to go to Toronto. We want you to stay with NTV, just not reporting politics.”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “We want you to do on-air stuff from Toronto, the weather to start, but eventually we’d like to have you anchoring newscasts for us there, after you complete an ethics course. Or you could take a leave of absence and return as an anchor, after you take the course. The camera loves you and we don’t want to lose that. We think, really, that you have a bright future at NTV.”

  Simms’s nostrils flared. She threw the papers down on his desk.

  “You want me to do the fucking weather?” she said. “You can talk to my fucking lawyer.”

  “That’s fine,” said Murphy, and he nodded at the printouts. “Give him that and ask him to give me a call.”

  She stomped to the door, hauled it open and strode outside, livid. She looked around at the busy newsroom, then took a deep breath and went back in.

  “Fred,” she said. “I don’t want to do the weather in Toronto. Come on. Give me a break. Let’s talk.”

  “I’m sorry, Ellen, but that’s not really possible,” he said. He pointed to the printout on his desk. “I can’t live with that.”

  She sat down and started to cry. He stepped behind her and patted her back.

  “It’s a just a misstep,” he said. “You’ll get over it. You have an amazing career ahead of you.”

  “I knew it was wrong,” she said. “Damn. I’m so stupid.”

  She looked up at him. A tear ran down her beautiful cheek. “I need help,” she said, taking one of his hands in hers. “I know that I’m not there yet. I come across as cocky because I’m afraid I’m a fraud, and everyone will find out. But I know I can learn.”

  She stood up and pulled his hand to her breast, imploring him with her eyes. “If you worked with me closely, you could train me. You could mould me.”

  “Ellen,” Murphy said, backing away and pulling on his hand.

  “I just need the right teacher,” she said. “I could be such a good student.”

  “Ellen, that’s not going to work,” he said, and he yanked away his hand.

  Her face was suddenly very angry.

  “Look,” he said, “you want my advice, you should go home, call Toronto, confirm that they have my back on this, which they do, and then think hard about whether you want to sue us or put your tail between your legs and go to Toronto, which is what I think you should do.”

  She stood, fuming, staring at him.

  “But either way, I’ve got to ask you to leave,” he said. “I have to go break a story. Donahoe is about to announce he’s pulling out of the race, and I have the scoop.”

  Sophie and Bouchard met Eric Pothier, the commissioner of the RCMP, and his deputy, Duncan Wheeler, at the elevator. Marie-Hélène sat at the reception desk, looking busy.

  “There you are,” said Bouchard when the two men got off the elevator, looking immaculate in their perfect dress uniforms. “Nice to see you!” He reached out to shake their hands. “Let me introduce Sophie Fortin, our new senior policy adviser,” he said.

  Sophie smiled and shook hands with the two men. “Such a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “The minister is very grateful that you could find time to come at such short notice.”

  “We’re happy to be here,” said Pothier, and he gave her a warm smile, nodding his handsome grey head and crinkling his blue eyes. “And let me congratulate you on your promotion, Ms. Fortin. If I recall correctly, the last time we met you were in communications.”

  “Thank you, commissioner,” she said. “The minister would like to see you in his office to discuss the Strategic Review Process.”

  She glanced at Bouchard.

  “And you, Deputy Commissioner Wheeler, are stuck with me,” said Bouchard. “There are few operational details the minister would like me to go over with you.”

  The smile froze on Wheeler’s face as he learned he was going to a different meeting. “Great, Claude, great,” he said, his voice too loud and too cheerful. “Lead the way.”

  Bouchard showed him to his office, and they sat at a little coffee table.

  “I have some good news and some bad news for you,” said Bouchard, and he put a single sheet of paper in
front of him. It was a civil service job posting. The heading read Director, Security, Via Rail.

  Wheeler’s smile disappeared instantly when he saw what it was. For a second he looked confused, then he understood. He covered his mouth with his hand, then pulled his hand quickly away from his face and looked up at Bouchard.

  “I’m sorry, Duncan,” said Bouchard. “But that’s the good news.”

  Wheeler closed his eyes, took off his glasses and covered his face with his hand. He bowed his head and stayed like that for a long minute.

  “I’m sorry, Duncan,” Bouchard said, very softly. “We have no choice.”

  Eventually, Wheeler put his glasses on, stuck out his chin, sat up straight and squared his shoulders.

  “Okay, Claude,” he said. “I’m ready for the bad news.”

  Bouchard picked up the job posting and held it in the air.

  “The bad news,” he said, “is there’s a bit of tricky paddling ahead of us before we can make this happen. It’s not a sure thing, Duncan. Far from it.”

  Pothier and Wheeler spoke urgently in low voices in the back of the car on the way back to RCMP headquarters. Pothier waited in the car, reading documents from his briefcase, while Wheeler ran into the building. He came back ten minutes later, jogging out to the commissioner’s car, carrying two paper evidence bags.

  “Thank you, Duncan,” said the commissioner. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Peter O’Malley, chief of the Ottawa Police Service, met Pothier in the lobby of the station and rode with him in the elevator up to Zwicker’s office.

  Zwicker greeted them politely, but his jaw was set and he was formal and brisk as he invited them in. Three evidence bags – one holding a pistol, one holding a silencer and one holding a BlackBerry – were sitting on his desk.

  They sat down across the desk from Zwicker.

  “I want to start by apologizing, Inspector Zwicker,” said Pothier. “I have only just learned, this morning, the details of this operation. I want you to know that Inspector Dupré and Deputy Commissioner Duncan Wheeler were acting without authorization, and they have made a terrible mess. On behalf of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I offer my apologies.”