by John Farrow
Julia sighed, not knowing if this was making sense to him, frustrated by her inability to declare what drove her. “What scares me,” she said, “what scares me isn’t the Hell’s Angels. What scares me is growing up against yourself, in opposition to yourself. What scares me is setting out in life with a catalog of ideals and one by one by one by one ripping them into shreds. Defiling everything you stood for. That scares me more. Giving up what you believe in and totally, insanely, abusing what you believe in for the rest of your natural-born days. That scares me more.”
She looked at Arthur. The force of her glare made him stop and look back at her. “I will not do that. I will not live that way. I will stand up for what I
believe, and if that means taking action that backs me into a corner—from which I can never retreat—fine, that’s great, that’s what I want. I don’t want a way out. I’ve seen what a way out can do to a person. I know what it’s done to the people I love, to my mother and my father and even to my stepfathers. They’re good people, but what are they doing? I don’t want a way out, Arthur. What I want is a way to live that makes sense for me. For me. And this makes sense.”
She let him hug her. Anyone watching would not know what to make of the unusual couple wrapped in each other’s embrace on the mountaintop above the frozen city.
That evening, Bill Mathers was pleased, upon entering the stable, to discern a draft of warmish air, although once his eyes had accustomed themselves to the sallow light, a dampness crept under his skin. He smelled the dust and straw, recalled a childhood memory of visiting the country, and listened to the animals breathing. The hanging bare lightbulbs that lit the stables, fifteen feet apart, created shifting shadows as they swayed on their cords. Horses shuffled gently in their stalls. Ambling by them, Cinq-Mars proffered soothing words for each animal. He swung a gate open and picked a leather-and-steel halter off a hook upon entering the stall. He fitted it on a small gray mare and led her out, hitching the animal to crossties.
“Knell’s Bells,” Cinq-Mars said, introducing her. “She’s come up a little stiff in her old age, haven’t you, girl?” He knelt before the animal and rubbed liniment into her legs. He worked with firm, gentle hands, the horse receptive to his ministrations.
“Who’s your other guest, Émile?” Mathers asked pointedly. He remained one stall away, keeping the horse in front of him and leaning with an arm against a support beam.
“Raymond Rieser, an old friend.”
“I know. You introduced us, remember? Why’s he here?”
Cinq-Mars worked his hands upon the leg. “Raymond may have something to offer. That’s part of it. It’s also a test.”
“Testing who?” Mathers wondered aloud.
“Let’s tuck you in for the night,” Cinq-Mars said to the mare, ignoring his partner’s question. He unhitched Knell’s Bells and led her into the stall, turning her forward. “One job done.” He came out and closed the broad door and hung the halter on its hook. “Ah,” he noted as the outer entry opened, “Raymond.”
The man who joined them was large, barrel-chested, with a florid complexion and an extravagant gray mustache. His shoulder-length hair was tamed in a ponytail. As he spoke he doffed his unlit pipe. “You’re a monster, Big Guy, inviting friends for dinner then making us shovel manure before we eat. You’re an ogre, Cinq-Mars.” The man’s normal speaking voice veered close to a shout.
“Working up your appetite, Ray. I wouldn’t want a morsel of Sandra’s fine meal to go wanting.”
“Fat chance. So, Detective,” the brusque man was saying while he tugged at his suspenders and sucked his pipe, turning to include Mathers, “you are partner to the inimitable Cinq-Mars. How are you surviving that?”
Mathers struggled to grin. “Getting by, thanks. It’s been an experience.”
The two men stood aside as Cinq-Mars led another horse from its stall. They watched as he hid tablets in the core of a split apple and fed the animal its medication.
“See that?” Rieser asked. “He’s a devious sort. Full of tricks.”
“Are you a horseman, Raymond?” Mathers asked him.
“In my day. Thankfully, that time has passed.”
“Ray was a Mountie,” Cinq-Mars stated. “Intelligence.” Formerly, the Mounties were responsible both for police work and for intelligence on the national level, as if they were the FBI and the CIA rolled into one. In more recent times, the intelligence role had been passed along to a new civilian branch, emulating the CIA, which put old spies who had also been Mounties out to pasture. “Gentlemen,” Cinq-Mars announced as he put down the hoof and led the horse back to its stall, “a quick discussion before we return to the company of our fine women and drink to their good health.”
Only at that moment did Bill Mathers realize that Émile Cinq-Mars had been drinking to the good health of fine women for a while, for he had previously attributed his host’s expansive manner to a reflex of hospitality. He noticed him stumble slightly as he seated himself upon a stool, waving for his companions to settle around him.
“We have, Raymond, a situation.”
Rieser passed up a side bench and overturned a large wood bucket to use as a chair. He nodded to indicate that Cinq-Mars should proceed, inscribing a signal in the air with his pipe. Scrunching down, Mathers balanced on the balls of his feet and picked up a length of straw from the stable floor that he played between his fingers.
“As you’ve heard, I’m privy to information from sources unknown. The suggestion’s been made in recent days that no less than the CIA has sponsored my success. I put it to you, Raymond, why would an agent of the CIA be interested in the work of the Montreal Urban Community Police Department? Domestic crime in a foreign jurisdiction—unless you enlighten me otherwise, it makes no sense.”
Rieser furrowed his brow, then shook his head. “What does the young guy say?” he asked.
Mathers confessed, “I’m fresh out of theories.”
The man palmed his pipe and reflected further. “Truth be told, Émile, it’s not possible. Plausible? Not in the least. The CIA, catching what? Burglars? Petty drug pushers? Car thieves? The notion is ludicrous.”
Cinq-Mars vigorously scratched behind one ear. “And yet?”
“That’s it, you see, I have to put a knot in my own shorts. Let’s begin from the other direction. Assume the CIA is involved. Then the questions become how and why? How? In my experience, there are three possibilities. One, a rogue, an individual agent, working for his own reasons. Tough one to decipher, but file it to the back of your mind. In the second scenario, the CIA has an operation that involves you for reasons unknown. In the third case, the CIA has no overt operation but has sanctioned an agent to behave as a rogue, and to get a certain job done by whatever means necessary.”
The policemen waited in the drafty barn, where the horses snorted gently and moved around in their stalls. The former Mountie had to think things through.
“The world’s changing. There’s less demand for espionage. Enemies have become friends and friends competitors. Consequently, we have agents with time on their hands, looking to stir up trouble in order to make themselves useful. Now, that’s how the CIA could be involved. The question that remains is why?”
A horse touched a hoof lightly, rhythmically to its stall, starting other animals to whinny. Four hung their heads outside their stalls as though listening to this conversation among men, grappling with its meaning.
“Why be involved in our domestic crime? Because domestic crime increasingly includes international crime and the CIA sees itself as better able than the FBI to root it out. They’re positioned to operate behind enemy lines, step around the law. It’s been reported that a number of ex-KGB officers have moved into the rackets in Moscow. The CIA might see a role for itself defending the country against the same old people, only this time wearing capitalist pajamas. Also, there’s been disturbing news. The old KGB has been re-formed, and expanded, under a new name, the FSB. It’s possible that the
FSB is looking to be self-financing. They may have formed a fund-raising branch. Which means the FSB could evolve as both an intelligence agency and a criminal gang, a scary thought.”
Rieser paused to reflect and draw on his pipe, and Mathers took advantage of the lull to pose a question. “Raymond, why here? Canada. Why not Moscow, or New York City?”
The visitor’s nod underscored the worth of the question. “That could be the easy part, Bill, at least in theory. Inside the USA, the Company would be trespassing on FBI turf. What constitutes a covert operation on foreign soil becomes a violation of constitutional rights on home ground. I’m not so naive as to think the CIA does not operate on home ground, but they have more freedom, more scope, more capacity to function effectively when operating on foreign soil. On alien ground, the rule of law is nothing more than a weather forecast.” He paused to tap his pipe. “Another point. Consider that the Russian gangs—from something you said earlier, Émile, I gather they’re involved—consider that they might be happier operating an American base out of Canada, away from the scrutiny of the FBI. Their presence alone could induce the CIA onto the scene. They don’t respect borders any more than the gangs do.”
The three men considered these affairs in the quiet gloom. Stretching his stiff limbs, Cinq-Mars hoisted himself to his feet. “Interesting. Anything else you’d like to ask, Bill, before we head back to the house?”
Mathers considered Rieser’s comments. “You said there’d be three ways for an agent to be involved. Care to prioritize them?”
“Prioritize! Now there’s a fine bureaucratic word. Do you mean, what’s my hunch? Okay. I’ll say this—if the CIA is not here in pursuit of Russian gangs, you’re dealing with a rogue. If they are involved with gang activity, the agent is working independently. This is not a project within the Company’s mandate, which means it would be a covert operation even among the spies. Likely, higher-ups know. But only a few. Which makes your agent a man of experience and expertise, worthy of being trusted with the mission.” Rieser stood as well.
Cinq-Mars kicked dirt around a moment. He retrieved a broom and swept a patch of floor. “Any other gems, Ray, before we go back inside?”
The former Mountie knocked his pipe in his palm, as though sifting through clues left behind in the ashes. “Only this. If the CIA is involved, they’ll be serious about their operations. They’re not likely to brook any upset by two gentlemen cops such as yourselves. They have power. They have ways and means. You might be in this against the bad guys, but if you step on their toes, you could find yourself on the wrong side of the good guys, too. You’re brave men. That might not be enough. This may be a time for extreme caution. Don’t be careful, be damned careful.”
Cinq-Mars heavily sighed. “All right, listen up. We’re heading back to the house. There will be no further talk of this matter. Both of you are charged with providing us all with an entertaining evening. Now, let’s leave the company of horses and join our own kind, shall we?”
Ray Rieser was first out the door, and Bill Mathers took advantage to touch his partner’s elbow. “Did he pass his test?” he whispered.
Cinq-Mars’s voice was cold, cutting. “The bastard—my very old friend—he sold me out.”
12
Monday, January 17
Cautious to a fault when protecting a source, Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars arranged to meet Okinder Boyle in a small café along rue St. Paul in Old Montreal. Close enough to Headquarters to be accessible, the venue was sufficiently distant to diminish the risk of being spotted by cops trolling for a morning fix of caffeine. Cinq-Mars occupied a booth in the rear, his eyes keen on the door, drinking a pot of coffee while waiting for the journalist to show.
The detective gave Le Journal de Montréal a quick read to ascertain that nothing reported on the Kaplonski bombing was news to him. Splattered across the front page was another grisly photograph of the garroted Lincoln. Satisfied, he returned to the comfort of his cup, consciously resisting glazed cherry Danishes aglitter on the countertop.
Cinq-Mars enjoyed being in the city, loved the traffic of office workers piling in for coffee and croissants, the buzz of conversation, the ritual greetings and daily commiseration. The habits of others gave him pleasure, a sense of constancy, just as Sandra’s rituals in the barn established a rhythm that evoked life’s continuity. He was not enamored with routine himself. As much as he loved horses, he was not inclined to their day-in, day-out care, a shortcoming he’d unearthed one summer as a student in animal husbandry. In those days, when he was young, strong, and energetic, hard farm labor was of no consequence to him. What he learned was that he possessed a wandering mind, that repetitive tasks soon had him talking to himself, off on a discourse unrelated to the moment. Cinq-Mars had hoped to elevate his studies in animal husbandry to pursue a career as a veterinarian, but few spaces were available at the two universities where he applied, and at the time his English had proved inadequate for one, his science marks less than sufficient for either.
What he loved about working with cows and horses in close proximity to vets was attempting to solve the riddles of animal illness. In one case, Cinq-Mars had discovered the contamination of well water that served a particular barn after becoming sick himself with similar symptoms. Aware that the young man had been thwarted in his first choice of career, the vet on duty had suggested that he become a detective. Spoken half in jest, the comment would weigh on the youth. He did not want to muck out barns all his life. A limited number of graduates were being hired into government bureaucracies dedicated to animal welfare, and in any case those positions had seemed tearfully boring to him. On the other hand, he did enjoy investigating things. Exploration kept his attention. He preferred work that was patently interesting. If a job could intrigue him for a good chunk of time, he was willing to endure whatever bouts of boredom came attached. The young Cinq-Mars suffered little ambition to accumulate wealth. He got a kick from figuring people out yet was himself aloof. Why not be a policeman? In due time, a detective? With the avidity of youth, Émile Cinq-Mars supposed that he might actually be good at the job.
Within days of the initial suggestion, he began to think of police work as his profession, his vocation. He dispensed with any notion of being a small-town cop, although the countryside and its villages constituted his heritage. In such circumstances he’d be recognized and scrutinized, the goldfish in a bowl, made to wear a uniform throughout his career, a situation antithetical to being a crack investigator. He read Sherlock Holmes mysteries. Montreal was renowned, indeed legendary, for crime—that was where he would go. To a place he had never been. The city would become his London. He’d be a big-city cop, a Montreal cop, promoted one day to the rank of detective. He drove into the big city in a borrowed pickup and marveled as the humpback mountain, with the Oratory shimmering in the bright sunlight like a crown doffed to one side, then the sparkle of skyscrapers rose into view above the broad glacier plain. He crossed the Champlain Bridge and observed below the overpass the scoff of poor communities like a beckoning nod of destiny. In his blood and bones he felt his future here. Within minutes of first speaking to a recruitment officer, young Cinq-Mars impressed upon the man that he was not about to be denied.
And he was not.
What confounded Cinq-Mars, what wore him down at times, was the lack of professional pride exhibited by so many of his fellow officers. He kept up with professional training, attended conferences and symposia, making contact with officers from various jurisdictions, cities, and countries, on the off chance that one day he might want to call upon their services or expertise—as he had done during the past weekend with Raymond Rieser. Along the way he had attended innumerable lectures, and one stuck in his craw. An academic studying the behavior and makeup of policemen in several cities concluded that cops and crooks were more alike than first thought. Both were moths attracted to the flame of crime. They reveled in the excitement, the rush of danger. Both were seduced by the need to be at the ce
nter of things, to be in the know. They hated to be on the outside looking in. Both groups had difficulty with routine. Both were aggressive. Both liked guns. Both were righteous. Both saw themselves as living outside society. As did crooks, cops viewed themselves as social misfits. Both groups were tribal and attracted to codes and rituals. The lecturer had suggested that criminals and policemen lived on flip sides of the same mattress. Policemen, by upbringing or fluke or circumstance, were more inclined to conform to the law than to break it, that was all. Some cops would probably have become crooks if they hadn’t been hired to enforce the rules. He went on to make the case that policemen must be wary of policemen. In a fellow officer lay the seeds for criminal behavior. Cinq-Mars was left with the impression that the lecturer considered criminals the more courageous of the two tribes, while the weaker band, lacking the guts to commit crime and more fearful of prison, wore the badge.
Following the talk—which enraged him—Cinq-Mars appreciated that he had come to police work through different weather than his fellow officers. He was not the man described in the lecture, he was not an opposite mask. He hated routine and liked to be in the know, nevertheless his choices in life had never been between robbing a bank and catching the thieves who did. He became aware that policemen often emerged from the same streets and circumstances as the crooks they chased down. From locker-room chats he gathered that a solid percentage of his cohorts had flirted with crime as kids. They’d been caught, or frightened, or turned around by a strong family connection. The ones who’d been hockey players unable to make the pros were more likely to relate memories of their fights on the ice than goals scored. Cinq-Mars considered that some cops were effective because they thought like crooks, and his rage was gradually replaced by worry that he might fail at his profession because he did not suffer that requisite tarnish to his nature.