Léo collapses onto a pile of pillows on the floor, a makeshift couch in the cramped bachelor apartment. He needs a new plan.
“I can give them a message for you,” Antoine offers, strumming his guitar. He’s got a joint smoldering in an ashtray. “They’ll call here at some point.”
“I’ve got to go somewhere right now,” Léo tells him. “But can I come back here and crash for the night?”
“Absolutely, man.”
Léo takes a couple of tokes off the joint and lifts himself off the floor. “I’ll be back later,” he says, and heads off.
He takes the bus to the East End. He tucks the communiqué between the pages of a phone book, and calls CKAC. Whoever answers the phone is tasked with passing along the message. “The FLQ is responsible for the kidnapping of Pierre Laporte,” Léo says. “A communiqué has been left in a phone booth at the corner of Tenth and Beaubien.”
Back at Antoine’s apartment, it’s already all over the news. “Check this out, man,” Antoine says. “Another kidnapping!”
He joins Antoine in front of the TV. “The FLQ did it again! They don’t even know which cell it was.”
Léo looks at him. Says nothing.
He splits before the sun comes up, hopping on a bus to the South Shore. It’s early, but the city is already buzzing with the news—on the radio, in the papers, on the street. I’m the guy who kidnapped Laporte. Imagine if these people knew? He’s at the center of this incredible event that’s on everyone’s minds and tongues, this thing that has immobilized the city. It gives him a feeling of omnipotence, an inflated sense of responsibility.
He arrives at the white-frame bungalow on Armstrong, a dead-end street surrounded by open fields, close enough in proximity to the St. Hubert airport that you can hear the planes landing and taking off. He’s relieved to find the street completely deserted. He was half expecting the place to be surrounded by cops. He enters through the garage, eager to catch up with the guys. He can hear the radio as soon as he sets foot inside. The guys look relieved to see him.
“Jacques is with Laporte,” Francis says, reading his mind. “Keeping guard.”
“What’s happening?” Léo asks.
The guys seem in decent spirits. Léo is relieved. The operation went smoothly; nothing terrible has happened yet.
“They just interrupted with a special bulletin,” Paul says. “They got our communiqué. They know we’re threatening to kill Laporte if our demands aren’t met by ten tonight.”
Léo nods, sits down on a plastic folding chair. “Where’s Laporte?”
“Bedroom at the end of the hall.”
“What have you said to him?”
“Just that he’s been kidnapped by the Front de Libération du Quebec, and that he’ll be freed if the government meets our demands.”
“How was he last night?”
“I’m sure scared shitless,” Bernard says. “But he was pretty calm. No violent outburst or anything, no screaming. Didn’t even ask questions. We’ve got the radio on in there with him. He knows everything that’s going on.”
“How’ve you been treating him?”
“Fine. Fine. We’ve been giving him canned spaghetti. There’s no other food. Just some cans of Chef Boyardee.”
Léo gets up. He wants to see Laporte with his own eyes. He heads down the hall, apprehensive. This is real. This is happening. His heart is hammering in his chest.
He opens the door. Jacques is sitting in a chair, smoking. The radio is on. Laporte is flat on his back, blindfolded and handcuffed. He’s lying very still, waiting. Waiting to find out if he will live or die, if he’ll ever see his family again. That kid he was playing football with was his nephew. It’s all over the news. Seventeen years old.
Standing over him now, Léo has to shove down a surge of guilt. To imprison another human being like this—a father, a husband, a son—requires a tremendous amount of compartmentalization. He has to stay focused on the cause. It’s not easy. “This isn’t personal,” he says, and Laporte turns his head toward Léo’s voice. He doesn’t say anything.
“When’s the last time he ate?” Léo asks Jacques.
“Last night.”
“Give him another can of spaghetti. And a smoke, if he wants.”
Léo leaves the room, struggling with his conscience. It’s going to be a long day, waiting around for Premier Bourassa to respond. They need to write more communiqués. Instructions and updates need to be delivered regularly.
They write the next couple of communiqués at the table in the living room. Léo makes the decision to send Paul to deliver all of them. Paul will be the only one allowed to leave the house. It’s a random decision, but Léo thinks it’s better if the same guy comes and goes, so as not to arouse suspicion. Paul doesn’t wear a disguise. None of them are on any wanted list; their pictures haven’t been published anywhere. For now, they’re all still anonymous.
After Paul leaves, Léo wanders down the hall, peering into the other bedroom. There’s a makeshift bookcase, made from milk crates, full of books, which immediately draws Léo into the room. He doesn’t know the guy who rents this house, only that he drives a taxi.
Léo grabs a book by Pierre Vallières, sits down on the bed, and turns to his favorite page: It is by force . . . that we will be free. The sooner we arm ourselves with our courage and with our rifles, the sooner our liberation from slavery will make us equal . . . It is because I cannot bear to be a slave that I joined the FLQ.
Léo smiles, inspired. The Quebec revolution will not stop.
He gets up off the bed and returns to Laporte’s room. He signals for Jacques to leave them alone.
“You know Premier Bourassa,” Léo says. “You think he’ll negotiate to save your life?”
“I do,” Laporte says, surprising Léo. “I think the government will meet your demands. I can help.”
“How?”
“Robert is my friend,” Laporte says. “He’ll negotiate for my release. I believe that.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Laporte tries to sit up, leaning back on his elbows. “Could I write him a letter?” he asks. “I think I can persuade him. If I could just send him a personal note, in my words.”
Léo thinks it over. What’s the harm if it helps get them what they want? He leaves the room and runs it by the guys. Everyone agrees it can’t hurt. Léo grabs some paper, a pen. They all pile into Laporte’s room. Léo removes the handcuffs, and Laporte stretches his arms above his head. “Thank you,” he says, soft-spoken.
Léo feels sorry for the guy. He’s just a regular middle-aged man, thinning brown hair, a thick awning of bushy eyebrows above the blindfold, mild-mannered. The problem is he’s one of them. Léo has to keep reminding himself of that. Human being or politician—it’s one or the other, not both.
“Should I dictate it to you?” Laporte asks.
Léo hands him the paper and pen, a book to write on. “You can write it with the blindfold on,” he says. “We’ll just make sure we approve what you say.”
Laporte nods, grateful. Starts to write as best he can without being able to see his own words on the page.
My dear Robert,
I feel like I am writing the most important letter I have ever written. For the time being, I am in perfect health, and I am treated well, even courteously.
In short, the power to decide over my life is in your hands. You know how my personal situation deserves to draw attention. I had two brothers, both are now dead. I remain alone as the head of a large family that comprises my mother, my sisters, my own wife, and my children . . . My death would create for them irreparable grief, and you know the ties that bind the members of my family . . .
You have the power of life and death over me, I depend on you and I thank you for it.
Léo has a hard time reading the letter. He doesn’t want to know any of this, doesn’t want to see Laporte in this light. No man should have to plead for his life like this, have his vulnerabili
ty made so public. This letter will likely be printed in all the papers and read on every TV and radio station before the day is done.
Paul takes the letter, along with a new communiqué threatening to execute Laporte if their demands are not met, and heads off to the city to get it to CKAC. They’ve got a widespread, impenetrable network of friends and relatives helping them out, on which they now have to rely for all their communication with the media.
“I’m starving,” Laporte says, with renewed energy. His spirits seem to have lifted. He seems more confident about his release, optimistic even. “Anything but canned spaghetti. Please.”
“We’ve got no more money,” Bernard says.
“I’ve got money,” Laporte offers. “In my pocket. Take it. Get something for all of us. Real food.”
The guys all look at one another. Bernard pulls a twenty out of Laporte’s pocket.
“Order something,” Léo instructs. For the first time since they grabbed Laporte on Robitaille Street, Léo is feeling confident they did the right thing. If the twenty-three political prisoners are freed and the kidnappers are given safe transport out of the country, then everything they’ve done will have been worthwhile.
The government’s response to Laporte’s letter is a vague, inscrutable statement delivered by Bourassa on TV later that night: “We have chosen individual and collective justice.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Léo shouts.
He storms back to Laporte’s room, where Laporte is listening to the same news conference on the radio. “I thought he was your friend?”
“Give him time,” Laporte says, still blindfolded on the bed. “I understand it to mean he’s willing to negotiate, and that he’s choosing to save my life.”
“‘Individual and collective justice’?” Léo repeats. “That doesn’t mean anything. It’s empty words.”
In the forty-eight hours that follow, nothing happens. No offers are made, no demands met, just a lot of back-and-forth between the FLQ’s and the government’s lawyers.
“It was all a goddamn stall tactic,” Francis says. “That whole speech was just the government buying time. They were never going to negotiate with us.”
“Laporte was so sure they would,” Bernard says. “Those guys in the Liberal government are his friends. He’s one of them, for Christ’s sake. How could they not do everything in their power to save his life?”
“There’s something none of us took into account,” Léo says, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “The federal government.”
Léo suddenly jumps up from his chair and starts walking around the room, processing the situation as he moves. “Laporte wasn’t wrong about the Quebec government,” he says. “His mistake was in not realizing how much power the federal government has over this province. Think about it. The one to blame here is Trudeau, the goddamn prime minister of Canada. He’s the one who won’t negotiate with us, he’s the hard line.”
“Léo’s right,” Francis says. “Laporte’s friends in the cabinet would accept our demands in a heartbeat, but they’re just lackeys and ass-kissers to their federal master.”
“So now what?”
“We wait some more,” Léo says. “Let’s see if the lawyers can reach an agreement.”
Just before midnight, another news bulletin. The lawyers have reached a standstill, and all negotiations have stopped. The government won’t budge, not even to save Laporte’s life.
Léo barges into Laporte’s room, throwing open the door. “They’re not accepting any of our demands!” he says, incredulous.
Laporte lies motionless, silent. He doesn’t even react. He looks like a man who has lost all hope.
Returning to the living room, where the others are hunched over the radio, Léo says, “Laporte’s given up.
Jacques silences him with a wave of his hand. “Trudeau is talking.”
Léo circulates around the room, agitated. He pulls back the curtain and peers outside. It’s deserted. He’s starting to get paranoid. On the radio, Trudeau is responding to an English journalist about the criticism he’s faced for sending military troops to Ottawa. Léo understands enough English to get the gist of his typically arrogant remarks.
“There are a lot of bleeding hearts around who just don’t like to see people with helmets and guns,” Trudeau is saying. “All I can say is, go on and bleed, but it’s more important to keep law and order in society than to be worried about weak-kneed people.”
“This prick doesn’t back down,” Jacques mutters.
“Our society must take every means at its disposal to defend itself!” the prime minister states.
“At what cost?” the reporter asks him. “How far would you go?”
“Well, just watch me.”
Léo turns to the others, shaking with anger. “He’s going to let Laporte die.”
“Or he doesn’t think we’ll actually do it.”
“Will we?” Francis asks. “Execute him?”
“If we do, it’ll be because of Trudeau’s ego.”
Everyone is quiet.
“Look, it’s still too soon for this conversation,” Léo says. “However it ends, the government is going to have to deal with its own conscience. After today, they’ll have blood on their hands. They’ll be as guilty of murder as we are.”
The only bright spot in an otherwise bleak day is news of a rally at the Paul Sauvé Arena, where three thousand students have come together to support the FLQ. The guys listen to the rally on the radio, heartened by the cheering crowd, their boisterous validation.
“The people are on our side,” Léo says, his exuberance returning. “They’re on our side.”
“We’re a more powerful force than they thought.”
Proving that to be true, an offer from the government is made on the heels of the student rally: the release of five FLQ prisoners and safe passage out of Canada for the kidnappers.
“No way,” Bernard says. “They release all twenty-three prisoners or Laporte dies.”
“I agree,” Léo says, his heart in his throat.
They don’t respond to Bourassa’s offer. It’s an insult. Léo finally falls asleep, comforted by the knowledge that his people are behind him.
“Léo, wake up.”
Léo stirs, opens his eyes. He sits up, not recognizing the room. Where is he? Where’s Lisette? He realizes he hasn’t slept properly since the kidnapping, not more than an occasional restless catnap. This time he was really out.
“Léo,” Bernard says, “Paul’s back.”
Léo shakes himself awake. Lights a cigarette. Paul never came back after delivering Laporte’s letter two days ago. He was beginning to think they were all screwed. “Where was he?”
“He was tailed by two undercover cops on his way back to the South Shore. He figured it out and went over to one of the safe houses. He finally managed to sneak out in disguise and walk back here. He lost the cops.”
“But they know Paul is involved.”
“They do, but they didn’t arrest him. They were obviously hoping he’d lead them to us.”
The walls are starting to close in.
“Another thing, Léo. Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act early this morning.”
Léo isn’t entirely surprised. Yesterday, the army was called in and troops flooded the city. The guys watched it all unfold from their window. Their house is right next to the St. Hubert military base, so when the army was deployed, the trucks rolled past them for hours on their way to Montreal.
But the War Measures Act is something else. The police will be able to arrest and hold whomever they want, for however long they want. Trudeau is digging in his heels.
His first thought is of Lisette. He hasn’t spoken to her since the day of the kidnapping. He can’t call her now. The cops are probably watching her, tapping her parents’ phone. He stumbles out of bed and takes a piss. He walks past the other guys, who are all dozing in the living room—including Paul, to Léo’s great relief—and
goes to the kitchen. They’ve been using Laporte’s money for staples—coffee, beer, smokes. He pours some coffee into a used Styrofoam cup and turns on the kitchen radio.
On CKAC, the news is grim. The army has invaded Montreal, and the streets are filled with soldiers, their machine guns poised to fire at whatever provocation Trudeau has deemed appropriate. Hundreds of arrests have been made, and citizens are being stripped of their civil liberties all across the province.
He wakes the others and they convene around the coffee table.
“Now what?” Francis says. “We’re screwed.”
“We’re not screwed,” Léo says, putting on a calm facade. “They didn’t arrest Paul, which is good for us. It means they don’t have anything solid yet.”
They all know Paul could have led the cops straight here, and that it’s probably only a matter of time, but he sees it as his responsibility to keep up morale.
“Léo, you heard the news. They’re rounding people up all over the city, trying to find us. Anyone who’s ever supported nationalism is being held for questioning.”
“They’re throwing innocent people in jail just because they can. Orders of the government.”
“It’s a free-for-all. They arrested Pauline Julien.”
“The singer?”
“She wouldn’t sing for the queen a few years ago, remember? Now she’s in jail for it!”
“We can’t panic now,” Léo says, concealing his own growing anxiety. Even as he reassures them, he feels sick. What if Lisette’s been arrested and she’s locked up somewhere? She has a record.
All of a sudden a loud crash from the other end of the house interrupts their conversation. They look at one another.
“Laporte!”
They all jump up and run down the hall in a panic, realizing how lackadaisical they’ve been about keeping an eye on him. They stopped guarding him around the clock after day one. Someone checks on him sporadically, but there hasn’t been a sentry at the door. They almost never touch the guns.
When they get to his room, they find Laporte on the floor. There are shards of glass all over the floor, blood on his wrist and upper body, and the window above his bed has been smashed.
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