“It’s wide-open territory out there,” said Zak. “Anyone could be CIA.”
“Yeah,” Richard replied, checking the Sig Sauer and flipping on the safety. He stuck the gun in the inner pocket of the ill-fitting jacket he was wearing, obscuring it from view.
“Okay,” Zak said, sticking to Kumar’s side. “We’re going to head up there. Kumar,” he said, pointing to the gaping hole in the wall separating Courtroom 401 from the foyer, “stay tight between Richard and me. Do exactly what we tell you to do. We’ve been through worse than this.” They gingerly edged up the stairs, eyes continually surveying the huge glass foyer and the street and crowd beyond it. The courthouse consisted of seven floors, each set a little farther back than the one below it, with a gigantic angled glass roof rising above the terracing structure. Fire trucks and police vehicles were arriving. The crowd was increasing and gawkers stopped to see what might unfold.
“Perhaps I could borrow these from you,” Richard said to one of the sheriffs crouching in the rear of the courtroom. He motioned to the man’s headset and mouthpiece. He gave the set to Zak, who put it on, now connecting both of them to the courthouse security system. “Both of us are with an American security agency, and we have to protect this guy.” He motioned in Kumar’s direction.
“No problem, sir,” said the sheriff, unhooking the transmitter/receiver from his utility belt. “You guys seem to know what you’re doing.” “It’s an illusion,” said Zak.
Zak hooked himself up and the three of them cautiously poked their heads out of the gap in the outer wall created by Tyra’s grenades. He spotted a slight East Indian man standing, stunned, in the foyer, a man about Kumar’s height and build. “Oh shit,” he said to Richard. “That guy looks way too much like Kumar.”
Richard yelled to the stranger, “Sir, you sir, come in here! You’re a target!”
The man had a confused expression on his face and raised the palms of his hands outwards. “You’re a target!” Richard yelled. He was too late. Suddenly the man was knocked violently to one side and went down, his head a bloody mess.
“Everyone get down! There’s a sniper!” There was some screaming and running, but most of the people threw themselves down on the floor. Richard noted the direction in which the man’s body was launched, and looked toward the east. “Zak, you’ve got way sharper eyes than I do. Do you see anyone on the roof of that grey building?”
Zak stuck his head outside of the courtroom and looked in the direction Richard was pointing. He squinted and then nodded. “Yeah, there’s someone up there. I can see a rifle barrel.”
Richard turned to the crowd. “What’s that grey building over there to the east?” he yelled.
A man in the crowd responded, “That’s the Four Seasons Hotel.”
Richard turned on his microphone. “This is Richard Lawrence. I am guarding the witness, Kumar Hanaman. There is a sniper on top of the Four Seasons Hotel. Tell the cops. Tell them to put a bird in the air.”
Richard kept the headphone on so he could listen to the chatter of the sheriffs. He could tell that one of them was reporting to the police. At least the awareness was slowly setting in that this was an attack not on the courthouse or some judge, but on the defense’s star witness. They edged farther down the broad, carpeted steps, finally reaching the foyer.
“Fangs out, Zak. Stay out of the line of fire from the guy on top of the Four Seasons. There could be others.”
“Yo, bro, thanks. Wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“Shut up. Eyes open.”
They reached the western exit of the courthouse, but did not step out. “Down there, Rich, isn’t that, I know that guy—blue raincoat, short hair.”
“I know him, too. That’s Johnny, Johnny . . .”
“Johnny Slater,” Zak said. “He worked in Europe for a long time, and I think he went to the Ottawa embassy a few years ago.”
Richard turned the microphone back on. “This is Lawrence. Can any of you guys hear me?”
The earpiece crackled. “Go ahead, Mr. Lawrence.”
“There is a gentleman at the edge of the crowd, west building exit. He’s mid-forties, wearing a blue raincoat, short hair, stocky, glasses. That guy is probably armed. He will probably be carrying a Beretta 92FS with hollow points. His name is Johnny Slater. He is a CIA agent. He is highly trained and should be considered dangerous. Tell the cops. Use extreme care.”
“Let’s stay right here, behind these planters. If the police jump Johnny, we’ll know that we’re being treated seriously.”
Several sheriffs came up to them. “The three of you. Don’t be difficult. The protocol requires you to be outside the building while it’s being checked over.”
“Haven’t you been listening on the comm-link?” Zak was irritated. “Your protocol is going to get us killed. There’s a sniper on top of the Four Seasons and that guy in the blue coat down below is armed, highly trained, and looking to see Kumar here dead.”
“Not anymore,” said the sheriff. “Your blue raincoat guy is now surrounded by four Vancouver police officers. He’s under arrest. They’re cuffing him now. Holy cow, he does have a handgun.”
“Yes, dummy, he’s got a handgun,” retorted Zak. “And he’s cuffed. Good show. There are bound to be five or six others. I know how these things are arranged. In a hit like this, it’s never just two or three guys. It’s a gang, got that? A kill team. There will be more. I used to work for this outfit.”
“That’s still pretty out there, Mr. Lawrence. Now we have our protocol . . .” As he was speaking, Richard opened one of the doors and took half a step forward. Zak violently pulled him back in. He landed flat on his back, winded, and felt himself being dragged inside the courtroom. “Zak, what the hell?”
Then he heard the ping-ping-ping of bullets hitting concrete. “That tower right across from us, Rich. There’s second a sniper up there, on one of the Wall Centre towers. One more step out there and he would have nailed you.” “Jesus, Zak, thanks. You’re forgiven for the horse collar.”
“How many of them are there?” Kumar looked ill with anxiety and stress.
“I don’t know, Kumar. There’s a bunch, for sure,” Richard said. “Stay beside us.”
Richard clicked the mute switch off. “There’s another sniper on top of the building on the other side of Nelson Street. One of the lower Wall Centre towers. He’s firing down at a steep angle. It’s extremely dangerous to rush outside. Get the bastard.”
Many people in the milling crowd heard the shots, panicked, and ran back toward the courthouse for shelter. “Step back, Zak,” Richard said. “You don’t know who’s in there.”
“Yes. Let’s—”
“Gun!” yelled Richard. One of the lead rushers in the oncoming mob pulled a gun when he was three feet from Zak. In an action that had become involuntary, Zak flicked the button on his left forearm that released the spring-loaded dorsal blade in his prosthesis. He lunged forward and twisted sideways at the same time. The action caught the oncoming agent by surprise, and he fired a round into the foyer’s glass roof. As his body turned, Zak caught him in the throat with the razor-sharp blade. The man died almost instantly.
Richard looked at the gun the man dropped when he fell. “Another Beretta. CIA issue.” He handed it to Zak.
“They’re being directed by someone.” Zak was breathing heavily and wiping the blood from his blade. “There is no way the guy on the roof of the Nelson Street building could have known the precise moment we were going to step outside. And this character,” he motioned to the man whose last act in life was to foolishly take Zak on at close quarters, “this character knew we were here. Somewhere, in one of these buildings, someone is giving orders. We’re going back inside.”
They looked at half a dozen white-faced sheriffs. Both Richard and Zak now had guns, but they had all seen the move Zak had made, and the speed and ferocity of his attack.
“Okay, gentlemen, it’s obvious we need a new protocol,”
Richard announced. “There are, I don’t know, how many people out there who want us dead? We’re coming back inside, we’re heading up to find shelter in another courtroom, and we’ll have no argument from you, got it?”
There was some general nodding and no resistance. As they walked back up the stairs, Richard asked to be put directly through to the police commander. The security center again complied, and Richard found himself talking to the captain in charge.
“Weismann here.”
“This is Richard Lawrence. I am inside the building, at the western edge of the foyer. Zak Goldberg is with me. We are both American agents, here to protect a witness in the Lestage trial.” “Yes. Go on,” Weismann said.
“You are facing a rogue CIA operation. Factions in the American government want this witness dead. You are dealing with five or six ground agents, one of whom you have captured, and another who is dead. There are probably three or four others still out there. Each will be armed with a Beretta 92FS with hollow points, and probably suppressors. You have at least two snipers, one at the top of the Wall Centre, and another at the top of the Four Seasons. They are being directed from a place where their commander has a clear view of what’s going on. All parties involved will be highly experienced, and very dangerous.”
“Ten-four, Lawrence. We have the sniper at the Wall Centre. We have cornered and almost captured the sniper at Four Seasons. We have found a third sniper, on the roof of the Hotel Georgia Tower. He doesn’t know we’ve spotted him, and he has a gun aimed directly at the courthouse.”
“Which is the Georgia Tower?”
“It’s a tall building, about fifty floors, on Howe Street. That’s the first tall building to the northeast. It’s across the street from the Four Seasons.”
“I see it.”
“Lawrence, if you can see the top of that tower he can see—” He was interrupted by a volley of pings as several bullets and glass fragments landed within twenty feet of them.
“Everybody back in here,” Richard yelled, pointing to a small witness interview room. “The glass is thick enough to deflect the bullets, but he’ll figure that out pretty quick.” Richard and Zak pushed and dragged Kumar into the small room just as another volley of bullets landed within ten feet of them.
“Are you guys all right?” asked Captain Weismann.
“Yeah,” Richard replied. “We’re in a witness room. We should be okay. Nail that guy.”
“We’ve got reinforcements coming,” Captain Weismann said. “We’ve just arrested a third guy with a Beretta 92FS. I think we’re bringing it under control.”
“Yeah, we’ve been thinking that for several weeks now,” Richard responded. “It never seems to happen.”
“Stay where you are. We’ll triple the security around the courthouse once this is under control.”
“Get lots of film of the crowd down there. We may be able to identify who the rogue agents are,” added Richard.
“Don’t worry, Lawrence. This is Vancouver. We have a riot here every few years. You know, hockey riots, soccer riots, that sort of thing. We know how to set this up. Over and out.”
56
Judge Shawn Mordecai didn’t bother waiting for his clerk or the “all clear” and instead trudged down the hallways and stairs of the courthouse until he reached the richly carpeted expanse of the sixth floor, south, where his chambers cocoon was located. He entered his office, closing the door. He had a timer on his phone and set it for twenty minutes. He sat back in his chair, reflecting on the events of the day. Wittenberg was stumbling and wallowing, but he had to admire her grit.
He leaned back in the rich, brown leather of his chair, placing his feet on his desk. His gaze was directed to the opposing wall where he had pictures of his four sons and four grandsons. A sharp stab of pain went through his chest as he remembered those days, those priceless days when the boys were infants and he and his wife would take them everywhere: excursions; camping trips; cruises; many, many trips to Maui; endless birthdays; school concerts and field trips; and Christmases to die for. He had not realized at the time how blessed he was. He was a brilliant lawyer, and before he was thirty, he was commanding a salary of over $500,000 per year, which was increasing rapidly. He was a multimillionaire by the time he was forty and he and his beautiful family were the envy of the city. As is often the case with men or women so showered with fortune, he took his charmed existence for granted, assuming it would last forever. He did not see the clouds rolling in—bittercold storm clouds from the Canadian Arctic.
He spoiled his children, paying for endless extracurricular pursuits— hockey, soccer, piano lessons, trips to Italy, cars for graduation presents. He had encouraged all four to go to university, but none went. Then his oldest son died of a heroin overdose. The boy had been using since high school, and somehow, with the beehive state of his practice, he had been oblivious to the signs, and never forgave himself for it. Then his second child died at the age of twenty-one from complications from severe Type 1 diabetes, which he had developed in childhood. The complications were brutal. The boy died one piece at a time.
His two other sons burned through multiple marriages and affairs, borrowing money from him that they never intended to repay, and never aspired for anything beyond laboring part time at construction jobs. Mordecai knew that both of them were involved with alcohol and street drugs, and begged them to stop, only to be met by endless excuses and denials delivered under volleys of curses.
Then his wife’s adrenal glands burned out from all the stress of the deaths of the two boys and a husband who seemed to spend more and more time at his office. The fizzle of the adrenal glands led to Addison’s Disease, a longterm, chronic illness that robbed her of all energy and kept her bed bound for twenty-three to twenty-four hours a day, suffering from unmanageable headaches, blood pressure that, on a good day, was seventy-five over forty-five, and a depression so black and intense, he could not remember a day when she hadn’t wept. She had been ill for more than fifteen years and became addicted to marijuana and Ativan. She was deeply mired in depression and addiction when he left her. Rather than engage in protracted matrimonial legal battles, he asked what she wanted, to which she replied, “Everything,” which he promptly gave her. “Everything” included their homes, investments and savings, and $10,000 a month net of taxes in perpetuity.
He met another woman three months after the divorce documents had been inked and a relationship of true, intense, perfect love blossomed instantly. He married her within a year, and was ready to take on the world again, rebuilding his fortune with a stunning woman twenty years his junior. Two years passed before she threw the first punch. Mystified, he asked her a few days later what that was all about, to which his new love replied that she had just temporarily lost it, begged for his forgiveness, and they moved on. A year later she threw another punch, and six months after that she threw two and added a kick.
She became ever more abusive and violent, tendencies that worsened exponentially over the years. She pummeled, stomped, and kicked him unrelentingly. He left when he became fearful of the situation, not for his own safety, but out of concern that at some point he would strike back. He had never struck a woman in his life, and was not about to start. He left her in the dead of night, covered by bruises, with a broken spirit and a broken heart. There was no climbing back. He again eschewed legal representation and gave her everything—the new house and the rebuilt investments. By this time he was sixty and had accepted an appointment to the bench. He gradually came to realize that after decades of spectacularly high earnings, of adulation from partners, clients, friends, fans, and family, he was broke—financially and psychologically. He grudgingly attended to his duties as Supreme Court judge, and spent more time in the past than the present. He lived in a small, 1,200-square-foot apartment in a cheap section of the city, and eschewed visits to the mansions and penthouses of his friends who had not been nearly as successful, other than having married well.
There was on
e picture in particular, taken on a bridge on the Berg Lake Trail in the breathtaking Mount Robson Provincial Park. It showed the six of them—the four boys, ranging from ages five to eleven; his first wife, Nadia; and Shawn himself, longish hair and boyish good looks at age thirty-five. They were a stunning family and a far cry from his present life. He fought back, as he often did, tears of regret, wishing those days back, cursing himself that he had taken for granted the wealth that had been showered on him.
He forced his eyes away from the photograph and turned his attention to the matter at hand. Who were these people to so interfere with the course of justice? Who could possibly have the gall to attack a courtroom? He disrobed, got into a pair of ancient jeans, and headed to the chief justice’s office.
“Chief, what the hell do I do now? This has never happened to me before.”
“Shawn, this has not happened in the English legal system for a good four or five centuries. We do not alter course. We do not shut down the court. I will talk to the solicitor general and get extra policing lined up. But this place, this courthouse, in fact your courtroom, is the shrine of constitutionally protected freedoms. It’s what makes our country what it is. Are you okay to keep going?”
“Damn rights, Chief. Let’s get 401 put back together and restart the trial tomorrow.”
“That’s it, Shawn. Try and keep that trial under control.”
“Doing my best, but it threatens to turn into a gong show at any minute.”
“You can keep it on track, Shawn. I’ve known you since law school, and you’re a match for this. Oh. Try not to swear too much in court.”
“Fuck it, Chief. Thanks for the encouragement, though.”
57
Richard, Zak, Kumar, Dana, and a sheriff were standing in a small circle inside the wreckage of Courtroom 401, engaged in earnest conversation. The place still had the acrid smell of gunpowder, and firefighters were checking the walls and ceiling to ensure that there were no latent fires.
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