City of Ice (46 page)

“Give me a break—”

“Wait! Hear me out. Okay, the Angels would never allow an outsider to be in charge. You’re right there. But in terms of strategy, in terms of how they’re going to operate and with whom—that’s been usurped. They’ve been seduced. They’ve been shown the promised land, and they can’t believe the riches in store. How many Angels are in Quebec? A hundred and eighty?”

That was not a guess. It was accurate. Cinq-Mars nodded.

“The hierarchy will know wealth beyond belief.”

“It’s not your fight, Mr. Norris.”

“No? We have intercepted certain exchanges. It’s not only the Hell’s Angels and the Mafia and the Russians who are lining up together, aiding and abetting, consorting. Overtures have been made. They’ve been mulled over and key matters agreed upon. The Russian KGB/FSB agents have made contact with militia groups in the American Midwest, and in the Dixie States. The plan is that the militia will undertake to bomb government buildings, bring down airplanes,
burn black churches, assassinate politicians, disrupt commerce and the social peace, instigate race riots and skirmishes—in short, do their thing, live out their maniacal, racist fantasies, and have their campaign well financed with safe havens provided in other countries for anyone forced to flee the law. The idea behind this assault is that within a climate of civil unrest, when the FBI and civic police are strapped to the limit dealing with terrorism, the Russian federation, the Hell’s Angels, and the remnants of a resurgent Mafia will rise in that fire, dominate not only criminal activity but legitimate activities as well. Their dominance, their role, will hardly be noticed, so focused will the authorities be on internal terrorism. That’s what we’re up against, Émile. The rending of my nation in order to drag it down closer to the level of the former Soviet Union, so that criminals have a free hand, so that violence prospers, unabated, so that civil peace disintegrates, so that the races are violently pitted against one another, and every man, woman, and child walks the streets in fear and trepidation. That’s what we’re up against—and you want me to cease the battle, to give up what chance we have of terminating the organization behind that vision of the next century, just to spare one young woman? One young woman, who, I might add, is perfectly secure within the organization she’s infiltrated.”

“Is she?”

“She is, Émile. You have my word on that.”

“Then consider, Mr. Norris, that I know about her.” Norris’s chin went back a notch, as though reacting to a well-timed and well-executed punch. He needed a moment to recover.

“From the outset, Émile,” Norris said, “I knew you were a man to be trusted with covert information. It’s one of your attributes, a reason why you were chosen.”

Cinq-Mars smiled. The gall of this man, to think
that he could be recruited also, just like the kids. On the other hand, he thought again, had he not been?

The agent had seized the initiative in this discussion, the momentum was on his side. He had fought for and acquired the high ground, leaving Émile Cinq-Mars without a moral stance, defending a merely personal, merely domestic point of view. Now that he had received the best that this man could deliver, it was time to unleash his own arsenal, one volley followed by another.

“You’re missing an essential element here, Mr. Norris.”

“Am I?”

“Your agent, this young woman, has been compromised inside the Angels. The damage has been contained for the moment, but that can’t go on indefinitely. The woman must come out because her usefulness to you is about over. If she doesn’t come out, her chances of survival are minimal.”

Norris listened, perhaps respectfully, and gazed upon the detective for a few prolonged moments. Cinq-Mars guessed that he was getting up to speed with what he had not said as much as with what had been voiced. Cinq-Mars had intimated to him that he also had informants inside the Hell’s Angels, for how else had he drawn information out? By saying that the damage had been contained, he was suggesting that he had successfully quashed information set loose inside the gang. In the end, Norris shook his head, “Sorry, Émile. You have to do better than that.”

“How so?”

He gestured with a hand. “I haven’t seen any cracks in her security.”

Perfect. Norris was fishing, trying to hook whatever Cinq-Mars knew and reel it to the surface, but in doing so he had admitted to a position. Now Cinq-Mars could assume an alternate perspective that diminished
his adversary’s viewpoint. “Are you familiar with the phrase malicious malalignment?”

Pressing his lips together quizzically, Norris shook his head.

“Ask your agent about it. Then remind yourself that the real Heather Bantry had been a sprinter. Then think—fast, because we don’t have much time—about getting her out. She’s no good to you in there.”

As he had intended, Cinq-Mars had given Selwyn Norris several matters to ponder simultaneously. He had revealed, as though accidentally, that he knew the pseudonym of his agent, and had knowledge about her Norris lacked. He had also disclosed that he knew about the real Heather in significant detail.

“Malicious malalignment?” his source repeated.

“The key phrase. It has to do with a misalignment of the bones in her calves leading to her knees. She can’t run properly. She was never a sprinter. If I were you I’d get on this quickly. Keep in touch. We don’t have much time.”

That abruptly, Norris had been dismissed.

Sergeant-Detective Cinq-Mars watched his adversary ascend the steps to his apartment building, to be admitted with a timid salute by the doorman. He did not appear to speak as he passed the guardian, as though his mood had been considerably upset despite the sudden release. Cinq-Mars started his car, checked the street, and drove to the opposite side, facing what was now only a flutter of oncoming traffic. The detective rolled down his window while Déguire did the same on his Jimmy. Mathers leaned forward to listen as well.

“Follow me,” Cinq-Mars instructed, and he touched the gas pedal, careening uphill, arousing a blare from an angry motorist.

Thursday, January 20, noon

Pacing the limits of his cubicle—what he called his cage—Émile Cinq-Mars waited for the phone to ring, wondering who’d call first. After leaving Selwyn Norris in a funk on his doorstep, he’d taken the junior detectives to the University Club, where Walter Kaplonski had enjoyed his last meal. The three cops traipsed through the establishment, concentrating on the men’s room. As Alain Déguire had told them, patrons to the club, upon entering and being greeted by a porter, retired to the downstairs bathroom to remove their outerwear and freshen up. Then they ascended to the bars and dining rooms aloft. The bathroom was elegant with marble walls and floors, and the junior officers were impressed that everyone scrubbing up received an individual towel. Communal brushes and combs were also available.

“Get a degree, take out a membership,” Cinq-Mars instructed them. “You can come in here and wash your hands all day.”

“And never run out of towels,” Mathers added, still amazed.

Outside in the cold, Cinq-Mars had instructed the young men to pick up the lawyer Gitteridge.

“What if he’s in court?” Mathers asked.

“What if he won’t come in?” Déguire tacked on.

“He’ll come along if you’ve made him bleed. He’s that kind of guy.”

Something was on the burner, the two young cops could smell the smoke. They exchanged a glance—they had no more arguments—and headed off to track down Gitteridge.

The telephone rang at long last, jolting Cinq-Mars from his rumination. He answered brusquely. “What?”

The front desk said a man by the name of Raymond Rieser had arrived to see him.

“Send him up unescorted. He knows the way.” Cinq-Mars severed the call, then flung the instrument against a partition. The portable wall bent under the impact, and the telephone clattered against a filing cabinet before bouncing onto the floor. A couple of officers poked their heads in, but the sight of Cinq-Mars alone and fuming inspired them to move along. Calming himself, the detective gathered up the phone again and slammed it back down on his desk.

He paced, waiting.

Rieser loomed large in the doorway, his grin boisterous beneath the cartoon mustache. “Émile! You old sod!”

“Hey, Ray, what brings you to town?” Cinq-Mars took the man’s elbow in his free hand as they shook.

“Chores, a little shopping. Finally finishing the basement. Thought I’d hunt down a few power tools I covet.”

Cinq-Mars happened to know that Ottawa was a better city for buying tools than Montreal, but he didn’t say so. He suspected that Rieser had flown, that he had caught a flight with seconds to spare. “What’re you wearing?”

Under his overcoat he had on a kind of jumpsuit, as though he planned to either skydive or toboggan. The colors were startlingly neon, red with yellow and
orange trim. “You like?” He did a turn around the cubicle, modeling.

“You’re a bizarre man, Ray.”

“Keep the world off balance, Émile, so nobody pins you down.”

“What brings you to town?” Cinq-Mars pestered him.

“Told you, chores. Nothing much. Thought I’d drop by. So tell me, how’re you getting along with that case we discussed?”

Sitting, Cinq-Mars leaned back in his swivel chair and placed his hands over his lap. “I’ve met the guy.”

Rieser’s jaw dropped. “You met him?” He sat down himself. “No way! Tell me.”

“We had a chat. He’s CIA.”

“No guff? CIA?”

“Yup. He thinks the world’s in danger, that it can’t get along unless he interferes with my job. Glad you dropped by, Ray. I was meaning to say thanks again for your help. Your analysis made a whole lot of sense to me.”

“Glad to be of use. Congrats on making the contact, Émile. Good police work, that. How’d you do it?”

The phone rang just then, and Cinq-Mars picked up to Dr. Wynett, calling from his lab. Wynett cautioned that the lab work could not be rushed, but he had made good progress on the other matter they’d discussed. “Tell me.”

Cinq-Mars scratched down the information. Wynett explained that he had struck gold on his third call. He had a concise history for him, with a name, place, and dates, and he withheld his best news to the bitter end—he could predict the future, the time and place for an upcoming appointment.

“Thanks, Doc,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged. He had to contain his euphoria with Rieser in the room. “I’ll get back to you. Someone’s with me right now.” Rieser
made overtures to step outside, but Cinq-Mars waved him into his seat. “I’ll be in touch soon. Really appreciate what you’ve done. Bye, now.”

“Sorry, Émile, I don’t mean to be in the way,” Rieser fussed.

“Not at all. I needed an excuse not to spend half the day with that guy.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Cinq-Mars smiled, looked down, then returned his gaze to Rieser. “Would you like to be of further service, Ray?”

“Why sure. Absolutely, man. Anything you ask.”

“All right.” Leaning forward, Cinq-Mars crossed his hands on his desk. “Ray, you’re busted. I want you to hurry back to Selwyn Norris, tell him I’ve made you.” Rieser scarcely reacted, but his head did flinch, imperceptibly. “Tell Norris if he wants to find out how I got to you, and how I got to him, he’ll need another mole. If he wants to know how deep I go inside the Angels, he won’t get the info from you. Tell your CIA contact for me, Ray, that I go so deep into the Angels that any time I move they get an irresistible urge to scratch.”

“Émile. Émile—” The voice was faint, obsequious, pathetic.

“Spare me, Ray. I trusted you. You sold me out. You put work ahead of our friendship.”

“That’s not it, Émile. There’s serious shit around. Desperate measures—”

“Yeah?” He stared at him, not allowing the man’s eyes a moment’s reprieve. “How desperate do you want to get, Ray?”

“Émile—”

“Your CIA agent sanctioned a whack. He took out a Hell’s Angels’ banker to create opportunity for himself. Murder, Ray. Were you in on that, too?”

Rieser put up his hands. “I know nothing about it.”

“You’re his lackey. Why should you?”

“There’s not fair, Émile. Come on now—”

“You come on.”

“Émile, there’s stuff going down that would stand your hair on end!”

“There’s always reason to betray a friend, eh, Ray?”

“I have my duty. This wasn’t easy for me. That’s all I’ve done here—duty.”

Somehow, pleading his case in a neon jumpsuit diminished Rieser’s credibility. “I thought you retired from duty, Ray. Well, you just keep it up. Go back to Norris. Tell him we’ve got a cop on the Angels’ hit parade. There will be a bomb, and we’ve identified the next victim. I’m disappointed he didn’t let me know. Tell him if they play that tune—and I survive—I’m holding him accountable. Go on, Ray. You don’t want to stick around to see me get mad.”

The telephone was ringing again, and Cinq-Mars let it while his old friend made himself upright, adjusted his bearing, and headed out.

Cinq-Mars picked up the receiver. “Yes?” he demanded.

Mathers advised, “Bringing in you-know-who. ETA the garage in five.”

“Do it in private. In the garage, tell him to cover his head with his coat like he’s worried about photographers. Use the prisoner elevator, express him to the ninth floor. When you’re up, have him walk behind you, like you’re not together. It’s for his own protection. Tell him that and he’ll believe you. Upstairs, put him in an interrogation room and lock him in. Make sure nobody knows he’s there. Stay with him, both of you.”

“Got it, sir.”

“Over out.”

Émile Cinq-Mars sat back in his chair and inhaled a deep breath, released it slowly, and checked his watch. Just enough time to make the officers’ lounge and snitch a sandwich before hustling back for the
meeting with LaPierre. A man like Max Gitteridge, who operated clubs by night and by day led the hectic life of a litigant, could probably use a little quiet time to himself. Come in from the cold. Simmer on low heat. Cinq-Mars resolved to let him stew.

Inside Arthur Davidson’s bedroom, Julia Murdick opened her blouse and peeled back the edge of her bra to display a portion of the Eight-Pointed-Star tattoo. Then the tears flowed. She wept for her abused body. Arthur had become as much her surrogate father as her real dad or any of her stepdads. He wrapped her in his arms and issued cooing sounds in her ear. “There there,” he said. Under his guidance, she slowly sputtered to a stop.

“Daddy?” Julia whispered.

“Yes, dear?” he whispered back. They resorted to the routine of speaking directly into each other’s ears.

“I’m supposed to kill a man today. They expect me to plant a bomb.”

“When, Heather, where, who?”

“I don’t have details. Soon. They canceled a reconnaissance because we don’t have time. Does Sel know what’s going on? Did he know I was missing?”

“He’s in constant touch,” the Banker whispered. “We worried about you, girl.”

“I’m holding up. They don’t know me. But I have to do this murder, it’s my initiation. Daddy, I can’t kill anybody!”

“I’ll E-mail Sel. He’ll think of something. Just play along.”

“He won’t make me do it, will he?”

“Faith, Heather. He’ll find a way, but we need to know who and where.”

They turned to a stern rapping on the door. Jean-Guy reminded her, “We need to get started, sister. Go through procedures.”

“In a second!” she called back in French.

Julia and Arthur held hands, looking into each other’s eyes, wanting to say,
We’ve made it through until now, we’ll bust through this, too.

Julia broke off first. “I got to go.”

Her surrogate father beckoned her into his embrace again. They both held on tight.

Julia returned to the living room, where Jean-Guy had little to add to his straightforward instructions. The car they wanted to smack would be parked by a jockey at a ritzy club. Cars there were jammed together, the keys left inside. Julia would enter from the side rear of the lot, which meant hopping a low stone wall. Given the pileup of snow it shouldn’t be a problem, but she had to wait until the jockeys weren’t watching. If one spotted her, she had to be a “pretty girl for him, explain your old man forgot his briefcase.”

Sure. Let one more person identify me. I’ll be in hiding forever.

They reviewed how she was to slip the bomb into the car. The street was a busy one, the intersection nearby more hectic still. Wait for the noise of traffic to muffle the car’s open-door chime. Put the bomb on the seat. Remove the key from the ignition to stop the chime. Place the bomb under the driver’s seat. Lift the side lever on the case so that it would dig into the seat above it and prevent the bomb moving around. Replace the keys, and shut the door soundlessly.

Terrific. Leave my fingerprints on the bomb casing, the keys, the door handle. Why don’t I just leave a business card behind with a number where I can be reached?
She guessed that she was not supposed to think about such things, that that was not how her mind was supposed to work.

“Now,” Jean-Guy instructed, “practice.”

“Get off it.”

“Do what I tell you. The chair’s the car. On this little table I put the keys. Pretend they’re in the ignition. Now go.”

She ran through the scenario three times with neither interest nor difficulty, sliding the bomb across the carpet under the chair.

“Good,” he said. “Excellent.”

“What’s the name of this club, Jean-Guy? What street’s it on?”

“Never mind.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“I’m waiting for a call.”

“Can I have something to munch on?” The Angels had occupied the apartment in her absence, making Arthur a prisoner. They’d moved in their own food and refreshments.

The main room was open to the dining room, where Arthur kept the bulk of his equipment. The Banker was busy at his keyboard, running through figures. Julia went over and pulled up a chair beside him. She gave him a peck on the cheek and looked over his shoulder at what he was doing. When the coast was clear she leaned into him and whispered in his ear. “Message. Some club. Near a busy street and busier intersection. High-class neighborhood. Crowded parking lot for members. Send it.”

Arthur nodded. “Command,” he said, communicating what had come in while she’d been with Jean-Guy. “Provide details on malicious malalignment.” She felt herself toppling. Arthur’s hand on her knee kept her in the chair. She fought against keeling over and breathed deeply, listening to her partner’s advice—“Easy. Steady. Steady on.” Footsteps were drawing closer down the hall. “Answer, Heather.”

“Message. My legs,” she said. “A deformity. Gitteridge knows. Send it.”

Arthur again nodded. His fingers were nimble upon the keys. Julia looked at the screen. Nothing he typed appeared. The screen was a mask.

“Neat,” she said. “Daddy, be aware. Malicious
malalignment—it might mean we’ve been discovered.” He nodded before breaking off their mutual gaze. Julia arose to receive the coffee and sandwich being offered by Jean-Guy.

Intent on a cafeteria bologna sandwich despite the thinness of the meat and the tasteless bread, Émile Cinq-Mars had his break interrupted in the officers’ lounge by Captain Gilles Beaubien. “Émile, a word, please, my office.”

“Sir, I’m swamped, really.”

“A word, Émile.” The man was always willing to pull rank over pragmatic concerns. He was already walking away, and the irritated detective wolfed down his lunch while he tagged along.

He followed the captain past a fleet of secretarial desks made vacant by the lunch hour, into his sumptuous office. Cinq-Mars sat in one of two chairs facing the broad, mahogany desk while Beaubien elected to stand, hands tucked in his trouser pockets, his jacket open, stomach humped over his belt as he gazed upon the city. “I’m in a pickle,” he confided. Half the time Beaubien spoke in that silly manner.

“What’s on your mind?” Cinq-Mars had never been summoned to a meeting with Beaubien from which he did not retreat with more unnecessary work upon his shoulders and a reduced will to tackle it.

The man played with the coins in his pocket. The gravity of his present mood was rare, perhaps unprecedented, and Cinq-Mars grew interested. “They come at you when you don’t expect them, Émile, when you’re not looking. They’re standing in front of you and you can’t recognize their faces.”