Face/Mask (18 page)

His investigation, or at least Sévigny’s investigation, led him to believe that Allen Janus was involved with a local activist group. But by informing on his wife’s uncle, who was also an active member in one such group, Janus had put all their conclusions into question. So Prescott needed Sévigny to keep digging, to get whatever he could out of his many informants.

When Sévigny called to update him on the investigation, Prescott made no effort to hide his growing impatience.

“Yes? What do you have to report?”

Sévigny abruptly turned his face away from the screen and let out a series of sharp coughs. When he turned back to his superior he wiped some tears from his eyes. Prescott suspected that the man was laughing at him, but decided to let it pass for now.

“To get right to business,” Sévigny said, “I still have no information on why Janus informed on his wife’s uncle.”

Prescott resisted the urge to ask Sévigny why he was calling to tell him he had nothing new to tell him. On the off-chance the RCMP inspector had something useful to say, he let Sévigny continue uninterrupted.

“As you know, the butcher shop run by Antonio Cirillo, was investigated years ago, with no actionable information being uncovered. It could be some sort of internecine fighting between rival activist groups, but we haven’t seen anything that would lead to what Janus did.”

“All right, then,” Prescott snapped. “Allen Janus is even a worse heel than we thought possible. My sympathies go out to his wife. What do you plan to do now?”

“We’ll be arresting the uncle and this Cirillo tonight. At minimum, they’re involved in quite a bit of black marketeering. And I suspect that Cirillo has also helped certain elements smuggle contraband into the Laval camp. Perhaps the uncle as well. We’ll interrogate them, and I’ll bring you up to speed on whatever we learn.”

Sévigny had barely finished speaking when Prescott hung up. He’d heard enough. Sévigny would have nothing useful to tell him until after questioning Pizzi and Cirillo.

There were still too many unanswered questions about Janus, and they all began with his visits to the prostitute in Laval. Prescott was sure that Janus was too clever to risk going up there just for sex. And never even covering his tracks? Prescott was reminded of an old expression that described the man’s actions.

“Hiding in plain sight,” he whispered. He appreciated the cleverness of Janus’s ruse. If only he could be sure that it was a ruse.

And now the man has informed on his wife’s uncle
.
None of it makes any sense.
    

He’d considered ordering Sévigny to pick Janus up for questioning too, but he wasn’t comfortable doing that to a Director without concrete evidence of anti-administration activity. Of course the questioning itself, if done properly, could provide all the evidence that was necessary to prosecute Janus.

Prescott decided to keep that as his final option. Sévigny was bringing in actionable information, even if it wasn’t as quickly as he would have liked. Sooner or later he’d uncover Janus’s role in these little conspiracies without having to pre-emptively arrest him. In the meantime, Prescott could do nothing but wait for Sévigny’s next update, and shuffle useless info-discs across the top of a desk that was the size of an aircraft carrier.

Patrice Lauzon was 19 going on 30. At least that’s how he felt, being the only bread winner in the family. His father suffered from a deep depression that began shortly after Patrice’s mom died from lung cancer three years earlier. The young man was barely out of high school when he had to hit the job market in order to pay the rent on the two bedroom apartment they shared with his younger sister.

He never complained about the cards that fate had dealt him. In fact, he was proud to shoulder the responsibilities that came with being the man of the house. He’d felt hurt at the expression of shame and resentment that came to his father’s face when he brought home his first paycheck, but eventually he shrugged it off. It was part of the price of growing up. And, after a while, his father’s medication removed most expressions from his face altogether, leaving him a silent shell of a man who stared at the Vid-bot all day.

On this cool September night Lauzon was keeping his eyes open for the brown sedan with administration plates that he expected to come through his checkpoint, as it had on countless Thursday nights. As one of two sentries at the checkpoint it was his job to note the plate number of every car which entered Laval. Of course, that job was redundant, since cameras on the off-ramp from the bridge could record plate numbers of every vehicle on the bridge.

Still, sentries like Lauzon were needed to speak directly to the drivers and passengers of these vehicles, to look into their eyes and detect tell-tale signs of lying, of attempting to smuggle contraband in, or activists out. His armed presence was also supposed to be a visible reminder that passage through the checkpoint was limited to those whom the administration sanctioned.

The unintended consequence of having human guards there was that they could be bribed, unlike machines or computers. So the driver of the brown sedan, like so many before and after him, felt secure in the knowledge that a little cash slipped discreetly to Lauzon with his cit-card gave him access into the restricted area. What this driver didn’t know was that Lauzon dutifully inscribed the names on the cit-cards of everyone who paid him off, as well as the dates and times of their entries and exits. This information was passed on to his immediate superior in the RCMP, Inspector Robert Sévigny.

Sévigny knew that guards assigned to this post would be offered bribes and various favours to allow certain people into Laval. His policy was that sentries could keep those bribes and accept those favours. In return, they were to keep him informed in detail of who was offering them.

Lauzon had been happy to learn that he’d be allowed to keep these “tips,” and that he didn’t have to be worried about the repercussions of taking them. Without this added money he couldn’t pay the apartment rent or put food on the table.

He looked forward to the arrival of certain very generous drivers, many of whom came through on a regular basis, most of whom used different vehicles, and even a variety of forged cit-cards. Not the brown sedan’s driver, though. For as long as Lauzon could remember he’d come in the same car. The administration plate confirmed that it was lent out to
Monsieur le directeur
Allen Janus for the night, with a matching name and photo on the cit-card. The man, he’d told Sévigny, was clearly a naïve fool.

“Perhaps he’s just in love,” Sévigny had replied with a laugh. Then he’d told Lauzon to let him know as soon as Janus showed up that night. Lauzon would engage in a bit of small talk, as he usually did, and report everything the driver said or did. Lauzon told himself he’d really lucked out at getting this job straight out of high school. On top of all the financial extras, he figured that getting along so well with his boss might lead to an early promotion one day.

Allen was at his late night planning committee meeting, as he was every Thursday. Terry guessed that this was why the
Cons
chose that moment to come. Of course, if they simply wanted to spare Allen the embarrassment of having his house-guest arrested in his presence they could have come during the work-day. But they liked to come at night, she’d heard, because of the psychological effect on suspects and witnesses alike.

The police van pulled up in front of their house with a loud screech. Its red lights were reflected on the heavy, grey-green flakes of the year’s first snowfall, the flakes melting into putrid puddles once they hit the street. When the policemen banged on Terry’s front door it was loud enough to wake up everyone in the house, as well as the families next door. They clearly wanted to make a public example of the miscreant they were arresting, so that everyone would know what they were facing if they flouted the many laws that had been passed to ensure national security.

Terry was reading in bed, and she jumped out as soon as the banging began. She was at the door before it occurred to her to wonder who it could be at this hour, and she paused before turning on the outside vents. Footsteps behind her caused her to jump, but it was only Uncle Joe, wrapping his bathrobe around himself against the night’s chill.

“Who it is?”

She was about to reply that she had no idea when she noticed the flashing lights shining through the living room window.
Cons
? Had something happened to Allen?

She quickly turned on the vents, counted to ten under her breath, then unlocked the door and wrenched it open. She found her herself face to face with three black-suited men, their faces hard even under their air masks.

“We’re looking for Giuseppe Pizzi,” the first one declared, his voice amplified by a speaker in the mask, much too loud considering Terry was within two feet of him.

She was still thinking about her husband, and her uncle’s name didn’t sink in fast enough for the impatient agent, who shoved past her and stepped toward Joe.

“Mr. Pizzi. We have a warrant to arrest you. Please come peacefully so that this family will not be disturbed any more than is necessary.”

Terry finally reacted, remembering that she was the wife of an administration director and therefore used to being treated with a certain amount of respect.

“Just one minute,” she said, stepping between Joe and the officer. “Do you know whose house this is?”

“
Oui, madame
.
Monsieur
Allen Janus, Head of Electrical Infrastructure. We know very well who your husband is. And we also know that he has had living with him one Giuseppe Pizzi, this man here, who is charged with conspiring against the administration contrary to Article718-”

“Conspiring?” Terry interrupted with a shout. “What are you talking about?”

“
Madame
, that is one of the several charges against Mr. Pizzi.”

“Several…? I don’t understand. Conspiring with who?”

The policeman let out a small sigh of impatience then raised his left wrist and read off his pod.  

“Mr. Pizzi is alleged to have conspired with one Antonio Cirillo-”

“That’s my friend, Tony,” Joe blurted out.

“The butcher?” asked Terry.

“He’s one of the people your uncle conspired with, along with others who are still unnamed.”

“There’s some mistake. The man is a butcher, not a trouble maker.”

“You’re referring to Antonio Cirillo, owner of the
Boucherie St. Laurent
? Then there is no mistake. His shop is a known meeting place for anti-administration agitators.”

“Agitators? He sells us some fresh lamb, better than the grocery store. He brings it in, I…I don’t know how, and he doesn’t charge all those damn stamp taxes. I know that’s wrong, but we’ve been going there for-.”

The look in the policeman’s eyes told Terry to stop before saying anything more. He turned to his two colleagues who were standing a few feet inside the door that had automatically closed behind them, and motioned with his head for them to step outside. Once they’d backed out the door and past the fans that were rattling loudly in the vents he turned to Terry and spoke more quietly than he had up to that point.

“Mrs. Janus, I would suggest that you make no more comments like the one you just made. Another officer, someone who was less concerned about political sensitivities, could misinterpret you to mean that you and your husband were party to this man’s illegal activities. This gentleman here–”

“He’s my uncle,” she half-whispered.

“This gentleman,” the policeman continued, “has been seen attending at this underground butcher on numerous occasions, and meeting with suspected members of various dissident movements. These are people who are actively plotting against the administration’s interests. You have all contravened several sections of the Products and Services Rationing Act as well, but that is not why we are here today. Nobody else, not you nor your children nor your husband, needs to be investigated in this matter, if Mr. Pizzi will come now with no further trouble. I think I’ve made myself clear, yes?”

Joe shuffled forward and placed his hand on his niece’s shoulder.

“It is fine. I go. Do not worry.”

The policeman reached onto the table behind Joe to pick up an air-mask and, with a gentleness that belied his earlier brusque manner, slipped it over his prisoner’s head.

“I don’t think I need to cuff you, do I?”

“Wait,” Terry jumped forward. “It’s freezing out there. Can’t he at least get dressed?”

The policeman looked at the coat tree that stood near the front door and randomly chose an overcoat that looked masculine. It was Richard’s, making it a foot too long for Joe. The policeman draped it over his shoulders and walked him to the waiting van. Joe’s slippers were instantly covered with slush, but the old man took no notice of the cold.

Terry slipped on her own mask and stepped out after them, finding several of her neighbours looking out from behind their windows. Even through the thickly falling snow she could make out their expressions, and what she saw were smiles and shaking heads. They’d gotten a good show, and the outcome seemed satisfactory. She restrained herself from giving them the finger.