The Burma Effect (4 page)

His former girlfriends, and there were many of these, told harrowing tales of his mood changes, his violent outbursts, his utter unpredictability. The only time he seemed to settle down was on frequent visits to his aging mother in lower Westmount. Kellner adored her, spoiled her, could never do enough for her. She was old when Delaney had met her and must be ancient now, he thought, if she was alive at all.

Delaney hadn't seen Kellner for years. He'd stopped in once to visit on the way through Bangkok just after Kellner had set up shop there. But that had been it. Kellner must have developed some exceptionally valuable contacts in Asia in the years since then for CSIS to take a chance on using someone like that, Delaney thought.

When Rawson entered a room, impeccably dressed as he always was and with his salt-and-pepper hair impeccably close-cropped, people never failed to look up. They all apparently assumed he was someone important or powerful or a carrier of secrets of state.

He was in top shape, a fitness man. Tall, straight, about ten years or so older than Delaney but wearing it well. Delaney wasn't sure he himself would be able to look that good as he pushed 60.

“Whiskey one ice cube, thanks, Kenny, and another draft for my friend Delaney,” Rawson said. He wasn't a journalist, wasn't a member, but he made the club his own. He folded his navy cashmere topcoat carefully inside out, perched it on a bar stool and sat down next to Delaney.

“Sorry I'm late, Francis,” he said.

The barman brought over a fresh bowl of nuts. “Not for me, Kenny, thanks very much,” Rawson said. “I stay away from those.”

He looked over at Delaney, who had helped himself to another handful.

“You should too,” he said.

“Why?” Delaney said.

“They'll kill you eventually. All fat, cholesterol, just junk, nothing else in there.”

“Spare me, OK, Jon? And please don't tell me how many kilometres you ran this morning.” “Twelve. All along the canal and back.”

“Congratulations. Can we talk about something else?”

“How have you been?”

“OK. Hassles with the paper, as always.”

“Keeps you out of trouble, that paper, no? What would you do without that? Except work for me occasionally.”

“I'm starting to think that would do me fine.”

“You can't live on what we pay you, Francis.” Rawson usually took on the father figure role in any meeting.

“I could manage. My Cuba book's still selling OK. I got another one on the go.”

“You almost done with that one? You still want to go ahead with that?” Rawson had never liked the idea of Delaney writing about Vatican matters. CSIS was no promoter of spy service exposes.

“It's coming along.”

“Too bad,” Rawson said with a half-smile. “You know my feelings on that, Francis.”

“It's not about CSIS, Jon. It won't be. You know that.”

“Try to spell my name right, all right?” Rawson said.

Rawson never got directly to the matter at hand without at least a little of what he considered light, polite conversation. Delaney knew the rhythm, expected the chit-chat was about over. He ordered another beer. Rawson declined another whiskey, took a Perrier instead.

“Kellner,” Rawson said.

“Ah, yes. Kellner,” Delaney said.

“This could be a little tricky.”

“I expect it will be. Because it involves Kellner.”

“Yes.” Rawson looked around the bar to see who was standing near.

“What's he got himself into this time?” Delaney said.

“That's what we want to know. He's just dropped out of sight.”

“It wouldn't be the first time. I told you that on the phone. He used to do that here in the old days.”

“I know that, Francis. This one has a different feel.”

“How would you know that, I wonder? You wouldn't be watching your part-timers when they're off shift, would you?”

“Guys like that, yes.”

“Guys like me?”

“No comment,” Rawson said with a smile. He raised his glass of Perrier in a toast.

“I never figured out why you would use a guy like Kellner anyway, Jon. Not worth the grief to use a guy like that, in my view.”

“Sometimes he has been very much worth the grief for us, Francis. He's absolutely plugged in over there. Knows an awful lot, really an awful lot. Knows where to find out what he doesn't know. Gets stuff we can't get and gets it for us very discreetly.”

“I find it hard to imagine using the words Kellner and discreet in the same sentence,” Delaney said.

“Oh you would be surprised, Francis. The guy knows when to play it close to the chest.”

“When he's not under the influence, maybe.”

“That's a risk we have been willing to take. The very fact that he is, what would I say, a bit of a bohemian in fact makes him an unlikely person for people to think of as an operative, no?”

“I'll need to ponder that logic for a bit, Jon.”

“Well, the fact of the matter is that he has been useful for us. And now he's dropped out of sight and we need to know why.” “What was he working on?”

“Nothing. Not for us anyway. Not for a good while.”

“What was his last assignment for you guys?”

“I can't tell you that, Francis. I wouldn't tell many people what you work on for us either.”

“Makes it pretty hard to know where to start. What do you want me to do anyway? I have no idea where a guy like that would go. No one over here would.”

“Over there, yes.”

“You want me to go over to Bangkok?”

“Yes.”

“Why can't your guys find him? They know the drill over there just as well as I do. Better, probably.”

“They've tried. But we can't be seen to be trying too hard.”

“Get the Yanks to look for him. They're all over the place there. Everywhere. They don't work under the same constraints as you guys.”

“We don't want to involve any other services on this one, Francis.”

“You think they don't already know what you're up to? What Kellner's been up to for you? Bangkok is like a small town as far as spooks go. Everyone knows what everyone else is doing.”

“I'm not so sure about that, Francis. But the fact of the matter is we want you to go over there and find out what's going on. Where he is, what he's been working on.”

“You don't know what he's been working on lately? Even as a reporter?”

“We read his stuff. Just like everybody.”

“I don't. What's he been writing about lately?”

“His usual stuff. Defence purchases in the region. He's been covering a few arms fairs. Routine stuff. Did an article about maritime security recently, a while back now—that one, actually.”

“And for you, what?”

“I told you, Francis. I can't share that.”

“Give me a general idea. What countries?”

Rawson looked annoyed.

“If you want me to go all the way over there and figure out what the guy's got himself into, I can't go in totally blind,” Delaney said. “I know what that can lead to. If you want me to go over there, you've got to give me a bit more of an idea where this might have come from.”

“It might have nothing at all to do with what he has done for us,” Rawson said.

“If you really thought that you wouldn't be asking me to find out what's what,” Delaney said. “We would be,” Rawson said.

“I'm not going to go in totally blind,” Delaney said.

Rawson put down his glass. “Look, he does the odd job for us, just like you. He goes up north for us sometime, into the Golden Triangle, looking for Canadian connections up there, drugs. He's been over to Vietnam a couple of times, again, looking for Canadian connections, links to the Viet expats here. He's had a look once in a while at who's been sneaking around our companies working over there, who's asking them to do it. Industrial espionage. That sort of thing. Cambodia once, a while back. He's very good on Burma. And he talks to people for us about the Islamiyah al Jemayah movement in Indonesia. Risk assessment stuff, counterterrorism. That's what we do.”

“Does he do spook work for anyone else?”

“Possibly. I hope not.”

“You're not sure?”

“No. We'd be very pleased if you found out for sure.”

“How long's he been gone?”

“A month. About a month.”

“How'd you find out?”

“Come on, Francis. If you disappeared, we would find out.”

“Who else knows?”

“His girlfriend. Some of his mates in Bangkok. The local police. Now you.” “His family in Montreal?

“His mother died about a year ago. His father went a long time ago. His sister's around. I very much doubt she knows.”

“Kellner's girlfriend told the Thai police?”

“Yes.”

“She knows what he does besides journalism?”

“Not sure. We doubt it. Girls like her don't ask their men many questions, usually.”

“She's been with him a long time, that one, if it's still the same one. She'd have to have an idea what he was up to in his life.”

“In a general way, yes. Sure. Not sure how much she would really know, or even care. Nice little lifestyle for her, so who cares where the money comes from? Ask her yourself.” “What does she say happened?”

“We haven't talked to her directly. The police told our embassy people that Kellner was heading out one Saturday night to the press club and never showed up. Passport, everything, still back at his place.”

“A month is a long time to be on a bender, even for him.” “Precisely.”

Delaney munched peanuts, drank some beer.

“How much are you not telling me, Jon?”

“A bit. Nothing major.”

“If it was minor you'd have told me.”

“If it was something you needed to know to stay safe, I would tell you, Francis. You know that.”

They both sat quietly for a moment, Delaney thinking about Natalia and staying safe. Rawson almost certainly thinking the same. They had become close after Natalia died for a variety of reasons. One was that CSIS had not told Delaney enough for his lover to stay safe and Rawson was a man of conscience, a man of regrets.

“OK, I'll have a try,” Delaney said. “I'm getting sick of things at the paper again anyway. I like Bangkok.”

“Good one, Francis,” Rawson said. He called for a second whiskey for himself and another beer for Delaney. “Can you get away all right? When could you go?”

“I can write that column from anywhere, Jon. And I've always got an emergency one hidden away. I'll go as quick as I can. Monday probably. Tuesday.”

“Go as quickly as you can,” Rawson said. Delaney looked over at him.

“There's nothing else you want to tell me about this, Jon?”

“Nothing else I can tell you, Francis.”

They eyed each other carefully.

“Cheers,” said Rawson, holding up his glass. “Your health.”

“My health,” Delaney said, holding up his beer bottle.

*

There was something else Rawson wanted to talk about.

“How are you on speechwriting, Francis?” he asked.

“There is no way I'm writing any speeches for CSIS, Jon. My patriotic fervour does not extend to that. No way.”

“No, no, I don't want you to write anything. Just have a look over this for me, would you?”

Rawson pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his inside jacket pocket and flattened it on the bar. The text was covered in arrows, crossed-out lines, marginal notes.

“The chief is giving a speech in Vancouver next week, to a convention of intelligence types. He's asked me to give him a hand with it.”

“What do you know about speechwriting?” Delaney said.

“Nothing. But they think I'm a clear writer. They like my reports.”

“Report writing and speechwriting are two very different things.”

“Have a look at it would you, Francis? He's worried about this one. He wants to, you know, give these guys a bit of a peek at what we've been trying to do overseas lately. Generate some debate, see how it flies.”

“That's a bit of a risk isn't it? Operating outside your mandate and telling people about it in a speech?”

“Oh, a few years ago, yes, sure. When you and I first started working together, yes. But slowly, slowly, people are starting to come around, I think. The politicians aren't stupid.”