Deadline (49 page)

“For instance, if one of your reporter friends asks you about your appointment, what would you say?” said Mowat.

Jack bit his lip. He could feel the force of Mowat’s gaze boring into him. It was unpleasant. “Whatever Claude tells me to say.”

Mowat nodded at him, still scowling. “What will you do if the Ottawa police want to interview you again?”

Jack shrugged. “Whatever Claude says I should do.” He spread his hands out, palms up. “I am a neophyte. I would consider myself very fortunate to have Claude guiding me. He tells me to jump, I’ll say, ‘How high?’ ”

Mowat nodded again and suddenly the scowl was gone and he was on his feet and smiling and his hand was extended.

“I’m going to get Claude in here now, get him to take you to his office and debrief you thoroughly while I go over a few things with Sophie. What do you say?”

“Thank you, minister,” said Jack. “I would be very happy to work for you, until April 15, when Senator Barry resigns.”

Mowat laughed and took his hand.

“Of course,” he said. “After April 15, you’re going to have other things on your plate, Senator Macdonald.”

Fred Murphy gestured to Ellen Simms to stick around after the morning news meeting. “Something I have to talk to you about,” he said, after the other reporters left his office.

He walked behind his desk, opened a folder, pulled out a sheaf of papers, placed it on the desk in front of him and spread it out so that she could see what it was.

He sat down to wait while she leafed through the printouts of the emails and PINs she had exchanged with Balusi about the Meech II speech, and the transcripts of both versions of the speech, with the Meech II section highlighted. It took her about five seconds to realize the importance of the documents.

“How did you get this?” she asked. “You have no right to access my PINs!”

He looked at her with concern.

“Ellen,” he said. “This is tough for both of us, but long story short, you’re out of the bureau.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “This is such bullshit. You’ve never liked me. You see me as a threat. How did you get access to my PINs?”

Murphy closed his eyes briefly, put his fingertips together, as if in prayer. “No, I’m very fond of you, on a personal level. This has nothing to do with that,” he said. “But I have evidence here that you deliberately misrepresented the facts to our viewers. You can’t work in my newsroom anymore. And your buddy, Balusi, is out over at PMO.” He tried a warm smile. “This must come as a shock, but you might be better off seeing it as an opportunity. We want you to go to Toronto. We want you to stay with NTV, just not reporting politics.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“We want you to do on-air stuff from Toronto, the weather to start, but eventually we’d like to have you anchoring newscasts for us there, after you complete an ethics course. Or you could take a leave of absence and return as an anchor, after you take the course. The camera loves you and we don’t want to lose that. We think, really, that you have a bright future at NTV.”

Simms’s nostrils flared. She threw the papers down on his desk.

“You want me to do the fucking weather?” she said. “You can talk to my fucking lawyer.”

“That’s fine,” said Murphy, and he nodded at the printouts. “Give him that and ask him to give me a call.”

She stomped to the door, hauled it open and strode outside, livid. She looked around at the busy newsroom, then took a deep breath and went back in.

“Fred,” she said. “I don’t want to do the weather in Toronto. Come on. Give me a break. Let’s talk.”

“I’m sorry, Ellen, but that’s not really possible,” he said. He pointed to the printout on his desk. “I can’t live with that.”

She sat down and started to cry. He stepped behind her and patted her back.

“It’s a just a misstep,” he said. “You’ll get over it. You have an amazing career ahead of you.”

“I knew it was wrong,” she said. “Damn. I’m so stupid.”

She looked up at him. A tear ran down her beautiful cheek. “I need help,” she said, taking one of his hands in hers. “I know that I’m not there yet. I come across as cocky because I’m afraid I’m a fraud, and everyone will find out. But I know I can learn.”

She stood up and pulled his hand to her breast, imploring him with her eyes. “If you worked with me closely, you could train me. You could mould me.”

“Ellen,” Murphy said, backing away and pulling on his hand.

“I just need the right teacher,” she said. “I could be such a good student.”

“Ellen, that’s not going to work,” he said, and he yanked away his hand.

Her face was suddenly very angry.

“Look,” he said, “you want my advice, you should go home, call Toronto, confirm that they have my back on this, which they do, and then think hard about whether you want to sue us or put your tail between your legs and go to Toronto, which is what I think you should do.”

She stood, fuming, staring at him.

“But either way, I’ve got to ask you to leave,” he said. “I have to go break a story. Donahoe is about to announce he’s pulling out of the race, and I have the scoop.”

Sophie and Bouchard met Eric Pothier, the commissioner of the RCMP, and his deputy, Duncan Wheeler, at the elevator. Marie-Hélène sat at the reception desk, looking busy.

“There you are,” said Bouchard when the two men got off the elevator, looking immaculate in their perfect dress uniforms. “Nice to see you!” He reached out to shake their hands. “Let me introduce Sophie Fortin, our new senior policy adviser,” he said.

Sophie smiled and shook hands with the two men. “Such a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “The minister is very grateful that you could find time to come at such short notice.”

“We’re happy to be here,” said Pothier, and he gave her a warm smile, nodding his handsome grey head and crinkling his blue eyes. “And let me congratulate you on your promotion, Ms. Fortin. If I recall correctly, the last time we met you were in communications.”

“Thank you, commissioner,” she said. “The minister would like to see you in his office to discuss the Strategic Review Process.”

She glanced at Bouchard.

“And you, Deputy Commissioner Wheeler, are stuck with me,” said Bouchard. “There are few operational details the minister would like me to go over with you.”

The smile froze on Wheeler’s face as he learned he was going to a different meeting. “Great, Claude, great,” he said, his voice too loud and too cheerful. “Lead the way.”

Bouchard showed him to his office, and they sat at a little coffee table.

“I have some good news and some bad news for you,” said Bouchard, and he put a single sheet of paper in front of him. It was a civil service job posting. The heading read Director, Security, Via Rail.

Wheeler’s smile disappeared instantly when he saw what it was. For a second he looked confused, then he understood. He covered his mouth with his hand, then pulled his hand quickly away from his face and looked up at Bouchard.

“I’m sorry, Duncan,” said Bouchard. “But that’s the good news.”

Wheeler closed his eyes, took off his glasses and covered his face with his hand. He bowed his head and stayed like that for a long minute.

“I’m sorry, Duncan,” Bouchard said, very softly. “We have no choice.”

Eventually, Wheeler put his glasses on, stuck out his chin, sat up straight and squared his shoulders.

“Okay, Claude,” he said. “I’m ready for the bad news.”

Bouchard picked up the job posting and held it in the air.

“The bad news,” he said, “is there’s a bit of tricky paddling ahead of us before we can make this happen. It’s not a sure thing, Duncan. Far from it.”

Pothier and Wheeler spoke urgently in low voices in the back of the car on the way back to RCMP headquarters. Pothier waited in the car, reading documents from his briefcase, while Wheeler ran into the building. He came back ten minutes later, jogging out to the commissioner’s car, carrying two paper evidence bags.

“Thank you, Duncan,” said the commissioner. “I’ll see you soon.”

Peter O’Malley, chief of the Ottawa Police Service, met Pothier in the lobby of the station and rode with him in the elevator up to Zwicker’s office.

Zwicker greeted them politely, but his jaw was set and he was formal and brisk as he invited them in. Three evidence bags – one holding a pistol, one holding a silencer and one holding a BlackBerry – were sitting on his desk.

They sat down across the desk from Zwicker.

“I want to start by apologizing, Inspector Zwicker,” said Pothier. “I have only just learned, this morning, the details of this operation. I want you to know that Inspector Dupré and Deputy Commissioner Duncan Wheeler were acting without authorization, and they have made a terrible mess. On behalf of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I offer my apologies.”

O’Malley looked at Zwicker. Zwicker bent his head an inch. “Thank you, commissioner. I appreciate that.”

“Second,” said Pothier, “I want to let you know that Wheeler and Dupré have been suspended, effective immediately, and I have ordered an investigation into the events of the past week. They are off the force. We are going to do it quietly, but make no mistake, they are out. Neither of them will ever wear the uniform again.”

Zwicker nodded. “I think that’s wise, commissioner. Do you mind if I pass that on to Ashton and Flanagan?”

“Not at all,” said Pothier. “I’d ask them to be discreet, but I’m sure they would feel better knowing that their excellent police work has had a desired effect. Honestly, I feel the RCMP owes the two of them, and you, a great deal. I hope to have the chance to repay that debt eventually.”

“Thank you,” said Zwicker. “They worked damned hard on this case.”

“I wonder if both of them wouldn’t be good candidates for the courses we run at the investigative centre in Regina,” said Pothier. “It’s a six-week training program for mid-career officers. Recharge the batteries, learn the newest tricks from the best in the business. Normally, it’s only for members of the force, but we can invite officers on exchange. I imagine both of them could benefit from that.”

O’Malley whistled. “That’s a great idea,” he said. “Very thoughtful of you, Commissioner.”

Pothier took out a business card and handed it to Zwicker. “Send me an email this week, Inspector, and I’ll get the ball rolling on that.”

Zwicker nodded. “I appreciate that,” he said.

“Okay,” said Pothier. “Now, I am also looking for a bit of help from you.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes sir,” he said. “As I mentioned, we’re going to conduct an investigation into what happened with Dupré and Wheeler. We need to figure out how the controls broke down. How could two senior officers go rogue on us? It’s very strange and I can tell you we’ll be wrestling with this for a long time.”

“How can we help?” said Zwicker.

“Well, two things,” said Pothier. “First, I’d like to ask you to forward us, informally, a report on the state of your investigation. This would be eyes-only, for me and the senior investigator handling our internal investigation.”

Zwicker nodded.

“That sounds reasonable,” said O’Malley. “All things considered.”

“What’s the second thing?” said Zwicker.

Pothier puffed out his cheeks, put his briefcase on the coffee table, turned it to face Zwicker and opened it. Inside, there was a copy of the Ottawa Citizen and two evidence bags. He put the newspaper on the coffee table, then lifted one of the evidence bags and upended it. A BlackBerry slid out of the bag, landing with a gentle thump on the newspaper. He dumped the second, and a nine-millimetre Smith and Weston, exactly like the one sitting on Zwicker’s desk, slid onto the paper.