River City (98 page)

“Isn’t it.”

“We should call Touton and check him out.” “Intelligent-looking, you say? An odd description, Commissioner.”

“Sir?”

The prime minister used a letter opener carved by Inuit from a walrus tusk. He looked inside, but did not touch the object there. “What’s this?” he said, more to himself than to the man in the room. He continued to stare at it, perplexed initially by the seemingly innocuous contents. He picked it out and held it up to the light between his thumb and middle finger.

From the opposite side of the desk, the commissioner squinted at the pale greyish chip.

Then the prime minister deposited the object back into the envelope and punched the intercom button. “I’ll see him,” he said.

“Sir,” the commissioner protested, “we should contact Touton.”

“Don’t bother.” “What is it, sir?”

“That will be all, Commissioner. Good luck. We’re counting on you.” “Yes, Prime Minister.”

Feeling snubbed, the commissioner departed the room. “Should he come in with an escort?” his secretary was asking. “No,” Trudeau directed. “Send him in on his own.” “Sir, there are more people on your schedule. We have—” “Ask them to wait.”

He got out from behind his desk to greet the mysterious and unknown police officer who had called upon him with the missing chip from the pointy end of the famous dagger. The last he’d heard of that missing chip, it had been lodged inside a poor bastard’s heart.

The door was held open for him, and with his knees feeling somewhat slushy and his heart jumping an occasional beat, Émile Cinq-Mars entered. Silently, the door swished shut behind him, and that easily, after all the commotion and argument and pleading down the corridor, when he’d come within a hair of being given the bum’s rush, he stood quietly, alone, with the prime minister of Canada.

“Officer Cinq-Mars,” Trudeau said in a tone that made his name sound like an accusation.

“Sir,” the younger man commenced, and discovered his mouth dry. For some reason he’d been talking English in the outer office, and now stumbled as he reverted to French. “Thank you for seeing me.” He caught himself bowing slightly, not sure how to conduct himself.

This was a time of crisis, the circumstances of the meeting unorthodox, so Trudeau had no patience for pleasantries. “I presume you know what this is,” he stated, holding up the envelope that Cinq-Mars had sent as his calling card. He wiggled it, as if jingling a bell.

“I do, Mr. Prime Minister.” He ventured a few strides across the pale carpet, hoping he wasn’t tracking mud in behind him. His eyes shot around the room. “As do you.”

“Do I?” Turning, Trudeau moved behind his desk to sit in his high-backed swivel chair, from where he observed the officer intently.

Nervously, Cinq-Mars took in the room with a glance. The old mahogany woodwork impressed him, as did the lush carpet underfoot. Interior shutters had been folded back to reveal windows shaped like elongated spires, the sides closing at the apex like hands at prayer. Over a sofa hung a woven Inuit hanging—figures hunting walrus and tracking wolves. The igloos, Cinq-Mars noted, were a perfect decorative feature for a Canadian leader.

“Have a seat,” the prime minister invited. Perhaps a command. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve neither the time nor the patience to digress. As you must know, the Montreal Police Department is not in anybody’s good graces these days.”

“I thought that perhaps, after the incident with the Cubans—” He stopped as the prime minister scorched him with a look.

“No incident occurred between Cubans and police in this land.” “My mistake, sir.”

“So the poor performance of the Montreal police remains our only reference.”

The department’s name had been sullied. Having found and searched the abandoned house where Laporte had been held captive, they’d located an address on Queen Mary Road. There, they discovered a female college student, who had answered the door, and, hiding behind a chair, Bernard Lortie, one of those wanted for the death of the Quebec labour minister. Montreal cops exulted in their coup. Lortie was willing to sing, was being mocked in the press for doing so, and they had the apartment to scour for clues. The cops were there for more than twenty-four hours, after which they kept a pair of detectives on the premises. Then the two officers went to dinner. When they returned, they discovered that a false wall had been opened in their absence. Through the wall was a compartment with benches, water and food. To further taunt the police, the men who’d been hiding there had smeared their fingerprints all over the freshly dusted apartment. The cops had screwed up by not bringing in dogs and not finding the fake wall, but even those glaring errors might have been forgiven by the other jurisdictions had they not screwed up more seriously again. Embarrassed, they failed to tell the Mounties and the SQ what had happened. While the perpetrators were clearly in Montreal, the Mounties were searching for them on the other side of the continent, continuing to do so because the embarrassed Montreal cops did not share their information. The department would have remained silent altogether were it not for an FLQ communiqué that blew the whistle on them and extolled the virtues of Bernard Lortie for not telling the police about the secret wall, and now no Mountie, and no prime minister, was willing to trust a Montreal cop again.

“Why have you brought this to me?”

“It’s connected to the crisis.”

The answer appeared to take him aback, and Trudeau, setting the envelope down on the desk, rubbed under his lower lip with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He studied the man seated before him, then asked, “How does a sliver of stone relate?”

“Sir, in seeing me, you have, in essence, if not explicitly, admitted—or shall I say, rather, indicated—that you know what this sliver of stone, as you call it, represents. What it means.”

“Not true, Detective. This is merely the most curious calling card I’ve ever seen. And you told the commissioner outside that you’re Armand Touton’s man. That’s what got you in the door. Now, why don’t
you
tell
me
how this sliver of stone relates to the current crisis. But—before you do that, just so we’re clear—did Captain Touton send you?”

Cinq-Mars cleared his throat before replying. “He knows that I’m here.”

“Ah, but does he approve of your being here? You’ve not entered the room through the usual channels, Detective.”

“It’s not an authorized visit. Captain Touton has made a conscious decision not to stand in my way, and—” Cinq-Mars said, then paused to take a breath before proceeding with his gambit, “—he did give me the tip of Cartier’s dagger—”

Trudeau stared back at him. He spoke quietly. “Is that what this is?”

Cinq-Mars paused again, perhaps to signal his distaste for the prime minister’s deception, for they did not need to confirm that detail. The prime minister possessed the knife, and the shape of the missing tip would be well embedded on his consciousness. “By giving me the chip, he facilitated this meeting. Let’s say that that’s something he and I understood between us.”

The prime minister touched both forefingers to his lips. “How did you come upon this sliver?”

“It’s evidence. The last known whereabouts of the Cartier Dagger was in the heart of a murder victim. The tip of the dagger remained behind when the knife was removed. It’s evidence. Captain Touton has been holding on to it all this time because he’s never given up on the case. Shall we conclude, sir, that my possession of this tidbit of evidence validates my presence here?”

Rocking his head one way, then the other, Trudeau demonstrated that he was reluctant to concede the point. “The question still remains, Cinq-Mars. How does any of this relate to our present circumstances?”

“It could lead to the beginning of a negotiation between the terrorists and the government for the release of James Cross.”

A silence ensued. In the prime minister’s gaze Cinq-Mars detected a modest hope, a genuine willingness to seize any valiant straw that might save the day.

“If you can begin a negotiation to bring an end to this fiasco, Cinq-Mars, then why have we not commenced that task already?”

“We have. It starts here, with me and you.”

“You’re representing the terrorists?”

“I represent someone who is willing to lead us to the terrorists.” Another pause. The prime minister then spoke slowly, “Shall I not call the commissioner back into the room?”

“Let’s keep this between me and you, sir, for now.” “In this room, I outrank you,” Trudeau noted.

Cinq-Mars acknowledged that fact with a brief nod, then stood. He reached across the table, his movement deliberate, slow, and pressed the middle finger of his right hand upon the white envelope to slide it back across the desk towards himself. He then picked it up, visually checked that the chip remained inside, and returned the envelope to his jacket pocket once more. Then he sat down again.

The prime minister observed him.

“Explain this to me,” Trudeau asked. “For instance, why should I not have you arrested—or at least questioned—immediately? Someone can dream up a charge, I’m sure.”

“Under the War Measures Act, no one will have to.”

The prime minister smiled so slightly that it was difficult to determine if he had found the riposte amusing.

Cinq-Mars carried on. “Arresting me won’t move us forward. The person who knows what we want to know is in hiding, and if we go after that person, we’ll be back in our familiar pattern of seeking and not finding. If captured, that person will likely choose silence, or at the very least, fail to divulge what’s critical. Time will be lost, and you’ll agree, time is of the essence right now. We don’t want to obliterate the trust being developed between the police, as represented by myself, and the only person who seems able to help us at this time.”

The prime minister’s intercom beeped. Pressing a button, he said, “Hold all calls and appointments.”

“Premier Bourassa is on line one.”

Trudeau pressed the answer button for a moment and did not speak, delivering silence to his secretary. Then he said, “I’ll call him back. Hold all calls and delay all appointments.”

Cinq-Mars knew then that he had the man’s undivided attention.

“What’s the deal?” Trudeau asked.

“The dagger in exchange for knowledge of the terrorists’ whereabouts. The government must consent to negotiate with them—”

“What curious folktale have you heard that makes you think I know anything about the Cartier Dagger? Aside from that, I do not negotiate with terrorists.”

Cinq-Mars had anticipated the response.

“With respect, sir, if we find them, and Cross remains alive, you will negotiate the terms of their arrest. If they want a plane to Algiers, or Cuba, chances are they’ll get it. I’m not suggesting that they should get anything more. The proposal being presented to you at this moment, is that the government will negotiate any flight to freedom in good faith.”

“A provincial cabinet minister was murdered, Cinq-Mars.”

“We’re not talking about the people who killed Laporte. Only those who currently hold James Cross alive. Not that kidnapping is a misdemeanour.”

“An issue—why are you even talking to me about an ancient relic?”

“It’s in your possession, sir.”

“Says who? You’re supposed to be a police officer, not a rumourmonger.”

“In giving his final confession to Father François Legault, who I understand is a friend of yours, Mayor Camillien Houde spoke of the knife’s sale to you.”

That shocked Trudeau. He pushed himself back in his seat. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “What could Houde possibly have known?”

“He was one of the sellers, sir. Part of that consortium.”

Trudeau rolled his chair back a few inches this time, and crossed his legs, an ankle coming to rest just above the opposite knee.

“Near Houde’s bed was a closet. Someone was hiding in the closet, a girl, when he made his last confession. She was there when Houde succumbed. She’s grown up now, of course. She once threw rocks at you, precipitating the rioting before you won the election. She’s come forward to make a deal.”

“She’s a terrorist?”

“No, sir. But she knows the culture. She’s been around the radical element throughout her life.”

“And you believe her?” He still appeared ready to dismiss him.

Cinq-Mars felt that he could not yield on any aspect of their discussion. He could not blink without his position unravelling. “Without a doubt, sir.”

Trudeau elected to stand, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “Why should
I
trust her? This rock-thrower? Why give her a priceless relic? What is her stake in this, other than to undermine the prime minister of Canada with what sounds suspiciously akin to blackmail? Does she expect to sell it?”

“The tip of the dagger, sir,” and Cinq-Mars tapped the pocket containing the envelope, “broke off as it entered her father’s heart. She feels that she and her mother have more right to the knife than anyone, including you.”

Trudeau processed this news, then jumped ahead. “Don’t tell me. She thinks it has magic powers. Some say that nothing else explains my rise to power. Does she not understand what’s at stake here?”

“I believe she does. I’m not sure that you do, sir.”

“Officer Cinq-Mars—”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Not at a time like this and not in this room. Cross’s life may depend on us coming to a binding agreement, right here, and very soon. Time is of the essence.”

Trudeau went to one of the tall, narrow, church-like windows of his office and looked out. Behind him, Cinq-Mars placed three photographs on his desk. The prime minister returned to look at them.

“A terrorist we’re looking for,” Cinq-Mars explained, “somewhat disguised, so his identity is not confirmed. Nonetheless, it fits an existing description. He’s entering a flat by the rear. The lane is innocuous—we won’t find it on the basis of these photographs. If we publish them, the kidnappers will probably change hideouts and the public will overwhelm our switchboards. We need to find the address. Only one person can give it to us, and that’s the woman I’m here to tell you about, and she has slipped underground.”