The Delicate Storm

22

CARDINAL AND DELORME DROVE to the Regent Hotel and went to their separate rooms, Delorme on the ground floor, Cardinal on the third. When the rattle-trap of an elevator took too long to come, he ducked into a damp stairwell.

All Cardinal wanted to do now was have a shower and a nap before dinner, but he had no sooner taken off his shoes than there was a knock at the door. He opened it, and Calvin Squier grinned at him like a long-lost fraternity brother.

“John, listen. Before you say anything, let me apologize. I know I caused you major problems up north, and I just want you to know that—”

Cardinal shut the door.

“John, I’m here to help you.”

Cardinal spoke to the door. “Why is it every time you help me I end up in the shit?”

“No, really, this time I’m on your side a hundred percent. And I can’t believe, after your interviews today, that you aren’t going to need the information I have. Besides which, something’s changed that I need to tell you about.”

Cardinal swung the door open. “How do you know I had interviews?”

“I can’t talk out here in the hall.”

Cardinal stood aside and Squier squeezed by, unbuttoning his overcoat.

“Leave it on,” Cardinal said. “You’re not staying. And anyway, how’d you find me here? I suppose you have me bugged, too.”

Squier looked hurt. “Of course not. See, what you refuse to accept is that I trust you, even though you don’t trust me.” He held up his hands to ward off accusations. “I know, I know. I caused you problems. That’s why I’m here. To make up for it any way I can.”

“You can start by telling me who called Simone Rouault and tried to shut her up.”

“Well, it wasn’t me, I guarantee you that.”

“French Canadian. An older man. He claimed to be calling from CSIS. You can see that from where I stand, that’s very easy to believe.”

“It could have been one of the Ottawa brass. I’ve no way of knowing for sure. See, that’s the big change I have to tell you about: I quit.”

“You quit?”

“You heard me. Calvin Squier and CSIS are now separate and apart.”

“I’m sure you’ll both be happier.”

Squier sat down on the nearest bed. He gave a deep sigh, as if a wave of despair washed over him.

“John, there comes a time in every man’s life where he’s just got to suck it up and do the right thing. The truth is, I have not been happy about the way CSIS has been handling this matter from the beginning. I try to be a good soldier, to do my job and not ask too many questions, but when it comes to out-and-out hampering an ongoing murder investigation, well, that’s where I draw the line.”

“Uh-huh. And what brought on this change of heart?”

“Well, it was when you arrested me, I guess. That’s when the scales dropped from my eyes. I work—worked—for an important organization and I wanted to believe my superiors were behaving ethically. But it’s amazing how being handcuffed face-down on the pavement can make you rethink your position. It just suddenly struck home that I was working for people who don’t give a damn about little things like truth and justice.”

“—And the American way?”

“Well, now you’re making fun of me, and probably I deserve it. But you know what I’m saying. I joined CSIS because I believe in certain things. And I’ve come to realize my superiors don’t share those beliefs. See, you’re not the only one they’ve been keeping in the dark. They wouldn’t even let me see the records on Shackley. Why was he Code Red in the first place, I wanted to know. No one would clue me in, and they wouldn’t release the file—assuming it still exists. And that’s why we’ve parted ways.”

“And you’ve come here to apologize.”

“And to help out, if I can.”

“Apology accepted, Squier. Goodbye.” Cardinal opened the door again.

“Wait, John. Let me finish what I came here to do and then I’ll get out of your hair. You saw Sauvé today. I’m sure the former corporal wasn’t much help to you.”

“You didn’t follow me there,” Cardinal said, shutting the door again. “Nobody did.”

“No, but you have a logical mind, and Sauvé is the logical place to start. He didn’t say diddly, right? Like interviewing a monument, I bet.”

“More or less.”

Squier made a note on his palmtop. “Fine. We’ll get back to Sauvé. Bet you didn’t get anywhere with Theroux either.”

“We talked to the wife,” Cardinal said. “She turned out to be very helpful.”

“Really? Did she tell you her husband didn’t kill Raoul Duquette?”

“How did you know that?”

“Look at the file, John. She’s been saying that ever since Theroux was sentenced.”

“Not publicly. She says Yves Grenelle murdered him.”

“Well, she wouldn’t get far with that. Publicly, nobody’s heard of Grenelle. And anybody on the CAT Squad would tell you it was unlikely in the extreme. Yves Grenelle was all hat and no cattle. He was not a member of the Chénier cell; he wasn’t a member of the Liberation cell. At best, he was liaison between the two. Don’t take my word for it; look him up in the file.”

“Simone Rouault didn’t have any trouble believing Yves Grenelle could have killed Duquette. As far as she knew, he was a violent thug who wanted to rule the world—Quebec at least.”

“You talked to Simone Rouault too. Man, you should see the stuff CSIS has on her. That woman deserves a medal. Do you know how many people she put in jail?”

“She claims twenty-seven.”

“That’s all she knows about. She was kept in the dark about a lot of things.”

“She certainly was,” Cardinal said, remembering the look on her face as she recalled Lieutenant Fougère.

“Great woman, no doubt, but not in a position to say who did or did not kill Raoul Duquette.”

“She did know Miles Shackley, though.”

“Of course she did. He and Fougère were very tight, and Fougère was running her. But Rouault was a low-level informant, John—effective, but low-level.”

“They had higher-level informants? Are you going to tell me Daniel Lemoyne was working for the CIA?”

Squier grinned. “That old chestnut.”

“As far as I can tell, Simone Rouault was the best informer the Mounties ever had.”

“My point is, she can only help you so far. Lieutenant Fougère is dead, and Lemoyne and Theroux won’t talk.”

“The person I really need to talk to is Yves Grenelle.”

“Yves Grenelle dropped off the planet in 1970 and has never been heard from since. Work with what you have. Sauvé’s the guy. He was on the cat Squad. Heck, he was almost running the cat Squad. And despite his criminal tendencies, he knows everything there is to know about the FLQ.”

“Unfortunately, he is also a sphinx.”

“Show him this.” Squier reached into his satchel and pulled out a manila envelope, folded in half.

Cardinal took it and opened it. “A videotape?”

“I took it as a little parting gift from CSIS. Unlike them, I don’t happen to believe that when an American citizen gets killed on our soil, nothing should be done about it. Maybe this will make up for some of the trouble we caused you. Anyway, once he gets a look at that, I think you’ll find our former Mountie and jailbird a lot more co-operative.”

Squier stood up. “I’m glad I got to work with you, John. You know, I’m going to be taking some time off now, to consider my options. And I’m going to be giving some serious thought to joining the police. And that’s entirely because of your influence.”

“I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Next job I get, I want to be sure I’m actually helping people. No more of this keep-everybody-in-the-dark business for me. If that’s what Ottawa wants, they’re not going to have me to help them do it anymore.”

Cardinal thought Squier was actually going to salute, but he only adjusted the buttons on his overcoat and shook hands one last time.

“Keep fighting the good fight,” he said. And then he was gone.

Cardinal waited a few moments, then went down to Delorme’s room and knocked on the door. Delorme answered it, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, her hair still wet from the shower.

“What’s going on?” she said. “I thought we were going to meet later for dinner.”

“Calvin Squier, formerly of Canadian Security Intelligence, wants to kiss and make up.” Cardinal held up the videotape. “He came bearing gifts.”

“Great. What are we going to watch it on?”

They drove back to RCMP headquarters. Sergeant Ducharme had left for the day, and that turned out to be problematic. The young Mountie at the front desk wasn’t in a hurry to grant admittance to police officers from other provinces, not to mention other agencies. After consulting not one but two superior officers, he called Sergeant Ducharme at home and got the green light.

There was a lengthy search of empty offices. Cardinal and Delorme were finally set up in an interview room with a TV and VCR. The videotape was just under half an hour, and when it was done, Delorme turned to Cardinal and said, “Looks like your CSIS man came through for once.”

“I take back everything I said. Let’s go eat, and I’ll be happy to raise a glass to Calvin Squier.”

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in a booth in the Embassy Restaurant on Peel Street. Just as “hotel” was too grand a word for the Regent, so “restaurant” turned out to be too grand for the Embassy. Yes, it had tablecloths and banquettes. It had a hostess, and dim lights, and waitresses wearing slinky outfits, and a sign saying Please Wait to be Seated. But everything else about the place—from the menu to the vinyl upholstery to the coffin-size aquariums devoid of fish—screamed greasy spoon.

“What do you suppose happened to the goldfish?” Delorme said as they examined menus.

“Probably went to a better restaurant,” Cardinal said. “Are you okay with this or do you want to go somewhere else?”

“I’m tired and starving. Let’s stay here.”

“Do you know what you want? I’m going to have a steak.”

“I’m going to have the seafood special.”

“I’d be careful. It might be a lot of little goldfish.”

“I don’t care. I’m going to have plenty of beer with it.”

They ordered from a hostile young woman whose goals in life did not include waitressing. Cardinal was just glad she addressed them in English.

When the beers arrived, Cardinal took a sip of his Labatt’s and frowned at the bottle. “Tastes funny.”

“They make it different for the Quebec market.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because French Canadians have more subtle, sophisticated tastes.”

“Oh, sure. Famous for it.”

Delorme made a face at him. She had left her hair untied so that it fell in thick, curly waves to her shoulders, and she was wearing a red T-shirt that looked a lot better than any T-shirt has a right to look. There was a tiny black cat embroidered over her sternum.

When their food came, it turned out to be surprisingly good. Cardinal’s steak was tender, and cooked exactly medium-rare, the way he liked it. And the expression on Delorme’s face was a transparent register of delight.

“Seafood’s okay?”

“Okay? It’s wonderful.”

The good food cheered them up. As they ate, they talked about the ground they had covered that day and what they hoped to cover the next. They still had no clear motive for Shackley’s murder, but if luck turned out to be on their side the next day, one might emerge. After a while they moved on to more personal topics. Cardinal asked after a boyfriend Delorme had mentioned once or twice.

“Eric—wasn’t that his name? Sounded like a nice guy from what you told me.”

“Oh, yes, he was a very nice guy—except he thought he could screw everything in sight. Sometimes I can see why women become lesbians.”

There was a pause. Delorme looked away a moment, then leaned forward a little. “John, we’ve never talked about it since you nearly resigned last year, but I’m just asking as a friend: are you still getting pressure from Rick Bouchard and company?”

“A little.”

“I knew it. What’s going on?”

“He sent a card. He has my home address.”

“Your home? What are you going to do?”

“Bouchard still has some time to run on his sentence. I can always hope he screws up and gets a few years tacked on.”

“You can’t count on that, though.”

“Then there’s the blowhard factor. He’s been in prison twelve years. Is he really going to risk going back there by coming after me? Chances are it’s just jailhouse bravado.”

“I hope so. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Thanks, Lise. Can we change the subject now?”

“What shall we talk about?”

“Tell me about your worst date ever.”

“Oh, that’s hard. There’s been so many.”

Delorme launched into a story about a blind date with a hot rodder that started out with a speeding ticket and ended with a flat tire in the pouring rain. Throughout dinner, Cardinal couldn’t help noticing how different Delorme was, off the job. She had a wonderfully expressive face. Around the station, she conducted herself with a brusque efficiency that kept people at arm’s length and was also tough to read. But now, after-hours and in another city, she let her guard down. Her gestures became more emphatic—eyes bulging as she described the ride with her hot rodder, voice dipping down to a doofus drawl as she recounted things he’d said. Cardinal was touched that she was revealing to him a side that was more emotional, more feminine and maybe, he thought, more French.

After the plates had been cleared away, the two of them sat quietly.

“You want another beer?” Cardinal said.

Delorme shrugged, breasts momentarily emphasized. She flagged the waitress across the room. “I’ll have another beer. And another Labatt’s for my father?”

When they got back to the hotel, one of the girls behind the front desk called them over. She spoke French.

“Ms. Delorme, I’m so sorry, but there has been a problem. A pipe has burst on the ground floor and flooded all the rooms. I’m afraid it won’t be possible for you to stay in that room.”

“That’s fine. Put me somewhere else.”

“That’s the problem. We are completely full. There are no other rooms.”

“Did you get that?” Delorme said to Cardinal.

“More or less.”

“I swear, next time I’m staying at the Queen Elizabeth.”

She turned back to the desk clerk, speaking once more in French. Cardinal didn’t catch all of it, but he noted with admiration that Delorme did not lose her temper or raise her voice, even when the bad news got worse.

She turned to Cardinal once more. “There’s a Holiday Inn about two kilometres from here. They’ll pay for me to stay there.”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything else?” Cardinal said to the receptionist. “Surely in the entire hotel …”

The girl’s reply was heavily accented. “Normally, yes, it would not be a problem. But tonight we have a high-school hockey team taking up an entire floor. I’m sorry.”

Cardinal’s heart went out to Delorme. Suddenly she was looking very small and tired.

“Why don’t you stay in my room?” he said. “I’ll go to the Holiday Inn.”

“No way. I’m not going to put you out.”

“Well, the other option is, we both stay in my room. It’s got two double beds in it.”

Delorme shook her head.

“We can be grown-ups about it,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to jump you.”

“And have the whole department making jokes? No, thank you.”

“Who’s going to know? I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“I should go somewhere else.”

“It’s been a long day. You’re tired. And we want to make an early start in the morning. Stay in my room.”

“So help me, John, if you tell anyone—and I mean anyone—I will never speak to you again.”

Cardinal got into bed while Delorme was in the bathroom brushing her teeth. He wanted to call Catherine but felt too weird with Delorme around. He pulled out a paperback and forced himself to read a few pages.

When the bathroom door opened, he kept his gaze firmly on the book, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that Delorme was still dressed. He rolled onto his side, facing away, and then there was the sound of her undressing, the zipper of her jeans.

A deep sigh as she got into bed. The room was overheated; what would she be wearing under those covers?

Cardinal turned once more onto his back and wondered what to say. He certainly didn’t want to say anything too personal, anything that might be construed as provocative, but he didn’t feel like going back to the case, either. Was Delorme experiencing anything remotely similar? Was she wondering what to say? Imagining things?

As if by way of answer, Delorme turned her back to him and switched off her light.

Of course, that could be open to interpretation. Was she hoping he would make a move? Lovely, the way her hair spilled in curls on the pillow behind her, the rise of her hip beneath the covers.

She’d called him her father at dinner. Put me in my place, Cardinal thought, reminding him of the twelve-odd years between them. He switched off his own light and resolved not to think about her anymore.

It didn’t work, and he lay awake for a long time.

Delorme was up and fully dressed before the wake-up call roused Cardinal.

“I’ll be in the coffee shop,” she said, and then she was gone.

They drove out to the Eastern Townships and down the corduroy road that led to Sauvé’s place. The sun had come out, and a stiff wind blew off the surrounding farmland. The fields resembled a swamp, glinting like metal in the sunlight. Cardinal made a couple of calls on his cellphone to the British consulate. An intensely polite young woman said she would make the necessary inquiries and someone would call him back shortly.

“You okay?” Delorme asked at one point. “You seem a little grumpy.”

“Tired,” Cardinal said. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Really? I slept fine.”

Cardinal wondered if she was trying to rub it in, her complete physical indifference to him. But more likely she was just stating a fact: physical attraction had not entered her head.

They pulled into Sauvé’s drive, blocking Sauvé himself, who was just backing out. He leaned on his horn, sending crows and blue jays flapping from the trees. When Cardinal didn’t move, Sauvé threw open his truck door and came lurching toward them. “I told you, I’ve got nothing to say to the Mounties, the Sûreté, or any other police. Now get the hell out of my driveway.”

“Mr. Sauvé, do you have a VCR? We brought one along in case you don’t.”

The interior of Sauvé’s house was in even worse shape than its owner. Plastic sheeting flapped at the windows in a vain attempt to keep the Quebec winter outside. One wall of the living room was nothing more than struts. Bits of drywall were strewn across the hallway. In the living room there was a lumpy sofa covered with a woollen blanket, where Cardinal and Delorme sat. Sauvé occupied an armchair that spewed stuffing from one arm. A black cat with bald patches prowled around his feet.

Sauvé had a Molson in his hand, and sat crookedly in the chair so that he could focus on the television with his good eye. The tape had been shot at night, from several different angles in a parking lot. It showed Sauvé getting out of his truck and unloading boxes labelled Department of Transport. Two men got out of a van and examined the boxes before handing him an envelope. Sauvé drove off while they were loading the boxes into their van. When the tape was over, Sauvé hurled his beer across the room, shattering it against a wall. The smell of hops filled the air, mixing with the smell of mildew.

“Certain parties are willing to forget this episode,” Cardinal said, “provided you co-operate with our investigation. And of course provided you cease and desist selling explosives to the French Self-Defence League.”

Sauvé rubbed the bristles on his cheeks. Three fingers were missing from his hand. His eye was a drill hole of pure anger. “Tell me something, Detective. Do you really imagine there’s a lot of difference between the Mounties and the people you put behind bars?”

“So far, I don’t know any Mounties who have fed their murder victims to the bears. But I lead a sheltered life.”

“Miles Shackley came up to Algonquin Bay a few days ago,” Delorme said. “We think you might know why.”

“Well, guess what, sister? I don’t. I haven’t seen Miles Shackley in over thirty years.”

“And yet he called you three weeks ago. Why would that be?”

“He was an old spook and he didn’t take well to retirement, okay? He was feeling nostalgic, calling old friends. Going over old ground. Trading war stories. Why shouldn’t he call me?”

“You worked together at the CAT Squad, correct?”

“Yes. And our assignment was to cultivate informers in the FLQ. So we did.”

“And the two of you worked with Lieutenant Fougère?”

“Not at first. I worked with Fougère after he fucked up. Oh, excuse me, was I speaking ill of the dead? I’m so sorry. Lieutenant Fougère came up with the brilliant idea of Operation Coquette. Mostly because he was screwing the coquette.”

“You’re referring to Simone Rouault now?”

“Yeah. Complete slut. Fougère recruits his girlfriend to infiltrate the FLQ and spends the first three months getting her to cozy up to a guy named Claude Hibert. Only one problem: Claude Hibert happened to be my informer.”

“He was already working for the CAT Squad?”

“He was my informer—from before I joined the CAT Squad. He’d been mine for eighteen months. Fougère and his putain wasted months. So me and Shackley had to take him in hand. Shackley was CIA and a really stand-up guy. One of the few people in the world you could actually count on. When we formed the combined anti-terrorist force, he volunteered to join. Didn’t have to. He had a cushy assignment in New York before that.

“And resourceful, this guy. Not like Fougère. Shackley came to us, he already had an agent in place. CIA rules were, he wasn’t supposed to share with us exactly who it was or where it was. He could share the goods, and rate them for likely accuracy, but the rest was strictly need-to-know.”

“But you needed to know, obviously. Otherwise you risked making the same mistake as Fougère.”

“Tell it to Langley. In the end it didn’t matter, because Shackley and Langley didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. He told me who his man on the spot was: an individual named Yves Grenelle.”

“Did Yves Grenelle kill Raoul Duquette?”

“Read your files. Daniel Lemoyne and Bernard Theroux killed Raoul Duquette. They confessed to it.”

Cardinal stood up. “All right. You’re clearly in a hurry to go back to prison. Selling explosives to a terrorist group, that should be good for at least another eight years. And of course, as an ex-cop you’ll be popular in the cell block.”

“I’m telling you the truth. Lemoyne and Theroux—”

“Everyone knows they confessed to killing Duquette. We also know there was such a thing as cell solidarity. That whoever got caught would take the fall, and whoever got away got away. Yves Grenelle got away, right?”

“Yeah, he got away. So what?”

“And he was Shackley’s agent, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he was Shackley’s. So what?”

“And he killed Duquette. Didn’t he?”

“If he did, I had nothing to do with it.”

“But maybe Shackley did. Suddenly, in the middle of the October Crisis, the entire CAT Squad was hot to find Shackley. Why?”

“Maybe because he played a rough game. He didn’t pussyfoot around.”

“Meaning what? That Grenelle was more than an informer? He was a provocateur, wasn’t he. Just like Simone Rouault. Committing more crimes than he was stopping?”

“What if he was?”

“Well, if Detective Fougère had his girlfriend robbing oil companies and planting bombs, I imagine Miles Shackley’s man was capable of a lot more. Like killing Raoul Duquette.”

Sauvé shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“That couldn’t have been CIA policy. How’s it in their interest to foment insurrection in a friendly neighbour?”

“You’re right. The CIA would never do a thing like that. Any Chilean will tell you that. Or you could ask the grateful Guatemalans.”

“You’re saying that was their policy?”

“Jesus. They don’t grow them subtle in Ontario, do they? For the record, No, I do not think it was CIA policy to foment insurrection in Canada. Not official policy.”

“But?”

“No but. End of story.”

“How do you think that tape’s going to play on the six o’clock news? Shall we find out?”

“All right, for Christ’s sake! You’re asking me things I can’t possibly know! Unofficial CIA policy? Super-secret covert operations? How am I supposed to know? I was a Mountie, for Chrissake. If you want to know what I think, I’ll tell you that for free. But it’s only hearsay and guesswork, and the only reason I’m in a position to do that is because Shackley and I were tight. We got close because we were both black sheep and we both liked to get the job done.”

“Fine. We’re listening.”

Sauvé let out a deep sigh. He began to speak in a monotone, as if he had lectured on the subject many times. “The U.S. under Nixon was extremely irritated with Canada. First, we suggest they lift the embargo on Cuba. The Yanks are nuts on the subject of Cuba. Second, we take in Vietnam draft dodgers by the planeload—not guaranteed to win us love and understanding in Washington. Third, it’s the height of the Cold War, and Trudeau declares us a nuclear-free zone. Nuclear-free! It’s not as if we were maintaining a real army. The States spend billions on defence and they see us taking a free ride. And fourth, Trudeau’s hair is too long. You think I’m joking, but it’s Richard Milhous Nixon we’re talking about, Nature’s own Master of Paranoia.

The Nixon bunch wanted a different attitude in their northern neighbour and they wanted it now. They wanted a conservative in power, someone who would see eye to eye on little matters like Vietnam and the Cold War and nuclear weapons. And the best way to do that, according to the Nixon Department of the Real World, was to scare the living shit out of the Canadian population and get them to vote somebody else in. They had one big problem.”

“Pierre Trudeau.”

“Pierre Trudeau. These were the days of Trudeaumania. How are they gonna get Canadians to see the light? So they cook up this idea. Quebec is heating up. Why not heat it to the boiling point? Get the rest of Canada really scared. And when the people see just what a pussy Pierre Trudeau is, they’ll throw him out and we’ll get a red-blooded conservative in there. This wouldn’t be a policy, you understand. It would be a “what if.” A scenario.

“Shackley’s job would have been to assess feasibility. You do that all the time in a security service—run a war game, test out a theory. So Shackley puts a man in place in the FLQ. He gets the guy ultra well placed. And then, when he’s ready to rock and roll, the folks at Langley back off. Tell him thanks but no thanks. But Shackley’s playing for keeps, see, so he continues to run Grenelle on his own. That’s why he disappeared, and that’s why, when Hawthorne and Duquette were kidnapped, every cop in Montreal who was looking for Daniel Lemoyne and Bernard Theroux was also looking for Miles Shackley.”

“You think he ordered Grenelle to kill Duquette?”

“What’s it matter?” Sauvé spat at his propane stove, causing a sudden sizzle like radio static. “Raoul Duquette has been dead for thirty years.”