City of Ice (50 page)

“Not exactly,” Cinq-Mars said.

Mathers waited for him to cut between two trucks before prompting him once more. “Are you planning to explain that or do I have to shoot you in the hip?”

“Lajeunesse is a hit man for the Mafia. A Hell’s Angel without the tattoos. He’s not a dirty cop because he never was a cop. He was always Mafia-Angel shit. They sneaked him onto the force, promoted him inside the department. Then they found him something to do.”

“Which was?”

“Bump me off. Too bad for him, he’d hung around cops too long. Softened up. Gotten friendly. The boy lost his nerve.”

“So now he shuffles papers.”

“You don’t think he’s useful at that? No wonder they move hot cars around so well.”

Mathers pushed a hand through his hair. Bringing it down, he punched the dash.
“Taberhuit,”
he swore.

“What’s wrong?”

“I had him run down the Q Forty-five for us.”

In anger, Cinq-Mars sped ahead to their exit, jamming his car into the ramp’s single file. “Can’t you get this, Bill? The bad guys live inside us. We cannot be trusted.”

“I’ve got it now, Émile. Once and for all.”

Cinq-Mars cut up Guy Street and stopped on a red.

“Knowing we’re looking for a car, what does that do?” Mathers asked apologetically. “Does it break us?”

“Hard to tell. The Angels don’t know what we want with the Infiniti. If it was just them, I wouldn’t worry. They wouldn’t know what to do with the information. But this KGB thing bugs me.” Cinq-Mars rapped a knuckle on the wheel. “If they know too much, if they know we’re looking for the CIA, then Selwyn Norris is in danger, and his mole’s been marked.”

He made an illegal left on Sherbrooke, where they spotted the Infiniti Q45 fifty yards west of St. Mathieu outside the gates of an old, imposing, dreary seminary. Cinq-Mars parked behind it and struggled out. “You better drive,” he shouted to Mathers, “before I get
mad and hit somebody.” The younger man stepped out as well to switch sides. Cinq-Mars opened the passenger door to the Infiniti and plunked his derriere onto the leather seat. He banged his boots together to knock salt off before swinging them around onto the plush pile carpet. He pulled the door shut.

“I’m glad you called, Mr. Norris. Fill me in.” The luxury of the automobile had the detective feeling unkempt after his sleepless night and the day’s rank diet.

“You understand my situation,” Norris stated.

“And you, mine. I want the young woman out.”

“As I told you earlier, I can’t save one agent and wreck the entire operation. This is too important. You’re the horse trader, Émile, what do you suggest?”

Cinq-Mars had anticipated that it would come down to this and wondered if the woman knew that her mentor would barter for her life, sparing her only if the payoff was worth the price. “Let’s deal.”

“You want the woman out. I want a contact working inside the Hell’s Angels and the Russian gangs.”

“Mmmm,” Cinq-Mars demurred. “You want more than that, I’d say. You want the top guy in North America for the Russian crime federation, his head on a platter. And I suspect you wouldn’t mind being relieved of criminal charges that pertain to the murder of the original Angels’ banker.”

Norris’s right hand squeezed the car’s gearshift with each of the policeman’s points. “So I’m greedy.” He smiled. “You are too, I bet. You want the Russian headman yourself, for the murder of Hagop Artinian.”

“Nope, don’t,” Cinq-Mars interrupted. “I’ve got Artinian’s killer in lockup.”

The agent looked at him more intently then, the smirk suddenly gone from his lips. “Not the Russian?”

“You don’t know as much as you’d like about the Angels.”

Norris chewed on his lips then, a mild concession. This was not a trade that he necessarily had to win, but he had to come away with particular benefits. Cinq-Mars had not mentioned his rival’s most critical need, choosing to wait for a more advantageous moment. Similarly, Norris had not mentioned the policeman’s most critical need. A horse trade, they were both saving what really counted to the end.

“I’m impressed, Émile. You’ve worked a link inside the Angels. I could make good use of that resource. Perhaps we ought to consider an exchange suitable to both sides.”

“The woman comes out,” Cinq-Mars reiterated, “with her so-called father. I don’t want any more bright-eyed civilians in there.”

“All right,” Norris considered, “let’s say we take this person out. Keeping her safe on the outside won’t be easy, but let’s pretend it can be arranged. The father has to come out with her, of course. But I need something back. This isn’t tiddlywinks. The social fabric of my country is affected. Lives are on the line. This coalition of gangs can’t be allowed to gain the foothold they’re after. What do I receive in return, Émile?”

Cinq-Mars rubbed his chin, as if mulling the decision for the first time. He reminded himself of his own rules. Never allow the competing party to believe that what is placed on the table was easily relinquished. “Mr. Norris, I’m willing to introduce you to someone currently inside the organization.”

Norris rocked his head from side to side to indicate that the proposal was of moderate interest. “I checked, Émile. My protégé spoke about malicious malalignment to one person, one person only. That gives me the name of your contact. I’m impressed. The Hell’s Angels-Mafia lawyer, now that’s good work. Maybe you should be on my side of the fence. Trouble is, now that I know him, I don’t need you to give him to me, do I?”

Cinq-Mars raised his right hand, gently shook his forefinger in the air, a gesture intended to demonstrate that Norris’s posture came as no surprise. He had anticipated the response, deliberately led Norris down this road. Cinq-Mars had not counted on Gitteridge being enough—the man had flaws. “You need me to work the introduction, Mr. Norris. You’re not dealing with a concerned citizen. He’s halfway as sociopathic as the rest of them, except that, for him, fear’s a motivation. He’s rabbit-hearted. I have leverage, you don’t. I’ve got him dead-to-rights for the murder of Walter Kaplonski, so if you work around me I’ll reel him in for Kaplonski, leaving you with nothing. You need me here, Mr. Norris, you need my hands-on contact.”

Seated in the car, Norris had little room to maneuver, few places to look where he could guard his eyes. He gazed momentarily out his side window until he noticed that Cinq-Mars had leaned forward to observe his reflection. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he caught the eyes of Bill Mathers in the car behind.

“Problem is, Émile, Gitteridge brought my agent into the Angels. Sponsored her, so to speak. When Hagop was found out, when he was killed, Kaplonski was next on the list for being the guy who brought him in. I hate to say it, but Gitteridge may become a target. I might be trading live bait for dead.”

Cinq-Mars started to rock in his seat with the rhythm of his words. He spoke with force. “They wiped out Kaplonski because he’d become a risk, a weak link. We had his garage, we connected his business to the Russian freighter—he was of no further use. Worse than that, he’d become a liability. We had his nuts in a vise. They took Kaplonski out because they couldn’t trust him. Did he screw up, bringing in Artinian, or did he bring him in knowing he was undercover? The Angels couldn’t be sure. They also didn’t know how he’d hold up if we booked him a
bunk in prison. Kaplonski lived too well to appreciate the benefits of hard time. They could make an example of him, he wasn’t much more use than that. Now Gitteridge—he’s passed his initiation, he’s done a bump off, it’s categorical that he’s not in my pocket. Besides, a lawyer at that level is not so easy to replace as a dumb car thief.”

Norris shifted around to observe Cinq-Mars squarely. “Let’s say I accept Gitteridge. If you’re letting him off for blowing up Kaplonski, then you’re obliged to let me off on the banker. You can’t pin it on me, we both know that, but I don’t relish being hassled by the eminent Cinq-Mars.”

“That one I can let go,” Cinq-Mars acknowledged, although he was not about to make the offer without receiving something further in return. “But you will keep me informed of your addresses at all times that you’re in this country. Never mind city—country. If you’re not under my nose, I’ll be looking you up to see what’s cooking. If you’re found here without having reported in, you will fall under my scrutiny.”

“That brings up another issue.” The man checked his watch for the fourth time since they’d been in the car together. Cinq-Mars was counting.

“What’s that?”

“This operation remains covert. No rumors. No press. No suggestion around the station house of Company involvement.” What Norris required most—dead air, raw silence—had been broached as if it was trivial.

“I’m no miracle worker. I’ll do what I can manage. Mr. Norris, do we have a deal?”

Selwyn Norris knew better than to rush into a handshake with this man. “Not yet,” he hedged. “I still have a problem with Gitteridge. What you said is conjecture. Chances are, the moment the woman inside is taken away from the Angels, Gitteridge becomes a
target, no matter what you say. Not everything they do is logical. The Czar is here to establish a regime in which anyone who compromises their situation dies. No mercy. He’s laying the groundwork. I don’t see where he’d think otherwise with Gitteridge. The contrary. Gitteridge can do major damage. He’s less likely to be lenient with him.”

Cinq-Mars hit a fist into an open palm and raised his voice a notch. Norris knew the moniker for the Russian, the Czar. Which meant that his nerve center had picked up on stuff inside the Wolverines. “If nothing else, understand this. Your young woman is not safe. The malicious malalignment error compromised her position. You are not trading from strength, sir.”

“She’s being initiated as we speak. If she passes that test, she’s in. I presume your snitch on the inside won’t turn her out.”

The threat that she was undertaking her initiation alerted Cinq-Mars. He wavered. Even in the most deliberate and artful negotiation, circumstances might arise where desperate measures became appropriate. “Mr. Norris, are you waiting to hear my fallback position? We have a senior cop who’s traded off. If Gitteridge blows up, I’ll give you the cop. Run him as a double agent. He’ll have no choice. He has to do what he’s told no matter who does the telling.”

“LaPierre doesn’t interest me, Émile,” Norris told him. “He’s a wild man. He’s a lost soul.”

Norris knew about André. From Artinian?
“Higher up. Petrified wood. Fully diluted and compromised.”

The mention enhanced the light in Norris’s eye. “In that case, we almost have a deal. Change the fine print.”

“How so?”

“I want the higher-up included with Gitteridge or, if it comes to that, without him. I don’t want him only if
Gitteridge goes down.” Norris stuck out his hand. He had received more than he’d expected, more, he suspected, than Cinq-Mars had intended to relinquish. His critical need in the negotiation was impunity, for himself, but more important for his organization, which could not afford discovery by either the authorities or their mutual enemies.

Cinq-Mars judged the offered palm. “Why is time of the essence, Mr. Norris?” He, too, had a critical need. He had to rescue a police officer from a blast.

“It’s happening, Émile. Her name is Julia. She does her bomb today. Shake on this deal and see about setting her free.”

“Is this the cop bombing?”

Norris nodded.

“Where? Who? Tell me now.”

“Shake on this deal, Émile.”

“I can give you the Czar,” Cinq-Mars told him.

The news surprised Selwyn Norris. “How?”

“He’s had heart surgery. Given a choice, he had the job done on this side of the Atlantic. In the States—your home turf. I can give you the time and place for his next follow-up appointment. We traced him down by the star tattoo he wears on his chest. No heart surgeon could have missed that.”

“I think you just gave him to me, Émile.”

“Bear in mind that every call you make risks sending a signal to the wrong party. Start with the most eminent surgeons in America. That’ll lead you there quickly.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Norris asked. Then his head jerked back with understanding. “Of course you do. Shit, it’s a tough world we live in, Émile.”

Cinq-Mars had provided information that would result in an assassination. No arrest. No trial. No conviction. No law. No order. Merely execution.

“You didn’t trade for that one, Émile,” Norris reminded him, and his tone conveyed skepticism and amazement in equal measure.

“Not my jurisdiction,” Cinq-Mars pointed out. “If a felon should leave my jurisdiction and never return, am I saddened to be denied the arrest? Some cops would answer yes. Today, I just want him gone.”

“Ah.” Norris understood. “You’re getting something out of this.”

“Such as?”

“If he’s gone, Julia has a chance to stay out alive.” He had presumed from the outset that Cinq-Mars needed not only to rescue her but also to restore her life. He had not guessed how he’d get there.

“Her best shot, I’d say,” Cinq-Mars confirmed. He had to keep himself distant from the likes of Selwyn Norris, who would never bring an agent out if it compromised an operation. He, on the other hand, would compromise any operation if it meant rescuing the innocent. He had to keep that line clear. The last thing he wanted was an arrest. He wanted her high and dry, to save her, believing that rescue honored the life and sorry death of Hagop Artinian. “Tell me—who, where, when.”

“This is guesswork. When? A little after two when the game ends. The bomb plant will come earlier. Where? A club in an upscale neighborhood, a busy intersection nearby and valet parking where the cars get crowded in. According to my people, our first choice is the Montreal Badminton and Squash Club. It’s on the edge of Westmount—Émile?” The detective seemed pale, stricken.

“Tremblay,” Cinq-Mars determined, fear swift within him.

“Why him?”

“He’s booting the Angels out of our computer system, taking away their big advantage.”

“Go, Émile. Fifty minutes to blast off. Shake on this deal first.”

Cinq-Mars hesitated. He had what he had come for. He had traded away what he was willing to give up, although he was sorry to have mentioned Beaubien. That man’s life was not going to know much peace. Probably he’d suggest that the captain consider immediate retirement, take himself out of the line of everyone’s fire. He was getting Julia, he had LaPierre, and the Russian would be erased, as people in another profession might put it. The lines had blurred. He was sacrificing Gitteridge to Norris, and perhaps to death. He also had to surrender his initial desire to take out Selwyn Norris. He had wanted to get at the man who had put Hagop Artinian in a position to die. He didn’t have the wherewithal to make an arrest. At least he might curtail his network, or get him out of town. What he needed the most here was Julia alive and Rémi Tremblay safe. In the overall scheme of things, this was one deal with the devil in which he could rest easily enough. For starters, he wasn’t entirely sure who played the devil in this bargain and who was the good guy. He did know that he wasn’t squeaky clean. He breathed deeply. He had handed over information, knowing full well that it would probably result in an assassination. For sure, he wasn’t clean at all.