Deadline (13 page)

Jack’s chest was heaving from running away from the Buick. Panting, he slowed to a jog on the sidewalk, looking over his shoulder every few moments, heading towards the Byward Market. He cut through the parking lot of a nursing home, keeping low enough to stay out of sight. When he got to the next street, he crouched behind a parked car and looked back. His heart sank when he saw the Buick cruising his way.

He took off again, running hard behind the cover of the nursing home, and then dashed across King Edward Avenue and up towards Rideau Street. He kept running, cutting diagonally into the heart of the market, where there were people walking to and from pubs and restaurants. He slowed to a walk and turned under a stone arch into a cobblestone walkway between two old stone buildings and into a courtyard lined by restaurants and bars. Apart from a cluster of smokers at the back door of a bar, the usually lively mall was empty. Certain that he’d lost his pursuers, Jack bent over, his hands on his knees, to catch his breath.

He was startled when his phone buzzed. It was Sophie, in tears.

“It’s so hard. Jack,” she said. “I’m home and I can’t stop thinking about Ed.”

“Is there anybody there with you?”

“No. I’m here by myself.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m coming over. See you in ten minutes.”

The man was getting angry with Balfour for relaying confusing and contradictory directions, and Balfour was getting tired of sitting in front of his computer and taking abuse. He hadn’t had time to put the tracking program on the man’s phone, so he had to keep giving him the latest coordinates for the blinking red dot. The man yelled at Balfour and then yelled the fresh location to the men chasing Jack. Sometimes he yelled into the wrong phone.

The triangulation wasn’t that accurate – only to within twenty metres or so – and it lagged behind someone moving quickly. So Balfour couldn’t give precise directions, especially since Jack kept cutting through the middle of blocks. When he ran across the middle of King Edward Street, his pursuers had to go well around, wait at a set of lights and do a U-turn before they could get on his trail again.

When Jack stopped in the courtyard, though, Balfour was able to give them a fixed position, and the car pulled up outside the arch where Jack had entered. The men were getting ready to go in on foot when Balfour reported that Jack had left by the other exit, and was on Sussex now, headed south.

Jack was walking briskly up Sussex, smoking a cigarette, glancing over his shoulder every few paces, looking out for the Buick, even though he was sure he had lost his tail. He jogged across the street, and was headed for the steps to MacKenzie Avenue, when he looked back and saw the Buick turn onto Sussex. He ducked into the shadows of the stairway and peered around the corner. It was definitely the same car, and it was coming toward him. He could make out two figures in the front seats, both looking around as the car crept closer.

“How the fuck do they keep finding me?” he wondered aloud, just as his BlackBerry vibrated on his hip. He realized in a flash how they were tracking him. His phone!

The revelation stabbed fear into his guts. If they could track him by his phone, they had to be CSIS, or the cops. But if it were the cops, they would just call him, wouldn’t they?

Jolted back into action, he scrambled up the steps and emerged on MacKenzie across the street from the Chateau Laurier. He ran to the corner and then forced himself to stroll toward the covered entrance, where uniformed bellboys were directing visitor traffic and ushering guests into taxis.

A portly middle-aged man was getting into the first cab in the queue. Holding his BlackBerry against his leg, Jack walked to the other side of the cab. He knelt, as if to tie his shoe, and quickly jammed the phone and its holster down behind the rear bumper of the taxi, where it stuck. He straightened up and ambled to the doorway of the hotel, where he stopped and lit a cigarette – just another guest standing outside for a smoke.

The cab drove off and signalled right at the intersection of Wellington and Sussex, likely headed to Colonel By Drive. Thirty seconds later, the black Buick went by, tailing the taxi.

Murphy was exhausted by the time he and Simms had finished their stand-ups and watched the rest of the news at their desks in the newsroom overlooking Parliament Hill, but when she proposed that they have a drink together at Hy’s, he didn’t refuse.

The after-work crush had died down, and they took a high table by the bar. He ordered a scotch. She had red wine and her painted fingernails clicked on the wine glass as she took her first sip.

“That was a great scoop today,” said Murphy. “We were out in front of the competition all day on the only story that anyone cared about.”

“I know,” said Simms, and beamed. “It must be killing them at CBC.”

“Your scoop is part of history now. Think about that.”

“Maybe you should give me a raise.”

Murphy laughed. “I was new on the Hill when Trudeau took his walk in the snow and decided to retire,” he said. “I covered Mulroney’s resignation, Jean Chrétien being pushed out by Paul Martin. These are the moments when things really change. Everything will be different from now on.”

“Not till March,” said Simms. “Stevens is still the boss until then.”

“Everything changes now. Stevens is in control, but whoever wants his job has to make a move now. Soon we’ll find out how good the organizations are, who has had people working away quietly for years, who has donors lined up, who has convinced some sharp customers to quit their jobs and work full time for nothing for three months.”

“You think it will be Mowat or Donahoe?”

“I can’t tell yet, but one of the two. Likely Mowat. Donahoe’s from Nova Scotia, and he’s an old Progressive Conservative. The PCs might think it’s their turn to lead the party, but the Alliance types don’t want to give up control, and they have a lot of money and a lot of members. Every riding association in the country is weighted equally, so Donahoe could theoretically go into a convention with a lot of support from red Tories in the Maritimes, Quebec and Toronto, but it looks to me like it would be tough.”

“I like Donahoe,” said Simms. “Mowat creeps me out. He reminds me of a televangelist.”

Murphy laughed.

“That probably bothers you more than it concerns a lot of Tory delegates,” he said. “If he came across like that in a general election it would hurt the party, but a leadership race isn’t an election. Donahoe will try to make delegates think about it, but he’ll have to be careful not if he wants to win their support.”

“There could be some great stories for us, up to and including the convention,” said Simms.

Murphy swirled his Scotch. “We want to do our best to get good sources near Mowat and Donahoe.”

“I may have some ideas about that.”

“Yeah? Well, whoever gave you that story today is a good source.” Murphy watched her reaction carefully. He knew that Balusi had given her the story, and guessed that there was a link to the Mowat camp, because he was obviously better prepared than the other MPs during the scrums, but he didn’t think she realized he’d seen her call display when the call came in at lunch.

Simms’s eyes flicked to the bar and back at Murphy. “Well, it wasn’t that guy,” she said, and pointed with her nose at Dave Cochrane, who was leaving the dining room with Donahoe and a few other middle-aged men in suits. When he glanced back across the room, Simms’s red hair caught Cochrane’s eye. He did a double take and waved as he walked his boss and their companions out to the street.

“If I’m not mistaken, Cochrane and Donahoe just had dinner with Geoff Bourrie, the lobbyist, one of the old Mulroney boys,” said Murphy. “I haven’t seen him around in years. Probably plotting the return of the PCs. Man, those guys knew how to have fun. They make Stevens’s crew look like a bunch of boy scouts.”

“Some of Stevens’s crew know how to have fun,” said Simms, and she pointed her chin at Cochrane, who had appeared in the bar again and was walking toward their table.

He shook hands with Murphy. Simms gave him a two-cheek kiss.

“David,” she said, “was that Geoff Bourrie you just had dinner with?”

Cochrane pulled up a chair. “Jesus, you don’t miss much, do you?” he said. “How would you know who Bourrie is? You must have been in short pants the last time that guy was making it rain in Ottawa.”

Simms winked at Murphy. “I have my sources.”

“Well that’s obvious,” said Cochrane. “That was a good one today.”

The waiter came with a gin and tonic for Cochrane. Simms ordered another glass of wine, but Murphy decided to stop at one. “I’ve got to get home,” he said. “I can’t keep up with you kids anymore.”

He squeezed Simms’s shoulder affectionately when she kissed him good night.

“Good scoop today, kid,” he whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

After Murphy left, Simms pressed Cochrane. “So, is Bourrie organizing for you guys?”

Cochrane laughed. “Just old friends having a steak together. Last time I checked that wasn’t against the law.”

“No, but you guys have got to be putting together your team in a hurry if you want to have any chance of beating Mowat.”

“If Donahoe, or Mowat, is going to run. Nobody’s announced yet.”

“No,” said Simms. “Are you going to leave the speculation to the speculators?”

Cochrane laughed. “Jesus, the boss looked a bit awkward today, didn’t he? I’d give my left one to know who tipped you off.”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she said.

“No, but you could have let me know that you were about to ambush my guy.”

Simms took a sip of wine and regarded Cochrane coolly. “I could have, but I didn’t want to blow my scoop. I like to get scoops.”

Cochrane stared at her, smiling, drained his gin and tonic and waved for another. “Did you hear about Sawatski?”

“No. Who’s that?”

“Young fellow works in our office as a policy adviser. From Newfoundland. Late twenties. Smart kid. Lives with Sophie Fortin, Mowat’s press secretary.”

“The girl who fainted in the lobby today?”

“Yeah,” said Cochrane, taking his next gin and tonic from the waiter. “You know why she fainted? I bet it was because she just found out that her boyfriend nearly drowned. They pulled him out of the canal this morning. He’s in a coma in the hospital.”

“Wow,” said Simms.

“I don’t know if any Hill reporters have put it together yet,” said Cochrane. “You might poke around, find out what happened. Could be a story there.”

Simms crossed and uncrossed her legs and gave Cochrane a coquettish smile.

“Do me a favour, Dave,” she said. “Don’t mention it to any other reporters.”