Deadline (46 page)

I
SMAEL
B
ALUSI PASSED
the morning alone in his office, trying to keep one step ahead in the perpetual media war with the opposition: going through clippings, sending emails to communications staffers, imagining problems that he couldn’t see coming, working his way through an extra large coffee. He was an hour into it, and the coffee was mostly gone, when Suzanne, from Knowles’ office, called to say that her boss wanted to see him.

Balusi traipsed down the hall, a little nervous, as always when Knowles wanted him.

“Hi, Ismael,” he said, shaking his hand and gesturing to the couch. “Tell me. How’s your day look?”

Ismael blathered for a few minutes about media lines and ministerial newsers before Rupert cut him off. “Doesn’t sound like anything that Geoff couldn’t handle, if push came to shove,” he said.

“No,” said Balusi. “I suppose not. Why? What’s up?”

“Well,” said Knowles. “The prime minister would like you to go over to the party office today. The election readiness team there has worked up a Campaign Rapid Response Kit. You know about this thing?”

Balusi nodded. He hoped it wasn’t an impatient nod. “I helped Chris and the kids debug an earlier version,” he said.

“Great,” said Knowles. “Great! So that means it won’t take you forever to figure out what the fuck they’re talking about. Those kids are smart but they aren’t always very good at explaining their treacherous computers to lesser mortals. Anyway, someone must have been whispering in the boss’s ear about it over the weekend, because he comes in this morning and wants to know exactly how it works, whether it works, everything. You know what he’s like.”

“Sure,” said Balusi. “I can do that. I like the idea of CRRK, but I was never convinced it could stand in for experienced political operatives. It’s like a logic tree. Pump in the variables, answer the questions, and it finds the appropriate media lines for an issue. If it works, it could save a lot of time for all of us during an election campaign. What I’m afraid of is someone starts using it –”

Knowles cut him off. “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you run down there now, put the fear of God into the kids, and be ready to give the boss a thorough report on it tomorrow.”

“Sure,” said Balusi, getting to his feet. “Are they expecting me?”

“They will be. I’ll call as soon as you leave,” said Knowles. “ Just one other thing.” He picked up a white cardboard box from his desk. “I’ve got you a new BlackBerry here. We need to take yours, likely just for the day, for a security thing. So this one is ready to go.” He slid it across the desk to Balusi.

“A security thing?” said Balusi. He pulled his phone off his belt, placed it on Knowles’ desk and picked up the cardboard box.

“That’s right,” said Knowles, ushering him to the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Balfour was drinking coffee in front of his computer screen at home when his BlackBerry buzzed. It was an urgent alert – another one – informing him of the location of the missing BlackBerry.

He opened the map screen on his computer and found the dot, flashing at 88 Peel Street, which, he recalled, was the residence of one Jack Macdonald. He checked the log. It had been online for two minutes. While he was watching, it pinged again.

Twice in the past twenty-four hours the Berry had been briefly activated. The first time, in the afternoon, it had been used in the Byward Market, at York and Parent, for a bit more than a minute. He had called his contact, then had to tell him that it had gone off line while they spoke. The second time was later last night, when it was activated, again for about a minute, on the Queensway. It pinged three times, each time a bit north of the previous ping, suggesting someone briefly used it in a moving vehicle. He had again called in to report the phone had been turned off.

This time, it was holding. He called his contact.

“The Berry’s been online now for three minutes,” he said. “You can check it on the program I loaded on your phone. It has been stationary, though, at 88 Peel Street.”

“Macdonald’s place,” said the voice.

“That’s right.”

“Good. Keep tracking it, please, and call me if it moves.”

Ashton was at her desk, drinking coffee and going through the witness statements from the canal shooting, when Zwicker called.

“We have another 911 call for you,” he said. “Same thing as yesterday. Muffled voice. Refuses to identify himself. From Sawatski’s BlackBerry.”

She sat bolt upright. “What’s he say this time?”

“I quote: ‘Tell Detective Sergeant Mallorie Ashton that an armed and dangerous perpetrator is about to break and enter at the residence of Jack Macdonald, 88 Peel Street, apartment 3.’ Then he repeats it word for word.”

“Jesus,” said Ashton.

“I want you and Flanagan there as soon as you can. Call me from the scene. I’m sending a backup car.”

“Roger that,” she said, hanging up, standing and grabbing her coat all at once.

“Hey, Flanagan,” she said. “You’re going to like this.”

The call came in while Wheeler and Dupré were going over the investigation report from the night before. Dupré hung up the phone and ran to his office to change out of his uniform. He was in black civvies in under two minutes, behind the wheel of his Buick in four and in front of Macdonald’s building in ten. He ran up the stairs, then stopped and listened at the door. There was no sound. He pulled his pistol from his jacket pocket, screwed on the silencer and picked the cheap lock.

He pushed the door open and stood in the doorway in his shooter’s stance.

There was nobody in the living room. He darted to the bedroom, the den, the kitchen and the bathroom, clearing the apartment as he had been trained.

Back in the living room, he approached the coffee table. The BlackBerry was sitting on it, in front of an open laptop. He unscrewed the silencer, put the pistol in his parka pocket, pulled out his phone and dialled in. “Apartment is empty,” he said. I’m looking at a BlackBerry.”

“Good. Grab it and get the fuck out of there.”

“Roger that,” Dupré said.

When he reached for the Berry, the laptop screen suddenly came to life. Jack Macdonald’s face was on the screen. “Inspector Emil Dupré,” he said. “What are you doing in my apartment? Why are you stealing my property? Why are you breaking and entering?”

Dupré froze in his tracks.

“You are being recorded by web cam right now,” said Jack.

Dupré could see the camera now, resting on the coffee table, a round plastic eye, out in the open. How could he have missed it?

“Please put down the BlackBerry, leave my apartment and call your lawyer, because I intend to have you charged with attempted murder,” said Jack.

Dupré froze for a moment, staring at the computer, unable to process what had just happened.

“Who were you just talking to on the phone?” Jack said. “Who’s directing you? No matter. I bet the police can find out from your phone records!”

Dupré scowled and sprang into action. He slammed the laptop shut, yanked the web cam from the side of the computer and called in.

“Dupré reporting,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I have the BlackBerry, sir, but I have been recorded taking it,” he said. “Jack Macdonald left a web cam set up, and he has filmed me taking the phone. He accused me of breaking and entering and theft, and says he intends to have me charged with attempted murder.”

“Oh dear God.”

“Yes,” said Dupré.

“Get out of there.”

“Yes,” said Dupré. “Should I bring the BlackBerry or leave it here?”

“Bring it. And get out.”

Dupré jammed the phone into his pocket, cursed and ran out into the hallway. As he turned to go downstairs, he froze for the second time in as many minutes. Flanagan and Ashton were on their way up. Flanagan had his gun drawn.

Dupré’s mouth dropped open. He slid his hand into his pocket.

“Don’t even think about it or I’ll shoot you where you stand, motherfucker,” said Flanagan.

Dupré pulled his empty hand out slowly. He tried a smile.

“What’s this about?” he said. “We seem to have another mix-up.”

“Inspector Dupré,” said Ashton. “You are under arrest for break and enter. Turn around, please, and put your hands behind your back. We’re going to put the handcuffs on you now.”

Marie-Hélène had spent Sunday night brooding over the events of the afternoon, and she still couldn’t decide whether to stay angry with Sophie when her friend eventually apologized. She was sure Sophie would tell her she was sorry for the way she’d behaved the day before, running away, leaving her to perform first aid and explain the situation to the police. And Sophie’s explanation, that she needed to see her lawyer, well, that was beyond weak.

Marie-Hélène kept composing what she would say to Sophie about that, after she had apologized. Something sharp: “Oh, by the way, did you see your lawyer after all?” Or maybe: “I guess the important thing is that you got to see your lawyer.” Or maybe laugh it off: “Well, hey, we all know how hard it is to get an appointment with a lawyer.”

She was surprised, then, when Sophie breezed into the office with Jack Macdonald at her side, at 9:05 on Monday morning, dressed in a black business suit, the one with the skirt that Marie-Hélène thought was a bit too short, really, for Parliament Hill. Jack, for once, was wearing a neat suit, and his hair was combed. He had Sophie’s laptop bag over his shoulder.

“Good morning, Marie-Hélène,” Sophie said as she breezed past. “I’m taking Jack in to see the minister.”

Marie-Hélène sat with her mouth open. She closed it, then opened it again.

Sophie stopped and turned as they entered the hallway to the minister’s office. “By the way,” she said. “Thank you for yesterday. You were amazing.”

They were halfway to the minister’s office before Marie-Hélène realized that she ought to have stopped them. The minister was in a meeting. Sophie couldn’t just walk in with a reporter. She jumped to her feet and called out, but it was too late, they had already opened the door and entered. Marie-Hélène stopped in the hallway and tried to decide what to do. With the journalist there, she couldn’t go in and eject her colleague, she supposed. She decided to wait by the door, in case she was needed when the minister sent Sophie away.