The Delicate Storm (24 page)

“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.”

23

C
ARDINAL AND
D
ELORME
stopped for lunch at a tiny roadside diner called Chez Marguerite. Cardinal had been mentally rehearsing his order in French, but when Marguerite—an enormous woman with glasses thick as ashtrays—took their orders, she actually laughed.

“Why did she laugh? I thought I got it right.”

Delorme shook her head. “It’s your accent. You think French Canadian accents are funny, but believe me, it doesn’t compare with an Anglo trying to speak French.”

“That’s it—I’m never speaking French again.”

“Don’t be silly. You did very well.”

“Bloody French. Then they wonder why the rest of the country gets fed up with them.”

“Stop it. You sound like McLeod.”

“I was kidding.”

Delorme looked out the window at the fields across the highway. The sun was still low in the sky, and the light caught coppery highlights in her hair. “You think Sauvé was telling the truth?” she said.

“He certainly had more to gain by telling the truth. And everything he said matched with what we’ve heard from others. I think that’s as much as we’re going to get out of Shackley’s phone contacts.”

The owner brought their food: burger for Cardinal and for Delorme a plate of poutine—a French Canadian concoction of fries, gravy and melted cheese curds.

“God, Delorme. How can you eat that?”

“Leave me alone. I only eat it when I’m in Quebec.”

“Ah, yes. Those subtle, sophisticated French Canadian tastes.”

Delorme levelled her earnest brown eyes at him. “You should say
prendre,”
she said. “When you’re ordering food?
Je vais prendre.”

They were on Highway 20, just about back in town, when Cardinal’s cellphone rang. The voice on the other end was very cultured, very British. “Good afternoon. May I speak with Detective John Cardinal, please?”

“You’re speaking to him.”

“Ah. I believe you were trying to get hold of me. My name is Hawthorne. Stuart Hawthorne.”

Stuart Hawthorne looked to be in his late sixties, but trim and energetic. His hair, thick and silvery on top, retained traces of its former sandy colour at the back near the neck. It was combed away from his brow, forming two swept-back wings above the ears. Cardinal had been expecting a pinstripe suit, but of course Hawthorne was retired now, with no reason to dress up. He wore a soft white shirt with button-down collar, khakis without cuffs and a pair of Kodiak boots. He looked like a man who would be comfortable on safari, in a TV studio or doing a bit of gardening in the backyard.

“You know, Detective,
CSIS
called me,” he said when Cardinal and Delorme picked him up at his Westmount home. “They’re very anxious that I not talk to you.”

“
CSIS
doesn’t want anyone to talk to us,” Cardinal said. “There are aspects of this investigation that don’t reflect too well on their old guard.”

“Well, that’s fine with me. As far as I’m concerned, they made a complete dog’s breakfast of the October Crisis. If they’d handled it differently, Raoul Duquette might well be alive.”

“Did the person who called give a name?”

“He did not. Which immediately made me suspect his motives. He was an older man—well, he would be if he’s the old guard—possibly French Canadian. In any case, I’m not about to hinder a murder investigation on the basis of an anonymous call.”

They drove a short distance in silence. Then Hawthorne said, “You know, I used to get a lot of requests to do this sort of thing, but I stopped talking to the media more than a decade ago. Last time they contacted me was October 2000—thirtieth anniversary of the old business. I told them, No, no, no. Count me out. I just want to forget 1970—my part in it, anyway. On the other hand, there’s not a day goes by I don’t think of Raoul Duquette buried up there on Mount Royal.”

Delorme drove and Cardinal sat in back, an arrangement they had worked out ahead of time on the assumption that Delorme might present a more sympathetic, not to say more attractive, ear. And it worked. Once they were underway, Hawthorne went on without much prodding. “Bloody media,” he said. “I think the CBC people were hoping I’d say something terribly Christian and forgiving toward my kidnappers, but I’m sorry, I don’t forgive them. Aside from what it did to me, people forget what they put my family through. You know, at one point the media reported me dead—the same day Duquette was killed. Can you imagine what that did to my wife? I had a four-year-old boy, for God’s sake. Forgive them? Not bloody likely. Wife was never the same afterwards,” Hawthorne said. “Harder on her than it was on me. That’s what I can’t forgive.”

Delorme turned north onto a main thoroughfare, having worked out the most efficient route earlier.

Hawthorne watched the passing street life, which seemed to consist mostly of kids on skateboards and Arab women pushing prams. On the phone Hawthorne had not been at all receptive to their meeting. “Look,” he had said, “it was thirty years ago. One wants to get on with life.” And yet, curiously, Hawthorne had not left Canada after the kidnapping. Had not even left Quebec. When he had retired in 1988, he chose to retire in Montreal, the location of his ordeal. Cardinal asked him about that now.

“Well, I did actually try to go back to England, you know. Lived there for two years. But one gets used to different ways of thinking, different ways of living. To tell you the truth, I find Britain unbearably stodgy these days—despite the superficial modernism of Tony Blair. Place still has an air of time-delay about it—twenty years behind the rest of the world.”

He turned round to look at Cardinal. “Besides, despite what happened to me, I’ve always liked Canadians. The people who kidnapped me were extremists. I had, and to this day still have, many French Canadian friends. But Canadians in general are a happy medium between your hidebound Englishman and your brash American. That’s my experience, anyway. Perhaps you disagree.”

“I don’t know,” Delorme said. “Some of my relatives are disgustingly conservative. They scare me sometimes. They vote for guys like Geoff Mantis.”

“You notice I’m silent on the point. Diplomatic habits die hard.”

Cardinal found himself intrigued by Hawthorne’s accent. Oxford or Cambridge, Cardinal knew, but didn’t know how he knew. The most ordinary words sounded beautiful. It made Cardinal slightly envious, and he wondered if Delorme felt the same around people from France, assuming she ever met people from France. Hawthorne was smooth, polished, finished—these were the words that came to mind—in a way that Canadians never were. He calls us a happy medium between the Americans and the English, Cardinal thought, but the truth is, we’re intimidated by both.

“I’ve never been back,” Hawthorne said. “You know, to the house. The CBC asks me to visit. Every five years, like clockwork, some enterprising young producer—they’re always named Mindy if they’re Anglo and Lise if they’re French—”

“That’s my name,” Delorme put in.

“In that case,” Hawthorne said, “you should be working for the CBC.”

Delorme laughed.

“Anyway, as I say, the phone rings every five years and it’s Mindy or Lise wanting to know would I mind very much taking a trip down memory lane. Reminisce about my time among the terrorists, and perhaps a trip to the actual house. On camera, of course.

“‘Actually,’ I tell them, Bartleby-like, ‘I should prefer not to.’ This they take as great encouragement. They become smitten waifs whose ardour is only increased by rejection. For the next four weeks they call and call, ask me to lunch, ask me to dinner, suggest coming round to the house—as if that is a great inducement—and all but offer me their first-born child to give them an interview and go back to that blasted house. And I never do,” he added, lapsing into a silence as they turned onto Delavigne, a narrow street of bungalows. “I never do.”

“I’m sorry if it’s not comfortable for you,” Cardinal said. “But as I mentioned on the phone, we’re desperate for information. It’s not for entertainment, it’s to catch a murderer.”

“Yes, yes. Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Hang on, this is the actual street, isn’t it—Delavigne? Yes, the actual street. Of course, I never saw it at the time. Not the street.”

“You were blindfolded?” Delorme asked.

“In the car, yes. You know what they blindfolded me with? An old gas mask. Had the eyepieces blacked out. Couldn’t see a bloody thing. But I can tell you, it terrified me. Didn’t know it was a blindfold, did I? Thought they were going to gas me or something. I mean, they were shoving me down in the back seat, threatening me, and then they’ve got this stinking rubbery thing over my face. Doesn’t do much for one’s innate sense of optimism.”

“Here we are,” Delorme said. She pulled into the driveway of a small white bungalow behind a maroon minivan.

“Gosh,” Hawthorne said.

Cardinal started to get out of the car.

“Hang on a sec,” Hawthorne said. “Would you mind awfully if we just sat here for a minute? It’s all a bit of a …”

Cardinal closed the door.

“Gosh,” Hawthorne said again. “D’you know, if I’d walked by this place, I’d never have known it was the one. Never in a million years. Well, of course, I never saw it properly, being blindfolded. That is, I did and I didn’t. I caught glimpses of it through the edge of the mask that first day. And then on the last day, when they finally drove me out of here. I came out and got into the back of this old wreck of a car they had, and I saw it as we drove away. But it looked quite different somehow.”

“It’s the house, sir. The number’s the same. And I’ve looked at the old news photos. Only difference is they’ve added a carport.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure it’s the house. It’s just that, in my mind, in my memory, it’s become such a nightmarish thing. Not so much anymore, of course, more in the first five years or so, when I’d dream about it. Think about it. But the point is, that’s the real shape it took on for me, the shape in my mind. Not this place we’re looking at now.”

“I’m sorry to put you through this, sir.” Cardinal wasn’t sure why he kept calling him sir. There was hardly anyone he ever called sir. That damn accent.

“No, no. Not at all. It’s probably good for me, in fact. Slaying-the-dragon sort of thing. It’s just a little house on a quiet street. Not a torture chamber. No, no, I’m sure that’s good.” Hawthorne slapped his knees. “Righty-ho. Lead on.”

They were met at the door by Al Lamotte, the present owner of the house. Delorme had talked to him on the phone, making the arrangements. Like her, he was in his mid-thirties, and had no strong memories of the political events of 1970. The house had changed hands a dozen times since then; Lamotte had been living there with his wife and son for two years. The wife and son were out just now.

“Look,” he said after introductions were made, “I’ll just stay out of your way, all right? You just wander where you have to wander, and I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Mr. Lamotte,” Cardinal said. “It’s very kind of you.”

Lamotte made a deprecating gesture and went into the kitchen.

Hawthorne had been standing, hands jauntily on hips, surveying the place. Outside the living-room window, trees and a distant steeple glittered in the sunlight.

Cardinal looked at him expectantly.

“I never saw the living room till the end. It was almost totally bare. A few sleeping bags, a couple of hard chairs. They clearly hadn’t expected the thing to take more than a couple of days. I was kept in the bedroom the whole time. Always an armed guard by the door. Don’t remember much else about this room. Place was surrounded by police and about six thousand army troops. I just wanted to be out of here before the bullets started flying.” Hawthorne’s voice quavered a little. A crack in the smooth finish.

“They kept me in the bedroom at all times, except when I needed the bathroom. They even went in there with me, for God’s sake. That was depressing.” Hawthorne turned to face them. “Look, I really don’t think I’m going to have any great revelations. It’s all too long ago. And of course I haven’t wanted to remember, I’ve wanted to forget.”

“Can we take a look at the bedroom?” It was Delorme who spoke, and Cardinal was glad. It was hard to see a cool man like Hawthorne tremble.

The Englishman tucked his chin into his chest. It was as close as he came to a nod. Then Delorme turned, and he followed her down the dim corridor like a boy.

Cardinal stayed in the hallway where the light from the bedroom fell in a bright slant. Hawthorne hunched at the far side of the room, hands in pockets, chin tucked in as if he were standing in a high wind.

It was a child’s room now, the domain—to judge by the sports gear—of a ten-or eleven-year-old boy. An enormous teddy bear sat hunched in one corner. On the wall a colourful kite hung waiting for summer, a Montreal Canadiens poster beside it. A yellow dresser with several drawers hanging open was strewn with video games, comic books, and collectible cards with pictures of witches and wizards on them. There was a small desk with a computer. The screen saver showed a Tyrannosaurus rex in full roar. There was a faint smell of new sneakers.