The Mazovia Legacy (28 page)

In his dream Delaney sees himself or an image of himself on a pocked and pitted brick wall somewhere in the world. It is larger than life; a prehistoric glyph, a cave painting, a secret sign. He sees a large perfectly circular hole or an image of a hole where his stomach and other digestive organs should be. He sees instead of food some small mysterious figurines and talismans and knives and forks and spoons absurdly jumbled into this cavity. Then the circular cavity moves up higher, to where his heart and lungs should be. These organs have been surgically removed. All that remains is a large, perfectly circular emptiness.

When they were not dreaming, they slept soundly; entwined.

Natalia dreams of blackness, the idea or archetype of blackness. She cannot find the right name for it. She struggles to name it but no words come. It does not require a name. It is simply there. The black mist hovers over Lake Como and drifts toward the hotel. Then it is over Lake Zurich, then Lac-Saint-Louis in Montreal. She is sitting on the old wide balcony on the second floor of the convent in Lachine. She is a nun, a veiled sister, rocking on a rocking chair in the chill air, looking out over the lake at the black mist. She sees figures walking on the ice, across the frozen lake. She is watching them and walking with them all at the same time. The mist is very thick and about to block out the scene completely. She is rocking, rocking, rocking. She dreams this over and over again.

Delaney indulged in a bit of cloak-and-dagger eventually, the minimum possible under the circumstances. He sent a fax to Brian O'Keefe in Montreal, after typing it out carefully on an ancient Underwood in the hotel manager's office. He watched as the fax machine slowly pulled the page in and pushed it out again. He thought of O'Keefe in Montreal, standing in his muddy boots in the old farmhouse kitchen, clearing a space for the incoming fax on the cluttered counter where his machine sat, and then reading it.

The hotel manager, the elegantly rotund Mr. Salvatore, whose bulging striped waistcoat told the story of one too many excellent Como dinners, said proudly as they watched the fax machine primly hum and buzz: “Panasonic very good. Olivetti no good. You see?”

The telephone in their room had not rung often in the days they were there. Hotel staff called with news of this and that; reservations made or unmade; responses to requests. But when it rang on the Thursday afternoon of their stay, Delaney had a sense this was to be the last of the vacation calls.

“It is telephone for you from Rome, Signore Delaney,” the operator said. “
Momento.
” The connection was clear.

“Hi, Francis,” Hilferty said. “How's your love life?”

Delaney could imagine Hilferty's proud grin at the other end, as he stood in an overpriced hotel room somewhere, or in a Vatican office perhaps, proud that some textbook detective work had allowed him this small victory.

Delaney looked over to where Natalia lounged happily in a large wicker chair on the balcony. She was playing with her papal rosary as if it were a set of worry beads.

“I suppose,” Delaney said to Hilferty, “that if I asked you how you found us you would make some appropriately modest secret agent sounds and pretend it was nothing much at all — all in a day's work, etcetera, etcetera.”

“You got it,” Hilferty said. “It was nothing much at all, really. All in a day's work. Etcetera.”

“I see,” Delaney said.

“Nothing the combined forces of goodness and light from various Western democracies, or near democracies, or near-Western democracies, as the case may be, and Interpol and a few other bands of stout-hearted men couldn't handle. So good of the European hoteliers to insist on recording people's passport numbers at check-in, don't you think? Even if they do take their own sweet time sending them over to the local police.”

“This will look good on a résumé, I would think,” Delaney said.

“Oh yes,” Hilferty said. “A little well-deserved boost for a sagging career. Couldn't come at a better time. You've made my superiors in Ottawa sit up and take notice of little Johnnie Hilferty, I can tell you. Thanks for all your help in making me look so good lately, by the way, Francis. But at least they haven't taken away my gold Amex card yet. As of this afternoon, anyway.”

“Don't mention it, John.”

“That will be the last time. I promise.”

“Something I can do for you, John?” Delaney said.

“Oh, just checking in. You know. To see how you're getting on. I must say, that's a nice little place you've chosen up there, Francis. Nice place for it. Romantic. A bit upmarket for you, I would have thought, but there you go. They tell me you've been eating rather well. Liking the local cuisine, are we?
Da Angela's
I think it was last night.”

“Now you're showing off, John.”

“Well, it's my turn, don't you think? After your little display down here? Hmm? Three shots each, all pretty well on the mark, from point blank range? That left a wee bit of a mess for us to take care of at this end, Francis. And no one to question, really. Dead men don't tell. But we were all mightily impressed. I said all along that you were a natural. You see what a little time on the target range can do for a man. And aren't those Brownings a lovely little item? Hammer nails all day with them and they're still right on the money every time you fire. Wouldn't your pals in the National Press Club be proud?”

“And wouldn't your pals in Ottawa have been proud if you had let a couple of Canadian citizens abroad know they were in grave danger of being kidnapped and interrogated by a couple of Polish thugs?” Delaney said.

He knew anger would not be useful anymore, but the anger surfaced anyway.

“That was a fuck-up, Francis. Out of my hands.”

“So you'll forgive me for taking the situation into my hands then,” Delaney said. “You did that all right.”

“So what was it? The Vatican says jump and the Dominion of Canada says how high? The Vatican says sit back and watch and shut up, and that's what you do?”

“Something like that. Not my operation, at that point.”

“Was this ever your operation, John?”

“Fuck you, Francis.”

“You know, a paranoid type might wonder just who those Polish guys were actually working for,” Delaney said. “What country, that is. We have already concluded that it's impossible to follow the Warsaw game without a program. But what about the Vatican game? They been recruiting abroad, or what? Among like-minded Poles, for example?”

“That would be a trifle paranoid, Francis, yes.”

“So that's a denial.”

“That's a no comment. You know these East European types. They all look alike to me.”

“That's not how Natalia sees it. She would be able to tell you exactly what they looked like and what they did.”

“They give her a very bad time?”

“Yes, they did.”

“She OK?”

“Probably,” Delaney said. “She'll survive.” Natalia was looking over at him now as he talked too long on the telephone.

“She tell them anything?” Hilferty asked. Delaney wondered if it might be more useful for Hilferty to think that the other side, or one of the various sides, now knew more than they probably did. He couldn't decide.

“As little as she could,” he said. “Considering the circumstances.”

“I see,” Hilferty said. “Shall I put you down for a no comment, then?”

“John, I really think you owe it to us to tell us who they were working for,” Delaney said, tiring as quickly of Hilferty as he usually did. “And who else is floating around.”

“You're really expecting that we will share anything at all with you at this stage?”

“I was hoping you might.”

“I am no stranger myself to dashed hopes on this operation, Francis. But try not to be too disappointed. I'm sorry your sweetheart had a rough time. You'll forgive me, though, if I don't reach for a hankie when I think about your predicament. As you decided that freelancing was your thing.”

“I'm not in a predicament, John,” Delaney said.

Not anymore.”

“Oh yes you are, my friend.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Hilferty said. “Here's how we see it from our end anyway. You are sitting in a top-class hotel in lovely Lake Como, with two notches on your gun, my gun — still, I might add, and nowhere to go but home. They tell me you and the young lady have been thick as thieves over your fish suppers, so my well-honed powers of deduction say you're going to make a move sooner or later for whatever it is you think you're looking for. But we will be on you, all over you, don't you see, just as I told you back in Paris. Except for this slightly embarrassing little hiatus. Which is now over.”

No matter how hard he tried, Hilferty could never sound convincing when he tried for subtle menace.

“I guess my line now is something like ‘Well, I wouldn't be too sure about that, Hilferty,'” Delaney said.

“That would be a good line. And then I would say, ‘Well, Delaney, it's your move now, hotshot.' Something like that.”

“And I would say, ‘Well, good luck, Hilferty. Better watch your ass on this one,' and other malebonding-type things.”

“Yes, we would probably say things like that. I would imagine,” Hilferty said.

“Well, I guess it's my move now, then, isn't it,” Delaney said.

“Yup.”

“So, good luck, John. Better watch your ass on this one. There's some bad people out there.”

“Exactamento, Francis.”

“Better watch both of our asses on this one, you and me.”

“Correct. And Natalia's ass, if you'll pardon the expression. There are plenty more like those two guys you took out down here, my man.”

“I see. But whose side are they on, John?”

“Very good, Francis. Gee, you almost tripped me up there. Almost got me to spill the beans. My, my. You
are
good. You slay me.”

“So to speak.”

“So to speak.”

Natalia, it seemed, had been labouring under the delusion that they would be left on their own forever, that they would be able somehow to wander back into Quebec and carry on about their secret business unimpeded. Delaney had expected interference to come, but not that it would begin again in Europe. Natalia's fears returned. Delaney's, however, had never left.They made love some more in their sturdy wooden bed, but the vacation, they both knew, was over.

Mr. Salvatore, for his part, seemed genuinely disappointed when he learned they would be leaving for Canada. But he brightened a little when Delaney asked if he could use the hotel's typewriter and its excellent Panasonic fax machine one last time that evening. They watched again in the manager's tiny office as the fax hummed and buzzed another digital message to O'Keefe in Montreal. Mr. Salvatore looked over and smiled proudly. Delaney smiled back. Conspirators.

Quebec — Late Winter 1995

H
ilferty had gotten himself a haircut since they last saw him, a severe one. Nononsense CIA-operative style. This, apparently, in an effort to show the world that this Canadian spy was firmly in control of the situation, or to provide himself and others with a comforting illusion. Stoufflet was with him, but the French agent had experienced no such anxiety about the semiotic implications of his appearance. His hair was still stylishly long. He reclined beside Hilferty in seat 3-B of the business-class section of the plane, ostentatiously reading
Le Nouvel Observateur
and sipping Air Canada's pre-departure champagne.

Hilferty nodded and smiled broadly to Delaney and Natalia as they came on board, unable as always to contain his adolescent pleasure at what he thought would take an adversary by surprise. Stoufflet affected a version of Gallic indifference. He apparently saw no need for menacing eye contact at this time. Delaney was not surprised to see either of them, nor was Natalia. He had warned her when they left Como to expect Hilferty, though not necessarily Stoufflet, to escort them back to Montreal. But of course the French would never render a service on their turf to another security agency without then expecting to be involved until the bitter end. Particularly after the nastiness at Zbigniew's apartment.

Delaney's only mild surprise was that they had been left to travel unescorted from Como to Milan, and then from Milan to Paris, where they had now picked up this flight. Perhaps, in fact, they had been escorted, but if so, it had been far more discreetly than they were to be on this last leg home. Delaney could not tell if there were any other agents on board Air Canada Flight 961 with them today. For all he knew, and after all that had transpired, the entire business-class section of the plane could be teeming with agents: Canadian, French, Polish, Vatican, others. All with their own intense interest — national or otherwise — in something hidden for five decades somewhere in Quebec. Impossible, anymore, for Delaney to predict exactly who had taken an interest in this affair and now far too late to care.

Not long after takeoff, Hilferty came back to where they were sitting, until now a sufficient number of rows behind him for a modicum of privacy. Delaney had expected an intrusion eventually.

“Everything all right back here?” Hilferty asked. “Pillows? Blanket?”

“Spare us, Hilferty,” Delaney said. Natalia was now tense, Delaney could see, perhaps even angry.

“Sorry to spoil your little tête-à-tête. I thought we'd better talk over how we'll play this thing when we land.”

“We're not going to play at all, John. That's what I told you back in Como.”

“You're lucky you're being allowed to play anymore at all, Francis,” Hilferty said. “You're lucky the French are letting you leave here at all after what happened over in Belleville. We've had to call in a lot of markers on this so far, especially with the French.They are very pissed off. My people, for that matter, are very pissed off. So you're going to have to play, I'm afraid.”

“I think not, John,” Delaney said. Natalia's anger flared.

“I wonder if you could possibly leave us alone,” she said. “For the flight and from now on.”

“Well, I'm afraid that's going to be impossible, Ms. Janovski,” Hilferty said. “Terribly sorry. I know you've been through a lot.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Are you feeling better now?” This was starting to get Delaney angry too.

“Mr. Hilferty . . .” Natalia said.

“Please call me John,” he said.

“No. I think not,” Natalia said.“In my experience that would indicate some kind of familiarity or an opening for some kind of connection, and I am simply not interested in any connection with you whatsoever.”

“I see.”

Hilferty, despite his no-nonsense new haircut, was a little taken aback.

“Let me say this to you, before you go back to your seat, Mr. Hilferty,” Natalia continued. “I'm a psychologist, as you're already aware. In my professional work I quite often come up against manipulative personalities like yours, and I find it quite easy to deal with them in that sort of setting. Here, though, I see no reason to hide my disgust at what you are and what you do. So please leave us alone.”

Delaney was impressed, but surprised at the intensity of Natalia's outburst. He watched Hilferty digest what had been said.

“What is it that you think I do, Ms. Janovski?” Hilferty said.

Natalia didn't answer. She pulled the inflight magazine from the seat pocket in front of her.

“What is it that you think I do, and your friend Mr. Delaney here does, Ms. Janovski?” Hilferty asked again.

She did not answer. Delaney said nothing. The passenger in the seat across the aisle, a businessman in a regulation blue suit, smiled over at them but he had his audio headset on and apparently could not hear the exchange. Delaney could not see who was in front of them.

Hilferty leaned closer to them and spoke more quietly.

“Has Mr. Delaney told you, by any chance, that he's been one of our operatives in this little fiasco, Ms. Janovski?” he said. “A paid operative? Did he tell you where he got the money for these plane tickets, for example, and where he got the gun that he so expertly used in Rome? Has he explained all of this to you fully?”

Natalia looked up at Hilferty, and then over at Delaney. He could not read what it was her eyes were saying to him.

“I would suggest, if I may, that before we all land in Montreal you and Mr. Delaney here have a long chat about just who has been doing what to whom and what your options might be after that. I'll leave you to it, if I may.”

“You are becoming pathetic, Hilferty. You know that?” Delaney said. “You are really and truly out of your league here.”

Hilferty smiled calmly at them.

“When we land,” he said,“I'm no longer going to play around. Do you understand? You take us where we need to go, and tell us what we need to do, or I will choose from any number of unpleasant options available to me, judicial or, as they say in the trade, extrajudicial, and then it will be over. No more games. The minute we land.” Hilferty walked somewhat stiffly to his seat. “He's floundering. He doesn't know what to do next,” Delaney said to Natalia. “He's an amateur.”

“And you? Are you an amateur?” she asked.

“Of course. Of course. He's just trying to put a wedge between us, don't you see, just when we have to stay together on this. I'm no spy. I told you that. I'm not working for anybody.”

“I've wondered almost from the beginning,” she said.

“I know that.”

“Did you take money from them?” she asked.

“Yes, at the beginning. Hilferty came to see me, and asked me to keep an eye open while you and I were looking into all of this. I didn't agree to anything. I'm a reporter. I just watched what he was trying to do and I filed it away for future reference. That's what I do. Or what I used to do.”

“Every time, there's a little bit more story for me.”

“We talked this all through in Como, Natalia.”

“Not the money part.”

“OK. All right. But it doesn't change anything.”

“Did you use his money?”

“Yes,” Delaney said. “Some of it. Why not? I saw it as a bit of a joke on them.”

“They haven't seen it that way.”

“No. They haven't. But that doesn't change anything from where I sit.”

“You used their gun,” she said.

“Obviously. I had too. I may have to use it again.”

“And spies give reporters guns.”

“Sometimes,” Delaney said. “I've told you that. When they have to. I've already told you where I got the gun.”

Natalia went silent. Eventually she said: “I have to trust you.”

“You must trust me,” Delaney said. “This is going to get difficult now. We can get through this thing but we can't have any doubts. From the minute we touch down.”

“I'm frightened again,” she said.

“Me too.”

“I don't like these two up there.”

“I don't either. But Hilferty is not dangerous. He likes to think he is, but he's not. That stuff about extrajudicial moves is bullshit. He's CSIS, not Polish State Security, or Vatican. It's the others in this we have to worry about.”

“Who? Exactly.”

“Whoever has heard now about what your uncle hid away,” Delaney said. “Whoever badly wants whatever it is. But it will be over soon, and we can start something new together.”

“What? Where?”

“Whatever we want. And wherever.”

“If they let us. Any of them.”

“We're in control of this now. They haven't got much room to manoeuvre, Natalia.”

“Neither do we.”

“There's enough. You'll see. Just trust me.”

O'Keefe came through beautifully, if perhaps a little extravagantly. He would never let them down, never let any friend of his down, even if he did not know exactly what was at stake. But Delaney was a little startled nonetheless at the sort of reception O'Keefe had arranged for them in Montreal.

The customs area at Mirabel was crowded, as it always is after a big international flight lands. But it would just as quickly become quiet again, in an oversized, underused outpost of an airport far from downtown. Hilferty and Stoufflet went through quickly with their diplomatic passports and they were waiting for Delaney and Natalia at the baggage carousel. Hilferty had just finished making a call on his mobile phone. Stoufflet looked as if he wished he had someone to call. The Frenchman still had nothing to say to them as they came up. Hilferty was curt.

“We've got a car waiting outside,” he said. Delaney said nothing. He had spotted the bearish figure of O'Keefe through the glass doors, and gave him a sign. When they all walked out together, pushing their baggage carts, the media horde was upon them.

“There they are,” O'Keefe said to the waiting crowd of reporters and cameramen. Delaney nodded in the direction of Hilferty and Stoufflet; O'Keefe pointed, and the scrum skewed sideways, surrounding them.

Electronic flash guns exploded; motor drives whirred and clicked. Lights from TV cameras blinded the two spies as they tried to get through.

“Why have you decided to defect?” O'Keefe shouted at Stoufflet. “Who is this escorting you to Canada?”

Reporters fired off other questions. The scrum had stopped. Two uniformed RCMP constables moved in quickly to try to restore order. Arriving and departing passengers with laden baggage carts jammed the area as the police tried to get past.

“Quick. Let's move,” O'Keefe said.

He raced with Delaney and Natalia out to the arrivals parking. A blue-and-white CBC Television news van was idling in the damp March air. A young man with long hair and stylish yellow Walkman headphones was waiting in the driver's seat.

“Go!” O'Keefe said, after throwing their bags in the back amidst a jumble of cables, lights, tripods, and aluminum cases.

He was enjoying himself hugely. Delaney and Natalia had barely enough time to settle into the small bench seat behind the driver before he roared off down the ramp to the airport access road. O'Keefe leaned back over them to peer out the rear window to see what was behind them.

“Dickheads,” he said happily. “Still fucking stuck there. We're away.”

He settled happily into his plush high-backed seat and pulled the seat belt forward to fasten it.

“Better buckle up, kiddies. Jean-Luc here is really going to move.”

Jean-Luc grinned at them in the rear-view mirror.

“I've got to get the truck back to the station for another shoot,” he said happily.

“Go for it,” O'Keefe said. “We're outta here.” He looked back again past Delaney and Natalia. Still, apparently, no one behind them.

Jean-Luc was driving very fast on the slick road, but he was an expert. He had put the news van's blue flasher on and did not seem to expect trouble with radar police. Natalia simply looked stunned.

“Jesus Christ, Brian, how did you manage such a crowd?” Delaney said. “I said a little distraction, but Christ . . .”

“The awesome power of the press,” O'Keefe said.

“Seriously.”

“You know how it works, Francis. A well-crafted little press release, some keywords and phrases here and there. Pull the right levers, make a couple of calls, send a few faxes. Plus it's a slow news day. Right, Jean-Luc?”

They both laughed beery midafternoon laughs. They had clearly waited for some time in the airport bar.

“Jean-Luc here is my main man. We've been through shit together, Jean-Luc and me. Before he put his little Nikon away and retired to work in TV.”

O'Keefe passed a copy of his press release back to them.