The River Killers (4 page)

I ordered the cheapest vodka they had, drank it, and ordered another. Gazing around the bar, I didn't see anyone I knew. So I had a peanut. Then another drink. By this time, my thoughts were much less chaotic, and more focused on the primary imperative: another drink.

Realizing my stomach had received no solid food for quite some time, I consumed the entire bowl of peanuts, then looked at my watch. Five-thirty. Perfect. The staff-party-slash-reception would be starting, and, with any luck, I could get some smoked salmon. Smoked salmon was pretty well guaranteed to be wild salmon. Damned if I was going to eat any of that farmed shit. I left the bar and headed back to the
DFO
building at 200 Kent Street.

Unfortunately, Bette wasn't there. Even more unfortunately, Fleming Griffith was. And still more unfortunately, I decided to talk to him. Griffith seldom mixed with the hoi polloi. God knows why he was there. He was a consummate
DFO
bureaucrat who had climbed to the top over a pile of bodies that were nothing more to him than convenient footholds. He had now attained the penultimate rung of assistant deputy minister and I could almost feel his foot on my face as he strove for the highest rung of all: deputy minister. He'd trampled as well on all my old friends, everyone who had once earned a living in the fishing industry and those still struggling to make a go of it, using them as stepping stones along the road to power and a hundred and eighty grand per annum.

They were featuring West Coast seafood, so I was able to grab a
BC
prawn, wrap it in a sliver of
BC
smoked salmon, and complement it with what may have been a glass of
BC
merlot. Feeling provincially patriotic, I beat a reasonably straight course for the almost and possibly yet-to-be deputy minister.

My entry through his circle of sycophants was less suave than I would have liked. A couple of them staggered back as if I'd elbowed them. As I squared up to him, I realized once again how pale he was, corpselike but animate in a Harry Rosen charcoal suit. It reminded me of the days when I was on the other side, a lowly fisherman, and my buddies and I had attended “advisory group” meetings with Griffith and his cohorts. The fishermen were tanned to the point of health concerns and the
DFO
types could have been cast in
Night of the Living Dead
. Two separate species, then, now, and, I was starting to realize, always.

Griffith was deigning to listen to some junior economist from Strategic Planning. When the guy was just getting to his point, which was probably as non-pointy as most economic thought, I flashed a charming smile and said a little too forcefully, “Fleming, how's she goin', eh?” The exaggerated vernacular was not so much a product of my drunkenness but of a desire to draw the line; tell him exactly who I was and where I stood. That was stupid, of course. No bobbing or weaving or even an attempt at self-defense. He picked me off like the smooth professional he was.

First the faint smile, then the eyes narrowed slightly to let everyone know he was making a sincere attempt to identify me. He made sure the whole group was aware of his chummy attempt at democratic sociability as he grasped my elbow and turned me slightly. “Bar's over there, friend. Why don't you get yourself another one?” About half of his acolytes, the ones graced with the stuff of managerial capability, smiled at his subtle emphasis on “
another
one.”

I'd been hit and staggered slightly. Figuratively, of course. But as my old skipper used to say, “We may not always go full speed ahead but we never back up.”

I shrugged his hand off my arm. “Danny Swanson. Fish health. Question for you.” A momentary flicker of annoyance on his face, and then the standard impassiveness.

I forged ahead. “Fleming, you used to run the West Van lab back in the eighties. I know you never actually did any science.” That was my best attempt at a dig at him. “But were you aware of any unconventional research going on: genetic manipulation, unusual crossbreeds, that sort of thing?”

I was shocked to see that I'd scored a hit on him. He blinked and frowned momentarily before regaining control. Then he dismissed me. “You West Coast boys have great imaginations. You should try to drag yourselves into reality.”

His eyes fluttered and avoided my gaze before he turned and oozed from the room. I knew there would be repercussions and I felt out of my element, as if I was wading into a swamp to do battle with the thing that lived there.

The next morning, I was not at all surprised to receive a summons from my supervisor. I walked into Bob Oldstream's office knowing I was in shit but not knowing how deep. The only thing I was certain of was that no matter how much Bob liked me, and I was pretty sure he did, there wasn't much chance that he would go out on a limb to defend me.
DFO
lifers like Bob may have managed to retain some semblance of human values after thirty years in the “civil” service, but only if not pushed too often to express them. I sat down and looked across the desk at Bob, but he refused to look at me.

“What the hell were you up to last night? Were you drunk? You upset Griffith and now he's pulled funding from the disease-transfer study. He can't fire you because you're a member of the union, but five contract employees are going to lose their jobs.”

I felt guilty and then angry. Trust Griffith to make innocent people pay. It was his stock in trade. I searched my memory for the five unlucky ones, too junior to have any protection. “Maryanne and Cindy are going back to school anyway. I'll call in some favors and try to get the others reassigned.”

“Already done.” I looked at Bob in surprise. He must be closer to retirement than I thought. Still, he'd stuck his neck out, a little at least. “I'm tired of seeing people treated like shit. Plus, that's an important study. I need to be able to show those aquaculture idiots that their fish are making my fish sick.”

By “my fish,” he meant wild fish. I moved him up another two notches on my decent person scale. “So what's my penance?”

“You, my friend, are being kicked out of this nice warm office and going back into the field. Central Area Herring Manager. They start testing next week so you better get out there in a hurry.”

Bob was actually doing me a favor. He probably assumed that, like most bureaucrats, I would hate having to leave my cosy office, especially for the central coast of
BC
in the middle of April. The truth was I would love it. And being back in
BC
would allow me to snoop around the West Vancouver lab. It was at the center of a couple of mysteries, not the least of which was, what had happened there that made Fleming Griffith feel vulnerable?

Three days later, I was sipping vodka and grapefruit juice at my sort of going-away party. I was definitely going away but it was only sort of a party. Mind you, it was early. There were maybe a dozen of us at a big table in Patsy's, Ottawa's only jazz bar. We were not quite succeeding at avoiding shoptalk, and I kept one eye on the door, hoping Bette Connelly would show up. I'd had several conversations with her voicemail, and in Ottawa an electronic surrogate is often preferable to its owner. But not in this case. I desperately wanted to talk to her before I left. When she walked in the door at about nine o'clock, my mood elevated to a point somewhat below rapturous bliss, but much higher than the muddy depression I'd been mired in. I stood up to shepherd her toward the bar where we could have a few words in private.

She was dressed in office clothes, dark skirt and light top, rather than the jeans and T-shirt I'd last seen her in. Her glasses were more stylish as well, and I would have said they made her look even more intelligent, except that would have been gilding the lily. She greeted me with a wry smile. “Danny Swanson. Tamer of small hamlets and slayer of evil
ADM
s. I knew you'd get in trouble the minute I turned my back.”

The thought flickered quickly,
I'm kind of sorry you turned your back.
Out loud, “Sorry, Mom. I lost my head. Let me get you a drink and then pick your brain.”

“You West Coast boys are such charmers. But it's your party. You still drinking vodka and grapefruit juice?”

“It's a health thing.”

The easy banter reminded me of how well we'd gotten along when we were chasing lobster around the Bay of Fundy. While Bette got our drinks, I ruminated on how such a simple relationship could be so pleasurable. My train of thought was going in the direction of “simple relationships for simple people.” Fortunately she handed me a drink before the train reached its destination. “What's on your mind?”

I sipped carefully as I pondered the best way to approach it. I didn't want to presume her loyalty, and I didn't want her to become collateral damage in my dirty war with Griffith.

“Couple of things,” I said eventually. “When you and the data group were setting up the Fourth Reich, you spent a lot of time figuring out data-tracking and verification protocols. You probably understand that process better than anyone. So why is it that when I'm mining the database for my project on fish health, I can stumble across an anomalous file that has zero cross-referencing, nothing to show where it came from, nothing about the author, and nothing how the data entered the system? And when I repeat the links that got me there, the file has disappeared?”

She sipped her drink. “System deficiencies, also known as fuck-ups. There was a whole bunch of data, lots of different files, that had come out of a project at the West Vancouver lab, and they wanted to get rid of it. Mostly I did it without even opening the files. The only tricky part was that the database hadn't been debugged at that point, and sometimes their information wasn't ‘filed properly.' Lost, in other words. I had a hard time tracking everything down so I could erase it. I assume that whatever you saw was just some lost file that escaped the purge. It's just floating around in there and you stumbled across it.”

I hesitated about the next part. I didn't want to reveal too much because I didn't think it would be good for either of us. “When you guys were liaising with Science to get all their stuff into a usable format, there were reams of data coming out of the West Vancouver lab. They had all kinds of projects going on. Did you ever come across anything, or even hear about anything to do with hybrid or transgenic fish?”

There. I'd said it, and she looked at me appraisingly. “Transgenic?” The naughty word not usually pronounced in polite company. Canada was bound by international convention not to mess around with that stuff, but half the science types in
DFO
slobbered with adolescent lust over the possibilities.

“I don't know how you got onto this, Danny. We've had to kill three people to keep it quiet. At least I got a memo about studying the feasibility of killing three people. But seriously, I heard all the rumors, just like you, but I never actually saw anything scary. Mind you, I wasn't allowed to open some of the files. I was brought in because I was the queen geek, and they needed me to delete—and I mean deeply delete—a whole bunch of files that had become ‘corrupted.' I didn't really buy that, but I knew I wasn't going to get any answers so I didn't ask any questions.” She looked at me speculatively. “The project name was kind was kind of interesting, though. Chimera. Project Chimera.”

I nodded, carefully avoiding her eyes. I knew I was being uncharacteristically intense, and she was aware of it. But she wasn't going to pry. “I guess that explains it. So, how's life in Policy Central? I'm jealous of all the exciting things you must be involved in.”

“Yeah right. I just finished a two-week symposium on enumeration methodology, and tomorrow I have to write a briefing note on consultation requirements of the new Oceans Act. Still jealous?”

“I think I can overcome it.” We clinked glasses and sat for a while in comfortable silence.

When we joined the others at the table, I could see that the mood had loosened up considerably. Even federal civil servants are susceptible to the effects of flaming shooters. Yes, the party had gotten to that stage. The conversation was loud and earnest and gossipy. Evidently there was to be a cabinet shuffle, which would give us a new Fisheries Minister. Interest was natural, not because we would have a new boss—we all knew the Minister of Fisheries did not run the Department of Fisheries. Interest centered around the power struggle. This was, after all, Ottawa, where politics pre-empted professions, families, sports, and even sex as the topic of conversation. For many, politics
was
sex.

We wanted to know whose interests would be served by the appointment. Would it be processors, large fleet owners, or independent fishermen? We all laughed at the last option, a definite non-starter. Most of the betting was on aquaculture, specifically fish aquaculture. The fish farmers had been in ascendancy lately and the reasons were obvious. Penned fish are easier to manage than wild fish, and fish farmers are definitely easier to manage than traditional fishermen. Or maybe they were just more palatable to the bureaucrats than a bunch of smelly people in rain gear.

Once the obvious ministerial candidates had been discussed and tossed aside, we started nominating “alternative” candidates. Someone mentioned Bruce Cockburn and we all agreed that if a tree fell in the ocean it would be louder than a fish falling in the forest. Conrad Black? You couldn't have a bug-eyed guppy as Fisheries Minister. Conflict of interest. Bette chipped in with Tie Domi, because he would defend fish with the same determination he did the Leafs.

“Leaves, that should be leaves,” someone said.

“He's not going anywhere,” I said. Bada bing, bada boom.

The waitress brought another round and the suggestions and responses became shouts and the laughter became louder.

Historical figures who displayed ministerial qualities: Alexander the Great. A step up from Fred the Not So Good. The Sultan of Oman's eunuch. Because he had no balls. Helen Keller. Deaf, blind, and dumb. Overqualified. The three stooges. One at a time, thank you.