The next day all seventeen were summarily shot and it was announced in Moscow that forensic scientist Joseph Avacomovitch had been awarded the Order of Lenin for his deductive achievement.
The day after that Avacomovitch defected to West Berlin.
After his defection to the West in 1963, Avacomovitch had been debriefed in London by both British and American Intelligence Units. After that he had been offered a sizable "resettlement" fee. He had chosen to move to the Canadian prairies and was reported to have given this as his reason: "I long to return to the Ukraine in the years of my early childhood. That I cannot do, but this land serves my purpose. This land is like Russia — minus the Russians."
Two days after Avacomovitch set foot on Canadian soil in the city of Calgary, Alberta, the RCMP — ever pragmatic when it came to top-notch personnel and well aware of his forensic exploits — had offered the Russian emigre a non-security-access laboratory appointment. From then on Joseph Avacomovitch was employed on Her Majesty's Service — and five years later he was granted Security Clearance.
DeClercq and Avacomovitch had first worked together in Montreal in 1965. One night that November, with baby Jane sitting on his knee, Robert DeClercq had asked Joseph Avacomovitch the reason for his defection. "That's if you don't mind telling," he said.
It was after dinner and they were sitting, the four of them, Robert, Kate, Joseph and Jane, in front of a cracking fire while the snow once more tumbled down beyond the frosted windows. Old Man Winter already had one icy toe in the door.
"I don't mind," the Russian said, "it's all a matter of record. The reason's half political and half academic."
Avacomovitch took a sip of cognac, then rolled the glass in his very large hands.
"The political part is straightforward. I was never a member of the Communist Party at heart and I didn't believe in the system — although it was good to me. One look at East Germany and I knew I wanted to go. Besides, except for position I had nothing to leave behind." He smiled down at Jane who was rapidly falling asleep.
"But it was really intellectual incentive which gave me the mental push." Avacomovitch looked from the baby directly at Robert DeClercq. "When I was involved in studies toward my final two degrees, we were encouraged to pore over all the classic works on famous Western murderers. The official line was that they revealed the sickness in bourgeois society. The ones who intrigued me most of all were the killers who slaughtered for no other reason than the fact they enjoyed it
The Germans have a word for this — they call such a motive Lustmord.
"Now it just so happens that we don't have such murderers in the Soviet Union. At least not that I could hunt — and that's a realistic fact. Those with the lustmord instinct are recognized early in that country and channeled into the Secret Police. Their aggression is utilized, and as a group of natural killers they are jealously protected like an endangered species."
Jane had fallen asleep, cradled in Robert DeClercq's lap. Raising his glass the Russian drained the last of his cognac.
"The reason I defected was to find an adversary. That's why I came to the West. There are so many of them here."
8:25 a.m.
Joseph Avacomovitch was a giant of a man. He stood six four in his stocking feet with shoulders and chest as massive as an old-fashioned, wood-staved beer barrel. Like most men his size the Russian had a slightly stooped posture, as if subconsciously attempting to shrink to the size of the majority of men around him. Although it had been twelve years since Robert DeClercq had last laid eyes on him, the Russian had changed little. His hair was still almost albino white and luxurious, combed back in a pompadour. His gray eyes still twinkled behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. He still wore no jewelry on his large hands, save a ring removed from his father's body when the Nazis left the old man sprawled in the blood-splashed Ukrainian snow. And he still wore the hat.
The hat was a prairie Stetson, worn and slightly off-color, the sort of headgear that was common in Alberta and in Texas and in John Travolta's closet. At the base of the crown and above the rim was wound a thin Indian bead hatband and sticking out from this on the left side was a tiny flag pennant. Small words printed on the pennant read: DALLAS COWBOYS.
The two men were sitting in the White Spot coffee shop at Cambie and King Edward, several blocks north of Head-hunter Headquarters. They had both ordered bacon and eggs poached, with brown toast on the side. They both drank their coffee black. The Stetson lay on the table between them and off to the right.
"Is that the same hat you were wearing in 1970?" the Superintendent asked.
"Yep. The same one."
DeClercq shook his head. "I don't understand," he said.
"Don't understand what? The hat or the pennant?"
"Both," the policeman said.
The Russian grinned. "Have you ever been around immigrants, newly arrived? Well when you first set foot on foreign soil and know you're there to stay, that you can never go home, a kind of depressing alienation inevitably sets in. Clothes, food, language, manner, cut of hair, way of walking — everything around you is so vastly different. You know you don't belong. And you fear you never will.
"When I arrived in Calgary in 1964 the Stampede was in full swing. Indians dancing in the streets, chuck-wagon breakfasts, rodeo acts, everyone walking around in a ten-gallon hat.
"There I was walking the streets surrounded by pseudo-cowboys. I bought the Stetson and was immediately lost in the crowd.
"When the Stampede was over I kept the hat — it keeps my head warm."
The waitress refilled their coffee cups and in doing so glanced at the hat. Arching one eyebrow slightly, she looked at DeClercq. "Want some oats for your horse?" she asked with a smile. The Russian laughed.
"Okay," DeClercq said. "What about the pennant?"
"In Russia everybody plays chess. I've played since I was five. Here few play chess, but a lot follow football. In both games the win depends on psychology and strategy. And to really enjoy the football spirit you need a team. Mine's the Dallas Cowboys cause I like their style of play. People see the pennant and if they share my interest they start a conversation. It provides an opener — and like the hat itself, helps me find some friends."
DeClercq had interrogated too many people in his time not to have learned that it mattered less what was said than how it was delivered. Too long an explanation meant lack of conviction.
I think you're very lonely, Joseph, the Superintendent thought. Same hat. Same fear you don't fit in. Now I do understand.
Robert DeClercq said: "I don't think it's possible to leave your roots behind. That's what I tried to do by leaving Quebec. After what happened to Janie and Kate all I wanted to do was run and try to escape. I discovered you can't. It's been twelve years, Joseph, yet every day the memory still comes back to me. It'll haunt me till I die. Particularly my child. All I did was take my roots and transplant them out here. I suppose that's the real reason I came back to work. Time to stop running. Life's too short. Do you know what I mean?"
Avacomovitch nodded, but didn't meet his eyes. "Some days I worry that I'm not even alive. That somehow I've turned life into an empty game of chess. That all I've got waiting is checkmate at the end."
"Then welcome to the West Coast," Robert DeClercq said. "You don't escape from here. You either go back where you came or sink into the sea. And that's a narrow choice."
For a moment they both were silent, as if each was using the other to assess where he had been, to put twelve intervening years into some rough perspective. Finally Joseph Avacomovitch shrugged and said: "Chartrand told me you made a special request."