“Okay, Paul, thanks...”
“You don’t seem too cheery, Hugues.”
“No, it’s just... I’ve got a cold. Thanks, Paul.” He disconnects, slips his headset on, and the voice of the on-air host fills his left ear. Don’t say anything about a bomb, or danger. Stay professional. A wave of nausea makes him grimace as he waits for his cue.
“Now, the traffic update with Hugues Nadeau.”
For a second that lasts an eternity, the reporter is incapable of making a sound.
“Hugues?” the host calls out.
“Yes, Valérie. Traffic is getting heavier downtown. Papineau Bridge is gridlocked. The broken-down vehicle on the 640 has been removed, but the jam has already formed...” He goes on like this for thirty seconds, managing to keep his voice natural, only a little stiff-sounding, though he wants to scream his lungs out with every word. Afterward, Valérie asks him if he has any updates on the explosion at Pointe-aux-Trembles. Hugues licks his lips several times. “Ah, well... nothing too serious it seems, but the area around Jean-Grou is closed, so drivers should avoid it.”
“Thank you, Hugues. Now, we turn to some new film releases...”
Hugues removes his headset and turns onto Union, a small avenue, almost empty. There, he parks close to the curb, opens the passenger-side door, and vomits on the asphalt. He sinks down into his seat and takes several deep breaths. Panic washes over him, but he has to stay calm and lucid, he simply has no choice. Think. Hard and fast. If the bomb is timed to go off before the next traffic update, it’s all over.
He voice-dials a number on one of the two cell phones and Muriel, a fact checker for the program, answers. “Muriel, I need you to find me some information on the plane crash that happened in New York last year.”
“Why? You want to talk about it on the air?”
“It’s... it’s been a year today and I might want to fit in a reference to it, yes. Perhaps mention the exact time of the accident.”
“What? Why? I might not have time, Hugues, we’re in the middle of a show, you know how it is.”
“Just do what you can, okay?”
He hangs up, shaking his head. He’s an idiot to count on Muriel, she’s clearly much too busy. He takes out his personal cell phone, connects to the Internet, and brings up the Google home page. Shit, he was never good with the keypad, his thumbs are too slow. And his next update is in twelve minutes.
Finally, he finds an article that appeared in La Presse last year, the day after the accident, and starts reading: TWO DELTA AIRPLANES CRASH IN NEW YORK. Yesterday, at 4:25 p.m., Philippe Létourneau, an air-traffic controller at John F. Kennedy Airport, changed the course of this city’s history...
He stops reading: 4:25! The bomb will go off in thirty-one minutes! That leaves him two more traffic updates. He breathes a little easier. But now he has to find the spot. The bomb obviously can’t be in New York, so where? Trudeau Airport? It has to be there. But not in the building itself, no. Létourneau said he’d planted it on a street. What’s the name of that road that leads to the airport? That narrow road that everyone’s complained about for years?
He grabs his personal cell phone again and brings up Google Maps, indifferent to the ringing of another phone. He zooms in as close as possible on the area surrounding the airport and scans the road names in panic.
There are two possible routes. He knows that one is more commonly used than the other, but which? On the map, even in satellite mode, it’s not clear. He brings his face up close to the phone, blinks several times... Yes, that’s the one. Boulevard Roméo-Vachon. Now, what’s the alternative route? He grabs his notepad, his eyes darting from screen to paper, and writes, crosses out, rewrites.
One of the hand-free cell phones rings and Hugues glances at it in exasperation. He reads Unknown Number on the dash screen. Létourneau? He connects. “Yes?”
“Are you sweating yet, Hugues? I’ll bet your idea of stress is already quite a bit different,” Létourneau taunts through the speaker.
“I figured it out! I found the time and place! It’s at—”
“Tell it to your listeners, Hugues, not to me. And I see you’ve been parked for almost ten minutes. Get driving.”
“I had to look up—”
“Act like a pro and drive!” Létourneau yells.
Realizing that the slightest annoyance could cause this lunatic to set off the bomb, Hugues hurries to get back on the road. His hands are so damp that he has to wipe them on his pants before gripping the steering wheel.
The voice on the other end of the line softens. “Perfect. Now stay downtown.”
“Can’t you tell me if I—”
But Létourneau has already hung up. Hugues bangs his fist on the dashboard and curses. He rubs his left eye, then glances at the clock: 3:59. On the air in four minutes.
A cell phone rings. Goddamn these drivers and their traffic tips! Yet if he doesn’t keep doing his job as usual, he’ll deliver a half-assed update. And Létourneau had ordered him to stay professional to the end. Manage the stress! He lets out a joyless laugh and activates the phone.
“Hey, Hugues, I didn’t stop at Rockland Centre after all!”
It’s Diane again. Hugues tries to make his voice sound normal. “That so, Diane?”
“Pffft, no, I’ve been spending too much money lately anyway! You know, last week I bought my little...”
He barely listens, his head buzzing, as he answers in monosyllables. Finally, Diane tells him that the 15 is now backed up from the 440; he thanks her and disconnects.
Turning west on René Lévesque to join the long line of bumper-to-bumper cars, he takes another call from a regular who cracks a few jokes with him. And Hugues laughs too, a laugh that tears at his chest and makes his lips twitch as he scribbles in his notepad, his vision blurring.
At 4:02, he puts on his headset. A minute later, Valérie’s voice fills his ears: “Well, Hugues, the traffic’s getting heavier, I imagine?”
Don’t go to the airport! Don’t take Boulevard Roméo-Vachon, there’s a bomb! Obviously, he says none of these things. He clears his throat and in his normal voice... professional... he starts his update: “Yes, Valérie, it’s pretty slow all around. I’ve just been told that Roméo-Vachon is closed — the boulevard that leads to Trudeau Airport. I don’t know why, but it’s closed. I suggest taking Jacques-de-Lesseps — but via Chemin de la Côte-de-Liesse, not Autoroute Côte-de-Liesse.”
“So, if you don’t want to miss your flight, take Autoroute Côte-de-Liesse to Jacques-de-Lesseps—”
“No, no, no! Not the autoroute, the chemin!” Hugues cuts in impatiently. “Take Chemin de la Côte-de-Liesse, or you’ll end up on Roméo-Vachon!” He blurts out these last sentences a bit too passionately, and the host stammers a disconcerted, “Right, thanks.”
Turning north on Atwater, Hugues grinds his teeth. Goddamnit, he has to stay calm. He continues his update in a smooth voice, summing up the situation on the other main roads of Montreal. “And don’t forget,” he concludes, “for those heading to the airport, avoid Roméo-Vachon.”
“Thank you, Hugues. Now for the weather, with...”
Covered in sweat beneath his spring jacket, Hugues takes off his headset and sighs as if a hundred kilos had just been lifted off his shoulders. I did it! I figured it out! He’d solved Létourneau’s little puzzle, hadn’t he? As he drives past the old Forum, one of the cell phones rings: Unknown Number. He answers, feverish.