Abzal’s escape had been remarkable only for its simplicity. At dawn, after the shift change, the night captain had driven off with him in the trunk of his car. Dordana met them on a country byway, sped off with him to a lakeside village where Djon had already closed the deal on the dinghy. Resourceful Djon Bajramovic and his intrepid associate had earned their million dollars.
Dordana’s distant cousin had got a lesser but substantial reward — there was little change left from the $43,000. The scuttlebutt from the night captain was harrowing: a couple of Albanian high officials had been paid a hefty sum by anonymous foreign donors to ensure that Erzhan would leave Prison 303 in a body bag. But timorous Warden Chocoli, entrusted with the deed, couldn’t bring himself to perform it.
Arthur had initiated a series of phone calls late in the day to Ottawa, finally connecting with McIlhargey, who excitedly raced into Lessard’s office and, as his reward for being Arthur’s friend and confidant, earned the privilege of leading a team — two inspectors and a staff sergeant — to the southern Balkans.
They’d pulled in to the little local airport five hours earlier, bushed from the long flight via Frankfurt and Skopje but eager to get under way. With the Ohrid music festival in full swing, few rooms were available, but they’d done better: a private chalet, a half-hour walk from Arthur’s hotel. Five bedrooms, richly furnished, by a lakeside grove of olive trees, the grounds protected by a spearpoint steel fence. All arranged through diplomatic channels. Macedonia’s minister of security, eager to embarrass his unloved Albanian neighbours, was also providing official cars, technical support, sentries at the villa gate. He’d promised that the RCMP’s inquiries would be kept under wraps.
Arthur folded open a paper from Friday, with its headlines about Anglo-Atlantic’s connivery and the many hostile reactions. Here were the latest poll results: the Tories had clawed their way to twelve points below the Liberals, whose campaign was faltering. The three main smaller parties were inching up, as was Lafayette’s Progressive Reform, accelerating past the Marijuana Party.
Margaret Blake was quoted as blasting the Anglo-Atlantic deal — an item jarringly juxtaposed with that company’s ad proclaiming its commitment to “green energy solutions.” She was on Vancouver Island, soon to begin her cross-country whistle-stop tour. It was two o’clock here, four a.m. wherever she was abed. He’d phone at her breakfast hour.
The two inspectors, Fyfe and Longstreet, were bustling about, preparing to drive to Gjirokaster to interview Hanife Bejko, then to Tirana to bring the good news to DiPalma and to arrange for his safe exit from Albania. “Where is Dordana going to meet us?” Longstreet asked.
“At Sveti Naum border crossing,” Djon said. “In case of problems, chief of customs can be trusted. Also maybe you talk to nervous Nellie warden, Chocoli.”
McIlhargey looked up from the board. “You might want to thank Mr. Chocoli for saving Abzal’s life. Is that right, Djon, the warden should get a medal?” McIlhargey’s hand hovered over a possibly lucrative pawn-bishop exchange.
“Thank him because he is true coward, no stomach for simple act of murder.”
McIlhargey asked if he had any theories as to why the two Tirana colluders had passed the buck to Chocoli. “They must’ve got paid off pretty good to zap Abzal. Millions.”
“Maybe hard to understand, but Albania mired in Third World, different than Canada, contracts not always honoured. You get nice bribe, you lose interest in deal. Plus Abzal Erzhan, he is good Muslim and also hero for bumping off hated dictator like clone of Enver Hoxha.” Looking pleased with this analysis, Djon showed no dismay as he lost his bishop. “Mate in three,” he said.
McIlhargey studied his position. “Jesus wept.” He laid his king to rest on the board. “Nice sacrifice,” he said gruffly, waving Fyfe and Longstreet out the door to their Land Cruiser.
“I not play for years so was lucky. Now start making special Christmas dinner.” Djon went off to the kitchen. Arthur had encouraged him to show off his kebab prowess; it might put him in better stead with McIlhargey, who had a typical policeman’s distrust of proselytizers of the left. The superintendent was equally uncomfortable with Abzal, a revolutionary, an acquitted assassin. But he was an honest cop. Honi soit qui mal y pense.
“Hugh, I’ll want to escort my client back soon. He’ll need his passport.” McIlhargey had brought it, along with his certificate of citizenship, but wasn’t releasing them until he wrapped up inquiries.
“We’ll see how it goes, Counsellor. No one is wandering off anywhere for a while. We’re trying to keep this operation covert.” He snorted. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
McIlhargey didn’t trust the Macedonians. Communists had ruled here under Marshall Tito. The street outside was named after him, and his portrait, in a resplendent white uniform, dominated the entrance foyer of this house.
Arthur followed McIlhargey into the adjoining sunroom, which Staff-Sergeant Daphne Chow, a computer adept, had commandeered for her office. A miniature jungle of potted plants, a south-facing bank of windows overlooking patio and pool, stone steps spiralling to a craggy shoreline.
Chow was online now, sending encrypted updates to Ottawa, downloading from the RCMP’s trove of classified files. “HQ says there’s been some international traffic over this mission.” She didn’t look up from her screen. “Mostly from the Russians. They want confirmation that Mr. Erzhan is in Canadian hands in the southern Balkans.”
McIlhargey swore. “I knew these bums wouldn’t keep their yaps shut. Yeah, they had to boast to their pals the Russkies.” Another distrusted populace. “Now we’re going to have a swarm of press.”
Chow’s laser printer was coughing out head-and-shoulder shots of eighteen unsmiling men. Three pages, six to a sheet. “It was tricky getting these,” McIlhargey said. “We had to go over some heads while we stayed below Crumwell’s radar. Five are CSIS agents.”
No one protested when Arthur picked them up — in return for his client’s cooperation, nothing was to be kept from him. McIlhargey had balked at that, but Arthur wore him down.
“Which one is Sully Clugg?” he asked. The Christmas party crotch-grabber had been a long shot, now was a contender. Antoine Salzarro had learned that Blackwater sent Clugg home after he shot to death three members of a family who’d been acting suspiciously — they’d been pushing a stalled car toward the official limousine he was guarding, and had not stopped when ordered. Innocent civilians, it turned out. Though investigators saw Clugg as reckless, they’d deemed him to have been following regulations.
McIlhargey pointed to number nine, second page. The ex-Blackwater martial arts master was in a suit, staring bull-like at the camera. Abzal had described a big man, broad forehead, a thick neck, for which Clugg qualified.
“Number eighteen, that’s Clugg’s buddy, Rod Klein.”
He was younger and taller than Clugg, a thin, lopsided face. According to the RCMP’s trusted sources at CSIS, the two men, loose on whiskey and cocaine, had been overheard at the CSIS Christmas party joshing about their first ghost flight.
Abzal had risen — he could be heard talking to Djon.
“Let’s do this,” McIlhargey said. Arthur followed him to the kitchen, where Djon was slicing meat into strips. Abzal was staring out the window at the bare-limbed olive trees. His hair was wet and gleaming from a shower, and he was dressed in newly bought casual clothes.
He was more thin waisted than in the photos Arthur had seen, most of them from fifteen years ago, from his arrest, his trial for murder. His chest had filled out, but he still had the wiry look of a marathon runner. Dark, intelligent eyes with a smile he bestowed infrequently, but full and bright when it came, creasing his bronzed, sculpted face.