‘Great. Fucking great.’ Roman’s jaw clenched. Just when he needed Campion the most, he was ineffectual, useless. Hopefully the bombshell with Chenouda would shake him up. ‘When I say Chenouda’s at the heart of this with Donatien’s… it’s more than you probably realize.’ He told Campion his theory that he thought Chenouda was responsible for snatching Donatiens to apply the final pressure to get him to testify. ‘Certainly it wasn’t me, and I know for sure it wasn’t Cacchione either — so you tell me. From where I stand, I don’t see any other option left.’
Only the fall of Campion’s breathing at the other end for a second. ‘You’re joking?’
‘No. Deadly fucking serious.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, I know he was desperately trying to get Donatiens to testify… but going to those lengths.’
‘Sure? Sure I’m sure. If it wasn’t me or Cacchione — then who the fuck do you think it was? Boy Scouts practising rope-ties for Canada Day?’
‘I know. I know. I’m not doubting what you say: it’s just that it seems so… well, so extreme. Chenouda’s whole career would be at risk for a stunt like that — not to mention a healthy jail term on top.’
‘So, the Indian’s got big balls — it was him, no doubt. But what I’m getting to is Chenouda couldn’t have pulled something like this alone. He had help, and there must be clues and an information trail there somewhere. If you dig and push some, you’ll find them.’
Campion sighed.’ You don’t get it, do you? It’s with S-18 now — I’ve got no jurisdiction or reason to push or even ask a single question about this case anymore. And the reason it’s with S-18 is that Chenouda has said he suspects an internal leak at Dorchester Boulevard — so the heat on that front is going to be intense. I’ll be keeping my head low and have my breath held as it is: if I start asking questions and probing, who do you think is going to fall first in the spotlight?’
They both fell silent for a second. It hit Roman then just how clever Chenouda had been: he probably suspected a leak and needed S-18’s help in any case to put Donatiens in the Witness Protection programme. Yet at the same time putting everything in S-18’s hands out of reach of his own department put an extra camouflage over him arranging Donatiens’ abduction. But Roman just couldn’t leave things on that note; there was too much now at stake.
‘Then you’re going to have to take a leaf out of Chenouda’s book. He managed to organize snatching Donatiens without anyone knowing — you’re just going to have to dig without anyone knowing.'
‘I’m sorry. It’s just too risky.’
Roman felt his blood boil. He’d first got his hooks into Campion, an assistant Crown Attorney under Tom Maitland, when he learned about his gambling and high-life tastes. He’d have preferred someone in Chenouda’s own department because there were always delays in information filtering through to Maitland’s office, but it was the closest option going. Now he was beginning to feel even further short-changed.
‘You know what pilots always say. They say that nowadays the computers and automatic pilots do everything. That they really only need to concentrate for the few moments of take-off and landing; for the rest of the time they just watch the instruments and read a book, whatever. And that ninety percent of their training and the justification for their pay-packets goes into how they might react in an emergency; if, God forbid, something should go wrong. Well, the plane is going down now, Campion — this is when we fucking need you! Otherwise, what’s been the point of the money I’ve paid you these past two years?’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to help.’ Campion was suddenly more hesitant, his voice tremulous. ‘It’s just that I don’t know what I can do now with S-18 involved.’
‘Well, you work that out and come up with something more positive next time we speak. And if you’re worried about raising too much attention with S-18, then just think on one thing: if Donatiens testifies and me and I go down — what do you think I’m going to say when they ask about my internal contact and there’s the chance of five or seven off of my sentence?’ Roman bathed in the warm glow of the stunned silence at the other end for a few seconds, then hung up.
TWENTY-NINE
‘What are you going to do?’ Gordon asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
When Gordon hadn’t answered the first time, Elena had tried again after a minute or so — thinking that maybe he’d been held up in traffic or had car problems — and on the third try, he’d answered. They’d spent a while swapping respective tribulations and dramas — his with Crowley were almost insultingly trivial compared to hers: now it was decision time.
Elena was relieved to hear that her flight hadn’t been traced yet, and the level of alert explained why she hadn’t been flagged down by the first squad car. The policeman who had approached her had seen her near miss and was merely enquiring if she was okay to drive on or if she needed assistance. But that would all change in only twelve hours: the next one to approach her would be with handcuffs and his gun drawn.
She was on a phone in the Eaton Centre with Lorena at a table eight paces away in an open food hall area. The clatter and bustle of people eating echoed slightly; she had to cover her other ear at moments to hear Gordon clearly.
She didn’t notice the man at a far table watching her every move between cappuccino sips.
‘If you’re not heading back, will you at least be sending Lorena?’ Gordon prompted. ‘As much as I know you’d like to keep trying — it’s probably the only sensible option left now.’
‘I know.’ Sensible? Nothing she’d done so far had been sensible; her whole life in fact, though she’d only discovered it these past few days, had been a nonsense. How was she suddenly going to gain 20/20 vision now?
Dead ends at every turn, all her options fast closing down; and now she’d reached the stage of inaction through fear, almost fatalistically certain that whichever one she chose it would be wrong. Crowley’s deadline, little chance now of seeing her son, and nothing helpful in the investigative report on Ryall related from Gordon: nothing suspicious about the adoptions or around the time of Mikaya’s pregnancy; the only other link with children was him apparently doing party magic acts to pay his way through university.
But the bombshell news from the Donatiens about Georges hung like a heavy cloud over most of their conversation. At first all Gordon could manage was ‘Oh Elena,’ followed by a weighty, defeated sigh. Then after a second: ‘I just don’t know what to say.’ That was all she seemed to get these days: silent empathy. The Donatiens so awkward they could hardly meet her eye, and now Gordon winded and lost for words. Only Lorena seemed to be bold enough to talk openly about it, ask her what was wrong; and she’d either fluff around it or openly lie. So in the end there was really nobody she was fully sharing the burden with.
And she felt tired, so tired: the endless search and chase of the past days only to hit the brick wall of the Donatiens’ calamitous news, then the jolt of the policeman by her car right on its back. She felt totally drained, no reserves left to struggle on.
She leant her weight heavier against the wall by the phone and softly exhaled. ‘I think you’re right. I should send Lorena back. With nothing on Ryall and the sessions heading nowhere — no point in holding on to her here any more.’
Gordon said ‘Sorry,’ he didn’t catch the last part, and Elena turned into the wall to shield from the echoing bustle behind and repeated herself. Gordon asked when, and she said ‘Probably first thing tomorrow. I think it’s too late to arrange anything tonight.’ Then after a second another thought struck her: ‘The only problem is that as soon as I send her back, Crowley will know where I am and alert the Canadian police.’ She felt unsettled having voiced it: that the only reason she might keep Lorena there was to serve her own aims, once again she was putting those first.