Roman had protested, but not too strongly — that would have made Jean-Paul all the more suspicious. Roman said that he already had one of Roubilliard’s best along to fill the last place on the plane. Jean-Paul fired back that they didn’t come any better than this guy and, besides, they were relying on Roubilliard too much as it was: the pilot plus a few more of his men at the other end when they discovered the plane’s destination. Anyway, it was all cut and dried. ‘Art has already agreed to send him — and I wouldn’t want to let him down. He’d be upset.’
Let down. Upset. Roman felt the extra pressure like a leaden shoulder yoke. Giacomelli wasn’t the sort of person you upset. Jean-Paul probably thought he was being clever, the perfect dilemma to keep him in check: don’t think of stepping out of line, because now you’ll not only be putting my nose out of joint but Art Giacomelli’s as well. But Jean-Paul had no idea the extent of that dilemma. Jean-Paul’s death would be bad news as it was to Giacomelli, though he’d put that down to Cacchione. But one of Giacomelli’s own going down was quite another thing, and Giacomelli would no doubt then also link the two and point the finger at Roman.
Roman was careful to shield his worries when forty minutes later he greeted ‘Santa Dave’, but with each passing minute of weighing his options in between his nerves had pulled tauter. One more thing to worry about just when he didn’t need it, and no simple solution that he could see. If he had any remaining doubt or guilt about what he was doing, it went in that moment: once Jean-Paul was gone, he wouldn’t have to worry any more about dancing to his tune.
Thirty-five minutes later they were rolling, following an unmarked RCMP grey Buick Century with Elena Waldren accompanied by two plain-clothed officers Roman didn’t recognize. No Michel Chenouda visible.
As they took the turn-off for the Pont Victoria, Funicelli realized they were probably heading for St Hubert airport. It took just under thirty minutes to get there. Funicelli was happy that it wasn’t one of the major airports: better and closer access to the perimeter fence, and less aircraft activity. He observed patiently through night-sight binoculars for almost twenty minutes before he saw them emerge and head towards a plane: a Piper Saratoga.
‘Okay, gotya. Number is: SXR35467.’
Roman relayed the number immediately to Guy Campion, waiting the last thirty minutes in a phone kiosk two blocks from Dorchester Boulevard. He made a note of the number and type of aircraft, but had to return to his office to make the enquiry. An access code number had to be given by computer to get the information from the ATC* central computer, but it was generic for the main server at Dorchester Boulevard. Campion was confident that it couldn’t be traced.
He keyed in the aircraft type, registration number and place and time of departure, and asked for its destination. Two minutes later it came up on screen: Cochrane, Northern Ontario. Campion left the building to make the return call, said only those few words, and hung up. The whole exercise from Roman’s first call had taken only twelve minutes.
Roman phoned Roubilliard with the destination. After a moment consulting a map, the closest chapter Roubilliard could see were the Lightning Bars based in Timmins, about fifty minutes bike-ride away. ‘I’ve done a bit of business with them before, but best thing is I phone and see if they’re up for it. The other option is a team I know well based in La Sarre, but it’s almost two hours away.’
‘Mmmm. Cutting it too fine to their plane landing,’ Roman mulled. ‘Let me know how you go with the Timmins guys.’
They were close to meeting up with Mel Desmarais at Point aux Trembles airfield by the time Roubilliard called back with the news that he had a green light from the Lightning Bars. ‘Their head honcho, a guy called Jake Kirkham, says that he’ll go himself with two men. Sounded keen: don’t think they get too much excitement up there in Timmins. They’ll watch for the aircraft landing and follow from there. So maybe a couple of hours to get back to you with where they’ve gone.’
‘Yeah, looks like it.’ Roman checked his watch. Their own flight would probably be about fifty minutes to an hour behind, so they’d learn the final destination halfway through. Forty minutes or so to check the lay of the land and prepare, then they’d move in. ‘Catch you later.’
With the quick-fire volley of calls back and forth, Roman’s adrenalin was racing. The feeling that he was in control, in the hot seat. His left hand tapped repeatedly on his thigh, beating out the rhythm of the mounting nervous tension in his body. As they swung into the Point aux Trembles airfield, a figure waved as the car headlamps fell on him. Trench coat with fur collar, wild wavy-red hair and beard, and a large silver crucifix dangling from one ear.
‘All we need — the fucking Red Baron,’ Roman remarked, bringing a chuckle from the car to help ease the tension. The plane behind Desmarais looked hardly big enough to carry the five of them and the wind was still sharp, flurrying tree branches and Desmarais’ hair in its wake.
There was only one thing left to make that control complete, Roman thought, looking at ‘Santa Dave’ ahead of him as they got in the small plane. There’d been too much else going on for them to exchange anything more than a few words — but now he needed to draw ‘Santa Dave’ out more, get him to open up. Like an undertaker measuring, try and weigh up whether or not he could get away with taking out ‘Santa Dave’ without at the same time making a coffin for himself courtesy of Giacomelli. There wasn’t much time left now for Roman to decide what to do.
Barry Crowley sent Sally to escort Lorena from Montreal. She had the best French in his department and he felt it was a task more suited to a woman’s touch.
But apart from light, incidental conversation about what food or drinks Lorena wanted or the in-flight movie — Sally felt stuck for conversation.
Normally with an abduction or missing person, she’d have been able to ask if they were looking forward to returning home. Although Crowley hadn’t gone into detail, he’d shared enough that she knew there was some problem with things at home. Crowley had a plan afoot to tackle it, which also involved sending a couple of officers to see Lorena’s sister at Durham University. It was a subject to be avoided.
So all that was left was to ask a few tame questions about what she’d seen in Montreal and whether she liked the big brown bear in a Mountie’s uniform Sally had brought for her at the airport during the two-hour wait for the return flight.
‘Yes, he’s very nice. And very big — probably the biggest teddy bear I’ve ever had.’ Lorena looked down wistfully for a second. ‘Though I haven’t had one for a couple of years now.’
‘Right.’ Sally nodded and smiled. The measure of how much Crowley knew about ten-year old girl’s tastes: his own daughter was only seven and he probably thought the fluffy toy stage lasted until they were young teenagers. But he had made a strong point of her picking one up, and also to make sure that it was large. ‘Something that could have been given to her by the Canadian police rather than Mrs Waldren, and could sit taking pride of place in her bedroom.’ Bear in a Mountie’s uniform was ideal. Crowley was worried that if Ryall thought it was from Elena Waldren, he wouldn’t let Lorena keep it.
Though while Sally had tip-toed around whether Lorena was looking forward to returning home, she suddenly realized that the mention of the bear was a reminder of what the girl had yet to face. Lorena was doing a good job of putting on a brave face, but as she looked ahead towards the movie screen, Sally could clearly see the shadows working beneath the surface. The girl was petrified.
Sally didn’t know what else to say, so after a moment just reached across and gently clasped Lorena’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be okay.’