Murder in Focus (6 page)

“You can tell her that she needn't worry, absolutely nothing unexpected is going to be done by anyone.” Metcalfe spoke with a little too much emphasis. “It won't be allowed. I have scheduled everyone and everything for every minute of the day. They won't even be able to buy a bottle of perfume for their mistresses without it going on the sheet ahead of time.”

“You mean you're in charge of security for this operation?” said Lang with a low whistle. “I wouldn't like to be in your shoes right now.”

“Not security, no, not at all,” said Metcalfe in confusion. “Just, shall we say, logistics. Moving them around and making sure they get to the right place at the right time. Security's being done by the usual specialist types, you know. I'm not qualified for that.” He grabbed another glass from the next tray going by.

“Well, I intend to stay as far away as possible from the Chateau Laurier and the Conference Centre when that thing is on.” Lang smiled comfortably. “I don't want to get blown up when the crazies decide to get rid of some prime minister or other.”

“The prime ministers and assorted bigwigs aren't going to be downtown, are they, Hal?” said Toni. “We heard that they will all be in the Gatineau.”

“Old rumor, my boy. Very old. You're losing your touch. They're all being whisked off to a meeting room in the airport.” This voice came from the group next to them, which, by the strange chemistry of parties, had suddenly opened up to include the three men.

“Don't be silly,” said a tall, pretty girl. “They're not going to be at the airport.”

“Aha,” said the man next to her. “Here speaks one with the voice of authority. Come on, what do you know? No fair keeping secrets. Anyone in this group from the press?” They looked around at each other. “See? I thought not. Out with it.”

She blushed furiously. “I don't know anything—anything at all. I just think it's a stupid place to hold a meeting, don't you? Besides, if I knew anything, do you think I'd tell you?”

Karl Lang executed a sideways shuffle and planted himself beside the blushing girl. “Here,” he said, “let me get you a fresh drink.” Within seconds one was in his hand.

“Hey, how did you do that?” she asked.

“The waiter's Viennese,” Lang replied. “You just have to know how to signal them. Are you fond of music?”

“Oh, yes, especially violin music,” she said. “I play a bit myself. I was thrilled to be invited this evening.”

“Has anyone introduced you to Fräulein Strelitsch yet?” The girl shook her head. “Then come with me,” he said, “and I will. She speaks excellent English and is always delighted to meet fellow musicians.”

“Oh, thank you,” she breathed. “I've never met anyone that famous. I wouldn't even be here, except that my boss wangled this invitation for me.”

“Where do you work?” he asked as he gently steered her in the direction of the violinist.

“External Affairs,” she said. “But I'm just a typist.”

“Never mind about that,” he said. “Anna Maria, I have a great fan of yours here,” and he drew the girl into the little circle that had clustered around the violinist, almost hiding her from sight.

A significant hush descended over the crowd; something was happening. Even the drunken undersecretaries had stopped whatever they were doing and had turned toward the door. Hal Metcalfe sighed in relief. That meant that the prime minister had arrived, and with a certain amount of luck, it would be possible to get out of the place in an hour or so. That arrogant son of a bitch from the RCMP, Higgs, had suddenly materialized in the crowd close to the Austrian P.M., no doubt keeping tabs on everyone. Probably counting drinks, too. In fact, most of the revelers seemed to be bozos from Security awkwardly pretending to be partygoers. Was anyone here just to meet the man? Probably not. He looked over at the gorgeous violinist, wondering if he might carve out some time with her, but she was surrounded by the apes who were surrounding the P.M. He grabbed another glass from a passing tray and decided to get very, very drunk.

Tuesday, May 16

John Sanders tried to keep his eyes open and fixed on the front of the room while allowing the words of the lecture to flow gently by him. Inspector Charles Higgs was standing beside a large easel with a chalkboard perched precariously on it, drawing lines and circles and indicating traffic flow with large, angry arrows. Sanders reckoned he could have written up a three-page report on what was being said without leaving his motel room, but this bastard was obviously taking attendance. So here he was. When Sanders had asked, incredulously, why they were sending him instead of someone from the Special Security Task Force, he had been told not to be a bloody fool, they needed every man on the task force this week. A flip through the roster produced the most senior person—to prove they took the RCMP's invitation seriously—with leave coming who wasn't needed. And that turned out to be John Sanders. Consigned to a week of utter boredom by a bloody computer.

Higgs snapped out a question, which was promptly answered by a kid from Halifax, sitting in the front row with that dewy-fresh air of a rookie constable. Those Maritimers didn't feel any obligation to keep the Mounties happy. Sanders mentally took off his hat to them, and then sketched an inspiring picture of a bomb-throwing anarchist with bushy hair and a huge black beard in his new notebook. What was wrong with Higgs? he wondered, carefully adding in thick eyebrows. The man appeared to be shaking with resentment as he went painstakingly through the routine operations necessary to organize the visit of a high-risk foreign delegation. Today it was advance preparations: choosing routes, sweeping an area clean and keeping it clean. Minute, dreary detail, all of it. Sanders yawned. The chalk clicked angrily across the board. But then, why shouldn't the guy be pissed off? It was probably a demotion for him to be shunted into the classroom during the week of the biggest security operation of the decade. It certainly indicated that someone thought he wasn't necessary—or maybe . . . Sanders considered the bristling mustache over tight lips, the dark eyes snapping in anger, and the penetrating, disgruntled voice. A weak, angry man? Maybe someone was trying to get him out from under foot before he screwed things up on them. For chrissake, stop trying to turn this into a cheap thriller. Higgs probably looks and sounds like that when he's making love. He's just got that kind of gloomy, weasel-like face.

Suddenly Higgs was pulling down on the edge of a screen fastened to the wall in the front of the room, and the lights went out. A slide show. Under cover of the dark, Sanders's thoughts drifted even further from the lecture. Gradually they began to cluster around the image of the slender, thin-faced woman he had eaten dinner with the night before. She had been right, the food at the Turkish restaurant was excellent, good enough to tempt him to go back another evening. If she'd consider it. He hadn't been able to figure out if she enjoyed his company or had simply let herself be picked up on impulse. She had paid her half of the check, firmly, and accepted an offer of being walked back to her car, which was parked at the Conference Centre. Even though he was reeling with exhaustion, he had made a half-hearted attempt to prolong the evening. She had laughed and sent him home to bed, but not before writing down her telephone number on a slip of paper from a notebook in her jacket.

Up on the screen ahead of him they flashed the last of a series of slides on the new and sophisticated component parts of homemade bombs. Finally, in a babble of conversation, the meeting broke up for lunch. Sanders reached into his pocket and found the piece of paper still sitting exactly where he had put it last night. He headed out of the room to look for a phone.

Peter Rennsler let his eyes slip off the page of the book he was reading and over to the window. Far off on the ground, the patchwork pattern of the fields had emerged from the cloud cover: the bright green meadows, the pale new growth, the brown plowed earth. Civilization. He looked at his watch. They would be landing soon. He closed the book and considered it for a moment. It would give him an illusion of safety, perhaps, to have it with him, but the risk involved was too great. To have his cover destroyed because he was carrying a schoolboy's historical outline on the Charlemagne period would be ridiculous. He sighed and slipped it down beside him, between the seat and the wall of the plane. He wouldn't need it anyway. No one was going to expect a graduate student to do anything but listen in modest awe should he be unlucky enough to stumble into a serious discussion.

He looked around at his fellow passengers for the first time since he had boarded the plane in Vienna. Every seat on the aircraft had been taken. He wondered if anyone else was heading for the conference he was registered at. One or two at most, he guessed. All the others crowded into the tourist section with him would be either genuine tourists or pounding toward the trade conference. There was a smell of the press about this lot.

Certainly it had been an enormous stroke of luck that the International Society of Charlemagne Scholars had decided three years ago to hold one of its infrequent meetings in Ottawa during the third week in May. Looking like an ambitious, hungry, young academic was going to be considerably easier than trying to pass himself off as a workman or a reporter. And his credentials would be less carefully scrutinized, he suspected. He found himself automatically scanning the people around him. A head snapped around, attracted by his scrutiny, and a large bullheaded man was regarding him with sharp and suspicious eyes. The man stank of Security. Damn! He had to stop looking at people. It was better to pretend not to notice anyone. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, starting with his scalp, which was prickling with intimations of danger as they got closer and closer to Montreal. His passport was a work of art. He shouldn't have any trouble with it, except that there had been too much publicity about forged Canadian travel documents recently, and the people at Passport Control were bound to be more suspicious than usual. He couldn't afford to emit waves of nervous energy and put them on their guard. He allowed weariness to spread out from his slowly rising chest to his arms, his neck, his legs, and he dozed lightly.

The woman seated next to him looked over and smiled. He looked so touchingly vulnerable as he slept, poor thing. Handsome, but tired and thin, his eyes sunken with fatigue. A poor student, studying too hard, in need of a mother or a pretty girl to look after him. She shook her head at her romantic notions and returned to the last chapter of her mystery novel.

The plane was fifty minutes late. Peter Rennsler picked up his one small suitcase and forced himself to amble along after his temporary neighbor over to the control point.

“How long ya been outta the country?” The voice was bored, the question mechanical.

Rennsler's soul danced with impatience, but his response was soft-spoken and long-winded. “Actually, I'm not coming back from a trip—I mean, I'm studying in Europe right now—I live there, temporarily, anyway. In Vienna,” he added. “Just here for a conference. It's at Carleton University. And to see the family, of course.” He smiled and opened his suitcase. “Nothing to declare. Clothes for the five days, that's all.” The suitcase was neatly packed, with a minimum of spare clothing. He closed it up and glanced at his watch. He had three minutes to catch the bus that would take him to downtown Ottawa in time for the rendezvous. He grabbed his suitcase and headed off, fast.

“Mr. Rennsler,” called one of the uniformed RCMP officers who was standing by the control point. “Just a minute.”

For a second he tensed, ready to make a run for it past Security and over to the bus. Poor idea. Be stopped dead and turned around. “Yes?” he said, unable to control the sweat beading on his forehead and gathering between his shoulder blades.

“You left your passport.” The officer shook his head. “That's how people lose them, you know. You should be more careful.”

Peter nodded, his throat too dry for an answer, and slipped the document into his inside breast pocket.

At 4:55, Sanders was standing on the wide expanse of lawn in front of the Supreme Court with his legs planted on either side of an aluminum camera case, using his six feet three inches to shield the tripod and Harriet from the streams of pedestrian traffic. “Dammit,” she said, as someone jostled her while she attached the camera to the tripod. “If this keeps up I'll have to wait until Sunday to get this shot. I'm going to be stuck in the bloody city until August if I can't work during the week.” Sanders tried to look sympathetic. “I need a shot of the court and then the Justice Building,” she had said when they arrived. “Shouldn't take too long. Just keep people from stepping on me, and don't let anyone walk off with my equipment.” He hadn't realized how difficult it was going to be to fend off the curious and steer away those who walk without looking ahead of them.

“Yes, what kind of camera is it?” he asked, after the third inquisitive camera buff had asked her the same question and had received a vague stare in response.

“Mmm, what did you say?” she muttered, reaching down and picking out a lens from the collection in the aluminum case. “Oh, it's an Olympus OM-3 with a twenty-four-millimeter shift lens, wide angle. That means I can adjust the position of the lens in relation to the camera. So it remains parallel to the thing you're doing,” she said, with a vague wave in the direction of the building ahead of them, “and you don't get line distortion.”

“What's that?”

“Well, what it means is that these buildings aren't going to come out with wide bottoms and tiny roofs. I usually do this sort of work with a four-by-five view camera—you know, one of those big things with the photographer hunched under a viewing cloth?—but it was too cumbersome to bring along. This works on the same principle and I can carry the entire outfit by myself,” she said, pointing to her modest array of equipment. “Now, why don't you just shut up and stand there while I fiddle?” She pulled a small notebook out of a pocket and checked something in it; then she made a couple of adjustments to the lens, jotted down some notes in the book, and stood back. By now an admiring crowd of five people had stopped to look. Harriet was wearing her usual jeans and a khaki jacket that came down to her knees. The jacket had at least seven pockets that Sanders could count from where he was, most of them bulging. Out of one she extracted a cable release that, frowning in concentration, she affixed to the camera. “There,” she said, “that was quick, wasn't it?”

“Not when you were expecting someone just to point the camera and take a few pictures,” said Sanders.

“Don't be silly,” she murmured. “No one does that. What do you think I am? Nancy Newshound, girl photographer?” Suddenly she stepped back and looked up at the western sky. “Shit! The sun's gone.”

“Isn't it bright enough to take a picture?”

“It's not that. The whole purpose of waiting until five and putting up with all this pedestrian traffic is to get the contrast in the details. And you need sun at the proper angle for that. I want to get all that carving and stuff.” She looked back up. “All is not lost. There's a break coming in the cloud mass—I'll get it then.”

Then, with her eye more on the suddenly cloud-filled sky than on her building, she waited until the sun had broken through. She smiled, looked once more through the viewfinder, and squeezed the shutter release. There was a gentle whir as the film advanced automatically. “There,” she said happily.

“Now where?” asked Sanders, his natural impatience overcoming his curiosity to see her work.

“Nowhere,” she said. “Not for a minute. I just have to stop down a bit. I always bracket my shots.” She bent over the lens once more, made an adjustment, checked the viewfinder, and stepped back.

“What do you mean?” asked Sanders.

“Mean about what?”

“Whatever that was you said.”

“Just a minute.” She glanced up at the sky and squeezed the shutter release. “Just one more,” she said, “and it's on to the Department of Justice.” She repeated the same procedure, straightened up again, and looked at the sky. The sun had ducked once more behind a scrap of cloud.

“I still don't see . . .” said Sanders, bending over her to look down at the camera.

“What?” said Harriet, and jumped. There was a click and a whir as the film moved forward once again. “Christ! There's a wasted shot. That's the last time I bring you along,” she said. “You rattle me.” She looked up. Cloud had taken over the western quadrant of the sky completely. “I wonder if it's worth waiting.”

“A friend of yours?” asked Sanders curiously, pointing at a slender figure, probably male, who seemed to be rushing across the lawn in their direction.

“Hmm? That guy? Don't think so,” she said, still looking skyward. “What the hell. Let's go get a beer. Any one of those shots ought to do.”

Superintendent Deschenes parked his car in front of a small grocery store and headed for the grubby-looking restaurant next door. It seemed to be as good a place as any for a clandestine meeting; a dog dozing on the porch of the house next door to the restaurant was the only sign of life in the village. Frank Carpenter was sitting in a booth, almost unrecognizable in jeans and a sweatshirt, chatting up the waitress. He waved cheerfully at Deschenes as he walked in. “Over here.”

When his coffee had been slapped down in front of him, Deschenes turned to his sergeant. “You blend in well. Any luck?”

“Well, you said you didn't want me to look as if I'd just come off parade,” he said. “And yes, no problems. They were pretty easygoing about letting us have everything. We have—or they have—several descriptions of him. And they're remarkably uniform. He's between five-eleven and six-one, medium to slender build, has black straight hair, deep tan, dark brown eyes, and a scar that runs from his eyelid—or maybe his eyebrow—all the way to his upper temple. A man fitting that description rented the Toyota from Avis Rent-a-Car at ten o'clock Monday morning. Paid in cash in advance for a twenty-four-hour rental, identified himself with an Ontario driver's license issued to Richard Jarvis of Toronto—I have the number here; it's being checked at the moment—and dropped the car off again outside the agency, forfeiting his deposit. By the time Ottawa police got there, the car had been efficiently polished up, no prints. Same guy in the same car turned up in Brockville dressed as a construction worker at the office of the company working on the secure area, flashed identification as some sort of inspector to the woman on the desk. She wasn't sure what kind, just that he was ‘real polite and knew what he was talking about, and they're always being harassed by government inspectors so how was she to know.'” He paused and Deschenes nodded. “And she sent him to the motel because she knew that was where they'd be having lunch. Apparently he got there just as the two crews were going in, and behaved as if he belonged to one of the crews. Anyway, they're easygoing guys, and probably would have asked him to join them even if he'd walked in by himself. They said he seemed to be a great guy, quiet, bought a couple of rounds, and took Steve, uh, Bartholomew off their hands. The guys on his crew said they were grateful, because he was getting plastered.”