Slow Recoil (31 page)

“He's not gunning for you. He won't be sending anyone. He considers your business closed. I guess it was important to him that you know there won't be anybody coming for you.”

Pierre Duguay, the former head of the fledgling Toronto chapter of the Blades, who was right now awaiting trial. The ex-con was easily looking at a ten- or fifteen-year sentence for violating the conditions of his previous parole when he'd broken into McKelvey's home, drawn a handgun and fired.

“I had to be sure I had the right guy,” the rounder said, and he pulled himself up. “And after what you did to Duguay, fuck, I didn't want to get shot or anything. You're a piece of work, man.”

“You can tell Duguay the feeling is mutual,” McKelvey said. “And listen, I'm sorry about your tooth.”

“Fuck it,” the rounder said. “But just so we're square, you do know that you'd be fucken dead right now if it wasn't for Duguay.”

“Agreed,” McKelvey said.

McKelvey watched the big man swagger down the sidewalk as though this sort of thing was simply a part of day to day business. And it was, at least in the world of bikers and underground crime. As for McKelvey, he'd had more than enough excitement for one day. His heart was just starting to find its natural rhythm again. He was suddenly sober, acutely aware of the cool evening air and the smells of the city, the world around him.

“I'm seriously too old for this shit,” McKelvey said.

“You handled yourself—how do you say—
adroitly
,” the man said. He put his hand out and said, “Maxime Auteuil. Interpol.”

McKelvey put a hand against the bricks of the wall and drew air through his nostrils.
Interpol.
Jesus, what next? He fought off a wave of nausea, unwilling to vomit in the street more than once in any given day.

“You knocked on my door earlier today,” McKelvey said.

Maxime smiled. “Ah yes,” he said. “One of the first tricks I was taught while working the beat in Marseille. In these housing projects where nobody has eyes or ears. It is effective only if you have visual identification of the suspect. In your case, I knew you lived in the building, but I did not know your name. And so I knocked on every door and asked for a different occupant. Until I knocked on your door and saw your face. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McKelvey.”

“What do you want with me?” McKelvey said.

“I believe we can help each other,” Maxime said. “Concerning a certain woman whose alias is Donia Kruzik.”

He had McKelvey's attention now.

“Can I buy you a drink, Mr. McKelvey?” Maxime said.

“I should buy
you
a drink,” McKelvey said. “Your timing was impeccable.”

They went back to Garrity's. McKelvey set the umbrella on the bar.

“I won't even ask,” Huff said.

“A Jameson's on ice for me,” McKelvey said, “and—”

“A red wine, please,” Maxime said. “Pinot noir, if you have it.”

They moved to a back table. McKelvey took a drink of the whiskey and saw that his hand was shaking. He exhaled a long sigh. His heart was still palpitating, and he was a little dizzy. He felt as though he had reached, and more than likely exceeded, the limits of his physical capabilities. An old man in a young man's game. Maxime took a drink of his red wine, rolled it in his mouth, swallowed and shrugged.

“So,” McKelvey said. “First off, my thanks for jumping in. Looks like you know how to handle yourself. You move fast.”

“I am glad I was walking by at the right time,” Maxime said. “Growing up we learned how to fight in the streets a little bit, you know, and then when you're a cop in Marseille, well, you are ready for anything. My father followed the fights a little bit, professional boxing. He was always telling me I reminded him of this little champ named Willie Pep, small but fast. I saw you earlier today with the wine bottle. That was fantastic. You have had quite a busy day, yes?”

“So you were staking me out. What does Interpol want with a retired Toronto cop?”

“I had my friends at the Intelligence Command Centre back in Lyon do a little legwork, as you say over here,” Maxime said. “They need all the work they can get, these computer cops with their soft hands. Yes, we have a new generation of coppers, Mr. McKelvey, happy to play their video games.”

“You checked up on me,” McKelvey said. “Interpol can do that sort of thing? I always thought you guys were like the British Bobbies, unarmed and with no real authority.”

“With the proper co-operation, anything is possible. I found some areas where I believe we share a common philosophy in our approach to police work, Mr. McKelvey.”

McKelvey swallowed a mouthful of the amber Irish whiskey. “Call me Charlie,” he said. “And let me see your ID. If you don't mind.”

Now he felt like Peter Dawson asking to see McKelvey's business card. Maxime reached into his jacket pocket and produced his wallet. It contained a couple of credit cards, then he flipped a section and revealed his identification beneath a plastic window. It looked authentic enough, though McKelvey had to admit he had no idea what he was looking for. In his own career he had worked with the RCMP, a few state police departments on cases that crossed jurisdictions, but he had never worked with Interpol.

Maxime slipped his wallet back into his pocket and said, “You are not afraid of getting your hands dirty in the pursuit of a righteous cause. I am very sorry about your son, but I can appreciate the lengths you went to in order to, how would you say—shine a light on the darkness. I think you, of all people, will appreciate the delicate dynamics of what is at play here.”

Maxime paused for a sip of the red wine. He made a face when he swallowed it, as though it were just barely palatable. McKelvey used the pause to break in.

“I'll be straight with you, mostly because I don't have the time to fuck around. My friend is caught up in this thing, whatever this thing is. The only mistake he made was falling for this woman, this Donia Kruzik, and now he's been framed for her murder, and I believe he's been kidnapped. I've done my best to dog this thing down, but there's a connection I just can't make with these people.”

“And there is no shame in that, Charlie, because it would take a hundred policeman a hundred years to make that connection. As I said, there are delicate dynamics at play. We are talking about the ripple effect of war. There is a righteous cause, to be certain, and there is a thirst for international justice. This spans many continents, dozens of characters. You and I may agree with the pursuit of a righteous cause, but our—”

“What are you talking about?” McKelvey interrupted. A headache was coming on like a tight band being twisted around his skull, and he was squinting through the pain. “I've been straight with you. I told you, I don't have the luxury of time. What is this whole thing about?”

Maxime moved his wine glass aside and leaned in, his head tilted a little to the left, and he said, in a low voice, “What I am talking about is a killing squad.”

McKelvey took the last swallow of his drink to buy a moment and process the information. He swallowed, but the whiskey seemed to have no power or taste to it. “A killing squad,” he repeated. “Here, in Toronto.”

“We believe they number around one dozen around the world. The core group, that is. We have tracked this for two years now. We know they are operating in Canada, the U.S., Britain. They were formed with the consent and support of a rogue element within the security and intelligence branch of the independent government of Bosnia-Herzegovina in the dying days of the war. They have one goal: to locate and eliminate those members of the Serb paramilitary
unit they hold responsible for the mass execution of men and boys at Srebrenica and the surrounding villages in the summer of 1995. There are two caveats for membership in the league. First, you must be a direct blood relative of a victim. Second, you agree to end your identity when you sign up.”

“Who's in charge of this league?”

“An individual known as ‘The Colonel'. He funded the establishment of a paramilitary unit during the war. The unit's job was to disrupt enemy activity to the greatest extent possible. They were highly effective.”

McKelvey felt weak. He saw where things were headed, understood he had enrolled himself in a new school. Suddenly the connections began to click into place.

“Our security guys must be aware. CSIS, the Mounties,” McKelvey said.

Maxime sat back. He took the wine glass and turned it by the stem. “That's where things get very delicate, Charlie. You see, one of the lead operatives we have been tracking happens to work for your government.”

“Davis Chapman,” McKelvey said.

“Very good. Yes. He goes by various names. Turner is the current name he is employing for this stage of the operation.”

“And what about Donia Kruzik? What's her role in all of this?”

“She is—or was—a member of the league. It's not her real name, of course, we are still digging where that is concerned. But we believe she was assigned, along with her colleague—the man you threw the wine bottle at—she was assigned the names of two former soldiers who are living here in Toronto. I suspect her role was to seek these targets out, to shadow them and record their routines in preparation for their assassination.”

McKelvey nodded, letting the information sink in. So Tim and Donia had simply made the oldest mistake in the book—they had fallen for one another under less than ideal circumstances. Love during a time of war was a dangerous undertaking. And then McKelvey had stirred the hornet's nest by poking around her apartment, by tracking the man from her apartment to Jarko's Automotive then the immigrant support centre. If he had minded his own business, if he had taken Fielding out to cry in his beer instead of acting like some private detective, they would all be none the wiser. Fielding would be at home asleep, and McKelvey would be wrapped in the covers with Hattie.

“I was too late today,” Maxime said. “Bojan Kordic was assassinated.”

“Who's the other target?”

“A man named Goran Mitovik. Former platoon leader. A very nasty man. Both he and Bojan are wanted for war crimes by the international courts. I have a red notice for both men, as authorized by the Secretary-General of Interpol.”

“Your interest here is in arresting Kordic and Mitovik?”

Maxime finished the last of his wine and pushed the glass aside. “My interest is in bringing those men back to face justice by the international court, and also to close down this vigilante operation. How do you say, two birds with a single stone? As you know, Charlie, one death only begets another death. These people are still fighting a war that ended almost six years ago. What was done is done, Charlie. There can be no justice in murder.”

“I assume you're working with the local authorities on this? Or the RCMP?”

Maxime shook his head. “The RCMP is aware of my presence here, but this is where I believe you can appreciate my approach. Like you, Charlie,
je suis un loup seul
—a lone wolf. I have been working on this case for two years now. I want to close the file, put the bad guys away, and put an end to the Colonel's work. And then I will retire and leave this job to the young people.
C'est tout
.”

“What about the second target, this Mitovik,” McKelvey said. “He's obviously in danger.”

“He will wake up to my smiling face tomorrow,” Maxime said, “and that is when your local police will get a chance to put their thumbprint on this case, to pose for the photographers when the heavy lifting is done.”

This was beyond McKelvey's professional experience. Organized gangs, punks, thugs, hammerheads and crackheads, pathological liars, sure, even the heavyweight cons who walked into banks with sawed-off shotguns; that was the world he understood. But this, this was geopolitics, talk of a war he had not understood in the slightest when it was actually happening, let alone now, years after the fact when they were stepping into a new war. He remembered the newspapers, the TV footage of the siege of Sarajevo, daily artillery salvos, snipers taking out old ladies waiting in line for bread, the horrific news of entire villages being rounded up, the men shot or exiled to prison camps, the women and girls raped and tortured. But he was never able to decipher the starting point in the whole mess; who were the good guys, who were the bad guys, and how could tell the difference? As though one minute there had been a unified country and the next the whole thing was shattered into a hundred little pieces.

“This man, the one I threw the wine bottle at. He's holding my friend, Tim Fielding. I guess we're both what you'd call loose ends in this,” McKelvey said. “We stumbled into the middle of their operation and fucked things up for them.”

“That man is the only operator we have yet to positively identify,” Maxime said. “I believe his operational name is Kadro. He served in The Colonel's unit with some distinction. He is a dangerous man, believe me.”