The Dark Root (45 page)

We followed Lucas up the street at a run. Ahead, we could hear the sharp, staccato beat of automatic gunfire.

At the end of the block, we came to a group of plainclothes officers, Lacoste’s tall, thin form prominent among them.

Spinney pointed to the East Wind Trade Association building we’d visited earlier, another half block farther on. On the sidewalk opposite, we could see three lifeless bodies. Beyond it, under a safely distant streetlight, stood another group of officers, among whom I recognized Antoine Schmitt, the MUC liaison officer we’d met during our first trip to the city.

In just the few minutes we’d been waiting, the entire neighborhood had filled with cops—plainclothes, uniformed, and combat-ready.

Things were obviously quickly getting organized, and we were obviously not to be a part of it.

A young woman split away from the group Lacoste and Lucas were in and approached us with an apologetic smile. “I am sorry, gentlemen. Monsieur Lucas has asked me if you would be so kind as to return to the car? He does not want you hurt in this situation.”

Frazier, as our senior representative, acknowledged the message, thanked the young woman, and led the way back. As we reached the first corner, however, I glanced over my shoulder, and saw Schmitt and his group still loitering where they had been. Unable to envision sitting out this drama’s conclusion, I yielded to my growing anxiety and cut away unobserved, intent on circling the block and coming up behind our erstwhile liaison. I didn’t know why Schmitt was here, but I was hoping that, given his diplomatic assignment, he might be more amenable to my being closer to the action.

Frazier and Spinney, distracted by the activity at the staging area just ahead of them, didn’t notice my departure. It was just as well—running around in flagrant disregard of an order by the RCMP didn’t strike me as something Frazier in particular would condone, especially since my last decision had been the direct cause of this mess.

The street I took, a block shy of St-Laurent, led to a broad avenue named Viger, where I turned right again. As I approached the Holiday Inn, with its distinctive pagoda roof, I noticed that across the street—and connected to my side by an enclosed overhead walkway—was a Metro stop, housed within a long, low, ugly concrete office building. There was very little traffic and no sign whatsoever of the drama unfolding just one block to the north.

I did a slow jog along Viger, past the hotel, and turned up a short dead-end street that led back to La Gauchetière, my eyes on the reflected glow of the revolving lights. About halfway up the empty street, however, something made me stop—a slight noise, a sense of movement. I wasn’t sure. Instinctively, I slid into a doorway and looked back at a narrow alleyway I’d just passed. Emerging from it, and walking quickly away toward Viger and the Metro station on its far side, was the dim silhouette of a thin, quick-moving, energetic man.

From the back, it looked just like Truong Van Loc.

I whirled around, but there was no one to call to at the end of the street. I could still hear sporadic gunfire from deep inside the block of buildings next to me, presumably from the police assault. I faced Viger again. The man I’d seen was halfway across the street already, his goal now utterly clear—along with my responsibility. Ruing my decision not to have enlisted at least Spinney in my impulsive side trip, I ran across a small plaza that led to the enclosed overhead bridge I’d seen earlier, and headed for the Metro station by the high road, thereby avoiding the chance that Truong might see me.

Not that I was all that confident I was following Truong. The continuing gunfire threw me off, not to mention that this man had appeared out of nowhere, and at a considerable distance from the action.

My route led me to a broad set of stairs leading down to a large, empty lobby, to the left of which were the doors to the Place d’Armes Metro Station. I waited a moment while “Truong” negotiated his way through the electronic turnstile and disappeared down the right staircase, under an orange sign reading Henri Bourassa.

I then pushed through the station’s double doors and ran up to the attendant in his booth. Beneath my feet, I could feel the slight trembling of an arriving train. Fearing it might be the one Truong was waiting for, I silently thrust a five-dollar bill at the man behind the glass, rather than trying to get him to call the police on my behalf, on the dubious strength of an American badge and a weird story about chasing Asian gangsters. He gave me several paper tickets.

I quickly went to the turnstile, fed it one of the tickets, and bolted through the gate and down the same stairs Truong had taken just a few moments earlier.

It had been his train pulling in, and as I reached the bottom step, I could hear a series of warning beeps going off overhead, telling me the doors were about to close. Choosing the risk that he might see me over the certainty that I’d lose him otherwise, I ran to slip in between the doors just before they hissed shut.

I was alone in the car.

I tried to orient myself in relation to the city above. We were heading east, and according to the Metro map mounted on the car’s wall, we were on the Orange Line, or the Côte Vertu/Henri Bourassa Line. Our next stop would be Champs Mars. Even as I figured that out, I could feel the train’s momentum ebbing, and an incomprehensible announcement in French came over the loudspeakers. I moved across the aisle and crouched next to the sliding door. As I waited, I pulled my Swiss Army knife from my pocket and unfolded one of its blades, hoping to hell no one would be standing on the platform with plans of using this particular door.

The train entered a brightly lit, totally empty station, and came to a gradual, smooth stop. The doors slid open, and I immediately poked the end of the blade out past the threshold, using its shiny surface as a mirror to watch the platform ahead of me, while I flattened my head against the car’s interior wall to obliquely watch the area to the rear of the train. No one appeared on the platform. A minute later the doors closed, and we pulled out again.

The next station was Berri-UQAM, a junction of three separate lines, heading off in different directions—and a perfect place for things to get complicated.

As we pulled in, seeing that a few predawn commuters were sprinkled along the platform, I changed tactics slightly. I stood by the door, and when it opened, I ducked my head out a couple of times as people brushed by me. As the warning beeps sounded, I saw Truong exit from two cars up and cut across the platform into a wide, arched hallway. I slipped free of the train just before the doors closed and flattened myself against the station wall. Risking a quick glance around the corner, I saw Truong’s back receding down a flight of stairs to the right.

As he disappeared from view, I moved cautiously to the top of the stairs and then waited until he’d vanished along a lower-level passageway. About halfway down the stairs after him, suddenly troubled by the sounds of my shoes, I took them off, shoving them into my jacket pockets.

Truong continued on through an intersection with another pedestrian walkway and committed himself to a passage marked Longueuil.

From my earlier reading of the Metro map, I remembered Longueuil as being on the south shore of the Saint Lawrence, a neighboring district of Brossard where, days earlier, Lacoste had shown Spinney and me the residential highlights of the Asian community. I began to imagine where Truong might be heading.

I followed him down yet another set of stairs, this one ending in a rough cement, low-ceilinged, gray station, a dingy imitation of its bright vaulted counterpart two flights up.

There I found myself in a bit of a squeeze. I could see Truong—whom I identified with certainty now—standing nervously by the edge of the platform, but I was worried that another prospective passenger might come up behind me and wonder why I was lurking in the entrance tunnel.

Predictably, I immediately heard footsteps clattering on the cement steps behind me. As an older man came into view, I crouched down and innocently began tying the laces to the shoes I’d just put back on. He walked by me without a glance.

Truong studied the man carefully and then abandoned his exposed position by the platform’s edge, opting for the safety of a bench located in one of the alcoves lining the concrete wall. This gave me a sudden double advantage—I could vacate the exposed passageway and secret myself instead in another of the alcoves, far from Truong’s.

As I moved, I noticed a bright-red sign along the station’s wall, labeled S.O.S. It was suspended over a red phone and a small fire extinguisher, both mounted inside a cabinet. I hoped our final destination would have an equally visible phone I could use to call the police—and that I’d have the opportunity to do so.

Another clean, quiet, rubber-wheeled blue train rushed into the station. Truong crossed the platform, getting on near the front. I boarded last, watching that Truong didn’t reverse himself at the last second. He didn’t.

According to the map, there were only two remaining stops ahead—Ile-Ste-Hélène, and the terminus, Longueuil. Ile-Ste-Hélène was one of the two islands in the middle of the Saint Lawrence that had been used in the Expo ’67 fair, almost thirty years earlier. The whole of Ile-Notre-Dame just beyond it, I remembered, had been created especially for the event, and now was home to the city’s highly lucrative casino—which made me wonder if that might be Truong’s destination.

Truong got off at Ile-Ste-Hélène, and quickly vanished into the exit tunnel.

Swearing at his sudden speed, I ran for the red S.O.S. phone and hurriedly told the operator, “This is a police emergency. Please contact Jean-Pierre Lacoste of the MUC or Jacques Lucas of the RCMP and tell them that Truong, the man they’re after, just got off the Metro at Ile-Ste-Hélène. Tell them that Joe Gunther is in pursuit and needs help fast. Got it?”

“This is who?” came the startled reply.

“Shit,” I muttered, hanging up and taking the steps two at a time, worried now that even if they did get the message, I wouldn’t be able to tell them what direction Truong had taken.

I slowed at the top of the stairs—on the chance he might be waiting in the lobby—but the place was empty. I ran to the bank of glass doors and out to a large, empty parking lot, blinking to adjust to the darkness, now just tinged with gray on the eastern horizon.

My environment was a startling transformation from where I’d disappeared underground just twenty-five minutes earlier. I was standing in the midst of a strange other world, highlighted by exotic and contrasting icons—a dark and gloomy forest to my back, just beyond an old, monastery-style building on the edge of a huge, empty, soiled swimming pool; the looming, twenty-story-tall Buckminster Fuller geodesic dome, glowing like a skinless golf ball with indirect interior lighting; and beyond it, in the far distance, the Montreal Casino on the other island—the old ’67 French Pavilion—ablaze with light, looking like some oversized geometric mobile that had been cut loose and dropped to the earth in a heap. In the darkness, the whole area seemed like a dumping ground for Montreal’s rejected monuments.

Most impressive, however, was that it was all utterly abandoned. I heard no sounds, saw no signs of life—and could see no trace of Truong.

I moved away from the Metro building, toward the huge dome, and came to a junction of pedestrian footpaths. There I heard the smallest scrape of a foot against pavement, far to the left, in the gloom skirting the edge of the monastery by the swimming pool. Again, I pulled off my shoes and began jogging in the same direction.

Beyond the building, the darkness became near absolute. Before me was a low, wooded hill, part of a park crisscrossed with paved walkways, its details discernible only against the distant, feeble glow of the city across the wide river—the flashing Molson sign, the string of lights outlining the Jacques Cartier bridge. The slight sound that had lured me here slowly lost its serendipity, and began to feel more like part of an elaborate trap. I stood absolutely still, a rabbit caught in a pair of metaphorical headlights, wondering from which direction an attack might come.

Until I heard the sound again.

It came from up ahead, across the narrow road that went by the monastery’s front entrance, deeper in the park. Running silently toward the sound, I gave chase.

I found him about halfway up the opposite hill, among the trees, walking quickly and purposefully, intent on his enigmatic goal. Following by several hundred feet, just barely keeping his shadow in view, I wracked my memory for the details of this island, which I’d last visited in 1967 during the fair. The woods, I knew, eventually yielded to the Cartier bridge, an old British-built fort, and an enormous amusement park that occupied the entire northern tip of the island. There were also several parking areas, and it was toward one of those, I began thinking, that we must be headed—a perfect meeting place—out of the way, and with instant access to a major road out of town.

I caught sight of a strange light from the top of the hill, flickering as it filtered through the leaves of the serried trees. Truong reached a fork in the path, and without hesitation headed directly for the light. I continued following, wishing for the sounds of sirens—some sign that my message had been passed along and coherently delivered.

Gradually, separating itself from the darkness of the enveloping woods, there loomed a larger, thicker, more statuesque shadow—that of a heavy stone tower marking the crown of the hill. The light we’d both been following shimmered from its top, giving the grassy, treeless area at its base some faint distinction, which was further aided by the increasing glow from the east. I hung back more, worried about being spotted.

Truong continued undaunted, leaving the trees and approaching the final, steep climb to the tower itself. I peered ahead, wondering what he knew that I didn’t, and saw a second shadow separate itself from the darkness of the tower’s mass. It was then, more instinctively than from anything I could discern of that second shadow’s intent, that I knew the other man to be Lo Yu Lung—Edward Diep—whose only option now, I was convinced—with the sudden and chaotic turn of events Truong had just precipitated in Chinatown—was to complete the destruction he’d begun so many years ago in that San Francisco restaurant.