The Guilty (47 page)

Striker told her what he required and why.

‘The information you’re asking for is protected,’ she explained. ‘I can’t just tell you this over the phone. Not without proper verification.’

Striker nodded absently. ‘I understand that completely. We can do this one of three ways. You can send the information to my Vancouver Police Department email account, you can send it via
CPIC – the Canadian Police Information Centre; but that will take time – or you can verify my badge and identity through the main switchboard and call me back on this line.’

‘How time-sensitive is this information?’ the staff sergeant asked.

‘Extremely. Lives are at stake here. Minutes count.’

‘I’ll call you right back then.’

The staff sergeant verified that she had Striker’s correct name, badge number, and position, then she hung up. Striker did the same and then waited by the phone. After ten minutes, he was
getting edgy. After twenty, he was downright annoyed. After thirty, he turned on the Internet, opened Google, and typed in:

Time: London, UK.

The response came back: 01:59 a.m.

Then the phone rang, and he picked up on the first ring.

‘Striker,’ he said.

The staff sergeant identified herself once more. ‘Sorry about the delay, Detective. There was a problem transferring the call – it got dropped several times.’

‘The distance, I guess.’

‘That – and I made some other calls first.’

‘To?’

‘The British Army.’

The words made Striker’s heart skip a beat. ‘The army?’

The staff sergeant made an uncomfortable sound. ‘Look, Detective, I’d be lying if I said the information here isn’t of great concern to us. These two individuals – Oliver
and Molly Howell – have
outstanding
service records with our country’s military. You do realize they’re both members of the Royal Logistics Corps.’

Striker’s stomach knotted up. ‘I knew their father was a member of the RLC, and had my worries their paths might have turned out similar.’

‘They’re both war heroes, Detective.
Highly
decorated. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how extremely sensitive this information is.’

‘I’ll be as discreet as is legally possible.’

‘Legally possible . . . That doesn’t sound well on this end. And considering the urgency of your call, I’m assuming the worst.’

‘Have you Googled Vancouver?’ he asked.

There was a pause. ‘I have indeed.’

‘What was the first thing that came up?’

The staff sergeant made an uncomfortable sound. ‘The bombings.’ When Striker made no reply, she cursed and said, ‘Bloody hell, this is awful.’

‘Tell me, Staff Sergeant, what exactly did they do in the RLC?’

There was another brief pause and the sound of pages being flipped before the staff sergeant spoke again. ‘Molly is a demolitions tech and a sharpshooter.’

Striker thought back to the woman firing at him in the A&W parking lot – her pinpoint accuracy, her use of suppressing fire just above his head, designed to keep him down and out.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘And the brother, what about him?’

‘Oliver Howell is a Commando-trained Ammunitions Technician . . . a Warrant Officer – Second Class.’

Striker closed his eyes and felt a rush of concern.
Ammunitions Technician
was just a fancy title for a man with a deadly job. Oliver Howell was the one thing that Striker had feared
most.

A bomb hunter.

The first thing Striker did was flag every single database available for Oliver and Molly Howell. He then notified the airports, ferries and the US border. Following all this,
he contacted Acting Deputy Chief Laroche.

Laroche listened intently, then said, ‘We need to debrief.’

For once, Striker agreed with the man.

The brass and their advisors all met in the briefing room on the seventh floor of Cambie Street Headquarters. Occupying the centre of the meeting room was a twenty-foot-long mahogany desk.
Laroche took one look at Striker and Felicia, then offered them the head of the table.

‘Finally, we can begin,’ he said. ‘Detective Striker, why don’t you give us a rundown of everything you’ve learned these past three days. Bring us up to speed on
where we stand.’

Striker did as asked. And the more he told the story, the greater the disbelief on their faces grew. When he was done explaining, Superintendent Stewart was the first to speak. ‘But why?
What do these people want?’

‘That’s the problem,’ Felicia said. ‘They haven’t asked for anything.’

Striker nodded. ‘Which makes the motive pretty clear in my estimation –
revenge
.’

Constable Lincoln Johnstone, the Media Liaison Officer, and Heath Ballantyne, a civilian who acted as the department’s public image consultant, let out simultaneous grumbles.
Johnstone’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘This is going to be a difficulty with the media.’

‘A difficulty?’ Ballantyne whined. ‘It’s a public relations
nightmare.
Two crazed bombers hell-bent on blowing up people around the city – you think the
press has had fun till this point, you just wait.
Christ
.’

Through the back and forth arguments, Laroche remained silent, listening, thinking. He looked at Striker and Felicia all the while, and when the ruckus was calming down, he asked, ‘What do
we know about their history?’

Striker spoke first. ‘They’re both members of the Royal Logistics Corps.’

‘Bomb hunters,’ Felicia added.

The look on Laroche’s face hardened. Johnstone made an exasperated sound, while Ballantyne just let loose another string of profanities.

‘Are you certain of this?’ Laroche asked.

Striker gave him a hard look. ‘Completely.’

Felicia nodded her support. ‘The military angle also explains how they acquired the explosives . . . They’ve been here in Canada for several months now, under the guise of visiting
our own army to assess their bomb-defusing techniques. I’ve called some contacts on the matter.’

‘And?’ Laroche pressed.

‘It’s interesting,’ she continued. ‘During times of war, most countries just blow up any Improvised Explosive Devices they locate. But not the Brits and Canadians. We
defuse
them in order to save the components. It creates a trail leading back to the manufacturers. The information gained from dismantling the bombs is invaluable, but it also costs a lot
of lives. The soldiers who do this, they’re of a different breed. They have to be in order to handle the constant unbelievable stress.’

‘It’s a wonder they don’t all have PTSD,’ Ballantyne commented.

‘Many do,’ Felicia said. ‘The job has a high mortality rate. In fact, Oliver Howell was blown up once himself and hospitalized for it. I haven’t been able to get access
to the army medical records yet, but we do know this – both Oliver and Molly are highly decorated war vets who have seen several tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Quite frankly, they’re
the worst possible enemies we could have in this case.’

Striker turned in his seat to face her. ‘Does the army stock PETN?’

She nodded. ‘I spoke to their Ammunitions Officer. Not only do they stock PETN, but theirs was one of the batches that was recalled.’

‘Was any missing?’

Felicia frowned. ‘There’s no way of checking. The company who makes the product gave the army a full credit for the batch. Rather than waste time and money shipping the product back,
they detonated it with other explosives. As a result, there’s no way of checking inventories, although I don’t think it’s a big stretch to conclude that this is where the bombers
got their supply.’

Striker thought things through. ‘The faulty batch explains how Koda survived the explosion at his home. It also explains why the bombers switched to home-made explosives halfway through
the mission.’

For a moment, the room turned silent. Then Laroche spoke.

‘What else can we do to prevent further casualties?’ he asked.

Striker gave them a rundown of what had been done so far – police databases, the border, and all modes of international travel had been flagged. The RCMP had undercover units set up on the
Sunset Care Centre as well as Archer Davies’ second family. And here in Vancouver, Patrol was already guarding Rothschild and his family.

This seemed to satisfy Laroche for the moment. ‘Then the only remaining question is our line of action with regard to public knowledge . . . Do we inform them?’

Striker was the first to speak. ‘You go public with this information, and you might sewer any chance we have of catching them.’

Media Liaison Constable Johnstone agreed. ‘We have to consider the fear aspect. These are well-trained military officers. Informing the public will cause mass hysteria. We can’t tell
them.’

‘We
have
to tell them,’ Ballantyne countered. He looked directly at Laroche when he spoke. ‘If you hold back this information, and a bomb goes off killing innocent
civilians – and, God forbid, children – the department will be
liable.
Not to mention your approval rating will plummet to an all-time low. It could take years to recover from
something like that. A decade.’

Striker couldn’t believe his ears. Were they really talking about public approval ratings at a time like this? It was all he could do to hold his tongue. He gave Felicia a hot look, and
she returned it.

After a long moment of discussion, Laroche turned away from the table. He walked to the window and stared outside. Behind him, Ballantyne and Johnstone argued back and forth over the right
decision, while Felicia and Striker waited with feigned patience. After a long moment, the Acting Deputy Chief returned.

‘We have a duty to inform the public.’

Striker balled his fingers into fists. ‘This is a mistake,’ he said. ‘All you’re going to do is create more fear, speed up the bombers’ plans, and make the
investigation more difficult for us.’

But Laroche acted as if he had never heard the rebuttal. He turned to Media Liaison Johnstone and nodded.

‘Go get your scribe,’ he said. ‘We have a speech to write.’

The house was warm and smelled of fresh-baked scones, and that Beatles guy Mommy loved so much was singing about Jude over the speakers again. Outside the sun was shining
brightly in the deep blue sky. Everything
looked
wonderful. Like it was a perfect day. But to six-year-old Oliver, there was no day worse.

Daddy was leaving again.

‘Don’t go . . . please, Daddy . . . don’t leave me!’

He stood at the front-room window and gaped at the man he had not seen for so long he could almost not remember – not since the last time he had left in his uniform for that Green Valley
Mommy had told him about, where he went to save the world.

Beside Oliver, Molly was breathing hard, crying. She had her hands pressed up against the window and her breath was fogging up the glass.

‘Don’t go, don’t go,
Daddy, don’t go
!’

Her cries echoed his own.

Oliver banged on the glass as hard as he could with his little fists, but it made no difference. Daddy kept walking. He reached the taxi cab, adjusted his hat, and looked back towards the house.
For a moment, they saw each other, and now the tears began to fall.

‘
Don’t go
,’ he said, all but a whisper.

Daddy did not move for a moment, he just stared back and his face became awfully hard and his eyes looked like wet glass. He gave them a quick salute.

‘I love you two,’ he mouthed, and touched his heart.

From the kitchen, came Mother. Her apron was covered in flour, and she gently wrapped her arm around both of them, then guided them away from the window. ‘Come on, dears, I’ve made
your favourite treat – scones with cream and strawberry jam.’

‘No!’ Oliver yelled.

He spun away from her. Ran back to the window. Placed his hands and face against the glass. Big tears rolled down his cheeks.

Outside, the cab was already driving away. And Oliver let loose a wild, agonized sound as it left. He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed some more, while Bert and Ernie talked on the TV and the smell
of fresh-baked scones spread throughout the living room.

Don’t go don’t go don’t go . . .

‘DON’T GO!’ Oliver yelled.

He reached out and grabbed for nothing that was there.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Molly said.

Her voice – her
tone
– startled him. Woke him. And he looked around the room in a haze. It was as if someone had suddenly screamed in his ear while he was meditating, and he
now realized he was horizontal with the ground. He tried to sit up, and the earth shifted beneath him.

He fell back down.

‘Lie down, Oliver. Lie down . . .’ Molly stared at him from above, her round face tight, her eyes distant. She brushed a hand through his hair. ‘Jesus almighty, you’re
soaked,
Oliver. You’re burning up.’

He tried to sit up again; she pushed him back down.

‘Rest!’ she said.

‘Target’s away . . . left turn, south . . .’

‘There is no target, Oliver. You’re here. With me.’

‘. . . bomb’s
hot
. . .’

Molly stood up. Walked to the corner. And opened a small red medical cooler. From it, she withdrew a cloth and three cold packs. She sat back down and used a rag to gently mop the sweat from
Oliver’s brow, then she broke the chemical seals on the ice packs and placed one against his forehead and two under his armpits.

‘
No!
’ He tried to take them out.

‘Leave them.’

‘. . . is cold.’

‘Leave them.’

‘My leg. Leave the leg . . .’

Molly said nothing. From the steel table across the room, she grabbed the remaining bottles of antibiotics and antihistamines, and injected Oliver for the third time of the hour. Wanting the
medications closer, she crossed the room, grabbed hold of the steel table and tried to pull it across the room. But it was too heavy, so she left the table where it was and laid her supplies down
on the red medical cooler.