The Last Witness

telling her not to worry, she could handle it. ‘If that’s how it has to be, I can do it. Don’t worry.’ Once again one of those Kodak moments when Lorena was suddenly old beyond her years, drawing from some deep inner resolve that had helped her endure the dark days of the orphanages and sewers. She’d survived a thousand rats down there; this was just one more rat.

Returning from the embassy after leaving Lorena, Elena nursed a scotch up at the bar with Alphonse in order to steady her nerves, and after a while felt she had everything under control again. But gradually images started to bombard her: baring her soul to Gordon, fainting in the orphanage, Uncle Christos and her mother on the phone turning her world upside down about her father, the Donatiens telling her that they didn’t think she’d be able to see her son ‘…It was on the news… didn’t you see?’ And it was all going to end here, now, in only a few hours.

Within half an hour of the squad car coming to pick her up, she was in pieces again. A two hour meeting to explain away a lifetime. She was back again to frantically working out what she would say. Where would she even start? Would she open with how sorry she was or just plough into explaining then apologise later? Would she hug him first, or again wait till later and the moment felt right? Or, if she felt the same as right now, would she just stare at him dumbly with her whole body shaking — too numb to put into words the nightmare she’d been through to finally get to see him — then break down into tears and weep out her catharsis on his shoulder before she could even utter a single word.

Elena kept her eyes closed for a moment and listened to her own breathing as she sunk deeper down into her own private darkness, trying to keep it even, get her nerves steady again. They’d be hitting the city outskirts soon and she’d have to put on the blacked-out headset: she’d have a couple more hours then for her own private contemplation. Wished she could be so brave. She thought she might get some images from the chine to guide her, tell her what to do, but there was no longer anything there. Only darkness. She was on her own.

‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’ Roman hissed into his mobile. He’d already pressed ‘end call’ from speaking to Jean-Paul. He gave the phone one last clench before tucking it back in his inside pocket.

‘We got company,’ he said in a flat tone to Massenat.

‘Yeah, I gathered. Either it’s Maria’s mother or someone else you’re not to keen on.’

‘Look, Frank — leave the fucking jokes to me, okay?’ Roman was slow in pulling his stare from Massenat to look blankly ahead again through the car windscreen. His temples ached with tension, and he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘Some fucking bright torpedo from Toronto Jean-Paul wants to ride along with us. Santa-fucking-something, one of Giacomelli’s golden boys.’

‘Oh, right.’

The silence following said it all. They had a problem. Roman cursed Jean-Paul: either he suspected something, or just wanted to make doubly sure everything went right. All these years of being pushed deeper into the background, but this was the final insult: when it came to something important, one of Giacomelli’s pet school monitors sent along to keep tabs on him.

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