“The police are, what, corrupt?”
Benson started laughing, slivers of wet toast spilling from his mouth. “Jesus, what do you think?”
“That’s why I asked.”
“Look, the army, the police, the security people — it’s all one big happy gang here. You can’t tell one from the other.”
“So the Chinese guy is paying them off?”
“One way or another, but that’s true for anyone in this country who has money. You don’t get money and you sure as fuck don’t keep money unless you’re looking after the powers that be.”
“And who are they, the powers that be?”
“I don’t fucking know and I don’t fucking care. As long as I’m left alone, the cops and the army and the rest of them can fiddle away.”
“That seems sensible,” she said.
They walked to the elevator together. She sensed that he was going to come on to her and wasn’t surprised when he said, “Would you like to go out tonight? You know, hit some clubs?”
“Tom, I’m not really your type,” Ava said gently. “Believe me, I’m not.”
(20)
At ten o’clock Ava slipped her notebook and her Canadian passport into the Chanel bag and went downstairs. Dressed in a black knee-length skirt, black pumps, and a white Brooks Brothers shirt, she looked every inch a conservative, serious businesswoman.
She went straight out of the hotel up to Young Street, turned right, and walked two and a half blocks to a white wooden house the size of a small apartment building that flew the Canadian flag. She assumed that the embassy offices were on the ground floor and the residences above. She had expected to meet security at the double doors, but there was none. In the small air-conditioned vestibule, a young black woman sat at a reception desk behind a plastic shield that was perforated at mouth level.
Ava walked towards her, the woman eyeing her as if she were a thief. “Hello, my name is Ava Lee. I’m Canadian and I’m here on business. I’ve run into a bit of trouble and I need to speak to the ambassador,” she said, flashing her passport.
“There is no ambassador. We have a high commissioner, and he sees no one without an appointment.”
“This is an emergency. If he isn’t available, is there anyone else who can help me?”
“I’m not sure — ” she began, and then was interrupted by the appearance of a man who didn’t look to Ava much like a diplomat.
He stared at her from behind the shield, his hand resting on the woman’s shoulder. Ava smiled and held up her passport. “I’m having some problems and I hope you can help.”
There was a slit at the bottom of the shield. He pointed to it. “Slide your passport through there, please.” She did. He took it and examined her picture and all her visas and entry stamps; then he spread it apart to check the binding.
“What’s the problem?” he said.
“Do I have to stand out here?”
He thought about it. “No, I guess not.” He reached down and hit a button. The door to the offices buzzed and swung open.
She walked through and held out her hand. “I’m Ava Lee.”
“Marc Lafontaine.”
He was a hulk of a man, layered with muscle. “You’re not the high commissioner, are you?” she said.
“I’m with the RCMP.”
“Ah.”
“I’m the security around here.”
“You may be exactly the person I need to talk to.”
“No one ever wants to talk to me.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“What is it you want to discuss?”
“Out here? You don’t have an office?”
“Pushy, aren’t you?”
“Desperate is more like it.”
That caught his attention. “Follow me,” he said. “We normally don’t let people back here, but you don’t look like a threat.”
His office was modest, containing a metal desk, a wooden swivel chair, and two four-drawer metal filing cabinets. On a coat rack in one corner, his uniform hung inside a plastic dry-cleaning bag. She noticed there were three stripes on the sleeve. Two photographs of three young girls sat on top of one of the filing cabinets. “Are those your daughters, Sergeant?”
“Yes, and call me Marc.”
“Are they here with you?”
“They’re in Ottawa with their mother.”
“I see.” She looked at the pictures and then at him. He had short auburn hair cropped close to his scalp, thin eyebrows, a long nose, and a chin that was distinctively pointed. All the girls shared that chin. “They look like you,” she said.
“We don’t get many Canadians walking in off the street the way you just did. Tell me why you’re so desperate. That is the word you used, right?”
“That may have been a bit of an exaggeration. It’s a bit too soon to tell.”
“Are you going to make me guess what this is about?”
She had dealt with Mounties several times before. They had not been very imaginative but they had been rigorously honest, and she knew they valued the same in return. She had no intention of lying to him; she just needed to gauge how much she could tell him. “As security, I imagine you have to deal with the local police and the like.”
He nodded.
“Well, I need to know how the system works here.”
“You are going to tell me why, aren’t you?”
“I represent a Canadian company that was bilked out of a substantial amount of money by someone currently residing in Guyana,” she said carefully. “I’m here to try to collect some or all of that money.”
His face didn’t register any emotion; he had probably heard this story before. “That’s why there are lawyers. I can recommend a couple if you want,” he said.
“This has gone beyond lawyers,” she said. “Besides, the scam took place in the U.S., the money is probably in an offshore account, and the culprit is here. You can imagine how complicated any legal action would be, involving four separate jurisdictions.”
“I can. Now you haven’t told me just what you do. Are you a lawyer?”
“I’m an accountant, a forensic accountant.”
“So you tracked the money.”
“I did.”
“And you know who took it and where he or she is?”
“His name is Jackson Seto. He has a house in Malvern Gardens, on the outskirts of Georgetown, and he’s there right now.”
“I know Malvern Gardens. Him I’ve never heard of.”
“Why would you?”
He shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”
“Anyway, I need to tackle Seto head-on.”
“What’s stopping you?”
