Face/Mask (41 page)

Janus had to resist an urge to smile in the face of Therrien’s obvious avarice. He had many thousands of dollars more that he could not legally account for, and therefore could not use in any other way.

“You’ll have it,” he said. “But I need the information soon.”

Therrien reached under the table and slid the briefcase closer. He flipped open the latch and looked down through the small opening, blinking his eyes rapidly at the sight of the bundled hundred-dollar bills.

“Give me a week,
Monsieur le Directeur
. You will have all the information you need.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting for your call. And I’ll have the rest of your money.”

November 1, 2039:

A week dragged by until Therrien called back. Janus tried to pass the time by spending long hours at work and keeping his conversations with Terry short. Despite Sévigny’s admonition to reconnect with his family, Janus’s need to find out who had informed on Sahar made it impossible for him to be more than coolly civil to his wife. As for Terry, she never forced the issue, but he could see the familiar expression of pain in her eyes. He’d briefly thought that things were going to change, that he would change, but there was something holding him back.

When Therrien showed up at the diner that evening, and told him what he’d learned, Janus was stunned into silence.

“The rumour at the station is that this Muslim, Walid Kadri, was in deep trouble over the bombing two weeks ago,” Therrien told Janus. “It seems he made a deal with Inspector Robert Sévigny, from the Laval Division.”

“I know who he is.”

“Kadri gave him some information on the woman you asked me about in order to save his own skin. I don’t know what he had on her, but I imagine it must have been pretty powerful, because from what I heard he was a prime suspect in the bombing, and then they let him go.”

Janus hardly reacted as the policeman picked up another briefcase full of cash, checked its contents with a greedy smile, and then turned and trotted away. Therrien’s words kept playing like a loop in his head: Kadri was a prime suspect in the bombing but he’d saved himself by selling Sahar out to Sévigny. Kadri was a prime suspect because Allen Janus had pointed him out to the authorities, and destroying Sahar was how Kadri had gotten out of trouble.

Janus had no idea what kind of information Kadri had on Sahar. She probably had more than a few skeletons in her own closet, but that didn’t matter to him. What did matter was that once again Janus’s actions, his decision to turn against Kadri, had led to someone he cared deeply about being hurt. Or maybe more than hurt.

It was the same lesson he should have learned after Joe’s arrest, and Leblanc’s disappearance. It was none too subtle, but it never seemed to sink into his brain.

He looked around, wondering what he could do to make things right. He even considered killing himself, but he knew he’d never go through with it. He was too much of a coward, and he also had too many people depending on him at home. He had no choice but to continue living, and suffering the consequences of his actions.

Walid Kadri, on the other hand, didn’t have to suffer the same fate. Janus would see to that.

November 4, 2039:

A small delivery van sat with its diesel engine idling on the corner of a busy street in Laval. Its exhaust pipe spewed smoke into the air, and the rumble of its engines occasionally slowed, as if it were about to stall, before growling back to life. The few passersby, wearing their air-masks against the orange-alert air, ignored it as they rushed to the local mosque for Friday prayers. It was just another polluting vehicle in a world that was full of them.

Inside the van, surrounded by a half-dozen hand-picked officers, sat Robert Sévigny. This wasn’t the first raid he’d carried out based on information given to him by Walid Kadri, but it would be the first one where he’d be the one who brought a bomb to the scene. Over two weeks since the bombing and they still didn’t have a single suspect. Not in Laval, not in Montreal, not even internationally.

Bloggers on the internet howled with outrage over police incompetence, and politicians were threatening that heads would roll if arrests weren’t forthcoming. Sévigny understood now what Schultz had meant when he said that the only thing the public cared about was that somebody be held responsible for the attack.

A few days after the arrest of Sahar Chamseddine he asked Kadri to find him a small group of young men, preferably room-mates with few friends or family outside their immediate circle. Kadri, who felt heavily indebted to the policeman, readily agreed. Two days later he gave Sévigny the address of four cousins who lived together in this building. And while he never asked why Sévigny needed these men, the events of today would make matters clear.

Squeezed into the back of the van with the other policemen, Sévigny was having difficulty breathing. He tried to focus on the job at hand, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He peeked into it first to make sure that it was a clean one.

His lungs seemed to be taking turns between burning and aching these days, and he’d spent several minutes spitting up blood that morning. Of course, that had been in the privacy of his bathroom at headquarters, out of sight from his men. The police nurse gave him an analgesic spray to quieten the coughing spasms which shook him more and more often. She had also given him several words of advice that he ignored. He just hoped the spray would last a couple of more hours, until they were done here and he was back behind his locked office door.

He forced himself to wait until the final call to prayer sounded, and then a few minutes more to allow stragglers to make their way from their homes. The four college-age men who were unaware of their impending death had sworn off religion in recent months, in an attempt to throw off what they saw as the shackles of their past. That meant they stayed resolutely inside their apartment while their friends and neighbours listened to their imam exhort them to a more peaceful and God-fearing way of life.

Too bad for them
.
They fit the profile I asked Kadri for. Should’ve gone to pray like everyone else.

He was aware that there were other people in the building who wouldn’t be attending prayers, and they risked suffering the same fate as the four young men. He’d chosen this day and time to minimize the collateral damage, but some innocent bystanders had to die to ensure that the explosion in the apartment looked like an accident.

Seeing nobody else on the street he signaled to his sergeant, who opened the van’s door and jumped out, followed by Sévigny and the others. The wind had picked up, clearing the air a bit, but not enough for anyone to remove their air-masks. That was good: for this mission, Sévigny needed his men to hide their identities behind their masks.

Two of these men were bomb experts. Their duties usually involved the disarming of bombs, although they rarely had a chance to practice that skill in real-life situations. On this day, however, they were to plant and detonate a bomb in the young men’s apartment.

The other officers were there to subdue the four men in the apartment. Everyone wore an air-mask. Three officers wore
djelabias
under their long coats. All wore old and dirty pants. While it may have been unusual for a group of men to enter the building together at this time, at least they looked like they were from the area.

They got down the hallway and into the elevator without crossing anybody’s path. Stepping out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor, Sévigny followed the arrows on the wall facing him toward the apartment they wanted.

Just before they reached the door Sévigny heard a tinkling, circus-like tune coming from the apartment next door. He stopped and raised his hand for silence, listening to the song. His sergeant, a father of two small children, stood next to him and leaned over to whisper in Sévigny’s ear.

“My kids watch that show,” he said, an unhappy look in his eyes.

Sévigny looked back at him, then nodded slowly, acknowledging the gravity of what they were about to do. He placed a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder, and gave it a soft squeeze before directing him toward the target apartment.

His men spread out on each side of the door. Sévigny positioned himself in front of it and removed his air-mask, so that anybody looking through the peep hole would see his face and the RCMP logo on the cap he was wearing.

He knocked firmly on the door and then waited. After a few seconds a voice from the other side said: “What is it?”

“Cit-card inspection. Open up.”

“
Merde
, it’s Friday. You’re not supposed to bother us on a Friday.”

“So what? You’re missing church anyways. You know the rules; open the door.”

Sévigny heard some mumbling in Arabic and the sound of shuffling feet from behind the door, then the metallic click of a deadbolt being pulled back. The door opened and a clean-shaven man of about twenty, wearing shorts and an Expos T-shirt, stood in front of him.

Instead of entering the apartment, Sévigny took a step back, and from both sides his men rushed in, electro-stunners at the ready. There were a few shouts of surprise from inside that were quickly cut off, followed by the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

He stepped into the apartment, closed the door and took a quick look around. There were pizza boxes and beer cans on the floor of a small living room. An ancient television set was on, with a 2D video game still running on the screen. He signaled to his bomb experts, who opened their satchels and quickly went about their business, setting up a bomb on the kitchen table, with parts and tools spread around.

Looking at their handiwork Sévigny was reminded of the raid in 2032, when Kadri’s information had led him to an apartment of real terrorists. That group was arrested without a shot being fired, or a bomb exploding. His memory of that crime-scene served as a useful reference for how the equipment and parts should be spread across the kitchen today. Once the pieces were in place Sévigny slipped a plastic bag from his pocket, from which he pulled out an old wristwatch that Kadri had found for him in some pawn shop.

The man really has admirable skills
, Sévigny thought, regretting that he would soon have to dispense with Kadri’s services. There was no choice, though. Schultz had made that clear. And considering how much Kadri knew about Sévigny’s various illicit operations, like the one he was about to carry out, it was for the best that he be permanently removed from the picture.

Leaving the kitchen Sévigny saw that two of the young men were still seated, unconscious, on an old sofa facing the television. He signaled his men to keep them there. The other two men, including the one who opened the door for him, he wanted in the kitchen.

The bomb they placed had a remote detonator, which he would activate once they were far from the building. The blast would be powerful enough to destroy several apartments on this floor, along with whoever was inside.

The same bomb experts who were planting the bomb in the kitchen would be the ones to secure and analyze its working parts. They would report that all indications were that this was the same type of bomb as the one which blew up the RCMP detachment. Both bombs would have the maker’s signature timer. The search for the perpetrators of that bombing, totally stalled now, would be declared over, to everyone’s relief. There would be no heroes this time, but neither would the lack of arrests continue to haunt Montreal’s Security Directorate.

And, if another bomb were to go off some day? Well, Sévigny knew there was always a risk of copy-cat crimes.

The explosion in Laval killed twelve people, including a group of four young men who would henceforth be referred to as “the suspects in the October 17 bombing” in all official RCMP releases and news reports from that point on. Fortunately the explosion had been on a floor that was high enough up that the building’s vacu-pumps weren’t damaged, or the number of fatalities could have been higher.

Sévigny returned to his office in order to draft his report on the accidental death of those suspects, likely by the premature detonation of a bomb they were working on in their apartment. He’d write that they were clearly planning another attack when the bomb went off, putting an end to this newly formed terrorist group. Sadly, he’d be sure to mention, eight innocent apartment dwellers were killed in the explosion. He’d write that it was a stroke of good fortune (or a miracle, the religious might say) that dozens of their neighbours were at Friday prayers when the bomb went off.

Eight dead bystanders is a lot less than I’d expected
, Sévigny thought as he sat down at his desk.
Still, that’s enough to make it look good.

Part IV:

Truth

Chapter sixteen

Gospel of Luke, 18:10-13:
Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other men – extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this tax collector. I fast twice a week. I give tithes of all that I possess.’ And the tax collector, standing afar off, would not so much as raise his eyes to heaven, saying, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner!’

November 5, 2039:

Allen Janus was not a particularly brave man. His actions over the previous several years had also disabused him of any notion that he was a righteous man. But as he got out of his car at an all-too familiar address in the Park Extension district of Montreal, he told himself that this time he was doing the right thing, and he knew it would take whatever courage he had to go through with it.

He knocked on the door of the dilapidated building where for the longest time he and Norman Leblanc had thrilled to the sights and sounds of savage dogs tearing into each other’s throats.

When Therrien had told him who had informed on Sahar, Janus’s first thought had been to hire someone to kill Walid. There was a delicious irony in using whatever was left of Walid’s money to pay his killer. But the more Janus thought about it, the more he was sure that he would have to do it himself. Walid had turned on Sahar because of what Janus had done to him, so it was up to Janus to avenge her.

When the man he knew as Michael opened the door to let him into the dog-fighting establishment, Janus didn’t waste any time getting to the point.

“I need to buy a gun. I’ll pay whatever you want.”    

It took less than ten minutes to buy the gun. Janus had imagined that a transaction that would lead to a man’s death would take longer, that there would be more thought given to participating in the violent act he intended. But, in the end, a handful of hundred dollar bills had led to Michael casually pulling a shoebox out of an old cupboard and passing it to Janus. Inside was a loaded, snub-nosed revolver.

Janus went off to a corner of the large building, away from the fighting ring, where he could be alone and hold the gun for a while. He wanted to get used to the feel of the weapon, and to the idea that he was about to use it on another human. He’d done some terrible things in his life, but this would sink him to another level.

He closed his eyes and pictured himself firing the gun the way that Michael had shown him. He hardly felt the time passing as he handled the gun and played out different scenarios in his mind. He imagined Walid cowering, begging for mercy, while he berated him for his treachery, letting him know exactly why it was he was about to die. He also imagined shooting Walid the moment he saw him, without wasting his time on any speeches. He didn’t know if he should kill him fast, or let him die a slow, painful death. He didn’t know if he could kill him at all.

The minutes ticked by and Janus was still glued to his spot when he heard a commotion near the exit. He opened his eyes and saw the crowd of gamblers rushing down the long hall toward the main door. His first thought was that the RCMP had finally decided to raid the dog-fights and he was about to be caught there with an illegal gun.

But he saw no policemen anywhere and, while people were moving quickly, nobody was panicking. He hurried toward the crowd and grabbed a middle-aged man by the arm.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

“What’re you, blind?” the man asked, pointing to a spot above the exit. Janus looked up and saw the yellow, orange and red bulbs that were found above the doors of most commercial establishments. The red bulb was flashing.

“A red alert? When did this happen?”

“Cripes, buddy. You’re deaf as well as blind. Michael just announced it on the loud speaker. Weathermen blew the forecast again, if you can believe it. You got about half an hour to get home, unless you want to spend the night in here with the dogs.”

With that, the man pulled his arm out of Janus’s grip and moved with the others toward the door. Janus couldn’t believe he’d been so wrapped up in his violent fantasies that he’d totally missed the alert.

Half an hour?

That wouldn’t give him enough time to get to the café in Laval and back. He had to get out of there as fast as he could, so he squeezed into the mass of bodies that was gathered near the exit, following several large men trying to bull their way out.

Outside, he headed straight for his car, trying to calculate how long it would take him to get to the
Café Liban
. He wouldn’t have time to go home after dealing with Walid, so he’d try hiding in Sahar’s building. It was only a few minutes away from his target, and he could spend the night on the hallway floor if he had to. It never occurred to him that he might have to go on the run if he shot Walid in the middle of his cafe.

He pulled out into the chaos of dozens of cars leaving the scene at the same time. Drivers cut others off, only to find themselves blocked by cars going in the opposite direction. Janus honked and yelled as furiously as anyone else.

“Come on! Come on!” he yelled at nobody in particular.

He was wasting too much time. At this rate he wouldn’t make it to Sahar’s building. He’d have to hide in his car; there was no other choice. After-all, he had his air-mask, so how bad could it be? As long as he got to Walid first. That’s all that mattered.

Shit! What if they close the checkpoint into Laval?     

He hadn’t considered that. He slammed the steering wheel with his palm as he edged his car past a stalled pickup truck. Would he be able to get through the checkpoint? And would Walid even be at his cafe? It wasn’t noon yet and Janus had no idea if the cafe opened for lunch. And wouldn’t they close for a red alert?

He was less than a block from the main road where the traffic looked to be flowing normally. Above him orange-brown clouds tumbled closer, carried by a strong wind from the west, bringing with them the threat of acid rain. He knew this rain could eat through his clothes and his skin. He had to make sure he was indoors if the clouds burst.

All sorts of thoughts bounced around in his head, and he couldn’t decide what to do. He looked at the car’s timer and saw that almost ten minutes had passed since the stranger had pointed out the flashing red light. At this rate he wouldn’t even make it to the cafe before the air turned so toxic that his standard issue air-mask wouldn’t protect him. Was he brave enough to risk death in order to get revenge on Walid? Maybe he’d have a heroic ending to his life, which had been far from heroic so far.

Up ahead was the on-ramp to the bridge. To get to it he had to drive past the exit which led to his home. He had less than a minute to decide. His heart was racing and he tried to breathe normally inside the thick rubber mask that covered his face. He pressed on the accelerator; his mind made up.

The com whistled in his ear, snapping him back to reality. It was Terry calling.

November 6, 2039:

He’d lost a day, but that was all. Looking back at how desperate he’d been to get up to Laval the day before, Janus couldn’t believe that he’d seriously considered risking his life because he was in such a hurry to shoot Walid. Once more, he’d let his emotions get the better of him. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened had Terry not called when she did.

But she had called, and as soon as she spoke to him he realized how crazily he was acting. He would have ample time to carry out his plan another day, when the weather was less likely to kill him. So he’d taken the exit toward his home and was safely inside mere minutes before the light over his door stopped flashing and became a solid red. At that point all bets were off on anyone who hadn’t made it indoors.

The red alert only lasted twelve hours, turning back to orange during the night while they slept. When he woke up on Sunday morning, the world outside his home was that much less lethal than the day before.

Good morning, Mr. Sunshine
, he thought ruefully, wondering how things had gotten so bad that an orange alert was considered a good thing.
Where would we be without our masks?

At least he’d slept better than he had since the last time he spoke to
Caporal
Therrien. The lack of sleep during the week must have caught up with him. The gun that he’d hidden in his closet with the rest of Walid’s money had also set his mind at ease.

Terry made pancakes with the powdered eggs that she’d gone back to buying, and he decided to enjoy the day with his family before heading up to Laval in the evening. He would act with more calm and deliberation today, rather than going off half-cocked like he’d done the day before.

The unexpected red alert had given Walid a one-day reprieve, but that’s all it would be.

When Janus arrived at the
Café Liban
, diners were sitting at most of the tables. The
oude
player wasn’t on stage, but recorded music wafted from the speakers. Walid was nowhere to be seen. Farid, the head waiter, told him that it wouldn’t be long before he arrived. He found an empty table for Janus to sit at. As far as he knew, Janus was still a valued friend of his boss.

Janus tried to wait patiently, knowing that Walid would show up only when it suited him. He was nervous, but he wasn’t full of the self-righteous anger that he’d felt yesterday; anger that made it easier for him to act impulsively. The gun in his coat pocket felt heavier than it had when he’d bought it. His palms were sweaty and he kept wiping them on his pants legs, so that the gun wouldn’t slip when he gripped it.

He wanted so much to kill Walid for what he’d done to Sahar, but he was worried that he’d lose his nerve. He hadn’t even been able to decide how he was going to do it. Did he just pull the gun out and start firing as Walid approached? Was that all it took?

He had no more time to think about a plan of action because Walid entered the large room, looking as casually dapper as ever. Farid pointed in Janus’s general direction and Janus stood up to make sure Walid made no mistake about his determination to see him. He tried to look calm, but he had to grip the back of a chair to steady himself..

Walid sauntered over, a broad smile and effusive greeting at the ready. Janus stood motionless at his arrival, not reaching out for the proffered hand, nor smiling back. Walid stopped in his tracks. His welcoming expression disappeared as quickly as it had shown up on his face, and he became all business. He sat down at Janus’s table uninvited and waved a hand at a waiter, who quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

“
Monsieur Janus
, you are not going to sit down?” His tone was sarcastic, with no trace of the false bonhomie that he’d always projected so skillfully.

Janus hesitated. He wanted to reach into his pocket for the gun, but he couldn’t move his hand. Being face to face with the man he hated wasn’t the same thing as lying in bed, imagining how he’d kill him. He saw he was drawing attention to himself by standing there, so he sat down.       

Walid spoke first, and the disdain he had for Janus was evident in his voice.

“You don’t look very happy today.”

“You know why.”

“I know why,
Monsieur Janus
. I have no interest in playing games today.”

“I had the impression that playing games was a specialty of yours,” Janus replied through gritted teeth.

“Oh, very clever. Well said. Is this why you came to Laval?”

Janus wanted to show him exactly why he’d come there, but found himself merely telling Walid what he thought of him.

“I came to tell you that you’re the worst kind of two-faced bastard I’ve ever had the displeasure of dealing with.”

“Well then you’ve been fortunate all your life.”

“This isn’t a joke. You screwed me over. You screwed
her
over.”

“I’m very well aware of what I did.”

“And that’s it? You just admit it without the least little qualm?”

Walid looked up as the waiter arrived with his small cup of Turkish coffee. He blew across the top for a few seconds before sipping softly from it. Placing it gently down on the table he sat back and crossed his arms, his expression as calm as always.

“I can tell you I did feel some qualms, as you put it. But not enough to deter me from doing what I needed to do.”

“Needed to do? Do you double-cross everybody?”

“Can you be more specific?”

“For Christ’s sake, who are you loyal to anyway?”

“What day is it?”

Exasperated, Janus stood up. He could barely restrain himself from yelling into the man’s calm face.

“How do you live with yourself?”

“I shop a lot. Shall we keep going with these ridiculous questions?”

Janus was sure he’d reached the boiling point; that now was the time to pull out the gun and put an end to this charade. But, instead, he sat down, shaking his head at his own inability to act. Meanwhile, Walid looked at him like he was a big joke. Janus didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been the man’s glib answers.