Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (18 page)

T
uesday dawned bright and clear. The cold outside couldn’t compare to the chill inside their room. Jackie got out of bed without a word to Sam. She walked into the bathroom, slamming the door.

The shower ran for a long time; it seemed like forever to Sam. He unraveled himself from the couch and stood up. His side still ached. He bent over to stretch out the kinks in his back. He had enjoyed the wine last night, but his head pounded this morning. Pulling on a pair of slacks, he stood by the window and pushed the curtains back slightly. Harried commuters hurried down the street, not one looking suspicious.

The bathroom door opened with a puff of steam, and Jackie came out wrapped in a long white robe.

A long silence settled in the space. Sam debated what to say. “I think we ought to talk about last night.”

She stared at him for a moment, her long black hair wrapped in a towel, before walking to the closet and picking out clothes. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m on assignment.” She disappeared back into the bathroom, slamming the door again. Sam stood there, feeling stupid.

A breakfast of rich, black coffee and tasty croissants with homemade raspberry jelly did little to warm the chill from Jackie. While Sam would have to try his best to get past the cold shoulder, his most important task was to prepare for the meeting that evening.

Sam and Jackie struck out on their tour of the city, Sam following the itinerary he’d agreed upon with Bob O’Brien. He glanced over his shoulder every few minutes to check if they were being followed, but spotted no one.

They walked down the hill on Rue Stanley to Rue Sherbrooke and turned left. The morning commuter traffic crawled along Rue Sherbrooke, one of the major arteries in the city, made worse by the construction crews already at work on a sewer connection. Even though Montreal was often referred to as the Paris of North America because of the beauty of the buildings, the art galleries, the jazz festivals, and the many things to do, Sam’s mind was on other things.

He checked again, but no one seemed interested in them. “Traffic’s as bad as D.C. I told Bob we’d start with the Museum of Fine Art. After that we’d visit the Museum of Contemporary Art. Those are the usual places people visit.”

“Fine.” Jackie’s voice was soft. Sam could barely hear her.

“If we have time, I told him I’d like to see a jazz bar and the old port.”

“Did you ever consider picking places I’d like to see?”

“I thought we’d already agreed on an itinerary.”

Jackie didn’t answer.

They walked along Rue Sherbrooke. Sam looked at one of the many restaurants. “I think we need to check out a coffee shop along the way.”

“Maybe you should go on your own.”

This would be a long day. “Oscar Peterson got his start here in Montreal. There’s a number of jazz spots around here. I read some of the best places are located in the Place des Arts.”

Jackie flashed her first smile of the day. “Isn’t that where all those Montrealers stripped down naked for that photographer from New York?”

Sam laughed. “Why do I miss all the fun?”

Jackie didn’t laugh.

“The big jazz festival is held there every summer,” Sam said. “Where did you hear about all the naked troops?”

“Read it somewhere.” Jackie said. “I think the Musee d’Art Contemporain is located near the Place des Arts.”

“Guess I should have studied French in school. You’re sounding like a native.” Sam glanced around. “If we have time, let’s look for the McGill station. Most of the underground network is located close to there.

Jackie kept walking, silent.

“We’ve got about a week’s worth of sightseeing to cram into a couple of days.”

Jackie looked up at him. “How long do we have?”

“I’m not sure.” Sam paused. “Madam Camille told me we should stop for lunch at a place called Marcel’s. Some great French food might hit the spot.”

“Fine.”

After they toured the Museum of Fine Arts, the pair walked over to the Museum of Contemporary Arts. Sam soon found that he’d had enough of museums, but Jackie seemed to be enjoying herself. That was something.

Marcel’s was easy to find, right on Rue Catherine about five blocks from the hotel. The restaurant had a bar that seated fifteen people, with three, round four-person tables along the opposite wall. The dining room held about twenty tables. Without reservations, they had to wait about thirty minutes.

Marcel shepherded people in and out of the restaurant with efficiency. Most of his patrons towered over the short man, but his effusive personality kept everyone laughing.

A hand touched his arm. Sam turned to look down into Marcel’s smiling eyes.

“Please be patient, Colonel Thorpe. I’ll get you in as soon as I can. Without reservations, it’s normally a problem. Ah, are you active duty or retired?”

“Newly retired.”

“I retired from the Canadian Army about seven years ago. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of a fellow retiree.”

“Thanks.”
Interesting guy,
thought Sam. He had done well in retirement.

Marcel hurried off, but returned in a few minutes. He waved for Sam to follow him. He seated them with a flourish and motioned for a waiter to serve them.

Sam ordered the cheese omelet. Jackie chose a chicken dish with a thick creamy sauce.

The silence between the two hung in the air like an unwanted disease until the waitress brought their meals.

Sam took a bite of his omelet, the butter draining down onto his plate. The cheese melted in his mouth. “I’ve never had a better omelet. These potatoes are out-damn-standing.”

“I can’t imagine why Montrealers don’t keel over from heart attacks. There’s enough butter in those eggs and this sauce to last me for a year.”

“The secret is red wine.” Sam laughed. “Keep drinking wine. It’s guaranteed to make you enjoy each meal.”

“No more wine.”

“We’ve got to talk about last night,” Sam said in a concerned tone. “We can’t leave it like this.”

“Last night I was drunk. It won’t happen again.”

Bob O’Brien sat at the bar on the opposite side of the dining room from Sam and Jackie’s table. Agent Monar had found a seat about four stools down from O’Brien. Agent Stoner waited across the street at the entrance to a bookstore, sipping on a cup of coffee. The two Mounties provided by Captain Jeffrey had taken a quick break for lunch.

O’Brien studied the room. The round tables were all full. Marcel had a number of people waiting. Unless he’d missed it, no one had contacted Sam. Captain Jeffrey told him that Marcel Dubois was on their “watch list.” O’Brien made a mental note to follow up with Jeffrey.

O’Brien’s fish dinner was tasty. Agent Monar looked like she enjoyed her beef burgundy. With a smile on her face, she looked much happier than she had last night, standing outside in the freezing night.

O’Brien kept glancing toward Sam’s table. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He thought about the possibility of a hidden mic at their table. Sam would steer the conversation away from anything of substance.

Sam and Jackie finished their meal. Sam shook hands with Marcel on the way out. O’Brien finished his lunch, knowing that Stoner and the RCMP agents would pick up Sam and Jackie.

After he finished, O’Brien stopped by the table where Marcel stood holding menus under his arm. “That was a great lunch. One of the best I’ve ever had.”

Marcel seemed pleased. “Thank you for coming, ah Mister?”

“Johnson, George Johnson.”

“Of course, Mr. Johnson. Please come back.”

O’Brien laughed. “With food like this, you couldn’t keep me away.”

F
ollowing directions provided by the hotel clerk, Sam cut across the campus of McGill University, arriving twenty minutes early for his eight o’clock evening meeting.

The Yellow Dog Coffee Shop was located in a granite building on the edge of the campus, sandwiched between two other buildings, all pushed together like old-time row houses. Checking to make sure he had the right address, Sam had to look twice before he spotted the homemade sign for the coffee shop hanging next to the door.

Sam stood motionless in the doorway across the street. His heart beat with anticipation. Students hurried up and down the block. The wind had picked up, the temperature hovering below zero degrees Centigrade. Sam could feel the bite on his cheeks.

An elderly woman stopped in front of the building and went inside. A man stopped at the stairs to the entrance but walked on. He didn’t turn back. No one else piqued Sam’s interest, but then he wasn’t sure what he was looking for.

Jackie planned to walk to the bookstore on the corner of Rue Stanley and Rue Catherine for a cup of tea. They agreed to meet at the bookstore after Sam finished with his meeting.

Promptly at eight o’clock, Sam walked up to the front door. He pushed it open with a resounding squeak and stepped inside a narrow hallway. A blast of hot air hit him in the face, warming him.

No one waited in the dusty hallway. Voices echoed at the top of the stairs. A small, handwritten sign advertised that the upstairs room had been reserved that evening for a senior citizens meeting. At the end of the dingy twenty-foot hallway, another handwritten sign with the notation “Coffee Shop” had been stuck to the wall with duct tape. A black arrow pointed downstairs.

Sam had to crouch when he picked his way down the narrow, creaking, wooden stairs. A musty smell floated up from the basement.

At the bottom of the darkened stairway, Sam stepped onto the mildewed carpet. The carpet had come loose and had holes sprinkled liberally throughout it. He half expected a rat to run from one of the dark corners.

Turning right, he entered a large room with two worn fabric-covered couches against the orange wall. Gunmetal-gray folding chairs faced a stage. A wooden bar, with four stools in front of it, stretched along the entire length of the far wall. A single microphone stood in the center of the stage like a soldier at attention. The sign perched on a stool next to the microphone gave the name of three poets who would begin their gig at ten o’clock.

Sam checked his watch—8:15.

A woman’s throaty voice said, “Good evening, Colonel Thorpe.”

He turned to see a short, red-haired woman in a long black raincoat standing behind him. “Yes.”

She walked to the bar and reached over the edge, bringing up a mug in her right hand. Squinting through her thick, black-framed glasses, she asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

Sam nodded. “Why didn’t you meet me last night?”

“I’m here now.” She smiled and pointed toward the couch. “Please sit. We have about an hour before this place begins to fill.”

Sam walked over to the couch, ducking his head to avoid a loose tile hanging from the ceiling. He memorized her features. Red hair fell in layers to her shoulders. Her facial bones were delicate. She wore eyeliner, bright red lipstick, and heavy makeup.

Filling a mug for each of them, she handed him one and shrugged off her trench coat. Under the coat, she wore a white peasant blouse, low-cut in front. She wore no bra, probably to attract the attention of male companions.

When she sat, she bent over, exposing her ample cleavage. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

Sam watched her face. “Yes.”

“What is your friend doing this evening?”

“Staying busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Just staying busy.”
None of your damn business, Red.

“Had you heard of the Yellow Dog Coffee Shop?”

Sam shook his head.

“It’s famous for being a respite for men evading the draft during the Vietnam War. Young men who skipped out of the U.S. and moved to Canada would meet here. They could compare notes about their hatred for the United States and its imperialist policies.”

Sam swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

“You don’t want to talk about history?” She adjusted her short black skirt, flashing some thigh. “I thought you military men were interested in history.”

Sam wasn’t about to tell this woman any more than he had to. “What’s your name?”

“Call me Carla.”

“Carla?”

“Just Carla.”

Sam studied her face. He’d need to be able to reconstruct it for the FBI artist. Alex had given him a tiny digital camera, but it would be too dark in here to get her picture. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

“I want you to take a friend back to the States when you return.”

“Why?”

“You will deliver him to General Oliver.”

“What then?”

“That’s not for you to worry about.”

Keep your eyes on her face, Thorpe.
“You expect me to take someone I don’t know across the border?”

“You learn fast.”

“What if I refuse?”

“You won’t. General Oliver is expecting this man. We don’t want to disappoint him, now do we?”

“Tell me something about this guy.”

“He’s a college professor. Bright. You’ll enjoy talking to him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Let’s call him Sean. That’s enough for now.”