contemplating the implications of what the Attorney General for British Columbia had told him, the telephone rang. He put down his coffee cup and caught it on the third ring.
"Chartrand," he said quietly.
"Francois, this is Walt Jessup. I'm calling from the coast. We've got a serious problem."
"I've already heard, Walt. By a different chain of command."
The Deputy Commissioner of "E" Division snorted. "I'm going to need muscle and machines, Framjois. This'll be worse than Olson. Even there we had vigilante squads and private police forces and phony ransom demands and God knows what else. I don't expect the feminists to be as restrained as parents."
"You'll have them."
"What else are we going to do? What shall I tell the
press?"
"Leave that with me, Walt. I'm thinking about it now. I'll call you back shortly once I've made a decision. I promise I'll give you something. You just give me time for a second cup of coffee."
The Deputy Commissioner managed a shallow laugh. "All right. But no longer," he said. "Or I'm going to sneak out of town."
After replacing the receiver, Chartrand walked through to his kitchen and poured himself another cup. He lit a third cigarette and went back to his study. And it was then, with the advancing light of dawn, that the idea struck him.
He knew what had to be done.
For when you are the head of an organization with both a sacred duty and a mythical legend in trust—
You use the very best you've got.
Even if you no longer have him.
Vancouver, British Columbia
8:15 a.m.
Genevieve was dying.
He held the rose bush gently in his left hand and carefully examined it for signs of blight or disease. But all he could find were two minuscule white dots where the flower joined the stalk. Whatever they were, he had never seen this symptom before. That's the problem with exotic plants, he thought. They contract exotic diseases. Outside the greenhouse lay a world of dazzling snow. The maple trees, and the city far beyond were blanketed with white and the sun now blazed down, bouncing off the snow crystals and the prisms in the greenhouse's glass walls. Rainbows were everywhere.
Except for the weather, it was a bad day all the way around.
As usual, he had begun his work this morning at five-thirty. But the moment he sat down in the white wicker chair and placed the clipboard on his knee was the moment that he knew the block had settled in for good. He merely sighed with resignation. To be honest with himself, there had been a lethargy about the project from its very beginning. Did the world really need another history of the First World War? Hadn't Fay and Albertini, Tuchman and Falls and Liddell Hart said what had to be said?
He put the plant down gently and in the doing knew that the book had died.
Now Genevieve was dying too.
While lost in thought he had not heard his wife open the door of the greenhouse that led to their home. She touched his arm as she always did and spoke to him in French.
"Robert, on tu demande au telephone."
He looked at her for a moment—the auburn hair now piled on top of her head, here and there a wayward strand tumbling down to her shoulders, then he nodded and went quietly out of the greenhouse and into the living room, across the pegged wood floor with its Persian carpet, and into the entrance hall where he picked up the telephone.
He felt a little depressed. The day was shot. What else could go wrong?
"Hello," he said in English. "This is Robert DeClercq."
4:55 p.m.
He was smiling as he stopped just inside the door to the pub, his eyes skipping from table to table, checking to see who was strung out and twitching and looking for some smack. He knew that for a moment all eyes in the Moonlight Arms were furtively sizing him up to see if he was holding. Especially the blond jerking and jumping in the corner. She was always here, waiting—-but then she was a big girl and a fix wouldn't hold her long.
The Indian moved among the tables, closing in on
"Chartrand," he said quietly.
"Francois, this is Walt Jessup. I'm calling from the coast. We've got a serious problem."
"I've already heard, Walt. By a different chain of command."
The Deputy Commissioner of "E" Division snorted. "I'm going to need muscle and machines, Framjois. This'll be worse than Olson. Even there we had vigilante squads and private police forces and phony ransom demands and God knows what else. I don't expect the feminists to be as restrained as parents."
"You'll have them."
"What else are we going to do? What shall I tell the
press?"
"Leave that with me, Walt. I'm thinking about it now. I'll call you back shortly once I've made a decision. I promise I'll give you something. You just give me time for a second cup of coffee."
The Deputy Commissioner managed a shallow laugh. "All right. But no longer," he said. "Or I'm going to sneak out of town."
After replacing the receiver, Chartrand walked through to his kitchen and poured himself another cup. He lit a third cigarette and went back to his study. And it was then, with the advancing light of dawn, that the idea struck him.
He knew what had to be done.
For when you are the head of an organization with both a sacred duty and a mythical legend in trust—
You use the very best you've got.
Even if you no longer have him.
Vancouver, British Columbia
8:15 a.m.
Genevieve was dying.
He held the rose bush gently in his left hand and carefully examined it for signs of blight or disease. But all he could find were two minuscule white dots where the flower joined the stalk. Whatever they were, he had never seen this symptom before. That's the problem with exotic plants, he thought. They contract exotic diseases. Outside the greenhouse lay a world of dazzling snow. The maple trees, and the city far beyond were blanketed with white and the sun now blazed down, bouncing off the snow crystals and the prisms in the greenhouse's glass walls. Rainbows were everywhere.
Except for the weather, it was a bad day all the way around.
As usual, he had begun his work this morning at five-thirty. But the moment he sat down in the white wicker chair and placed the clipboard on his knee was the moment that he knew the block had settled in for good. He merely sighed with resignation. To be honest with himself, there had been a lethargy about the project from its very beginning. Did the world really need another history of the First World War? Hadn't Fay and Albertini, Tuchman and Falls and Liddell Hart said what had to be said?
He put the plant down gently and in the doing knew that the book had died.
Now Genevieve was dying too.
While lost in thought he had not heard his wife open the door of the greenhouse that led to their home. She touched his arm as she always did and spoke to him in French.
"Robert, on tu demande au telephone."
He looked at her for a moment—the auburn hair now piled on top of her head, here and there a wayward strand tumbling down to her shoulders, then he nodded and went quietly out of the greenhouse and into the living room, across the pegged wood floor with its Persian carpet, and into the entrance hall where he picked up the telephone.
He felt a little depressed. The day was shot. What else could go wrong?
"Hello," he said in English. "This is Robert DeClercq."
4:55 p.m.
He was smiling as he stopped just inside the door to the pub, his eyes skipping from table to table, checking to see who was strung out and twitching and looking for some smack. He knew that for a moment all eyes in the Moonlight Arms were furtively sizing him up to see if he was holding. Especially the blond jerking and jumping in the corner. She was always here, waiting—-but then she was a big girl and a fix wouldn't hold her long.
The Indian moved among the tables, closing in on
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