Thompson took a noisy slurp of coffee, which by this time must have been stone cold. “You could smell the stench for miles. Ian came back after two weeks of that...and he was a different man.”
Green absorbed this information, trying to see if the explanation fit with what they knew. Had something awful happened during those two weeks? Across the table, Sullivan laid down his notebook and leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. “You said there were forensics experts. From the military?”
“No, civilians. Both forensic specialists and UN civilian police were brought in to interview witnesses and document crimes.”
“Do you remember any names?”
Thompson shook his head. “No, the sweep team was in another unit. None of us met the cops.”
“Except Ian.”
“Well, yeah. I suppose Ian would have met them.”
Green felt Sullivan’s eyes upon him. If MacDonald and Weiss had served together in that sweep team, it was an extraordinary coincidence. Surely this had to be the core of the mystery. But was it enough simply to have served together? Was the trauma of that assignment sufficient to have derailed the lives of two young men so completely?
Green felt a niggling dissatisfaction. Something was missing. Oliver had used the word “betrayal” when he confronted his assailant in the bar. Betrayal was a powerful word, usually reserved for when a trust is truly shattered.
Suddenly the implication of the rest of Thompson’s statement struck him. “You said the sweep team was in another unit. Do you remember the leader’s name?”
“That I do remember, because his name has been plastered all over the news. It was John Blakeley.”
TWENTY-ONE
Aug. 19, 1993. Maslenica Bridge, Sector South, Croatia.
The whole Canadian Battalion has taken over this sector and we’re quartered at the old school again, waiting for the withdrawal agreement. I feel like we’ll be stuck here forever, ducking the shells, while the <span class=">UN plays with itself and the Croats get ready to wipe the Serbs off the map. I can’t wait to go home. Only a month to go, if we don’t get killed. Every day the artillery shells fly over our heads. The Serbs are trying to snuggle up as close as they can to use us as cover while they attack, but the Croats blast back at them anyway.
The company commander figures both sides are trying to drive us away so they can have a clear shot at each other. But he’s decided we are going to stay put, so all night long, when the Serbs can’t see us, we fill sand bags and hump them up the hill to build the biggest bunker you’ve ever seen. The soil is really red, and Sarge is afraid it’s radioactive from some old mine that’s near by. But the OC says “you want to die now, or later?”
Aug. 22, 1993, Maslenica Bridge, Sector South, Croatia.
Today all hell broke loose inside the camp. We got blasted by this shell fifteen metres from the bunker while we were asleep. It blew up a whole wall of sand bags and we were all choking on the red dust. Sarge says “that’s it!”and he grabs his rifle, jumps in the Jeep and goes off. Word is he threatened to blow the company commander’s head off and it took three guys to restrain him. Anyway, a few hours later the Hammer comes up, pins a master corporal maple leaf on Danny and says he’s the new section commander. Just like that. I’m glad for Danny, but I’m worried about Sarge. He was only trying to look out for us.
* * *
John Blakeley’s condominium was not at all what Green had expected, given what he had learned about the man. It was on the twelfth floor of a glass and steel spire on Laurier Avenue West, and had a spectacular view of the Ottawa River, the copper roof of the new War Museum, and in the distance across the river, the rounded hills of the Gatineau. The taxes and condo fees alone, even without a mortgage, would have put the average enlisted man in the poorhouse, but Blakeley also had a riverside estate in Petawawa, where he and his wife presumably spent most of their time.
As soon as they had finished with Neil Thompson, Green and Sullivan headed straight over to see Blakeley, wanting to catch him by surprise and give him little time to plan a defence strategy. Atkinson had almost certainly warned him that they were making inquiries about the past, but neither the sweep team nor MacDonald’s and Weiss’s names had been mentioned before. Green hoped that gave them at least a small element of surprise.
Standing outside the steel and glass high rise, Green was no longer sure what to expect. A man as tall and remote as the place where he lived? To his surprise, Blakeley buzzed them in cheerfully, and when they emerged from the elevator on the twelfth floor, he was standing in the hallway with a hearty grin on his face. In person, even more than in his photo, the ridged white scar across his left eyebrow gave him a warrior’s air. He was dressed in ratty jeans and a red Ottawa Senators T -shirt. His white hair, so well tamed in his campaign poster, flew about in wild disarray and his grin revealed a chipped front tooth. He was shorter than Green, with a thick, muscular body.
He shook Green’s hand with a vigour that made Green’s teeth rattle.
“You caught me in my Sunday best, boys,” he exclaimed as he ushered them inside. “But I’ve been expecting you. Roger said you’d dropped by. I’ve asked Leanne to put on a pot of coffee. Terrible thing about your detective, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. I have some contacts with the police up in Petawawa.”
He led the way through a brightly lit hall into an enormous living room banked by an entire wall of windows. The view was unobstructed by curtains, as if inviting the vast open skies into the room. The floors were acres of blond wood and, again surprisingly for the rugged warrior who lived there, the furniture was white leather. The only strong colours came from the vivid framed photographs that lined the walls. Close-ups of nature—a gnarled tree, a rusty tugboat at sunset, a snake coiled in a tree. Not the nature of postcards and tourism brochures, Green noted, but the underbelly. A reflection of the man himself, perhaps?
Green sensed immediately that he was in the presence of a powerful man. A man of strong emotion, vast intellect and a charisma that pulled people in his wake. No wonder the Liberals wanted him. Green chose the leather armchair by the window, so that he was facing into the room and backlit by the sun. It was a small advantage, but he suspected he was going to need every one he could get. Sullivan folded himself into a loveseat at the opposite side of the room, leaving Blakeley no choice but to sit between them, unable to keep both in his sights.
A woman glided into the room with the grace of a cat, bearing a tray with coffee and a plate of scones. She sized up the situation and her lips drew a thin, tight line. “Perhaps you’d prefer to sit at the table,” she said, gesturing to the adjoining dining room, where a heavy white table was encircled by plush suede chairs. “It’ll be easier that way.”
Remind me not to underestimate this woman, Green thought. “Oh, this is no trouble,” he replied blandly.
“Gentlemen, this is my wife Leanne,” said Blakeley. “Put it over here, honey.”
Leanne shot a brief glance at Sullivan before setting the tray on the coffee table between them. She looked at least twenty years Blakeley’s junior, as lithe and fine-featured as he was rugged, but Green sensed a will equal to his own.
“Yes, your wife and I met yesterday,” said Sullivan. “She runs a very efficient campaign office. Nice to see you again, Ms Neuss.”
Leanne inclined her head gracefully, then turned and walked from the room without a backward glance.
Green launched the interview while