The Marionette, page 4
Vivian jumped back in before Angus could talk me out of this little adventure—faint hope of that.
“I should add that you’ll not be on your own. A young but experienced CSIS operative, Lauren Cooper, would accompany you on the visit to Mali, playing the role of your research assistant. While there, the two of you would need to assess the situation and develop a plan for exfiltrating the fifteen Canadian mining execs. We have some initial options, but it really demands on-the-ground reconnaissance, analysis, and risk assessment before any plan is finalized and executed. Does that make our operation a little clearer?”
As she waited, she raised her bottle of water for a sip.
This was awesome. This was precisely why I’d wanted to join CSIS in the first place. This was fantastic. I’d been nodding my head throughout Vivian’s overview. I was trying to be cool about it all. You know, not tip my hand. Leave the impression that I was reluctant, that I was weighing my options, thinking it through, balancing the pros and cons, playing hard to get, dragging it out, etc., etc. So I just sat there impassively for a good two, maybe three, nanoseconds before pumping my fist and shouting, “Yes! I’m in! I! Am! In! Where do I sign?”
Oh yes, I was the very epitome of cool. I’d finally made it to the show, the clandestine operations show. It had been nearly thirty years since I’d somehow botched it. But now I’d made it—albeit as a civilian—but I’d finally made it.
Vivian was caught a little off guard by my enthusiasm. I could tell because she flinched at my boisterous outburst and spilled water everywhere except in her mouth. Angus smiled as she wiped her tweedy jacket with a napkin. Eventually, she turned back to me.
“Just to be clear, James, involving a civilian in a CSIS operation is extraordinarily rare and a step we’d of course prefer not to take. But in this particular situation, we simply can’t ignore just how uniquely qualified you are to serve in this unusual and very useful way.”
“I understand the singular opportunity President Camara’s literary preferences have given me. And I’m happy to serve,” I said, settling back down in my seat. “At least his favourite writer isn’t Agatha Christie or Ruth Rendell. I think I’m in a stronger position to help than they might be.”
“I’m quite certain neither of them still walks the earth,” Angus said.
“Yes, my point exactly, sir,” I said.
Vivian pulled an official-looking document from a leather folder and placed it face down on the table in front of her.
“Thank you for agreeing in principle to support this effort, but to be absolutely clear, it is possible, perhaps even likely, that you will find yourself in some potentially dangerous situations that we simply cannot yet predict.”
I nodded.
“You may be comfortable joining this operation as you sit in the relative safety of a private jet flying to Madrid. But when you land in Bamako, we cannot assure your safety. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand and will sign any liability waiver you put in front of me.”
“James, you’re not signing up to bungee jump,” said Vivian. “We don’t do liability waivers. This document outlines your commitment to observe the strictest secrecy standards at all times, and the potential sanctions the law provides should you abrogate your responsibilities in this connection.”
She flipped over the document and slid it across the table in front of me, along with a cheap ballpoint pen.
“You may not tell anyone any of this unless or until at some point, perhaps years, even decades in the future, this operation is declassified—though I doubt it ever will be,” she said. “As well, this mission is, as you often say in your novels, ‘off the books.’ Even though you are sitting with a minister of the Crown, this is a secret operation with no official ties to, or public sanction by, the Canadian government. Currently, only a handful of people know of this operation’s existence, and they are the ones who will help keep you safe while you’re on the ground in an extremely volatile country. If you have any reservations at all, I strongly suggest you declare them now and leave that pen capped on the table.”
Throughout Vivian’s remarks, the minister was quiet but fully engaged, and focused on me.
“I understand,” I replied. “I really do.”
I uncapped the pen and signed the document.
“Excellent,” Angus said, before rising and shaking my hand. “On behalf of the Government of Canada and her citizens, we thank you.”
Then he walked towards the rear of the plane and opened a door, revealing a second, smaller seating area A young, lean Black woman, dressed casually, followed Angus back to our more luxurious section of the jet. He motioned with his hand to turn the floor over to Vivian, who was beaming as she looked at the young woman.
“James Norval, meet Lauren Cooper. She is an experienced CSIS analyst with solid field work on her resumé as well. She has risen quickly in CSIS on the strength of her quick mind and dedication to completing whatever operation to which she is assigned. She is an outstanding intelligence operative.”
Lauren had been beaming right back at Vivian through all of this. But when she turned to face me after Vivian had finished singing her praises, any traces of her smile had vanished.
“Cooper,” I said, extending my hand.
“Norval,” she replied. Then she squeezed my hand hard, and I mean really hard.
“Whoa, that is some grip you’ve got there, Coop,” I said, wincing and shaking my hand to restore the blood flow.
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I’ve been told I have a firm handshake.”
“Firm? Felt more like an attempted amputation.” I paused until my throbbing hand returned to its normal size. “So, Coop, you and your vice-like hands are supporting this mission, eh?”
“No, Norval. I’m leading this operation. You are actually the support.”
CHAPTER 3
WE LANDED at Madrid–Barajas Airport in the late afternoon. After an expedited customs review conducted on the plane by two Spanish uniformed officials, a member of our local embassy staff met us on the tarmac in a black Cadillac Escalade. He drove us into the city and dropped me off at Morrison’s, a five-star hotel I’d been lucky enough to enjoy on some of my book tours. Coop, Angus, and Vivian carried on to the embassy for more briefings, but I was given the evening off to recover from my Tajik ordeal. The hotel seemed a tad lavish and expensive given that Canadian taxpayers were footing the bill, but I was told its proximity to the embassy made it the logical choice. Google Maps told me the two buildings were separated by a mere three hundred and six yards. I couldn’t very well blame the traffic if I were late for my briefings the next morning.
My mind was flitting back and forth between Tajikistan and what lay ahead in, of all places, Mali. I was starting to get a headache, so I consciously tried to think of other, less important, less daunting, less dangerous, topics. As I had feared, that effort proved a colossal failure.
I was tempted to walk the streets of Madrid but that would have involved, well, walking. I was physically and mentally drained from two days of interrogations and three nights of not sleeping. And did I mention having to consume “food” that would never be free of quotation marks? Anyway, it turns out that sustaining a near-constant state of fear, hunger, and fatigue for sixty-one hours straight can leave one feeling a little rundown. I took a long and luxurious shower and even nodded off standing under the water jets. I know I was asleep because at one point I jerked awake and bumped my head on the tiled wall in the process. Hunter Chase would never have done that.
During the time when I was actually awake in the shower, my mind returned briefly to the delicious irony that I was now working with CSIS on a bona fide covert mission nearly thirty years after I’d crashed and burned in the agency’s recruitment program. “Crashed and burned” might have been an overstatement. I didn’t know for sure. All I knew was that as I was rounding the clubhouse turn and heading for the tape after nearly six months in the competition, I was suddenly informed that my race was over, that I wouldn’t be joining Canada’s spy agency. No explanation. No Great job, but we’re not taking on any new recruits right now. No You were so close but just not close enough. Not even a You’re really not cut out for this. Perhaps try accounting, or fast-food franchise work, or beekeeping, instead. Nothing. That’s likely when I fell asleep standing up in the shower.
I felt more like a real human being after towelling off. Beyond the bag of emergency clothes that Angus had given me on the plane, yet another bag had been waiting for me on the bed when I entered my hotel room. Unsure of what I might need in Mali, Vivian and her team had acquired a suitcase and filled it with clothes, all in my size and fashion sensibility, not that I actually have one. They seemed to have thought of everything. It included all that the aging thriller writer might need to wear on his first undercover operation, even though I wouldn’t exactly be undercover. There were two pairs of shorts, two pairs of long cargo pants with lots of pockets for whatever advanced secret gadgets I might be given to aid in a successful mission—or they could just be for snacks—one pair of hiking shoes, one pair of formal lace-up brown leather shoes, four T-shirts, a rain jacket, business-casual blue chinos, a light-blue button-up shirt, and one navy-blue blazer in a really light material. Not bad. Finally, I’d been informed that a formal blue suit was hastily being altered in a reputable Madrid men’s shop so that I’d have something to wear in case a state dinner was held in my honour. Unlikely, but we wanted to be prepared.
To address my hunger, I ordered a room-service club sandwich—and it was better than any hotel club sandwich I’d ever had. And believe me, over years of book tours, I’ve ordered a boatload of club sandwiches. It just seems harder to mess up a club sandwich than, say, mushroom risotto or beef bourguignon. It is possible it was just another run-of-the-mill club sandwich, but in my depleted state, it was heavenly. I then proceeded to free-fall into a deep sleep, despite it being only eight thirty in the evening. I didn’t open my eyes until the front desk called the next morning at nine o’clock to say an embassy official was waiting for me in the lobby.
“I could have made my way to the embassy without an escort,” I said, after recognizing the staffer who had driven us from the airport the day before.
“It’s no problem, sir, this is right on my way in to the office,” he said. “And we just didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”
When we arrived at the Canadian embassy, the lineup of tourists at the counter was already long and, judging by the many forlorn facial expressions, likely populated by Canadians who were no longer in possession of their passports, whether through carelessness or crime.
Minister McLintock—Angus—was waiting for me in the reception area. He didn’t exactly blend in. He cut a, shall we say, unique figure. He was wearing a suit. It just didn’t look like it was his suit. His hair was really something, each strand acting utterly independently of all the others. And his beard. Wow. I’m not sure I can actually put it into words, and I’m apparently a professional wordsmith. If I had created a character like the Honourable Angus McLintock in one of my novels, my long-suffering editor would have told me he was far too outlandish to be believable. She would have made me tone down his look considerably. I can hear her saying, Okay, James, you can keep his wild hair or his crazy beard. But you can’t have both. Yet here was Angus standing before me in all his physically anarchic glory. However, his unintentionally antic appearance belied a clear mind and a sense of honour and integrity carried by few politicians. He nodded to my escort, who then faded away.
“Good morning, laddie. I hope you slept well after what you’ve been through.”
“Well, I have a vague memory of lying down and I remember waking up twelve hours later, but of that long stretch of time in between, I recall nothing. I guess that’s a good sign.”
As long as I was with the minister, passing through the security protocols and gaining access to the embassy’s inner sanctum was a breeze. A young woman hovered on the periphery, keeping Angus in her field of view. I figured it was standard operating procedure not to allow him to wander around the embassy unescorted.
“Mr. Norval—James, I ought to say—may I present Ms. Meredith Atkins, who has the difficult task of keeping me on the straight and narrow when I’m lumbering through these precincts.” I nodded to her; she nodded back. Then we were walking.
“While I’m travelling abroad on CSIS business, I’m not permitted to use my infernal mobile phone, the very bane of my existence,” Angus said. “So, I must come here to communicate with my staff in Ottawa through the embassy’s secure network.”
“Yes, foreign embassies often play into my novels,” I replied. “I think they give readers a false sense of security when the hero is supposedly safely ensconced in his nation’s embassy. So, I promptly subvert their expectations by turning the allegedly safe and secure embassy into a very dangerous place.”
Ms. Atkins looked a little alarmed.
“Fear not, Ms. Atkins,” I soothed, “it’s fiction, and a tad far-fetched at that.” She didn’t look particularly relieved. Angus tilted his head towards me as we walked.
“I’m to take you for your briefings with Vivian and Lauren, but unfortunately, I’ll not be partaking myself, though I’d dearly love to. You see, I’ve learned as a minister of the Crown that my time, even my priorities, are seldom my own. My days are scripted and scheduled in bleedin’ six-minute increments from dawn till dark, and often before and beyond. I had more control over my own affairs when I was a toddler,” he lamented. “The upshot is, I’m afraid I must fly back to Ottawa for pressing matters there. Forgive me, my schedule is not your problem, but it surely is mine. Aye, it surely is mine.”
We walked in silence down a long corridor. I could see heavy wooden double doors at the end. Secure Boardroom, read the sign, which also featured two built-in lights, one green and one red. The red light was illuminated. Next to it was mounted a button pad with a digital screen. We stopped at the door, with Ms. Atkins holding station a discreet distance behind us.
“James, I’ve read a few of your books, and I’ve read a dossier about you compiled by my staff. As I said yesterday, you are uniquely positioned to get our boots on the ground in Mali. But you dinnae have to do this. You can back out now and not disrupt what seems to be the lovely life you’re leadin’,” the minister said, his hand on the doorknob. “But if you walk into this briefing, you’ll be well and truly into this little affair, right up to your peepers. It could lead to a spate of trouble, or worse, so no one would begrudge a decision to withdraw after passing a night of sober second thought.”
I smiled but said nothing, leaving the floor to him.
“So, am I escorting you through these doors, or is Ms. Atkins here seeing you back to your hotel?”
“Minister, Angus, I appreciate the final gut check, but beyond my gratitude for rescuing me from, at the very least, an unpleasant situation in Dushanbe, you said yesterday without even the slightest hint of hyperbole that my country was calling. And here I am, answering,” I said, my arms spread open before me.
Angus smiled and shook his head, his hair and beard flying off in all directions.
“Aye, ’tis what I expected you’d say. I am grateful, and I know Canadians would be, too, but regrettably, they will never know.”
He punched in a code on the button pad and waited. Two beats later, the red light was extinguished, the green light illuminated, and the heavy double doors buzzed and swung open. It reminded me of the opening sequence of the old Get Smart TV series, a spy spoof that always made me laugh. Angus led me into the boardroom.
Vivian, in her wheelchair, and Coop were seated around the board table. Maps and papers were strewn about its sprawling surface. A large screen at one end of the room displayed what I cleverly deduced were satellite images showing the mine site in Mali, the Canadian compound, and the surrounding area. I swiftly reached this conclusion courtesy of the white digital labels on the maps explaining exactly what I was looking at. Yes, I know. I am a quick study.
“You’ve started without me,” I said.
“Good morning, James,” Vivian said. “Yes, we convened a couple hours ago. We figured you could use the sleep.” Coop said nothing. She just stared at me with a cold and hardened look on her face. Coop either didn’t like me or was in the throes of severe heartburn, perhaps even angina.
“I will leave you in Vivian and Ms. Cooper’s experienced and capable hands,” Angus said, as he hovered near the door. “They know of my close interest in this operation and have pledged to keep me informed as the story unfolds, and even if it’s stalled.”
He looked at them as he said this, and they nodded.
“Good. Thank you, all three of you, for taking on this wee spot of bother. I know, and we can surely assume the families of the detained Canadians know, this is important. And we will spare no effort to see our citizens safely reunited with their loved ones,” he said. “Ms. Cooper and Mr. Norval in particular, you may be walking into the lion’s den, or worse. Godspeed and a hearty ‘O Canada.’ We are all in your debt.”
With that, the doors buzzed open and Angus left the room. Behind him, the doors swung closed once more.
I could tell that Vivian and Coop wanted to get started, so, with the pleasantries over, I sat down.
“Did you bring your laptop?” Coop asked.
“I did,” I replied, pulling it out of my backpack.
“Turn it on and log in as you normally would.”
