The Marionette, page 7
“Right,” I said. “Okay, that was a redemptive story, well told. But we’re not done yet. You didn’t marry, move to the suburbs with your own Toyota Corolla?”
“Not interested. CSIS and relationships don’t easily coexist, and field work makes it even tougher.”
“I remember Vivian saying you had experience on the ground. What have you done and where have you been? I want all the spine-tingling details.”
“Ha! You’re funny. You know I’m not permitted to share anything from past operations even with CSIS colleagues, let alone famous civilian thriller writers, but none of my field work would make for exciting reading. We got the job done, but tense, dangerous, and exciting? Not so much.”
I downed another single malt.
We talked for a long time, often ignoring our meals, despite how great they were. I felt good about our evening—alcohol-assisted or not—and I thought we understood each other a little better than we had before we ordered. And that had been the whole point.
I figured Coop was a bit tipsy when we parted paths at the hotel elevator. I definitely was.
CHAPTER 5
THE THREE of us—Vivian, Coop, and I—reconvened at the embassy the next morning for our final briefing and planning session. Later that afternoon, as hard as it was for me to believe, we’d be landing in Bamako to stay with the newly installed President Adama Camara in his swanky palace. Oh, and we also had that other minor task of figuring out how to spirit fifteen Canadians out of the country safely and then actually doing it, while always bearing in mind the all-important safely part.
Strangely, I didn’t feel anxious, nervous, worried, concerned, or scared about what lay ahead. Figure that one out, if you can. I sure can’t. I should have had all of those feelings, and many more. But I really didn’t. For some reason, Vivian, Coop, and even the minister made me feel like we could do this. That we could pull it off, even though we couldn’t develop a plan until we were actually in Mali and had gathered more information. But we had an ace up our sleeve. I just happened to be the president’s favourite writer. That gave us an edge. At least, I thought it did.
Despite our boozy late night in the hotel restaurant, Coop seemed to have returned to her normal icy demeanour by the time we met again in the morning. I thought we’d broken through some barriers at dinner. We’d both shared stories—some of them quite personal—and even had a few laughs, usually at my expense. But I didn’t mind. I figured if we knew each other better and ended up working more effectively together when we reached the critical phase of the operation, it would be well worth it. But the Coop who, the previous evening, definitely did not walk in a straight line from the restaurant to the elevator was not the Coop who was all business that next morning.
“We’re running out of time,” Vivian said, after we’d all sat down. “Let’s talk about possible options for getting the Tardif team out.”
“I had an idea last night that I think might work,” I said.
“Well, we’ve had a team of analysts looking at this problem, so I think we should probably start there,” Vivian said.
“Vivian’s right,” Coop agreed. “But I’d be curious to hear what Norval has in mind. Then we could return to the analysts’ recommendation.”
Coop seemed to be enjoying this, which did set off a few alarm bells in my head. Then again, I’m quite good at silencing alarm bells echoing in my own skull.
“Okay, James. With Lauren’s blessing, what have you got?” asked Vivian.
“I’ll keep it short,” I said. “Okay, picture this. A Black Hawk chopper lands at the Tardif compound in the early hours of the morning. We rush the execs on and escape with them over the border to Senegal before anyone is the wiser?”
Coop burst out laughing, but quickly gathered herself.
“That’s it?” she asked. “A quick in-and-out Black Hawk airlift?”
“Well, that’s the basic idea,” I said. It was a little hard to hear her, as those alarm bells had suddenly grown much louder.
“Well, you’d need at least two Black Hawks, because there are fifteen Canadians, plus the two of us makes seventeen, and that heli can only carry twelve,” Coop said. “Frankly, we’d also likely need an Apache attack helicopter to provide air cover in case the troops on the ground start firing. Oh, yes, and there’s the other minor matter that Canada has no Black Hawk assault helicopters and no Apache attack helis. Those are American birds. Instead of Black Hawks, we’d have to use a couple of our Griffons, and they are now nearly thirty years old.”
“But…” I started to say. Coop raised her hand to stop me before barrelling on herself.
“And since Canada doesn’t really have any attack helicopters, getting in and out of Mali safely with fifteen civilians using only Griffons is just too dangerous and risky. It’s out of the question. But wait, there’s more. If I haven’t already shot down the Black Hawk stratagem, let me remind you that we’re in Mali secretly operating on our own with no overt, official ties to our government. So we can’t just send in the Canadian Air Force rescue team. That is the very definition of a non-starter. This is an intelligence operation, a CSIS operation, not a military exercise.”
Coop stopped to take a breath. I wasn’t sure she was finished blowing my Black Hawk out of the sky, but I didn’t wait to find out.
“Okay, well, clearly we’ll need to rethink certain aspects of the plan. But I’m very glad you’re not taking the idea off the table. We can tweak it.”
Coop just shook her head and looked at Vivian before turning back to me.
“Um, Norval, there’ll be no tweaking. Your idea was never anywhere near the table. It’s not even in the room. It’s not happening. It’s never happening.”
“Okay, okay, let’s just settle down a bit,” Vivian said. “I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. James, thanks for the idea, but I still think our first step is to consider what our own team of experts believes to be the safest, easiest, and fastest way to bring fifteen Canadians home. Can we start there?”
“Of course,” I said. “I was just brainstorming, you know, just spitballing.”
I didn’t dare look directly at Coop but I’m pretty sure she rolled her eyes. My peripheral vision definitely picked up some motion in the vicinity of her face. Okay, so that hadn’t gone well. I really had nothing to counter Coop’s well-reasoned dismembering of my little plan. I just hoped neither Coop nor Vivian had read my third novel, in which Hunter Chase had piloted a Black Hawk in just such an operation. It had worked well in the book.
Vivian opened a file marked Top Secret. (I know that sounds like a cliché, but Top Secret is in fact the official designation for documents earning the highest level of secrecy within CSIS and the broader Canadian government. And those words were in fact written in a stark red font on the front of the file folder.)
“Bearing in mind the location of the Tardif mine and compound, we believe the easiest escape route will be across the border into Senegal, due west of Kéniéba, but not through either of the two heavily guarded border crossings in the area. And remember, Kéniéba is a long way from Bamako, so you’ll have to figure out how to get up there.”
She clicked the remote in her hand, and a map of Mali appeared on the big screen with the key locations marked.
“We think your best shot will be via an old and seldom-used Kéniéba mining road, preferably under cover of twilight or, even better, darkness. The road dead-ends at the Falémé River, which marks your crossing point. You’ll signal across the water with a flashlight in a pre-arranged pattern, in response to which you should see a return signal from the Senegal side of the river.”
At this point, Vivian clicked a new slide onto the screen, showing what I assumed was the Falémé River. It did look manageable. It was more like a stream than a river, with Senegal beckoning a mere ninety feet away, according to the measurements displayed on the screen.
“At the crossing point, the river is narrow, very shallow, and slow moving.”
Coop was nodding. I was nodding. It wasn’t a flashy stratagem. There was little chance of this escape plan finding its way into a future novel of mine. But it did seem to be the easiest and safest way out of Mali.
“You’ll need to wade across the Falémé, where Senegal officials and a CSIS field team will meet you on the far side of the river. But how you get the fifteen Canadians to the crossing point remains an open question. That’ll be up to you. We just don’t have enough intelligence even to point you in the right direction, beyond this proposed optimal escape route.”
I reviewed the plan in my mind to get it straight. The whole wade-across-the-river part seemed quite simple, doable, easy to pull off. As Vivian had pointed out, the tougher nut to crack would be how to get the fifteen Canadians to the crossing point undetected, at a time when they were supposed to be somewhere else and under guard. That would be the challenging part, the dangerous part, the How the hell are we going to pull that off ? part. Okay, got it.
Vivian’s voice brought me back to her.
“You may want to consider planting some disinformation, like a map with a phony route marked along Trans-African Highway 5 up through Kayes, to throw off any pursuers and buy you some more time.”
“Well, assault helicopters would be more fun, but I guess crossing the river into Senegal might also work,” I said. “But the movie won’t be nearly as exciting.”
“We’re not looking for excitement,” cut in Coop. “Again, this is not an action film or one of your thriller novels. We’re just looking for success, and that means a safe and uneventful exfiltration.”
“Um, Coop, I was kidding,” I said, a little annoyed. “I like the river-crossing plan. It makes sense. But that’s the easy part. We still need to get them to the river.”
“I’m afraid that’s on both of you,” Vivian said. “That’s why you’re there on the ground. So, it’s time to set aside the petty friction that is apparent between you two this morning, and start acting like a team, supporting one another, helping one another, learning from one another. You both have certain skills, and I think we’re going to need all of them working in concert if you are going to pull this off. And I do mean you. Because when you land in Mali late this afternoon, it will be just you two who will have to push this operation from the starting blocks all the way to the finish line. Are you hearing the message I’m sending? Otherwise, we’ll just pull the plug right now, close up shop, and go home.”
Coop looked at me and I looked at her. It felt like we were sitting in the principal’s office being disciplined for disrupting class.
“Sorry, Vivian,” Coop said. “I’m not used to working with a civilian. We’ll turn it around.”
“Right,” I added. “And I’m not used to working with facts and reality and doing things in the real world. I do fiction. I just make stuff up. So, I’m still adjusting. But, yeah, we’ll get there. We’ll turn it around.”
“Good,” Vivian said. “Some other points. You know this already, Lauren, but for your benefit, James, please remember, you can only speak freely to one another outside the palace, in the open air. And not in any official cars, either. If the president is in fact just a puppet, many rooms in the palace, perhaps all of them, will be bugged. We also expect that the offices of Tardif Resources and their living compound will have their fair share of listening devices. Nothing will blow your cover and have you arrested faster than talking out of turn to one another anywhere but outside with the sky above you and a breeze blowing. Clear?”
We both nodded as the door chime sounded. On the digital monitor, another woman in a lab coat appeared holding a small cardboard box. Vivian buzzed her in.
“What have you got for us?” Vivian asked as the woman entered.
“Nothing too fancy,” the woman replied, placing two black, robust-looking phones on the table. “We don’t have a lot of tech in this embassy. But here are your encrypted satphones. They are safe and secure to use.”
“Hi, I’m James, and you must be Q,” I said. Why did I say that?
The woman looked very annoyed.
“Wow. Never heard that one before,” she said, also sounding very annoyed. “What an utterly original line.”
Coop glared at me, so I gave her my patented exaggerated What did I do? shrug that I’ve been perfecting since I was twelve years old.
“What are you, twelve years old?” Coop asked.
“Well, now that you mention it…” I replied.
“It was a rhetorical question,” she clarified. “I wasn’t seeking a response.”
“I know what a rhetorical question is,” I counter-clarified.
“Thank you, Sandy,” said Vivian. “These two are just getting to know each other. Now, how about a quick refresher on satphone use?”
“It’s quite straightforward,” the woman apparently named Sandy replied as she picked up one of the phones to demonstrate. “Ideally, you go outside and find a spot with a wide-open view of the sky. Pull up the antenna like so, and then turn on the power with this button. Enter the PIN that you will need to commit to memory and then wait until it connects to a satellite. The red light will turn green when it has. Finally, you dial zero-zero, then the country code, then the phone number, and press the green Call button. That’s it. Easy, safe, and secure.”
“Thank you, um, Sandy,” I said. “Very helpful.”
Coop nodded her thanks. Then Sandy left the room after handing Vivian a small card bearing the PINs for the two satphones.
I found all this a bit odd, but I gathered that when working on a clandestine op, few embassy officials introduced themselves or sought the names of those they were meeting. We didn’t need to know their names, and they certainly didn’t need or want to know ours. Secrecy, discretion, and even anonymity were almost universally observed, I guessed for good reason. It might just save lives. I made a mental note to include this idea in future novels to make my stories a little more realistic. I also made a mental note to stop being a jerk and trying to be funny.
I confess I was worried about Coop being able to play her role as my assistant convincingly and sustain it for however long we’d be in Mali. I wasn’t about to mention it right then, given the dagger eyes she was still firing my way. But as my research assistant, Camara would expect her to be deferential, dedicated, tirelessly helpful, congenial, and quiet. I only knew Coop as cold, calculating, terse, and by-the-book, while valiantly and humourlessly overcoming all the obstacles life had thrown in her path as a young Black woman in CSIS. I commended her. I applauded her. But carrying off a chipper, optimistic, and devoted researcher type might just be a stretch. Whereas for me, my cover as a celebrated thriller writer who was confident, knowledgeable about tradecraft, affable, brave, smart, and an all-round nice person was right in my wheelhouse. I could play that guy. That was who I was already, right? Right?
Just before we wrapped up and headed for the airport, Vivian worked with us on simple and subtle physical signals—gestures, really—to help us communicate with one another amidst the cameras and listening devices and other people in the palace. I wasn’t sure we’d need them, but they were good to have in our repertoire.
We agreed that casually rubbing one’s right elbow meant there was something urgent to discuss. Clasping one’s hands in front meant something to report, and that we should take a walk outside at the earliest opportunity without arousing suspicions. There were a couple more gestures that we committed to memory that could come in handy. When, at one point, I raked my hair with my right hand, Coop was confused.
“Sorry, Coop, that one’s not part of our hand-signal arsenal. I was just trying to tame my messy hair that so desperately needs cutting.”
I swear it was an innocent mistake—one that earned another eye roll from Coop.
After a final walk-through of our plan—incomplete though it would remain until we were on the ground in Mali—and a pep talk from Vivian, she hugged us both and sent us back to the hotel to rest for an hour, pack, and check out.
“And do not pack anything, anything at all, that could somehow link you to CSIS or reveal in any way that you might be there on false premises,” was Vivian’s final directive.
When we left her and headed back to the hotel, we didn’t know if or when we’d see her again.
I spent the hour creating a set of computer files with the same names that I always used when writing a new novel—file names like Characters, Story Arc, Timeline, Settings, Possible Titles, Relationships, Scenes and Narrative Exposition, Word Count Table, and Manuscript. It would be odd if I turned up in Mali without some digital evidence that I was in fact working on a new novel. I went on to create some phony but convincing documents for most of the new files. I put nothing in the manuscript file, as I could simply say I was not yet at the manuscript stage of my writing.
Coop had been given a new, secure laptop to take in support of her cover as my research assistant. I’d work with her on our nearly five-hour flight to make her laptop files authentic.
I was excited about what lay ahead, but as I packed my suitcase, the smallest little knot formed in my stomach. I almost didn’t notice it, but it was there.
* * *
—
At about twelve thirty, Coop and I boarded the same private jet we’d flown in from Dushanbe a few days earlier. But this time, there was no Vivian and no Angus. We were on our own. Our jet was actually registered in Los Angeles and belonged to a respected leasing firm. Courtesy of a shell-company intermediary, there was no paper trail linking the plane either to CSIS or to the Canadian government. I say again, Coop and I were on our own.
The lone flight attendant did not hover in our seating section towards the front, but discreetly popped in periodically to see that we had everything we needed. The pilot kept us informed, but the weather was clear, and we levelled off at our cruising altitude after twenty minutes or so.
