"Paul Daigen was an uncle to my mother," Laura said, not looking up. "He kept in touch with her, and she passed some information on to me."
"But you didn't bring that shovel you bought."
"Wisdom says 'survey first; shovel later.' I'll be back here again."
"Okay." He waited until she seemed satisfied with the surveying, then said, "We should be getting back before the lake gets any choppier." He waved towards the shoreline where there was now a definite roll to the surface and the odd wave was breaking into whitecaps.
"I think you're right."
Jag dropped Laura off at the cottage she was renting by the bay. High Bluff Island was visible through some aspen trees.
"Thanks," she said, getting her pack from the back seat.
Just before she got down, Jag handed her a piece of paper. "My phone number," he said. "In case you need help with anything."
"Thanks," she said again, and went into the cottage.
Jag backed the blue FJ Cruiser onto the road, and drove home.
****
Gosport
In the boat Serenity, at the marina on Presqu'ile Bay
Day before Button Day
After they’d had an early supper, Sammy and Lester drove out of Gosport towards Brighton.
“How was the trip on the boat? I meant to ask that” Lester asked, after a few minutes.
“Up and down; up and down. How was the drive?”
“Fine?”
“What’s wrong? You mad at me because I took the boat?”
“Nope?”
“Well, you’re uptight about something. Even you aren’t usually this quiet. You’re going to have to tell me sometime, you know.”
Lester grunted. “In the café, at the marina….” He paused and reached into the back seat, coming up with a bag as they waited out traffic at a stop light.
Sammy opened up the bag. “Hey, you did get me some!” He brought out a chocolate donut. “So what about the café?”
“There was a guy and a cop talking in there.”
“Saw them through the glass. The cop left after you, and talked to a chick in a Jeep. That the one?”
Lester nodded. The guy talking to the cop is a fellow named Oscar Copeman, known in Afghanistan as ‘Cope’.” Lester looked at Sammy, who was finishing his second donut and already looking a bit carsick. “Intelligence officer with the Canadians. Tough bugger and a good shot.”
“Not as tough as a SEAL.”
“Who is? But someone you got to keep an eye on at all times. He thinks fast on his feet.”
“You knew him well?"
“We worked in a field team near Jalalabad for a couple of weeks. Can’t say we got all that close, but we knew each other.”
“Did he say hello?”
Lester watched the traffic behind him. “I pretended not to know him and he pretended not to know me.”
"What do you think?" Sammy asked. "Maybe he didn't remember you."
Lester managed to keep from rolling his eyes or making a sarcastic comment. Sammy had never learned the art of reading the eyes and body movements of Afghan tribesmen to know when a lie was being told or something in the village was definitely wrong. Sammy would be hiding behind a wall to cover the retreat of all his company, still firing, but his people skills were lacking.
"Cope and I knew each other." Lester didn't have to say the meaning of that sentence. It meant that they'd been in action together. That they'd depended on one another at some point or other. Although the result of that dependency varied; it was usually positive – there were very few bad apples sent to Afghanistan. But many men were unable to maintain either friendship or trust afterwards; the lifestyles just diverged too much, even if there hadn't been suppressed anger at some point.
“Sounds suspicious to me. Bumpy roads around here, aren’t there?”
“Use the donut bag if you have to. If CSIS is here, then the Canadians know something.”
“Probably know more than we do.” Sammy got the bag ready, just in case.
“That wouldn’t be hard.”
“So now what?”
“We’ll call the boss tomorrow. Right now, let’s have a look at the bay.” Lester took the road to the park. Ten minutes later, from the end of a long beach, the two looked over the waters of Popham Bay.
“What’s the island again?”
Sammy unfolded the navigational map. “High Bluff Island. Nothing there but an automatic lighthouse and a bunch of birds. It’s a sanctuary.”
“Keep it in mind. Never know when we’ll need a place to hide.”
Sammy frowned. “Not a lot of cover in those trees. And I don’t like islands.”
“Sure. Sure.” Lester pointed to the north. “There seems to be a few houses along that shore, probably outside the park. If anyone wanted to watch the bay, they’d come in handy.”
“Want me to drive?”
“Sure.” Lester knew Sammy was less likely to get carsick if he were driving, although, the way Sammy drove, his passengers often got a greenish hue.
They followed the gravel roads along the north shore. Most of the cottages were old, worth less than the land they were on, and the land was swampy and forested. “Did you see that?” Sammy asked abruptly.
“Yeah.” Lester turned to look at a cottage they’d just passed. “That’s the same Jeep that met the cop that talked to the CSIS agent at the marina, isn’t it?”
“Sure looks the same. And here comes the cop, I think. Not in a patrol car this time.”
Lester looked away as Jag’s FJ Cruiser went by, then turned into Laura’s cottage. “You got good eyes. For a kid. That’s the cop all right. I think we have someone here just watching the bay.”
“Now what do we do? They’ll be watching the boat. Should we get a motel?”
“Nah. Let’s get supplies and go back to the boat. They’ll find us wherever we put up.”
****
Toronto
The Day before Button Day
On the Islands
Clyde Books got off the ferry at Centre Island, wearing a Blue Jays hat and carrying a small camera on a strap under his jacket. Darkh Blood followed a couple of steps back, trying to get ahead of a zit-marked teen who was endeavoring to tell Darkh his life's troubles. Clyde was wearing a blue nylon rain jacket, but Darkh had a black umbrella over his shoulder, with which he managed to fend off the teenager. Only Darkh looked back over the bay where the towers touched the lowering clouds and three small sailboats courageously braved the harbor winds and steady rain.
Thousands of tourists had stood at various points along the shores of Toronto Islands and taken pictures of the scene across the bay, but that day it was a photographer’s dream. The clouds were weaving themselves in black and gray over the city and a beam of sunlight had survived long enough to illuminate a couple of golden skyscrapers. “Ain’t that a National Geographic moment!” Darkh noted, but Books was paying no attention.
“We’ll take the roadway to Ward’s Island,” he said. “through the amusement park and east.”
It took twenty minutes to follow the path to the Ward’s Island community and past Hatches’ Corner cottage. Clyde thought he saw a dim light in one window, but no other sign of the Daniels brothers. That was fine, then; he was going to do more homework this time. “That’s it,” he told Darkh, looking past the cottage and not stopping.
“Hm.” Darkh took a few pictures of the area, including the cottage, then moved to catch up to Clyde.
As they walked past the “Barb’s Jams” sign, Clyde paused, and turned back. Making it look like he was hesitant, he looked around, then followed the flagstone path to the cottage doorway. He hesitated again, for effect (in case someone was watching) then tapped at the door. Darkh followed him like a shadow. When the door opened, Clyde waved his hand in the general direction of the sign behind him and said, “Hi. You sell jams, I guess.”
“Sure do. Come on in and I’ll show you what I have. You’re from th
e city?”
“Ah, no. We’re from Vancouver, just visiting on business, and I thought I’d see the islands, even if it is raining a bit. We get a lot of rain in Vancouver.” Hat, jacket, and umbrella went onto a coat rack by the door.
“Well, then, welcome,” Barb said. “What kind of jam do you like?” She ran off the names of ten types of jam. “You’ll find they cost about double what you can get jam for in the stores, but the ingredients are as pure and nature-friendly as a person can get around here.”
“Well, I’m not that particular about the type of jam I put onto my toast, but my wife likes to try different jams and I always try to bring something home for her. Do you have anything unusual?” He turned to Darkh. “And what would be your preference?”
“Anything but rhubarb. There’s way too much of that in Vancouver.”
“Can I pour you guys some chamomile tea?” Barb asked. “I’ve got a pot of water on anyway.”
“We’d like that. Even us Vancouver people like to stay out of the rain when we can.”
“I second the motion,” Darkh said.
For the next ten minutes they talked about jams, and Barb sold him a large jar of strawberry-apricot jam. It came with a little brochure about its manufacture. They talked for a bit about Toronto and Vancouver, then Clyde said, “I’ve been told a couple of my wife’s cousins live somewhere on the islands. You might know them; the Daniels brothers.” He sipped the tea and ate a cookie. “I’ve met them only once, when I was young, so I don’t think I’ll drop in or anything.”
Barb tilted her head. “I know them, but not well. Their close friends are all over in Mississauga, so I see them only at the community meetings. They have a few people over to Hatches’ Corner – that’s their cottage – every now and then, but generally they like to respect everybody’s privacy, like the rest of us here."
“Well, maybe I’ll write them a letter. I haven’t seen them since I was a kid. I bet they’ve changed.” He laughed a bit.
"I couldn't say to that," Barb said. She didn't offer to pour any more tea. There was a silence in the room for a moment.
"Do you have ghosts on the island?" Darkh Looked up. A couple of people looked at him as if they suddenly realized he was there and wondered how he'd got in.
"Haven't seen any myself," Barb said, sitting down and looking into Darkh's eyes. For a moment it seemed as if she were about to say more, but then she stopped.
"Well, actually, neither have I. I've been hunting for a real ghost for years, and I must admit I'm a total failure. Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Not a ghost, not a vampire, not a zombie, nothing. Mind you, I prefer ghosts, but I'm getting to think I'll spend my life looking without finding any."
Barb poured more tea. "There are rumors of ghosts everywhere, but I've never seen any, either, not even the ghost of Rademuller. You've heard of Rademuller?"
Darkh shook his head.
"Well," Barb said, "he's the most famous ghost on the islands. A German guy, the first lighthouse keeper. The lighthouse on Gibraltar Point. You've seen it?"
Darkh and Clyde shook their heads.
"It's probably not the best day to see it, in the rain. Although you could take some nice pictures if you didn't get your camera wet."
"And the ghost of this guy hangs around there?"
"So they say," said Barb, "but people say these things, you know. Like maybe they want to see ghosts. He kept watch for Americans during the War of 1812. And for a few years after, so the story goes. Lost his head, you know."
"A headless ghost."
"So they say. The story is, he used to sell moonshine to soldiers from the blockhouse. There was a blockhouse there, in case Americans showed up. A couple of soldiers were charged with murdering him, after he disappeared one day in 1815. They had witnesses, but nobody could find the body, and I guess in those days you needed a body before you could convict people."
"And now he walks the shores, I guess." Darkh tilted his head.
"Well…. Years later they found part of a skeleton, and now people believe he was dismembered and parts of his body buried at different spots. There used to be reports of a light in the lighthouse long after the place had stopped being used. People told their kids it was old Rademuller looking for his head." She laughed.
"I thank you for your hospitality," Clyde said, getting up. "I guess we'll be going now."
"Are you going to see if the Daniels brothers are in?"
"No. They've never been close to the family and I should respect their right to privacy. I always wondered how they managed to keep food on the table."
"On the island, that's not a question one asks." Barb wrapped the two jars of jam in newspaper and put them into separate plastic bags, and added brochures. She watched as they left the laneway and headed south, away from the Daniels' cottage.
When they had gone, she made a call to Brighton.
****
Virginia
Phone conversation to an anonymous agency building
Day before Button Day
Sammy’s call triggered a few events in the Washington area.
In the US government, as with any government, there are official channels and procedures. These are a last measure after unofficial measures and channels have been used. That's because official channels are apt to be recorded somewhere and read someday by a senate committee.
Unofficial stuff includes a lot of hints and suggestions (the meaning of which is always abstract enough that the true meaning will forever be unclear) and the use of markers and debts, however small. Eventually, and occasionally, some unofficial stuff generates some official stuff, but not often.
The fact that Sammy had seen not one but two intelligence officers (no one cared that Jag was supposed to be a “former” officer) in Brighton caused a bit of a stir among a few people who met at a yacht club from time to time. Even those who knew no real details about the problem in Brighton were concerned that "John" was concerned and happy to tag up a marker for future use.
“Let’s get this straight,” one of the less-bald men said. “You say a small plane with one guy on board was lost in Lake Ontario, on the Canadian side a couple of years ago.”
John nodded and pretended to take a sip of his martini. Not that he got away with it; three of the four other men noticed his fake sip and immediately decided the concern level might be more profitable than they’d thought. “Right next to the Canadian shoreline, by a town called Brighton.”
“And you don’t want the Canadians to dredge it up.”
“There are things in the pilot’s briefcase that the Canadians shouldn’t find.” John made a wry shrug.
“And there are some Canadian intelligence types there. Did they spot your operatives?”
“It seems so. The guys I sent are SEALs, without much training in intelligence operations. Just supposed to nose around.”
“Well, if the Canadian government wasn’t interested before, they might be now.”
“I should think,” one of the other guys said, "that it wouldn’t be that hard to tell the Canucks that we’ve located a lost plane, with diplomatic papers. They should be happy to let us haul it aboard an American barge. They understand about diplomatic papers.”
“Well…” John said, then let the sentence slide into silence.
“Ah,” one of the other guys said. The rest just nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” one said. The others nodded again.
“I might need some physical assets,” John said. “A boat big enough to throw its weight around, and maybe a helicopter. In the next couple of days or maybe after.”
“The Canadians won’t like that.”
One of the other guys said, “Maybe passing through fishing or visiting the area.”
“We might have to go with the lost plane explanation,” John said. “We can pull it off if we offer the Canadians something.”
“Something the White House and press don’t find out about?”
“It’s possible,” the guy with the Cleveland Indians cap said. “The Canadian Coast Guard’s pretty strapped for cash, and some free fuelling and a couple of parties in Rochester, made to look like conferences on border security…. We can get a bit of leeway, as long as this doesn’t get up to the higher levels in the Canadian government.”
John took a long drink. “Yeah; sure.” He didn't look too convinced, but it was obvious he had no better idea.
****
Brighton
Presqu'ile Beach Motel
Day before Button Day
Cope sat for a while on the bed, watched TV, and sucked on chocolate cigarettes as he tried not to think about nicotine. The patch on his arm didn't seem to be doing much. He phoned Paula, who wanted to know why he hadn't stocked up on puffed wheat before he left.
That left his duty to his CSIS contact in Ottawa. For a while he debated just emailing the person on duty, noting briefly that a couple of US former special agents were in Brighton, but that they didn’t seem to be doing much. He wasn't satisfied with the compromise message, but at least his ass would be half covered that way. After a while he sighed and made the phone call to a guy called Johnson. Johnson was the poor schnook who had been assigned to handle Oscar Copeman and the Brighton expedition. He knew Cope's jaunt was being recorded as an investigation into something obscure, and that the whole thing was mostly about getting Cope away from anywhere he could annoy people.
So Johnson wasn't happy to have his afternoon interrupted by the call. He was a busy man, his work having expanded to fill the time allotted and not a minute less. But he took the message about Sammy the SEAL and Sammy's younger companion, and about the boat, Serenity, and the license number of the car Sammy drove. He said he'd pass it on, and, remarkably, he did just that before he left for a little vacation fishing for muskellunge in Bobcaygeon.
The message got passed along to three people in the next half hour. One person immediately started planning on how to apologize to the Americans, whichever ones were involved, in some fashion or other.
Another person recorded the details of the call into a registry that would be looked at only if other developments that could affect the reputation of the organization ensued. Otherwise, it would sit happily on a disk somewhere in her office, as unnoticed as a dandelion in a vacant lot, perhaps until time corrupted the last byte.
The third person put his hands over his eyes for a minute or two, then said a few things that weren't polite. His eyes said he didn't like the look of this at all. He made a call to a special number. Then he got Cope's phone number and called him.