Читать книгу The Snakeheads - Mary Moylum - Страница 12

“Where’re you now?”

“I’m calling from the Toronto airport,” replied the General.

“We’re in trouble,” said a voice on the other end. “Big trouble. Have you read the papers?”

The words seemed to clear the General’s mind, reminding him of the events of last Friday. They revealed to him the risks he had to take and the limited options that were open to him. Standing at a payphone without his gun, the surprise and fear hit him with a freshness he had almost forgotten.

“Call me when you get to New York tonight,” the distant voice continued curtly. “If you don’t call, then I’ll know that you didn’t make it. Remember the place in New York’s Chinatown we talked about? Go and stay there for awhile until things cool down. Or until I tell you otherwise.”

And then the line went dead.

As he passed through the metal detectors at passport control he was glad he had discarded his weapons before boarding the airporter bus for Pearson International. He stifled his mind not to think anymore. After all, he knew the procedures and route well.

“The length of your visit?”

“One week.”

“Business?”

The official handed him back his boarding pass.

“Family. I’m going to visit my niece and her children,” Li Mann Vu lied.

“Hope you have a good flight.”

Li Mann Vu nodded his head and smiled as he picked up his brand new, carry-on luggage. In fact, he smiled for the first time in a week. Exactly a week ago he was shot and hunted like an animal. Running through the woods on all fours, swimming underwater like a fish, eating seaweed, sleeping under the stars. He had become an animal. That’s how he had survived, and he was right under their noses.

So far, so good. He had managed to evade the authorities. They didn’t call him “the General” for nothing. He sat on the deck of the frequent flyer lounge, staring up at the night sky. He felt at home watching the planes flying in and out. The lights from the radar control tower and the aircraft reminded him of flares and tracer bullets arcing across a night sky. It reminded him of another place and time.

In April 1966, the war machine was in full force and the Communist leaders had drafted him into the army to fight his South Vietnamese brothers. His entire high school class had been drafted and posted to the same reconnaissance unit. They were young and didn’t believe they could die. Until they saw the American death machines swooping down from the sky. He was seventeen then. They promoted him to unit commander and sent him on a mission to destroy the American Black Horse Division. The ambush came when they were crossing the Le Thuy River. Without any kind of warning the American Huey gunships descended. There had not been enough time to run for the cover of the forests. By some accident of fate he alone had survived. He was wounded, but his entire unit lay around him, dead or dying, including Phan, his sister’s husband, who was also his best friend. Young men he had known since childhood. He had had a responsibility to every one of them. They were his comrades, and he had failed them all. He had dug graves for them with his bare hands, but he knew he should have died with them.

He had bound up the wound in his leg with his best friend’s shirt, and forced himself to trek through the malaria-infested jungles. Days later, when he had reached his village, he found that it had been napalmed by the Americans. Nothing was left but charred ruins. He became a man defined by what he had lost, a man with nothing more to lose. He re-enlisted, volunteering only for the most dangerous missions. Life and death became one.

He had first made himself known to the Americans in 1969, in an attack on Phnom Khai, an Air America stronghold south of Phnom Penh. When the ten-hour barrage of rocket and artillery fire was over, nineteen Air America commandos were dead. For that, he had been promoted to the rank of general, and sent into Laos to find and destroy a U.S. Air Force radar installation. It took several months of tracking, but he managed to locate it at a mountain site at Phu Phai Thi. He would never forget the explosion of grenades and bombs going off all at once. It had reminded him of celebration fire-works. By the time the Americans had pulled out of Vietnam, he had shot down more than his fair share of the eight-thousand U.S. fighter jets. He was proud of that. The memory brought a smile to his lips.

The war had ended over twenty years ago, but for Li Mann Vu peace would never come. He hadn’t taken a life in a long time. The ability to kill without hesitation or remorse had merely lain dormant until the night he had shot that immigration officer. He had been shot, too, but the bullet penetrated only flesh and muscle. In spite of the pain, he had managed to swim a couple of miles downstream to the home of one of his mules, Sally Grandfeather. She had sheltered him in her house while law enforcement officials on two continents issued warrants for his arrest. She had paid for the doctor from Detroit, who had made the trip across the border to remove the bullet from his shoulder. On the fifth day when he was better, she had bought him a one-way Greyhound bus ticket to Toronto.

He gently touched his shoulder. It was still painful to the touch. It was too bad the smuggling operation had failed when they were caught at the border. Sally Grandfeather needed the money she had been expecting to receive for housing the migrants while they were in transit to New York City. He would speak to the boss about paying her anyway. After all, she had kids to feed. It wasn’t her fault the operation had gone wrong.

The General thought it was hate that kept him alive. The United States government had destroyed his country. A quarter century later, hate still ran deep in his veins. He hated the Americans for the suffering and pain his people had endured during and after the war. And he pitied his South Vietnamese brothers who had believed the lies and empty promises of the Americans. The marines had quickly fed his southern brothers to the dogs when he and his comrades surrounded the walls of Phnom Penh. Thousands tried to flee by boat, but had lived only to be lost at sea or interned in refugee camps around the world. Those who managed to get to the promised land often found themselves forcibly repatriated by Western governments.

Since he had started in the people smuggling business, he had assisted in over two thousand entries into the United States. It was a kind of revenge. Because the Americans had destroyed his country, he would move people into theirs. He brought them into the U.S. by ship, plane, cars, and trucks. He arranged transportation for them all — the dispossessed of his own and other countries. He was paid huge sums of money, but he didn’t do it for that.

His flight landed on time at JFK Airport. Li Mann took his place in the queue at customs and immigration. He handed the customs officer a Malaysian passport which he had reproduced himself, carried with his own photograph. He was nodded through without a problem.

Nick, Kappolis, and Dubois were seated at a corner table in a greasy spoon at Bloor and Bathurst. Kappolis was describing the raid his fugitive squad had staged the night before. “We got this informant, good at his work. Not everybody can do it, but this guy’s really cut out to be a snitch. He’s smart and he’s angry. You need nerves of steel to penetrate your own community, betray your people. This guy, Cam, has the nerves. Twenty-four years old, born in Laos, and already served three years for knifing a man to death.”

“Three years for murder, that’s all he served?” Nick found that hard to believe. “Obviously he had friends in high places.”

“Nah, nothing like that.” Kappolis paused a moment before going on. “Cam was used by the higher-ups to kill a member of a competing triad. After a year in prison awaiting trial, Cam decided he’d been stupid to maintain his silence, protecting his masters who had hung him out to dry.”

“So he plea bargained to serve only two years?” Nick whistled to himself as he pushed his chair back from the dining table.

“Sort of. He signed a contract to become our snitch. Released last year and already did a couple of assignments for us. Wears a wire. Looks like your average Asian guy in the street. So right after the drive-by we sent him to check out a grocery store in Chinatown II.”

“Oh, yeah. I saw a blurb on some surveillance job in that area that came across my desk,” said Dubois, raising the beer mug to his lips.

“No one told me or my department about this snitch or the surveillance job.” Nick assumed an indignant look.

“At that time Nick, it wasn’t an immigration matter.” Kappolis drained back the rest of his malt before continuing with his story.

“Nick, law enforcement isn’t required to tell Immigration everything,” said Dubois.

“That’s real comforting to know,” answered Nick, looking anything but.

Kappolis pushed a handful of French fries into his mouth. “So we had him under twenty-four-hour surveillance for a full day, the works — an inside inspection by Cam, checks on all movement in and out of the store, and a photographic record. We were across the street in a carpet cleaning van, with a telescopic lens. Every visitor was logged. Anybody who spoke to anybody was monitored were listed.”

“What did you get?” Nick asked impatiently.

“There were shopkeepers making their weekly protection drop offs. The old men, I’m guessing. Some Lo Chien gang members. No sign of the bosses. We waited till all the ducks were lined up. The raid was timed for midnight. We were gonna get them in their own backyard.”

Kappolis wolfed down the rest of his hamburger. “We got photographs taken earlier in the day by the surveillance team. The store was a front for the Lo Chien gang, which was a big player in the extortion and prostitution racket. Cam, the snitch, told me that Lo Chien is trying to muscle in on the people-smuggling racket. The Flying Dragons control it now. All we wanted was information and pictures, and maybe make a strategic arrest or two. The SWAT team was just for intimidation. Nobody was supposed to get killed.”

Nick passed his plate of half-eaten burger to the waitress. He was not hungry.

“But then this red Corvette cruises down the street and two mean-looking Asian guys get out and check out the carpet cleaning van. I got a bad feeling about that, I can tell ya. Then when two more guys climb out of the car with ammunition belts and semi-automatics over their shoulders, I figure guess what, guys, we’ve lost the element of surprise. And less than a minute later, we hear bullets ripping out the windows of parked cars in the back alley where our other guys were.

“So I give the signal, and the SWAT team blows through the front door, returning fire. Then it was all over. A damn miracle, in my book. None of the shopkeepers got killed but all four Lo Chien gang members who returned fire are dead.”

Nick sighed. In his opinion the raid had been a big mistake, and Dubois, who was hearing about it for the first time, looked as if he agreed.

Kappolis was doing his best to placate Nick. “No worries, Nick. The precinct’s got a reward out for snitching on the community. Stuff will come in on the Flying Dragons. Give it time.”

“Problem with that sketch of Li Mann is that he looks like every and any Asian man,” said Dubois.

The conversation paused when the waitress appeared with a pot of fresh coffee. They watched her refill their cups. As soon as she left, Nick said, “All we’ve got is Gee Tung. At this point I’m prepared to plea-bargain with him. Offer him a deal if he betrays his friends.”

“Nick, I wouldn’t trust the quality of his information.” Dubois scowled. “Maybe he led us astray with that sketch of Li Mann. I mean, how else to explain a country-wide arrest warrant on both sides of the border, and we got diddly squat. I wouldn’t trust him. What makes you think scum like that are gonna help us indict their own people?”

Nick threw up his hands. “Then what the fuck have we got? At this point I’m prepared to try anything.”

“When’s the Mandarin Club owner coming in to see you?” asked Dubois.

“Tomorrow morning at nine sharp, with his hired gun.”

“That should be something,” said Kappolis, lighting a cigarette.

“I never count my chickens until they’re hatched.”

“Okay, Nick, I’ll talk to Gee Tung when I get back to Ottawa. But don’t hold your breath. I’m willing to bet good money that composite he gave us was pure bullshit.”

“Even if he’s prepared to deal,” said Kappolis, “how the hell do we know that he isn’t stringing us along just to avoid deportation back to Vietnam? We’ve all seen that script before.”

“True. But why don’t we get the information and then assess the quality of it?” Nick was annoyed and his voice was starting to rise.

“Nick, we ain’t deaf. No need to be shouting the place down,” Dubois said testily.

“I want a conviction in Walter Martin’s death. I want Gee Tung to testify as a key witness in a prosecution case against Li Mann and his cohorts for Martin’s death, smuggling illegals into the country, abusing immigration permits, the drive-by shooting and other triad activities. I’m prepared to cut a deal.”

“That’d be a real deal with the devil, Nick. You want to turn loose one of the snakeheads who killed?”

“I’m not turning anybody loose! It’s a twopronged strategy here, Dubois. You put the squeeze on Gee Tung. I’ll put the squeeze on the Mandarin Club owner. Let’s see what we come up with. That’s all I’m saying,” said Nick, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Just then the national news came on the TV over the bar. The police raid was the lead story. The restaurant owner turned the sound up slightly and the two men turned to watch. Store windows blown-out. Police cruisers pockmarked with bullet holes. Body bags wheeled into ambulances. Nick couldn’t take any more of it. He got up and changed the channel on the television, pissing off a handful of pub patrons.

“So much for trying to squeeze the competition for information on Li Mann and Sun Sui. Couldn’t your boys have taken one of those Lo Chien thugs alive?” asked Nick.

“When the bullets are coming at you, you don’t think about saving one thug for later. All you want to do is get out of there alive, go home and see your kids.”

“In other words we’re doing our best and still coming up zero,” Nick said. “I’m back at square one.”

The offices were empty. The civil servants had long gone home. The building was quiet, almost spooky, except for the hum of the ventilation system.

Grace swivelled her chair and hiked her feet on the window ledge. She opened the file and reviewed her notes for a pre-hearing conference. The Federal Court had overturned the deportation order of a Tamil Tiger and he was claiming refugee status. According to her notes, he had been involved in two bombings in Sri Lanka eight years ago, and feared political retribution if he returned. He had lived in Canada since then, under a deportation order and without refugee or landed immigrant status. On the other side of the coin, through eight years of a lengthy appeals process, he had married and fathered two children. In many respects, he was a model citizen, volunteering his time as a church janitor and doing community service, while working days as a dishwasher and cleaner in a restaurant. The restaurant, church and his community supported his application to stay. The petition ran to over five thousand names. Nick’s office had rejected his request to remain in the country on humanitarian and compassionate grounds.

She sent an e-mail to scheduling for a hearing date followed by a second e-mail to Nick’s office, asking if they wished to revisit their department’s decision in light of the fact that the claimant had not committed crimes in this country, taking into consideration the interests of his wife and children. What Grace really wanted to do was call Nick. But this case was the wrong pretext. She knew exactly what he would say. We have repeatedly denied him permission to remain in the country as a refugee or landed immigrant. He was issued temporary minister’s permits, and now the permits have expired. We don’t offer asylum to people who are facing prosecution back home. The asylum process isn’t meant for criminals on the run. Getting married and having Canadian-born children is a ruse. Seen that before. Sorry, Grace. Time’s up. The claimant must go home and face the music. End of story.

She imagined Nick saying those words. Then she remembered him saying other words, looking at her with love in his eyes.

The phone rang, ripping the silence like a torpedo and pulling her back from her private grotto. She jumped, upset the file on her lap, and scattered paper all around her.

“Ms. Wang-Weinstein?”

“Yes?”

“This is Rocco Corvinelli. I just read your e-mail and no one in scheduling is picking up. I want you to know that your hearing date isn’t convenient with us. Could you move it forward by another two weeks or so? Our plate is very full at the moment. After Labour Day would go better for us.”

Grace flipped through her docket. “Fine, I’ll send another e-mail to scheduling.”

Swell. Another complication in mending their relationship. After the phone call she couldn’t concentrate. Time ticked by as she sat at her desk, frustrated and undecided. Her professional and personal lives were colliding, and not in the way she desired. Collapsing the files and dumping them back into the filing cabinet, she closed her office and headed for the bank of elevators.

Outside the building, the sky had deepened to the colour of prairie rose. The humidity had dissipated. Checking that Crosby’s address was in the pocket of her suit jacket, she set out to walk over and drop in on him. She was an hour early, but there was a marvellous bookstore along the way. She could stop and vanish into a book for an hour any time. And right now, she needed to be in another headspace.

BJ and Harry were sitting in the van on the arrivals deck at the Ottawa airport. Harry lit another cigarette. He had smoked ten in the last hour and a half.

“I thought you quit,” BJ said.

“I did. I quit when I got out of the pen. But I started up again two months ago.” Harry looked pale, sickly white, under the parking lot lights. He was sweating profusely, nerved up for his revenge.

“Relax, man,” said BJ, in an easy tone. “I never seen you like this before.”

Harry threw his half-smoked cigarette out onto the pavement. “I hate summer. Too hot and humid. I used to like it, when I had the kids.” And in the same bitter tone he repeated Crosby’s name several times.

BJ had heard the whole story from Harry while they were bunking in prison together, heard it so many times he knew it all by heart. Knew all the details and could play it back in his head like it was a movie he’d seen. How Harry’s family, his wife, four-year-old daughter, and a seven-month-old baby son had all been taken away from him. Killed by a drunk driver. Harry was depressed, living in no-man’s land. All his life, he’d told BJ, he just wanted to be a good citizen. His expectations weren’t so high: a house, a wife, and kids running around the back yard.

BJ had heard all about the accident. It had happened on Highway 40 outside Troy. Harry couldn’t remember the impact, but he did recall being thrown clear out of the car, then blacking out. The next thing he knew he was lying in a hospital bed with several broken ribs, broken shoulders and arms and a punctured lung. And his wife and little children were dead. After his release from the hospital, he tried to commit suicide in his empty farmhouse, but he was saved by the neighbour down the road.

The driver who had destroyed Harry’s family and his life had escaped criminal charges on a technicality because the police investigating the accident had screwed up on the evidence-gathering process. Harry tracked him down, broke into his house and shot him to death with a .44. If a victims’ support group hadn’t taken up his legal defence, he would have been convicted of murder and jailed for life. Instead, he served time for manslaughter, and while he was in prison, with plenty of time on his hands, he had enlisted BJ’s help and done some research. That’s when they had learned that the renegade driver who had killed Harry’s entire family had been slated for deportation from the country. But it had all been overturned in immigration court by Mark Crosby. In other words, Mark Crosby had signed the death warrant on his wife and kids.

BJ had been given early release for good behaviour. A few months later, Harry got out too and came looking for his prison bunkmate. He’d asked BJ to help track down Mark Crosby, because he wanted to kill the guy. BJ had no problem with that.

They watched a tour bus disgorge over a hundred seniors through the revolving doors.

“That’s his plane,” said BJ, directing Harry’s attention to the Air Canada flight circling for a landing.

Harry said in a hoarse, strained voice, “Stay here. Give Judge Crosby time to collect his bags.”

Harry and BJ tried their best to look unobtrusive in the crowd. That wasn’t easy since Harry was a big guy, tall and wide-shouldered.

“Did you put enough money in the parking meter?” Harry asked. “The last thing we need is a parking ticket from some stupid cop. Or to have our van towed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” snapped BJ. “Quit worrying.”

“That’s him. There, he’s moving through the queue,” said Harry, a few minutes later. They watched as Crosby collected a suitcase. Now he was ordering a limousine. Only the best for a jerk like him, thought BJ bitterly.

“You’re sure it’s him. The guy we saw last time had glasses. I don’t want to be following the wrong guy.”

“It’s our guy,” replied Harry. “Go get the van. If it’s not him, then we go straight to Crosby’s address and wait.”

As the limousine pulled away from the curb, BJ edged the rusty white van with the tinted mirrors out of the parking lot. Harry jumped in, and they followed the limousine, not too close, but not more than five car lengths behind either.

“We don’t want to lose him.” Harry was still chainsmoking.

“Relax. I know this city like the back of my hand,” said BJ. They hadn’t spent good money on long distance calls to Crosby’s office to learn his travel itinerary, and driven all the way to Ottawa, to lose sight of their prey.

“He’s changed a bit. Gotten fatter,” said Harry.

“The good life, man. Eating, drinking, and chicks.” BJ grinned, rubbing his hands together.

“Keep your eyes on the road, and your hands on the steering wheel,” ordered Harry. “I don’t want to lose him.”

For the remainder of the drive Harry clammed up, keeping his eyes on the limousine ahead of them. That was okay with BJ. There was no need to go over the details of the job.

Trailing at a safe distance, they observed the limo pulling up in front of the townhouse. They watched the judge getting out and paying the driver. When the limo pulled away from the curb the van moved forward to take its place, parking right in front of the victim’s door.

As Crosby was pushing open his front door, BJ and Harry walked quickly and quietly up behind him.

“Are you Mark Crosby?” Harry asked in his hoarse voice.

“Why do you ask?” asked Mark Crosby, turning around. His mouth fell open as he stood staring at the gun pointed at his chest.

“Get into the house,” ordered BJ.

Crosby didn’t get the chance to ask how they knew his name or his address. Meekly, he obeyed their instructions.

BJ closed the door behind them.