Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

“Luc, give me something solid, and I can help you.”

“I have nothing solid, give me a few days to wrap up.”

“Take a few days to wrap up. But I want it wrapped up, hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vanier rose to leave, and Chief Inspector Bedard reached for his phone.

JANUARY 19

7 PM

Pascal Beaudoin could feel the sweat making his shirt stick to his skin, and he hoped it wouldn’t show through his suit jacket. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a personal stand. The formal jousting over contracts for a client was a different story. As a hired gun, he could do anything. But this was different. He was working for himself, not taking orders, but deciding what he wanted to do, and that made him nervous. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face dry again.

The night had not been easy. The Governors of the Foundation of the Holy Land Shelter had eaten an early supper at the St. Denis Club, paid for with the Henderson amp; Associates’ credit card, and Pascal had given them the entire story, a full confession of his sins. He didn’t expect it to be easy, but he also didn’t expect the grilling he received. The Governors were all well into retirement and had left the business world years ago. But they all had histories. In their day, they had all been smart and hard men. Beaudoin’s confession had awakened something dormant in each, something close to an instinctive nose for weakness and a dislike of it. Beaudoin felt the heat. The first thing they wanted to know was why the swap was a bad idea. A pile of cash and the promise of a new Shelter were not necessarily bad things. That the people involved might be unsavoury, that was to be expected: they were property developers after all. The Governors were not going to be told how to vote and, anyway, Beaudoin was starting off way behind. He was the one who had taken their proxies with promises he hadn’t kept. Why should they believe him now? Beaudoin was grilled on everything he knew and then asked to leave the room, forced to pace the hallway while they came to a decision. He used the time to wonder if he had done the right thing. Unemployment was inevitable, and there was a distinct possibility that the deal would be approved. Then he would be unemployed and a pariah. After 45 minutes he was called back in.

They were sitting solemnly around the large round table nursing brandies. Senator Breslin, the most senior of them, motioned him to take the empty seat.

“Pascal,” said the Senator, “my friends have asked that I speak on behalf of all of us. We are all” — he gestured to the group — “troubled by your betrayals. We trusted you, and you let us down. We gave you proxies because we trusted you. There isn’t a good way to say this, Pascal, but you lied to us. And that raises the question, why should we trust you now? It’s a difficult question, but we concluded that it wasn’t the principal question to be answered. We looked at the facts of the proposed transaction. You say it’s a setup. You say the Blackrock group can’t be trusted. Well, we decided to ignore your advice on that. We looked at the transaction from the position of the Foundation. And we have decided, after considering all of the facts, that the Foundation should reject the deal until sufficient guarantees are forthcoming.”

“You’re making the right decision, Senator.”

“I haven’t finished.”

“Excuse me.”

“After that, Pascal, we considered what to do about you. We have decided, again, after considering all of the facts, that we should consider your role in all of this as an education. You were tested and, at the end of the day, and, seemingly not without some considerable effort on your part, you have emerged as a man of honour. So, we have decided to forgive your betrayals as mistakes and stand beside you.”

Beaudoin breathed a sigh of relief and tried to look humble and contrite, knowing at the same time that he had to get these guys moving quickly. Senator Breslin looked around the table. “I believe that accurately reflects our thoughts.” His fellow Governors nodded approval.

“Well then, gentlemen,” said Breslin, “let’s get going. I believe the meeting starts in half an hour. And I believe that Mr. Beaudoin has put on some transportation for us.”

The octogenarians started to get to their feet, slowly and with obvious discomfort for some. It was ten minutes before they were outside the hotel, being assisted into the limousines. When they were loaded, and the limousines started to move off, Beaudoin looked at his watch, fifteen minutes to go.

“Don’t worry, Pascal.”

Beaudoin turned around to face Breslin. “Thank you, Senator.”

The Senator was flanked by two other Governors, who were drifting in and out of sleep. Four other followed in a second limousine, all courtesy of the Henderson amp; Associates credit card, and they were cruising towards the Intercontinental Hotel in Old Montreal carrying a majority.

8.25 PM

In the Champlain Room of the Intercontinental Hotel, Gordon Henderson and four members of the Foundation were sitting around the table, getting down to business. Vladimir Markov and Ivan Romanenko were watching the proceedings as invited guests. Henderson had brought along a law student as a bag carrier, and she was shuffling papers on her knees. Henderson had been calling Beaudoin’s cell phone all day, only to flow straight through to voice mail. Beaudoin was toast, and Henderson felt in control. Two hours earlier, the Board had voted in favour of the deal, and he held seven proxies for the Foundation’s 11-vote decision. There was nothing left to do but go through the motions. They would work their way through the agenda, and it would be official, and a healthy part of his retirement would be funded.

As he was getting the papers in order, the double-doors to the Champlain Room burst open, and a mob of about twenty people flooded the room. It was the usual rent-a-crowd radicals who can be counted on to protest any initiative that doesn’t come from some cooperative, commune, or other voice of the disenfranchised. They were followed by a cameraman from CBC and a reporter with a microphone. The circus was Beaudoin’s insurance policy.

Henderson leaned over to the law student and whispered, “Go get security to come down here immediately. I want these people out of here now.” The student ran for the door.

The mob spread out around the room, unfurling banners with various permutations of the same message: “ Save the Holy Land Shelter, ” “ Protect the Homeless, ” “ No Profiteering on the Backs of the Poor. ”

The light attached to the camera went on, and the camera scanned the room, capturing everyone for the TV news. Henderson watched with horror as the reporter approached, pointing a microphone at his face.

“Mr. Henderson, Marianne Desautels, CBC News. Do you have any comments on the protests against the sale of the Holy Land Shelter?”

“No I don’t. This is a private meeting. You have no right. Would you please leave the room?” he said, waving his arms as though he was engaged in crowd control. Henderson wasn’t used to working in public, and it was taking time to adjust to the new environment. “I said get the fuck out of here. You hear me?” he screamed at the camera.

The only ones leaving were Markov and Romanenko, who got to their feet as soon as the group arrived. They didn’t go far, just out of sight of the cameras. Markov called Henderson on his cell phone.

“Look, I can’t talk right now,” Henderson told him. “Security is on the way. Once the room is cleared, we can get started. Take a few minutes in the bar. I’ll call you when we’re ready to start.”