Messenger of Death (17 page)

“Good,” Serge
said without showing emotion. “Could you identify him in
person?”

The woman
shrunk. With terrible fear in her eyes, she cried, “No, no! Please,
I don’t want to be a witness. I don’t remember his face that well.
You see, I have very poor vision. Please, sir—” She removed her
glasses and placed them on the table.

“What makes you
so worried?” Serge asked.

“They may kill
me!” she exclaimed. The woman obviously was scared out of her
senses. All further attempts to engage her in conversation failed
miserably. When she complained about a pain in her chest, Serge
stood up to go.

“Sorry, again,
for the intrusion, ma’am,” he said. “I do appreciate your help.
Nobody will disturb you anymore. Have a nice day.”

On the way back
to his office, Serge thought about Rose’s fear. He understood well
why elderly people took such great efforts to keep themselves out
of the smallest of troubles—any stress, big or small, could prove
too much for their frail bodies. The puzzle, though, was why were
so many of them afraid of the threat of death at their age? Was it
the habit of living that made them terrified of the state of mind
and body called death? Or was it because, in their older years,
they had more time to think about their inevitable ends and to
understand what a great value every new day has—for them to enjoy
the world as it is, regardless of the successes and failures that
made them so busy in the earlier stages of their lives? Even the
most daring criminals, notorious for neglect or indifference to
their own lives and deaths in their heydays, became cautious with
the passing of years, often avoiding an even trivial risk. Why
would people see a greater value in life when they had no more
purpose, no goals left to achieve, and fewer things to enjoy? He
shuddered at the thought that, eventually, he would have the
opportunity to find answers to these questions himself.

Back in the
office, Serge entered into his computer all the important points of
his findings, updated a few associated files, and started to pick
up the phone to call his wife to tell her he was done for the day.
He was already late for the dinner his mother-in-law had arranged
for them. No sooner had he touched the phone than the door opened.
The boss of the special forces squad, Bertrand Tremblay, came in
with firm steps, as if he owned the world. Tremblay was a tall,
athletic-looking man in his fifties, with the posture and air of a
noble man; thick and dark, though graying, hair; disapproving,
questioning eyes; and a large nose.

“I won’t keep
you long,” he said, taking the only chair on the other side of the
table.

“My wife will
either kill me or leave me,” Serge growled.

Bertrand
dismissed the complaint. “You know, Serge, that I’ve been appointed
a police representative to the task force the government has
assembled to tackle the biker problem. Our mission is to propose
measures to ‘finish,’ as our smart politicians put it, with
organized crime, once and for all.”

They both
laughed.

“I’ve gathered
some statistics—there’s plenty of data available in our information
bank—to support my presentation,” Bertrand resumed. “It would be
helpful to have your input into our wish list of measures the
government will have to adopt.”

“From my
perspective, Bertrand, we have to fight with our self-imposed
restrictions and procedures as hard as we do with the bikers. Case
in point is this murder of the car dealer’s wife. Now, I know
bikers did it, but I don’t have plausible proof of it, yet. If my
guess is correct, her husband works with car thieves. I know that
the bikers control a few gangs whose activities revolve around the
car business, in all forms and shapes. But it’s an uphill battle to
get permission to access the husband’s financial information or to
get any other information, for that matter, that is not internal to
the police force. The flow of information throughout the government
must be simplified.”

Bertrand nodded
in agreement.

“Another
example was when some clever people in our government abolished
police control over our major marine ports. I know they quickly
restored it, but what was the result of that short break? About 30
tons of hash and five of coke were smuggled in. And that’s just
what we know. We can’t even guess at what we don’t know. These are
mind-boggling numbers. Considering that the price of good quality
stuff is $40 per gram, the street value of the coke alone is
approximately $200 million! And this was only one delivery—can you
guess what is going on day-to-day?” Serge paused for air.

Bertrand
sighed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the bikers control our ports one
way or the other. A mole alerted them to the upcoming raid. All our
policing proved to be as ineffective as it was costly.”

“Hah,” Serge
laughed with an angry burst. “That’s our problem, not the
government’s. Our mistakes should not be the reason to cut funding
or increase restrictions. I need to be able to put under
surveillance any person of my choosing, without having to follow
lengthy procedures. We need to tap the telephones of bikers, their
relatives, their associates, and anyone we need to, even if we
can’t support our requests with valid arguments at the time.”

“Those
liberal-minded assholes would scream about breach of the
constitution, violation of civil rights, and whatnot,” Bertrand
grumbled.

“Well, tell
them that a huge amount of explosives has been stolen over the past
few days from two construction sites. We don’t know which gang is
stockpiling them, but I suspect we won’t have to wait long to
witness an upswing in bombings and explosions all over the city. If
I were you, I would explain to those politicians that the biker’s
war is coming to their homes.”

Bertrand leaned
back and stretched his legs, fixing himself in what Serge noted was
a too-comfortable pose. Serge frowned; he wanted to go home to
enjoy this nice summer evening with his family, not to discuss the
biker war.

“How are your
investigations going?” Bertrand asked.

“Well, I’m
pretty sure that I know one of the Devil’s Knights hit men. And, I
have gathered some good information on one of the prime figures in
the Iron Ghosts. His name is Stanley Mathews. I suspect him of
being a driving force behind many of the recent assassinations and
explosions. It would be nice to put him under surveillance, but I
have no evidence to support my request for that.”

His telephone
rang.

“This is my
wife,” Serge growled.

“Thanks,
Serge.” Bertrand stood up. “Have a nice evening. Oh, it’s already 7
o’clock—I have to rush home, too.”

II

The public was
in fear and awe of the rampaging bikers. Gangsters killed each
other in bars and restaurants—in broad daylight, blew up buildings
where rivals had established their businesses, crushed bars with
baseball bats to scare owners and patrons, and ousted rival drug
dealers, all to expand their turf.

The police
seemed helpless in their efforts to curb the violence. In a
desperate attempt to save face and calm their constituents, the
government had selected the best of the province’s politicians,
reputable police and RCMP, and respectable lawyers for a task force
whose mandate was to suggest effective measures for eliminating the
biker gangs. Election day was fast approaching, pushing the ruling
party to its limits in an effort to regain the public’s trust.

The initial
meeting of the 11-member task force was to take place in a spacious
24th-floor conference room. Plenty of daylight flooded in through
large windows that provided a spectacular view of the city. Nine
men and two women would soon settle into comfortable armchairs
around a long wooden table, its surface polished, glossy and shiny.
A smaller table sat by the entrance. On it were coffeepots, a pile
of napkins, sparkling teaspoons, a sugar bowl, and a few white
ceramic cups.

First to arrive
was Monica Godette. As a Member of Parliament she had been
appointed from the government to take part in discussions.
Customarily dressed in formal business clothes, today’s skirt was
the only touch of femininity in her outward appearance. Monica
caught everyone’s attention. Her long, somewhat masculine face with
its small, sharp eyes made anyone looking at her feel like an
accused child standing in front of an unforgiving judge who knows
all secrets and is about to announce the frightening verdict.
During the last election, she had supported noisy minorities such
as gay rights activists, feminists, and the peace movement, but in
a moderate way, never overstepping the bounds of common sense. Her
latest appearances on television, interviews, and articles in
newspapers had attracted enough attention to have her elevated to
this panel of experts.

The chairman
arrived soon after Monica. A well-known lawyer, Robert Corby took
his seat at the far end of the table, from where he could observe
the meeting. As soon as he was situated, he began tapping his
laptop computer with the butt of his expensive Mont Blanc pen. The
rest of the task force members arrived and got comfortable as
quickly as possibly, perhaps moving in time with the tapping
pen.

Raising the
eyebrows on his very friendly face—a deceptive impression of which
he was a master, as far as Monica knew—Robert asked everyone to
introduce himself or herself. Monica opened up her writing pad and
made notes on everyone except Robert, whom she knew too well.

“Although we
are well familiar with the subject,” Robert began after all the
formalities had been dispensed with, “I think an overview of the
current state of affairs from the police perspective would be a
good starting point. I am privileged to introduce the expert on
biker gangs, Detective-Captain Bertrand Tremblay.” With a light nod
at Bertrand, he added, “The stage is yours, sir.”

Holding his
head high, Bertrand opened a binder that lay in front of him but
did not look in it. Instead, he exchanged glances with Monica, who
held a pencil in her right hand, poised just inches above her
writing pad. With vertical wrinkles on her forehead, she was ready
to listen, ready to jot down all the facts and figures and matters
of interest that Bertrand told them for future reference and
consideration.

“Bikers now are
the greatest criminal force in modern society. Forget the image
they had in the sixties and seventies, or even the eighties. They
are not hoodlums and brawlers, as they were in the past, disturbing
the peace and committing petty crimes. No, now they are in the
criminal business, and big business at that. And as all other
businesses have, they have gone international. They have formed
international drug cartels, international prostitution rings, and
international money-laundering networks. I can’t explain how or why
a simple association of hoodlums changed over forty years to become
one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world. We’ll
have to leave that to historians.”

Bertrand
paused, as if he expected comments or questions or some kind of
response. None came, and with a nod to his own thoughts, he
continued.

“Biker gangs
are not a new phenomenon in the criminal landscape. In Quebec,
there are approximately 500 outlaw motorcycle gang club members and
about 7,000 other bikers and associates, all of them considered
criminals. Don’t underestimate their wits and experience: Crime is
their way of life. Many take part in direct criminal activities;
others have legitimate businesses that they conduct in a criminal
manner. Combined, they rival any large, legal business
enterprise.

“The volume of
drug sales in our province is about $1 billion a year. Because it
is that large, it has become saturated with a swarm of new players
who want a piece of the action. The only sure way and the quickest
way to beat out the competition in the underworld is to eliminate
it. The ‘turf wars’ that result between gangs have always been a
fact of life. In most cases in the past, their outcome was the
elimination of one gang by another or the absorption of one gang
into another.

“The largest
gang in our province so far has been the Devil’s Knights.
International by nature, with chapters in most developed countries,
they have the largest supply and distribution networks for drugs in
the world. They have also accumulated the best experience and the
most expertise among organized crime organizations for
assassination, intimidation, money laundering, and harassment.
Recently, an unknown gang has entered the Devil’s Knights turf.
Though the gang is presumably small, it is evidently seen as a
serious threat by some Devil’s Knights who have tried to approach
them.

“What has
surprised the police, and has became a cause for public concern
now, is the intensity of resistance this new gang, which is known
as the Iron Ghosts, has shown to the Devil’s Knights. In just two
years, about seventy gang members on both sides have been killed,
and we have averted about eighty more attempted murders. More than
ten bystanders have been killed or severely injured in their
crossfire or as a result of their explosions. A lot of dynamite is
still not accounted for and for sure will be used soon in a larger
scale as their war intensifies.”

“I’d like to
interrupt you, if I may,” Monica cut in.

“Sure,”
Bertrand agreed with a welcoming glance in her direction.

“How many of
those murder cases have you solved?”

“Three.”

“Three out of
seventy?” Monica was exasperated. “What kind of police force do we
have!”

“That’s exactly
the point,” Bertrand responded quickly. “We need more police
officers. We need more funds for surveillance, logistics. And we
need a tough law that would let us—for lack of better words—bypass
the existing restrictions that tie our hands in fighting organized
crime.”