Reluctant Detective (26 page)

52

“Pins and needles?”

“Yes, pins and needles. A kind of tingling. Incredible,” said Dit.

“After all these years, how can that be?”

“Nobody knows. That's why I'm here.”

“Maybe they could book you as a guest on that
Ripley's Believe it or Not!
show,” laughed Anne.

“They were going to, but I got bumped by some Lazarus fellow.”

Anne looked up from the phone. A man and a woman stood in front of her. Both wore white coats. The woman carried a clipboard.

“Uh oh, Dit, I gotta go. Two people in white coats are here, and one of them is staring at his watch. I'll call later. Bye.”

Dr. Aziz looked at Anne's chart and examined her. He described
Anne's case to the nurse who accompanied him. Then he addressed
Anne and told her that she was well enough to go home. He was
discharging her from the hospital.

Jayne R. was still on duty when the doctor left Anne's room. She arrived to help Anne gather up her belongings and make a call to
Ben to pick her up.

“How do you come to know Robert Somerville?” asked Anne.

“Well, it's not telling tales out of school but, when I knew him, he was Bobby Dill. We were brought up in a small village near
Cambridge. Bobby was quite a bit older than I. He was a university student when I was a child. His mother, Marion Dunning, had been a visiting nurse and midwife. Local gossip has it that she got pregnant out of wedlock and had Bobby. The next year she married Peter Dill, a local school teacher, one of my teachers, in fact. He adopted Bobby and his name became Robert Dill. Everyone believed that Peter was his real father anyway.”

“How does a man cross the bridge from schoolmaster's son to lord of the manor? That's a quantum leap, isn't it?”

“I can hardly comprehend it myself. I came upon Bobby in Charlottetown last fall for the first time since I'd left England. It was at
a fundraiser for the QEH. We were introduced. My jaw dropped. He
hadn't changed much, you see. He winked, and afterwards we had a great laugh together. Now let's get you into that wheelchair, and
we'll run you out to the main entrance.”

“I don't need a wheelchair. I can walk perfectly well, thank you.”

“Hospital rules. Into the chair,” she ordered, “or we make you stay for lunch. Creamed beef on toast. Yum!”

Anne lowered herself into the wheelchair under duress. “I feel silly doing this,” she said.

“Just as silly as I did every time I had to call Bobby Dill ‘Lord Somerville' or even ‘Robert.' Anyway, Bobby told me the whole
story. It wasn't until many years later, after the deaths of his parents,
that he found the truth in some letters and birth documents his
mother had put aside. Harrison Somerville, Lord Somerville, was his birth father. Apparently the two had become intimate while Marion was visiting the manor and caring for Harrison's dying mother.”

“What did Bobby do after he learned the truth?”

“There wasn't much he could do really. Harrison Somerville was long dead. There were no known heirs. The estate had been broken up and sold ten or fifteen years before. But I guess there was something in Bobby's character that wanted to set things right. It wasn't
money. He already had that. He had made a small fortune as an
engineering consultant to some oil companies in Africa. Yes, I think it was simply setting things right… claiming his birthright.”

“What had to be set right?”

“To be honest, Bobby's father was a bit of a dink. Outside of giving
some legitimacy to Bobby's name, Peter Dill was a philanderer.
Bobby never got along with him. When he learned the truth about his birth, Bobby legally changed his name to Somerville. He bought
a parcel of land from the old Somerville estate. Then he acquired the title.”

“How can you ‘acquire' a title? That doesn't seem possible.”

“I believe the nature of titles is more peculiar in Britain than in any other European country. As far as Bobby is concerned, the manorial title is hereditary, and he now had the documents to prove he had a right to it. However, this title had already been sold. Some titles are considered property themselves, separate from land holdings. This
was one of them. To make a long story short, Bobby purchased it
from the then current owner.”

“Was it that easy?”

“Not really. Bobby threatened to bring legal action if the owner didn't sell to him. After all, it was his by right of heredity, you see.”

“But he was – excuse the expression – a bastard. Does that still count?”

“In Great Britain, even a bastard has standing and, speaking of
standing, it's time for you to get up and go home. There's your ride. Have a lovely day, Anne.”

Ben pulled his car in front of the main entrance and rushed around to open the door for Anne. Anne's first instinct was to tell him there
was no need in helping her into the car. She was perfectly capable of doing it herself. But she didn't. He had been enormously helpful
when setting the trap for the Client. He wanted to be helpful now. So why dampen a charitable spirit, she thought.

They drove across the city and stopped at Anne's house. Ben waited in the car while she grabbed a change of clothes. Then they wove through mid-afternoon traffic to The Blue Peter.

“Have you heard about Dit?” asked Anne.

“Sarah called him earlier. Great news, eh?”

“It gives him hope, for sure. That tingling in his legs means that there's some kind of spinal connection.”

“I can't understand how it happened though. It's been so long,”
said Ben. “It must have something to do with that beating he took… or being stuffed into that container… I dunno.”

Anne said no more about it. She wasn't superstitious, but some inkling suggested she might jinx it if she spoke of it. It was a silly
thought. But perhaps it was better to remain timidly sceptical…
to bottle up her expectations… rather than endure the inevitable disappointment if hopes for Dit's recovery were dashed.

The Blue Peter was pleasantly filled with the chatter of coffee drinkers and muffin nibblers. Ben and Anne made their way to the round table they had grown accustomed to over the years. Mary Anne waved from a back corner where she held three of her waitresses in conversation.

Anne stared at the menu, but she wasn't reading it. Her mind
was still labouring through the last several days of hunting for the Client and being pursued by him. Her imagination raced through
bouts of frenzy. It played out the same scenes over and over
again. Her memory of most details of the incidents had returned.
A few particulars eluded her. They were unimportant. But a few
unanswered questions troubled her profoundly. And they lay like
palpable, restless shadows in the recesses of her mind.

“Ben?” she asked.

“I think I'll have the steak sandwich,” he replied.

“And I think I'll go nuts if I don't figure out what's been going on.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“There are big pieces missing here. Like who was my Client? What's his motive? What was Agent Pierce doing at MacLaren's? And why is this whole rat's nest being swept under the carpet?”

“Pierce? That's easy. If the Mounties had you on their radar, so did Pierce, and he probably wanted to get a step ahead of the RCMP. He
was either following you or found your connection to MacLaren.
The rest? I don't know. I don't think you'll ever know the truth, not everything anyway, but I think it all leads back to those supernotes.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that before, but counterfeit is counterfeit. Even if they are super-good reproductions, so what?”

“I did a bit of poking around a few days ago and a bit more
yesterday. That fancy press that can make these bills costs tens of
millions. I told you that. Having a plant to make the paper would cost tens of millions more. What kind of gang or crime syndicate
could afford that? Or keep purchases like that secret?”

“Not many?”

“I would say ‘not any.' It would take a government to pull this off. And the government most often pointed to is North Korea…”

“You think it's the Koreans?”

“Na. They bought a Giorio press, but they defaulted on their payment to the Italian company which makes them, and the company cut off their supply of repair parts years ago. Besides that, nobody else wants to do business with them.”

“Then who?” Anne asked impatiently.

“First, answer this. If you had the capability to make really good
bills, how would you run the production and distribution?”

“Me? I'd run off a few billion, dump it quick, and get out before they traced it.”

“That's what most counterfeiters do. Get in, get out, and disappear.
But supernotes always surface in small quantities, usually one to five million or so. And that's been going on for fifteen or twenty
years. And they seem to turn up more frequently in out-of-the-way
trouble spots. Rwanda, Yemen, Somalia, Venezuela. Does that tell
you anything?”

“It tells me that it's pretty odd.”

“And why do you think it's odd?” he prompted.

“I'm beginning to feel like I'm back in school again,” said Anne
suspiciously.

“Consider this a review before your final exam, kiddo.”

“Okay, okay, I'd want to launder money where a lot of other
legitimate money is changing hands. It'd be less noticeable.”

“Exactly. So here's my theory. Well, it's one that I heard somewhere, but it has plausibility.

The Central Intelligence Agency is secretly counterfeiting US currency to fund their pet projects overseas.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Look at it this way. Say the CIA wants intelligence from a foreign agent or some government official. They drop some bogus money
in his pocket. He uses some of that money to grease some other
unpatriotic wheels. It creates a money trail. Like-minded rats feed at
the same granary. Because the CIA knows the serial numbers, they
can trace where the money goes and who's in the loop. Or maybe
they want to fund a rebel group in some banana republic. They slip
them five or ten million, and they watch where the money goes.
The nice thing about it is that it costs the US nothing. Eventually the
supernotes are detected when they pass through any major bank
in the world. Then the hot potato principle applies: the last person holding the counterfeit money is out of pocket. It's confiscated just like your bank deposit. No compensation.”

“Did you get all this intel from your spook friends in Ottawa?”

“Na, they were no help at all. They said they'd never heard of
supernotes. Arseholes, the pack of them.”

“So how do you know all this, Mr. Bond?”

Ben stared at her for a long second. Then he knowingly tapped his nose several times with his forefinger.

“Simple, Miss. Moneypenny. I Googled it.”

“Can you Google the Client's motivation, too? I mean, the CIA is a
bit sketchy sometimes, but I don't believe that they'd actually kill
another Federal agent.”

“Neither do I. My guess, and this is strictly speculation, is this… your Client was one of several agents doling out supernotes to
foreign agents in faraway places. He picks you and MacLaren to pass
the buck, and that way he distances himself and the CIA from the
money. That's why he was so secretive. He was also a crook. Along
the way he took a big cut of the money for himself, and, if tales of a
shortfall got back to the CIA, he had a long chain of people, including you, to take the heat.”

“That explains why MacLaren and the money were headed for Havana,” Anne said.

“Yeah, and if I were your Client I'd have made plans to launder my cut in the Cuban community in Miami. Nobody would have been the wiser, and I'd have a nice nest egg for retirement.”

“Now all he'll get is a little star engraved on the memorial wall at Langley.”

“I wonder if they award tarnished ones to their strays,” said Ben.

“Speaking of strays, what about Cutter and McGee? And MacLaren?”

“There may be enough evidence to lay charges against the biker
boys for kidnapping, once we interview Dit. That's my hope and,
knowing Dit, there's surveillance cameras somewhere in that house
of his, even though I couldn't find them myself. And MacLaren's
gone. He doesn't know you found his kiddie porn stash. So we can nab him on his return trip.”

“That would put my mind at ease… but I do have a better idea,”
said Anne. Isn't importing pornography a serious offense in Cuba?”

“I believe it is,” said Ben. “Perhaps I should make a neighbourly call to the Cuban embassy.”

“Please do. Tropical prisons have an old-world charm we just can't duplicate here.”

53

Anne picked at her salmon platter. She should eat. She felt hungry,
but food wouldn't satisfy her. Too much was churning in her head. Partly, it was because she hadn't seen Jacqui in a week. It seemed
more like a month. But Jacqui and Aunt Delia would meet her here
soon, and Anne worried how that would go. Her last words with
Jacqui had been difficult, and it broke her heart to see her daughter in tears and not able to explain why she had to be sent away. It was for her own safety, and that was good enough reason for a parent, but, to a fourteen-year-old girl, it seemed like just a selfish excuse.

“I'd say you're looking well,” said Mary Anne, slipping into the
seat next to Anne and grabbing her arm, “but that would be fibbing. Looks like you need a week's sleep.”

“Sleep I don't need. A rest is more than welcome, though. A cruise perhaps to a sunny exotic island…”

“… overrun by scantily clad young men, their bronze bodies rippling with muscles, their eyes bright and inviting…”

“… their teeth flashing white…”

“… the scent of coconut oil on their skin…”

“… their fingertips soft and…”

“Oh god,” said Ben. His face screwed itself up in disgust. He
dropped his fork on his plate with a clunk. “Can you ladies please stop now and talk about something normal?”

Both women tried to stifle their giggling at Ben's embarrassment.
Then all restraints gave way, and laughter burst out in uncontrollable gushes. Their bodies convulsed. Mary Anne's palm slapped the table is if she were in pain. Tears flowed from Anne's eyes. She
buried her head in her arms. She grabbed her stomach. They hooted
like boozers at a bridal shower until they drew more than several curious stares from across the restaurant, and that finally brought
them under control.

“I know a terrific joke about a Canon lawyer who sued a Buddhist monk, but I don't think it would top whatever you guys are laughing
at,” said Dick Clements, Anne's lawyer. He slipped into the booth
alongside Ben.

“Hey, Dick,” Anne said. Her face had lost all composure. She wore
the silly, grinning expression of a nine-year-old. She drew a tissue
from her purse and dabbed her eyes and her runny nose before she spoke again. “Hey, Dick, what's up?”

“Have a meeting with Patty Pacquet, your landlady, and her lawyer. Tried to call, but you haven't picked up the messages.”

“Sorry, Dick, I've been… out of town and indisposed. When's the meeting?

“'Bout fifteen minutes. Want to come? You should. We can get a
delay on the eviction, maybe get things sorted out.”

“Geez, a meeting with that… woman! It's the last thing I need today… and my daughter… I'm meeting her here.”

“I can take care of it. That's fine. Don't worry.” Both of Dick's hands were raised defensively in front of him.

Ben looked at his watch. “The ferry from the Magdalens is just
getting into Souris about now. Delia couldn't possibly make it here for another hour,” Ben suggested.

“How long will this take, Dick?”

“Shouldn't be much more than half an hour.”

“Okay, I'll go. I start something, I finish it. But I don't want to be
late for Jacqui,” she said, wagging a finger at Dick.