"This is Pierre Bonhomme, with my sister service in Canada," Pinkleton said, nodding toward the opposite side of the chopper.
A dapper looking French-Canadian in a navy-blue blazer, Bonhomme, not his real name, leaned across to shake Burke's hand and touch slender fingers to his brow in a salute to Lori.
Burke explained his plan, after which a frowning Macleod fixed him with a probing stare. "I think I should be the one to carry this out," the husky Mountie said.
Realizing the significance of the look, Burke countered. "If you're concerned about my credentials, I put in thirteen years as a special agent with the FBI. These people have been battering us around pretty badly. I'd love to settle the score." And prove once and for all that I'm still capable of successfully completing an operation, he added to himself.
"We'll see," said the sergeant.
Burke turned to Bonhomme. "You might ask your people to be on the lookout for a KGB man, Lt. Col. Andrei Golanov."
Pinkleton looked up in surprise. "He's here with the official Russian party. What's the connection?"
"If Operation Jabberwock succeeds, his job is to destroy the evidence by setting off explosives inside that truck. He should be somewhere in the area."
"Where do you expect to find the truck?" Macleod asked.
"They mentioned Victoria Street. Is that near Nathan Phillips Square?"
"Right. Let me advise the pilot."
As Macleod moved forward, Pinkleton leaned across to Lori. "I have those pictures of the Bulgarian agents, if you still need them."
Lori gave him a thin smile. "I don't think that will be necessary, Uncle Sydney."
Seeing the rumpled brow, Burke answered the unasked question. "Dimo and his partner suffered a little misfortune a few hours ago. They won't be worrying you any longer."
Macleod returned to his kneeling position. "We'll be there in ten minutes." He turned to Bonhomme. "Sir, the pilot says you're wanted on the radio."
The CSIS man returned shortly to relay a message jointly from the American DCI and the head of his own service. No long range weapons suitable for taking out the truck could be in place within thirty minutes. Burke's plan appeared to be the only option left.
The Canadian gave a typical French shrug and smiled. "They say our famous unprotected border has proved a liability in this case. No one feels the need to keep anti-tank weapons handy."
Burke looked down at the broad expanse of Lake Ontario, its waters shimmering in the morning sunlight. Ahead he could see the Toronto skyline, the domino-like rectangles of soaring modern hotels and office buildings, the thin spire of the CN Tower beside the Blue Jays' domed stadium. Off to the left blossomed the odd cantilevered structures of the theme park called Ontario Place.
He leaned across to Macleod. "Better tell the pilot to stay well above the area until he's ready to come down. That way they shouldn't have any warning of what we're up to."
The sergeant made his way forward again and explained the problem. As he started back to his seat, the chopper crossed over the warmer surface of the Toronto Islands and caught a thermal updraft. It threw Macleod off balance. He grabbed for a handhold overhead but missed, the full weight of his body crashing into a metal stringer along the side of the fuselage. His right wrist took most of the force of the blow.
Macleod's partner rushed to his side and watched with wide-eyed concern as he held his wrist and tried to flex his fingers. They would barely move.
The sergeant looked at his partner and then at Burke. He had mentioned that the young Mountie was just out of the Specialty Team training program. This was his first mission. Burke could picture the wheels turning in Macleod’s mind, weighing the value of thirteen years experience with the FBI, plus knowledge of the truck and the people inside it.
He looked across at Burke. "It appears that it's your game, Mr. Hill."
Burke gave him a thin smile as the Mountie clutched his aching wrist. "Sorry it had to be this way, Sergeant."
MacLeod shrugged. "I have to warn you. I've been giving this some thought. I can see several serious risks in your plan. They could be life-threatening."
"One is pretty obvious," Burke said. He had been going over the plan in his mind also. "If they were to fire the mortar while I'm swinging overhead, I could get clobbered."
"Right. The shell wouldn't explode until it reached the point it was fused for. But if it hit you, it would smash one hell of a hole! Another worry is the racket that rotor makes." He pointed his thumb toward the whirling blade that clattered above. "When we start descending over Victoria Street, that's really going to rattle their cage. If somebody raised up in the hatch with a weapon, you'd be a sitting duck."
"I'd say the odds are pretty long on getting hit by the mortar shell," Burke said. "As for the noise, I'm counting on the earphones they'll be using to stay in contact with the man at Nathan Phillips Square. They should be heavily padded to protect their ears from the blast of the mortar. Hopefully that'll mask the rotor noise until it's too late to retaliate."
MacLeod nodded. "There's one thing more, one that presents a much greater probability if you succeed with the grenade. As soon as you release it, I'll signal the pilot to start a full power climb out. We'll also start the winch reeling you in. But, depending on how the truck blows, and how fast this bird reacts, you'll be in real danger of picking up some flying debris, call it shrapnel."
Burke glanced at Lori and caught her worried frown. "You have a good point, Sergeant. But I don't know anything I can do about it but pray. To borrow an old Spanish phrase, or a Doris Day tune, Que sera, sera."
"What will be, will be," said Bonhomme with a fatalistic smile.
Chapter 49
From the restored Victorian townhouses of Cabbagetown to the Italian restaurants west of Bathurst Street, a colorful mosaic of small neighborhoods, about as diverse in character as a world atlas, fanned out north of Lake Ontario to form the polyglot metropolis known as Toronto. It could rival New York City as a melting pot, but wherever they had hailed from originally, Torontans today were in the mood for a parade.
With the pre-dawn storm having exhausted its fury out across the lake, Saturday morning turned out sunny and warm, the temperature pushing a comfortable seventy. Crowds of people representing dozens of ethnic groups milled about in a festive mood. They came not only from Toronto and the Province of Ontario, but from all across the vast expanse of Canada. Countless Americans had driven the hundred-and-forty kilometers over the QEW, or Queen Elizabeth Way, from Buffalo and Niagara Falls, hoping for a glimpse of the world's two most powerful leaders. The jovial crush of humanity, young, old, fat, skinny, dark-skinned and light, packed the broad sidewalks along Queen Street West in front of the towering Sheraton Centre. A line of uniformed Metro and Ontario Provincial Police separated the throng from the parade route and the reviewing stand across the street in Nathan Phillips Square.
A cordon of Mounties in their ceremonial red coats was arrayed around the square some distance from the reviewing stand. Plainclothes RCMP officers from the Prime Minister's protective force mingled with Secret Service agents and KGB men in the immediate area of the leaders, their earpieces making them resemble an army of the hard of hearing. A platform had been erected at the southwest corner of the square to accommodate a battery of television cameras that panned back and forth from the undulating crowd to the more sedate group of dignitaries on the reviewing stand.