‘A difficulty?’ Ballantyne whined. ‘It’s a public relations nightmare. Two crazed bombers hell-bent on blowing up people around the city – you think the press has had fun till this point, you just wait. Christ.’
Through the back and forth arguments, Laroche remained silent, listening, thinking. He looked at Striker and Felicia all the while, and when the ruckus was calming down, he asked, ‘What do we know about their history?’
Striker spoke first. ‘They’re both members of the Royal Logistics Corps.’
‘Bomb hunters,’ Felicia added.
The look on Laroche’s face hardened. Johnstone made an exasperated sound, while Ballantyne just let loose another string of profanities.
‘Are you certain of this?’ Laroche asked.
Striker gave him a hard look. ‘Completely.’
Felicia nodded her support. ‘The military angle also explains how they acquired the explosives . . . They’ve been here in Canada for several months now, under the guise of visiting our own army to assess their bomb-defusing techniques. I’ve called some contacts on the matter.’
‘And?’ Laroche pressed.
‘It’s interesting,’ she continued. ‘During times of war, most countries just blow up any Improvised Explosive Devices they locate. But not the Brits and Canadians. We defuse them in order to save the components. It creates a trail leading back to the manufacturers. The information gained from dismantling the bombs is invaluable, but it also costs a lot of lives. The soldiers who do this, they’re of a different breed. They have to be in order to handle the constant unbelievable stress.’
‘It’s a wonder they don’t all have PTSD,’ Ballantyne commented.
‘Many do,’ Felicia said. ‘The job has a high mortality rate. In fact, Oliver Howell was blown up once himself and hospitalized for it. I haven’t been able to get access to the army medical records yet, but we do know this – both Oliver and Molly are highly decorated war vets who have seen several tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Quite frankly, they’re the worst possible enemies we could have in this case.’
Striker turned in his seat to face her. ‘Does the army stock PETN?’
She nodded. ‘I spoke to their Ammunitions Officer. Not only do they stock PETN, but theirs was one of the batches that was recalled.’
‘Was any missing?’
Felicia frowned. ‘There’s no way of checking. The company who makes the product gave the army a full credit for the batch. Rather than waste time and money shipping the product back, they detonated it with other explosives. As a result, there’s no way of checking inventories, although I don’t think it’s a big stretch to conclude that this is where the bombers got their supply.’
Striker thought things through. ‘The faulty batch explains how Koda survived the explosion at his home. It also explains why the bombers switched to home-made explosives halfway through the mission.’
For a moment, the room turned silent. Then Laroche spoke.
‘What else can we do to prevent further casualties?’ he asked.
Striker gave them a rundown of what had been done so far – police databases, the border, and all modes of international travel had been flagged. The RCMP had undercover units set up on the Sunset Care Centre as well as Archer Davies’ second family. And here in Vancouver, Patrol was already guarding Rothschild and his family.
This seemed to satisfy Laroche for the moment. ‘Then the only remaining question is our line of action with regard to public knowledge . . . Do we inform them?’
Striker was the first to speak. ‘You go public with this information, and you might sewer any chance we have of catching them.’
Media Liaison Constable Johnstone agreed. ‘We have to consider the fear aspect. These are well-trained military officers. Informing the public will cause mass hysteria. We can’t tell them.’
‘We have to tell them,’ Ballantyne countered. He looked directly at Laroche when he spoke. ‘If you hold back this information, and a bomb goes off killing innocent civilians – and, God forbid, children – the department will be liable. Not to mention your approval rating will plummet to an all-time low. It could take years to recover from something like that. A decade.’
Striker couldn’t believe his ears. Were they really talking about public approval ratings at a time like this? It was all he could do to hold his tongue. He gave Felicia a hot look, and she returned it.
After a long moment of discussion, Laroche turned away from the table. He walked to the window and stared outside. Behind him, Ballantyne and Johnstone argued back and forth over the right decision, while Felicia and Striker waited with feigned patience. After a long moment, the Acting Deputy Chief returned.
‘We have a duty to inform the public.’
Striker balled his fingers into fists. ‘This is a mistake,’ he said. ‘All you’re going to do is create more fear, speed up the bombers’ plans, and make the investigation more difficult for us.’
But Laroche acted as if he had never heard the rebuttal. He turned to Media Liaison Johnstone and nodded.
‘Go get your scribe,’ he said. ‘We have a speech to write.’
One Hundred and Twenty-Three
The house was warm and smelled of fresh-baked scones, and that Beatles guy Mommy loved so much was singing about Jude over the speakers again. Outside the sun was shining brightly in the deep blue sky. Everything looked wonderful. Like it was a perfect day. But to six-year-old Oliver, there was no day worse.
Daddy was leaving again.
‘Don’t go . . . please, Daddy . . . don’t leave me!’
He stood at the front-room window and gaped at the man he had not seen for so long he could almost not remember – not since the last time he had left in his uniform for that Green Valley Mommy had told him about, where he went to save the world.
Beside Oliver, Molly was breathing hard, crying. She had her hands pressed up against the window and her breath was fogging up the glass.
‘Don’t go, don’t go, Daddy, don’t go!’
Her cries echoed his own.
Oliver banged on the glass as hard as he could with his little fists, but it made no difference. Daddy kept walking. He reached the taxi cab, adjusted his hat, and looked back towards the house. For a moment, they saw each other, and now the tears began to fall.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, all but a whisper.
Daddy did not move for a moment, he just stared back and his face became awfully hard and his eyes looked like wet glass. He gave them a quick salute.
‘I love you two,’ he mouthed, and touched his heart.
From the kitchen, came Mother. Her apron was covered in flour, and she gently wrapped her arm around both of them, then guided them away from the window. ‘Come on, dears, I’ve made your favourite treat – scones with cream and strawberry jam.’
‘No!’ Oliver yelled.
He spun away from her. Ran back to the window. Placed his hands and face against the glass. Big tears rolled down his cheeks.
Outside, the cab was already driving away. And Oliver let loose a wild, agonized sound as it left. He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed some more, while Bert and Ernie talked on the TV and the smell of fresh-baked scones spread throughout the living room.
Don’t go don’t go don’t go . . .
‘DON’T GO!’ Oliver yelled.
He reached out and grabbed for nothing that was there.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Molly said.
Her voice – her tone – startled him. Woke him. And he looked around the room in a haze. It was as if someone had suddenly screamed in his ear while he was meditating, and he now realized he was horizontal with the ground. He tried to sit up, and the earth shifted beneath him.