The sky through the small window of their second-floor apartment has quietly turned dark, a languid, moonless blanket over the city. Fall has crept up on them over the last couple of weeks. Léo can’t believe it’s already October. Noticing the sudden absence of daylight in the room, he reaches over and turns on a lamp. The apartment is messy, neglected—empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays on the coffee table, pizza boxes stacked on the floor. An earlier version of their manifesto, with Léo’s notes scribbled across every page, is strewn at his feet. The radio is tuned to CKAC, and they’re listening to that very manifesto being read on the air.
“‘The Liberation Front of Quebec is a group of Quebec workers who are determined to use every means possible to ensure that the people of Quebec take control of their own destiny. We want total independence . . .’”
They’re known as the FLQ: three letters that inspire terror, confusion, pandemonium. There are multiple cells of the FLQ, each one acting on its own, communicating through a network of supporters, under one unifying mission. Last night, one of the other cells kidnapped a British diplomat, James Cross, and as a result, the FLQ is finally getting some serious attention. Which is why their manifesto is getting some airtime tonight.
Léo stubs out his cigarette and immediately rolls another one. He looks over at the other four guys. They’re all serious, dead quiet. The room is a fog of smoke and nervous energy. It’s happening. Goddamn it, it’s finally happening.
“‘Workers of Quebec, take back what belongs to you! Your jobs, your determination, your liberty. Make your own revolution in your neighborhoods, in your places of work. Only you are able to build a free society.’”
They’re asking for what they believe they’re owed, especially in light of what’s been done to their people over the years. They want the release of two dozen political prisoners—among them some of their friends—enough gold to live off, safe transport to Cuba, and the broadcast of their manifesto. But Léo is a skeptic. He doesn’t think the government will cave to all their demands. More will have to be done, this time by their cell. Léo is ready to do whatever it takes. He’s been ready for a long time.
Léo grew up in a dirt-floor apartment in the East End. His father was a foreman at the CN factory, and his mother was a presser at a textile factory. She suffered crippling back pain, the result of having to stand hunched over a pressing table for ten hours a day. Léo stopped school at grade six so he could start working at CN, joining his father as slave labor for the English upper class.
He met Lisette in 1966, when they were nineteen. She was pretty and vibrant, and had also dropped out of school at a young age. He thought she was above cleaning houses for rich Anglos, but with no education, neither of them had ever had any choices.
At that time, Léo was already involved with a political group that had deep French Canadian, working-class roots. These were his people. (He used those words with great reverence, speaking of them in a way that elevated their plight to something noble. His mother’s mangled back was not pitiful but heroic, their lack of education valorous.) To that point, his group’s efforts had been mainly symbolic. Everything that had happened so far in Quebec—specifically the bombings that had killed five people in as many years, gaining some notoriety for the cause—had been the work of the FLQ, a much more radical group.
Léo felt sidelined and ineffectual until a turning point in the summer of 1968. At the St. Jean Baptiste Day parade that summer, a riot erupted between the separatists and the cops, and Léo wound up in jail for throwing a broken bottle at a mounted policeman’s head. He got a taste for violence—he called it “action”—and it made him feel purposeful, so he left his group and joined the FLQ. His politics quickly flamed into fanaticism; he was involved in the bombings at Dominion Square, the Montreal Chamber of Commerce, and Eaton’s department store. Everything he did was with the clarity of focus that comes from living by your convictions and being willing to go to any lengths. He never wanted to hurt another human being—he wasn’t a monster—but the alternative was the status quo, and that was no longer acceptable.
When the radio announcer finishes reading the manifesto, Léo turns it off and they all sit in silence for a while. He’s a little drunk and he can’t remember the last time he slept. He downs his beer, fingers wrapped tightly around the bottle neck, smoke wafting from the collection of cigarettes in the ashtray. He’s aware of Lisette watching him from the kitchen. She looks nervous. He looks away.
“They’ve broadcast the manifesto on the radio,” one of the guys says. “Let’s see what else they offer.”
The next night, October 8, the manifesto is read on television, another attempt to placate the FLQ without really giving them anything meaningful. The news anchor reads in a somber tone, reflective, he says, of the mood of the province. When he finishes, Léo stands up, even more pissed off.
“They’re not taking us seriously,” he fumes. “They’re not doing enough. The only reason they broadcast the manifesto on TV is because they think it’s so idiotic it’s actually going to discredit us.”
“They’re so goddamn privileged, they have no idea what kind of support we have in this province from our own people.”
“This is a rejection of our demands,” Léo states, pacing around the room. “Trust me, they won’t offer anything else. They’re stalling. The other cell is going to start backing down on these demands one by one. The government is still in total control here.”
“It’s still early,” Bernard says. “Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”
But nothing happens the next day, just more stonewalling. On October 10, at five thirty in the evening, the justice minister holds a press conference on Téléjournal.
Jérôme Choquette represents everything Léo despises about politicians—the perfectly coiffed hair, the buttoned-up suit and tie, the pompous gesticulations, the steady regurgitation of bullshit.
“As a concession to save the life of Mr. James Cross,” Choquette says, facing a frenzy of flashbulbs and microphones, “the federal government has informed me that they will offer safe passage out of the country for the kidnappers only, but not for the twenty-three prisoners in question.”
“Arrogant shit!”
“To be clear,” Choquette continues, “the federal government will not release any of the political prisoners mentioned in the FLQ communiqué, since they are not political prisoners at all, as the FLQ would have you believe. They are convicted terrorists charged with murder and attempted murder in numerous bombings.” He pauses and looks directly into the camera—right at Léo—with a smug grin. “The FLQ’s demands are preposterous and far-fetched, and there will be no further negotiations.”
“Screw them,” Léo cries, turning off the TV, not even waiting until the end of the speech. “So that’s it then.” He takes a long, deep drag from the nub of his homemade cigarette. “They’d rather let the diplomat die than address our ‘poor people’ problems.”
“Léo’s right,” Paul says. They’re all still camped out on Léo’s couch—Paul, Jacques, Bernard, Francis—where they’ve been for days, waiting for something to happen. Now it looks like they’re going to have to make something happen.
“We need to do what we talked about,” Francis says. “Something that will show them we’re serious. They don’t think the FLQ will follow through with any of these threats. And frankly, the other cell might not.”
“We need to hit them harder,” Léo concurs, his entire body throbbing with adrenaline. “Another kidnapping. We need to show them our manifesto wasn’t just theoretical bullshit,” he says. “It’s time to walk the walk. We need to show the people that they don’t have to settle for welfare and unemployment. This is our obligation to them.”
“I have to put the baby down,” Lisette murmurs, rushing from the room.
Léo waits a few minutes and then follows after her.
“You’re leaving us,” she says.
He nods gravely.
“Are you sure you have to do this? What about Véronique?”
“She’s six months old. She won’t even know I’m gone.”
“I will.”
“We’ve come too far to stop now,” he says. “I want to show our people that progress is possible, that we can use our pain and poverty and triumph over it. You know I was always meant to do this. Remember where we come from, Lise. I don’t want our daughter to ever know that life.”
Lisette nods solemnly. He lifts her chin and kisses her hard on the mouth.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Léo, why does it have to be you? Can’t you leave this to the others? You’re a father now.”
“All the more reason for me to do this,” he says. “So that Véronique has a better life than we did.”
Lisette lights a cigarette from the pack she keeps in her bedside drawer. She smokes Du Mauriers, never hand-rolled like the men. “I hate being sidelined like this,” she says. “Trapped in the apartment by myself.”
“I need you here.”
“I used to contribute. Bonnie and Clyde, remember? Now I’m just a fetcher of beer and sandwiches. Waiting around.”
“Your job is being a mother to our daughter.”
There’s a tumult of noise outside the bedroom—the men collecting their things, finishing their beer, plotting and strategizing in adrenaline-charged voices.
“I have to go,” he says softly. He stands up, wipes away her tears with his fingertips. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I love you.”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look up.
The next day, they drive in silence all the way to the South Shore. No music, no conversation. Jacques is driving; Bernard is next to him in the passenger seat. Léo is squeezed into the back with Paul and Francis, staring out the window like he’ll never see the trees or the sky or the outside world again. His muscles are taut, his breath shallow. In front of him, he can see Bernard’s neck vein pulsing.
The six p.m. deadline to meet their demands has officially come and gone. Earlier, they went out and bought wigs and fake moustaches. Bernard is dressed like a hippie now, the rest of them as businessmen in trench coats and fedoras, wire-rimmed glasses and moustaches. If they weren’t all so goddamn scared, it would be funny.
They chose Pierre Laporte, the labor minister, mostly at random from a list of politicians. He makes sense because he’s the one directly responsible for the exploitation of the Québécois. He also happens to live in St. Lambert, just over the Jacques Cartier Bridge in Montreal’s South Shore, which is very convenient. They looked him up in the phone book, and he was listed, like any ordinary person. Léo called his house, and the wife answered, said he was home but not available. Just like that. Léo and the guys were stupefied. It seemed impossible they would be so careless. She may as well have invited them over for tea.
They waited until six p.m. for the press conference, quietly hoping they wouldn’t have to go through with the plan. For all Léo’s bravado, it’s not his first choice to kidnap someone and put his own life in jeopardy. But the deadline passed and Léo is a man of his word.
He gazes out at the St. Lawrence River as they cross the bridge, wondering if he’ll ever see his wife and daughter again. He feels completely alone, even though his four closest friends are right here with him. It’s a strange feeling, being on the cusp of committing a crime of this scope. It’s a hell of a lot more terrifying than bombing an empty building.
Kidnapping a man is different. It’s using a human being as a bargaining chip. Léo is not doing this lightly. He’s gone over it again and again, but he justifies it by reminding himself that the people in power—the people who have always been in power—have even less regard for human life than the FLQ. Haven’t they shown their indifference for far too long? They’ve never had any regard for his life.
“Maybe they’ll change their minds,” he says, his gaze still transfixed to the river as they cross into the South Shore.
“You think the government is going to change its mind and release our guys?” Bernard laughs, craning his neck to look back at Léo. “Come on, man. Get serious.”
“Let’s see what happens when we kidnap another one of theirs,” Francis says. Léo is suddenly aware of how young he is, how young they all are.
“So we know what we’re doing?” Paul asks.
“We get inside his house and hold him there until the police surround us,” Léo says. “Just like we planned. The media and the reporters will show up, and that’s when we’ll start negotiating with them. The cops won’t have to look for us anymore. We’ll be right there in front of them.”
The guys all nod, and then fall silent. If only it goes that smoothly, Léo thinks.
When they reach St. Lambert, Bernard follows the streets he took earlier today on a practice run. It’s a short drive from the bridge to Pierre Laporte’s house. When they turn onto Robitaille Street, Bernard gasps. “Holy shit. That’s him.”
“Where?”
“Jesus Christ,” Jacques says. “He’s playing football with someone in the middle of the goddamn street.”
“Now what?”
“We grab him and throw him in the car,” Léo says, thinking fast.
“And then what?”
“We’ll take him to the house in St. Hubert,” he says, sounding more confident than he feels. “Move fast.”
They all reach for their guns and fling open their cars doors. It’s surreal. Léo isn’t in his body anymore. “Just get him inside the goddamn car as quickly as possible.”
Jacques barely comes to a full stop as Bernard and Paul jump out of the Chevrolet, followed by Francis and Léo. Laporte is in the middle of the street, tossing a football with a teenage boy.
Léo raises his machine gun, and the others follow. Nothing was really planned, so they’re all going on instinct. The teenage boy notices them and starts to approach, but Léo turns his machine gun on him. “Don’t fucking move!” he screams.
The kid stops, terrified. Bernard points his gun at Laporte as Paul grabs him by the arms, drags him to the car, and throws him down on the floor of the back seat. The others pile in, and Paul grinds his knee into Laporte’s back to keep him from getting up.
“Go!” Léo cries, and Jacques speeds off, screeching around the corner. Léo pulls the scarf from around his neck and blindfolds Laporte.
After a few minutes of silence, the shock breaks and they all explode. Swearing and yelling, releasing tension. They light smokes. “We did it! Goddamn it, we did it.”
Laporte doesn’t say a word, doesn’t try to move or escape.
“You’re going to drop me off in a few blocks,” Léo tells Jacques. “I’ll deliver the communiqué and then join you at the house tomorrow.”
Léo has scribbled a short note claiming responsibility for the kidnapping, and now he has to get it to the media without getting caught.
“What do we do with him when we get there?” Paul asks him.
“Go in through the garage. Keep him blindfolded and handcuff him to one of the beds. Leave him like that until I get there.”
“Do we feed him?”
“Yeah, you fucking feed him. We’re not trying to kill him.”
Léo takes off his disguise, shoving it all on the floor at his feet, close to Laporte’s face. After a few blocks, Léo gets out of the car and starts walking. He’s nervous as shit, but tries to look casual. He needs to get across the Jacques Cartier Bridge and back to the city before the cops discover Laporte’s been kidnapped and close down access to the bridge in both directions. He flags down a taxi on Victoria Avenue and jumps in. “Downtown,” he says calmly. “Queen Mary.”
The driver nods, not in any rush. He’s eating a hot dog. “You in a hurry?”
“Not at all,” Léo says, smiling. Inside, he’s panicking. His armpits are soaking wet; his heart is racing. He lights a smoke, then another. Chain-smokes the entire way back to the city.
The first thing he needs to do is get a message to the cell that kidnapped James Cross. There has to be at least some level of coordination between them; otherwise the whole thing will come off looking haphazard and amateur—exactly what the government expects of them.
He gets out of the cab and heads up Queen Mary to see a guy named Antoine, the liaison between all the cells. Léo pounds on the door, desperately wanting to get inside and out of sight. A guy answers—a hippie in bell-bottoms with a guitar slung across his chest.
“Antoine?”
The guy nods.
“I’m with the Chénier cell,” Léo says. “I need a safe house.”
Antoine lets him in, offers him a beer.
“I need to get in touch with the Liberation cell,” Léo says, gratefully accepting the beer and dumping half of it down his throat in one gulp. He doesn’t say a word about the kidnapping.
“I don’t know how to get in touch with them,” Antoine says. “They call me when they need to.”
Léo collapses onto a pile of pillows on the floor, a makeshift couch in the cramped bachelor apartment. He needs a new plan.
“I can give them a message for you,” Antoine offers, strumming his guitar. He’s got a joint smoldering in an ashtray. “They’ll call here at some point.”
“I’ve got to go somewhere right now,” Léo tells him. “But can I come back here and crash for the night?”
“Absolutely, man.”
Léo takes a couple of tokes off the joint and lifts himself off the floor. “I’ll be back later,” he says, and heads off.
He takes the bus to the East End. He tucks the communiqué between the pages of a phone book, and calls CKAC. Whoever answers the phone is tasked with passing along the message. “The FLQ is responsible for the kidnapping of Pierre Laporte,” Léo says. “A communiqué has been left in a phone booth at the corner of Tenth and Beaubien.”
Back at Antoine’s apartment, it’s already all over the news. “Check this out, man,” Antoine says. “Another kidnapping!”
He joins Antoine in front of the TV. “The FLQ did it again! They don’t even know which cell it was.”
Léo looks at him. Says nothing.
He splits before the sun comes up, hopping on a bus to the South Shore. It’s early, but the city is already buzzing with the news—on the radio, in the papers, on the street. I’m the guy who kidnapped Laporte. Imagine if these people knew? He’s at the center of this incredible event that’s on everyone’s minds and tongues, this thing that has immobilized the city. It gives him a feeling of omnipotence, an inflated sense of responsibility.
He arrives at the white-frame bungalow on Armstrong, a dead-end street surrounded by open fields, close enough in proximity to the St. Hubert airport that you can hear the planes landing and taking off. He’s relieved to find the street completely deserted. He was half expecting the place to be surrounded by cops. He enters through the garage, eager to catch up with the guys. He can hear the radio as soon as he sets foot inside. The guys look relieved to see him.
“Jacques is with Laporte,” Francis says, reading his mind. “Keeping guard.”
“What’s happening?” Léo asks.
The guys seem in decent spirits. Léo is relieved. The operation went smoothly; nothing terrible has happened yet.
“They just interrupted with a special bulletin,” Paul says. “They got our communiqué. They know we’re threatening to kill Laporte if our demands aren’t met by ten tonight.”
Léo nods, sits down on a plastic folding chair. “Where’s Laporte?”
“Bedroom at the end of the hall.”
“What have you said to him?”
“Just that he’s been kidnapped by the Front de Libération du Quebec, and that he’ll be freed if the government meets our demands.”
“How was he last night?”
“I’m sure scared shitless,” Bernard says. “But he was pretty calm. No violent outburst or anything, no screaming. Didn’t even ask questions. We’ve got the radio on in there with him. He knows everything that’s going on.”
“How’ve you been treating him?”
“Fine. Fine. We’ve been giving him canned spaghetti. There’s no other food. Just some cans of Chef Boyardee.”
Léo gets up. He wants to see Laporte with his own eyes. He heads down the hall, apprehensive. This is real. This is happening. His heart is hammering in his chest.
He opens the door. Jacques is sitting in a chair, smoking. The radio is on. Laporte is flat on his back, blindfolded and handcuffed. He’s lying very still, waiting. Waiting to find out if he will live or die, if he’ll ever see his family again. That kid he was playing football with was his nephew. It’s all over the news. Seventeen years old.
Standing over him now, Léo has to shove down a surge of guilt. To imprison another human being like this—a father, a husband, a son—requires a tremendous amount of compartmentalization. He has to stay focused on the cause. It’s not easy. “This isn’t personal,” he says, and Laporte turns his head toward Léo’s voice. He doesn’t say anything.
“When’s the last time he ate?” Léo asks Jacques.
“Last night.”
“Give him another can of spaghetti. And a smoke, if he wants.”
Léo leaves the room, struggling with his conscience. It’s going to be a long day, waiting around for Premier Bourassa to respond. They need to write more communiqués. Instructions and updates need to be delivered regularly.
They write the next couple of communiqués at the table in the living room. Léo makes the decision to send Paul to deliver all of them. Paul will be the only one allowed to leave the house. It’s a random decision, but Léo thinks it’s better if the same guy comes and goes, so as not to arouse suspicion. Paul doesn’t wear a disguise. None of them are on any wanted list; their pictures haven’t been published anywhere. For now, they’re all still anonymous.
After Paul leaves, Léo wanders down the hall, peering into the other bedroom. There’s a makeshift bookcase, made from milk crates, full of books, which immediately draws Léo into the room. He doesn’t know the guy who rents this house, only that he drives a taxi.
Léo grabs a book by Pierre Vallières, sits down on the bed, and turns to his favorite page: It is by force . . . that we will be free. The sooner we arm ourselves with our courage and with our rifles, the sooner our liberation from slavery will make us equal . . . It is because I cannot bear to be a slave that I joined the FLQ.
Léo smiles, inspired. The Quebec revolution will not stop.
He gets up off the bed and returns to Laporte’s room. He signals for Jacques to leave them alone.
“You know Premier Bourassa,” Léo says. “You think he’ll negotiate to save your life?”
“I do,” Laporte says, surprising Léo. “I think the government will meet your demands. I can help.”
“How?”
“Robert is my friend,” Laporte says. “He’ll negotiate for my release. I believe that.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Laporte tries to sit up, leaning back on his elbows. “Could I write him a letter?” he asks. “I think I can persuade him. If I could just send him a personal note, in my words.”
Léo thinks it over. What’s the harm if it helps get them what they want? He leaves the room and runs it by the guys. Everyone agrees it can’t hurt. Léo grabs some paper, a pen. They all pile into Laporte’s room. Léo removes the handcuffs, and Laporte stretches his arms above his head. “Thank you,” he says, soft-spoken.
Léo feels sorry for the guy. He’s just a regular middle-aged man, thinning brown hair, a thick awning of bushy eyebrows above the blindfold, mild-mannered. The problem is he’s one of them. Léo has to keep reminding himself of that. Human being or politician—it’s one or the other, not both.
“Should I dictate it to you?” Laporte asks.
Léo hands him the paper and pen, a book to write on. “You can write it with the blindfold on,” he says. “We’ll just make sure we approve what you say.”
Laporte nods, grateful. Starts to write as best he can without being able to see his own words on the page.
My dear Robert,
I feel like I am writing the most important letter I have ever written. For the time being, I am in perfect health, and I am treated well, even courteously.
In short, the power to decide over my life is in your hands. You know how my personal situation deserves to draw attention. I had two brothers, both are now dead. I remain alone as the head of a large family that comprises my mother, my sisters, my own wife, and my children . . . My death would create for them irreparable grief, and you know the ties that bind the members of my family . . .
You have the power of life and death over me, I depend on you and I thank you for it.
Léo has a hard time reading the letter. He doesn’t want to know any of this, doesn’t want to see Laporte in this light. No man should have to plead for his life like this, have his vulnerability made so public. This letter will likely be printed in all the papers and read on every TV and radio station before the day is done.
Paul takes the letter, along with a new communiqué threatening to execute Laporte if their demands are not met, and heads off to the city to get it to CKAC. They’ve got a widespread, impenetrable network of friends and relatives helping them out, on which they now have to rely for all their communication with the media.
“I’m starving,” Laporte says, with renewed energy. His spirits seem to have lifted. He seems more confident about his release, optimistic even. “Anything but canned spaghetti. Please.”
“We’ve got no more money,” Bernard says.
“I’ve got money,” Laporte offers. “In my pocket. Take it. Get something for all of us. Real food.”
The guys all look at one another. Bernard pulls a twenty out of Laporte’s pocket.
“Order something,” Léo instructs. For the first time since they grabbed Laporte on Robitaille Street, Léo is feeling confident they did the right thing. If the twenty-three political prisoners are freed and the kidnappers are given safe transport out of the country, then everything they’ve done will have been worthwhile.
The government’s response to Laporte’s letter is a vague, inscrutable statement delivered by Bourassa on TV later that night: “We have chosen individual and collective justice.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Léo shouts.
He storms back to Laporte’s room, where Laporte is listening to the same news conference on the radio. “I thought he was your friend?”
“Give him time,” Laporte says, still blindfolded on the bed. “I understand it to mean he’s willing to negotiate, and that he’s choosing to save my life.”
“‘Individual and collective justice’?” Léo repeats. “That doesn’t mean anything. It’s empty words.”
In the forty-eight hours that follow, nothing happens. No offers are made, no demands met, just a lot of back-and-forth between the FLQ’s and the government’s lawyers.
“It was all a goddamn stall tactic,” Francis says. “That whole speech was just the government buying time. They were never going to negotiate with us.”
“Laporte was so sure they would,” Bernard says. “Those guys in the Liberal government are his friends. He’s one of them, for Christ’s sake. How could they not do everything in their power to save his life?”
“There’s something none of us took into account,” Léo says, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “The federal government.”
Léo suddenly jumps up from his chair and starts walking around the room, processing the situation as he moves. “Laporte wasn’t wrong about the Quebec government,” he says. “His mistake was in not realizing how much power the federal government has over this province. Think about it. The one to blame here is Trudeau, the goddamn prime minister of Canada. He’s the one who won’t negotiate with us, he’s the hard line.”
“Léo’s right,” Francis says. “Laporte’s friends in the cabinet would accept our demands in a heartbeat, but they’re just lackeys and ass-kissers to their federal master.”
“So now what?”
“We wait some more,” Léo says. “Let’s see if the lawyers can reach an agreement.”
Just before midnight, another news bulletin. The lawyers have reached a standstill, and all negotiations have stopped. The government won’t budge, not even to save Laporte’s life.
Léo barges into Laporte’s room, throwing open the door. “They’re not accepting any of our demands!” he says, incredulous.
Laporte lies motionless, silent. He doesn’t even react. He looks like a man who has lost all hope.
Returning to the living room, where the others are hunched over the radio, Léo says, “Laporte’s given up.
Jacques silences him with a wave of his hand. “Trudeau is talking.”
Léo circulates around the room, agitated. He pulls back the curtain and peers outside. It’s deserted. He’s starting to get paranoid. On the radio, Trudeau is responding to an English journalist about the criticism he’s faced for sending military troops to Ottawa. Léo understands enough English to get the gist of his typically arrogant remarks.
“There are a lot of bleeding hearts around who just don’t like to see people with helmets and guns,” Trudeau is saying. “All I can say is, go on and bleed, but it’s more important to keep law and order in society than to be worried about weak-kneed people.”
“This prick doesn’t back down,” Jacques mutters.
“Our society must take every means at its disposal to defend itself!” the prime minister states.
“At what cost?” the reporter asks him. “How far would you go?”
“Well, just watch me.”
Léo turns to the others, shaking with anger. “He’s going to let Laporte die.”
“Or he doesn’t think we’ll actually do it.”
“Will we?” Francis asks. “Execute him?”
“If we do, it’ll be because of Trudeau’s ego.”
Everyone is quiet.
“Look, it’s still too soon for this conversation,” Léo says. “However it ends, the government is going to have to deal with its own conscience. After today, they’ll have blood on their hands. They’ll be as guilty of murder as we are.”
The only bright spot in an otherwise bleak day is news of a rally at the Paul Sauvé Arena, where three thousand students have come together to support the FLQ. The guys listen to the rally on the radio, heartened by the cheering crowd, their boisterous validation.
“The people are on our side,” Léo says, his exuberance returning. “They’re on our side.”
“We’re a more powerful force than they thought.”
Proving that to be true, an offer from the government is made on the heels of the student rally: the release of five FLQ prisoners and safe passage out of Canada for the kidnappers.
“No way,” Bernard says. “They release all twenty-three prisoners or Laporte dies.”
“I agree,” Léo says, his heart in his throat.
They don’t respond to Bourassa’s offer. It’s an insult. Léo finally falls asleep, comforted by the knowledge that his people are behind him.
“Léo, wake up.”
Léo stirs, opens his eyes. He sits up, not recognizing the room. Where is he? Where’s Lisette? He realizes he hasn’t slept properly since the kidnapping, not more than an occasional restless catnap. This time he was really out.
“Léo,” Bernard says, “Paul’s back.”
Léo shakes himself awake. Lights a cigarette. Paul never came back after delivering Laporte’s letter two days ago. He was beginning to think they were all screwed. “Where was he?”
“He was tailed by two undercover cops on his way back to the South Shore. He figured it out and went over to one of the safe houses. He finally managed to sneak out in disguise and walk back here. He lost the cops.”
“But they know Paul is involved.”
“They do, but they didn’t arrest him. They were obviously hoping he’d lead them to us.”
The walls are starting to close in.
“Another thing, Léo. Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act early this morning.”
Léo isn’t entirely surprised. Yesterday, the army was called in and troops flooded the city. The guys watched it all unfold from their window. Their house is right next to the St. Hubert military base, so when the army was deployed, the trucks rolled past them for hours on their way to Montreal.
But the War Measures Act is something else. The police will be able to arrest and hold whomever they want, for however long they want. Trudeau is digging in his heels.
His first thought is of Lisette. He hasn’t spoken to her since the day of the kidnapping. He can’t call her now. The cops are probably watching her, tapping her parents’ phone. He stumbles out of bed and takes a piss. He walks past the other guys, who are all dozing in the living room—including Paul, to Léo’s great relief—and goes to the kitchen. They’ve been using Laporte’s money for staples—coffee, beer, smokes. He pours some coffee into a used Styrofoam cup and turns on the kitchen radio.
On CKAC, the news is grim. The army has invaded Montreal, and the streets are filled with soldiers, their machine guns poised to fire at whatever provocation Trudeau has deemed appropriate. Hundreds of arrests have been made, and citizens are being stripped of their civil liberties all across the province.
He wakes the others and they convene around the coffee table.
“Now what?” Francis says. “We’re screwed.”
“We’re not screwed,” Léo says, putting on a calm facade. “They didn’t arrest Paul, which is good for us. It means they don’t have anything solid yet.”
They all know Paul could have led the cops straight here, and that it’s probably only a matter of time, but he sees it as his responsibility to keep up morale.
“Léo, you heard the news. They’re rounding people up all over the city, trying to find us. Anyone who’s ever supported nationalism is being held for questioning.”
“They’re throwing innocent people in jail just because they can. Orders of the government.”
“It’s a free-for-all. They arrested Pauline Julien.”
“The singer?”
“She wouldn’t sing for the queen a few years ago, remember? Now she’s in jail for it!”
“We can’t panic now,” Léo says, concealing his own growing anxiety. Even as he reassures them, he feels sick. What if Lisette’s been arrested and she’s locked up somewhere? She has a record.
All of a sudden a loud crash from the other end of the house interrupts their conversation. They look at one another.
“Laporte!”
They all jump up and run down the hall in a panic, realizing how lackadaisical they’ve been about keeping an eye on him. They stopped guarding him around the clock after day one. Someone checks on him sporadically, but there hasn’t been a sentry at the door. They almost never touch the guns.
When they get to his room, they find Laporte on the floor. There are shards of glass all over the floor, blood on his wrist and upper body, and the window above his bed has been smashed.
“He tried to escape,” Paul says.
“His cuffs are off.”
Laporte isn’t moving. He’s breathing, but not moving. As far as Léo can figure, he got free of his handcuffs and must have thrown himself into the window. The glass shattered, but it was too high for him to get out. Instead, he cut his wrist and chest. Strangely, he’s still wearing the blindfold. If he had just removed it, he would have had a much better chance of escaping.
“He left the blindfold on,” Francis says, as though Laporte isn’t in the room.
“He’s not in his right mind,” Léo says. “Let’s bring him into the living room. Do we have any bandages?”
They half drag, half carry him to the living room, where they sit him down on a chair. Léo removes the blindfold. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Laporte doesn’t even look at them. His head drops to his chest. He’s slumped over, practically catatonic.
Jacques does his best to bandage Laporte’s wounds. He uses some tape and the blindfold, some bandages they found in the bathroom. They clean him up, try to comfort him, but his body is completely limp.
“We’re going to take you to the hospital soon,” Léo tells him, without really thinking it through. Laporte doesn’t react.
“Maybe we should let him go?” Jacques says.
Léo doesn’t know what to do. Seeing another man this way, so hopeless and despondent, makes him feel genuinely sorry for the guy. It’s like he knows it’s over. He must have heard the declaration of the War Measures Act on his radio and he knows it’s his death sentence. His friends and colleagues have all abandoned him; they’ve sent a clear message by not meeting the kidnappers’ demands: Your life is worthless to us. We choose to keep our power. No wonder he’s given up.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” Bernard says. “He’s bleeding through the bandages.”
They’re talking about him like he’s not here. In a way, he’s not. He’s somewhere else—mentally, emotionally checked out.
“We can’t take him to the goddamn hospital!”
“What then? Kill him?”
They all fall silent. Léo is up pacing now. He can’t bring himself to look at Laporte. Panic is setting in for all of them.
“Maybe we should just let him go,” Léo says, surprising them.
“After everything we’ve done?” Jacques cries. “We’ll go to jail and we’ll have accomplished nothing. The government wins. The politicians win. The English win. The rich win. It’s always the same.”
“I hate the thought of that, too.”
“So we kill him. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.”
There was no plan for this. No plan at all, really. It all sort of unfolded, one impulsive decision after another. For a while, it looked like it would all work out. Can Léo take a human life? Can he murder another man, even if it is for the cause? He’s not a killer.
“He’s suffering, man. Look at him.”
Léo finally looks over at Laporte. He’s pitiful and clearly in a lot of pain. “His life is in our hands,” Francis says, and all Léo can think is he doesn’t want this terrible burden anymore.
We could let him walk right out that door to freedom, back to his family, and it would be over.
“Let’s just let him go then,” Paul says. “We’ll blindfold him and dump him somewhere. We’ll have time to get away.”
“And go where?” They’re all moving around the room, circling Laporte’s chair.
“We’re forgetting why we did this in the first place,” Bernard says. “We’re letting him unnerve us, derail us from our purpose.”
“Bernard’s right,” Léo says. “This isn’t about the FLQ. This is about our people. We did this for them. Do we value this guy’s life more than theirs? Look what the government is doing to our friends and family, man. Locking them up. Interrogating them like they’re criminals. And we’re going to put this politician’s life before them? The government had a choice to save him. This is on them.”
“If we let him go, we lose all our ground,” Jacques agrees. “We did this for Quebec independence, remember?”
“Everything we’ve ever done has been to get more power for the workers in this province. Guess what? We’re the goddamn workers! We’re the people! We’re the ones they keep exploiting.” Bernard points to Laporte, inflamed. “This guy? He’s part of it. Let’s not forget that. He’s one of the ones who forced us into this. He’s just a casualty of our struggle.”
“He’s also a father and a husband and a brother.” Léo says this, thinking about the letter Laporte wrote. Thinking about his own baby girl.
“So you choose his life over ours?”
“Of course not,” Léo responds. “We’re all in this together.”
“If we’re not all on the same page, if we’re not all one hundred percent in agreement, we don’t do anything.”
The other guys nod, wrestling with their consciences. There is not one among them who is more comfortable with the idea of killing a man. It was never supposed to happen, even as they wrote out their threats of execution.
“This is the moment of truth,” Léo says, feeling the return of his resolve. “How far are we willing to go? Was it all bravado, or did we mean what we wrote in our manifesto?”
After a long silence, Paul says, “We swore we weren’t going to give in this time. Why should we be the ones to cave?”
They all turn once again to stare at Laporte. Spiritually, he’s already dead. He knows they’re going to kill him, even though they don’t even know it yet. Or maybe they do.
“The deadlines have all passed and they’ve responded with the War Measures Act. They’ve played their card. We’re out of options.”
“We either let him go or we kill him. That’s it. We have to decide right now.”
The tension in the room is untenable. A human life. A human life.
“I think we know what we have to do.”
Léo goes to the kitchen and opens a window. It faces an empty field. He breathes deeply. His hands are shaking. He desperately needs to speak to Lisette, but he knows what she’ll say.
Throwing homemade bombs into empty buildings is more of a theoretical exercise. They were destroying property, not lives. That’s what they told themselves anyway. But to stand face-to-face with another human being and kill him in cold blood, this is something Lisette would never condone.
Release him. Kill him. Release him. Kill him.
Hours pass while they debate late into the night. The sun rises; someone makes coffee. They chain-smoke. The radio drones on in the background. Democracy is out the window. Léo hates that the government has put them in this spot.
Laporte still isn’t moving. They keep checking his pulse to make sure he’s alive. “Let’s just put him out of his misery,” Bernard says. “He’s already gone. Look at him.”
“I agree. If we let him go, we’re acknowledging their authority and accepting that this is how it’s always going to be. We can’t do that.”
Francis gets up and leaves the room. When he returns, his eyes are red, swollen. Léo has no judgment about that. He loves him for it. He wants to cry himself.
“We have to kill him,” Jacques says, his voice breaking.
The others nod. The room is heavy. Léo’s chest hurts. I’m going to end a human life, and I’ll have to live with that forever.
“Who’s going to do it?”
Nothing feels real anymore. Léo is no longer in his body.
“Remember, this is their fault,” one of the guys says. “They could have saved him.”