RUE COLLINS, OCTOBER 19,
1970, EARLY MORNING

DETECTIVE-SERGEANT MILES MARTINEK, GARGANTUA INCARNATE, hands deep in the pockets of his parka, was conversing with a small group of reporters in front of the house. The living-room window had been blown out by an explosion. A Canadian Army bomb-squad truck was parked a little farther down. The street was closed off. A group of curious neighbours and onlookers were chatting with each other not too far from the house. A few of them were recounting their stories to a couple of policemen, who were taking notes.

Martinek was a popular man among the beat cops. His reputation for ferocity and his total lack of compunction, which he dutifully applied to upholding order and the law of the fittest, made him something of a legend. “According to the first testimonies collected from the neighbours,” he was saying, “it seems that the neighbouring house, the one you see there — 150 Collins — was also occupied by a few FLQers known to the police. But they fell off the map about a month ago. However, Saturday night around six, not long after the poor guy’s death, the neighbours saw a car with a hitched trailer — others say a van — parked right in front of the house, and then a man filling the trailer with something and driving off.”

Sergeant Machinegun Martinek put an immediate end to the questions that the reporters began rattling off.

“That’s all we know for now. You’ll have to excuse me.”

He walked away from the journalists toward a man standing a bit off to one side. He was somewhere in his fifties, with a nose like an eagle’s beak. He’d just made his appearance, alone, wearing a trench coat over his shoulders and a tweed cap on his head. Moving away from the crowd, the newcomer walked to the garage door and waited for the sergeant to join him. He stood with his back straight, almost stiff, without wasting any time.

“Colonel Lapierre,” Miles murmured.

“Sergeant Martinek . . . I’m here under orders of the prime minister.”

A nod and nothing more from Martinek, as if to say “Of course.” He brought himself almost to attention. The Colonel’s eyes went past him to contemplate the raided house behind the sergeant’s broad shoulders.

“Who went in there?”

“Just me and the Army guys . . .”

The Colonel scanned the sergeant with a solitary, imperious gaze. “You didn’t touch anything now, did you?”

“No, not me. But the explosives they set off,” he said, pointing in the direction of the bomb squad’s truck, “made quite a goddamned mess.”

“Good. Find any documents in there?”

“Tons. Drafts of communiqués, from what I could tell, mostly that, actually.”

“Okay. Tell Doctor Vale he can pick them up after I’ve had a chance to go over them.”

The sergeant nodded, all casual complicity, as Colonel Lapierre gave a brusque nod toward the house. “You’ll show me around?”

Ice in his eyes, and with straight-backed confidence: Martinek was impressed. His own star faded before this man. He settled for a shake of the head.

“Those vultures, I don’t want to see them,” Uncle Bob grunted, pointing at the journalists milling about in front of the house. “Did anyone take any pictures?”

“Only of the front of the house,” the detective calmly replied. “Don’t worry, they haven’t got permission to go inside yet. I’ll give them the tour later on.”

“Good. Well, let’s go . . .”

They walked through the door, stopping in the entrance to the kitchen with a start of surprise. The place was in shambles: chicken takeout boxes here and there, garbage bags left sitting about, cupboards yawning open, and the floor covered with greasy papers, takeout menus, and spilt liquids.

Seemingly, the military bomb squad, expecting to find booby traps, had used small explosive charges to open every single door.

Uncle Bob let his eyes wander to the ceiling. He could see freshly cracked plaster from which a couple of nails poked out, right along a beam. The Colonel thought to himself that the bomb-squad guys sure didn’t cut corners.

He walked though the kitchen, stepping over the debris, Martinek at his heels, and stopped before the desk on which the phone sat. A seven-digit number was etched in the gyproc, followed by the letters BB.

“What’s that, Martinek?”

“A restaurant, I think. Baby Barbecue.”

The Colonel bent down to pick up a telephone lying on the floor in a sorry state. It had been opened up, eviscerated. Wires hung like veins from a carcass. Uncle Bob held it up with an amused look on his face.

“Didn’t leave much to chance, did they, Martinek?”

“No . . . Colonel,” Machinegun heard himself reply.