RONALD WALTERS WAS A TALL, thin fragile-looking man in his late forties. His face was furrowed with vertical lines emphasizing its length. The perpetually worried look and the slow gray eyes were immediately familiar. But there was evidence of the passage of time since our last meeting years before. The top of his head was almost bare. Sideburns, with which he compensated for hair loss, were longer, bushier and grayer; tufts of grizzled hair poked out of his ears. Instead of the cords and tweed jacket which I remembered, the pants and vest of a sharp three-piece brown suit hung unbecomingly on his lanky body; matching jacket had been discarded. He had on a cream shirt and a fashionable tie. But the shirt was unbuttoned and the tie out of place. As he moved towards me, hand outstretched I noticed the bulge of a small gun tucked away under the vest. I wondered how much I had changed in his eyes.
“Ah, Helen,” he said smiling. “You haven’t changed.”
“Much,” I finished for him as we shook hands. He laughed an uncomfortable laugh and ran his hand over his bald head in a habitual gesture soon to become familiar.
“Just older and wiser, I hope, both of us,” he answered, “Come in, sit down.” Quickly he turned and led the way through the sunny livingroom to a desk at right angles to the open window and balcony. A fine view of English Bay spotted with giant tankers and tiny sailboats. He sat down behind the desk and immediately fished out a pencil from among a pile of papers. Safely settled in his usual place, with a pencil to play with, he relaxed somewhat. I looked around me. The apartment looked properly lived in but probably not by him. It was in a posh highrise, one or two bedrooms, kitchen and this well-furnished livingroom. It didn’t have that rented-furnished-by-a-government-agency look about it. There was old-fashioned taste and a personal touch. A very unlikely place for Walters to stay, considering who and what he was. But perhaps that was the idea.
Whatever changes had overtaken him, his sharp mind was still there. He picked up my unspoken question immediately. “My mother’s,” he said shyly. “She’s just retired and moved out of the city. So I took over her lease. Until the end of the month. These are her things.” He waved an arm.
“OK. But why?” I asked.
“I’m here on detached duty.”
“Detached duty’ meant that he wasn’t in Vancouver officially at all. So he couldn’t use any facilities which might connect to his job. Not even ‘undercover’ facilities of the regular kind. Which meant that his job was so secret it was undercover from local undercover. Under undercover. That’s spook business all over. Not merely that the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing but sometimes even the fingers of any given hand don’t know what the thumb .… It was all sadly familiar. Didn’t he ever wonder if there was someone under under undercover — even further than he? Of course. He knew and expected it. That’s why he had the job he had. Whatever it was. Holing up in his mother’s apartment was smart. Normally no agency would dream of setting up a base in the home of a family member of a well known agent. Therefore it was the perfect place. But, since the opposition followed the same thought processes, it might not be so perfect. On the other hand .… It was a shell game. Double, triple, multiple bluff. Like all shell games, it only worked at speed. Walters would be safe in his mother’s apartment as long as nobody tried to figure out where he might be. Soon he would have to move. Again. And again. Then again, it might not be his mother’s apartment at all. He might have lied. And so it went. The endless, silly game. I laughed, relieved I wasn’t a part of it. Or was I?
At my laugh, Walters nodded. He had followed my thoughts as if I had spoken them aloud.
“Yes. Details don’t matter. I am here. It’s safe for the time being. You weren’t followed.”
“No. And now I am here.”
“What are you doing in the Kootenays?” he asked. I didn’t answer, just looked at him. He moved deeper into his chair, looked out at the gorgeous scene outside. “Come, come, Helen. You’re a smart woman. Do you really want to get sucked any deeper into what can’t be your business? Because if it is, if you are involved in this .…” He smiled sadly. “It would be too bad.”
“What business? You tell me.”
“Arms. Arms smuggling. Are you?” he asked. This was silly. He couldn’t seriously expect me to answer that.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? Coffee or something? The way you are handling this, we could be here all day,” I said. Again that familiar sad look on his face.
“There is coffee in the kitchen. And beer in the refrigerator. Help yourself,” he said finally.
I got up and fetched myself a cup of coffee. He sat staring out of the window. After I sat down and made myself comfortable again, he swung back in his swivel chair as if having made some decision.
“An important citizen, one Morris Beach, inquired about you. Then the two men for whom he was acting disappeared without trace. In the Kootenays.” He spoke the name as if it was some exotic spot across the globe. “You were there. You are connected to these men. Explain.”
“Right. I was in Kaslo on a case. Met two men, obvious agents, at a campground. We agreed to meet next day in Nelson. They never showed. No messages. I don’t know where they are.”
He shook his head as at a recalcitrant child.
“Helen. We’ve been over that.” He shuffled the papers in front of him as if looking for some item of information. “You know and I know these were Mossad agents. Right?” He went on without looking at me or waiting for an affirmative answer. “You talked to them. You aren’t dumb. So you picked up on what they were up to. Beach told us a couple of men, strangers, were after you and the Mossad boys helped you out. So you and they compared notes. It’s clear from what they told Beach that the case you are on connects to their job. Helen, what are you doing in the Kootenays?”
“No. The question is what are Mossad agents doing in the Kootenays? What are you doing cooperating with foreign agents like Beach? On what? Smuggled arms? Clearing up a smuggling ring? Balls! Information, yes, but foreign agents operating in Canada on a police matter? And what are you doing on a simple criminal case? You said I wasn’t dumb. Act like you believed it.”
“OK, OK.” He waved his hand at me. “Well, we aren’t happy about these agents on our territory either. There has been some cooperation with Beach in the past, yes. These are difficult times, internationally. Beach is important. He’s the front-end contact. We watch him, we like to know what’s happening. OK so far?”
“So far.”
“Good. To cut a long story short, we don’t know why these agents are here. We want to know, but until we do, until we know what complication it might cause, we are playing it cool. Nothing official. No word to the local law enforcement. But we want them found!”
I said nothing.
He took a long breath and went on “It probably does have to do with the arms trade. But nothing simple. Look.” He opened a drawer, took out a map, and spread it open on the desk. “Look at this.” He was standing now, tapping the map with his finger for emphasis. “This is a unique area. Geographically and topographically. The Columbia River crosses into the States. Look at these dams .… Do you know how much water is behind them? We dammed all these rivers so the Yanks can have flood control and reliable power downstream. Flooded millions of acres of our best valley bottoms for a song. Now look up here.” He was excited now. His arms moved over the map like semaphores. “North-south valleys, only one highway east-west, few airports, lots of lakes, wild mountains and hundreds of old mines and abandoned shafts.” He stopped, sat down and looked at me. Calmer now, he said, “What does it all suggest to you? Just fantasize.”
“I understand the importance of the Columbia to the western U.S. What are you trying to say? Say it.”
He seemed to be holding his breath. Then softly, “West Kootenays are the perfect base for terrorist sabotage of north-west United States. Especially the Columbia system.”
Having said it, Walters folded his map, put it away, sat down and went on in a more normal tone. “Perhaps that’s overly dramatic. But it’s a possibility. Something is happening in that area. You will grant that?”
“Sure. A possibility. Anything is possible these days. But how probable? Any real data, solid fact? Or just normal security service paranoia?”
Mention of paranoia was designed to taunt him into telling me what, if anything, he knew. I acted cool and skeptical but had no doubt that my concern and curiosity were obvious to his trained eye. But he appeared to take my comment at face value, answering carefully.
“Paranoia. Perhaps. That’s the trouble, we know very little. A bit from the Israelis. Their single-minded concentration on terrorism is helpful. They take risks which are unacceptable to us. They take hair-curling chances to get information.” Automatically he ran his hand over his scalp. “That’s great if it works out but the consequences of a foul-up could be horrendous. A very, very delicate situation all around.” Walters fell silent, playing with his pencil. Then continued. “Now you are there, right on the spot. Another possible source of information. And you won’t talk. You see the spot I am in?”
“Is that a threat or a plea for sympathy?” All that grandstanding with maps and dark hints at sabotage! “Next you’ll be threatening me with licence cancellation or asking for my cooperation in stopping World War III! Make up your mind, Ron. I got up early to catch my flight to Vancouver and haven’t got the patience for all this to-and-froing.”
Ron Walters laughed good-humouredly. “I haven’t lied to you. I want your cooperation, that’s all. Starting with the nature of your job. Once I know that, I can evaluate the situation, possibly let you continue. Without it, well, no threats need be involved but I guess I could make it hard for you. On this case and any future jobs you undertake. We both know that.”
“That’s a risk I’ll have to take. Occupational hazard. Look, I’ve been here an hour and nothing real has been said by either of us. Don’t you ever get tired of these games?”
Walters changed gears, ignored my comment and said, “Did the Mossad agents kill that old man?” He watched my reaction.
“You know the answer to that. Nuts.”
“The police think so.”
“They were meant to.”
“Maybe. But that means that there is a terrorist unit of some kind operating in the area. And I think you have a lead on it. Look, Helen. Chances are the Israelis are already dead. Their bodies may or may not show up. Regardless, they will get the blame for the old man’s murder. Case closed. Are we agreed, so far?”
“That’s the way the scenario seems to have been set up. But it doesn’t have to be that way. A word from you and the area will be crawling with cops looking under every bush, into every shaft. Ultimately they will find whatever there is to find.”
“No. You know I can’t do that. How about you? You could tell them your story. With the same result. Well?”
Now we were getting to cases.
“That would blow my job and probably take me out of circulation. No deal.”
“Oh, I wasn’t asking you to do it! Just presenting the possibility. But if I won’t and you won’t, the scenario stays in place. Murderers go free. Only alternative is for you and I to put our heads together, cooperate on this one. Nice quiet undercover operation. No cops, no publicity.”
“And if I don’t? Takes two to cooperate. And I only ‘cooperate’ with people I trust. How trustworthy are you, eh, Ron?”
He pretended to consider the question seriously.
“As long as our interests coincide … trust needn’t be involved.”
“Our interests coincide only to the extent that we have each other over a barrel. You can’t afford to have me tell my story and blow that scenario. Any hint at terrorist activities so close to the U.S. border will bring the Americans in, in spades. Publicity, hundreds of FBI, CIA and other assorted security agents making mincemeat of Canadian sovereignty, falling all over each other, taking the play away from you. No, you want to keep it hush-hush, figure it all out and scotch it your way. Nice quiet operation. That’s the Canadian way. And for that you need me. I am there, on the spot, with possible leads.”
He didn’t like it but didn’t deny it.
“Your cooperation would be useful, I admit. However, if you are just in the way, well, you could be rendered, shall we say, inoperative.”
“Sure. That’s why I said we have each other over a barrel. Stalemate. You make a move I don’t like and I’ll sing; I don’t cooperate and you have me taken care of, one way or another.”
“One way or another, yes.” Walters leaned back carefully.
I smiled.
“Sure. But not before you know what I know, and not unless you can be sure there won’t be any comeback. And there would be, believe it.”
He sighed.
“I believe it. OK. Stalemate. For the time being. But surely not for long. Situations have a way of not standing still. Sure you wouldn’t rather have me on your side in this? Surely you don’t approve of terrorism? We could work together.”
“Terrorism is where you find it.” I looked around the sunny livingroom. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”
I got out of there fast. On the way down I had trouble holding onto my last meal. Perhaps it was only the elevator.