MATTHEW BOLSOVER, THE SOON to be ex-Premier of Ontario, sat in his air-conditioned home office. On his desk was an open binder of documents that needed to be read and signed before he reentered the Legislature later that day. He glanced at the wall clock. It was 3 a.m. He poked at the documents like a child deciding whether to eat his broccoli. Normally, all this paperwork would have waited until later in the day, but he was unable to sleep. An hour earlier, he had made love to Diane Rattray. Resting his head against the soft upper cushion of his high-back chair, he let out a satisfied sigh. He wasn’t sure if he loved her or even should love her. He turned another page in a document that he knew he really hadn’t read. Their relationship was too dangerous for him. And he wondered if he was playing out some sordid fantasy to possess something that belonged to the great Rattray. Or was she just some ticking time bomb that he had subconsciously engineered for his own self destruction? Diane had told her husband that she was going to see her sister and shop in Toronto, both of which she did. To add to her alibi, she had even booked a room at the Fairmont-Royal York and phoned Rattray from there to inform him she was staying over to enjoy its ambience and the Sunday spa.
Bolsover signed a document that he had barely read, and half-heartedly flipped to the next one in his binder and sat back in his chair. A few moments later, he got up and walked over to the portrait of Mitch Hepburn, Premier of Ontario from 1934 to 1942, and removed it from the wall. Behind it was a wall safe. Opening it, he withdrew a rectangular teak box, hinged on the short side by gold-plated hinges. Contained in it were ten years of recorded meetings with Rattray. Caressing the box, he returned to his desk and sat down.
A soft knock on his door startled him. He barely had time to place the teak box into his side drawer, when the door opened. “Antonio? What a pleasant surprise!” He knew it was a lie and hoped his demeanour had not given it away. He felt indebted to him. He had even arranged for Antonio’s quarters to be in what used to be an adjoining guest apartment at the far end of the premier’s residency. Joined to the main house by an underground tunnel, it was once a luxurious apartment slated for visiting heads of state in the early part of the 20th century. Long since forgotten about and not part of public refurbishing finances, Antonio had had to spend much time and money to bring it up to livable standards. So as a recognized occupant, Antonio had easy access to the residence and surrounding grounds.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that—well, I saw the light under the door and I thought I’d check,” Antonio said, his bald head, craggy frog face and squat and stocky figure peering around the door. Without waiting to be invited, Antonio entered the room.
Deeply tilting his chair back and chewing on the end of his pen, he watched Antonio’s eyes take in the office, including the open safe. “Everything’s fine,” he said, throwing the pen on his desk. “As you are aware, early mornings are often part of my Office.” The drawer containing the teak box, was still slightly ajar, and he shut it with his foot. “Now that I’ve told you my excuse for being up so late, what’s yours?” While feigning to listen to him, he closed the wall safe and rehung the painting of Mitch Hepburn.
“Señor Bolsover, what can I say—I’m an unattached man. Need I explain further?”
“I hope she was good?” Matthew sensed he was not telling the truth but knew better than to question him. Antonio smiled and nodded. Bolsover sauntered to his desk and sat down. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ve still got quite a bit here to finish before I head in today,” he said, waving his hand across the binder and folders on his desk and picking up the pen. “And come to think of it, you don’t have much time to sleep before you drive me to Queen’s Park.” He put on his reading glasses and glanced down at the next document in the binder before peering over the rims at him. “Did you forget, Antonio? This morning I’ve got to be there by seven. Should I arrange for another driver?”
“I think you jest, Señor Bolsover. No, no, I shall be ready.” Antonio turned to leave when he stopped. “There is one other thing.”
Bolsover pulled his chair closer to the desk and rested his arms across either side of the open binder. “What is it, Antonio?” Antonio's cold stare unsettled him.
“You promised me Canadian citizenship before you left office.” Traversing the distance to Matthew's desk, he pressed his knuckles into its dark and shiny oak finish and leaned across it. “It would not be good if you have forgotten.”
Bolsover slid his chair back. “I don’t appreciate your threatening tone, Antonio.” Straightening up, Antonio stepped away. “Thank you,” he said while he rolled his chair closer to the desk. “My contact assured me that he has managed to circumvent the hurdles, and your citizenship is almost complete.”
“When?” Antonio clenched his fists.
“I haven’t been told a date yet, just that it will be soon.”
Antonio sighed as he glanced at the floor then at the Mitch Hepburn painting. Moving quickly around the desk, he spun Matthew’s chair round to face him. “Like you, I have many secrets. The difference is, yours aren’t secret—at least not to me.” He straightened up. He made no attempt to hide the disdain he felt for him. “Don’t jerk me around, or else your world will cave in like a house of cards, just like that!” He snapped his fingers.
“I told you, your citizenship is in the bag,” Bolsover stammered. "I don't take kindly to being threatened, Antonio." And, he pushed his chair away from him.
“I want to know when. And soon!”
“Tomorrow...I’ll tie it down tomorrow.”
Appearing to be satisfied, Antonio strolled toward the open door. “See you in a couple of hours,” he said over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him. Moving a few paces down the hall, he took out his cell phone and dialed. When Rattray answered, he said, “It’s as you thought.”
“You’re sure he’s made a copy?”
“I won’t be a hundred percent sure until I see the DVD.”
“Where does he keep it?”
“In his wall safe.”
“Will that create a problem for you, Antonio?”
“Not in the least. The fool taped the combination in the most obvious place—under the centre drawer of his desk.”
“How soon will it be in my hands?”
“By the end of the week.”
“And the other thing I asked you to check?”
Antonio smirked to himself before answering. “Your wife’s here.”
A long silence ensued. “Something else, Antonio.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your Oxycontin operation.”
“What about it?”
“With everything that’s happening right now, I think you should shut it down for a while.”
“Getting cold feet?” Antonio asked.
“I guess you could say that.”
“Let me think about it. How long did you have in mind?”
Rattray said, “We can talk about that the next time we meet.”
“Anything more?” Antonio asked.
“No, we’re done.
Antonio walked along one of the hallways off the main foyer toward a door that connected him to his apartment via the underground tunnel. Stopping outside the door, he called Garcia Urquiza.
“Just spoke with Rattray.”
“And?”
“He’s become skittish about the Oxy operation.”
“Oxycontin’s street value goes up as we talk. He wants a larger share of your pie and mine. What do you think?”
“Nothing has changed. We’re in agreement. He does make a point.”
“And what’s that?” Garcia asked.
“Maybe with everything happening right now, it would be a good time to pull in our horns and wait it out until everything blows over.”
“According to Paul’s network there’s no problem brewing.”
“Are you sure you can trust Dickenson’s sources?” Antonio asked.
“He’s one of ours. Why wouldn’t I trust him? He’s been right so far. No, Rattray just wants a bigger slice of the profit. From both of us. He loves to play head games.”
“I’m still not sure Rattray’s wrong in being cautious right now. The whole area is crawling with cops and concerned citizens searching for Blackwell’s daughter. Before you know it, they’ll be at your farm. Remember, she was last seen with Camilo and Andres.”
“Paul told me he had taken care of everything, so don’t sweat over that,” rejoined Garcia.
“Provincial Police trumps whatever Paul thinks he’s taken care of. I wouldn’t count on him having taken care of rat shit. Bottom line, we must get rid of her now.”
Antonio’s mind had been made up the moment Jennifer Blackwell and the boys had entered Garcia’s home office after the dance.
“You made that quite clear earlier,” Garcia said.
“So we agree?” Antonio walked a short distance down the hallway away from the door that led to his lodgings and waited for Garcia to answer.
“She must be moved first, Antonio. If Andres finds out, there’s no telling what he’ll do.”
“Maybe Andres should disappear with her,” Antonio added. He kicked at the doorframe as he mulled over what he had just said.
“I’ll need time to think it through,” replied Garcia.
Antonio opened the door to the set of stairs that led to his residence. “Think? No, act. Or I will.”
“Tomorrow—we’ll talk tomorrow. By then I will have worked it out.”
“Tomorrow, it is.”
Antonio had had enough talking to Garcia and hung up. He was concerned that their operations were about to fall apart. Up until now, Garcia’s cocaine and his Oxycontin operations had turned a tidy profit, and he had no intention in becoming empty pocketed because of Garcia’s inability to act. Putting the phone in his pocket, he closed the door behind him and descended the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, exhaustion hit him like a runaway freight train. His normally high level of acuity compromised, he pushed himself along the tunnel to his apartment in the adjoining building. He glanced at his watch. He still had three hours before his duties began as Bolsover’s chauffeur.
Normally cognizant of new security devices, Antonio had been too exhausted and too preoccupied to notice the new cameras. He had relied on Bolsover to keep him informed of such infrastructure changes. Tonight, Bolsover had forgotten to tell him.