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  Sophie was, according to Bill, pleasant but quiet—very pleasant, in fact, and very heavy. There had been a party, perhaps on the night that Sophie disappeared, but Bill couldn’t be sure. Some Australians (no, he only knew them as Bob and Bruce) had started playing guitar and harmonica one night, and before long a full-fledged party was underway. He didn’t know how much Sophie had had to drink, much less how much he had consumed himself.

  Bill thought she was drinking beer—at least that was what most people were drinking—and there seemed to be a lot of dope around. White was at pains to explain that he had not partaken of any drugs himself. He had gone to sleep very late and didn’t know what time he would last have seen Sophie. And no, he had never seen her again. This was not unusual, he pointed out, as travellers came and went as they pleased.

  White gave Hay a few more details, including the address of the youth hostel where he and Sophie had both stayed. Hay requested a search warrant for the hostel as soon as White left, and went back to reviewing the latest reports on the case. One piece of information was new: according to British border control, Sophie Bouchard had travelled from Calais via the Chunnel to England on Sunday, December 28. The festive season, thought Hay irrelevantly, then resumed scrutinizing the file.

  THREE

  Canada

  Laila Sergeyeva Daudova stood with a handful of others on Charlotte Street, as close to the gates of the Russian Embassy as allowed. She scrunched her coat and woollen scarf tightly under her chin, holding the picture in her other hand. It was freezing cold. She had thought that Grozny was cold, but there was something in this Ottawa dampness that cut straight through her. The freezing rain had stopped, but much of the city was at a standstill. Nevertheless, she believed deeply in what she was doing, and so did her few compatriots from the tiny Chechen community in Ottawa. A few representatives from Independence United rounded out their number.

  The eight-by-ten-inch picture that Laila was holding up to the impassive face of the Russian Embassy was that of her brother, Bula Sergeyevich Gavrikov. He should have been with her and Rasul, safely in Canada, but Bula had disappeared only days before the couple fled Chechnya two years earlier. She hadn’t heard a word from him since.

  The others here were in similar circumstances: the tiny old woman, dressed in black, holding a picture of her granddaughter; the angry-looking, bullet-headed young man holding a picture of another angry-looking, bullet-headed young man; the beautiful young woman with the startling blue eyes, holding a picture of her missing husband. The people from Independence didn’t have pictures, but they carried large placards reading, “Shame for the Disappearances in Chechnya” and “Freedom for all Chechens.” The Independence United representatives rounded out the small group of protesters that had been rallying here for months, whenever they could manage. Today was the first day they had been able to make it out since the ice storm.

  Laila was glad that her husband, Rasul, had managed to get to his job at the parking lot today—not that she expected there would be much business in these conditions. Traffic was quiet and the driving dangerous. Since her arrival in front of the Russian Embassy, Laila had already seen two cars skid, quite out of control, along Charlotte Street. She was glad that her husband would be otherwise occupied and not so concerned about her attending the demonstration.

  Suddenly she heard a loud pop and her body was on fire. Seconds later, she lay dying on the pavement, her blood pooling on the icy Ottawa sidewalk.

  Liz had a couple of days of “vacation” left when it was cut short by a phone call from her superintendent.

  “There’s been a shooting, a demonstrator outside the Russian Embassy. Shot dead. Just under an hour ago. Can you get there now? You know all about embassies, right?”

  “Of course I can come in. But I hardly know ‘all about embassies.’”

  “Close enough,” replied the Super. “Embassy Protection is all over it, of course, but I want you there.”

  Liz agreed—this was exactly the sort of case in which her department, Federal Investigations, would take the lead. Embassy Protection was not accustomed to homicide and was, at the best of times, chronically under-resourced. Liz jotted down the particulars and presently was guiding her Honda over the Champlain Bridge towards Ottawa.

  The crime scene was humming when Liz parked on Charlotte Street outside the stark exterior of the Russian Embassy. The coroner and forensics team were already there, along with numerous uniformed police officers. The members of the press seemed to have sprouted as quickly as the demonstrators had melted into the background. Officers were manning the perimeter of the scene.

  Liz inspected the young woman’s body. She was wearing a down-filled jacket, a long, black skirt, low-heeled, rubber-soled boots, and a heavy scarf wrapped around her head and neck. She had been a very pretty woman, probably in her mid-twenties and, despite her bulky clothing, appeared slight and short in stature. From the pattern of the blood, it appeared that the shot had hit her square in the back. Nearby lay a sort of picket sign, with the image of a young, dark-haired man on it. Something was written underneath but it was in an unintelligible script, at least to Liz.

  A great deal of measuring was going on as the experts tried to gauge the trajectory of the bullet. Two police constables were struggling to interview a Russian Embassy security guard, evidently with little success as the man simply alternated between shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. Several police officers were attempting to keep the press away from the scene and behind the tape. Suddenly three embassy officials, all men, materialized; the one in the middle, clearly the superior, was flanked by his staffers. A police officer pointed them towards Liz, who was still scrutinizing the body and its immediate vicinity.

  The Russian officials introduced themselves. “I am Vladimir Kraznikov, ambassador of the Russian Federation. This is my personal assistant, Piotr Leskov, and the embassy’s cultural attaché, Stanislav Ivanov.”

  Liz thought it would be prudent to get the spellings later.

  “Ivanov saw the shooting from his window,” said the ambassador in heavily accented English. “He was obviously not working,” he said without a hint of a smile, “and saw the woman fall.”

  Ivanov took up the story. “It is true—I was watching the demonstration. This morning the group was particularly small but comprised the usual people who come. This was the first demonstration since the storm.”

  Liz was surprised to hear a trace of a British accent. Perhaps he had learned his English from a Brit?

  “Where is your office?” asked Liz, with a glance towards the front of the building. Ivanov pointed to a small window facing Charlotte Street.

  “They were very quiet,” continued Ivanov. “They all looked cold. But they feel they must come because they think the Russian government has kidnapped their loved ones. If only they understood that the disappearances are due to the Chechen authorities themselves—”

  “Thank you, Stanislav,” interrupted the ambassador, who clearly thought his cultural attaché had gone far enough.

  “So you recognized the demonstrators?” pursued Liz.

  “Oh yes,” answered Ivanov. “This woman,” he nodded towards the body, “is always here. She complains that her brother disappeared in Chechnya. He was meant to be coming with her to Canada.”

  “Do you have the names of these people?” asked Liz.

  With a quick look at the ambassador, Ivanov nodded.

  “Come in and we will tell you what we know,” said Kraznikov. There was little else she could do here, and the body would be readied for transport soon.

  “Thank you,” she said, walking into the building with the ambassador, his cultural attaché, and his broad-shouldered, unsmiling “personal assistant.”

  By the time Liz left the embassy, she had a short list of the demonstrators’ names, the correct spelling of those of her interlocutors, and a mild headache from the powerful Russian cigarette she had been offered. At least they still allowed s
moking inside their building. The Russians were definitely going up in Liz’s estimation.

  The body had disappeared by the time Liz started her car and began steering towards the RCMP office on Cooper Street, which housed the Federal Investigations Department. Apart from the glistening remnants of the ice storm, it was a typically gloomy, mid-winter Ottawa afternoon. Dirty, glittering snowbanks lined the sidewalks. The cars that braved the streets already had their lights on, and it wasn’t yet four o’clock.

  She went directly to her superintendent’s office. He looked even more rotund than usual, and his face was ruddier. The Super always gave Liz the impression that he was about to explode—not in anger, as he was a very even-tempered man—but something like a birthday balloon that had been filled rather too enthusiastically. Liz occasionally wondered how the good man passed his annual physical. She didn’t recognize the other man in the room, a thin, balding, bespectacled person whom the Super identified as Lawrence Fletcher from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Liz noticed that Fletcher’s prominent nose seemed to be itchy, as he scratched it vigorously from time to time during the interview.

  Of course, thought Liz, CSIS would be involved in this.

  Fletcher took no part in the ensuing discussion of events. Occasionally he took a note and spent much of his time regarding Liz and the superintendent as though they were, in fact, suspects in the case.

  “I’d like to request Ouellette,” she said as the discussion drew to a close. “He knows ‘all about embassies,’ just like me.” Sergeant Gilles Ouellette had been her invaluable sidekick during the Guévin investigation in London.

  The Super nodded and picked up the phone.

  The following day, which had largely been spent running down leads and sifting through evidence, Liz stopped for a late dinner at a small Italian restaurant in Ottawa’s Byward Market. She was delaying her return home; the power was still unpredictable there, and she wasn’t looking forward to returning to the uncertain climate of her living room. The restaurant, A Tavola, was clearly upscale and updated, not like those she had known in her youth, with their red-and-white checked tablecloths, candles housed in Chianti bottles, and “Santa Lucia” belting out from the sound system. This one sported a good deal of black and chrome, the candles were short and fat, and the menu included several items few Italians would recognize.

  She had been there once or twice before, and the chicken Parmigiana was to her liking. Liz was one of those people who, once finding a dish they like, continue to order the same thing until the restaurant goes out of business. She understood that there were people who ordered something different every time they visited a restaurant, but could only conclude they were of a different species.

  Not that her mind was on chicken Parmigiana anyway. She was thinking about Laila Daudova, the Chechen woman shot dead outside the Russian Embassy. The Russians had been helpful in handing over the names of the “regulars,” as they called them—those who routinely turned up to protest the disappearance of loved ones in Chechnya. She had asked at the time if it was a coincidence that the names of the women ended with an “a” while the men’s seemed to end with “ev” or “ov,” and learned that this was, in fact, the way that masculine and feminine Russian surnames were constructed. The cultural attaché had launched into a detailed explanation of how Russian middle names actually meant “son of” or “daughter of,” but the ambassador had impatiently cut him short.

  RCMP officers were tracking down the “regulars” and conducting preliminary interviews, and Liz was forming the impression that they were a truculent and uncooperative lot. The protesters from Independence United hadn’t provided much information either, and Sergeant Gilles Ouellette, who in typical fashion had swotted up on the situation in Chechnya as soon as he was assigned to the case, had expressed disdain at how little the professional protestors apparently knew about the Chechen wars.

  Liz smiled to herself, sipping her Cabernet. There was a reason she had requested Ouellette for this case. He was an officer who gave one hundred percent every time and was extremely bright, professional, and thorough. She would have to be careful with him, though. She had learned during her years with the police that the more diligent and conscientious the officer, the greater the risk that he or she could be taken advantage of.

  Some superiors routinely abused their best officers, overloading them to the breaking point, because they knew that the loyal officer would make sure the work was done, no matter what the personal cost. And that made the boss look good. It was the enthusiastic, dedicated young officers who ran the greatest risk of burnout, or worse.

  Liz had known a young woman who fit into that category—highly intelligent and sensitive. That woman had unwittingly found herself working for a succession of brutal superiors. She had lasted about ten years; then she gave up her career before she lost the remainder of her self-respect. Now the woman owned a popular restaurant in Kingston.

  Liz knew that she had been very lucky with her own bosses. Some, of course, had been better than others, but she hadn’t personally run into any that were particularly callous. Liz had been fortunate, and she knew it. As a woman, she knew that some of her generation and gender were suffering insidious forms of harassment and bullying.

  Her current Super, however, was delightful to work with, an absolute pro who was both incisive and thoughtful. He could always be trusted to offer well-considered advice; at the same time, he trusted Liz’s instincts and investigative methods. She took another swallow of wine and returned her thoughts to the case at hand. She and Ouellette would interview Laila’s husband, Rasul, the next morning. Rasul Daudov had been uncommunicative with the uniformed officers conducting the first interview but reportedly had seemed genuinely distraught and grief-stricken by his wife’s death.

  Other than these people—the husband, the demonstrators, and perhaps the Russians—who could have wanted to kill Laila Sergeyeva Daudova? Of course, the entire Chechen community (which numbered about twenty as far as Liz could tell) would be spoken with. Might it have been mistaken identity? Was someone else the target? Or—she was really stretching here—was this an attempt to embarrass Canadian security for some reason? Her chicken arrived, on a bed of al dente pasta tossed with marinara sauce and Parmesan, and surrounded by steamed root vegetables. She thanked the waiter and cut into the tender chicken. Of course the shot seemed to have been a good one. Square in the back, right through the heart, according to forensics. It was either a brilliant shot or a very bad mistake.

  Liz realized that she was very happy to be back at work. And the pasta was good.

  What about the Russians, though? These protestors must have been a major thorn in their sides for years. Was there something particular about Laila that might have inspired the Russians to risk provoking a major international incident? If that were the case, this was way out of her league. A homicide, fine, but some intelligence and security matter? She was losing her appetite quickly, although the Parmigiana was certainly up to standard. Anyway, that was not her business, she decided. She would continue to do the police work to the best of her ability; there were others who could deal with the spooky stuff. Like that Lawrence character from CSIS—Lawrence, of course, not Larry. He had looked pretty spooky himself, apparently thinking it would be unprofessional to crack a smile throughout their entire meeting.

  Liz found herself wondering how Hay would approach this case. He had been in pretty much the same situation during the Guévin murder at the Canadian High Commission in London, hoping that the murder was an isolated matter that could be solved by solid police work, rather than some ethereal intelligence matter that would never be explained satisfactorily. He had told her of those feelings during the evening they went to the Bull’s Head pub in London, the day after they had solved the High Commission murder. It had been a wonderful evening, she remembered, full of laughter and exhaustion and the sort of inside jokes one only shares after years of friendship. But their friendship had been only
a couple of weeks. She had been sorry to leave.

  She was also sorry to get back home to Aylmer. As she had suspected, the power was off again. She collected Rochester from the Greens and he, too, was a bit subdued as they entered the dark house.

  FOUR

  Canada

  Rasul Daudov opened the door to his visitors. The tiny, sparsely furnished apartment in a three-storey walk-up in the east end of Ottawa at least had heat and electricity. Daudov was short and thick-set, with dark, almost-black eyes and a complexion that, in earlier times, would have been described as “swarthy.” He was visibly upset, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He regarded Liz and Ouellette with thinly veiled suspicion.

  Following introductions, Liz asked Daudov about Laila.

  After complaining that he had already spoken with the police, he said haltingly, “She was very beautiful. Kind. Generous. Look. Here is picture.” He took a small photo in a plain five-by-seven frame from the table and handed it to Liz. A lovely woman with eager, bright eyes stared back at her. “I take that just before we leave Chechnya,” said Daudov sadly. Abruptly he added, “Russians did this, sure.” He nodded to himself as he spoke.

  “We don’t yet know who did this, Mr. Daudov. That’s why we’re here. Why do you suspect the Russians?”

  Daudov snorted. “They hate us, generally. They kill our countrymen in Chechnya. And Laila—she would not stop trying to find brother.” Daudov was becoming agitated; Liz noticed his accent grew heavier and his English more laboured.

  “When did you and Laila come to Canada, Mr. Daudov?”

  “Two years,” he said slowly, gazing steadily at Liz. She realized that the question had made him extremely nervous and that he was clenching and unclenching his fists rapidly.