CHAPTER ONE
It was a warm sultry night in August and the sun was just setting over the horizon. I was floating in a small rubber dinghy just off a remote wooded shoreline. I reached into my bait bucket and scooped up a live frog. Its eyes bulged as it squirmed in an effort to slip from my grasp. I thought, you poor bastard, as I thrust an extra-wide hook through its lower lip and up into its snout. Then I attached a snap-on-bobber to my fishing line and launched the rig towards a nearby weed bed. The bobber dipped slightly as the frog attempted to escape. Moments later it suddenly submerged… and my rod bent almost double; a hungry large-mouth-bass had taken the bait.
I fileted the fish and the flesh was now sizzling in a frying pan over an open fire. The cooking station was set up some distance from my tent, as a sensible precaution against marauding bears. I had sealed the fish guts and bones in a zip lock bag and planned to bury it later. The damned bears can smell this stuff from a mile away. When the food was ready, I transferred it onto a plate and added some baked beans from a can, that had been warming in the coals. I enjoyed the meal and then washed it down with a few gulps from a bottle of Scotch whisky. Later I smoked a cigar, and sat there in the twilight watching as the fire burned down. Eventually the moon rose, casting a light over the water and illuminated my Yamaha Jet Boat. The sleek craft lay at anchor just off shore.
I had arrived earlier at this small secluded bay in the geographically remote eastern Archipelago of Georgian Bay in Ontario. This region stretches from the protected harbor of Penetanguishene in the south, to the French River in the north. It is a 200-kilometer expanse which is riddled with islands, shoals and channels, skirting along the vast open water to the west. The 30,000 Islands found here are the largest concentration of fresh water islands in the world, and I thought it was an ecological paradise. My cottage is located on Webber Island at the southern tip of the Archipelago, and from there I frequently take the boat on multi-day excursions to fish and explore the labyrinth of islands.
I was awakened that night when a heavy rain began to drum on the top of the tent. I briefly thought about the security of the boat. But on reflection, I recalled that everything was stowed away and properly buttoned down. The anchor was secure and I had attached a secondary line to a tree on shore. Then another thought occurred. I had forgotten to bury the bag of fish guts earlier before turning in. I could only hope now that there wouldn’t be any nocturnal visitors. For reassurance, I reached out for the handgun which was resting in the collar of one of my boots. It was a .357 Colt Python. A bullet from this weapon could stop a train! Thus assured, I drifted back to sleep. A few hours later my sleep was disturbed once again… this time by a tremendous roar which seemed to pass right over the tent. I switched on the flashlight and glanced at my wristwatch. It was 4:23 a.m.
By morning, the storm had passed. The rain had extinguished the embers of last night’s fire, so I used a propane camp stove to heat the water for coffee. I was sipping my brew when I heard the sounds of rustling leaves and snapping twigs as something approached through the forest. This was unusual because most animals move with extreme stealth. I hoped that it wasn’t a hungry bear that had caught the scent of the still unburied fish waste. As a precaution I reached inside the tent for my pistol. Moments later a bedraggled looking man emerged from the trees. I was astonished to see that he was carrying a sub machine gun! He was a lean looking fellow with a prominent nose, hooded eyes and a swarthy complexion. Ordinarily I would have shouted out a friendly greeting. But I didn’t care for the way he was pointing the machine gun in my direction.
As the man limped slowly towards me, I noted that he had a nasty gash on his forehead and one of his arms was in a makeshift sling. He held the machine gun in the hand opposite to his injured limb. I don’t know how much experience he had with automatic weapons. But, if he fired a burst while holding the weapon in one hand, he was more likely to hit low flying birds than what he was aiming for. I held the .357 Colt discretely at my side with the barrel pointed to the ground. The guy probably hadn’t seen it yet. He came closer and pointed his gun directly at me, then in a thickly accented voice demanded, “Give me key to boat, or I kill you! In response I raised the Colt Python and fired.
CHAPTER TWO
The bullet hit the man in the center of his chest and he flew backwards like a disjointed marionette. I walked up to the body and took note of his apparent recent injuries. Then I recalled hearing the loud noise during the night. Could it have been a small airplane? If so, had it crashed nearby? I picked up the machine gun and cleared the breach. There was no round in the chamber, and the safety was still on. So why did the fool have to threaten me? I was beginning to feel a twinge of regret, thinking maybe I could have handled the confrontation differently. But my response had been instinctive. It had been honed to a fine edge during my time with special forces in the military. Our motto had been to live and let die. And with that sentiment guiding me, I was once again in deep shit.
A quick search of his clothing revealed that he had a burgundy-colored passport in his hip pocket. It was issued to Goran Kostic, age 34, born in Belgrade, Serbia. The picture displayed in the passport was a match for the man lying in front of me. In another pocket I found a packet of U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills secured with a mustard-colored currency band. I figured there was about ten thousand dollars. I noticed that he was wearing a gold chain around his neck supporting an Orthodox Cross Pendant. He also wore a gold signet ring embossed with a double headed eagle. I reexamined the machine gun. It was a M84 Skorpion machine pistol, rarely seen outside of Eastern Europe. There was something strange here; this guy checked all of the boxes for being Serbian Mafia. Just thinking about the implications of this made me feel uneasy. I wondered if I should search for the downed aircraft?
I figured that the best place to begin was at the point where the man had emerged from the forest. Before I left, I rolled his body in a plastic ground sheet and hoped the bears wouldn’t get at him before I returned. I filled a knapsack with a water bottle, some food items, a raincoat and a flashlight. Be prepared, is the Boy Scout motto. And me? I always thought it was better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it. That’s why I tucked the Colt Python into my belt, and proceeded with the Skorpion machine pistol slung around my neck. It had a magazine – with 24 rounds – and you never know, it just might come in handy. I also took my phone with me, although there was no cell service in the area. In any event, I wasn’t sure I wanted to report the incident to the police. My previous experiences with law enforcement had left me somewhat circumspect.
At the start, I was able to retrace the Serb’s steps by following his faint trail on the forest floor. But soon the terrain became more rugged and there were few signs of his passing. I found an occasional partial impression of a footprint and a dislodged rock he had kicked loose, but the trail was getting fainter. As I maneuvered around natural obstacles, I began to worry that I might get myself turned around and have difficulty finding my way back to the boat. I glanced up at the sun to get my bearings. Then I adopted a line-of-sight approach to advance from one geographic feature to the next. By then I had lost any sign of his spoor. Minutes later I was descending a steep gully and spotted an anomaly up ahead between the rocks. I approached and found that it was a large blue suitcase. I could see ruts leading to it, made by the wheels where presumably the Serb had been dragging it. In his injured state, he had probably abandoned the case when he was unable to pull it any further.
I was immediately curious about what was inside the suitcase. There was no way this guy would be dragging his spare socks and underwear through the forest. I flipped the latch and slid the zippers down each side. When I opened it up, I found that it was stuffed to capacity with bundles of one hundred-dollar-bills. This confirmed my suspicion that something nefarious was going on. I zipped the suitcase back up and then lifted it by the handle. I figured it weighed a good forty pounds. There had to be a least three million U.S. dollars inside. I left the suitcase where I had found it, and followed the now obvious trail created by its wheels. I soon found the wreckage of a DHC-2 Beaver Seaplane. It had gouged a path of destruction in the forest before coming to rest, nose up. It appeared that the pilot had been trying to regain altitude just before he clipped the trees.
The aircraft was now wedged firmly amongst a thicket of Balsam fir. It was positioned at a steep angle, so I had difficulty climbing up to the pilot’s side door. I stepped onto a battered float and grabbed hold of a wing strut; then balanced precariously, I was able to open the door. The dead pilot was still strapped in his seat, his neck twisted at an impossible angle. I squeezed in just far enough to survey the interior of the cabin. In the back there were two blue suitcases, identical to the one I had found earlier. As I was processing this, I heard the whomp-whomp noise of a helicopter hovering overhead. I backed out of the cockpit and looked up to see two men rappelling from the chopper. As I jumped back down to the ground, someone fired a shot at me from the open door of the helicopter. It narrowly missed and ricocheted off the superstructure of the seaplane. I responded by firing a long burst from the machine pistol… as the chopper veered sharply away, I ran into the forest.
CHAPTER THREE
I ducked for cover as a hail of bullets chewed up the vegetation around me. The two men from the helicopter were blasting with automatic weapons, but so far, their aim had been wide of the mark. I ran a little further, and then paused to assess the situation. I quickly checked the load in the Skorpion and figured I had about half a magazine remaining. I also had six rounds in the Colt Python. The Skorpion was really only effective at close range, whereas the .357 Colt still packed a wallop at fifty meters. A minute later, I lay concealed behind some blowdown and watched as my adversaries approached. They were using a leapfrog technique… one would advance while the other covered him, and then they would rotate positions. As they came closer, I squinted down the barrel of the Colt, aliening the sights on the point man.
I squeezed the trigger and watched him throw up his arms and crumple to the ground. His companion fired a burst in my general direction and then rapidly withdrew. I fired another shot to speed him along, and then turned and quickly began to make my way back towards the boat. By chance rather than calculation, I came across the blue suitcase along the path of my retreat. I foolishly (in hindsight) picked it up and carried it with me. It was an impulsive decision that would cause me an untold amount of grief. I finally emerged from the forest a few hundred meters away from where the Yamaha was anchored. This required taking more time as I wended my way along the rugged shoreline to reach the camp. By then, my only thought was to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. I quickly packed a few personal items and tossed them into the boat… leaving behind the tent, and the rolled-up body of the Serb.
I pulled back on the throttle and roared out of the bay at a high speed. Looking back, I could see the helicopter in the distance still hovering over the crash site. They were probably retrieving the two blue suitcases from the seaplane, as well as the shooter and his dead companion on the ground. I had no way of knowing if they had eyes on my boat, or whether they were also looking for the recently deceased Goran Kostic and the missing third suitcase. My hope was to put as much distance as possible between us, and to effectively disappear amongst the busy boat traffic along the archipelago. To be cautious, I cut back a little on the speed and was keeping a close eye on my depth finder. Given that the water level was lower again this year, the under-water landscape had created new navigational hazards. I figured it would take about three hours to reach my cottage on Webber Island.
During the trip back, my mind wandered as I thought about my life and what the future might hold. I had just killed two more men, adding to an already impressive body count. The fact that I felt no remorse was instructive. A psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing me. The army shrinks said I was suffering from post-traumatic stress, probably caused by wounds suffered in Afghanistan. I rejected their pills and well-intentioned psychotherapy, and instead, self-medicated with Scotch whisky… although I had cut back a bit recently, after I met Samantha.
It was early evening when I pulled up to the dock at my cottage. This place is not your grandparent’s vision of what a cottage looks like. It is an architectural dream house, sitting on a high rocky bluff, surrounded by six acres of woodland. I tooted the horn as I approached, and Jack came racing down to the shore to greet me. Samantha soon followed, surprised that I had returned early from my trip. When she asked about the fishing, I obfuscated by omitting any mention of the nasty events that had occurred earlier. I just said that I wanted to spend some extra time with her, before leaving on my next work-related travels. After dark, I returned to the boat to retrieve the blue suitcase. I carried it up the hill and stowed it in the crawl space at the rear of the cottage. I was still debating whether I should contact the police.
CHAPTER FOUR
Samantha had been working as a waitress at the Rawley Resort located close to the mainland marina where I have a boat slip. I dined there on occasion and eventually we had struck up a conversation. She was a stunning green-eyed beauty, and I could hardly take my eyes off her. One evening at closing time, I casually suggested that we go for a boat ride to watch the sunset. I was pleasantly surprised when she smiled and said,
“I’d love to!”
After that night we began to see each other regularly, and I think that the attraction was mutual in spite of my being a 54-year-old bachelor while she was still in her mid-twenties. We both agreed that age was just a number… an easy rationalization on my part. I learned that Sam had an honors degree in arts, that she had traveled extensively and also worked remotely from home as a travel agent.
The travel agent gig seemed to fit nicely with what I was doing for a living. I ran a small boutique travel firm call High Adventure Inc, and led well-to-do individuals on rugged adventure trips to places like Kilimanjaro, Machu Picchu and the Everest Base Camp. Before long, Sam had moved in with me on Webber Island and was working as my promotional travel consultant and a sort of aide-de-camp. I think she loved Jack, my springer spaniel, as much as she did me, and they soon became fast friends.
Samantha understood that I had some commitment issues, and that I had led a mostly solitary existence. But she was affectionate and patient and was slowly bringing me out of my protective shell. She really loved to hear stories about my adventure trips, and was excited when I had promised to include her on an upcoming expedition to Argentina.
CHAPTER FIVE
Charles Burton had just finished a workout at the dojo on Sherbrooke Street and was walking back to his apartment at the Le Cartier. It was a warm summer evening in Montreal, so he draped his suit jacket over his shoulder. He was thinking with anticipation about his dinner date planned for later with a certain Mademoiselle Poirier, when his reverie was interrupted by the ringtone on his cell phone. The call display indicated an unknown number and he briefly considered letting it go to voicemail, but as usual, curiosity won out.
“Burton here.”
“Charlie, it’s J.P.”
J.P. Ferguson was an old friend and fellow member of the Masonic Order. He was also the Deputy Commissioner of the Ontario Provincial Police.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news Charlie, but a report just came in that you should be aware of. The Special Investigations Unit is investigating a suspicious fire at Wade Daniels’ home on Webber Island. So far, they have recovered the remains of one badly charred body.”
Burton was momentarily staggered by the news. Wade was his closest friend and they had known each other for over 30 years. He took a deep breath before asking,
“Do your guys have an ID on the body?”
“They haven’t made an identification as yet. But we should have something soon.”
“You said it was suspicious, what does that mean?”
“There was evidence of the use of phosphorus, and a neighbor reported hearing explosions and possible gunfire before the whole sky lit up. The fire was so intense that the cottage literally burned to the ground!”
“Charlie, do you have any idea who might be responsible for this? I know that you and Wade have crossed swords in the past with some unsavory characters.”
“J.P., honestly, I haven’t a clue. But I can tell you one thing. The body they found in the ashes isn’t that of Wade Daniels. I know for certain that he is currently trekking in Nepal.”
“So, who is it then?”
“It must be his girl-friend Samantha. She was staying there looking after Wade’s dog.”
The two men talked a little further before J.P. signed off, promising to call back as soon as the body had been identified. Burton said he would wait for further clarification before attempting to reach his friend with the sad news.
He had met the lovely Samantha a few weeks earlier when he flew to Wade’s cottage in a float plane. It was clear that his friend was totally captivated by the young woman, and that she felt the same. There was a big age difference… but, “c’est la vie” as the French say. Burton was worried that the tragic death of Samantha, might be more than his friend could bear. And, what had happened to Jack? Wade loved that dog, having adopted him after his father’s untimely death the previous year. He pondered, what was it that J.P. had said about explosions and gunfire? What was that all about? Wade and he had been involved in some legally ambiguous situations in the past. Sometimes they had pushed the envelope a little too far, but nothing that would lead to this type of retribution.
He and Wade had been students together at the Royal Military College, and later served in the Airborne Regiment. Lieutenant Wade Daniels had been selected to train with Joint Task Force 2 (Canadian Special Forces) and was subsequently seconded to the British Special Air Service. Burton was a captain and former intelligence officer for the Airborne. After he left the service, he established Burton Investigations, where he applied his expertise as a private investigator. The job was more of a preoccupation than a necessity and he spent a great deal of time either flying his restored Fieseler Fi 156 Storch aircraft, or working out at the dojo on Sherbrook where he held a 6th degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu jitsu. He had travelled extensively, and like his friend Wade, he was more inclined towards adventure trips than sitting somewhere on a beach.
Burton was having a romantic dinner with Josée Poirier at the Ferreira Café, when the call came through from J.P. Ferguson. He excused himself and took the call in the restaurant’s foyer.
“Charlie, we have confirmed that the body in the fire was that of Samantha Clarke; and we’re currently attempting to contact her next of kin. Can I assume that you will be in touch with Wade with this terrible news?”
“Yes, I’ll try to reach him on his satellite phone. Nepal is nine or ten hours ahead of us, so it should be early morning there.”
“Please ask him to call me at this number as soon as possible. It’s important. I’ve got a few questions that I need to ask.”
“J.P., is there anything further on the cause of the fire?”
“The fire marshal found an unexploded phosphorous grenade in the ruins. There were also dozens of 9mm shell casings found in the immediate area. The place is like a bloody war zone!”
CHAPTER SIX
I had met up in Toronto with a mixed group of twelve men and women who had signed on to accompany me on a trek to the Everest Base Camp. Most of them were in their thirties or forties and they all appeared to be in good physical condition. We flew to Seattle, Tokyo, Bangkok and finally Kathmandu where we paused for thirty-six hours to adjust to the effects of crossing ten time zones. Then we flew in a smaller STOL airplane to a place called Lukla. It was a bumpy forty-minute ride through the mountains, where snow-capped peaks towered above our flight path. Our arrival was like an eagle soaring into its nest on the edge of a cliff. The runway dropped away to a yawning abyss at its entrance, and the landing area was about the length of a football field. As we touched down, our wheels threw up a huge cloud of dust, and as we raced along the runway, I spotted the wreckage of a previous unsuccessful landing. With seconds to spare, our pilot jumped on the brakes and negotiated a sharp turn, barely avoiding a crash into a wall of rock.
Lukla wasn’t much of an airport; just a hole in the wall really. But at almost 9,400 feet it was one of the highest airports in the world, and was the gateway to Everest. The air we were breathing here was decidedly thinner than what we were used to, and would require some serious acclimatization. We walked towards a group of small drab buildings and were met by our local guide, a man named Pemba. He was a pleasant, capable fellow and I had worked with him on previous occasions. He introduced the group to the assistant guide, as well as two cooks and half a dozen Sherpa porters. Once our gear was distributed and our water bottles filled, we moved out on the beginning of a multi-day, eighty-mile return trek. Our objective was to climb Kala Patthar, an 18,193-foot mountain overlooking the base camp that rewarded you with a breathtaking view of Mount Everest.
It was early on the second day. The camp was astir and the cooks were preparing a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and porridge. I was standing outside my tent with a mug of tea, when I heard an unexpected trill from my satellite phone. It took me a moment to locate it in my backpack before I could answer,
“Daniels speaking.”
“Wade, it’s Charlie calling.”
The reception was amazingly clear for such a long distance.
“Hey bud, it’s good to hear from you!”
“Wade, are you able to speak privately? I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Hang on, I’m just going to walk to the edge of camp.”
“Okay Charlie, go ahead.”
“Brace yourself, my friend. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been a terrible fire at your place on Webber Island.”
“Good God, what happened!”
“Wade, it’s about Samantha… she didn’t make it out. I’m so sorry!”
My world started to spin, and in a choked voice I asked,
“How did it happen, Charlie?”
“There are some extenuating circumstances. The Special Investigation Unit of the OPP are investigating.”
“Cut the crap,” I said emotionally. “Tell me what you know!”
When Burton told me about the gunfire and the fire-bombing, I knew immediately what it was about. I bowed my head, feeling completely undone.
~ ~ ~
Bogden Djokic glared at his henchman and backhanded him angrily… screaming an unholy oath.
“Bog te jebo!”
The target of his rage had just returned, after leading an assault on the home of a man who had robbed him of over three million dollars. The fool had burned the bloody house down, without recovering the money. Now CBC television was reporting that an unidentified woman had perished in the blaze.
Isuse Hriste! …
They hadn’t even killed the right person. Djokic was desperate to recover the money. He was in the midst of a complicated arms deal, and there were a lot of moving parts. The three suitcases filled with U.S. dollars were absolutely critical. The elusive thief had not only made off with part of the money but he had also managed to kill two of his best men.
Rumors swirled that Bogden Djokic was still wanted for crimes dating back to the Bosnian war. It was also alleged that he was a member of the Serbian Mafia. This was not the case, although he was a player in a broader Balkan crime network that was involved with drugs, firearms and human trafficking. He considered himself to be a businessman and a behind the scenes fixer who was sometimes called upon when there was a crisis situation. Based in Ottawa, Djokic was sometimes seen at the Serbian Diplomatic Mission, but otherwise he tended to keep a low profile. He was a large man with a shaved head and rugged sensual features. He had bulging eyes that could shift instantly from a sleepy, bored expression to a wide terrifying intensity.
Djokic punched a number on his phone and was instantly connected to his number two. This man was responsible for logistics, legal work and communications.
“Dobro Jutro, Boss.”
“It’s not a good morning, Boris! We’ve got a big problem and I want you to drop everything to get right on it. “
He explained the situation regarding the crashed seaplane and the missing suitcase; how his men had zeroed in on the location of the thief by using the Vessel Finder App. Then, their bungled attempt to recover it.
“I don’t know where this asshole is hiding or where the money is, but I want him found immediately. I also want a complete dossier. The bastard killed two of my men!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
After receiving the terrible news, I was left with an important decision to make. To do so, I would have to put aside my emotions and try to think rationally. It was a question of whether to abandon the trek and return home, or continue on and fulfill my responsibilities? I was pulled in both directions, but in the end my duty was clear. Besides, my beautiful Samantha was dead and the cottage apparently had been burnt to the ground. There was nothing I could do to change it. I decided to continue to lead the group and keep the news about the tragedy to myself. As we set out, my thoughts were in a dark place, as I was burdened with guilt and remorse. I had to dig deep to provide the confident leadership that my charges had come to expect.
We gained about 2,000 feet of altitude that day and the scenery was absolutely magnificent. We crossed four of the famous suspension bridges which spanned the river in several places. A couple of these bridges were quite lengthy and provided just a narrow ribbon of swaying walkway, 400 feet above the roaring waters. After crossing the last bridge, we began a brutal two hour climb up ‘Namche Hill.’ It was late afternoon when we huffed and puffed our way into the fabled Sherpa town of Namche Bazaar. This town possessed a certain mystique, probably because it was so isolated and there were no roads leading to it. And as my fellow trekkers had found, it was an adventure just getting there. The altitude was 11,221 feet… and we would spend the next two nights here acclimatizing to the thinner air.
We set up camp in a pasture at the edge of town, sharing the space with half a dozen docile Yaks. Once everyone was squared away, I walked into town with my guide, Pemba and he arranged for the use of a room in a relative’s home where I could make a few calls in private. The first call was to J.P. Ferguson. My previous experience with the man had left a bad taste. His Special Investigation’s Unit had tried to tag me with murder a few years earlier; they actually held me in custody until I was exonerated, the result of Charlie Burton’s investigative efforts. Today’s conversation started off politely enough though. He expressed his condolences over Samantha’s death and the destruction of my home on Webber Island. Then he pressed me hard over who I thought might be responsible. When I was unable (unprepared really) to give him any useful information, his warmth evaporated. He insisted that I must be holding something back. I knew that if I told him about the violent events leading up to the fire, he’d probably have me arrested the moment I returned to Toronto.
Next, I called Burton and managed to catch him at the Mont Royal Club where he was having lunch. Charlie was my closest friend and I trusted him implicitly… so I told him the whole story. I began where the Serb entered my fishing camp and threatened me with a machine gun. Then I described finding the downed seaplane and the ensuing gun battle. Finally, I told him about the suitcase full of money that I had left under an overturned wheel barrow beneath the cottage.
“Why on earth did you take the suitcase?”
“Charlie, it was an impulse thing. I can’t explain it. But, I’m sick about it because I know that it led directly to Samantha’s death. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Did Sam know about the suitcase?”
“No, I didn’t tell her. I guess there’s no way of knowing if the attackers recovered the money?”
“No, it could very well have burned up. Wade, if the attackers didn’t find the suitcase, they’ll probably still be looking for you as soon as you return!”
“I hope they do. I’m looking forward to meeting them!”
“Do you have any idea who they are?”
“I have the passport of the guy who first threatened me. He was a Serbian national by the name of Goran Kostic. Other than that, I haven’t a clue.”
“Where is this passport?”
“It’s in a compartment on my boat. The boat is at the Blue Water Marina. I left it docked there because Samantha wasn’t comfortable handling it”
“Wade, I’ll make some inquiries about this Kostic fellow and see what I can dig up.”
~ ~ ~
Burton walked back to his office, lost in thought and detached from the usual pulse of the city. He had already decided to put all other matters on hold and concentrate on Wade’s problem.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Boris Jankovic was an extremely gifted tech wizard and it didn’t take long for him to develop a comprehensive dossier on the man in question. The first step had been to establish his name; easy enough to do by simply accessing the local property database. The person of interest was a Mr. Wade Daniels. From there it was like unraveling a ball of yarn. Most people would be amazed at the extent of their digital footprint. It’s all out there swirling in the cloud and available to anyone who knows where to look. In short order, Boris had compiled a photo gallery and details of family history, income tax, financial transactions and even the record of a previous arrest on suspicion of murder. It was when he tried to access the man’s military records that he hit a brick wall. The Department of National Defense files were labeled Top Secret - Special Access Only. He wondered, what’s this all about?
As he delved deeper into the man’s persona, a fascinating image began to emerge. He was a graduate of a prestigious military college, and had served for several years as an officer in the Canadian Airborne. There were no details available about his discharge, and there was a period of about three years when he had totally dropped off the grid. The man had a net worth of close to thirty million dollars; he surely didn’t accumulate that by leading adventure trips through his company High Adventure Inc. Further investigation showed that part of his wealth had come by way of inheritance. But there were also a couple of transfers from offshore numbered accounts that bore no explanation. His travel itinerary over the past several years was impressive to say the least. He was currently leading a group in Nepal, on a trek to the Everest Base Camp. Jankovich noted that Daniels’ principal residence for tax purposes wasn’t the cottage on Webber Island. It was a ski Chalet in Blue Mountain Village near Collingwood.
Boris transferred the dossier by email to Bogden Djokic and then called him to provide his own analysis. The Boss was pleased with his efforts and was sending a team to Blue Mountain to search the guy’s chalet. He had to find the money! But, if it wasn’t there, what was the next move? Boris had determined that Wade Daniels would be returning with his group to Kathmandu in a few days, where they had a two-night reservation at the Marriott Hotel. After that they were booked to do an elephant safari in the Chitwan National Park, followed by a three-day white-water rafting trip on the Trishuli River. It would be two weeks before they arrived back in Toronto. A frustrated Djokic instructed Boris to arrange two seats on the earliest flight to Kathmandu. He had decided to send some heavy hitters to get the job done.
~ ~ ~
Burton was flying his personal aircraft on route from Montréal Saint-Hubert Longueuil to the Collingwood Regional Airport. He touched down on the runway and pulled up to the arrival’s apron next to the passenger terminal. After securing his aircraft, he called an Uber to arrange a ride to Wade Daniels’ chalet in Blue Mountain. When he arrived, he removed the key from its usual hiding spot in the foyer, but found the door was already unlocked. He entered and found the place to be in shambles as someone had apparently ransacked it in search of the missing suitcase.
After looking around, Burton called for another Uber to transport him to the Blue Water Marina in Honey Harbour. When he checked in with the office, the lady at the counter had some good news. Apparently, Glen – who ran a local water taxi – had found Wade’s dog Jack running loose and posted a notice on the bulletin board. Burton made note of his phone number, and then walked out to the slip where the Yamaha was moored. The key was in its usual magnetic container under the dashboard and the engine quickly roared to life. He cast off lines and steered towards open water. The cottage was approximately a twenty-minute ride away through a convoluted maze of islands. He referred constantly to the chart plotter, an electronic nautical chart, which showed the real-time position of the boat along its intended course. As he approached the island, Burton could see the burned, twisted wreckage of the once beautiful cottage.
He walked around surveying the damage and then went to where he remembered the opening to the crawl space was located. It was opposite to a neatly stacked woodpile which still stood, in stark contrast to the devastation. Wade had said that the suitcase was hidden under an overturned wheelbarrow close to the entrance. Was it possible that it had escaped the most intense heat from the fire? Burton walked back to the boat to retrieve a pair of gloves, and then returned and began to work. He tossed aside the bigger pieces of debris and used a piece of sheet metal siding as a shovel to dig through the ashes. Finally, he located the wheelbarrow which still lay in an upside-down position; the wooden handles were scorched and the rubber tire was largely melted away. He flipped it over and discovered the suitcase lying there. The polycarbonate shell was warped and cracked, but still intact. When he opened it, he discovered the top layer of bills were withered and blackened, but the bulk of the contents were undamaged.
CHAPTER NINE
Burton had called Wade with the good news about Jack, and explained how the dog was in good hands until he could reclaim him. It was a small ray of sunshine in an otherwise tragic situation. Wade was wracked with guilt and grief over Samantha’s death, and had lain awake each night obsessing about it. The lack of sleep combined with the physical demands of the grueling trek had left him more exhausted than usual… not to mention the effects of the Scotch whisky he had consumed since returning to Kathmandu. Burton also explained in the call how he had found the suitcase full of money in the ashes of the cottage.
“Wade, I took the suitcase back to Montreal with me. What do you want me to do with it?”
“You can toss it in the garbage for all I care. The damned money is cursed!”
“I think we can use it as evidence to try and nail these guys.”
“Charlie, I don’t want you getting any more involved in this. It’s not worth the risk.”
“They’re probably going to come after you anyway, so let’s turn this around and go after them.”
“Okay. Maybe, but let’s wait until I get back. Then we can talk.”
After Wade ended the call, he poured another Scotch and sat there thinking about their conversation. A short time later, there was a gentle rap on his door. Then without exercising his usual caution, he swung the door open. There were two hard looking men standing there.
~ ~ ~
Burton received a call from his friend Michel Coté, who had been contacted by the Canadian Consul in Kathmandu. Coté had been listed as the emergency contact in Wade Daniels’ passport. The Consul had regretfully informed him that Mr. Daniels had met an untimely death. He had been murdered in his room at the Marriott Hotel. Burton was stunned by this news. He choked…
“Michel, are you sure about this? Because, I just spoke to him this morning!”
“I’m sorry Charlie, but it’s been confirmed. I’m as shocked as you are.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“Apparently two men entered his room at the Marriott Hotel and shot him. He must have put up a fight, because one of the gunmen was badly injured. I guess all the noise was overheard, and they were apprehended by hotel security. One man is now in the custody of local Police, and the other is in critical condition in hospital.”
“Charlie, do you have any idea what this might have been about?”
Burton hesitated, “Uh…”
Michel Coté was a long-time friend of both Daniels and Burton. He was a successful lawyer with offices in both Ottawa and Toronto. The three men had worked together on a number of difficult cases. Michel was Oxford educated and a brilliant practitioner of the law, with personal connections extending to the highest levels of business and government. He too was shocked by the murder of their friend. He repeated…
“Charlie, you need to tell me what you know about this!”
Burton took a deep breath, and then told Coté everything that Wade had shared with him. He also disclosed that he had the suitcase full of money at his apartment in the Le Cartier, along with the passport of Goran Kostik. He also mentioned that J.P. Ferguson was on the case.
“Charlie, there’s no way we can let this stand. We must find out who is responsible for these murders.”
“There’s not much to go on, just the name on a passport.”
“Yes, and also the two killers who have been detained in Kathmandu. I’m going to contact the Minister of Foreign Affairs to see if she can reach out through diplomatic channels to ensure these men are properly interrogated. Then, I’ll call J.P. to fully brief him and see what influence he can bring to bear.”
“He’ll probably go ballistic when he finds out that I have the suitcase! Tell him that I’ll hand it over first thing in the morning, along with the passport. In the meantime, I’ll call Orson Babbage and see if he can find out anything about the dead Serb.”
The two men terminated the call with an agreement to keep each other informed. Coté had advised Burton to be cautious when speaking with Ferguson. If the deputy commissioner wanted to formally interrogate him or to sign a statement, then he was to insist that Coté be present as his legal representative.
Burton called Orson Babbage – aka ‘The Geek.’ Babbage, was a basement dwelling technophile with an IQ that was off the charts. He was an expert hacker and very adept at taking deep dives into the dark web. His involvement in previous cases had often been critical to achieving a positive outcome. The usually emotionless Babbage became quite distressed when he heard of Wade’s death. He promised to do everything he could to help.
CHAPTER TEN
The following morning, Burton flew his airplane from Montreal to the Lake Simcoe Regional Airport in Oro-Medonte Ontario. An OPP cruiser was waiting there to transfer him to their Ontario Headquarters in nearby Orillia. When he entered the Deputy Commissioner’s office, J.P. Ferguson came from behind his desk and politely offered his hand. Then he groused at Burton…
“If you weren’t a fellow Mason, I’d probably have you locked up for obstruction of justice.”
Burton was a past District Deputy Grand Master, and as such he was addressed within the order as Right Worshipful Brother. Today he was dressed in his usual attire of dark suit, blue dress shirt, no tie. On his left lapel he wore a small silver pin with parachute wings over the inscription Airborne. From his imposing height of 6-foot-3 inches he glared at the other man and said…
“Cut the bullshit Ferguson, my best friend has just been murdered and I’m not in the mood!”
“Easy now Charlie, I understand where you’re coming from, but you’re looking at this situation through the prism of a personal relationship. I have to approach the matter by adhering to the letter of the law. And I don’t appreciate the fact that you have withheld critical evidence.”
“OK, I hear you, J.P., but let’s move on.” He gently deposited the battered suitcase on the man’s desk.
The deputy commissioner looked at it like it was radioactive.
“Before we open this up, I want forensics on hand to establish a proper chain of custody. It’s already been badly compromised by Wade and you, and the contents are probably worthless as evidence even if we eventually find the people involved.”
The two men settled into a less combative exchange and Burton spent the next half hour recounting his conversations with Wade Daniels, and explaining how he had recovered the suitcase. They speculated on what the money had been intended for. Maybe a drug deal? At this point the only lead was the name on a dead man’s passport. Ferguson had already sent a team to examine the downed seaplane. They had located it by accessing the chart plotter navigational history in Wade’s boat. At the crash site they discovered that the tail numbers had been removed from the seaplane and the aircraft was totally destroyed. Neither the body of the pilot nor his passenger (killed by Daniels) where anywhere to be found.
“Charlie, there’s still no evidence that the fire at Wade’s cottage was related to this suitcase full of money… or that Wade’s murder was connected, for that matter.”
“J.P. that conclusion simply defies belief!”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but we still need more evidence to establish a case.”
“What about the two men who attacked Wade?”
“I’ve talked to a friend at the National Central Bureau of Interpol in Ottawa and explained the circumstances. He agreed to call his counterpart at the Interpol office in Kathmandu and have him liaise with the local police. The plan is to squeeze the killers hard for information. We should hear something in a matter of hours. In the meantime, I have someone looking into this Goran Kostic fellow.”
“Charlie, while you’re here at headquarters, I would like you to provide a formal statement on how you came into possession of this suitcase. Detective Sergeant Barker will meet with you in the interview room.”
“You mean the interrogation room.”
“No, no nothing like that. We just need to dot the i’s and cross the t’s in the event this case ever goes to court.”
“J.D. as one Brother to another, I would urge that we forego the formalities.”
“Sorry Charlie, I have to insist.”
“Look, I’ve just given you a gift by bringing in the suitcase. And I’m not prepared to get sucked into this case by making a formal statement.”
“Charlie…”
Burton interrupted,
“Sorry, but I’m out of here.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Burton was flying at 2,500 feet when he felt the cellphone vibrate in his pocket. Twenty minutes later he landed at Saint-Hubert Longueuil Airport and pulled up to the private-terminal apron. He cut the engine and pulled out his phone to see who had called. It was Orson Babbage… he had left a message asking him to a call back. When Babbage came on the line, he skipped the niceties and launched right into his report.
“Goran Kostic was in Canada on an expired temporary Resident Visa. At one point he was living in Ottawa, but had dropped off the radar. My research has revealed that he is a bagman for a Balkan crime organization which operates internationally. Apparently, he is the nephew of a major player named Bogdan Djokic, and was being groomed for a future leadership role. This Djokic character has dual citizenship and operates out of Ottawa, where he is closely aligned with the Serbian Diplomatic Mission. He fraternizes with the foreign embassy crowd and lives in a fancy house in Rockcliffe Park.”
“So how does this guy connect to Wade’s murder?”
“Chatter on the Aerodrome Traffic Frequencies helped me to identify the helicopter that Wade came into contact with. It is owned by an Ottawa firm, and had been rented on the day in question by a man who happens to be Djokic’s bodyguard.”
Not for the first time, Burton marveled, how does he find out all this stuff?
“Anything else?”
“Yes, it gets better. Bogdan Djokic served under Ratko Mladic, who as a colonel general led Bosnian Serb forces during the Yugoslav wars. Mladic was referred to as the “Butcher of Bosnia,” and was found guilty in 2017 by the international criminal court (ICC) of war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide. Djokic was implicated in the Srebrenica massacre in 1995 where more than 8,000 Muslim men and boys were systematically executed. Somehow, he has managed the evade justice, but is still considered to be a person of interest by the ICC. He currently acts as a middleman for an arms trafficking operation out of the Balkans.”
As Burton drove his Range Rover back into Montreal, he pondered the information that Babbage had given him. He had asked the man to continue digging for information, and in particular the details of Djokic’s regular daily routine as well as the security arrangements for his home in Rockcliffe Park.
The death of Wade Daniels had hit him very hard. It felt like an icy cold hand had reached inside his chest and was squeezing his heart. He felt an intense anger over the murder of his best friend, and for the senseless killing of Samantha Clarke. Someone was going to pay!
He drove into the underground at the Le Cartier and took the elevator up to his apartment. After checking in with Maggie at the office, he called Michel Coté and briefed him on his meeting with J.D. Ferguson and the information that Babbage had provided. The lawyer in turn recounted a conversation he just had with the deputy commissioner.
“J.D. is not happy about the way your meeting went.”
“That’s too bad Michel, what else did he have to say?”
“Apparently, he received word from his contact at Interpol. The cops in Kathmandu interrogated the two thugs who murdered Wade. They managed to come up with the name of Bogdan Djokic. J.D is planning to send a couple of detectives from the Special Investigations Unit to question the man.”
“That’s good news Michel.”
Burton didn’t tell Michel Coté that he had his own plans for dealing with the murdering Serb.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Burton drove his Range Rover through the front gate of Bogdan Djokic’s estate in Rockcliffe Park. The gate had been conveniently opened by Orson Babbage who had breached the security system. He had also shut down the interior point-to-point infrared sensors and all of the surveillance cameras. It was 7:45 a.m. and Djokic’s bodyguard had already left on his morning run to the Orange Turtle Bakery for scones and coffee. Burton knew that he had a 30-minute window to accomplish what he had come to do.
He entered the front door and quickly made his way up the staircase to the second level. There was a morning news program playing somewhere and he observed a glowing ribbon of light shining from under one of the bedroom doors. Burton opened the door and slipped into the room. There was no one there. Then he heard a sound coming from the ensuite bathroom. He walked silently up to the open door and looked inside. Bogdan Djokic was standing in front of a backlit mirror trimming his mustache with a pair of scissors. He was dressed only in his boxer briefs. He caught the reflection of Burton in the mirror and spun around to face him with a shocked look.
“Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
“I’ve come to see you about the man you had murdered in Kathmandu.”
Djokic lunged at him with the scissors. Burton shifted slightly and using the man’s momentum easily threw him to the floor. He landed on his back and his head rebounded violently off the ceramic tiles. As he lay there stunned, Burton secured his hands behind his back with a plastic zip tie.
Later that morning he pulled up to a secluded industrial park on the edge of the city. His friend Imam Tariq Al-Mansoor was already there waiting for him, along with several other members of the Ottawa Sunni Muslim community. Burton recalled the time when he had initiated Tariq into the fraternal order of Masonry. The man had immigrated to Canada from Bosnia in the late 1990’s, emotionally shattered after his two young sons had been murdered in the Srebrenica massacre. The name Bogdan Djokic was hauntingly familiar to him.
Burton activated the tailgate on his Range Rover and revealed a trussed- up Djokic still dressed in his boxer briefs.
“Tariq, here’s the gift I promised you.”
~ ~ ~
Charles Burton called Glen, the man who ran the water taxi, and said he would be flying in from Montreal the following day. He asked if they could meet at the Blue Water Marina at an agreed upon time? He wanted to retrieve Wade’s springer spaniel, Jack. The dog would henceforth be living with him in La Belle Province.
By Michael Barlett