Wanna run it from your end?”
“Sure. What is it? Gang hangout?” asked Nick as he flipped open his notebook and jotted down a few entries.
“Some of my officers think it’s a den of illegals working under the table.”
“I’ll check it out myself.”
“I’m flying back to Ottawa on the four o’clock. Gonna interrogate Gee Tung. The RCMP’s already moved him to the West Detention Centre. Wanna sit in?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“My flight from the island airport leaves in less than two hours.”
“That gives me just enough time to check something on our database,” replied Nick.
“How about we hook up at the airport? I’ve got a few things to wrap up, too.”
Back in his office, Nick logged into the Citizenship and Immigration Database, which held the records of hundreds of thousands of resident aliens. The system supplied, at a glance, information on how, when, where and under what class a person had entered the country, and his or her current immigration status. This morning the network was slow. It meant that there were too many officers across the country logged into the system running background checks.
Patience had never been one of his virtues but in this case Nick endured the lengthy transmission delays. If Gee Tung could lead him to the identity of Walter Martin’s killer, then justice would be served, and from a department standpoint, a blow would be struck against the global trade in human trafficking. He thought about how much things had changed since his first year in enforcement. His predecessor had been reamed, by the minister of immigration himself, when Canada was caught off guard and 158 South Asians waded ashore in Newfoundland to claim refugee status. A hundred and fifty-eight was nothing these days. Last year, over five thousand people claimed refugee status at Canadian airports.
A couple more clicks of the mouse and he was finally in the system.
Gee Van Tung had entered Canada when he was ten years old under the Family Reunification Program in 1979 at Mirabel Airport. A few more keystrokes and he learned that the entire family had landed immigrant status, but there was no record of citizenship. That meant Gee Tung could be deported. Next, he opened a deportation file to execute the removal of Gee Tung from the country. But in this case, Nick was prepared to trade information for asylum — if Gee Tung came across with the information he wanted. Granting asylum wasn’t within his jurisdiction, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.
Detention centres had never ranked high on Nick’s list of favourite places. They were worlds unto themselves. Sterile buildings that housed deportees prior to their removal from the country. Drug dealers, serial killers, kidnappers, war criminals. Once you had been inside a detention centre, the rose-coloured glasses were off forever. The Ottawa West Detention Centre was situated on what had once been prime farmland. Swell, thought Nick. Displace crops for crooks. He wondered if the politicians had ever offered that choice to the voters.
The armed security guards, electric fences, high tech security codes, and magnetic identity cards were for others. Nick was waved through without the usual checks.
Corridors were heavily monitored by overhead television cameras. A female guard escorted them past several sets of airlock doors and into Gee Tung’s cell.
“Look at that. The perp’s got private accommodation at our expense,” said Dubois, breaking the silence for the first time since they walked into the detention centre.
The prisoner lay on a bunk bed, hooked up to an IV bag. One leg was bandaged up to his thigh and elevated at an angle. At the sight of Nick and Dubois, the passive look on his face changed to one of alarm.
Dubois had never been a fan of prisoners’ rights.
“I’m with the RCMP and he’s with Immigration,” said Dubois, and waited, lighting up a cigarette. In the lengthy silence that followed, Dubois took a few drags and then pulled up a chair across from the prisoner. The staring match had begun. Nick preferred to stand. He leaned his back against the wall with an air of detachment as he sized up the prisoner. Gee Tung was about thirty years old, thin, and had a scar that ran the length of his face from his left eyebrow down past his ear.
Dubois observed the prisoner through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He was a master of the art of silence as a weapon of intimidation, knowing that imagined threats could be worse than reality.
Halfway through the cigarette, Dubois finally opened his mouth. “Let’s understand each other, Gee Tung, so no mistakes are made. And don’t give me any crap about you not speaking English. Okay? You pull that cheap trick on me and I’m going to knock your front teeth out. We know you’ve been in Canada since you were a kid. We know a lot about you but we need to know more about your friends. My associate here is gonna vouch that I’ve been known to use a little touchy-feely to get the job done.”
The prisoner lay on the bed, mute and passive. He gave no indication that he understood.
Dubois continued, “We have two options in dealing with you. We can charge you with conspiracy to kill an immigration officer. You’ll probably get life for that. Or you can cooperate with us and we’ll give you a deal.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.” His voice was faint.
“We know that. We know killing and attempting to kill are two different things. Now that night on the boat, there were three of you. You, Shaupan and the snakehead who got away. The one who got away, what’s his name?” demanded Dubois. He grabbed the prisoner and pinched his cheeks painfully together. “I want the name of the third snakehead. Ballistics tells us the slug that killed the immigration officer wasn’t from your gun or from Shaupan’s. That means the third guy was the killer. What’s his name?”
“I want to see my lawyer. After I see my lawyer, we talk.”
Dubois’s eyes were pinpricks of anger now. He turned to Nick and said, “What did I tell you about these bad-ass foreigners? They got their rights and privileges down pat. Don’t care diddly-squat about their responsibilities to the country that welcomed them with open arms.” He turned and casually delivered a sharp hand to the prisoner’s mouth.
“Excuse me, you little fucker. This ain’t no legal aid clinic here, so don’t you pull that line on me again. Understand that? No calls to any scumbag lawyer until I get some answers.” Then he was in Gee Tung’s face again. “We found that telephone number in your pocket and traced it to a place called the Mandarin Club. We know from police records that you’re a member of the Flying Dragons, and that you’ve moved up a coupla notches from being a foot soldier. So gimme the dope. What’s the Flying Dragons’ connection to the Mandarin Club?”
“I want to see my lawyer.”
Hand raised ready to strike, Dubois said through clenched teeth, “What did I just tell ya, you sorry piece of shit?”
“They’ll kill me if I talk.”
Dubois pushed Gee Tung’s head into the concrete wall.
“And if you don’t talk they’ll kill you anyway, just to be on the safe side. If I don’t kill you first. Either way, you’re a dead man if you don’t cooperate with us. Look at it this way. Cooperate and we’ll save you from life imprisonment and possibly extradition. We’ll cut a deal for you and
