Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (18 page)

On Friday, August twenty-second, 2014, the lights in the hotel and on the street would go dark. Mayhem would ensue. And Tengku's followers would see to it that this evil senator and potential president of the United States would not be alive to ever support Israel again.

S
mythe returned from his latest trip to Buenos Aires on Monday night, August eighteenth.

On Tuesday morning he awoke with a headache and sour stomach. He considered staying in bed, but there was much to be accomplished. Four days to go before the blackout and he'd be gone from Toronto for good.

The change in Cynthia's demeanor had begun to concern him. Of course at that point he'd become increasingly paranoid, and reminded himself not to read anything into her pleasant behavior. The same held true about his jealousy of Gina and Guillermo Guzman. He wondered if he was falling apart and couldn't go through with the plan.

Stop it!
he told himself over and over.
Keep your eye on the goal and let nothing deter you.

Cynthia and her mother announced at breakfast that they were going on a shopping expedition and wouldn't be back until dinner. Smythe wished them well, hiding his glee at their absence. He showered, dressed casually, and set out to visit the shipping companies he'd decided to use to transport the money to Argentina. After four hours of driving and collecting the proper size boxes, he went to his rented office and brought the boxes inside. As he passed through the lobby the receptionist said, ‘Mr Smythe, there was a gentleman asking for you.'

‘Oh? Who?'

‘He didn't leave his name. He said that he was an old friend.'

‘He didn't leave his name?'

‘No. He was a chatty sort, wanted to know how long you'd had your office here, that sort of thing. He asked if he could wait in your office for you but I told him I wasn't authorized to unlock your door.'

‘That's a … yes, that was a sound decision. Thank you.'

‘He said he'd be back.'

Despite his determination not to allow paranoia to get the better of him, it had now returned in full force.
What
old friend? Whoever he was wanted to wait in his office?
Who
would ask that?
Why
would he ask that? He said that he'd be back?
When?
He had a fleeting recollection of a journalism course he'd taken while an undergraduate in which he was taught the five Ws of writing a lead paragraph. The only one lacking in this real-life scenario was
where
?

He checked his email. Gina had sent him photos of the cottage. They made him smile as he envisioned the two of them sitting on the terrace after making love, exotic drinks in hand, the sun setting, unlimited bliss.

But his reverie was shortlived. The thought of someone visiting his rented office and claiming to be an old friend took center stage again as he began putting together the shipping boxes and preparing mailing labels. Once the boxes were constructed, he parceled out the packs of hundred dollar bills and allotted them to their respective boxes. He withheld the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars he was to pay Saison, less what he'd advanced him, placed those bills in a plain cardboard box on which he wrote Saison's name, and shoved it beneath the desk. He also kept out a hundred thousand dollars which he intended to carry with him when he fled Toronto.

During his morning rounds he'd stopped in a department store and bought a wheeled suitcase, and another can of cologne to spray on the bills to be shipped. He'd also visited a used bookstore and purchased two dozen paperbacks. The money was sandwiched in between magazines and newspapers, with the paperback books forming a top layer. He meticulously taped the boxes shut, and wrote the addresses on the labels, believing that handwritten labels were less likely to garner attention than printed ones. The next step was to fill in the shipping documents, which he did with great care. ‘Books' was entered where a description of each box's contents was required.

The chore completed, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Momentarily calmer, he began to carry the boxes out to his car. He glanced nervously around the parking lot in search of someone who might have been the ‘old friend' who'd stopped by. A man sat in an exterminator truck but it couldn't be him. Satisfied that he wasn't being observed, Smythe completed loading the car and headed for the same shipping companies where he'd gotten the boxes. The thought of handing over so much money to strangers had a stranglehold on his emotions, but he kept going until the last box had been dropped off, weighed, and the shipping costs paid for in cash. He'd chatted up the personnel behind the desk at each stop: ‘I collect books for libraries in poor neighborhoods in Argentina,' he said. ‘It's my wife's favorite charity.'

‘What a wonderful thing,' he was told.

‘Yes,' he replied, keeping his voice calm, ‘reading is so important, especially for poor kids hoping to make a better life for themselves.'

‘The world needs more people like you and your wife'

‘Thank you. That's very kind.'

Clarence Miller III had followed Smythe as he made his rounds, using the black sedan that had also been parked at the office building. He stayed with him until Smythe pulled into the driveway of his home in Toronto's tony Rosewood section. Miller parked a block away and called his colleague Janet Kudrow to relieve him until midnight when it was assumed that Smythe would stay put for the rest of the night.

Miller's man in Buenos Aires, Popi Domingo, had emailed photos of Gina with Joe Schott, along with two quick pictures he'd snapped of the cottage they'd visited. Miller had replied to Domingo and suggested that he find out whether the woman would be moving into that cottage. ‘Pay the real estate guy for the info if you have to,' Miller had written.

His visit to the building in which Smythe had his office hadn't borne fruit, but he hadn't really expected that it would. The next item on his agenda was to find out more about Smythe's friend, the French-Canadian Paul Saison. He'd decided that since money wasn't an object he might as well pull out all the stops and run up the bill.

Bill Whitlock and an assistant had flown to Toronto that same day to meet with their Canadian counterpart, Antoine Arnaud.

‘What's new with Carlton Smythe?' Whitlock asked the French-Canadian.

‘Not much. I assigned someone to follow him this morning but some panel truck pulled in front of him and he lost him. I don't know where he is at the moment.'

‘Paul Saison?' Whitlock asked after consulting a piece of paper.

‘Still checking into his background,' Arnaud replied. ‘No criminal record, married and divorced twice although there's a question whether his second marriage was legal, big gambler at the racetrack, frequents strip clubs, a boozer, has a live-in girlfriend, Angelique.'

‘A sterling character,' Whitlock's assistant said.

‘No connections between him and drug runners or the mob?' Whitlock asked.

‘No,' Arnaud replied.

‘So his meeting with his ex-boss might be nothing more than former colleagues getting together.'

‘Fair assumption,' said Arnaud, ‘except for what his girlfriend told her sister, my fiancée, Celine.'

Whitlock consulted his paper again. ‘Nine forty-five. Friday, August twenty-second. That's what was on the note his girlfriend found?'

‘Right.'

‘Anything special happening on that date here in Canada, a holiday or something?'

‘No.'

‘What about Saison's girlfriend? Think interviewing her would result in anything?'

‘There's no reason for her to talk to us,' Arnaud said. ‘I think we can get more information through what she tells her sister.'

‘Your fiancée,' Whitlock said, smiling. ‘Congratulations, Antoine.'

‘Thanks. I just hope that Angelique doesn't do anything stupid like marrying Saison. I'd hate to have him for a brother-in-law.'

Saison had called in sick that day and spent the afternoon at the Woodbine race track where he picked losers in every race. He left the track and used what money was left in his pocket to buy two burgers at a fast-food outlet and to have a drink at a strip club not far from his apartment.

He was pleased that Angelique wasn't there when he returned home. He uncorked a bottle of cheap Pinot Noir and was swigging from it when the phone rang. He checked his Timex watch and had to squint to read the time through the heavily scratched lens. Eight o'clock.

‘Paul, it's Carlton.'

‘Oh, Smythe, my friend. You at home with your rich wife?'

‘Yes. Actually I'm in my office in the back. Is your lady friend there?'

‘No. Why? You want to speak with her?'

‘No, I want to speak with you. We're getting close to the date.'

‘Ha! You think I would forget something like that?'

‘No, I … Paul, we should get together for one last time to make sure we haven't forgotten anything. Also, I've come up with a plan how to give you your money
after
you've created the blackout.'

‘That is something to talk about, Smythe. You want to meet now?'

‘No, tomorrow, before you start your night shift.'

‘I work in the day tomorrow.'

‘What? Paul, we only have a few days before the blackout. You have to be working at night.'

‘I know, I know. On Thursday I work at night, and on Friday, too.'

Smythe's sigh of relief could be heard on Saison's end.

‘Smythe? You there?'

‘Yes, I'm here. We'll meet at that Chinese restaurant where I picked you up last time.'

‘No, no, Smythe. I don't like Chinese food, the drinks they are terrible. We meet someplace else where they know how to make drinks. I meet you at Le Papillon, on Front Street, the best French food in Toronto.'

‘That's very public, Paul. We'd be better off—'

‘Hey, my sweetie-pie just walked in. Tomorrow night, six thirty, Le Papillon,
oui
?'

Saison hung up.

Smythe silently cursed the French-Canadian. Were he able, he would have severed him from the plan, but he knew that such an act was impossible. He would have to meet him at Le Papillon in Toronto's Old Town and hope that he wouldn't run into anyone there that he knew.

Friday, August twenty-second suddenly seemed years away.

T
he following morning, Wednesday, Gina Ellanado drove to the cottage in her rented Subaru and spent two hours relaxing in its various rooms, and on the terrace. She was deep in thought as she basked in its serenity.

She'd had dinner the previous night with Guillermo Guzman, who wanted to go over with her the plans for the money that was to arrive at his office Friday morning.

‘You are sure that the authorities will not confiscate it?' Gina asked as they dined on rib-eye steaks and salads at Cabaña Las Lilas, one of Buenos Aires' finest
parrillas
, a grill restaurant, located near the docks at Puerto Madero.

Guzman flashed one of his brightest smiles, the one he used to put prospective clients for his financial advice at ease. ‘Gina, my sweet, you worry too much. As I've told you, I have friends in the government that look the other way when I receive a shipment of
anything
, including large sums of money.'

The smile she returned was half-hearted.

‘So tell me, Gina, where does this money come from?'

‘From my friend in Canada.'

‘Yes, I know that, but where does he come up with a million dollars in cash?'

‘He is a businessman. He has been working on a very big deal and—'

‘Big deals don't get paid in cash, Gina.'

‘You ask me questions I do not have the answer for.'

‘Look,' he said as he savored another bite of his incredibly tender
ojo de bife
from cattle personally raised and butchered by the restaurant, ‘I know that you've latched on to this sugar daddy from Canada who—'

Her eyes flashed anger. ‘I know what that means, Guillermo, and I do not like it. Carlton is a good and decent man who loves me.'

‘A good and decent
rich
man.'

‘Is it so terrible that a man I have met and who is in love with me also happens to be rich?'

‘Of course not. But you keep saying that he's in love with you. Are you in love with
him
?'

Gina didn't feel she had any choice but to say that she was, although it did not represent certainty. The truth was that Carlton Smythe wasn't the sort of man a hot-blooded Argentinean woman would find physically attractive. He was skinny and pale, and while his lovemaking was energetic, it lacked the raw masculinity that she'd experienced with previous Argentinean lovers, men like Guillermo Guzman, and others.

But Smythe possessed qualities lacking in those other men. With the others she was always aware that their primary concerns were for themselves, not her. Smythe on the other hand genuinely cared about her, and wanted above all else to make her happy. And, he had money. Was it sinful for her to include his pocketbook among his attributes? She'd been raised a Catholic, although she had not regularly attended Mass in years. Was her infatuation with Smythe's money a sign of greed? She hoped not. She wanted to consider herself a good person, with proper, moral instincts.

‘Dessert?' Guzman asked. ‘The profiteroles
au chocolat
here are the best.'

She thought of the extra weight around her midsection and declined. He ordered it for himself.

He drove her to her apartment.

‘The money will be here Friday,' she said as she prepared to get out of the car after declining his suggestion that he accompany her inside for a nightcap.

‘You know that I'll be taking my commission for handling it,' he said.