“Yes, sir?”

“I want to talk with you about Corporal Taggart.”

“Sir?”

“Are you familiar with the more unusual aspects of some of his past investigations?”

“I heard he was in a shootout with some bikers two years ago. Also that someone tried to kill him last year.”

Isaac nodded knowingly and said, “He’s had a rather lively career. Outstanding in some aspects. But ...” Isaac paused and glanced down at his desk before continuing, “I’m not exactly sure how I should word this. There’s never been any proof,” he muttered, more to himself than to Quaile.

“Proof, sir? Of what?”

“Of any wrongdoing on the part of Corporal Taggart. This is the dilemma. He could be completely innocent. Incredibly lucky, perhaps. His predictions in his reports about organized crime families have been remarkably accurate.”

“That concerns you, sir?”

“No,” said Isaac, brusquely. “That is not what concerns me. What concerns me is that key people he works on end up dead! That is what concerns me!”

“Dead?” said Quaile, sounding dumbfounded. “You mean like—I don’t understand.”

“I’ll give you a quick history lesson. Three years ago, Corporal Taggart worked on a notorious French bank robber who was the ringleader in a gang that robbed banks across Canada. They were responsible for wounding and paralyzing a female officer in Quebec. Two months after Taggart starts to work on them, suddenly the gang believes their boss is an informant and kills him.”

“Was he Taggart’s informant?”

“No.”

“Oh, I see,” said Quaile, wondering what Isaac meant.

“That investigation followed another where a corrupt prosecutor working for Satans Wrath had ...”

“Had the bikers go after Taggart’s niece and nephew. I heard about that,” said Quaile.

“And did you hear that this prosecutor was later found dead in his swimming pool?”

“Yes, sir. An accidental drowning, I was told.”

“Maybe it was—but it happened in Mexico at the same time Taggart was in Mexico.”

Quaile swallowed nervously when he realized the implication.

“Perhaps that was just a coincidence,” continued Isaac. “Then, last year, a Colombian drug lord tried to kill Taggart and terrorized the family of Constable Danny O’Reilly, who was Taggart’s partner. A short time later, Taggart went to Colombia, allegedly to work on an unrelated investigation. Within a day of his arrival the drug lord and thirty of his men were murdered.”

“Taggart did that?” asked Quaile, his eyes wide and his mouth dropping open.

“No, I’m not saying that he did. It’s just that ... well, quite frankly, it has crossed my mind if he wasn’t somehow responsible. All this might simply be the suspicious brooding of an old man who has been on the job too long.”

“I don’t think you’re old, sir.” Quaile caught the frown that passed over Isaac’s face. Smart old fart. I’ll have to be more tactful ...

“What I’m asking,” continued Isaac, “is that you keep an eye on him and report anything suspicious to me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. You may be pleased to know that I’m already on top of it. I’ve sensed he was a bad apple ever since I first arrived.”

“You have?”

“I’ve found him to be contemptuous in nature and he is not someone I feel is properly groomed for the duties he is now responsible for. I’m surprised that his predecessor did not identify this.”

“I’ve noticed that your office seems ... well, more spruced up since your arrival.”

“Thank you, sir. Shoddiness, tardiness, insubordination ... are all things I will not permit under my command. Unfortunately, Corporal Taggart has required discipline in all these areas. I also suspect he is a bad influence on the more junior members in the office. Now, realizing his history, perhaps Taggart is someone who should be given a less significant position?”

Isaac let out a sigh and said, “I hope you haven’t misunderstood me on this matter. Taggart has done excellent work in the past. He is a particularly gifted undercover operative, exceptionally astute, and if I were a criminal, quite honestly, he is the last person I would ever want on my trail. All I’m asking you to do is to keep close tabs on him. Treat him fairly, but at the same time, I will not tolerate any deviations from policy. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Quaile. The first real test of my leadership! Thank you for the opportunity, Corporal Taggart!

chapter three

Hang’s wet hands grasped the rope ladder to the fishing trawler waiting below. A mixture of rain and snow lashed at her face but she did not care. The excitement of finally arriving made everyone slightly giddy. The fact that their ship was three days ahead of schedule made it even better.

As soon as her feet touched the deck of the trawler, she anxiously pushed her way past the others to the outside edge to see if she could see any lights on shore. She saw only darkness.

Hang felt an arm around her shoulders and smiled at Ngoc Bích. “We’ve made it,” said Hang, feeling breathless.

“They told me we would be on land in an hour,” replied Ngoc Bích. “We haven’t made it yet.”

“If it is only an hour, I think I could swim that far,” replied Hang.

Ngoc Bích laughed and said, “Not here. You would become like a block of ice at the fish market.”

“Quiet everyone! Lie down!” came a man’s hushed voice from the ship above.

Hang quickly did as instructed. Soon the reason was clear as she heard the sound of a third boat. It chugged closer and closer ... before continuing past.

Hang peeked over the railing and saw that it was another fishing trawler heading out to sea. Everything was okay.

Their trawler did make land in an hour and moored alongside a wharf. Two vans took turns relaying the passengers to their next destination. Eventually it was Hang and Ngoc Bích’s turn to stumble down a wharf into a waiting van.

“My legs ... they are acting strange,” said Hang.

“We are like sailors,” said Ngoc Bích. “At sea many days.” They reached the van and crawled in the back with several other passengers. The driver was a Vietnamese man. He told them he was a fisherman and would take them to his home nearby.

“Just like Hanoi,” commented Hang, gesturing around the van from where she sat on the floor. “Another crowded van filled with the same people. Maybe we’re still in Hanoi.”

Ngoc Bích smiled. “Same, same, only different. It is colder. We are in Canada.”

The fisherman’s home turned out to be a house set back from the highway in a forest. Hang had a glimpse of the heavy moss on the roof of the house and the peeling olive-coloured paint on the siding while being ushered inside to join her fellow passengers in the basement of the house.

Once in the basement, Hang felt like she had entered paradise. The room was warm and the floor was scattered with blankets. There was a bathroom, complete with a shower for them to use, and even a television set. Few people from Hang’s neighbourhood would ever be able to afford a television set.

Hang and Ngoc Bích looked at each other and smiled. Excited voices drew Hang’s attention to the far side of the room where several of the passengers were standing near a stove. A real stove! Not a hot plate. Hang was awed. That a simple fisherman should own such a place—is it possible?

A large pot of boiling water was on the stove and some of the passengers who had arrived earlier were dumping Dungeness crabs into the pot. Hang and Ngoc Bích quickly joined in.

A short time later, Hang crawled under a blanket. Her stomach was full and it didn’t take long for her to fall asleep.

It was many hours later when Hang awoke to the sound of a woman speaking English. The voice came from the television set and she saw Ngoc Bích staring at it intently.